Grady looked at her. But Annie’s face was frozen. He took her free hand and squeezed it.
Nancy’s message continued, “I know this is a really tough time for you. But I also know your father would want you to be strong and want you to fight for whatever you think is right. 'Cause he did. And he would not want you to take shit, I mean shoot, from anyone. Including family members. Whose names I will not mention. Including my own. I will support you as much as I possibly can. I love you, my only daughter. And you fight now. Bye bye. Love you. Mom.”
Annie looked bewildered, then determined. “That’s the first time she’s talked about her and dad’s relationship in thirty-six years.”
Annie tossed and turned on her couch. Grady was gone, lights were out and the margaritas hadn’t helped her headache or her attitude. She looked at the clock on the wall. 10:45 p.m. She got up, turned on a light and took a large scrapbook from the bottom shelf of a tall bookcase. Dusted it off with the edge of her T-shirt. Sat on her floor and opened the large book with yellowed pages and tattered edges.
She stared at her mom and dad’s wedding picture. Her dad, Joe Graceland was Irish/Italian, dark hair and godfather handsome. He was raised Catholic in a poor, but proud, family in Chicago’s Little Italy. Back in those days, this scrappy neighborhood wasn’t filled with trendy restaurants and yuppies. It was small brownstones and tidy yards and working class people who were somehow connected to the mob or trying their best to stay out of it. Her dad was the latter. Everyone described Joe as passionate, a ham, funny and stubborn as shit. He was a soldier in the U.S. Army who served in ’Nam.
Her mom, Nancy Emma Priebe was raised middle-class German Lutheran in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. She was smart but silly. A petite, pretty blonde with curly long locks who loved music and sketching. Nancy sang in the Lutheran church choir, played the organ, organized bake sales and fundraisers. She was stubborn as shit and she was a soldier for God.
Family reunion pics showed all the grandparents: Italian, Irish, German as well as their kids, and their kids’ kids. Photo spreads of a few birthday parties for both her and Carson. Funny hats and birthday cakes and a whole lot of hamming going on. There was a photo of Annie as a toddler with her dad, who twirled her over his head. She was chubby had red ringlets, was covered in snow, and had a huge open-mouthed smile. In the background Mom/Nancy looked up at them, smitten.
There were a bunch of pictures of her dad with his army buddies in combat gear at Fort McCoy, Wisconsin. They posed goofing with each other. The next pictures were of Joe and his soldier buds as they tried to appear tough and cool and leaned on an army-issued decked-out jeep in ’Nam.
Then the album got spotty. A school picture of Carson in the third grade. A photo of Annie in her kindergarten Pocahontas Halloween costume. She turned the page, but there were no more pictures. The album ended, there. Joe Graceland died in Vietnam on a simple scouting mission when she was just a toddler. Annie knew that Nancy’s passion for living also died when Joe did. She closed the book and rubbed her forehead.
She tossed on her couch and thought about patterns. Her parents’ were obvious. Both her mom and dad were “stubborn as shit,” as well as “soldiers.” And, both lost their lives—one literally, the other figuratively—after unnecessary tragedy.
Her patterns? Hmm. Stevie Hufnagel her high school sweetheart/drug dealer: dumb-as-shit, but really cute jerk. Mike Piccolino her cheating husband: weakling, handsome, most-likely a bigger jerk. Derrick Fuller: home-wrecking, entitled, good-looking, dead jerk. The pattern was clear: attractive jerks. She really didn’t want to waste the rest of her life because of one or two or ten jerks.
Be still, she told herself. Center, focus and meditate. She chanted the words she learned at yoga. Omm, shanti, shanti. Those words roughly translated to “Love, love. I am still. I am peace.” They were beautiful words. But she couldn’t help but think about Derrick Fuller. Omm. Jerk. Omm. Dickwipe. Omm. Dead or alive, I will so find a way to rip you a new one. Omm. I am coming for you…
So maybe this meditating thing just wasn’t working, yet. She craved a smoke. Just a little smoke, a couple of teensy puffs. She dug behind the couch cushions. Found a pen, a take-out menu for Hurry Curry Indian Restaurant and an Altoid covered in cat hair that had itsy teeth marks on it. Then she found the mother lode—half a cigarette.
She put it to her nose and sniffed it. Lovely. She held it between her second and third fingers. Gestured. Put it to her mouth. Pretended to puff on it. Oh, the call of an old, fabulous, but poisonous lover. She examined the broken cig. It was squished, but if she held it carefully, she might be able to light it. She hobbled into her kitchen, lit a burner on her gas stove. Watched the flame poof, held the cig to it and fired it up. She took a sniff. It smelled intoxicating. She brought that old lover to her lips and…
No! It was a drug, an addiction, another attractive jerk. She dropped the smoke down her sink, ran the water and the garbage disposal. Picked up her phone and called the only person that could possibly be crankier than she was right now. The phone rang and rang. He finally picked up.
“Who’s the limey bastard ringing me in the middle of the X-Files reruns? I’ll hunt you down and block you from ever calling me again.”
“Hi, Grandpa. It’s me, Annie. Is it too late?” She bit her lip.
“It’s one a.m. and not a decent time to call anyone. For the love of Christ, next time you do it, I’ll kick Carson’s butt to the curb. You, on the other hand, are too cute to touch.”
“Thanks, Pa,” Annie said, smiled and cradled the phone to her ear. “Why don’t you just unplug your phone when you watch TV and let your messages go to voicemail?”
“Because then I wouldn’t be talking to you now, would I, girl? Hang on. I have to tinkle.”
Annie didn’t want to hear Grandfather Graceland tinkle. “No, no. I’ll call you back.”
“Hang on. I’ll put you on this high tech thing called ‘speaker.’”
“Absolutely not. You need your privacy or sleep. Both.” She knew Pas tinkling was less than a moment and more like an event.
“I’ll run the water. You’re not going anywhere,” he insisted. “I have urgent dream messages for you from Nonna Maria. Don’t ever think if someone is dead, that their power is gone.”
“Absolutely. Totally agree with you on that one,” she said. Her Pa was loony but she loved him. The sound of rushing tap water emanated over the phone. She held the phone arm’s distance away from her ear, hopped around her living room and turned on a couple of lights. She could still vaguely hear his tinkling.
“Dream messages. Terrible. Nightmares. Just like in the X-Files,” Pa’s voice filtered through the sound of running tap water and the low rumble of a toilet flushing.
She put the phone back to her ear. “Right, Pa. What did Nonna Maria say?”
““Shaky. Shaky. Put it all back in. Adjust, zip and don’t you dare touch me until you wash your hands.” She was a stickler for hygiene, your grandmother.”
Annie frowned. “No, Pa. What did Nonna Maria say in your dream messages?”
The sound of rushing tap water stopped. “She said once an jerk, twice an jerk, makes one an asshole, forever. She insisted you look at her book of spells, page sixty-seven or seventy-six. I get confused.”
“What book of spells?”
“Nonna believed that every woman on her side of the family tree has a psychic gift. That’s why when Nonna passed and went to Heaven, she bequeathed you her book of spells. Since Catholicism scared your mother, she would think the book was voodoo and never give it to you. Therefore Nonna stuck her book of spells on the back of her photograph that’s most likely hanging on your living room wall.”
Annie looked up. Her grandmother’s picture was indeed hanging on her new living room wall. In the photograph, Nonna Maria was in her seventies and stunning except that she looked serious. Her portrait basically conveyed, “Don’t mess with me or I’ll pulverize your body parts that I severed from y
our useless corpse when you pissed me off and sprinkle them into my meatball recipe.”
She got up off the couch, limped over, lifted Nonna’s picture off the wall, turned it over and pushed on its paper backing. The backing didn’t give. There was something underneath it. She gently ripped the paper, and pulled out a thin notebook, entitled in handwritten cursive, “Maria’s Book of Spells.”
“Oh, my God. I found Nonna Maria’s book of spells,” Annie said and held the manuscript.
“Good. Maybe she’ll stop showing up in my dreams, now. I love the woman, but even I have limits,” Pa said. “I’m back to the X-Files. It’s the one where Scully thinks that the older man, the one who predicts how a person dies, is crazy. Hah! She’s in for a surprise.”
Heavenlies
Description: Delicate chocolate truffles dipped in melted white chocolate placed on wax paper and left to cool in fridge. Please eat in moderation.
Appropriate Occasions: Anytime. Anywhere.
*Exception: Do not eat while driving as your reflexes may be impaired.
Best Served With: Insomnia. A heavenly book of magical spells.
Ten
Raisin’ the Dead
Annie sat on her couch in the dim light and paged through the book. All of the spells were handwritten, most in English with the occasional word penned in Italian. There were spells for love and some to get out of love. Spells for money and others to get rid of money bunnies.
She checked out page sixty-seven. It was entitled “When He Needs to Wake Up and Love You.” That didn’t seem appropriate right now. She flipped to page seventy-six. That page had two entries. The first was, “Get Rid of Evil Pesky Assholes.” The instructions were short and included an ice pick, a hammer and some nails. The second entry was, “Get Rid Of Evil Pesky Dead Assholes.” These instructions were longer and there was an asterisk under it followed by, “Most potent when performed at midnight.”
Annie looked at the clock: 11:17 p.m. She yanked on a pair of sweats under her long sleeved T-shirt. She swore at the Frisk & Fold laundromat for shrinking her sweats; they were now practically painted on her butt. She snatched the saltshaker from the kitchen counter and tossed it in her purse. She grabbed her crutch, the spell book and hobbled out her front door.
Crouched in the bushes across the street from Annie’s apartment was the Observer in the same gray parka and thick loose gloves. The Observer watched Annie leave her apartment. Held a small digital voice activated recorder and whispered into it. “Dimwit showed up today at Fuller’s memorial service. Why? Dimwit should not be at Fuller’s service. She tried to enter premises and created a scene when turned away. She exited Shrine, but still managed to spy on Fuller’s service through the fence. Did not expect Dimwit to be so proactive.”
Annie sped down Pacific Coast Highway toward the Shrine with Nonna Maria’s book of spells seat-belted in the passenger seat. Her car windows were down. She needed the brisk salt air to slap her in the face, heighten her senses and give her a healthy dose of adrenaline. The ocean crashed, receded, and crashed again on the long sandy beaches that were peppered with volleyball courts, the occasional couple having sex and the obligatory weirdo watching them. The nice thing about L.A. was that it was very user-friendly for all the folks who ran the gamut from artistic and creative, to demented and deranged.
She looked up at the sky. It was a heavy full moon. Lustrous, beautiful and, if she was lucky, the perfect time to cast a spell. Hopefully a little after midnight she’d get rid of everything terribly bad that Derrick Fuller represented. Bad men, bad eggs, bad habits, bad business—all gone. In with the new and good.
This was a huge defining moment in her life. Right there and then, she swore on that ripe seductive moon that she’d revive her career. Maybe find a new man who didn’t lie, cheat or squander either her inheritance or his sperm. She might even pop out a peri-menopausal egg that was still strong and healthy with this virile man and beat the fertility odds. She turned a sharp right onto Sunset Blvd. The clock read 11:39. She had twenty-one minutes to cast Nonna Maria’s spell at midnight and break the pattern of good-looking jerks forever. Yeah there.
A taupe Mercedes sedan followed Annie’s car from her apartment, through the side streets of Venice and Santa Monica, onto the Pacific Coast Highway toward Malibu. The sedan pursued from a safe distance. Even drove past Annie when she parked next to the chain link fence on Sunset at the Yogi Meditation Shrine. The Observer pulled a Youie and parked on the opposite side of the street. Turned off the car’s engine, rolled down the driver’s side window, pulled out night vision goggles and trained them on Annie.
Annie climbed down the inside of the Shrine’s chain link fence with the help of her crutch and a mini Mag flashlight clenched between her teeth. The ivy grown into the fence was thick, tough and helpful to hold onto as she maneuvered to the ground. How had she lived for thirty-eight years without a crutch? It came in handy for walking with a bum ankle, climbing fences and trespassing. She limped quickly and quietly down the cedar-chipped path to where she thought Derrick’s funeral entourage huddled earlier in the day.
She knew when she found the spot. Her heart skipped a beat.
A ten by twelve inch platinum plaque was freshly cemented into the ground next to the pond. She shone her flashlight on it but couldn’t see a thing through the million rose petals on top. She flipped her crutch and used the cushy armpit section to shove those poorly sacrificed flowers to the side. She read the inscription on the plaque, “Here lie some of the ashes of Dr. Derrick Fuller. He gave so much. I Promise… Live on Derrick. Live on.”
“Dick! You were friggin’ cremated?” Annie asked and hammered her crutch repetitively on his plaque. “You didn’t have the decency to be buried, like the majority of people?” She balanced on her crutch and stomped on his plaque with her good foot.
She checked her watch and looked up at the full moon. Two minutes left till midnight. “You are toast, moron. You are so out of my life.” She flipped to page seventy-six of her grandmother’s book of spells.
Derrick reclined in a rowboat tethered to a small wooden dock built next to the pond. He was yards from his new, lovely plaque that covered a pinch of his priceless ashes. He was very happy the pretty empath returned for him. Even though she acted pissed off and irritated, he knew she wanted him. He didn’t quite know how to persuade her to help him, but in his experience, people generally tripped themselves up. Then he would meander in to pick up the pieces. He watched her pacing, poking and pontificating. It made her even cuter. Derrick smiled. This would be fun.
Annie grabbed the saltshaker from her purse and dropped her purse onto the ground. She stood as tall as she could and closed her eyes. “It’s payback time, lover-boy.” She looked at her watch. Five seconds before midnight under a full moon. Three, two, one. She read the spell out loud.
“Get Rid Of Evil Pesky Dead Assholes spell.
Instrucciones: Under la luna bella at midnight, toss salt over each of the four corners of the grave. Read spell out loud and spit on each corner. Must do with passione!”
Annie tossed salt in all four directions on the plaque.
She spit on the north end of the plaque.
“I spit on your head, for those you misled.”
She turned and hocked one on the south end.
“I spit on your eyes so you fry on your lies.”
She swiveled and spit on the east end of the plaque.
“I spit on your feet so you feel hell’s heat.”
She gathered all her fury and her remaining sputum, spun 180 degrees and hocked a whopping lougie that landed with serious gravity on the west end. It took out a small unsuspecting spider that meandered across the plaque.
“I spit on your grave to be your slave.”
Oops. She screwed up that last line. It was supposed to be, “I spit on your grave to never be your slave.” Whatever. He was gone. The colossal jerk known as Derrick Fuller was history. She stared up at the full moon, stretch
ed her arms tall over her head and arched her spine backwards. She closed her eyes and let the moon’s energy pour through her body. Yummy. Enjoy hell, bucko. Hope you brought your flannels and your fur coat.
Blue vapor materialized and ascended from Annie’s multiple spits. The vapors grew taller, thicker, twisted around each other and merged into a single column. That column became a lumpy rectangle, then took on a human form and transformed into the blue spirit body of Derrick Fuller. Wow, Derrick thought. The fact that he could do that was super cool.
He stood behind Annie, crossed his arms and tapped his foot. He grew a couple of blue inches taller. He looked surprised and then pleased at his reflection in the moonlit waters. He struck a pose, flexed his bicep muscle and admired himself.
Annie wiped her hands. Everything was quiet. She checked her watch: 12:01 a.m. She did it. She was free. But, her stomach gurgled loudly and she hunched over in sidesplitting pain.
A compelling hypnotic voice said, “How dare you spit on the grave of a recently deceased person? That is disgusting and frankly, crass.”
Had to be the cheap suit event organizer. Oh goodie. Another function for the multi-tasking crutch. She was going to nail this loser.
She turned and saw a six-foot-two, ghostly blue version of Derrick Fuller in his silver thong standing directly in front of her. “O-holy-je-friggin’-chris-friggin’-oh-my-God–shit!” She screamed bloody murder at the top, middle and bottom of her lungs. She screamed for the dead, to wake the dead, and possibly caused a couple of deaths from heart attacks and a few strokes at the nearby Senior Snoozes Cozy Condos.
“Be quiet!” Derrick said in a low but firm voice. “It’s bad enough you have no manners. I won’t have a screamer on my staff. At least, not in an official capacity.” He winked at her. Twice.
Annie screamed again, grabbed her purse and limped back toward the chain link fence with the crutch.
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