The Queen Gene (28 page)

Robin joined us at the table and waved her red bandanna at Renee and me. “I guess we’re Bloods together,” she said, leaning in to kiss me. “It’s been too long. We need to get together soon,” Robin said to me.

Glancing across the lawn, Renee took inventory of who was there and what color bandannas Faidra was handing them. “I think all of the Junior League gals are Bloods,” Robin told her as she noticed Renee’s eyes scanning. “And all of the guys from Anderson’s law firm are Crips.” Renee and I burst into laughter as Robin smiled.

“I have
got
to write an article about this!” I shouted.

Just then I heard the familiar beginning of the Forty Cent song, “In Da House.” “In da house it’s always y’birfday. We gotta party like it’s your birfday,” he sang.
We’ve
got to
party like it’s your birthday? No wonder this man needs good legal representation!
Forty wore low-riding jeans and no top and was most definitely sweating. His ripped abs and muscular arms were so shiny they looked almost as if they were oiled. If I squinted, I could see a trail of black hair trickling down from his charcoal black belly button into his jeans. After the crowd finished hooting and hollering, Forty greeted the guests and brought little Anderson on stage to wish him a happy birthday. We all had to give a “shout out for shorty” and repeated several chants Forty led.

“I thought shorties were women,” Renee whispered to me.

“Forget everything you once knew,” I whispered back. “Sounds like it means ‘kid’ today.”

Forty said he wrote a song especially for Anderson and his homeys, and shouted into his microphone, “How many y’all shorties here was titty-fed? Lucky mother suckers, getting all that free titty.” He immediately launched into a song where the chorus was something about mother suckers. Forty held out his mike and urged the audience to shout back at him, “Lucky mother suckers.” Absurdly enough, they did. No one seemed at all outwardly phased by the fact that their kids were being taught borderline obscene lyrics that make nursing babies seem like sex-crazy boob fiends.

“Am I hallucinating, or does this guy keep calling our kids mother suckers?” I finally asked.

“This is classic Faidra,” Renee said.

“Well, I have to agree with Lucy that this is wholly inappropriate,” Robin added. “I’m going to say something to Faidra.”

Forty continued. “If you love that titty, say, ho!”

“Ho!” replied a mob of self-conscious white people trying to prove how hip they were.

Faidra rushed by us, heading toward the house with a sense of urgency. I may have even seen a bead of sweat peeking out from under her bandana. Robin held out her manicured hand with a diamond that caught the sunlight in such a way that it looked as if her hand just launched fireworks. “Faidra,” Robin said, “we need to talk about these lyrics!”

Faidra brushed by our table, looking back to reply. “Not now, girls. There are some kids snorting confectionary sugar in the kitchen. Be back in a second.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

The night after the Barrington hood bash, I drafted an article on how kids’ birthday parties have gone from neighborhood gatherings with cake and ice cream to ostentatious mega events with pop stars and faux cocaine. It was supposed to be a humorous piece, but I found myself growing heavy-hearted at the thought that some kids were sacrificing their childhood rite of passage to make way for their parents’ show of affluence. Three days later,
Parenting
bought the piece and assigned a follow-up two-part series: blow jobs at bar mitzvahs and sex at sweet sixteens.

The phone rang. Aunt Bernice called to ask if I would like a laser treatment next time I came to Florida. “Turns out, I refudd so much business that I get a free lasah job, but what do I need with it now that my vaginer is as smooth as a baby’s?” Why she felt the need to give me the status of her pubic hair every time we spoke was beyond me. “Thank you for sending that adorable t-shirt your friend Ronni painted. I’m the hit of the Hallmark with it on.”

“Oh, you’re the hit of the Hallmark even without it, Aunt Bern,” I replied.

“True,” she chirped. “Why isn’t Ronni selling these gorgeous creations at boutiques?”

“Renee,” I corrected. “Her name is Renee.”

“Whatevah her name is, that goil has talent.”

As much as I adored Aunt Bernice, talking to her made me miss Aunt Rita. Rita would have had some negative comment to balance Bernice’s sunshine. She would say the t-shirts were ugly. She’d add that the paint smelled so bad it was giving her a migraine. As lovely as Bernice was, half of her was missing without Rita. I understood how she felt. There was an empty space in my home now that Rita and Arnold were gone — and they were
haunting
my house. If only Rita could have been a well-behaved ghost. But why would she be different in death than she was in life?

Before I could pick up the phone to call Robin to ask her about the next Junior League luncheon, I heard Jack shout from the attic. Hoping he hadn’t hurt himself, I ran to the ladder leading up to the attic and asked if he was okay. “Come up here, Luce,” he said. As I ascended the rungs, I asked what the problem was. “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to the walls. I looked puzzled. “Look closely,” Jack said. I stepped close to the walls to see that the wood beams and walls were lumpy and torn. “Termites,” Jack said. “It’s pretty extensive. We’re gonna need to get the place tented. We’ll need to move out for a few days.”

“Can it wait until after the open house?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Why don’t we get the place looked at, then take off for a few days if we need to get tented. Maybe leave Adam with Bernice and cruise down to the Bahamas or something.”

“It’s going to be sad to see them go,” I said of our visitors. “Where will Maxime and Jacquie go?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said, shrugging. “They seem to be the type that always lands on their feet. Ya know, we bought this place less than two years ago. I think the guys who did the termite inspection need to cover this.” With that, he began climbing down the ladder. “Come on down, Luce. Where do we keep the house stuff?”

“In the bottom drawer of the file cabinet,” I told him as the phone began to ring.

“Hello,” I said, answering the call.

“The wedding is a fiasco! Kimmy can’t settle on a dress, darling,” Anjoli launched. “Honestly, she is so high maintenance.”

“Hello, Mother.”

“Darling, I am in
crisis
. We spent all day in that gritty little hot box by Needle Park looking at design after design after design, and absolutely nothing pleased madam.” I could see my mother rolling her eyes at Kimmy’s world-class divatude. “Finally, Mingi started shouting at us in Chinese or whatever language she speaks. When she finally calmed down, she told us that no one rejected her dresses and kicked us out. Can you imagine being asked to leave a dress shop?”

“Mother, you’re forbidden from returning to several Eastern European countries,” I reminded her.

“Precisely why being banned from her dinky little bridal sweat shop is so insulting, darling,” Anjoli said. “I think the woman is a complete fraud. Do you know what she said?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued. “She said we weren’t nice. Not
nice?!
Who the hell wants to be thought of as
nice,
anyway? It’s such an insipidly pedestrian compliment, it’s practically an insult. I thought she was one of us.”

“One of
us?”
I inquired.

“An artiste, darling,” Anjoli clarified. “Someone who didn’t have an interest in being characterized as
nice
. For God’s sake, the woman said she didn’t allow ugly brides to wear her dresses. I respected her for that honesty. Now it turns out that she’s a simpy little mouse cake like all the rest interested in dealing with people who are ‘nice’ and ‘good’ and other such blandness.
Nice!
Who the hell wants to be
nice
?”

“Mother, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t find you the least bit nice.”

“You’re such a love,” she said, sniffing. “So get ready for my next piece of news. Are you sitting?”

“Mother,” I said, sighing. “I have never once fainted on account of your news. Why do you always ask if I’m sitting?”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. Does it really matter? Does every word I say need to be hyper-analyzed by you?”

“I suppose not,” I dismissed. “Okay, I’m sitting. I have my sniffing salts by my side and a handmaiden ready to assist me should I keel over from the shock of Kimmy’s wedding dress news.”
Anjoli burst into laughter. “Your delivery is just like your father’s, darling. God, I miss that man. Why he had to leave this plane is beyond me. It wasn’t as though he was so spiritually evolved.”

Mother saw death as a graduation from earth. Whenever people passed away, Anjoli nodded her head somberly, declared them evolved souls, then darted off to Pilates. “Were you able to change Mingi’s mind?”

“Change her mind?!” my mother gasped. “I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s beneath me and beneath Kimmy to grovel for the approval of anyone, much less a hyped-up seamstress.”

“Oh, did you want me to call her?” I asked.

“Ha!” she laughed. “It’s beneath you too, darling. How did you ever get such low self-esteem with me as a mother? Anyway, Kimmy decided she’s going to forgo the whole wedding dress thing altogether. She says it’s too mainstream.” There were certain words that were emotionally loaded in my family. “Mainstream” was one of them, along with “pedestrian” and “common.”

“So what’s Kimmy going to wear, a pantsuit?”

“Think again, darling.”

“Um, a skirt?”

“One more guess!”

“A tuxedo?”

“That’s clever, but more your style than Kimmy’s. Ready to give up, darling?”

“Yeah, tell me.”

“Are you ready?”

“Mother, I need to go in a minute. Either tell me or don’t tell me,” I bluffed. I was dying to know after such build-up, but couldn’t stand to let my mother know how effective her game was.

“Nothing!”

“What do you mean nothing?” I asked.

“I mean she’s not going to wear one stitch of clothing, darling. Nothing, nada, neit.”

“Are you telling me that Kimmy’s going to get married naked?”

“Well, there’s more to it than that,” Anjoli said, enjoying herself. “You’ve heard of body painting, haven’t you, darling? It’s all the rage among the kids these days. Apparently, all the girls at the Playboy Mansion adore body paint.”

“Oh yes, how could I have forgotten? Last time I was hanging out at Hef’s place, I got painted like a mermaid before I posed for my centerfold.”

“Very funny, darling. My little friends at the KAT house told me about it. You don’t mind if I add them to the guest list, do you?”

“Will they be dressed or painted?” I asked, half serious.

“Dressed, of course. It takes a while to do a good paint job. I imagine Jack will be busy for two-to-three hours on Kimmy’s body.”

“Excuse me?” I said, hoping I had misunderstood.

“I said that it will take Jack between two and three hours to paint Kimmy’s body, especially considering the glitter glaze she wants on top. You know how brides are, they always wants that extra little sparkle.”

“Yes, but it’s usually on their eyelids, not their nipples, Mother. I’m sorry, but Jack cannot paint Kimmy’s naked body,” I said.

“Why not?! He’s always working on that car of yours on the lawn. How is this any different, darling?”

“I’ve never feared Jack would get sexually aroused by a VW bug, Mother! Why does she have to get married in the nude, anyway? First she jilted her groom, then she married herself in a gown made of disco ball mirrors, and now after having screwed half the Ivy League, she decides to marry an anthropology professor in nothing but a coat of paint?!”

“And glitter,” Anjoli added.

“The point is that this is not normal!”

“Who wants to be normal?” Anjoli shrieked. “Normal is boring. Normal is insipid. Normal is a complete bore and I, for one, think it’s fabulous that Kimmy marches to her own tune. Why do you begrudge her this? Look at you, living on an artist colony. You’re not exactly Donna Reed, and thank goodness for it, darling. I’m proud of how unique my girls are.”

“Okay,” I said, not defeated, but accepting of my role in this world. For the first time in my life, I felt at peace with who I was in relation to the rest of society. I was the daughter of an adulterous narcissistic mother and a dead drug-addicted father. I now lived on an arts colony with a husband who would paint my cousin’s naked body for her wedding. Meanwhile, the aunt who did not haunt my house would undoubtedly be on call to offer Kimmy pubic hair removal tips. In that moment of agreeing to allow Jack to paint Kimmy, I felt at home with myself for the first time in my life. “I’ll ask Jack if he’s comfortable with this, and if he agrees, it’s fine with me.”

“He’s an artist, of course he’ll feel comfortable with it, darling,” Anjoli said. “Do you think he could do me, too?”

“You know, Mother, call me pedestrian, but having my husband ‘do’ my mother is a bit more than I can handle.”

“That’s fine. Alfie would be devastated if I didn’t let him sew up a little number for me anyway. Plus, the attention really should be on Kimmy for her wedding. The last thing we need is to have everyone talking about how fabulous my ass looks. Absolutely no cellulite whatsoever.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Let’s all give a warm round of applause for the Meals in Heels committee and Pennies for Peace,” announced Cecile as the room full of Junior Leaguers politely clapped. “And of course, our newest member, Lucy Klein, and her family will be hosting their first open house at their arts ranch in two short weeks,” she continued, winking playfully. There was genuine excitement in the community about our Labor Day weekend. I hoped the fact that we were simultaneously hosting a nude wedding wouldn’t cast me as the neighborhood pariah, but this community seemed extremely welcoming of families that were a little off the beaten path. Faidra was still in good standing after Anderson’s gangsta party, even after she confirmed the rumors that Forty Cent was caught naked in the Jacuzzi with seven waitresses from the catering company after the party. I liked that Faidra didn’t hide from her scandals. She seemed stronger for not needing to deny the truth. Kids were snorting sugar. Entertainers were entertaining fourteen boobs in her hot tub. Why deny it? Just deal with it. I wondered if that type of serenity came from inner peace or from outrageous wealth. I liked her and told Renee I wanted to invite her to our next luncheon at my house. Cecile continued, “Lucy, would you like to say a few words about your event?”