Chase Banter [02] Marching to a Different Accordion (6 page)

“And I’m not?”

Donna raised an eyebrow and they bumped along the horrid dirt road that led up to the fortress that was home. Chase got out and opened the gate, scowling from the book-signing debacle and Donna’s idea for remedying it.

Donna took her up to the house. “I’ll find out the schedule for the next available meeting.”

“As in group? I don’t do groups,” Chase said.

“You do now.” Donna tooted the horns for the dogs and left.

Annie and Jane leapt at her as she entered the sunroom.

“I love you too. You don’t care if I’m socially unacceptable.”

Chase flopped down on the couch, which was really a futon bed that they’d moved from the den after they’d purchased a new Natuzzi leather couch and love seat courtesy of a hefty royalty check from that fucking bitch Shelby McCall and her snotty readers. Chase contemplated if disliking her wealthy persona was a bad thing. She’d have to run it by Dr. Robicheck. The dogs licked her face and she smiled, wondering what she would do without her family. She gathered up their Jolly balls and played a few rounds of fetch, soiling the cuffs of her blazer and getting dirty paw prints on her pristine white turtleneck with complete abandon. Book signings were stupid.

Annie and Jane, tongues extended, finally gave up and went to lie under the juniper tree that Jane had personally trimmed so that all the lower branches had been removed. The juniper resembled a lone tree in the Kalahari.

Chase went inside to change and lick her wounds. When Gitana and Bud came home from the orchid nursery they found her at the kitchen bar with three packs of Mentos unwrapped and grouped together in sets of three. She’d already consumed two packs. Bud sat down next to her and looked concerned.

“It didn’t go well?” Gitana asked, rubbing her shoulders and kissing her cheek.

“Complete debacle.” She related the whole horrid experience while continuing to suck on Mentos.

Gitana gave Bud a pointed look that the child seemed to grasp immediately. “I think a shot of tequila is a good idea right now.” She pulled the bottle of Patrón from the kitchen cupboard.

Before she could assent or decline, Bud had brushed the remaining Mentos into her small but able hands and made for the bathroom.

“Hey, those are mine,” Chase said, as she heard the toilet flush.

Gitana poured her a jigger with a slice of lime. “Drink this.”

Chase did as she was told, grimacing but complying. The phone rang and Gitana picked up. “It’s Eliza.”

Chase groaned.

“Heard it didn’t go well.” Eliza’s voice crackled over the line.

“Are we on speakerphone? You know I hate that. Who all is there with you?” Chase asked, envisioning a conference room full of disgusted people with I-told-you-so-looks on their faces.

“Oh, lots of people.”

“Great, an audience to my failure.” Chase heard the speakerphone click off.

“Relax, it’s only Pepe and Peaches.” Those were Eliza’s chihuahuas, or “rats on ropes” as Chase referred to them. Donna told her that was not politically correct. “A dog should not be shorter than a cat and besides, I’ve met them. They were the meanest cusses on the planet,” Chase had responded. “Did they take the Mentos away from you?”

“Bud flushed them down the toilet, but I did manage to get two packs down,” Chase replied.

“Did Gitana get you a shot of tequila?”

“Yes.” Obviously, these had been Eliza’s express orders to them. Chase could almost see the complicit smile on Eliza’s face.

“I’ve got good troops. Tell Gitana to send another shipment of orchids—the most expensive ones available—and what does Bud want?”

“She’s currently collecting dictionaries,” Chase told her, watching as Bud nodded furiously.

“Consider it done. Now, I think Donna’s idea about joining the SUP group is a great idea. I’ll expect a progress report in, say, two weeks’ time.”

“Don’t cut me any slack or anything,” Chase grumbled.

“I won’t. Ta-ta.”

Chase banged her head on the counter and Gitana poured her another shot. Bud went to her cubbyhole and pulled out her collection of dictionaries. She currently had the pocket dictionary the doctor had given her, the Merriam-Webster’s
Collegiate
, an Oxford one they’d found at Thrift Town that had the inscription of Christ Church on the title page and an enormous encyclopedic one with pictures—also a Thrift Town find—that was so large she had trouble lifting it.

“Eliza will probably send her the
OED
,” Chase said. She swigged the jigger of tequila, another gift from Eliza. “I can’t believe all this graft and bribery.”

“You bribe the pediatrician,” Gitana said. She opened the freezer and studied the contents. “Let’s have those lasagna rolls with that soy meat stuff,” she said, as Bud looked up.

“That’s with cheap bobbleheads.”

“Bud and I have a larger responsibility,” Gitana said, digging around in the freezer for the faux meat.

“And what’s that?”

“Keeping a bestselling author on track,” Gitana said.

May confession be a medicine to the erring.—Cicero

“I can’t do this,” Chase said, as she stood in the auditorium of the Musical Arts Building at the university, a circle of chairs with a small round table full of coffee mugs and carafes at its center. She hadn’t wanted to be early, but neither did she want to be late. This felt like she imagined going to an AA meeting would, having never been there herself but having seen enough “group” things in movies to get the gist.

“And why not?” a voice said, coming out of the blackness of the bleachers. It was an older woman with short, black, spiky hair and dressed in a pink sari. Chase stared at the red dot in the middle of her forehead. “What, you’ve never seen an Indian woman before?”

Chase fumbled. “Of course I have.”

“Yeah, right, in a movie, I suppose.” The woman handed Chase a tray of sugar cookies and pointed to the table. “In my country they call these digestives. What an appetizing name. ‘Would you like a digestive?’ It makes it sound like you need a laxative. No wonder you people call them cookies.”

Chase just stood and stared. She smacked Chase on the back. “It is more than evident why you’re here—your gift for speech seems impaired. Here, let me get a pair of vise grips and we’ll see about your tongue. Or did you leave it at home? And back to the original question, if you can’t do this—with your limited skills I suggest you learn.”

“Are you the instructor or coach or whatever?” Chase blurted, her tonguetied-ness worsening.

“Oh my, you will truly be an inspiration if we cure you. I am Lily Hirack and I’m going to offer you the opportunity to become just as fake at social conventions as the rest of the fuckers on the planet. This is the Hindu way of earning points so I won’t have to come around again and again.”

Lily Hirack had the singsong lilt of the Indian and said the word “fuck” in such a way as to make it perfectly acceptable. That only compounded Chase’s inability to speak.

“Now, while we wait for the others we should get a head start. What do you do for a living and why is it imperative that you learn to lie?”

“I thought I was going to learn to be more socially acceptable or at least learn to filter my inappropriate thoughts and rephrase them so as to appear normal.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Lily said, pointing at a chair and indicating that they should sit. She poured them both coffee and waved her hand over the milk and sugar.

Chase took her coffee and hoped the others would show up soon. She looked around, avoiding Lily’s intense gaze.

“I would guess you’re an intellectual of some sort—someone outside the mundane which is why banality eludes you.”

“Shouldn’t we wait until the others get here?” Chase suggested, not wanting to repeat her confession.

“You won’t get to talk when they get here.”

“But I thought these were people who don’t talk well and need coaching,” Chase said, befuddled. If she had thought therapy and the writers’ group were difficult this was like running a psychological marathon.

“Ah, but there you are wrong. People can talk endlessly about their problems: They just find it difficult to cure them. So, chop-chop—what do you do?”

“I’m a writer and I recently failed at a book signing so they sent me here.”

“Now, see that was a good answer. An improvement already,” Lily said, tapping the table with her forefinger like she was gently ringing the bell at the front desk of a hotel to alert the clerk of her arrival.

“How do you figure?” Chase added a copious amount of milk to the coffee and stared dubiously at the digestives.

“They look worse than they are,” Lily said. “Take one.”

Chase obliged.

“To answer your question—it was a good answer because it was informative and concise. You are a published writer, so we don’t have to ask that question. You immediately identified the cataclysmic event and you’ve indicated you have handlers.”

Chase didn’t exactly like the idea of having handlers, but she supposed Lily was right. She and her success were a commodity that several people made a living off. “So what do I do now?”

“You learn the art or rather two arts—the first being polite convention and the second being the creation of a screening device.” Lily picked up a biscuit and snapped off a piece. “Look at this biscuit—see two parts. This part—the larger one—is the real you, the things you think, the things you feel, how you perceive the world. This smaller piece is the social acting part of you—think of it in Shakespearian terms, the actor playing one role to his fellow actors and the other who speaks with the audience telling them what’s really going on or what he’s thinking.”

“The soliloquy.” Chase was glad they were using her patois to discuss the pitfalls of the outer world. She was reading Richard Russo’s
Empire Falls
and the protagonist Miles was a nice guy who thought bad things sometimes—the things he really felt but didn’t say when people pissed him off. This made sense to Chase—only she usually said those things.

Lily pitched the biscuit bits into a nearby garbage can. Chase followed her example. Thinking of the things as cookies hadn’t helped; they were disgusting.

“You lied about the digestives.”

“I did. But under social convention rules of protocol you’re not supposed to say anything.”

“But I don’t want to eat it, so what am I supposed to do?”

“I would discreetly slip it into a napkin and then throw it away.” She demonstrated, using a second cookie.

“It’s not like you can do that with a whole dinner,” Chase retorted.

“No, with that you have two choices—you can buck up and swallow quickly or feign food poisoning.” Lily studied her.

“You can’t feign food poisoning. That would be rude—unless you’re at a restaurant, in which case it’s entirely plausible.”

“You’re getting it.”

Just then a young woman entered, pulling another who would have dug her heels in if the floor hadn’t been so slippery. “I’m telling you it’s not that bad. Lily is so nice, tell her, Lily.”

“That it’s not so bad or that I’m nice?” Lily said, smiling coyly at Chase as if to say watch this.

“Both,” the woman said. She wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt with tight jeans. Her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail.

“I’m telling you, Isabel, I don’t need this. I’m fine,” the other woman said. She couldn’t have been more different from her friend. She had a blond pixie cut and wore a dark blue tailored business suit.

“You failed an interview for a job that you could have gotten. You were more qualified than that peckerhead—and don’t tell me it was sexist because it wasn’t. Most of upper management is female. You blew the interview because you can’t talk to save your soul.”

Well, Chase thought, her friend doesn’t seem to suffer from SUP. She could talk the pants off a priest. Oh, shit. See, that’s the kind of remark that definitely needs to stay inside, Chase told herself.

“You should talk. You can’t even order a Diet Coke without choking, never mind lunch,” the blond woman retorted. “Or how about the debit machine at the grocery store or anywhere else for that matter.”

“I have a waitress phobia and I’m technically challenged.”

Chase could identify with the debit card phobia as she had the same problem, which was why she used cash. Gitana didn’t like her carrying wads of cash around, but Chase told her that muggers assumed that no one had cash anymore as it had become an archaic monetary unit. In fact, it almost freaked out cashiers when she used it, like they had forgotten what to do with it.

“You two stop arguing and sit down,” Lily instructed.

Chase was disappointed. So much information was pouring out in the process of the argument.

“Oh, hi,” the Grateful Dead woman said, as if she had just noticed Chase. “I’m Isabel Montgomery and this is my friend Darlene Lewis.”

“I’m Chase.”

“Darlene, I concur with Isabel. Fucking up a job interview is cause for concern,” Lily said, waving her hand toward the mugs in lieu of a verbal offer of refreshment.

Isabel poured them both coffee and sat back as if all her work was done for the day. “Where are the others?”

As if summoned, Sandra Martin and another woman who introduced herself as Marsha Martin arrived. Chase wondered if they were sisters. They were tall, thin, blond and pretty in that suburban kind of way.

“We’re not sisters,” Marsha responded to the unasked question. “I was married to her brother.”

“I warned her about what a prick he was, but she wouldn’t listen. Love and loins will do it every time,” Sandra said, shaking her head.

“How was I supposed to know marriage was only about sex and sandwiches?” Marsha said defensively. “I won’t make that mistake again. I’ll be a lesbian first.”

“The sex is supposed to be better,” Sandra said.

“Please, ladies, sit down. We have a new member, Chase Banter. I’d like to start the session,” Lily said, once again using gestures instead of language to indicate her wishes. Chase thought she might try that. There was far too much noise in the world. Perhaps they should adopt Neanderthal hand signals and lay off the ubiquitous banality of words.

The Martin women did as bade. Sandra poured coffee and Marsha declined. “Jesus fucking Christ, not that again.”

Marsha glowered. “The ability to abstain shows control.”

Lily made a clucking noise. “Not only do you two say inappropriate things, you conduct yourselves in a rude manner in group situations.”

Chase winced. She did the same thing. These people were her kindred and not the people of Prince Edward Island that Anne of Green Gables chose as kindred spirits. Perhaps Donna had been correct—she needed this group, if anything, to learn what not to do. Her perspective was getting clearer by the minute.

“What?” Sandra said, not altering her already annoyed tone.

“Infraction number two.” Lily took a pad from the table. She dug about for a pen. Chase picked it up off the floor where it had fallen and handed it to her. “Tone of voice.”

Sandra took a deep breath and sweetly said, “I am at a loss as to what you are referring to.”

“That’s better.” Lily pointed at Chase and nodded. Chase took this to mean that tone of voice was her first lesson. It must have been because Lily went back to ripping the Martins a new asshole. Chase had often wondered what that cliché actually meant. Shouldn’t it be something along the lines of a
bigger
butthole, not another one? Because logistically where would you put the other asshole? It wasn’t like there was a lot of room down there and if you were going to put it somewhere else in the body, where would that be—the middle of your hippocampus?

“You are having some sort of disagreement, ignoring the decorum of group dynamics and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Religious people find this unacceptable. What if Chase here were an ardent Christian and took great offense at what you had said. You’re not, are you?” Lily asked, suddenly aware that she might be adding her own infraction to the list.

“Not exactly,” Chase hedged.

“You don’t have to be shy,” Isabel said. “I’m an agnostic.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Chase said. She wasn’t exactly a practicing Catholic, although she did believe in superstitions such as sprinkling Bud with holy water every morning and getting dirt from Chimayo to cure ails, but other than that she was suspicious of the church. The security of God, the sense of having his protection like an insurance policy against the potential disasters that the universe had a tendency to throw at a person, and the healing powers of faith made her feel safer, but she despised the papal machinations.

“You do not have to share your politics or your religion with us. In fact, those are topics that should be avoided in group situations because you are bound to meet some finger-pointing fanatic who is just itching for a confrontation,” Lily said. “Today we will start with Chase and then move on to Isabel. That was the order of arrival so there is no need for concern over favoritism.” She looked at Chase, who related the story of her book-signing debacle and then, seeing as she was in confession mode, also admitted her debit-card phobia and her hand-sanitizer obsession.

Lily smiled at her. “That was very good. Let’s see what the group has to say.”

“I think you should have told the misspelled-name bitch to fuck off,” Isabel said.

Darlene smacked her shoulder. “That’s not a good start.”

“She took advantage of the situation,” Isabel retorted. “It was deliberate.”

“And how do you know that?” Sandra piped in. She was evidently still miffed with the other Martin and was now taking it out on Isabel. Chase thought this unkind.

“I’m a librarian. I know things and I understand treachery. Had she not asked for the misspelled-name book it could have been an honest error. But since she did, Chase probably didn’t hear it wrong, rather the woman intended the mistake to happen. As for the homophobe lady, well, enough said on that.”

“I think you’re right,” Marsha said.

“She’ll probably sell the book on eBay as new and autographed by the author,” Sandra said, nodding at her sister-in-law. The pack has regrouped itself, Chase thought, recalling Annie and Jane’s behavior. The dogs sometimes fought with each other, but then some outside threat would arrive and they would become a pack again.