Revenge of the Spellmans (3 page)

“I tried,” I said, turning back to Henry.

Henry finished his club soda and asked for something stronger. I suggested 7UP, but he had bourbon in mind, which meant my sister had done something terribly wrong. I was intrigued.

“What did you do?” I asked Rae after I served Henry his Bulleit.

“Tell Henry,” Rae said, “that what I did, I did for his own good.”

“Did you hear that?” I said to Henry.

He looked up from the magazine and said, “Hear what?”

“Um, Rae said that what she did, she did for your own good.”

“Well, you can tell your sister that it was not her decision to make.”

“What did he say?” Rae asked, even though Henry’s response was perfectly audible.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.

“What did he say?” she insisted.

“He said it was not your decision to make.”

“Tell him he’ll thank me later.”

Henry returned to his magazine and continued pretending that Rae existed in some parallel universe where only I could see and hear her. I decided to play along for the time being, since I had to admit I wanted the scoop.

“She said you’ll thank her later.”

“Tell her I won’t. Tell her she’s forbidden to come to my house ever again.”

“You can’t be serious,” she said. Apparently my translating skills were no longer required, because this was directed at Henry’s back.

“Oh, I’m very serious,” he replied, finishing off the last of his bourbon. I was shocked when he pointed to his glass and asked for another, but I assumed this meant further information would be forthcoming, so I served the drink and eagerly awaited the rest of the story.

I’ll spare you the long, drawn-out argument and give you the basic facts. Henry, for the last five months, had been dating a public defender for San Francisco County named Maggie Mason. Maggie has an apartment in Daly City—not the quickest commute to the superior court building on Bryant Street. Henry lives in the Inner Sunset. It’s only natural that Maggie would spend time at Henry’s home and not the other way around. Two months ago, she got a drawer in his house; one month ago, she got a shelf in his pantry.
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Last week Henry made a copy of his key and gave it to her in a jewelry box. My sister, convinced that Henry wasn’t really ready to take the next step, took it upon herself to change the locks in his apartment a few days later. How my sister had access to his home and how this act of subterfuge went unnoticed by the neighbors, I cannot explain. Suffice it to say she did not deny her role in this particular drama. I’m sure you can imagine what happened next: Maggie arrived at Henry’s house after a long day
of work. She tried her key and it failed. She interpreted events the way any woman might: Henry gave her the wrong key, which was a subconscious or passive-aggressive communication that he was simply not ready. What had not occurred to Maggie was that my sister was playing saboteur in their relationship. Certainly there had been moments of tension between Maggie and her boyfriend’s odd version of a “best friend,” but Maggie had failed to see Rae’s outright hostility. None of this escaped Henry’s notice.

“Tell your sister,” said Henry, “that she is no longer welcome in my home.”

“We’re back to that again?” I asked.

Rae’s response was not the wisest. “I have a key,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I had the locks changed this morning!”
Henry replied to my sister at a volume I did not know his voice was capable of.

“Total waste of money,” Rae replied.

Henry finished his second drink, stood up in a huff, and said in his most threatening tone, “Mark my words, Rae: This isn’t over.” Henry nodded a silent good-bye to me and left the bar.

Rae nervously folded her cocktail napkin in quarters, then eighths, and attempted sixteenths. Her defiance softened and worry lines crinkled her smooth brow.

“He’s really angry, Rae.”

“I know,” she replied.

“I’ve met Maggie. She seems nice. What do you have against her?”

“Nothing,” Rae said. “It’s just that if somebody doesn’t do something about it, he’s going to marry her.”

Saturday
1400 hrs

A lawyer walked into the bar. Sorry, there’s no joke here. It was my brother, David,
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sporting three-day-old stubble and casual attire—cargo
pants, sneakers, and a
GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU
T-shirt, which I’m almost positive was mine. My point is, David’s ensemble was in direct conflict with his usual dress code. It was as if he were wearing a costume for someone planning a day at the park. Instead of ordering what was advertised on his shirt, David asked for a Bloody Mary, just to make me work. I added extra Tabasco and pepper, just to make him suffer.

“What are you doing drinking on a Saturday afternoon?”

“My vacation starts today.”

“Some vacation,” I replied, scanning the surroundings for emphasis.

“I leave for Europe on Monday.”

“For how long?”

“Four weeks.”

“Nobody tells me anything,” I said.

“It’s a last-minute thing,” David replied.

“You traveling alone?” I asked.

“No,” David said in a way that indicated the discussion was over. I, of course, did not agree to the inexplicit request.

“So, who are you traveling with?”

Familiar with my questioning tactics, David stayed his course. “I was thinking I should have someone watch my place while I’m gone, and since you live in a dump,
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I figured I wouldn’t have to pay you.”

“Not that you couldn’t afford to.”

My brother handed me an envelope, leaned across the bar, and kissed me on the cheek. “The key and instructions are in there. I leave for the airport around ten
A
.
M
. on Monday. Don’t enter the premises until at least ten thirty, in case I’m running late. I will return exactly four weeks later in the afternoon, so make yourself scarce by noon of the third Monday from this Monday. Got it?”

“Don’t you want me to hang around so you can bore me with all your travel photos?”

“Not really,” David replied. “Now, behave while I’m gone,” he said, raising a stern eyebrow. Then he left.

I cracked the envelope the second David exited the bar. As promised, it contained a key and a typewritten sheet of paper.

RULES FOR ISABEL WHILE STAYING IN MY HOME

Do…

• Take in the mail every day.
  
• Take out the trash when the bag is full. Put garbage bins on the sidewalk Thursday evening.
  
• Reduce, reuse, and recycle. Try to make this world a better place.
  
• Sleep in the guest room.
  
• Sophia cleans on Tuesday. Tidy up before she comes.
  
• Water all indoor plants. There are instructions next to each plant.
  

Do NOT…

• Mess with the sprinkler system. It’s on a timer.
  
• Add porn sites to the Favorites list on my computer.
  
• Use my electric toothbrush. I don’t care if you buy a new head.
  
• Throw any parties.
  
• Sleep in my bed.
  
• Move any furniture.
  
• Drink any of the following booze
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  :
  
  • J. Walker Black Label
    
  • Glenlivet 18 Year
    
  • Grey Goose Vodka
    
  • Rémy Martin VSOP
    

After I recovered from the insult of the list, I phoned David to clarify a few matters.

“Did you forget to include your itinerary?” I asked.

“No,” David replied. “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”

“How will I reach you if there’s an emergency?”

“Just call my cell phone.”

I hung up the phone without any more answers than when I started. There was only one thing I could say for certain: David was lying to me. About what, I couldn’t say.

As I contemplated my brother’s suspicious behavior, the afternoon regulars began to arrive.

Clarence Gilley strode in shortly after four. He pretends he’s on a schedule when it comes to drinking. Four o’clock is his start time and if he shows up any time after that he says, “Sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.” I like Clarence. He tips well, tells me a single joke each visit, and then he remains silent, studying the sports section of the
Chronicle
for the next four hours.

Saturday’s joke:
An amnesiac walks into a bar. He asks, “Do I come here often?”

1700 hrs

Mom
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walked into the bar. Whatever my father lacks in good looks, my mother makes up for it. Mom is petite and elegant with long auburn hair that comes straight out of a bottle. From a distance, she appears years younger than her age. In fact, Clarence whistled when my mom entered the bar. (Although I can’t say for sure that he was responding to her and not to some alarming news from the world of sports.)

Like my father’s, Mom’s “casual” visits to the Philosopher’s Club were thinly veiled interrogations. To my parents’ credit, though, they managed
to mix things up just a bit. This is a close approximation of my conversation with my mother that day:

ISABEL:
What can I get you?

OLIVIA:
A daughter with a purpose in life.

ISABEL:
Sorry, we’re all out. What’s your second choice?

OLIVIA:
I can’t decide between a club soda and a real drink.

ISABEL:
I’d prefer you had a real drink.

OLIVIA:
Fine. I’ll have a gimlet.

ISABEL:
But just one drink. Then I’d like you to be on your way.

OLIVIA:
I’ll leave when my business here is done.

[The drink is served; the patron takes a sip and grimaces.]

OLIVIA:
It needs more booze.

ISABEL:
When I serve it to you with more booze, you say it needs more lime juice. Has it occurred to you that you just don’t like gimlets?

OLIVIA:
I used to love them.

ISABEL:
Sometimes we need to accept change.

OLIVIA:
Is this what you’re getting out of therapy? Learning to embrace your inner bartender?

ISABEL:
I’m just doing my time, Mom. That’s all.

OLIVIA:
Tell me something. Do you talk about me with Dr. Ira?
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ISABEL:
We talk about everyone in my life at one time or another. It’s possible I haven’t mentioned Bernie
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yet. But I’m sure it will happen eventually.

OLIVIA:
Are you blaming me for all of your troubles?

ISABEL:
No. Actually, I’ve been blaming David.

OLIVIA:
Fair enough.

[Mother/patron crinkles nose when she takes a second sip of her gimlet.

Daughter/bartender sprays an ounce of club soda into her drink.]

ISABEL:
Try it now.

OLIVIA:
That’s much better. How do I order it if I need to?

ISABEL:
You don’t. But if you have to, call it a gimlet watered down with soda.

OLIVIA:
Very nice.

ISABEL:
So, I’ll trade you one honest answer for one in return.

OLIVIA:
Agreed.

ISABEL:
Did you send some guy into the bar on Tuesday to drill me for information?

OLIVIA:
I did that once two months ago. Will you let it die already?

ISABEL:
So, that’s a no?

OLIVIA:
Yes, it’s a no. My turn?

ISABEL:
Shoot.

OLIVIA:
Are you dating anyone right now? [Long pause.]

ISABEL:
No one to speak of.

OLIVIA:
What are you hiding? [Another significant pause.]

ISABEL:
Milo and I hooked up a few weeks ago. It’s been awkward ever since.

OLIVIA:
That’s so gross, it’s not even funny.

ISABEL:
Yeah, you’re right. I thought it might be funny, but when I said it, I just felt nauseous.