Hanging by a Thread (17 page)

“Why do people have to die?” she asks and I close my eyes again, thinking it's way too early for these kinds of questions. Not before coffee. Or another couple of decades of trying to figure it out myself. But somehow, when I open my mouth, out comes, “Because everything does, eventually. Everything that has a beginning, has an ending. That's just a law of nature.”

Dark eyes meet mine. “Can God die?”

God? How the hell did He get into this conversation?

“Of course God can't die. God's…God, for goodness sake.”

This gets one of those astute, assessing looks that scares the crap out of me. The you-don't-really-know-so-you're-faking-it-aren't-you? look. To distract myself from the panic threatening to cut off my air supply, I remember all the goodies downstairs that Luke brought over last night. Surely there's something I can feed the child that won't invoke the wrath of the Good Mother police.

So I swing my legs out of bed as if I'm actually awake and perky. “You hungry? Uncle Luke brought a whole bunch of donuts and stuff last night—”

“Is God even real?”

Would someone tell me how I got a kid who puts her spiritual awakening ahead of sugar and fat calories?

I twist around. “I'd like to think so,” I say, since unless and until I get incontrovertible proof that He isn't, I don't think it's in my best interests to deliberately piss the old guy—or gal—off by denying Him. Or Her.

“Then why does He let bad stuff happen? I mean, if he's God, isn't he supposed to be like all-powerful and stuff?”

I make a mental note to find out who the kid's been hanging out with.

“Unfortunately, since I'm not, I don't have all the answers. In fact, I don't have most of them.” I pause, then add, because it seems like a good idea at the moment, “But maybe if you keep asking, God will answer them for you Himself.”

“How?”

“Honestly, Starr—how do I know? Now do you want donuts or not?”

Her eyes get very…deep, is the best way I can describe it. Starr almost never cries, never did very much even as an infant. But she does the wounded look better than anyone I've ever known. And she's got it on full display now, boy. I let out a loud sigh, then scoop her up into my lap, trying
to pat her tangled hair out of my face before it makes me sneeze.

“I'm sorry, sweetie. But I'm a little frazzled right now and you're asking me questions I can't answer. And I get frustrated because I do want to be able to answer them. I just can't. Does that make sense?”

She nods, then says, “I have an idea.”

“About?”

“Leo's things. In his room? Maybe I could help you go through them, and then we could say something about each thing, to help us remember him?”

“I think that's a great idea. How'd you think of it?”

“Dunno. It just came to me.”

I glance up.
Um…if You're up there, or wherever, and talking to my daughter? Would You mind not leaving me out of the loop?

We get on our robes and slippers and go down to the kitchen, where it hits me that I think I've just said my first honest-to-God prayer. Is that weird or what?

Although not nearly as weird as what's pitching a fit at my front door.

“Y
es?” I say politely to the unfamiliar blonde glowering at me through the glass.

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Ellie, let me in. It's freezing out here.”

“Jennifer?”

The glower deepens.

Okay, in all fairness, I didn't recognize my sister at first because a) she was brunette the last time I saw her and b) she had a nose. I stand back and let her inside, biting back the urge to say, “Ooooh, we've been hitting up WASPS-R-US, haven't we?”

What can I tell you, grief brings out my surly side. Which, if I were in a more charitable frame of mind, I might say was the reason behind my sister's foul mood. Since a) I'm not and b) she's always been like this, what's the point?

Jennifer stops and stares at Starr for a moment, as if she's startled to find her here. Then, without so much as a “hello” for her niece, she turns back to give me the once-over.

“Well, don't you look like hell.”

Aaaand, we're off.

“Who're you?” Starr says.

At this, Jen turns and bends at the knees, a pained smile stretched across her face. “I'm your Aunt Jennifer, honey. Your mommy's sister.”

Starr shoots me a is-she-serious? look. When I nod, her eyes veer back to her aunt. “How come I've never seen you before?”

“Starr, sweetie? Would you do me a huge favor and go watch TV for a bit while Aunt Jennifer and I…chat for a few minutes?”

“C'n I have juice first?”

“Sure, baby.” I pour her some Tropicana and send her on her way, then turn on—I mean
to
—my sister.

“It's not even seven-thirty,” I say, hoping the morning halitosis is strong enough to reach her, “I just got up, I wasn't expecting you, and what was the other thing? Oh, right—I've been mourning our grandfather for the past week.” I shuffle to the fridge to get out the coffee, then let my eyes slide up and down Jennifer's DKNY'd body. “And your excuse is…?”

“Don't be catty.”

“It's a big kitchen. There's plenty of room for both of us.”

She ignores me because apparently there's a much bigger crisis looming on the horizon. “You use
Folger's?
”

Under other circumstances I might even be enjoying this. Especially when she gets a load of the tower of goodies left from last night. Filled with equal parts pity and disgust, her eyes once again rake over my body.

“People have been bringing food,” I say, clicking on the coffeemaker. “Feel free to take some home with you if you like.” I turn, my arms crossed. “Why are you here, Jen?”

“My name,” she says, “is
Jennifer.
”

Beelzebub to your friends,
I think but do not say.

“So why are you here,
Jennifer?
”

“Two things, actually. First, I want to know what your plans are. About the house.”

I frown. “You came into town at seven-thirty to ask me about the house?”

An airy little wave precedes, “I have a meeting at nine in the city. I thought I might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

My God, she's so blond she practically glows. Next time there's a blackout, I'm sticking with her, boy.

I haul myself back to the present. “And what plans, exactly, did you have in mind? Some home improvements, maybe? I was thinking maybe we could use a new coat of paint—”

“I'm not talking about home improvements!” She actually stamps her foot. But gently. So as not to break off the pretty little stacked heel on her I-don't-wanna-know-how-much-it-cost pointy-toed boot. “I'm talking about selling!”

“Jennifer, hellooo? I can't sell this house, remember? It's in trust for Starr.”

Her eyes—a peculiar, colorless color, like platinum—turn cold. “I know that. I'm talking about that
ridiculous
condition about not being able to sell the other house as long as the tenants want to stay. As if that's a problem.”

I shut my eyes. I don't even want to know what she's thinking.

“Jen…ifer, you're talking about peoples' homes. And the Gomezes are expecting another baby within a matter of minutes.”

“I bet you don't even know what the property's worth.”

“Since it hasn't exactly been a top priority to find out…nope. Haven't a clue.”

“Take a wild guess.”

You know, there really ougghta be a law about letting people like her loose this early. I'm thinking the next millennium would be good. But if I have any hope of her going away and letting me enjoy my despondency in peace, I might as well play along.

“Couple hundred thou?”

Her laugh—shrill and slightly maniacal—startles me. “Are you kidding? A duplex in this neighborhood, and with the improvements Grandfather made on it…you're looking at four hundred grand, easy. Maybe even five.”

I refuse to let my jaw drop.

“Did you say…four hundred thousand dollars?”

“Maybe five.”

Even in my early morning stupor, I can translate that into
half a million freakin' dollars.
Kinda takes the sting out of being pissed that the she-devil actually got one up on me.

“And any halfway decent Realtor,” Jen is saying, “would probably be able to unload that puppy in a snap. So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Selling. Think of all the things you and Stella could do with that much money.”

“Who the hell is Stella?”

Jennifer laughs, a breathy, irritating tinkle. “Your
daughter?
”

My eyes narrow. “Her name is Starr.” Then they narrow farther. “And why are
you
getting so excited about what would be
my
money?”

You'd have to know Jennifer to catch the subtle signs, but since I do, I did. Her smile starts to droop, just slightly. And the merest hint of a crease appears between her brows. And she's always had this habit, when she gets nervous, of rubbing the thumb and forefinger of her left hand together.

“Stuart lost his job,” she says in a low voice, her eyes averted, as if the shame is too much to bear. For a second, I feel a small swell of sympathy. It passes. Especially when this news is followed by, “And, I just thought, you know, if you did sell, that maybe we could get a small loan?”

Ah. “How about instead Stuart gets another job? Or better yet, how about
you
get a job?”

Jennifer lets the second part of my suggestion sail over her two-hundred-dollar highlights. “Believe me, he's trying. With the economy the way it is, though…” Her lips thin. “And you wouldn't
believe
some of the lowball figures he's being offered. With no bonus. It's absolutely outrageous. So we're kind of strapped,” she says, crinkling her Michael Jackson nose. “But honestly, all we'd need is, say, a hundred grand to tide us over. And we'd pay it back with interest, you know we would—”

“A hundred grand! Are you out of your
mind?
”

“It's just for few months, until Stuart finds a decent job.”

“Who the hell needs a hundred grand to
tide them over?
For a
couple of months!
”

“Your voice is getting all shrieky.”

“You bet your ass my voice is getting shrieky! If you and Stuart are having so much trouble, here's an idea—why don't you sell
your
freakin' house?”

“We can't do that! It's our
home!
”

“And my tenants? Those aren't their homes?”

“That's different! They're just renting, for God's sake!”

“I somehow doubt they'd agree with you.”

Her mouth goes all thin. “So you won't even consider it?”

“I didn't make the will, Jennifer. Our grandfather did. If you've got a problem with it, you'll have to take it up with him.”

“That would be a little difficult, considering he's dead.”

“Keep this up, and it won't be a problem.”

That gets a cartoon affronted gasp, immediately followed by slit eyes. And a very strange, I-know-something-you-don't smile.

I should know better. But I say it anyway. “What?”

“You have no idea, do you?”

“About what?”

“Not what.
Who.
Sonja.”

Crap. I'd forgotten all about her. “You know who she is?”

“Oh, yeah. I know who she is, all right.” Jennifer puffs herself up. “She was Grandfather's mistress.”

I let out a sigh. “That's not exactly a shock, you know. I mean, Nana's been gone for more than a dozen years—”

“Oh, nonononononono,” my sister says, waving her finger in front of me. “Sonja wasn't
after
Nana. Sonja was
during
Nana.”

Wow. She's just full of surprises this morning. “Are you sure?”

“I guess Nana never told you, did she?”

No, Jen and my grandmother were the best buds in the family, I always assumed because Jen was much more Judith Levine's…type. So I guess it was only natural they shared the odd confidence now and again.

“So you're telling me Nana came right out and said, ‘Oh, by the way, your grandfather's screwing somebody named Sonja Koepke.'”

Jennifer looks pensive for a moment, then says, “Yeah, pretty much. Only she was much too much of a lady to say ‘screwing.'”

“Unlike her favorite granddaughter.”

“Fu—” She catches herself, practically turning purple from the effort of swallowing what she'd been about to say. Since it's early and all, I would appreciate knowing where my sister's going with this. But from years of experience, I know she'll get there eventually. And it's mildly amusing to watch how she works. But eventually, she tosses her hair—she's such a cliché, I can't stand it—and says, “Still think our grandfather's the wonderful man you always thought he was?”

“You mean because Nana told you something that might not even be true?”

Her eyes go to ice again. “Sonja's in the will, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is. Which reminds me—you wouldn't have any idea how to get in touch with her, would you?”

“No!” She actually recoils. “And even if I did, why on earth would I want to hand over what should have been part of our inheritance to some woman who couldn't even keep her hands off another woman's husband?”

Whether I like it or not, my gut cramps. In the dictionary,
next to the word “shrew,” is my grandmother's picture. Or Jennifer's, depending on what edition you have. If Leo really was cheating on her—and if Jennifer heard her name from our grandmother's lips, there's probably at least some truth to her accusation—I can't really find it in my heart to condemn him. Yet still, it stings, that he didn't trust me to even mention her, not once in the twelve years since my grandmother's death.

But I can't take my frustration and anger out on Leo, because he's not here.

My sister, however—my vindictive, hateful, always-looking-for-ways-to-get-a-dig-in sister—is.

“Get out,” I say quietly.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

She grabs her purse—Kate Spade, what else?—and impales me with her gaze. “I cannot believe you're being this rude when I'm only trying to be helpful, for God's sake—”

I grab her arm, which provokes a satisfying yelp. “Honey, you wouldn't know
helpful
if it bit you in your Pilated butt. You think
helpful
is coming around and stirring up trouble—”

“That's not true!”

“—and then you look at my daughter like she's a puddle of something disgusting on the subway platform, you don't even bother to speak to her until she forces the issue, and you're calling
me
rude?”

Jen jerks her arm from my grip and flounces out of the kitchen and down the hall in a flurry of natural fibers, yanks open the front door and stomps down the stairs, beeping her Beemer unlocked from twenty feet away. I follow, because I'm obviously still not awake, so I'm right in the line of fire when she turns and says, “You know, Nana was right. You're just like our mother, nothing but a two-bit, dumb-as-dirt Southern hick!”

The car is too polite to actually roar when she guns the engine and shoots down the street, but I get the idea.

Starr comes up behind me, watching Jen's vapor trail.

“Geez. What's her problem?”

“Beats me, honey,” I say, trying to control the shaking. Then we go inside and gorge on donuts until we almost make ourselves sick.

 

I finally get around to sorting through Leo's things that afternoon. Frances and Jason have come over to help, turning what could have easily been a morbid activity into, well, something less morbid. I'd like to say I'm over my set-to with my sister, but her words cut deeper than I'd thought they could. Especially after all this time.

I never quite understood the enmity my grandmother felt toward my mother, who might have been Southern but was no hick, believe me. And God knows, she wasn't dumb. Maybe it was because my mother was about as
goyish
as you could get. Or maybe it was because Judith was simply jealous of my mother, that she couldn't stand seeing her son's loyalties diverted. Because there was no doubt Dad adored Mom. As she did him. But whatever my grandmother thought of Connie Griffith Levine, she knew to keep her trap shut about her in front of my father. I even heard him say, one time when I was supposed to be asleep but had crept out to the landing because I heard them arguing, that he hadn't married my mother to please Nana, but to please
himself.
And if she couldn't deal with that, that was just too damn bad.

In her place, I would've been thrilled to know my son had found someone to make him so happy. Not to mention I can only hope Starr has half the guts her grandfather had, to go after what she wants, as well as the courage to defend her choices, no matter what. But that's just me.