The Queen Gene (27 page)

“And it’s about to get bigger, darling,” Anjoli said with a drum roll delivery.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I hated how my mother teased in her delivery. I always had to ask, “What do you mean?” or somehow encourage her to go on with the rest of her news. Instead of getting right to it, she gave a seemingly endless preamble that left me wondering if she’d forgotten the point altogether and had simply drifted off to another topic.

“Kimmy and I went to the Needle Park Gallery for her dress today, and we were talking about what type of dress would fit with the ambiance we wanted to create,” Anjoli began. Perhaps this would be a good time to explain that the Needle Park Gallery, despite its name and location, is the hippest bridal dress maker in Manhattan. In order to get an appointment, women have to submit a headshot for consideration because as the designer, Mingi X, was quoted saying in
Vogue,
she does not waste her talent on ugly brides. I believe the exact quote was something like, “To preserve the integrity of my art, I must hand-select women to wear my gowns because my work becomes polluted when worn by ugly brides.” Instead of alienating potential brides, Mingi found that her hideous comment launched her into superstardom. Brides from across the country hired professional make-up artists, hair stylists, and photographers so they could show Mingi that they were pretty enough to wear a Needle Park bridal gown. Needle Park wasn’t even called Needle Park anymore. The East Village had been so gentrified over the last ten years that heroin addicts had to relocate to make way for kids to play on the jungle gym. Yet the pretentiously unpretentious Mingi opted to name her dress shop after an outdoor heroin shooting gallery. Instead of being repelled by this, women from even the most wholesome states sent giggly notes to Mingi, begging to be initiated into the ranks of the Needle Park brides. They promised to make the pilgrimage to New York for their fittings, and agreed to sign a contract allowing Mingi to destroy any wedding photographs that weren’t flattering to her dresses. “Anyway, darling, naturally after taking one look at Kimmy, Mingi accepted her application and even waived the file review fee. Such a sweetheart, that Mingi. She’s making a hat for me that will match Kimmy’s dress. Not that I didn’t qualify for a dress, of course, darling. I may yet be a Needle Park maid of honor, but I have to feel out Alfie and see if he’ll be crushed if he doesn’t dress me for the wedding.”

“How sensitive of you, Mother,” I said.

“And guess who else is going to be wearing a Mingi original to Kimmy’s wedding?”

“Me?” I asked tentatively. I wasn’t sure I wanted this nasty woman sighing with exasperation as she measured my hips and waist.

“Oh,” Anjoli’s voice fell. “No, darling. I didn’t think you were into that whole scene.” I wasn’t, but it would have been nice to be the one rejecting the idea. I wondered if my mother thought Mingi would turn down my application. Then I shook off the entire, ridiculous notion of having to apply for the right to pay top dollar for a dress named after a rehabilitated druggie park.

“Good,” I said. “I don’t have time to come in to the city for fittings with the open house coming up. Oh, right! Tell me how we’re supposed to handle my being in two places at once on Labor Day.”

“Don’t you want to hear about J.Lo’s dress?”

“J.Lo’s dress?” I repeated. “Ah yes, the dog. You’re getting a dress made for your Chihuahua? Did Mingi agree to this?”

“Agree to it?! It was her idea, darling.”
Unbelievable.

“That’s terrific then. The three of you should look very coordinated.”

“You don’t feel left out, do you, darling?” Anjoli asked. “If you want Mingi to whip up something for you, I’m sure she’d do it for me. We won’t let her see you until all the papers are signed.”
Ouch!
It took a long time for me to come to peace with my weight. I wish the rest of the world would hurry up.

“Don’t bother, Mother. Renee’s going to cut a hole through a canvas tent so I can put my head through it. I’ll just wear that.”

“She is so creative,” Anjoli said.

“Anyway, tell me about this Labor Day wedding.”

“Oh yes, how could I forget, darling?”

Because you’re a flake, Mother!

“Kimmy and Nick have decided to have their wedding on Labor Day weekend.”

“I know
that!
How am I supposed to be her matron of honor if we have our big art show that weekend?”

“Because Kimmy and Nick’s wedding will be at your place. That’s how, darling,” Anjoli said with great satisfaction.

“We’re having an art show,” I reminded her.

“This will be part of it! Think of it as performance art, darling. Everyone adores watching beautiful people get married. I bet you double attendance when people hear that a model is getting married on your commune.”

“Mother!” I shouted, not knowing where to begin. I took a deep breath and tried to reason with her. “Jack, Maxime, Chantrell, and Randy have worked really hard to make this show a success. If we throw a wedding in the middle of it, it’ll detract from their work. Besides, do Kimmy and Nick really want a bunch of strangers at their wedding?”

“As long as they bring gifts,” Anjoli said, laughing. “Seriously, darling, if you’re worried about money, I’ll pay for all of the champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Plus, consider how much exposure these artists will get if I infuse the party with our fabulous guest list. We’ll make your open house
the
place to be on Labor Day weekend. The townspeople will feel like absolute bumpkins if they don’t show up.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Oddly, I was the only one who objected to Kimmy and Nick relocating their wedding smack dab in the middle of our first open house. Jack agreed with Anjoli that hosting a wedding would be a huge draw. And bringing two hundred well-heeled guests from the city couldn’t help but result in art sales for everyone. Randy immediately asked if he could design an abstract glass bride and groom ornament for the cake top. Chantrell offered to play her cello for the bridal procession, and Maxime insisted on creating the invitations. I never thought a wedding invitation done entirely in ink dots would looks quite as elegant as it did. Even Jacquie got into the act. At first, I assumed her contribution would be shopping for party supplies, but she stunned us all when she announced that she was a classically trained opera singer and belted out an absolutely spectacular Ave Maria.

The next day, I woke up to the sight of Jack and Adam dressed in white undershirts, backward baseball caps, and unusually large medallions made of fake gold and rhinestones. “Is today Anderson’s hip hop birthday party?” I asked.

“Gangsta party, woman,” Jack corrected. As he smiled, I saw that my husband had wrapped a front tooth in gold foil. He picked up his water gun and tucked it into his low-rider pants and instructed Adam, “Word to your mother.” Whatever the hell that meant. “You best start gettin’ dressed, woman,” he said to me.

There was something more than a bit ironic about a ghetto theme party in honor of a five-year-old named Anderson P. Barrington IV held on a multimillion dollar estate so large that the invitation included a map. Not a map of how to get to the Barrington estate — a map of how to get from the driveway to the “Sunny Garden.” Apparently, Anderson P. Barrington III provided legal representation for Forty Cent, a cheap imitation of the half dollar mega-star. Forty agreed to entertain the kids for an hour.

I couldn’t even imagine why Adam was invited to this party. We’d never met the Barringtons. When we received the invitation last week, Renee was at the house helping Jack paint the car. She informed me that every family in town with children ranging from newborns to high schoolers would be attending the Barrington bash. When I told her it was Jack’s turn to take Adam to the party, she gasped. “You
have
to go!”

“I took Adam to Devin’s fire engine party three weeks ago, and I still hear sirens blaring in my head,” I reminded her. “Don’t I deserve a break?”

Renee took a serious tone and explained, “This party is going to rock in ways that people like you and me can’t begin to imagine. Bebe told me that MTV was going to make a surprise launch of its new G-rated music television station
live
from the Barrington party!” I could not care less about MTV or its new kid station, but I found Renee’s excitement contagious. I began wondering if I should attend. “Plus, if you don’t go, Faidra will take it as a huge snub and you’ll be on her shit list forever. Believe me, you do not want that. She had a huge falling out with Felicity Griswold six years ago. Do you know her?”

I ran through my mental Rolodex. “No, never heard of her,” I told Renee.

“Exactly,” she said, folding her arms smugly. When Renee sensed that I was unmoved by the threat of social Siberia, she changed tactics. “It will be a total blast, hon. Go for me, won’t you. Dan has to work all next weekend and I don’t want to go alone.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “How are things going with you two?”

“He’s working
all
next weekend,” she replied. “And he worked all this weekend. It’s amazing that he isn’t running the place by now.”

“Renee,” I said, extending her name to scold her cynicism. “Maybe he
is
working.”

“I called his cell phone company and said I was his secretary, and had them fax me a copy of his phone bill for the last month. He makes a lot of calls to the same number, the home of a Cindy Phoenix. Could you puke at the name? His credit card statements show that he’s having some pretty swanky dinners on the nights Dan said he was working. Remember working late on big projects?” Renee asked. I nodded. “Remember where dinner came from? Subway sandwiches or someplace like that, not Philippe’s Bistro.”

I said nothing because there was nothing to say. It was clear Dan was still having an affair and had no intention of calling it off. I wanted to ask her what she planned to do about her philandering husband. I wanted to tell her she deserved better than this. But before I could open my mouth, she shifted gears and continued to urge me to attend the Barrington bash. “You could pitch a story to
Parenting
magazine about over-the-top birthday parties,” she urged. “I mean, when was the last time you went to a backyard party with Pin the Tail on the Donkey and frosted sponge cake?”

I laughed. “I once went to a kid’s birthday party where Barney showed up drunk off his ass and fell into the swimming pool. He actually hit his head pretty badly and had to be taken away by paramedics. The mom called in a shrink to do a post-party therapy session so the kids wouldn’t suffer long-term damage.”

I agreed to go to the party, and truth be told, I was looking forward to it all week. When I saw Jack and Adam dressed and ready to go that morning, I wondered what I would wear to match their gangsta ensemble. I opted for a yellow sundress and was eternally grateful for the choice when we arrived. The only mother who was pimped out was Faidra, who looked as if she borrowed Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl jumpsuit. Clearly, the unspoken rule was that Faidra was the belle of this ball and the other mothers better not even try to compete. How any woman could wear black leather on an August day was beyond me. I have to admit, though, she didn’t break a sweat. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of surgical intervention to ensure that Faidra would never do something as human as perspire. Renee told me that she had every type of cosmetic assistance available, including the bleaching of her butthole.

“What?!” I gasped when Renee whispered this to me at the party. “Why would she do that?”

“I guess to make it look more youthful,” Renee said, shrugging.

“Who’s looking at her asshole?” I said, incredulous.

“It’s apparently pretty common.”

“It is
not
common!” I exclaimed. “Come on, tell me you’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding, Lucy. Faidra Barrington has a bleached ass. Actually, I think it’s a laser procedure.”

“Jesus,” I sighed. “That’s good grooming.” I made a point to remind myself to squat over a hand mirror later that evening and see what all the fuss was about. It infuriated me that men could walk around feeling perfectly good about their appearance whether they had a unibrow, triple chin, or skin flaps hanging off their eyelids, but stunning women like Faidra felt the need to have an unblemished butthole. The world is insane.

Not only was the world insane, this party was crazy. The closest parking spot was more than three blocks from the house. We found our way to the Sunny Garden by following the pounding rhythm of a band calling itself PG-Unit, the warm-up band for Forty Cent. The Barringtons had a stage set up that looked as if it were an actual rock concert. They had a two-thousand-square-foot wood dance floor surrounded by dainty tables covered with white umbrellas you just don’t see in the hood. The irony of this party was too delicious. Adam and Jack looked cute dancing, but others were more amusing. As I sat under a parasol, gossiping about Faidra’s asshole with Renee, I watched Phil MacInerny, the local pharmacist, gyrating his hips and pumping his arm up and down like John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever.
I always enjoy the sight of white people trying to show how hip they are by self-consciously copying moves they think black people would do.

Faidra flitted by every table with her freshly dyed burgundy hair that was flipped above the shoulder like Marcia Cross’s character, Bree, from
Desperate Housewives
. She kissed Renee on both cheeks and introduced herself to me, telling me how pleased she was that Jack, Adam, and I could attend. Her manners were astonishing. Well over four hundred people were at this party, and she remembered the names of the people connected with me as soon as she heard my name. “You’re the family that turned the Adler place into an arts colony. Anderson and I are very much looking forward to your open house on Labor Day weekend. We’re collectors,” she said matter-of-factly. “Anyhoo,” Faidra continued, handing us two red bandannas. “You are both Bloods, so put these on your heads before the water balloon battle with the Crips later.” Pointing at the red bandanna on her own head, she said, “I’m a Blood too, so let’s kick some booty together, bitches,” she said with a demure giggle chaser. There was something extraordinarily lovable about Faidra. Despite her pearly white asshole and insistence that we dress like gangsta girls, she was warm and sincere in a way I didn’t expect.