“What? Why? The funeral just started.”
“I’m tired and in pain. Plus everyone saw me, I signed the guest book…we can go.”
Bullshit, everything hurt. While I’d been thinking of nothing but him, he’d been thinking of nothing but her. He just wanted to leave so he could get Mira’s number and make plans to see her. No wonder we’d sat in a back aisle. Damn! This getaway was premeditated.
How quickly the silent treatment becomes the third wheel in a relationship. Frankly, on the cab ride back to his place, what was there to say? His only thoughts were of the case he’d make to convince Judge Mira that he was the man for her, while I dwelled on the fact that this little twenty-four hour rendezvous had been a nice diversion, but the commercial break was over, and it was time to resume to our regularly scheduled broadcast, The Shit Hits the Fan.
“Want to grab some lunch?” Ken asked.
“Now? I thought you were tired and in pain.”
“I am. I must have an exposed nerve where my teeth fell out, but I’m also starving.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that, but I should get back to work.”
“Are you sure? It’s the least I could do.”
“Positive, thanks.”
“I hate eating alone.”
“Take Rookie. He loves ribs.”
“Are you pissed at me?”
“Yes. You didn’t have any makeup remover in your bathroom. I believe that’s a violation of the 1994 Estée Lauder Agreement.”
“This is about Mira, right?”
“Yes. Ding, ding, ding. Tell him what he’s won, Johnny!”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret I learned from working around the rich and famous. There are two kinds of people in this world. Assholes and those who are blown away by them.”
“And which one are you?”
“Depends on the day. Same as you.”
“I really think she loves me. She just needed time…”
“She’s an actor. A very good one. But see, I don’t believe for a minute that Kyle proposed. In fact I bet he started shopping around and she was just trying to make him jealous.”
“You think I’m that much of a schmuck?”
I shrugged.
“Fine. But what does that have to do with lunch?”
“Son. Do you hear the words coming out of my mouth?”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t try to repay you for your kindness. Especially after you accused me of needing distemper shots.”
“What?” I shivered.
“At least I think it was you who left that very insightful note by my bed…the pros and cons of Ken? Unless, of course, Rookie’s penmanship miraculously improved.”
“Oh my God. I am so lame. Wait. How did you find it? You haven’t even been home yet.”
“I didn’t. Madeline did. She ran over to take care of Rookie, and I guess decided to straighten up the place.”
“Oh. Look, I’m really sorry.”
“No need to apologize. Always good to learn where you stand two hours after you meet someone.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sure you did. Every woman I know does the same thing. One little date that doesn’t go badly and here comes the phone blitz. ‘I met someone,’” he mimicked a high-pitched voice. “‘And he’s soooooo cute.’”
“Excuse me, but I wouldn’t say our little date was a rousing success.”
“So then why the list?”
“Because…”
“Exactly. Which is why you should have lunch with me…I can tell you how cute you are.”
“You think I’m cute?”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
“Really?”
“And funny. And very good at lists. Which incidentally, for the record, I am up to date on my shots.”
“Do you like sushi?” I laughed.
“Namo Gachi on Fifty-ninth?”
“L14. Triple maki combo.”
Stop, stop, stop. That last part never happened. What do you think? This is a Danielle Steel novel? Ken did not tell me I was beautiful and funny. I had no idea if he ate sushi. I did know that although he needed a lunch buddy, it was a temporary fix until he could reach a woman who was capable of destroying whatever hope he had of finding love again.
Which is why I helped him up to his apartment, wished him good luck, and kissed Rookie good-bye. I was many things, but not a one-meal deal.
Luckily, it was only a short walk to the studio. But en route, I stopped to stare at a woman standing in the second-floor window of her apartment, as if I was studying a breed of orangutan. Rude as this was, I was gripped by the image, for it catapulted me back to my childhood.
Like my mother, she had smoke billowing from her nose as she stood in a mindless gaze in a pink seersucker housedress that I bet smelled of Tide and tobacco. But that’s not what threw me. It was that she stood with her hand burrowed in a pocket, probably clutching a mint or a lighter.
My mother’s hands were forever in pockets. Bathrobes, blazers, slacks, even bathing suit cover-ups. Where else to hide her secret stash of cigarettes, lighters, Coffee Nips, diet pills, to do lists, and occasionally a comic from the paper?
Now I knew why. She was a pathological hider. A person who claimed to be an open book, except for a few missing chapters she was loath to reveal. A previous engagement. A lifelong yearning for her first fiancé…Breast cancer.
Of all the shocking events of the past few days, the one that I could not reconcile was the possibility that my mother was not only dying, but in denial. Didn’t she want to live to see me become a famous comedian with a hit TV series? Maybe even married with kids, a nanny, homes on both coasts, and a frequent guest of Jon Stewart. (“I tell you, I can’t get enough of Robyn Fortune. Sorry, honey. She just does it for me.”)
Before I reached the studio, I stopped at a card store. Not to look for some sort of sentimental mush to tell her what she meant to me, but to splurge on a coffee mug in the window that said, “Avenge Yourself. Live Long Enough to Be a Burden to Your Children.”
“Thanks for coming back.” Gretchen pulled me into her dressing room.
“You said I could take a few hours off to—”
“Jesus Frank Christ. Can’t you tell when I’m being sincere? I know you’re tired too…I just wanted to be the one to tell you. I’m going to Rome. You’re not.”
“Oh no.” YES!!! “How come?”
“It’s a budget thing. You know Simon, the cheap bastard. He said it’s more efficient to use the Rome bureau’s staff…like he gives a crap how I look on the air.”
“No, I mean why are you going to Rome now? The funeral will be over.”
“Exactly. Every other network will be packed and gone and Daybreak will still be covering the story. The search for the next pope, how parishioners are managing…”
“Good thinking…of course I’m disappointed,” I pouted. “But I understand.”
“Now see? I said to Kevin, Robyn will probably freak out and do her usual crying bit.”
The only reason I cry is ’cause you treat me like a servant. “No, it’s fine. Simon is right. It’s an added expense to bring me. I’ll just pack a bag of your favorite things. I’m sure they’ll do a great job.”
Gretchen just stared at me like I’d said no thanks to a winning lottery ticket. But what I hadn’t forgotten from our last trip to Rome was that I might as well be in Rome, New York, for as much free time as I’d get to explore.
“Oh, I get it.” Gretchen eyed me. “You want the few days off so you can go to Phoenix with your mother and that awful Sienna.”
“Sierra…And no one is going to Phoenix,” I insisted. “How do you know about that?”
“Because Simon is doing the happy dance that she’s leaving town…I heard he’s even paying for your mom’s ticket too.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“But why
does he care where Sierra is? He’ll be in Rome.”
“Yes, but he’s coming back. If it all goes down according to plan, she’s not.”
Chapter 15
WHAT DID GRETCHEN MEAN, if it all went down according to plan? Had Simple Simon talked my mother into becoming a paid assassin? What a lovely exclusive that would make. Daybreak’s executive producer hires makeup artist’s mother to kill new wife’s daughter.
Damn right we would be discussing this when I got home. Except that the future convict was busy when I walked in, as she had converted my apartment into the Sheila Holtz Center for Mah-Jongg Mavens.
“Okay. Listen up, kiddies.” My mother tapped a tiny baton on the card table as if she were still conducting a string quartet. “There are three suits that go from one to nine and a fourth suit called Winds. Are you listening, Sierra?…No, each player starts with three double stacks of four, plus one tile unless you’re east, and then you get two extras.”
“Oh good. You’re in time.” She clapped when she spotted me standing at my front door. “Grab a chair from the kitchen and join the fun.”
“Who are these people?” I yelled over the familiar din of tiles clicking.
“Well, Sierrapaigemather you know of course…Say hello to her,” she whispered as she stuck my bag in the closet. “She thinks you don’t like her. And the rest of these nice folks are your neighbors…No Kaneesha, the bird tile is one bam…remember. Four suits. Dots, bams, cracks, and winds.”
“I don’t believe you. I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten…”
“Go wash up and make a sandwich. You look like you could use some fun.”
“I don’t want to have fun.” I dragged her to a quiet corner. “I want to open a bottle of wine and put a straw in it.”
“What’s gotten into you, Toots? You used to be a lotta laughs…I think maybe you’ve come down with a case of psy-chosclerosis.”
“What?”
“Hardening of the attitudes…Correcto, Mrs. Schnecken-berg. If you don’t like the tile thrown, then pick from the wall. Maybe you’ll be lucky and get a joker.”
“Mom. I’m talking to you. This was a crappy idea. Tell everyone to leave.”
“But they’re having such a good time. And I was trying to figure out. Which night do you think is better for a standing game? I like Mondays but if it’s a three-day holiday, then—”
“Stop, stop, stop…Is that the weird guy from downstairs with the six cats?”
“Who? Jack Greenberg? Yeah. Nice man. Lost his wife last year. A massive stroke and boom, adios Evelyn…He brought up a fruit platter with kiwis. Love those…I’ll introduce you.”
“No. I’m begging you. Just move the party someplace else.”
“But I bought coffee cake. Can’t play mahj without it, although I shouldn’t have bought all those low-fat ones. Is it me, or do the boxes taste better…”
“I don’t care what you give them,” I said.
Imagine walking into your home to find strangers playing a game whose main requirement was that you sat for hours while talking, snacking, and exchanging ivory tiles with their three opponents who, like you, had no life.
“You know what I think?” My mother gave me the maternal eye. “I think you’re all worked up because it reminds you of when your idiot husband had his buddies over to gamble.”
If not for the company of strangers, I would have strangled her. The unmitigated nerve to invade my home, insult my marriage, and once again, possibly be right.
Still, I was tempted to hurl the next grenade. If she was such an expert on marriage, why was she living with me instead of her husband, why was she plotting to find an old lover, and did she really think teaching strangers to play mah-jongg was the sign of a happy life?
Instead, I ran past her, slamming my bedroom door for good measure. Then with one hard-hitting swipe, the pile of dirty clothes on my bed fell to the floor and I collapsed. Just as one of my old Mad magazines mysteriously dropped from the bookshelf.
Whoa! Third time this week that that had happened. Was it a sign that I should stop slamming my door until I got new, less warped shelves? Or was there some mystical phenomenon at work?
Ever since getting those cell phone messages from the spirit world, it wasn’t that much of a stretch to think I could receive other supernatural communications. Maybe I was hearing from my faithful childhood companion Alfred E. Neuman, who wanted to remind me that my being angry with my overbearing, meddlesome, clean-obsessed mother was nothing new. Maybe he was venting his own anger with her for throwing out my cherished collection of Mad magazines while I was away at camp. Only to defend her indefensible act by accusing me of being a slob who should have been thrilled to have a mother willing to clean her ungrateful daughter’s room so it was spotless and organized.
Thrilled? Are you kidding? I was so devastated I didn’t speak to her for weeks, not even to accept her offer to renew my subscription. In fact, the only reason I forgave her was because Julia found a stack of back issues I’d lent her that she’d never gotten around to returning.
If not for those few issues being spared, I might never have talked to my mother again.
Oh fine. I was being over dramatic. Which made me laugh, for lying there reminded me of the many times my mother stood over my bed playing Vivaldi’s Concerto in A minor, her surefire method for cajoling me to wash my face and make a sandwich (the cure for whatever ailed you).
Ah. Time for the old Robyn Holtz self-pity pie.
Start with one cup of resentment.
Add in heaping dose of paranoia.
Mix well with anger.
Slowly blend in fear and loathing.
Cook until the whole damn mess blows up in your face.
Actually what scared me more than feeling sorry for myself was realizing how much I was starting to sound like the people for whom I held the least respect. Those who, through their own words and actions, created chaos and dissension, then bitched that life was so hard.
My ex: Lived for illegal activities, then wondered why the cops showed up.
My dad: Ignored his wife for thirty years, then wondered why she left him.
My mom: Insisted she was always right, then wondered why her relationships went wrong.
Phillip: Overindulged his family, then wondered why they wouldn’t let him rest.
Gretchen: Stepped on toes all the way up the ladder, then wondered why she was alone.
So just how many mirrors did one have to hold up in order to see one’s own reflection?
Me: Married David in spite of all the trouble signs, then wondered why the marriage never had a chance.
Oh for those innocent days when Julia Volkman and I could attribute everything bad that happened to us to something we called sucky luck.
Sucky luck was when you had to walk around school all day with your jacket tied around your waist because your period surprised you. Or when you had to go to the prom with a boy six inches shorter than you because his father was your father’s client.
But real sucky luck was having your locker next to Josh Vogel’s for four years of high school because they were assigned alphabetically. Poor Julia could only open hers when Josh wasn’t there. “No room for the three of us,” she’d groan. “He’s so fat, his ass is in front.”
It was an unfortunate pairing, but at least Julia’s sucky luck ended in high school, while mine seemed to be just warming up.
“Where are you going?” my mother asked when I flew past her without saying a word.
“For pizza.”
“Get me a few pepperoni slices, wouldya?” Sierra, she of supersonic hearing when it came to free delivery, said. “Anyone else want?”
“And when I get back, everyone had better be gone.”
“No,” Sheila replied.
“No?”
“Who invites friends over and then tells them to leave?”
“See, and I thought, who invites strangers into a home that isn’t theirs?”
&
nbsp; I rushed down three flights of stairs, colliding with a man who was just buzzed in. “Excuse me. Sorry.”
“Robyn?”
“Yes?” I turned around, steam still pouring out of my eyes.
“Hi.” He hugged me. “It’s me…Josh.”
I blinked. “Josh who?”
“Vogel…From Hebrew school? Fair Lawn High? Go Cutters?”
“Oh my God!” Fellini films my ass. This was Twilight Zone right down to the Rod Serling shiver. Until twenty seconds ago, I hadn’t seen or thought of this kid in decades, and now he was standing in my vestibule? It had to be the punishment for cruelty to fat boys. The six-letter word for premonition. Doomed!
“Are you okay?” He steadied me. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I’m sorry. This is so bizarre. Not two seconds ago I was thinking about you, and now here you are.”
“I guess your mom told you I called.”
“Huh?”
“She didn’t tell you I called before? I was leaving a message and she picked up…Then she invited me over for your big mah-jongg party. How could I miss that?”
“You like mah-jongg?”
“Are you kidding? I grew up on it. My grandmother used to drag me down to her beach club every summer and make me her fourth…Where do you think I learned to pig out on cake?”
“And for this you shlepped all the way from Fair Lawn?”
“Actually I live a few blocks from here. Over on Garfield Street…I just moved back to New York.”
“What happened to the rest of you?” I blurted. “Oh my God! I’m sorry. You look great.”
“You too.” He laughed. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by people’s reaction. I did grow six inches since high school and dropped a hundred and fourteen pounds.”
“Amazing…And I love your glasses. You look—”
“Like someone you wouldn’t want to pull a chair out from under in chem lab?”
“Hey. That wasn’t me, I swear. It was Craig what’s-his-name with the twitchy eye.”
Fate and Ms. Fortune Page 14