The Queen Gene (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

Chantrell the cellist moved into her cottage in mid-March. Randy the glass sculptor called and said that his arrival would be delayed two weeks because he had the opportunity to show his work at an arts festival in Aspen. I was more disappointed than Jack because we had worked so hard to finish the guest house by his expected arrival date. Jack was too engrossed in his new painting of Adam to care. When he got the call, Jack just shrugged, wished him luck, and told Randy that he was welcome to come in April.

Maxime still had yet to produce a single drawing, and was tortured by his lack of productivity. From my bedroom window I watched him pace outside, shaking his head and muttering. His stubble had grown into a beard over the last month, and he always looked tired. I knew he wasn’t simply slacking off. He was clearly tormented by his creative dry spell. And we were all tormented by Jacquie, who had stumbled out of bed drunk one night and injured her knee. No one knew exactly what she’d done to it, but she walked with a distinct limp and used a cane. Still, this didn’t keep her from daily excursions to the mall. All she needed was a New York accent, and people might actually mistake her for my Aunt Rita.

It was a rainy Wednesday morning when I decided to write an article for a
Healthy Living
magazine. I’d done a few pieces for them in the past, and the editor said if I ever wanted to pitch an idea for his magazine’s lifestyle section, he’d be very eager to hear it. When I told him that Jack and I had just bought a place that we were converting into an arts community, Earl was particularly interested in a “living the dream” type of piece. I snuggled into the chaise by my bedroom window and watched the rain fall through the trees, melting the snow and exposing the wet ground beneath. I could hear Chantrell’s intoxicating cello music come to an abrupt halt when Jacquie slammed the door of her house behind her and hobbled outside. Maxime chased her outside in his undershirt and boxer shorts shouting at her in French. She replied shaking her fists, and I could see the curtain at Chantrell’s being pulled back a smidge so she could peek at what was going on. Jacquie stormed off as quickly as she could and Maxime returned inside quietly. I sat and watched as if I were seeing a European film without the benefit of subtitles.

Moments later I saw Chantrell walk to Maxime and Jacquie’s cottage and knock on the door. She had wrapped a scarf over her head to protect herself from the rain, yet she wore no shoes. Maxime shook his head, presumably telling Chantrell that everything was okay. She nodded back and took a step back to leave before Maxime said something to her. They both glanced around self-consciously. Chantrell stepped inside.

What kind of an article could I possibly write for
Healthy Living
? My dream community had become a cultural dead zone for a once-brilliant artist. It had turned his wife into a maniac. And now it looked as though it was going to become a breeding ground for an extramarital affair. I’d have to pitch this one to
Dysfunctional Digest.

“Robin?” I said into the phone receiver. “When Tom comes over today to work on the house, do you want to go to the gym for a swim?”

“Sure,” she replied. “Is Maxime around?”

“He is, but he’s, um, working right now. Hey, how’s your ankle doing?”

“Not so good,” Robin replied. “My doctor says he’s never seen such a slow-healing bone before.”

“My doctor said the same thing about my sprain.”

“Who do you go to?” Robin asked.

“Mazzarella.”

“Me, too!” Robin said, though she soon thought better of her excitement. “Hey, how could both of our ankles be the slowest healing ones he’s ever seen?”

“Yours is broken,” I said. “Mine’s a sprain.”

“Still,” Robin said. “I don’t know. It strikes me as a bit disingenuous. How could we both be the slowest he’s ever seen?”

“Maybe he just sucks as a doctor. None of his patients are healing, and we’re all the slowest cases. Sounds like he’s the problem.”

She laughed. “Okay, Tom was planning on coming back at around two. Will that work for you?”

“Perfect. Wendy’s coming by at one to watch Adam, so I’m all clear. I was going to pitch an article, but on second thought, the idea probably isn’t going to work.”

“When’s your book coming out?” Robin asked.

“November,” I said.

“Why so long?” she inquired, like everyone else when I told them my publication date.

“I don’t know,” I dismissed. “It just takes a long time.”

When I found out I was pregnant with Adam, Jack asked me for a divorce. Well, that’s not why he wanted to split up. It was just a case of bad timing. I had his favorite meal on the table and was getting ready to tell him that I was pregnant when Jack sprung the news that he wanted to dissolve our relationship. Anyway, we decided to live together as friends and raise Adam as co-parents. That situation had its ups and downs, to say the least, but ultimately we found our way back to the happy marriage we started. Truth be told, it’s actually better this time around. We spent Adam’s first Thanksgiving at Anjoli’s apartment where I met her friend, Chris, a literary agent. When she heard about how Jack and I had emotionally divorced, then come together again, she asked if I’d ever considered writing a book about it. I gave it a shot and was amazed how easily it flowed. I had such fun writing
Tales from the Crib
that I finished it in six months, which was incredibly fast considering I had spent years prior struggling with a few meager chapters of a horrid little story about a woman named Desdemona who died from pneumonia after being caught in a rainstorm. This November, I would see my book in stores, a thought that was simultaneously electrifying and terrifying.

As Robin and I returned from the gym, we joked about how much we looked forward to wearing high-heel shoes again. “I’m buying six-inch strappy shoes when this thing heals,” she said.

“I’m getting total Hoochie Mama shoes,” I added, remembering my Aunt Bernice and her Ho Chi Minh models.

The next morning, Anjoli called. “What do you think of entering Spot in a dog show?” she asked.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“You have no idea how many people stop me to tell me that Spot is simply the most gorgeous dog they’ve ever seen. Frankly, I couldn’t agree more. I’m walking him home right now, and two people have stopped me to tell me how cute he is. Why shouldn’t he have a few blue ribbons? I remember how proud you used to be with your horse show ribbons.”

“I take it this means Spot has stopped chewing his paws?” I asked, making my way to the window to watch the soap opera in my backyard. I knew Maxime and Jacquie were inside their home because I could see them through their windows. I saw that Chantrell had lit a fire because smoke was coming from her chimney, but for the first time since her arrival, there was no music coming from her home. I looked at the vegetable garden she had planted and wondered when they would get their four hours of cello music that day.

“No, darling, he’s still chewing like crazy,” Anjoli sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried absolutely everything to help him. Last night I gave him an aromatherapy bath. Would you believe he cried?!”

“You didn’t by chance use lemon oil, did you?” I asked.

“I did!” she said with a tone of concern. “Is there something wrong with lemon oil?”

“It irritates the skin,” I said, remembering Jack’s and my fiasco with a lemon oil bath.

“The woman at the health food store said —”

“I know, I know,” I interrupted. “They say it’s calming, but if you read the bottle, it says that it irritates skin.”

“Mommy is so sorry, Spot!” Anjoli cried. “I had no idea, darling.” Anjoli began interacting with the dog before I reminded her I was still on the line. “Do you think I could get him a pair of fabulous cashmere sleeves to cover his paws?”

“Isn’t it getting warmer in New York yet?” I asked.

“Not for warmth, silly,” Anjoli said. “For the dog show. Alfie is a whiz with knits. He could make something kicky to cover Spot’s paws, and the judges will never see where he chewed.”

“Mother, I think you should focus on curing your dog’s anxiety disorder before entering him in any dog shows.”

“You don’t think they’d discriminate against him because he has a psychological disorder, do you, darling?”

I laughed. “No, I think you’d sue them under ADA if they even mentioned Spot’s problem. Maybe you should focus on figuring out what’s wrong with him before you get involved with the whole dog show circuit. How’s his therapy going?” I couldn’t believe what I was asking.

“Slow,” she sighed. “Dr. Ken says Spot has abandonment issues.”

I didn’t know what I found more laughable — Dr. Ken or a dog having issues of any sort. Nonetheless I was drawn in to my mother’s bizarre world. “I thought you said you got Spot from a breeder. Why would he feel abandoned?”

“Dr. Ken says that Spot’s siblings were probably adopted before he was. Poor thing had to watch his family sold off to different homes. Can you imagine the feelings of rejection he must’ve experienced, darling?”

“Mother, most dogs are separated from their litter. They don’t need psychotherapy to get over it. Maybe the dog just hates the mundane name you’ve given him.”

“Nonsense! The numerologist said Spot was his true name,” Anjoli said.

“Please. How could Spot be the name of a Mexican breed?! Spot belongs to Dick and Jane, not Paco and Maria. At least translate the damn name to Spanish.”

“Oh my God!” my mother cried. “Do you think that’s it?”

“No, Mother, I was kidding,” I replied.

“How do you say Spot in Spanish, darling?”

“I’m not sure.” I thought about it for a moment and remembered my high school Spanish teacher saying that she spilled lunch on her blouse. “Um, I think it’s ‘mancha,’ but it may mean stain, not spot.”

“Mancha!” Anjoli shouted gleefully. “As in
Man from La
Mancha
? How could I have been so insensitive, darling? Of course, your name is Mancha.” I realized she was talking to the dog. She returned to me. “Lucy, you are a lifesaver. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself of denying Mancha his Latino roots.”

Oh, somehow I’m sure you will, Mother.

“Mancha, of course you are Mancha!”

Finally, I saw Jacquie emerge. I ducked down so she wouldn’t see me watching her as she quietly left. No drama. No yelling. She quietly exited and headed for the main road.

“I hate the artist’s wife,” I told my mother.

“Is she still shopping nonstop?” Anjoli asked.

“The only breaks she takes are to complain or fight with her husband,” I returned.

“So kick her out,” Anjoli suggested.

“I can’t do that,” I said. “She’d be homeless.”

“Well, she should start acting like someone who’s on the brink of homelessness.”

“And how is that, Mother?”

“Grateful, darling. Only people with money should complain. We’ve earned it.” She paused. “Oh good God! I cannot believe what I’m seeing.”

“What?! What’s going on?”

“I’m dying right now. Dying, darling! Call an ambulance because I am really and truly dropping dead.”

Chapter Twelve

Later that evening, Mancha called me and I could hear that my mother was not only alive and well, but regaling dinner guests with tales of her crisis du jour. “Stop laughing!” Anjoli said playfully. “This is not one bit funny.”

“Shouldn’t that be one
iota,
love?” Alfie shot. The group laughed. I didn’t get it.

As it turns out, NYU will have its first Kappa Alpha Theta sorority house right across the street from Anjoli’s home. What she saw that afternoon was a sign being posted on Mrs. MacIntosh’s old place, the brownstone facing mother’s. Everyone in her dining room was looking at brushed silver letters reading “KAT House.”

“Like a whorehouse?” asked my mother’s friend Kiki.

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?” Anjoli lamented.

“Imagine how that’s going to affect business here!” Alfie shot.

“You ought to take your show on the road, Alfie,” Anjoli quipped. “And I mean now, darling.” A crowd of about five or six people laughed and applauded my mother’s advance in the battle of the wits. “It’s Kappa Alpha Theta, and I hear they’re all goddamned adorable. Sixteen of them are moving in this summer. I will simply die from the noise. Mancha, put that down.”

“Mancha?” a man asked. “Is that what we’re calling him this week?”

“I realized I needed to acknowledge his heritage,” Anjoli said. “Stop biting!”

“Here baby, come sit with me,” Kimmy said. “Have you tried doggie massage, Auntie Anjoli? I’m taking a baby massage class.”

Kimmy had been to Princeton twice this month, which was unusual since she typically only made these road trips while she was ovulating. According to my mother, Kimmy was no longer having sex with random students. She met an anthropology professor she was actually dating. Still, Kimmy held to the notion that she would be pregnant soon. I wondered if she was the only student in baby massage who not only didn’t have a baby, but hadn’t even conceived yet.

Anjoli was not at all happy with Kimmy’s choice of mate. She hadn’t yet met Nick, but she already knew she didn’t like him. Anjoli griped about his job. “What does one do with a Ph.D. in anthropology?!” Anjoli asked Kimmy and the dinner guests.

Alfie answered. “He’s an anthropology professor, love! At an Ivy League school. He’s hardly a slacker.”

“I hate those academic types,” Anjoli said. “So snooty. They think they’re better than everyone else who has to live in the real world.”

Alfie quipped, “Since when do you live in the real world, love?” Thunderous applause and laughter followed his retort. By now, I would usually be shouting into the phone, demanding to be recognized, but I found myself as entertained by the exchange as if I were an invited guest.

Kiki chimed in. “Why don’t you just admit what’s really bothering you?”

“And what’s really bothering me, darling?”

Kiki cleared her throat. “What state is Princeton in?”

In unison, Anjoli’s guests answered, “Jersey.” It’s a commonly known fact that my mother detests the entire state of New Jersey, Princeton University included. She grew up in Newark and never quite got over being disqualified from a beauty pageant for a piece of performance art that was deemed obscene by the Catholic Youth Association. I’ve heard it a thousand times: “Yoko Ono did the same thing twenty years later, and everyone said she was a genius.”