The Queen Gene (16 page)

Not to make sweeping generalizations about men, but I can pretty well guess how this conversation would go down.

Jack: Everything okay? You seem down in the mouth lately.

Maxime: It is fine.

Jack: Okay, just checking. See ya.

***

The next week Aunt Bernice called with her past-due Snatch Report. “We’re awl getting lazah beamed. Sylvia, Ida, and Shifra were awl tawking about how hard it is to keep shaving aw pubic hayahs every few days and someone suggested we get a wax job. I don’t go for awl of that hot wax nonsense. You kids are crazy with that pulling-it-out-with-wax business, but theyah’s a new thing you can do with lazah beams that takes the hayahs awf and they nevah grow back.”

“You’re getting laser hair removal?”

“Whaddya think?”

“I think they use those lasers to open bank vaults,” I said, flinching with the thought.

“Only when they’ve forgotten the combination,” Bernice replied.

Clearly, she’s missed the point.

What do you say to an eighty-four-year-old aunt who informs you of such plans? “If it makes you happy, Aunt Bernice, then I’m glad for you.”

“You don’t know how hot it can get down heyah,” she informed me. I wasn’t sure if she meant “down here” in Florida or “down here” in her nether regions, but decided to simply move on to a new topic —
any
new topic.

“What’s going on in the condo?” I asked.

“Would you believe Fanny Lipshitz had a heart attack and died at her own birthday party?” Bernice told me. “That’ll make people think twice about throwing a surprise party for a ninety-year-old woman.”

“She died
at
the party?” I gasped.

“Yeah, we awl yell ‘surprise!’ and she held her chest and fell to the ground. We were pretty surprised, I’ll tell you. The whole thing was so sad and a little bit confusing to tell you the truth. No one knew whethah we should eat the cake or what. What are you supposed to do when the guest of honah drops dead at the beginning of a party? Anyway, the whole
meshugas
reminded me of how Rita went at the Red Lobstah,” Bernice sniffed. “I miss her so much.”

“So do I,” I said. But I knew it wasn’t the same. Rita and Bernice were inseparable. I remember going to Mah Jong games, Jewish Women’s Federation luncheons, and the Catskill Mountains with them. They were never apart, even when they were. They were the best of friends.

* * *

It was with the hope of meeting new friends that I attended the Junior League luncheon that Renee called to tell me about. “It’s a good group, and they really get a lot of community work done. Try not to let the sea of theme sweaters freak you out too much, though. First time I went to one of these things, I counted fourteen of them.”

“Fourteen theme sweaters?!” I laughed. “How many women were there?”

“About twenty,” Renee said. “I hope I didn’t offend you. You don’t have a closet full of theme sweaters, do you?”

“Please!” I scoffed, though I’d really never given any thought to theme sweaters before. Now I could never wear one for fear of appearing uncool to ultra-hip Renee. “You’re forgetting I have a theme car on my front lawn.”

“Ah yes, the Not-So-Itsy Bitsy Spider,” Renee said.

I found the women of the Junior League to be absolutely lovely. They were warm and welcoming and announced me as their guest as though I were a foreign dignitary. I couldn’t believe they were this excited to have me as a lunch guest. When the president told everyone about my upcoming novel, our arts community, and the Labor Day open house, the well-manicured hands clapped together so heartily, I almost had to check behind me to see if there was someone else they might be applauding. Abby stood to discuss delivering balloons to a member who had just returned from a year overseas, sending flowers to another member who’d just given birth, and hiring a musician to play at the bedside of a member who had been struck ill. These women were so kind and generous. And at the same time, as Renee predicted, they all wore theme sweaters. At least three-quarters of them did, anyway. Robin was in a “Little Rabbit Foo Foo Hopping through the Forest.” Abby sported the “Shoe Crazy” sweater with about two dozen embroidered high-heel shoes covering the front and back. There was a soccer mom sweater with balls as buttons and netting down the sleeves, and one with different colored cocktails all over it. Most ironic were the two women seated next two each other. One was wearing a sweater with fish, jellyfish, and seahorses adorning it. Beside her was her friend in a sushi theme sweater.

Renee leaned in to whisper to me. “How do you think it’d go over if I wore a drug theme sweater to the next meeting?” I giggled at the thought. “Really, I could sew a hypodermic needle to my arm, a couple joints on the front, and a few lines of coke with some rolled up bills next to them?”

“Stop,” I said, laughing. “Behave yourself and sign up for a committee or something.”

“How ‘bout some prescription bottles sewn on to the collar?
As
a collar!” Renee continued.

With a very serious tone, I said, “My father died of a heroin overdose when I was thirteen.”

Renee put her hand over her mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry,” she began. “If I had known —”

“So I’m less inclined to do a drug theme sweater as I am, say, a slut theme sweater,” I said. Renee caught herself before laughter escaped and disrupted the slide show of the “Meals in Heels” committee serving dinner at the Veterans Administration Hospital. “Think about it. It could be big,” I whispered. “Not around these parts, but I think some younger women might go for it. You know, big C-cup breasts with perky nipples knit onto the sweater, a dangling rhinestone bellybutton ring, and a dragon tattoo on the lower back.”

Renee smiled mischievously and placed her hand on my arm. “I’m so glad you moved to the neighborhood. Now, back to this whore theme sweater. I think we’re on to something, but it needs something more. Something that really says, ‘I’m a whore!’”

“You don’t think the exposed tits are enough?”

“Meh,” she shrugged.

“How about some sort of sign that says something like ‘Admission Free’ or ‘Slippery When Wet’?”

“Now you’re talking,” Renee said. “You know, Lucy, you’re a bit twisted. I like that in a friend.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Eh hem,” the president cleared her throat to signal us to quiet down. The admonition was not directed solely at us. Several others had started drifting off into their own conversations.

* * *

When I returned home, Jack and Tom were staring in amazement at our water heater. “I’m telling you, bro, I didn’t do a thing to it,” Tom said in a tone that suggested it wasn’t his first denial of the repair.

“It couldn’t just fix itself,” Jack said. “I don’t get it, Tom. You’re telling me you haven’t touched this thing?”

“Think about it, brother. I’m a contractor. This is how I make my living. Why would I be tiptoeing around your place making home repairs and not billing you for it?” To alert them of my presence, I offered that perhaps Tom was in love with Jack. Both men’s heads turned to me. Tom shuddered.

“Why would you say something like that?” Tom asked.

“Oh, Tom, lighten up,” I said, shooing him with my hand. “We’ll still love you, regardless of your sexual orientation. You can just come clean. You’re in love with Jack.”

“Stop it!” he shouted, more annoyed than I was comfortable with.

“What, am I not good looking enough for you?” Jack asked, pretending to be offended. I was relieved he did not ally himself with Tom on this one.

“Seriously, brother, knock it off,” Tom said.

I continued. “If it’s not you, then someone who knows home repair must be in love with Jack because there’s a lot getting done around here that no one’s taking credit for. Where’s Adam?” I asked Jack.

“Inside with Wendy,” he told me. “How was the Junior League?”

“Believe it or not, they want me to join,” I said, before remembering that Tom’s wife was also a member. “You don’t think they’ll have any problem with the fact that I’m bisexual, do you, Tom?” I joked. “Those are mighty fine lookin’ ladies there at the Junior League, and I’m already thinking about who I want as my first
lover
.”

Tom remained motionless. “Tom, she’s kidding, man,” Jack said, giving him a jolt to the arm. “Y’okay there?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, brother. I need to get used to you artsy fartsy types and your humor.”

I smiled. “Yeah, we need to get used to you contractor types and your homophobia.”

Tom shrugged and smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. Listen, I haven’t got a problem with gays. As long as —”

“They don’t make a play for you, right?” I finished. Tom nodded to concur. I placed my hand on his shoulder for a Lifesaver moment. “Tom, not too many women find you attractive, so chances are gay men won’t either.”

He smiled, relieved. “You’re right. Thanks.”

Chapter Nineteen

To commemorate Adam’s graduation from Miss Rhiannon’s preschool class, Jack painted the bug like Snoopy, complete with a tasseled graduation cap on the roof and red scarf draped around the tires. His latest creation lasted only two days. The kids from Adam’s class had become accustomed to painting the car whenever they came to the house. Far from discouraging this, Jack made sure there were buckets of green paint beside the car and plenty of his old white t-shirts whenever kids came over. The sun shined through the cloudless blue sky onto our front lawn where three picnic tables sat covered with traditional red-and-white gingham cloths weighted by pitchers of lemonade. Mothers in sundresses helped cut sandwiches into small squares while dads gathered around Jack’s grill to advise him on the best way to cook a burger. It almost looked normal except for the wild toddlers tossing paint onto a giant Snoopy head.

Jack and I met in graduate school in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where there is a boulder that sits on the corner of Washtenaw and Hill Street. It’s been covered by hundreds of gallons of paint over the years. Sororities and fraternities paint it every few days. Casts of shows then paint over the Greek letters. Then art students come along and cover the rock with their creations. Underneath all the paint is probably a pebble. A team of archeologists will someday remove layer after layer of paint and be able to tell a story about the history of the University of Michigan, at least from the perspective of one rock. The same could be said for the car in front of our home. I just hoped that in twenty years, it would not grow to the size of a van.

Anjoli and Mancha came for the celebration, which meant we didn’t have to hire any entertainers for the event. With “Honky” and her neurotic Chihuahua, there was no need to send in the clowns, jugglers, or Disney characters. Mancha had regained his vision, but still wore the paper glasses as a precaution. His ophthalmologist thought it would be a good idea for him to strengthen his eyes and partially block the sunlight on the bright Memorial Day weekend.

Of course, Renee gravitated right to my mother, which simultaneously pleased and annoyed me. People loved my mother, and I understood why. She is exciting and beautiful. With her stories of being banned from several Eastern European countries and having a misdemeanor charge in Prague, she made growing older seem like a fabulous adventure. At the same time, whenever friends adored my mother, I wanted to tell them that what they saw was not all there was to Anjoli. I wanted them to understand that she was also self-serving, self-indulgent, and completely self-absorbed. I didn’t mind if they loved her, but I wanted friends to see her as a whole person. A real person, not a celebrity goddess. It was tough to complain about someone whom everyone sees as perfect. It was hard to listen to friends dismiss my valid gripes and defend a woman they hardly knew. When I was in labor with Adam, the nurse asked how I was feeling. Anjoli had her back turned, so she didn’t realize that the question was directed at me. Apparently, every time someone says “you,” Anjoli assumes they’re talking to her. My mother answered that she was exhausted and asked the nurse for a glass of mineral water. This is no major offense, of course. But I’d love it if a friend would roll her eyes in solidarity with me instead of defending, “That’s just Anjoli.”

Anjoli wore a silver silk camisole with tiny silver studs the size of pin heads covering it. It was like an extremely feminine suit of armor when she coupled it with matching silver pants. Jack said we should put an oilcan on her head so she could complete the Tin Man look, but he knew she looked stunning, too. He could always be counted on to gently rib my mother, which may be one of the things I love most about him.

“Your mother is so cool,” Renee confided to me as the party wrapped up. “She looks so young. How psyched are you to inherit those genes?” Truth be told, I think her flawless skin has more to do with intensive maintenance than genetics. “And her name, wow! It’s like a combination of Angelina and Jolie.” Renee was smitten, but why should she be any different than the rest of the world? “If my mother was a dancer with the Joffrey Ballet,” Renee started but finished the sentence with a sigh of awe. Renee sat at a picnic table that had a backdrop of our tree house and kicked off her sandals. She leaned in to rest her face in her hand. “What your poor mother has been through with that crazy dog and the wild neighbors. She’s really had a tough year.”

My mother is a master. I know, technically, she’s a mistress, but given her history with married men, I prefer to use the masculine form. How Anjoli managed to garner sympathy from Renee — a woman with real troubles — was beyond me. “I would hardly call Anjoli a victim,” I advised Renee.

“I know!” she exclaimed. “That’s what makes her so incredible. She’s been through such an ordeal, and yet she manages to run a successful business, produce theater, and keep herself looking so amazing.”

When I stopped to see my mother through someone else’s eyes, Anjoli really was pretty terrific. Yes, she’s a self-centered pain in the ass, but she also possesses all of the wonderful characteristics Renee noticed. There were times I thought it was me who was the self-centered bitch for not simply allowing my mother to be who she is instead of constantly defining her by how she relates to me.