The Muffia

THE MUFFIA

Ann Royal Nicholas

For The Muffs

Prologue

Sunlight penetrated the hibiscus and carefully pruned live oaks growing alongside the architecturally ambiguous California house. It filtered through the arched windows and dispersed fuzzy shafts of light, which fell upon bodies writhing in ecstasy. Well, I mean, we were writhing and it
was
ecstatic—at least from my point of view beneath him.

Oh yeah,
I remember chanting over and over.
Oh yeah, Baby, yeah.

You’re so sexy,
he kept telling me which made me moan again and again, of course; to which I’d say,
God damn, you’re good,
and
You’re so fucking great
. You know, the usual things people say while in the throes of physical passion.

In between my moans he’d tell me,
You make me so horny, Baby,
and
Yeah, Baby
,
I love it when you scream.
As I recall, both of us were probably saying
Yeah, Baby
somewhat excessively.

You make me scream
, I remember screaming. He really was incredibly hot—a fantasy man—handsome, penetrating green-gold eyes and a body like a Greek sculpture come to life.

Believe me, I was into it when it was happening, so forgive the seeming detachment from the event. It’s a bad habit I’ve developed during my career assisting other people resolve their legal disputes—emotional distance. But I assure you I was right there and apoplectic while it was in progress.

He wasn’t from California, or even an American. But so what? I found him a remarkably generous lover and maybe that's why.

I want to make you see the stars,
he’d say. And the way he said it—
the stars?

I . . .Oh, my God, the stars!

I remember glancing out the window at the oaks—the stars weren’t out—in all their green-gray glory, swaying in the afternoon breeze, and I felt like some wild animal in nature engaged in a deliciously beasty act. And then I lost all sense of place and time. Could it have been love? Or just desire? I don’t think it mattered at the time.

Oh God... I’m coming!
  I screamed.

Yeah, come on, Baby,
come!
he urged me unnecessarily; see, I’d already started down Orgasm Drive—I didn’t need any help.

And so I came, over and over I came, and it was—words fail, really. But it was unbelievably great—the best I’d ever had, which I realize is what I always say after too long a time between orgasms. It's just that I don’t want to take anything away from the event or the man. Men need to know, after all, that they’ve improved the quality of your life in some way.

The earth moved as it hadn’t in far too long, and I did see stars—danced among them, to tell the truth. We came together in a release of consummated, long pent-up desire, which we’d finally acted upon with abandoned
joie de vivre
on that quiet Wednesday afternoon on the daybed in the solarium of my suburban Los Angeles home.

In one final explosive burst of sexual ecstasy, we moaned together with unparalleled pleasure and, with one last shudder, he collapsed upon me. There was nothing left in either of us, such was our mutual effort and joy. I was completely spent. But there was no getting around it: My new lover was dead.

“Udi?” I managed to squeeze out—the weight of him keeping me from speaking above a gasp. I knew he wouldn’t answer—he breathed no more. But the silence of the afternoon was already starting to make me twitch with fear.

I tried again. “Udi?” Only quiet met my ears. Not even Stipple, my customarily ever-present, constantly meowing cat was in attendance. For some reason, the theme song from
Rent
popped into my head—
Five-hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes…

I had to get him off me. Or maybe the more accurate phrase was, I had to get out from under
him
. If I pushed, he’d roll off the narrow daybed and onto the tile floor, potentially causing further injury, which I’d have to explain—not that it mattered significantly if he was already dead. But I’ve watched C.S.I. a few times; why add to my trouble? Udi’s death
in flagrante
would be unpleasant enough. But how to get him...
ugh
— I mean, he was heavy.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my GAWD
! What does a woman do in a situation like this?
Which
woman was the question? What would Hillary Clinton do, for example, if—OK, that's not a great image. How about Charlize Theron in the latest
Mad Max
movie? Or Beyoncé? They’d handle it, that’s for sure. And Queen Latifah could just lift the guy, er... person and toss 'em on the floor.

The truth is, these women probably have built-in detection systems that would never allow them to have sex with anybody possessing a sub-par heart, but if they
had
made the same mistake, what would they do? I mean, it wasn’t the first time a person's died having a rumble. And I don’t mean just Nelson Rockefeller. Erotic expiration is actually quite common—it’s the twelfth—well, perhaps thirteenth— highest cause of death in men over thirty. The only reason you don’t hear more about it is for reasons of decorum. For example, what would people say at the funeral?

Trying to lift Udi’s body again, I managed to shift my butt an inch or two closer

to the edge of the daybed before the dead deadweight of him collapsed back on top of me. This wasn’t going to work, at least not in a timely fashion. I had to call someone for help—someone I could trust who wouldn’t judge me.
Good luck with that, right? Who doesn’t judge?
The point was, I had to call someone soon, before Lila came home from school and got completely freaked out and disgusted.

I had a flash, wondering if this would have happened if I hadn’t gotten divorced, or if I hadn’t moved back to Los Angeles, or if I hadn’t been in the book club. And then finally I wondered if
that book
had anything to do with my seeking out and having sex with Udi in the first place. It was possible, I supposed. At this point, anything was. One thing I know was true: if I’d still been married, I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to bring a man who wasn’t my husband to my own house for a tryst. That would demonstrate a lack of self-restraint and I have almost too much of that.

Straining against him, I pushed on Udi’s clavicle and
scroonched
my upper body up and over at the same time, probably no more than a millimeter. At this rate, I’d get out from under him in about four hours. Reaching above my head, I felt around for the phone. I couldn’t see it but I hoped it would be resting in its stand on Grandma’s cherry tilt-top table at one end of the daybed, instead of where I often found it—buried in the pink shag carpeting in Lila’s room, battery dead after an extended phone session with one of her friends. But, no… There it was! Right where it was supposed to be. I managed to get two fingers around the stub of the antenna and snatch the phone out of the dock.

It would be only right to call one of the people who I believed might have—indeed probably
had
— gotten me into this mess in the first place. You see, I did blame what happened with Udi, and everything that occurred afterward, on
that book
and, by extension, book club; or, as we refer to ourselves, “The Muffia.”

If I hadn’t been a Muff, I would not have read that book, and if I hadn’t read that book, I might not have gone down the path I did. But then, of course, there’s really no way of knowing.

You may think you know where I’m going with this, but believe me you have no idea.

PART 1

Chapter 1

The Muffia—which we also reverentially refer to as “The Cliterati” is a twelve-year-old collective of nine book-loving women varying in age from thirty-three to forty-two, living in the greater Los Angeles area. We meet roughly every month at one of our homes to share a meal and talk about a book we are supposed to have read.

Of course, like the members of a lot of book clubs, we Muffs are friends in addition to being readers—many of us very old friends, the bonds of those friendships forged over, in some cases, twenty-five years, through struggles and successes. So even though the alleged reason for our meetings is to discuss the book one of us has assigned to the group that month, keeping the discussion “on topic” isn’t always easy.

Speaking of making things easy, I’ve prepared brief character sketches of the members of the Muffia (including what I hope is an honest assessment of myself) to assist you, dear reader, in keeping the nine of us straight as you continue. We should, each of us, come into focus during the course of the story so skip this section if so inclined. But if you’re the type who likes knowing who’s who up front, let me introduce each of the Muffs, complete with marital status and email address:

Madelyn Scott-Crane (42)
[email protected]

This would be me. I’m an attractive (one guy, later institutionalized, called me riveting) blonde, irreligious
divorced mom
with a daughter (Lila, 14). We live in Agoura Hills, outside LA, as does my ex, Lila’s father, Brian. I’m the oldest Muff, but probably the most “toned” due to hours relieving angst (often self-imposed) by practicing yoga. I haven’t been with a man on any outing that would qualify as a date in two years. I’m a lawyer turned mediator, though I don’t get enough work to actually call myself either.

Quinn Cunningham (41)
[email protected]

Single, never married, no children
. Quinn is tall, with thick shoulder-length auburn hair that she often wears in an up-do. She has a job as a talent agent with a top agency placing celebrities in overseas commercials where they’ll never be seen by their domestic fan base. She doesn’t get the dates she wants most of the time, so she resorts to going out with actors who do a bad job of disguising the fact they want her only to get them onto a TV show.

Jelicka Gelman (41)
[email protected]

Married, no children
. Jelicka’s too smart for her own good. An ex-screen-writer, she’s also a horny, botoxed housewife with an incredible wardrobe who sort of looks like a double-blonded Angelina Jolie (those times when A.J. isn’t traipsing around Vietnam or Africa)—same eyes and puffy lips. She’s married to Roscoe (63) who’s been taking Viagra but they’re still only permitted sex once a week due to Roscoe’s other medical issues. Jelicka’s been faithful, but Roscoe probably wouldn’t mind if she had an affair. She’s a news hound, gossip and conspiracy theorist.

Lauren Busch (37)
[email protected]

Married, two children
(Amanda, 1, and Gavin, 3). Lauren’s probably the richest, party-loving Muff—that would be keg party— but perhaps the least sexually adventurous, next to me. She’s married to George, of the Anheuser-Busch beer dynasty, and they both partake of too much of the family brew. She’s slightly overweight, in a healthy mid-western way, with green eyes and a great big toothy smile. She, like Jelicka, also enjoys dishy gossip.

Sarah Pizzo (
39)
[email protected]

Married, one child
(Nate Jr., 5). Sarah’s a brown-haired, brown-eyed, Catholic church-goer. She’s cute and petite in an Audrey Hepburn/Tatou way. Her husband (Nate Sr.) is younger than she is and they’re both terrible flirts. She rarely reads the books but is such a good cook the Muffs let it go, even though Quinn and I find it annoying. Before she got married she worked in the corporate offices of Williams-Sonoma. Now she and Nate are down to one income and they’re in debt—always a problem but one that’s only compounded during a recession.

Rachel Baker (32)
[email protected]

Single, never married, no children
. Rachel has a wild pile of blonde wavy hair and a very funky, trendy way of dressing. She’s Protestant by birth but practices Kabbalah—at the moment anyway. She’s an artist whose passion is painting male nudes in acrylic, and she makes a modest living at it. She recently found real love after painting Hank, a gaffer in the film biz who found her on Facebook. She reads a lot and likes to push her book choices on other Muffs.

Kiki Glazer (41)
[email protected]

Married, one child
(Troy, 13). Kiki's a beautiful Black ex-Catholic woman who's married to Saul, a White Jewish hedge fund manager. She's an actress — or she
was—
who’s thinking of changing her life and doing something significant with the rest of it. She’s been taking nursing classes and hoping one day to become a nurse practitioner. Recently she’s begun acting like a prude as she never has before and we're wondering what's up. She has a great ass and a fantastic shoe collection envied by all.

Paige Von Hoote (38)
[email protected]

Living with significant other
(Richard),
two children from previous marriage,
(Carlotta, 6, and Dashielle, 4). Paige teaches tennis and struggles with finances. She’s a great entertainer who has an ongoing rivalry with Sarah when it comes to throwing a great party. Though she and Richard have been together for years, she can’t decide if she wants to marry him. (There are “issues.”) She’s on the tall side, very fit with a brown bob that always looks chic and professionally blown out, but which seems to flip up around her face when she gets angry.

Vicki Butler Mendoza (39)
[email protected]

Divorced, one grown son
(Enrique, 17). Vicki’s a self-described filmmaker who has made only one film that wasn’t very good, but which she likes to talk about whenever the opportunity arises. She also works as a script supervisor when she needs cash. She has short, spiky hair that she likes to dye different colors. She considers herself an expert in Spanish culture, having lived there during her marriage. She usually reads the books and can be high strung.

So that’s us: The Muffia—just your average women’s book club, really, like so many others in America, this one in the city of angels, created just after the dawn of the twenty- first century and still going strong. We’ve read historical novels, memoirs (
real
memoirs—not the made-up kind), non-fiction, comedies, chick lit—you name the genre and we’ve dabbled, and you can count on me to give you our reading list when I’m done with this tale.

As I said, like most book clubs, some of the Muffia don’t treat our book club as seriously as others—Sarah, Lauren, and Kiki, for example, view our gatherings as a time to drink and
klatch
, free of the burdens of home, family and other obligations. Then there’s the rest of us—Quinn, Rachel, Paige, Vicki, Jelicka and myself—who read the books and actually like talking about them. Despite our differences, we’ve known each other for so long and like each other so much that it seems wrong to make reading an ongoing requirement for membership. We decided when we started that we’d all just do the best we could when it came to completing the club’s reading assignments.

Every four weeks or so, when the date of the next Muff gathering approaches, a flurry of e-mails shoot back and forth—usually about what food we’re bringing or how somebody can’t come. Back before we all started reading
the
book, the one that headed me down the path that eventually got me to where I am now, we’d all read another book and were about to meet at Sarah’s to discuss it. As hostess, she got the net neurosis started:

[email protected]
: All right, Clitties. Next week: the 17
th
, 7 p.m., my place.
I’m making something from the sea in honor of the book. Will also make divine Americana dessert. Need veggies, bread, wine. Pls. weigh in. Barely started the book, but what’s with the beads in his balls? XO~ S

Sarah lives in Santa Monica and though she's a great cook and can put together a four-course meal faster than it takes me to drive to her house, she insists on potluck. I love our book club but I hate this particular aspect of our meetings. Maybe I’m old school, but I think it’s rude to make people drive
and
prepare a dish when most of us are working and raising kids, some of us alone. Lazy and busy, I do my best.

[email protected]
: Salad and wine here. Can’t wait to see you all but
can we please keep the beads-in-the-balls discussion to a minimum?
Read the book, Sarah.

Rachel is the youngest in the collective and, in case you need a refresher, is the Muff with the voluminous blonde hair—the kind I’d kill for—and a nose ring—which would probably kill me to get. As I said, she’s our resident artist and can always be counted on to make something inspired to eat that has nothing to do with the book we just read, but everything to do with who she’s dating.

[email protected]
: I urge all of you to read the book. The beads in his
balls are a cancer treatment and we should discuss on this basis. Cancer is everywhere! I’m bringing spanakopita, Rachel.

Uh-oh… I wondered if that spinach phyllo pie meant things had cooled with Hank and she’d started dating a Greek.

Lauren, our “rich” and, I’d say, most
preppy
member, could often be counted on to flake at the last minute. Sometimes she'd get a better offer, like a ticket to the premiere of a George Clooney movie, but I suspected that often her excuses were offered because she hadn't read the book.

[email protected]
: Sounds delish—The food, not the cancer. Unfortunately,
my sister is coming to town and taking us to the launch of Chelsea Handler’s new vodka (A little obvious, I know. But she drinks so much, she had to start making her own). Sound too hip, late night and sleazy for a mom of two toddlers? Yes, but I must go anyway. Love to all xxoo L

Hmmm...Was it unfortunate that her sister was coming to town?  That she was being forced to appear at a vodka launch? Unclear...

Paige was the next to make her opinion and online presence known:

[email protected]
: Sorry you're dumping us for Chelsea, Lauren, but we
moms have to feel like we’re still in the game. Assuming you haven't read the book, or you'd have asked to reschedule? Anyway, have fun. Score us a case of the stuff if you can pry it away from her.

XX P     P.S. Will bring yummy coconut cake.

Despite Paige's cheery tone, I could almost see the individual hairs on her head flipping up as a result of Lauren’s bailing on us. The only other time Paige’s hair isn’t perfect is if she’s just returned from teaching her tennis clinic, and even then it still flips neatly, albeit a little damply, from under her trendy visor.

I wondered if Paige might be bringing dessert to annoy Sarah who was not only a good cook of the savory, but a wonderful baker. Either that or she hadn’t read Sarah’s email saying she had dessert covered. Sometimes I think Paige just needs to act out when people cancel—as one of the original members, she takes it very personally when people don’t adhere to the rules, free vodka or no free vodka. But she and I have known each other for twenty-five years, having met and become friends in New York when I was in law school and she was an aspiring singer living in the same Greenwich Village building. Our shared misery of that time bonded us for life.

[email protected]
: Count me in for bread and wine, which Rachel can
pick up on the way if Troy’s flu isn’t better. He’s been exploding from both ends. You might not want me there to expose you all anyway. Lauren, it’s lovely your sister has come out for a visit but don't drink and drive:) ~K

Kiki also goes back to the New York days and is not kooky at all, really. In fact, she’s been doing a lot of soul-searching lately, which has pretty much put the kibosh on her last bit of kookiness. Her last acting job was an Equity Waiver play three years ago—and probably the single biggest reason she decided to change her life.
Good for her
, say we who, to a Muff, encourage this nursing degree—if for nothing else than when we can’t afford health care, she can draw our blood and send off our pap smears. She and Saul live in “The Valley” (as in San Fernando) with their son, Troy, who apparently has stomach flu. Of course, Troy couldn’t help that he had stomach flu, but Paige didn’t seem to have much sympathy. 

[email protected]
: So, do these latest exchanges mean we’re still on for the 17th (minus Lauren and possibly Kiki)? If there’s one more out, I opt for another date.