The Immaculate Deception (13 page)

He said, “But…but Dad always talked about having a proper Christian burial with full military honors. I was gonna be a pallbearer…” He sobbed.

“
Perry, see if you can get that tax guy or lady to take a coffee break or something. I’ll be over in about an hour, traffic permitting. Hold on, honey.”

He sobbed. “Okay.”

I hung up.

As I drove down Route Seven, past the scene of my accident, I braced myself. I was so worried that the power of suggestion would cause me to steer into the ravine. But I didn’t wreck again. No, that wasn’t my fate today. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I wondered what would’ve happened had I not wrecked. Would I have gone to Dulles Airport, gotten on the plane to the writers’ conference in New York, said to hell with my nutty ball-breaking family and lived happily ever after?

Or would I have gotten to my parents’ house in time to stop whatever kind of domestic violence incident was transpiring between my parents? It didn’t really matter because he didn’t die that day. I did arrive before he passed away. From cardiac arrest. It was his time to go.

But I would’ve definitely stopped Perry from having Momma hauled off to the insane asylum. I’m gonna have to deal with that. I’m so ashamed I haven’t busted her out yet. I’ll handle the tax assessor, then I’ll go over to the hospital and see what I can arrange for Momma. Tears trickled down both of my cheeks.

I thought about Perry. The mighty giant of a man crying on the phone at the news of what Tammy had done. We united in our grief for our daddy. We were one, for a moment in time. Maybe this could bring us together?

This time, I crossed the Roosevelt Bridge into Washington. No problems whatsoever. I made it safely through all the intersections where the red light cameras were installed. Tammy and Perry would be glad that there wouldn’t be any tickets with Momma’s car pictured. The greedy so and so’s.

Wonder how many Momma had racked up.

Perry’s black Cadillac CTS was gleaming in the driveway, so I parked on the street behind a brown BMW. I turned the wheels to the curb like Momma had taught me. I scooted out and plodded up the steep overgrown grass to the front porch. The dangling gutter glumly saluted me. I turned the doorknob. It opened. As I stepped in, Perry shoved me back out. I asked him, “What’s wrong?”

“
You’re here, I’m gone. The real estate agent is coming at one. List the house as it is. Unless you want to foot the bill for repairs. Don’t disclose any defects, keep your mouth shut, Oh-Donna. And don’t forget to advertise for the estate sale. And make sure you rent a cop so the ghouls don’t clean the place out during it. It shouldn’t cost you too much, a hundred or so for the day, just your pocket money. And mow the lawn, this yard is full of Japanese beetles. Do something about the standing water out back in the wheelbarrow. Don’t want mosquitoes breeding and giving someone West Nile virus. They’d sue. Remember, as soon as you get the creditors paid off and the assets liquidated, I’ll get it pushed through probate and Tammy and I’ll get our fifty-fifty shares.”

My mouth hung open as I watched my so-called brother climb into his car and ride out of my life. That’s right, Perry. So much for us having a bonding moment, coming together over losing our daddy. You’ll never see my little face again.

Tammy and Perry get a fifty-fifty split of the estate. Doesn’t that just drop the final turd on my place in the family toilet?
Momma would get nothing, the house was never in her name and they didn’t recognize women as creditworthy back in the sixties when they bought the house high on the hill. Little Mount Vernon was what we fondly called it. Not that Momma didn’t pull in most of the income after Daddy lost his livelihood in the seventies. And she was in no legal position to fight it now. But at least she did have a good pension, plus Social Security, so I should be able to get her into a nice retirement community. A lot of the credit cards they used for the house expenses were in Daddy’s name, so they were mostly his debts. I’d see they were paid in full. Shoot, I’d probably have to send change of address forms out, so the bills would come to my house. No, wait. I’d just have them forwarded. I’d rent a PO box. I didn’t want any of his creditors knowing my address.

I scrambled back into the house and shut the door. I saw neon blue. Everywhere. I wandered around upstairs. Neon blue sticky notes were affixed to the couch, tub chair, mantel clock, dining room table, chairs, buffet, china hutch, every piece of china. In the kitchen they were on the mixing bowls and toaster. I opened the broom closet. There were stickies on the box of trash bags and cleaning supplies. They all had
Property of Tammy Payne
stamped on them.

She’d swooped in and selected things. The balls of that beast. I heard a clicking noise. I followed it into Momma’s lavender bedroom.

A fancy-looking suit was bent over the back of her wide-screened television.

Loudly, I said, “Hello?”

The suit stood up and turned to me. His pretty dark black face smiled with bright white teeth. Done up by the dentist, no doubt. “You must be Oprah.”

I must be Oh-prah. What a way to get on my bad side.
“I am Ms. Payne, executrix of Dr. Nathan Payne’s estate. You are the tax assessor?”

“
Yes, ma’am. I’m Jonathan Jomomma. I’m just finishing up. I’ll have to print everything out for you but you can ballpark expect the estate tax bill based on the personal effects to be in the range of a hunert and twelve thousant dollars.” He tapped on some sort of electronic hand-held inventory device.

“
Are you blind?”

“
Ma’am? That’s not nice. I know my glasses are thick but I can see just fine.”

“
I’m not talking about your corrected vision. There’s not a hundred and twelve
dollars
worth of junk in this hovel. You can’t possibly be serious about taxing us on that amount.”

He straightened his designer spectacles and buttoned his pricey suit coat. With righteous indignation, he strolled past me and said, “One hunert and twelve thousant dollars is not the value I place on the estate furnishings. That is the amount of tax I am assessing.”

I opened my mouth but nothing suitable came to mind to retort. I followed him outside. He opened the door on his new-looking brown German motorcar.

I said, “I’m sorry. You’re just doing your job. And I’ll do mine…
Jomomma
.”

He slammed his door and drove away. I went back into the house and closed and locked the door. An evil smile on my lips, I felt a sense of revenge. No, I guess it’d be more like a little old-fashioned karma coming round. A hundred and twelve thousand dollar estate tax bill, just on their belongings alone, which would take a huge chunk out of the siblings’ loot. I laughed. And laughed until a big teardrop erupted from my left eye.

Ding dong. Ding dong. I hummed the tones. Ding dong. Ding dong, the bitch is dead. Which old bitch? The wicked bitch. Ding dong, the wicked Tammy is dead. And Perry too, Perry too, he fell into her witch’s brew.

A rapping noise on the door broke my evil spell. I squatted down and peeked through the hole. I saw a giant nose. I stepped back and then peered again. Now a huge spider. No, eyelashes. I opened the door.

A woman popped up. “Hi ya. I’m Carla Calamari. Judge Payne said that I should come by and list the house. You must be the executor, his half-sister, the one with the mother that murdered the deceased?” She shoved a business card in my hand.

Determined to compose myself before exploding, I stared at the card. Most professionals had their name, company name, address, phone, fax and email info on their horizontal business cards. Maybe the company logo. This one was printed vertically, on pink cardstock.
Carla Calamari, Acme Real Estate.
One phone number. And a full-length color photo of
herself
? The photo was of a woman with a Coke-bottle figure. The lady standing in front of the dangling gutter was a three-liter jug. I giggled.

“
Well, honey, let me in to have a look around.” Carla shoved past me and waddled around the house. Opening cupboard doors, flushing commodes. She was done in less than two minutes, I’d say.

I kicked off my navy pumps and curled up in the leather tub chair. Tammy’s sticky note stuck to my hair. I yanked it off and tried making an origami bird with it.

Ms. Squiddy the real estate agent said, “Okay, this run-down pigsty is a big challenge. My cousin-in-law Marty can paint, rip out the carpets, refinish the hardwood, remodel the kitchen, update the bathrooms, rewire and replumb the place to code, insulate the attic, replace the porch columns, gutters and concrete stairs for ya. It’ll probably be in the range of two-fifty.”

I sprung up. “Two hundred and fifty dollars? He’s hired. Can you arrange to let him in, I live and work in Virginia—”

Carla made a tutt noise and said, “
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars
. This crap house needs major renovations. It will implode if I so much as blow on it.”

“
Hey, rude lady, you’re talking about Little Mount Vernon, my happy childhood home. However, since every minute that ticks by makes me face up to the realization that my happy childhood was only make-believe, we might as well be like the big bad wolf and huff and puff. Yes, Carla, let’s blow on it. Yo ho, blow the wretched house down.”

The Acme Real Estate lady drew a deep breath and plopped her big fat bottom onto the couch. A tune came into my head about fat-bottomed girls. I slightly shimmied my shoulders, lost in the recollected lyrics. Hey, my shoulder didn’t hurt much. I should get the stitches removed soon. What did my discharge instructions say? Two weeks? I’d have to dig up the paperwork and check.

Opening her reptilian briefcase, the fat-bottomed girl said, “Okay, the comparable properties in the area—well, other houses in the neighborhood, none are as crappy as this one—are selling in the four-hundred-thousand-dollar range. If you don’t want to make the repairs, we can list it as a handy-man special and ask ninety-nine nine fifty.” She punched some numbers on her jewel-keyed calculator.

I didn’t want to be here. Why did I have to be the one to deal with Miz Squiddy? I tried my best to ignore her. I was craving a hamburger. Yum…just like the one in my dream.

Carla said, “Minus closing costs and my four percent commission, plus three percent for the buyer’s agent, you should net in the neighborhood of eighty-eight thousand. That is, assuming a full-priced contract. Realistically, I think house-flipping investors will bid at about half that.”

She stuffed her calculator back into her briefcase. “The judge gave me a key for the lockbox. I’ll have it in the multiple listing service by the end of the week. Meanwhile, you need to get it emptied and cleaned. I have a brother-in-law, Ed, in the hauling and salvage business and his girlfriend Fanny cleans houses. I can get you a package deal for about twenty-five thousand.”

A hamburger with ketchup, dill pickle slices and raw onion. Yep, that would be great. And maybe some jalapeños on the side. Yum.

That Carla person was shaking my hand. I smiled and escorted her to the door. She affixed a lockbox to the knob. “I’ll be in touch now,” she said.

As she waddled away, I said, “And blah blah blah to you too.” I closed the door.

Ain’t no way that lady was gonna give this house away for, what did she finally predict? Fifty grand? Fifty bucks? Minus the commissions—seven percent? The going rate was six percent. How stupid did she think I was? Perry probably told her I never went to college. His white-trash half-sister. Bad blood. Hey, he’d better watch out, they said insanity ran in the family. I sighed.
Momma
. I had to go and get Momma. But where would I take her? I looked around. Well, this was her home, damn it. I’d bring her home.

Rushing outside, I quickly grabbed my wallet from inside the orange hospital bag behind the railing, stuffed it into my purse, then slid into the Corvette, fired up the engine and drove off.

The mental hospital was easy to find. Up on the hill, next to the fire-training academy, the one with the condemned training tower. Downwind of the poop factory. The water treatment plant. Mr. Meddlestein had bought a big load of sludge there one year for fertilizer. He spread it all over his yard. No one played with his kids that summer.

I drove past the hospital. I just couldn’t do it. I could not go in there and see my momma all drugged up, naked in a straightjacket. I could hear Tammy scolding me in my head.
Sissy-girl. Sissy-girl.
It was nearly three o’clock. Right smack in primetime rush hour. No way would I make it across any of the bridges and home in the next four hours. I might as well go on back to Momma’s house.

But first, while I was out and about in the District, I figured I might as well make a visit to Judge Payne’s place of business. Payback time for deserting me with Miz Squiddy. I drove over to the courthouse and parked illegally, more or less. Entering the building, I offered my purse up for searching and stepped through the metal detectors. The young security guard seemed friendly.

He said, “Haven’t seen you around. What firm you a partner in?”

I tried to suppress my smile. “Payne, Calamari, Jomomma and Jomomma.”

He said, “Oh yeah. They’re over in L’Enfant Plaza, right?”