If You Were Here (4 page)
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: #Chicago, #Humorous, #Family Life, #General, #Suburbs, #Women Authors, #Illinois, #Fiction, #Remodeling, #Dwellings
I begin to stroke Agent Bauer’s back more aggressively and then have to raise my voice because he’s purring so loudly. “What’s so frustrating is that Vienna acts like this place didn’t sit empty for two years because its price was too high before we moved in.”
“Was that when she was in rehab?”
I concentrate for a moment. “Huh . . . you know what? You may be right. I think that’s right after her sex tape broke on the Internet and she checked into Promises. Regardless, she told Liz, ‘I could get a million for that place in a different location.’ Well, yes. Duh. That’s exactly how real estate works, honey. Unfortunately the house is in
this
location, where it’s worth a fraction of that.”
this
location, where it’s worth a fraction of that.”
Mac pops up from the basement. “Hey, guys, what’s with all the shouting?”
“We’re talking about Vienna.”
Mac rolls his eyes and heads to the kitchen for a soda. He’s as fed up with the state of negotiations as I am. He suggested that if Vienna won’t take the appraised price, then we go “fairy tale” all over her ass, speculating she might sell for a handful of magic beans, like in “Jack and the Beanstalk,” as she seems that kind of gullible. I laughed when he first suggested this, but it may be our best option.
Tracey and I move on to happier topics and spend the afternoon laughing. At four p.m., she notices the time and announces she has to leave for her dinner date. Curvy and statuesque, Tracey’s the Jewish hybrid of Marilyn Monroe and Mae West. Apparently this combination is like catnip to older generations, so her dates tend to be, let’s say . . . more mature than her. Naturally, this is an endless source of amusement for me.
“Need to get ready?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says, gathering up her coat and putting on her snow boots. “He’s picking me up in a little while.”
I cough into my hand.
“Earlybirdspecial.”
“Earlybirdspecial.”
“What?”
I giggle. “Um, nothing.” She frowns as she continues to bundle up. “So,” I gamely continue, “a date tonight . . . How will you get sexy for that? Dab a little Mentholatum behind your ears? Fill your pockets with Werther’s Originals? Surprise him with some fresh tennis balls for the tips of his walker?”
She sighs audibly. “He was born in October 1957. You realize that makes him six years younger than Sting. Would you date Sting?”
“Mac prefers I don’t date, what with us being married and all.”
Her cerulean blue eyes flash. “You know what I mean.”
“Um, sure, I’d absolutely date Sting. But I don’t picture your guy looking like Sting.”
She glances up from her boot laces again. “How do you picture him?”
I close my eyes and try to envision her beau. I imagine a round face with soft jowls and a jawline that dips down into his collar. His hair is gray—or missing—and although his eyes show his age-borne experience, they’ve grown paler and a bit cloudy. He has crow’s-feet and his lips have thinned. He’s got laugh lines and forehead wrinkles and a host of other age-related maladies that I pay a lot of money to eliminate so my young-adult audience relates better to me at live events.
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“I guess in my head he looks like . . . Carroll O’Connor.”
She snorts. “Archie Bunker?
That’s
where your mind goes when you imagine an older guy?”
That’s
where your mind goes when you imagine an older guy?”
I nod.
“For your information, he does not look like Archie Bunker. He’s been a weight lifter for thirty years and he’s a vegetarian. He has a full head of hair that’s got less gray in it than mine. I assure you he’s in better health and shape than either of us.”
I counter,“Yet I’m willing to bet his closet’s filled with cardigans and Rockports and pastel Sansabelt pants.”
Tracey’s sheepish grin tells me everything I need to know.
“Maybe you should do your hair like Rita Hayworth tonight. All the GIs from the Greatest Generation loved her!” I call as she heads down our steps and out the heavy iron gate.
“Screw you and your sheet sign!” she cheerily calls back.
“Coffee at eleven tomorrow?”
“It’s a date! See you at Lulu’s!” She gets into her car and pulls away while I wave from the porch. The sheet sign whips in the breeze above my head while I quickly text her,
It’s not a date; I’m too young for you.
It’s not a date; I’m too young for you.
I go back inside and gather up all the detritus from our tea, depositing the dishes in the pristine farmhouse sink. After the kitchen’s clean, I go upstairs to work on a new chapter featuring gratuitous barn building and brain sucking.
The wind must have picked up, and I can hear the sign flapping against the wall outside. Time to take that thing down. I walk over to the intercom and call for Mac. “Hey, honey, church is in session tomorrow and the joke’s getting old.”
Also? I’m tired of people yelling, “Who’s ORNESTEGA?” from their cars.
Mac comes up to my office, a parade of dogs and kittens in his wake. We go to either side of my bay window and release the zip ties securing the sheet. Once the sign’s inside, we close the windows. I’ve just turned out the light and I’m about to shut the woven wooden blinds when I spot a shadowy figure moving quickly back and forth in the street in front of our house. What the . . . ?
“Mac, honey, get back here—what’s going on out there?”
We see a hooded person on the street swivel his ski-mask-covered face around a couple of times and then pull what looks like a Powerade bottle out of his hoodie. The figure fumbles with something and then sticks a strip of fabric in the bottle. He whips out a lighter, ignites the bottom of the cloth, and hurls the bottle toward our house.
The first problem is that our fence is higher than the Masked Revenger anticipated, so when he throws his Molotov cocktail, it hits one of the finials on top of the gate and ricochets back toward him.
The second problem with Señor Ski Mask’s plan is less about execution and more about design. Sports-drink bottles are efficient in their ergonomics because their wide openings allow for quicker refreshment deployment. When one’s body is hot and thirsty for electrolytes, one wants to be able to gulp down that artificially flavored lemon-lime liquid as quickly as possible.
The thing is, there’s a reason you never see James Bond blowing shit up by slinging a Gatorade container. Not only is a Château Lafite bottle a more elegant solution, but it melts at a higher temperature and its neck is much slimmer. Plus, being glass, it shatters on impact. However, the mouth on a sports-drink bottle is far too wide, and unless one stuffs in, say, an overnight maxipad, whatever fabric is placed inside is going to fall out once it’s in motion and the bottle will melt once the fabric’s ignited.
22
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Anyway, the person out front has found himself caught in a perfect storm of stupidity. One second he’s standing there looking all smug and menacing in his ski mask, and the next, he’s covered in turpentine and flaming harder than Boys Town on Pride weekend.
With the kind of deft swiftness one can employ only when one is, you know,
on fire
, our assailant whips off his mask, hoodie, and accompanying shirts and, in a single swift motion, hops out of his low-hanging pants. He then runs down the street screaming, clad in nothing but basketball shoes and a pair of colorful jockey shorts.
on fire
, our assailant whips off his mask, hoodie, and accompanying shirts and, in a single swift motion, hops out of his low-hanging pants. He then runs down the street screaming, clad in nothing but basketball shoes and a pair of colorful jockey shorts.
We’re both quiet for a moment, taking in the gravity of what we just witnessed. I talk first. “I guess
that’s
why ORNESTEGA doesn’t wear a belt.”
that’s
why ORNESTEGA doesn’t wear a belt.”
Mac nods. “But he has neatly answered the eternal boxers-orbriefs question; I give him that.”
We silently watch the flames sizzle out when they reach a snowdrift, and finally Mac speaks again. “You realize this means we have to move to the suburbs.”
“Totally.”
Mac is pensive for a moment before picking up the phone to call the police. “Of course, before we go, we’ll have to change the sign to reflect recent events.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning now it’s going to read, ‘ORNESTEGA wears Spider-Man underpants.’ ”
Chapter ThreeI’VE GOT YOUR GPS RIGHT HERE, PAL
“Turn left here. Left! Here! Turn left right now! The map says left! Left, left, left! Now, now, now!”
Mac glances at me in the rearview mirror, raising a single eyebrow. Okay, would everyone stop doing that? It makes me very self-conscious.
“Why are you not turning left? The blue line on this map is the most direct route to where we’re going,” I yelp. “Go! Left! Leeeeefffttt!”
Calmly, Mac replies, “Because I trust the GPS system more than I do your cartography prowess, and because the line you’re looking at is a river.”
Mac, Liz, and I are navigating our way up to see houses in the exclusive suburban town of Abington Cambs. We chose to concentrate our search in the Cambs
23
for a couple of reasons, but mostly because . . . this is
Shermer
! I’m so keyed up I can barely stay in my seat.
23
for a couple of reasons, but mostly because . . . this is
Shermer
! I’m so keyed up I can barely stay in my seat.
Abington Cambs was not only Hughes’s inspiration for the fictional town of Shermer, but so many of his outdoor scenes were filmed here. We’ve already driven past the little stucco-and-beam shopping plaza from
Ferris Bueller
, and I’m pretty sure I just spotted the McCallister house from
Home Alone
. I mean, how perfect is that?
Ferris Bueller
, and I’m pretty sure I just spotted the McCallister house from
Home Alone
. I mean, how perfect is that?
This is the most beautiful community I’ve ever seen; that’s probably because it’s also one of the wealthiest.
Forbes
magazine recently called Abington Cambs “the Hamptons of Middle America.” Everything here is landscaped and manicured and tidy, exactly like I remember from the movies. I’m pretty sure if ORNESTEGA wrote his name on anything, the zoning board would publicly execute him on the bucolic grounds of the market square.
Forbes
magazine recently called Abington Cambs “the Hamptons of Middle America.” Everything here is landscaped and manicured and tidy, exactly like I remember from the movies. I’m pretty sure if ORNESTEGA wrote his name on anything, the zoning board would publicly execute him on the bucolic grounds of the market square.
Naturally this is where stupid, undeserving Vienna grew up, and, yes, that fact kills me a little inside.
Anyway, when I graduated from college and moved to Chicago, I was dying to see the Cambs firsthand. As it so happened, my first job was in sales, and I ended up servicing some hospital accounts close to here.
I’d often head to the Cambs after my meetings just to spot landmarks, and sometimes I’d stop to hit their McDonald’s. The first time I went there, I almost missed it. Instead of sporting the familiar red-shingled roof and a big golden-arched sign, the McDonald’s in the Cambs is a pretty green wooden building with cream trim and shake shingles. Were it not for the tasteful little sign at the parking lot entrance, no one would know it wasn’t a beautifully appointed—albeit oddly placed—barn.
From what I’ve read, the town is maniacal about more than just fast-food joints. Mr. T lived here in the eighties, and when he cut down his oak trees, the locals’ outrage made the
New York Times
. Residents called it “The Abington Cambs Chain Saw Massacre.”
24
New York Times
. Residents called it “The Abington Cambs Chain Saw Massacre.”
24
When the weather was nice, I’d opt to drive back to the city down the picturesque stretch of Meridian Road instead of the expressway. I’d go really slowly, making sure to take in all the mansions bordering Lake Michigan. Balustrades! Crushed-shell driveways extending half a mile! Sculpture gardens! Proud as I was of my first studio apartment by Wrigley Field, seeing those grand old homes on the water made me dream big. Matter of fact, I came up with the plot to
Valley of the Faceless Dolls
on that ride one warm spring night.
Valley of the Faceless Dolls
on that ride one warm spring night.
Between my blurting directions and Mac’s ignoring them, we reach our first showing. We pull up to a diminutive taupe Cape Cod in a pretty subdivision far west of the lake. The trees in the neighborhood are bare save for a coating of snow, but I can already tell how pleasantly shaded this street will be when winter’s finally over. Liz deftly works the lockbox, quickly extracting a key. She calls over her shoulder, “Let’s have a peek.”
The door opens into a sunny, inviting entry hall with plenty of room for coats and umbrellas and all the other detritus associated with living above the arctic circle.
25
I lean on Mac while I kick off my snowy Merrell clogs and slide on a pair of blue flannel elastic booties. “You really don’t need to wear those if you’re in your socks,” Liz tells me.
25
I lean on Mac while I kick off my snowy Merrell clogs and slide on a pair of blue flannel elastic booties. “You really don’t need to wear those if you’re in your socks,” Liz tells me.
“Eh.” I shrug. “I don’t mind.” The hardwood is made of thick planks of polished oak, stained to a lovely cherry color. There’s a solidly protective level of varnish on top of it, so I already know the floor will stand up to years of muddy paws and throw-up kitties.
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