A Little Help from Above (3 page)

Shelby closed her eyes and leaned back. “What do you want from me?”

“Actually, I had an epiphany during the cocktail hour,” he announced, raising his plastic wine cup. “I said to myself, ‘Little Shelby is quite the dandy reporter now. She should come back to work for you.’”

“Work for you? I don’t want to be in the same hemisphere as you!”

“Come now. You’ve got to be bored silly at that little hometown paper, diddling every day with that column of yours. I’ve read you on-line and you carry on like a Mike Royko wanna-be.”

“For your information, the Trib is the seventh largest circulation paper in the country, and I am honored to be compared to Royko. The man was a legend.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But I’d think you’d be tickled to be in New York with the big boys.”

“Why, Ian. You of all people should know size doesn’t matter.” She winked.

“Touché, my dear. Jolly good one. But if it’s the high regard of your colleagues you desire, then you know as well as I, you’re just snot in a tissue until you make it in New York.”

“Oh, and like my colleagues would envy me if I joined your lit
tle rag? The only reason you have any readership at all is because the front page uses small words and big tits.”

“Quite right, but maybe you’ll be a tad less judgmental when Uncle Ian lets you in on a little secret. Last month I ran into your friend, Irving Davidoff, at the ANPA convention, and he was discussing your work.”

“I’m sure it was all good.” Shelby’s pulse quickened. Hopefully. The Trib’s tyrannical executive editor was better known for shouting obscenities than singing someone’s praises.

“Oh, yes, he’s quite fond of you. Although he did mention possible changes coming.”

Her back stiffened. “Oh, that,” Shelby said. “Every few years they bring in another high-paid consultant to redesign the paper, and no matter what, it still looks like the Trib.”

“Actually, I believe he was referring to personnel changes.” Ian coughed.

“Really?” Shelby pretended to stifle a yawn. “That’s old news, too. Features and Sports let a few stringers go. I hear you get bigger shakes at McDonald’s.”

But, she knew full well what Ian was getting at. The biggest thing circulating at the paper for the past month were rumors of a shakeup. Not that she’d felt threatened. Only once had she received a terse note from Mr. Davidoff, and that was merely to suggest she limit her derogatory remarks about Chicago’s deputy mayor. A woman Shelby subsequently discovered was the mayor’s lover. And Mr. Davidoff’s. Fortunately, that incident was long forgotten. She prayed.

On the other hand, even she’d had an inkling the novelty of her column was starting to wear thin. Hadn’t the promotion department canceled the reorder of
WE LOVE SHELBY
bumper stickers? Oh God. Was Ian, the slime, implying he knew something she didn’t?

“So as I was saying”—Ian waved a hand in front of her to regain her attention—“I’d think you’d jump at the chance to work under me again.”

“You’ve got a better chance of being struck by lightning twice on the same clear day.”

“Come now. We musn’t live in the past. You’d have a very bright future with me.”

“I’d rather cover the crime beat for the Long Island Pennysaver.”

“Oh, me too. I love those juicy exposés on juvenile delinquents who knock over birdbaths. But wouldn’t you rather be doing real in-depth reporting? Perhaps a multipart series?…”

“On what? The new spring line of animal-print condoms?”

“I like it. I do.” Ian growled. “It’s got that certain panache.”

“You are such a lowlife.”

“True. True. But the package I’d offer you would more than make up for that.”

“Let me put this into words you’ll understand. I hate you with every fiber of my being.”

“So, you’ll think about it?” Ian winked.

“Not even if you castrated yourself.”

“Excellent then.” He stood up and crawled over Shelby’s feet to return to the aisle, his ass lingering in her face for just that extra moment. “Here’s my card, darling. Call me.”

Shelby’s stomach churned. She knew this man to be many things, but not a fool. When it came to having a nose for news, a sixth sense for impending disasters, no one had his impeccable instincts. Ian McNierney was the prophet of doom.

She remained composed until she found her way to the lavatory. There, in the privacy of a two-by-two box, she grabbed a stiff paper towel and let out a wail. Was Mr. Davidoff going to have his henchmen take away her baby? Hadn’t they been the ones to personally credit her column for revitalizing the stagnant Metro section? Yes, she was aware their once lavish praise was waning. But that didn’t necessarily mean they were losing interest. Did it?

She would never forget the fanfare she’d received when “So Let Me Get This Straight” first appeared. Billed as the average man’s revenge on inept leadership in government, education, and business, Shelby Lazarus demanded explanations from powerful people when they screwed up, and got them. But not just explanations—results!

Soon she was a star, winning over readers from Cabrini Green to Kennilworth. Then one day she was asked to speak at a civic association meeting, which led to a radio producer from WGN inviting her to cohost “Voice of Chicago.” That enticed producers at Channel 7 to have her do a segment on the local evening news, which led to a chance to throw out the first pitch at Wrigley Field. Finally, she was summoned for the ultimate coup, a guest appearance on Oprah.

On the other hand, the more of a celebrity she’d become, the more she worried her enemies would try pulling back the curtain, revealing she was hardly the friendly, altruistic wizard the Trib liked to promote in its ad campaign. Not that she blamed herself for having a greater appreciation of good copy than of the poor slobs whose troubled tales she told.

Then again, so what if her job was history? If the Trib was stupid enough to fire her and pay out the remaining two years of her contract, word would spread faster than a computer virus. If Shelby Lazarus was available, every Pulitzer prize-seeking editor in America would go after her. Trouble was, none of their offers would come with the guarantee of celebrity. Or, the promise of being able to walk into Morton’s on a Saturday night without reservations, and still be seated at an “A” table. Unless, perhaps, it was Morton’s in Dubuque.

Shelby’s eyes welled up. She couldn’t bear the idea of having to scale Mount Journalist again. Not when she’d already paid her dues. Kissed endless asses. Proved her ability to increase circulation at every damn paper for which she’d ever worked. Honestly, was it too much to ask to be excused from all this bullshit? She was a goddamned Neiman Fellow! Surely that entitled her to be removed from the list of sacrificial lambs begging for mercy from the great King Consultant.

And now, just when this year’s crop of prospective Pulitzer prize nominees was being considered, just when she was at the most vulnerable point in her career, she was missing out on a golden opportunity to cement her relationships with her bosses. All because some stupid, illegal-alien gardener had turned her father and aunt into target practice.

For the first time in years, Shelby realized only one person would know how to comfort her. Would know how to quiet her demons and make things right. “Dear God,” she wept, “don’t let my father die.”

Oy. This isn’t going well. Yes, I admit the accident with Larry and my sister, Roz, was my idea. Although believe me, I never expected it would nearly kill them. All I was trying to do was create a little excitement that would get Shelby, Lauren, and Eric to come running home. I figured if they came together in a crisis, they’d realize how nice it was to be a family again, then I could rest in peace like I’m supposed to. But noooo. Everyone has to have their own agenda.

And by the way, who was that awful Ian fellow? I haven’t a clue where he blew in from, but I do know he ruined everything. My plan was to have Shelby sit next to that nice woman in advertising so somewhere over Cleveland they could strike up a conversation. Then Shelby would discover the woman had a single brother who was a successful bond trader with a ski house in Vail. Instead, out of nowhere, this Mr. McNierney shows up, gets Shelby all worked up and good-bye nice lady with the brother. I swear I didn’t see it coming.

Maybe this is why the higher powers frown on divine intervention. Unless you know what you’re doing, that’s some big margin for error. It reminds me of that margarine commercial where a booming voice warned people not to fool with Mother Nature.

I do suppose if any old spirit had the power to pluck loved ones from danger or hand them a royal flush in Las Vegas, life on earth would be as idyllic and carefree as it is here. And no one would learn a damn thing! That’s why, in everyone’s life, there are times when they are burdened with pain, adversity, sorrow, and struggle. It’s pretty much the only way to get their undivided attention.

On the other hand, speaking as a mother, there is only so much wait
ing and hoping one can do from this plane of existence. I know it seems as though the years on earth fly by, but here on the other side, eternity is more than a catchphrase. We have endless time to rest in peace. Trouble is, who can be at peace knowing their family is estranged? Lauren refuses to speak to Eric until he cleans up his substance abuse problem, Larry is fed up with Shelby’s confrontational style, and Shelby is so furious with the whole gang, she severed her ties completely.

That’s why I thought, let there be an accident. What better way to pull them away from their spoiled, self-indulgent worlds than to stick a major life-altering crisis under their noses?

Not that I was really convinced they’d fully understand this call to arms. Then again, I was hoping they’d surprise me. Which reminds me of my last conversation with Larry. He asked if I would prefer to be buried or cremated, and I said, “Surprise me.”

Shelby exited the Northern State Parkway at Shelter Rock Road, just as she’d done hundreds of times before. Still, she never expected her rental car would somehow magically maneuver through the familiar streets as if it had been programmed like a VCR. Up the hill to the stop sign. A quick left, then a right, and she’d be back on Majestic Court. She could do this. Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You could go home. As long as you remembered to bring your key.

“Shit.” She smacked the steering wheel. “How could I have forgotten my house key?” Shelby felt the sting in her hand, but at the same time became preoccupied with the stately, well-manicured homes before her. How ironic that the houses in the neighborhood had been built around the time she was born, and her first thought was how well preserved they looked. Was that how people spoke of her?

Number sixty-eight was up another block on the left. It would be so great if there was still a key in the coffee can, underneath the bathroom sink, inside the pool cabana. But then what good would that do? She’d still have to get past the alarm. One step at a time, Shelby tried to maintain her composure. Knowing Daddy, he probably hadn’t changed a lightbulb in ten years, let alone an alarm code. Probably everything was exactly as it had been.

So much for that theory, Shelby slammed on the brakes. She must have driven right past her house because she suddenly found herself in front of the brick colonial where her best friend, Matthew
Lieberman, had lived. Then which one is mine? She put the car in reverse and counted backwards by three. “Oh God. That’s my house?”

To say it bore no resemblance to the home of her youth misses the point entirely. Gone were the brown wooden shingles, the small picture window in the living room and the vanilla concrete where she and Lauren played hopscotch. Now the facade of the house had a sleek, contemporary stucco finish, two enormous columns, and a magnificent circular driveway of red brick and stone. Complementing the front was a landscape design right out of Architectural Digest, with no money spared on exotic shrubs and specimen plantings.

Suddenly it occurred to her this might no longer be her house. After all, a lot could have happened in the two years since she’d spoken to her father and Aunt Roz. Maybe they’d finally joined their empty-nester friends, who said, “To hell with high maintenance. Let’s get a waterfront condo!”

That would be so typical of them to move without sending a forwarding address. Shelby smirked. Yes, it had been her idea to sever the relationship, and she still felt her decision was justified. But wasn’t it a child’s birthright to have last dibs on all remaining possessions before the estate sales ladies slapped price tags on your junk?

To hell with it. Shelby pulled into the driveway and headed up the steep incline to the side of the house. If some other family lived here now, she’d just say she had no idea hers had moved. And if they were as dysfunctional as everyone else, they’d surely understand. But no need to explain anything to anyone. There was her father’s baby blue Jaguar XKE, a classic edition he once joked he wanted lowered into his grave. Was he crazy wishing a ken a’ hora on himself like that? In the meantime, at least it was still his home, which gave her the inalienable right to break in. Question was, whose dilapidated Toyota was parked next to Blue?

Shelby got out of the car and followed the sounds of a loud Latin beat coming from the backyard. On tiptoes she could just peek over the top of the gate, where she glimpsed a young Spanish man sleeping on her father’s custom-built chaise lounge. Someone’s been drinking my tequila indeed, she shook her head, suddenly wondering if David thought she snored as loudly as this guy. Impossible. Standing next to him you wouldn’t hear the Long Island Railroad coming!

She was tempted to waken the man when she noticed that the side door of the house was open. All that worrying about getting in had been such a waste. She wouldn’t even have to knock.

“Hello,” Shelby called when she entered, immediately taken aback by the enormity and beauty of the renovated kitchen. When did Aunt Roz acquire taste? Shelby was so captivated by the state-of-the art appliances and gleaming ceramic tiles, she jumped when the door from the basement opened and a young girl appeared.

“Hola,” the girl said from behind a laundry basket full of folded clothes.

“Hola back. And who might you be?” Shelby asked while trying to estimate the amount of gold hanging from the girl’s ears and neck. “Are you the weekend girl?”

The girl stared at her feet and shook her head no. “My sister. She works for the Mrs.”

“Oh. So you come to do their laundry?”

Again the girl indicated no.

“Does Mrs. Lazarus know you’re here?”

“My sister. She says it’s okay I come. The Mrs. is no home on Sunday.”

Ah-ha! One thing hadn’t changed. The time-honored tradition of her father and Aunt Roz spending Sundays at Shelter Rock Country Club was still alive. “So let me get this straight,” Shelby couldn’t resist using her trademark line. “Your sister, who doesn’t own this home, gave you permission to break in, just so you could do your laundry?”

“I no take nothing.” She looked into Shelby’s eyes for mercy. “Just a little soap.”

“What a relief. The burglar’s happy with clean sheets and towels. How did you get in?”

The girl carefully laid the basket down, dug into her pocket, and produced a familiar-looking key.

“What about the alarm?”

“My sister says not to worry. They no fix it.”

“This sister of yours is quite a sharpie. Pity I won’t be meeting her because here’s what has to happen. You’re going to give me the key, then give her a message. Tell your sister she is not to return. ¿Comprende? No more job-ee. She’s history. Adios.” Shelby wished she’d paid better attention in Spanish 101, but her limited command
of the language seemed to be doing the trick. “Leave before I call the cops, and take Mr. Siesta with you!” Shelby opened the screen door to make sure she followed orders.

The girl handed Shelby the key and took off for her car, shouting to her husband to get up. “I no take nothing, Mrs.,” she made one final plea in Shelby’s direction.

I’m not a Mrs., Shelby wanted to yell back. Why did people automatically assume a woman who’d reached a certain age was someone’s wife? Speaking of wives, what would her father say when he discovered his wife was so lame she had no idea their housekeeper had an open door policy? To their door?

And who said I didn’t have a sense of humor, she thought as she watched the duo shove the laundry and the boom-box into the trunk of the Toyota? This situation was hilarious. Here her father was none other than Mr. Dri-Kleen himself, the founder and owner of the largest chain of laundromats and dry-cleaning stores in the entire Northeast. And yet total strangers preferred doing their laundry in the privacy of his basement. Did they have a thing against using quarters?

Shelby waited for them to hightail it out of the driveway before walking through the house on a reunion tour. “Whoa”—she grabbed on to a chrome-and-glass banister leading into what was now a sunken living room—“I’ve heard of homes settling, but not this much.”

Admittedly, she loved what they’d done to the place. The furnishings were eclectic yet tasteful. The muted gray-and-beige color combination was subtle yet stunning. And the modern art hung gallery perfect, which could only mean one thing. They’d hired a Miracle Mile decorator, and there went Shelby’s inheritance!

With hands on hips she surveyed the whole room. Was this her house or an ad for Fortunoff’s? Gone were the humble wing-backed chairs, the velvet sofa with permanently attached slipcovers, the end tables with family photos, and what she had always viewed as the ultimate centerpiece of the room, Granny Bea Good’s Steinway baby grand.

Oh God. The piano was gone. Suddenly Shelby felt an emotional attachment to an instrument on which she had never done more than bang out the beginning of “Chopsticks.”

For years Aunt Roz begged her to take lessons, but gave up
when she realized if the request came from her it was a moot point. Still, Shelby would feel sick if something as precious, as beautiful, as friggin’ expensive as a Steinway, had been auctioned off to the highest bidder.

I’m not so sure I want to see the rest of the house, she thought as she trudged up the long staircase to the bedrooms. Or what used to be the bedrooms. When she was growing up, the first door on the left was a combination Eric’s room and shrine to the Yankees. Now it was a sleek, home office with something resembling a computer on the desk. But she must be mistaken. Her father couldn’t use the microwave, let alone operate a sophisticated piece of technology requiring eye-hand coordination. Still, she hoped whoever had sold it to him had also sold him on the concept of a modem. Then she could check her e-mail and get to work on her next column. This was perfect. She’d call in sick, and no one would ever know that she left town.

Across the hall was Lauren’s room. Or what was formerly her room. The walls had been blown out, creating space for a white marble and granite bath leading into the master bedroom. Shelby gently rubbed the imported Italian tiles and fixtures on the his and hers vanities when a noxious thought occurred to her. Who needed a Jacuzzi tub and bidet unless they were having sex? Gross! She shut the door in hopes of shutting the idea from her mind.

The guest room was the next surprise. Unless she threw a mattress on top of the treadmill, there was no place to sleep here, either. But who cared? The official Lazarus home gym offered the latest, greatest equipment and a mounted television, too. She was goddamn Shelbylocks. Everything was just right. First she could work, then she could work out.

Still, she wondered what they had against guest rooms. I guess after you piss every one off, you never have to worry about putting them up for the night, she thought as she walked to the end of the hallway. God willing they’d had the good sense to keep her old room intact for company, because she certainly wasn’t sleeping in their bed.

As she reached her old bedroom, she suddenly felt anxious. Why was her door closed when all the others were left open? The reporter in her found that disturbing until she twisted the handle, peeked inside, and discovered the reason.

Her once beautiful room was now a veritable warehouse of Lazarus archives, with packing boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. Where was her white canopy bed? Her antique rocker and armoire? What right did they have to dismantle her room without her express written consent? She wasn’t in the state of New York. She was in the state of shock.

Thankfully, she realized one familiar item remained. The pink-and-creme floral Laura Ashley wallpaper she and her mother had picked out at the D & D building in Manhattan was still looking classic and elegant. She remembered how her father had carried on when he’d found the bill. But the only bill Shelby and her mother cared about was the Bill who spent several days hanging the delicate paper.

Shelby looked wistfully at the rubble. Should she sift through it on a digging expedition? She was a reporter, not an archaeologist. On the other hand, maybe she’d unearth some profound discoveries that would shed insight as to why her family life had ultimately unraveled. But what difference would it make now? The contents of her childhood had already been reduced to three boxes and an A & S shopping bag. Game over.

Just as she was about to close the door she noticed her name scribbled in magic marker on the side of a box that once contained a shiny new G.E. toaster oven. As she reached for it, she tripped over a table fan from sleepaway camp and stooped to retrieve it. She blew off the thick coat of dust and found a faded heart in nail polish with the initials SL and ML. Matty Lieberman, of course. Her one true love. Until the rat fink moved to California and broke his promise to keep her in his heart forever.