The Queen Gene (9 page)

“Raffi,” I said flatly, knowing she’d be unfamiliar with the children’s folk singer or his mega hit
, Baby Beluga
. Surely she’d think it was a song about caviar.

“Well, tell him to be quiet. I need you chanting with us, darling. Can this Raffi person join us in a simple chant for fertility?”

“It’s a CD, Mother,” I informed. “It’s Honky,” I told Adam.

“Honky!” he shouted. “I say hi to Honky!”

“Mother, Adam wants to say hello,” I said, handing the phone to him in the back seat of the minivan.

“Honky, Adam go to school with Max,” he told her. He stopped to listen. “Okay, Adam try.” Then he began speaking unrecognizable sounds. I glanced at him through the rear-view mirror. “Mash mash boo boo,” he struggled.

“Give Mommy the phone, honey,” I said, reaching my arm back. “Are you asking him to chant for Kimmy’s positive pregnancy test results?” I asked.

“What could be more powerful than a baby beckoning another baby?” Anjoli asked. “Was he closing his eyes, darling?”

“I don’t know.”

Anjoli sighed with disappointment. “His eyes needed to be closed so he can block out any distractions. Okay, you close your eyes and repeat after me —”

“Mother, I’m driving,” I said. “Can I call you back after I drop Adam at preschool?”

“The test will be done by then, darling. Can you pull over? Do they really care if he’s a few minutes late?”

I couldn’t believe it, but I was searching for a turnout in the road. As much as I loathe to admit it, there’s a small part of me that holds hope that maybe some of Anjoli’s hocus pocus really could work. After all, what was the harm? If my cousin had her heart set on conceiving a child with an anonymous Ivy League grad student with good teeth and an ear for music, I would support her in that. Isn’t that what family was all about?

I silenced Raffi, taught my two-year-old a chant, and spent the next thirty seconds feeling equally ridiculous and hopeful.

“Shit!” I heard Kimmy cry in the background.

I opened my eyes. “Negative?” I asked.

“Strike one, darling,” Anjoli said cheerfully. “Not to worry, it simply means that was not the baby for us.”

A half-hour later, Spot called from my mother’s purse. I knew it was him because neither Kimmy nor Anjoli had any idea that I was listening.

“I wanted a Libra baby!” Kimmy sobbed.

“There there, darling,” my mother consoled her. “Trust that there’s a plan wiser than ours. Look at the long and arduous journey Lucy had to motherhood. It seemed so difficult at the time, but now we know that Adam was the perfect baby for Jack and Lucy, and he arrived at the perfect time in their lives.” My eyes welled. Who was this kind and sensitive woman? “Now, darling, wipe away your tears and put your chin up. We’ll go to SoHo for lunch and afterwards we’ll buy a knockout outfit for your next trip to New Haven. You’ll find someone even better this time. Someone even better looking who’s not shooting blanks.”

Chapter Ten

By March, only one thing had changed remarkably. Rather, I should say, one person had undergone a complete transformation of character. She had gone from charming guest to wicked witch in two weeks. In her constant fights with Maxime, she threw plates at him (ours!), overturned furniture (ours again!), and broke a window with her horrific operatic shrill (you already knows whose window it is). I’m not entirely convinced it was her screaming that broke the glass, but the timing was perfect, so I like to think it was her horrendous pitch that shattered the glass. Jack’s and my dream was slowly becoming a nightmare.

There were still a few inches of snow on the ground and a chill in the air around our home. My love for the new place hadn’t waned, though I had grown tired of limping on my slow-healing ankle. I tried to stay focused on what was positive. Adam was enjoying his new preschool. Jack and I were sustaining our marital renaissance. Kimmy was still religiously trolling around Ivy League campuses desperately seeking sperm. Well, that wasn’t necessarily positive, but she wasn’t breaking anything other than a few preppie hearts.

My family remained as crazy as ever. Aunt Bernice called with her weekly Snatch Report, praising with an evangelical zeal the benefits of a hair-free crotch. And Anjoli held steadfast to her motto: “I’m fabulous. Why tamper with perfection, darling?” (Of course, this was incongruous with her lifelong pursuit of healing, but I learned at age eight not to correct my mother.)

Oddly, the house was still in a state of auto-repair.

Jack and I were slightly concerned about Maxime, who seemed frustrated by his lack of creative inspiration. He was pleasant about it, but we could sense he was growing impatient with his inability to complete a single drawing since arriving at our arts community.

“That mall you sent me to was a joke!” Jacquie snapped as she came in from an afternoon of shopping. All she seemed interested in pursuing during her stay in the United States was consumption. It was a close tie between shopping and complaining, and it was tough to tell which was in the lead since she often did both simultaneously.

During her first week with us, I accepted Jacquie’s invitation to go shopping, thinking it would be a nice chance for us to get acquainted. I shot self-conscious and apologetic looks at salespeople as Jacquie pulled at blouse seams and spat that the stitching and fabric were low-quality. She insulted the designers’ choices of color and pattern, then tried to bargain with the saleswomen. “This is more shopworn than something I would find in a thrift store,” Jacquie barked at the owner of an upscale boutique next to the café where we ate lunch. “I’ll give you eighty. Not a penny more.”

The owner of the store smiled politely and explained that the items on the sale rack were already marked down, and that none of her merchandise was negotiable. With a white bouffant hairdo and a long string of pearls that hung down to her burgundy silk blouse, the shop owner looked like the matriarch of a soap opera. I would have been far too intimidated by her regal presence to dare haggling.

“You want me to pay one hundred twenty dollars for a second-hand sweater?” Jacquie snapped as I tried to bury myself under a nearby jewelry counter.

The woman seemed unbothered. “I don’t want you to make any purchases you’re not entirely comfortable with, dear,” though it was clear from her tone that she found Jacquie anything but dear.

Jacquie raised an eyebrow. “Because all sales are final, right?”

The woman paused, patiently, but was clearly annoyed by the exchange. “My dear, I’ve lived in this community and run this business for forty years now. My hope is that customers leave fully satisfied with their purchases because having to return to the shop for a refund is a dreadful waste of time.”

“That advice is the best thing in this wretched little store,” Jacquie shot as she tossed the top over a lavender velvet chair. “Let’s get out of here, Lucy.”

This reminded me of shopping with Aunt Rita.

I bought a pair of chandelier earrings I only somewhat liked just so I could show the shop owner that
I
was not a pain in the ass like Jacquie.

I hadn’t been shopping with her since that day, but when she returned from her trip to the mall, Jacquie had obviously not changed her ways. In fact, every day when she returned from her shopping excursions, it was with a long list of complaints about everything she bought.

“An absolute joke!” she said, punctuating her disdainful comment by dropping four oversized shopping bags. “Crowded with Americans and their pitiful American clothes.”

Wearing our pitiful American clothes or selling them in the stores?
I wondered, before I realized it didn’t matter.

“If anyone ever wonders why Americans are so fat, all they have to do is look at one of your wretched food courts.”

“Jacquie, don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” I asked.

“You’ve obviously never been to Paris,” she sniffed.

“Actually, I have,” I said. “I adored the people we met there. It’s really quite a gift you have, perpetuating stereotypes about the French while simultaneously ridiculing Americans. Any other entire nations of people you’d like to characterize with sweeping generalizations? Anyway, aren’t you American?” I asked.

“Spending a few years in the U.S. does not automatically convert me to Americanism.”

I laughed. “This is true, but spending an entire two weeks shopping very well might.”

She breezed through the living room, making me wonder why she was in my house and not her own. Jacquie waltzed toward my pantry and grabbed a 12-pack of toilet paper. “Perhaps you can make it through the spring with one roll, but we need more!” She about-faced and huffed out the front door, asking if I knew where to find Maxime.

“Probably in your home,” I said.

“You mean in my
shanty
!” she said, the door slamming behind her. I watched her storm down the dirt path to the guest houses, wobbling in her absurdly high heels.

* * *

I longed to hear a voice of comparative sanity. I dialed Anjoli’s cell phone.

“Lucy, darling!” she greeted me brightly.

“How are you, Mother?”

“F-a-b-u-l-o-u-s,” she whispered. “I tried your idea. You remember when you suggested walking Spot in the park every day?”

“Oh yes!” I replied. “Is the exercise helping his trichotillomania?”

“No, he’s still chewing at every last hair he’s got on those little paws, but I must tell you, he’s quite the gentleman magnet,” she said, beaming. “I found the most adorable little collar and matching leash for him, and he is the hit of Washington Square Park. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t get stopped by at least one attractive man who wants to quote unquote chat about dogs. I wish I had come up with this years ago.”

“So he still has his nervous disorder?”

“I took him in for chakra spinning, and the doctor said he was simply going through a phase,” she said. “Hello!” she brightly greeted someone in the park. “He’s a toy Chihuahua.” She paused while I heard a man speak. “I know, isn’t he a sweetheart? He’s the most sensitive little soul.” Another pause. “Really?! Well I certainly would be interested in that!”

“Mother!” I shouted into the phone. “I’m still here.”

“Excuse me,” she said. “Lucy, let me call you back, darling. This gentleman says he knows another dog who was cured of trichotillomania by a pet therapist on the Upper West Side who specializes in canine nervous disorders.” She paused again as I heard the man add something. “That’s nice, but my little Spot isn’t anorexic.” She signed off.

I walked down to Maxime and Jacquie’s place. Before I reached the door, I heard them shouting at each other. Maxime accused her of becoming a complete lunatic since their arrival. I couldn’t agree more. Then he began sobbing that he was a failure as an artist. “I have nothing! I sit here all day and look at the paper and nothing. I do not even have the ideas anymore!” Oh my. I knocked lightly and immediately regretted it. The door flew open and Jacquie stood at the entrance with her hand on her hip.

“What?!” she snapped.

“I’m going in to town to get Adam from preschool and wanted to see if there’s anything you need,” I offered. “Maybe some toilet paper.”

“My husband has lost his art!” Jacquie barked. “Unless you can buy that at your American supermarket, then no.”

“Jacquie!” Maxime scolded. “Do not be rude to our hostess. She has done nothing to you.” He addressed me, “Please, please forgive my wife. When she is tired, she gets very angry.”

“Do not apologize for me!” Jacquie yelled. “I am not a child!”

“You are acting like one, Jacquie!” Maxime said. “Please, Lucy, we need nothing from the town. Thank you for asking.” He then turned to his wife and began speaking harsh words in French. She replied in kind.

I returned to the house and was surprised to see that Jack had come back early from running his errands. He unloaded new tubes of acrylic paint, canvases, and brush cleaner. “Getting ready to do a new painting?” I asked.

“Painting Adam,” he said as I followed him into his studio. I couldn’t help imagining our toddler covered in royal blue. “I’m thinking kind of a cubist thing where each section has him breaking out and doing a different thing.”

“Ah, the fractured life of a toddler?” I suggested.

“Yeah, fragmented but all coming together,” he said.

“Sounds interesting. I heard a poem once written by a mother that was just single words strung together that were elements of her baby’s life. They were obviously all independent words and ideas, but she put them together in such a way that they still made sense, but not really. It was confusing, cluttered, and bordering on nonsensical at times. Still it had a fun, lyrical quality about it.”

“Like kids,” Jack added.

“Like kids. Hey, I’m about to head over to the school to pick up Adam. Wanna join me and maybe we could all do something together? Adam has been saying he wants to go see that new movie about those clay sea creatures.”

“How does he know about movies?” Jack asked.

“Preschool,” I replied. “Ever since he started spending time with other kids, he knows everything there is to know about kid world. Last week he asked me to take him bowling.”

“Bowling? He couldn’t even pick up the ball.”

“Nor do they make bowling shoes in his size, but he doesn’t know that. Tyler McGreggor swears he goes bowling with his older brother and father, so now Adam wants to go too.”

“Does he even know what it means?”

“Please,” I said with an eye-rolling tone. “He’s a little boy. What about throwing a ball down an alley with the goal of knocking over ten pins does
not
sound appealing?”

Jack laughed as he unloaded the last of his supplies. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

“Good,” I said, smiling. “It’s been a while since we got out as a family. Plus, I want to get away from the house for a while.”

“How come?” Jack asked.

As I pointed out the window, gesturing to the guest house, I caught a glance of Randy’s glass sculpture inset into our bedroom window. I hoped our next guests would turn out to be more pleasant than Maxime and Jacquie. Maxime was nice enough, but there’s something incredibly depressing about an artist who is going through a creative dry spell. And Jacquie, well, let’s just say I was being careful not to put my face too close to hers for fear she may bite.