The Queen Gene (24 page)

The whole thing felt a little silly to me, but I was willing to give it a try. Who was I to say our house wasn’t haunted? If the FBI had faith in this Effie person, why should I dismiss her so easily? And how could I turn down five thousand bucks and a cover story?!

I went down to Jack’s studio to tell him about my new assignment. I found him doing a painting on a truck tire that he said was a commentary about the cyclical nature of life.

“I’m not sure I get it,” I said, tilting my head to look at it from a different perspective.

“I’m not sure I do either,” Jack said. “Oh, hey, Anjoli called while you were on your office phone. She wants you to ask Renee to paint a design on a sun hat for Mancha.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nearly two weeks had gone by since Jack had posted on the Internet our request for applications from artists. We hadn’t received a single application. After the same period last year, we had received almost fifty packages of art samples, photographs, CD-ROMs, and heartfelt essays. “Are you sure it’s up?” I asked Jack.

“I checked a couple times,” Jack assured me. “The site’s getting hits. Be patient, Luce. It’s probably taking longer this year ’cause we’re asking for character references.”

That was Renee’s smart idea, one we certainly should have incorporated last year. We decided it would be overstepping to ask for clearance from a mental health professional, but were definitely looking for a few buzzwords this time around. Jack and I agreed that someone needed to vouch for the applicant’s “commitment” to his or her art. We’d love to find artists with a “pleasant demeanor,” but would settle for an “even temper.”

As Jack changed into his swimming trunks and applied sunscreen, he told me he was grateful Adam’s friend Spartacus was hosting his third birthday party at Splash City water park. Spartacus’ father is a retired pitcher for the Red Sox and shared with Jack that he and his brother, John, had always thought their names were dull. They wanted names for their sons that reflected the family strength and athleticism. So the Sorvik brothers named their sons Spartacus, Hercules, Zeus, and Rambo. Thankfully, their families bore no girls. Our son Adam — appropriately named after the guy whose Garden of Eden didn’t quite work out — waddled into our bedroom naked holding his swimming diaper. The problem was that he was spouting a trail of urine from his room to ours. “Dude, you gotta take that to the can,” Jack said. We both stood paralyzed watching the stream shoot upward then down onto our blue carpet. After a while, Jack turned to me and muttered, “That is the longest piss I’ve ever seen anyone take.” We looked at each other the unspoken question was clear: Who would take care of the mess? As Jack and I silently begged each other to clean the pee, the phone rang.

“Whoever the call is not for has to clean the pee,” I shot.

“That’s so wrong,” Jack protested. “It’s never for me.”

The phone rang a second time. “It could be for you. It’s the weekend maybe it’s your mother.”

“Odds are it’s your mother or her dog calling, Luce. Let’s flip a coin.”

“We should make
him
clean it,” I said, pointing to Adam.

“Yeah, you clean it, little man,” Jack suggested as the phone rang a third time.

“Hello,” I said, answering the phone. “Oh hi, Mother,” I said, smiling and gesturing to Jack that he was on pee cleanup.

He blew me a kiss, then gave me the finger. Picking up Adam’s bag of diapers, clothes, sippy cup, and birthday gift, Jack left, gesturing to the rug. “We need to take off, Luce,” Jack whispered. “We’re all meeting at the front gate so we gotta run.”

“Lucy, are you listening to me?!” Anjoli demanded.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I returned. “Jack and Adam are just leaving for a party and I was saying goodbye. I missed what you were saying.”

“Excuse me, darling, but who was it that gave you undivided attention throughout your entire life?”

I sighed with resignation. “No one did, Mother. Perhaps that’s why I’m such an insecure, needy nut case now.”

Anjoli burst into laughter. “You are hilarious, darling. I must say, you can deliver lines with such dryness, it makes them that much funnier. I have to give your father credit for that. He was a womanizing drug addict, but a damned funny one. Sometimes I really miss him. Anyway, I’m calling to see if you can come to the city this week and talk to the girls.”

“What girls?” I asked.

“The college girls who live in the old MacIntosh house. They’re driving me out of my mind with all of their comings and goings.”

“Their comings and goings?” I asked. “What does that mean?”

“Darling, my home is my sanctuary. Every time I look out the window, one is coming, another one is going. It’s dizzying to have all of that activity going on right outside my front door. It’s like living across the street from a beehive.”

“And what am I supposed to do about this?”

“I need someone to talk to them, darling. It’s very confusing for Mancha as well. He’s plucking his paw fur more than ever before. You simply must intercede on my behalf.”

“You want me to go over there and ask them to regulate their comings and goings because the activity across the street is making you dizzy?” I asked, hoping she would realize the absurdity.

“Thank you, darling.”

“Mother, I have agreed to no such thing. Since when are you sitting at your window, anyway? I thought your life was far too fabulous to be sitting by the window watching what your neighbors are doing.”

“My life
is
fabulous, darling. I took a workshop on oxygen meditation last weekend, and the instructor said that, in order to connect with our core spirituality, we had to breathe deeply outside or near an open window. You know that gorgeous bay window I have overlooking West Eleventh Street? Naturally, I sit on my lavender chenille pillow and meditate there. You would think I could get twenty minutes of peace sitting there, but no. Every few minutes, one of these little pep squad tarts shouts out, ‘Hiya, Anjoli!’ I mean, really, who says, ‘Hiya’? Somebody really ought to tell them that we are not in Kansas anymore.”

“You’re upset because they’re friendly?” I asked.

She huffed. “When can you talk to them?”

“Talk to them about
what
, Mother?” I asked. “I’m supposed to drive from Massachusetts to tell friendly college girls to stop saying hello to my mother? I would sound like a lunatic. Frankly, Mother, I think you’ve really lost it this time.”

“I most certainly still have it, darling!”

“Mother, here’s a crazy idea. Why don’t you meditate in your backyard?” The woman is one of the few New Yorkers who actually has a yard. It’s 400 square feet of off-street courtyard with terra cotta and a small herb garden, but by Manhattan standards, she lives on a ranch. There’s a teak wood table, six chairs, and a recliner — certainly enough room for a person to sit Indian style and chant for serenity.

“Why should I let these girls dictate where I meditate?! I will not be a prisoner in my own home, darling.”

“A prisoner in your own home?” I repeated.

“It’s so Martha Stewart, darling,” Anjoli said. “What will be next, a metal wristband to detect my every move?”

“Don’t you think your reaction is a bit dramatic?”

“I most certainly do not! I have to set firm boundaries with these little cupcakes, or the next thing you know, they’ll be —” Anjoli trailed off.

“What, telling you to have a good day?” I asked.

“Don’t think that wouldn’t irritate the hell out of me, darling. How presumptuous people are telling others what kind of day to have.”

“Maxime is threatening to commit suicide,” I said, switching gears.

“Who?” Anjoli asked.

“The French guy,” I reminded her.

“What French guy, darling? France is full of French guys. Might you be willing to narrow it down for me?”

“The French artist living at the house. You know, the one whose wife shops nonstop? The guy who doesn’t sketch anymore.”

“Oh, him,” Anjoli recalled. “He threatened to kill himself while I was there, remember? I was there for that whole scene with the pianist who broke her leg. And you think
I’m
being dramatic? Your home is a regular freak show.”

“It’s been that way my whole life,” I said.

She ignored the comment. “Well, clearly if he was serious about killing himself, he’d be dead by now,” Anjoli said. “The man doesn’t follow through on anything, so I wouldn’t worry about it, darling. He’s obviously looking for attention. Now, when are you coming home to get these girls to stop their shenanigans?”

“I don’t understand why you need me, Mother,” I said, still not really sure what her problem was with the college girls. “Why don’t you just go across the street, say something rude, and alienate yourself from them?”

“I couldn’t do that, darling! They idolize me. Yesterday, Kathy told me my skin was an inspiration. Her friend Jasmina agreed that my skin is flawless, better than theirs even. They even asked me what skin care products I use. They love me.”

“Sounds horrid, Mother!” I gasped. “How do you live under such conditions?”

“Very funny,” she replied. “It’s irritating. If I wanted to chat with my neighbors, I’d live in Ohio. They’re inhibiting my lifestyle.”

“Gee, I’d think with the influx of young straight guys to the area, they would help your lifestyle.” My comment was followed by complete silence.

After a moment, I heard a voice in the background that proved my mother was not lying. These girls were indeed taunting my mother with friendly greetings. “Hello, darlings!” my mother shouted back. “Did you get the Hauschka day cream?” She paused, presumably listening to their response. “Oh, I know. It’s so hydrating and don’t we need it in the city?” Another pause. “Absolutely, darling. No, no, no, only during the day. It’s too heavy for night.” Pause. “I don’t care what the woman at the counter says. You look at her skin then look at mine, and you decide who you’re going to listen to, darling.” Short pause. “Of course, no problem. It’s my pleasure.”

The skin care chat with her neighbor had ended, yet Anjoli did not return to our conversation. “Mother, are you still there?” I asked. “Mother?!” She did not reply. In the background, I heard her humming a tune from
Avenue Q.
“Mother, hang up the phone!” The next sound I heard was Mancha sniffing the phone. “Hit the red button, boy,” I instructed. “The red button that says off,” I said, hoping it was not true that dogs were color blind. And illiterate.

* * *

When Jack and Adam returned from Spartacus’party, my husband looked like he’d just survived a shipwreck. Not only was his t-shirt soggy, but a sleeve was entirely torn off. The front was ripped as if by knife. Jack’s hair was drying upright and his lip was swollen and cut. He limped favoring his right leg and clutched his neck in pain. Adam, on the other hand, appeared unscathed. “What happened?” I asked, unable to contain my grin.

“You should see the other guys,” Jack said, joining me in the fun. “Luce, I don’t know what got into me. One dad started getting really competitive with Steve, and the next thing you know we’re all trying to outdo each other in the Extreme Machine.”

“The Extreme Machine?” I asked, laughing.

“It’s basically a tidal wave. You gotta be 18 to go in it. What they don’t tell you is that you shouldn’t be any older than 18. Anyway, it was an ass-kicker the first time around. I should’ve stopped after that, but about five guys started really getting into it, and I got carried away. It was like a wolf pack mentality. We all lost our minds for about two hours. Every one of us trying to show how tough he was.”

“Well, what do you expect from a retired baseball player?” I said, shrugging. I moved toward him and began rubbing Jack’s neck. “Do you want me to get the Motrin?”

“Steve wasn’t the one being competitive,” Jack corrected. “When you’re a former Red Sox pitcher, the rest of the world’s competing with you, not the other way around.” I wondered for a moment what it would be like to be one of the Steves of the world. To be like Anjoli, Kimmy, and Randy, where things fell into your lap because your lap was
the
place to be. “Ouch, Luce, I can’t turn my head!” Jack shouted. He scrunched his face in pain, then repeated that he was unable to turn his head from its current position of looking over his right shoulder. “Can you get me the hot pad, babe?” As I was halfway down the hall, I heard Jack ask himself if any of the other dads were feeling the pain. “Luce!” Jack shouted. “It smells like piss in here. Did you clean the rug this morning?”

Gulp.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Earl arranged for Effie the ghost-buster to come to our house on July Fourth. She explained that she didn’t work on religious holidays, but had no problem with national ones. In fact, she said it was quite appropriate for her to give us independence from our lingering residents on the day we celebrate our nation’s sovereignty.

I drove Adam to Renee’s house about a half-hour before Effie was due to arrive at my place. Her mother was going to babysit her grandchildren and my son while her daughter attended our domestic exorcism and her son-in-law supposedly spent the day at the office. Renee’s home was a study in eclecticism with a Chinese rug, mission-style woodwork, and a mixture of pop art and Renaissance-style tapestries covering the walls. With her touch, it looked purposefully quirky. If I tried something similar, it would look schizophrenic. Renee brushed by her traditional-looking mother and kissed her on the cheek, rattling off reminders of where to find games, first aid, and emergency phone numbers. Her childlike enthusiasm eclipsed her typical cool demeanor. Renee rubbed her hands together gleefully as if she’d been waiting her entire life to witness a ghost-busting. I found her choice of tank top to be rather telling of her current personal status. She wore a ribbed men’s undershirt, often called a “wife beater,” that she had painted with thick lilac and pink flowers. I wondered how much of the real Renee I was seeing these days. Was she really taking her trials incredibly gracefully, or simply doing an exceptional job of painting?