Authors: Lisa Lutz
F
orty-eight hours later, I arrived at 1799 Clay Street and knocked at the door. I have a key, but the knock seemed more dramatic.
My father looked at his watch. “With two hours to spare, no less.”
I followed Dad into the Spellman offices, where my mother was seated behind a small mound of paperwork.
She looked up at me. “Do you have a decision?” she asked.
“I do,” I replied.
“Well?” said my dad.
“I’d like to come back to work,” I said.
The Unit’s collective sigh was at the volume of morning traffic. My father slumped into his chair. I could almost see his relief erasing the lines on his brow.
“Under these conditions,” I added, handing them an envelope. “You can read it and get back to me,” I said. “I have a few other matters to take care of right now.”
“Lunch on Friday?” Dad asked.
“I think I can free up my schedule,” I replied.
Forty minutes later I was knocking on an all-too-familiar door at an apartment in Richmond.
“Izzeee!” Bernie bellowed as he opened the door to the vacant one-bedroom that used to be Milo’s, used to be mine, and used to be Bernie’s.
“Give Uncle Bernie a hug,” he said.
“I’d rather not,” I replied, “but perhaps you’ll take a check instead.”
I passed Bernie a check for the first month’s rent and the security deposit.
“This time, you can’t move back in. Got it?” I said.
“Not even a visit?” Bernie asked, trying to be cute.
“NO!”
Bernie—a big man—had to take a step back.
I held out my hand for a businessman’s shake.
“Nice doing business with you again,” I said.
Bernie shook my hand and pulled me into a bear hug.
“Mi casa
is
su casa,”
Bernie said.
“Stop saying that,” I replied. And then I left.
Next up: I phoned Maggie and asked her to meet me at the Philosopher’s Club. It had been a while since I saw her last and, I have to admit, I missed having her around.
When I arrived, a new guy was tending bar. His name was George and he was a graduate student at SF State. I had no problem with George other than that he was new. In case you’re curious, Connor was nowhere in sight.
Maggie arrived ten minutes after me. She ordered a beer and snacked on some chocolate-covered almonds from a half-eaten bag in her pocket.
A few sips of beer seemed to banish whatever stress had been written on Maggie’s face.
“Thanks for inviting me. I didn’t feel like going home,” she said.
“Me, neither,” I replied, already thinking about how I could postpone my next move. David already promised that he wouldn’t help.
“I haven’t gotten any more survey calls,” Maggie said.
“I think it was Rae,” I said.
Yes, I’m aware that was a lie, but a mild stalking incident doesn’t usually make for an auspicious beginning for a relationship.
“Really?”
Maggie didn’t seem all that concerned anymore.
“Yeah. I think she just had a few more questions she wanted to clear up.”
“Let’s play pool!” Maggie said as if it were the first time the idea ever popped into her head.
1
I followed her to the back of the bar.
Usually people who suggest a game of pool actually have some idea of how to play the game, or at least how to rack the balls. She didn’t know a thing and I didn’t let on that I did.
As we picked out our cue sticks, I said, “You’ve met my brother, right?”
Brief pause.
“David? Yes, I’ve met him. He seems really nice,” she said. She said it like she was holding back, so I knew I was onto something.
“You want to make this game interesting?” I asked.
“Sure,” Maggie replied.
“If you win, I’ll make sure my sister never demands your chauffeur services ever again.”
2
“And if you win?” Maggie asked.
“If I win, you ask my brother out on a date. Deal?”
“Deal.”
And then I proceeded to kick her ass.
Five easily won pool games later, Connor entered the bar. When he saw me playing pool, he winked and went into his office. I like a man who can
accept rejection. That’s the kind of man who suddenly becomes unbearably attractive.
“Excuse me,” I said to Maggie as she eyed the table, trying to find a shot she could make. “I’ll be right back.”
I knocked on the door of Connor’s office.
“Come in,” he said in that foreign language he speaks.
I entered and shut the door behind me. Connor was seated at his desk, paying bills. When he saw me, he put down his pen.
“Can I help ya, Izz-a-bel?” he asked.
I nodded. Connor slowly got to his feet and stepped closer.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I nodded.
He placed his right hand behind my neck, his left behind my back, and he kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that makes you forget people. Connor was there, all handsome and smelling sweet like whiskey. But the most perfect thing about him was that when he kissed me, he didn’t hesitate.
The kiss could have gone on indefinitely, but I broke away, remembering I had a “game” of pool to finish.
“So, uh, I’ll see you around,” I said.
Connor smiled. “Don’t be a stranger.”
M
y dad studied his menu, debating whether to get a salad or a soup and a salad. I told him that while I found his dilemma compelling, I thought he should make his decision on his own. Mostly I was tired of hearing, “I just don’t know what I’m in the mood for.”
His mood and lunch decided, Dad put down his menu and said, “Mom and I agree to your terms.”
In case you have short-term memory problems or are an incredibly slow reader, Dad was referring to the provisions of my new work contract.
“I like how you think,” Dad said, tapping his head for effect.
“Thank you,” I replied. Dad was referring to a particular stipulation in my contract, which I’ll explain in just a moment.
“Did you tell Rae?” I asked gleefully.
Dad smiled, enjoying himself almost as much as I was. “Not yet. We’re waiting for the perfect moment. Who knows when that will be?”
The terms of my employment negotiation were, in fact, fairly reasonable. I wanted a raise and a retirement plan and a clearly mapped-out shift in ownership between me and my parents over the next ten years. But my coup de grâce was an explicit understanding that no matter what ultimate percentage of ownership my sister shared in the business, I would always
be the acting principal. Essentially, I would be Rae’s boss for all of eternity, unless she decided to find another line of work.
There was one not-so-small matter that I had to mention.
“Dad, what are we going to do about Harkey?”
“We’ll get him,” Dad replied.
“When?” I asked.
“Be patient, Grasshopper. We’ll get him when the time is right.”
Like some cosmic interruption, my cell phone rang. It was Mom.
“Isabel, you need to pick up Rae from the hospital,” she said.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked.
“She’s fine,” my mother said, speaking slowly for emphasis.
“Then what’s she doing at the hospital?”
“Trying to get them to run as many expensive tests as they can on her brain.”
“I see,” I replied.
“Our insurance will not cover recreational MRIs. Got it?” Mom said.
“Which hospital?” I asked.
“San Francisco General.”
“It might be better if you went,” I suggested.
“I’m at the hair salon,” Mom replied. “If they rinse out the dye now, I’ll have to resort to a wig. Deal with this, Isabel.”
Sigh.
“Okay,” I said.
“Oh, and Dad doesn’t know about my…intervention,” Mom said right before hanging up. “Let’s keep it that way, and don’t forget: Record everything.”
Twenty minutes later, my dad, Rae, and I clustered in a tiny, curtained-off section of the emergency room, discussing Rae’s “condition” with the delightful Dr. Gupta.
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
DR. GUPTA:
Are you having headaches?
RAE:
My head feels weird. Like there’s something in it.
ISABEL:
Marbles?
ALBERT:
Quiet, Isabel.
ISABEL:
She’s fine.
RAE:
My short-term memory is all but gone.
DR. GUPTA:
Since when?
ISABEL:
Since just a minute ago.
ALBERT:
Let the doctor work, Isabel.
RAE:
I’m going to need a CAT scan, an MRI, and some snacks.
DR. GUPTA:
I think we’ll start with some blood work.
RAE:
That won’t be necessary.
ISABEL:
Dad, I think I’m in love with Dr. Gupta.
ALBERT:
Shhh, you’re embarrassing me.
ISABEL:
I’m
embarrassing you?
RAE:
I’ll meet you halfway, Dr. Gupta. We’ll start with a CAT scan and go from there.
ISABEL:
Can I speak to you in the waiting room, Dad?
[I pulled my dad by the wrist out of Rae’s earshot.]
ISABEL:
Dad, she’s fine. She’s faking it to rack up a medical bill.
ALBERT:
Why would she do that?
ISABEL:
Revenge. Just tell the doctor we’ll bring Rae back if the symptoms persist.
On the car ride home, my sister cradled her head in her hands and said, “I’m almost one hundred percent positive I have a tumor.”
“Shut up,” I said.
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
DR. RUSH:
Who would like to begin?
RAE:
I would.
ISABEL:
No, don’t start with her.
RAE:
Why not? I have some things to say.
OLIVIA:
We all have things to say, Rae.
ALBERT:
I know I do.
DAVID:
Why am I here?
DR. RUSH:
You’re part of the family.
ISABEL:
He thinks he doesn’t have any problems.
DAVID:
I
never
said that.
ISABEL:
Correction, you think you have fewer problems than the rest of us.
DAVID:
[sigh] I sort of do.
RAE:
I’d like to talk about my brain problems.
ISABEL:
You don’t have any brain problems.
RAE:
You’re a doctor, right?
DR. RUSH:
I’m a psychologist, not a physician.
RAE:
If I suddenly lost some mental acuity, wouldn’t you send me to the doctor?
DR. RUSH:
Yes, but you—
OLIVIA:
I confess, okay?!
RAE:
Confess to what?
OLIVIA:
I had your grades altered so that you’d try harder in school.
RAE:
Duh. I know that.
OLIVIA:
Who was the rat?
RAE:
Mr. Peabody. I hid his lunch and he squealed like a pig.
OLIVIA:
I should have known. He looks weak.
ALBERT:
What exactly did you do, Olivia?
OLIVIA:
She was playing us because she doesn’t want to go to college. I’ve got news for you, Rae. You’re going.
RAE:
You can’t make me do anything.
DAVID:
Since people are confessing things, I’d like to make an announcement.
DR. RUSH:
Go ahead, David.
DAVID:
I quit my job.
OLIVIA:
You didn’t.
DAVID:
I did.
RAE:
Since David doesn’t have to go to work, why should I go to college?
ALBERT:
Rae, be quiet. There’s no parallel there.
OLIVIA:
David, what are you going to do?
DAVID:
I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.
ALBERT:
You’ll be fine, I’m sure. You always land on your feet.
ISABEL:
Oh my god, you would never have that much faith in me.
ALBERT:
Isabel, give it a rest.
DAVID:
Since we’re on the topic of Isabel, don’t you have a confession to make?
ISABEL:
What?
DAVID:
Where you’ve been living.
ISABEL:
Dad already knows.
DAVID:
[to Dad]
You didn’t tell me?
ALBERT:
You have way too much space for one person.
OLIVIA:
David, we all knew.
DAVID:
You people are not normal.
ISABEL:
“You people”?
DR. RUSH:
I’m not a fan of that word, “normal.”
RAE:
Me, neither.
ISABEL:
Quiet, car thief. No one asked you.
ALBERT:
I don’t see how we can accomplish anything in an hour.
DR. RUSH:
Yes, this might take more than one session.
OLIVIA:
I already need a disappearance.
ALBERT:
Me, too.
DR. RUSH:
Excuse me?
D
r. Rush was right. The Spellmans needed more than an hour to untangle the web of deceit that we’d been weaving over the last decade. Some truths were uncovered that are not surprising but worth mentioning nonetheless: During the time after my sister’s dual PSAT scandals, my mom agreed to trim Rae’s punishment if she helped play matchmaker to David and Maggie. However, I can hardly blame my mother, considering my own role in uniting the couple. Since my first and last game of pool with the pastry-pocketing attorney, she and my brother have gone on six dates and show no signs of letting up. However, David is mute on the subject, so all of our information is secondhand.
I moved back into Bernie’s place the following weekend, and I’m happy to report that I no longer take the bus for rest. Connor did the bulk of the move for me. That’s when he met my mother. She refers to him as the Irish thug and has looked into his green card status. (Mom has always had an irrational hatred of bartenders and dentists and bankers, since we’re on the subject.) The next week she withheld my paycheck until I signed a document (drafted by David) in which I promised not to marry Connor. Ever. I signed the document, took the check, and had David draft another document forbidding all Spellmans to practice any form of blackmail. David
tried to explain to me that a contract in which you promise not to break the law is ultimately redundant, but I didn’t care.
My sister finally managed to track down the file containing my newly minted employment contract. I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure, post-discovery, she keyed my car and then stuck a piece of chewed-up gum in the ignition. After that, she showed up at Henry’s house, looking for sympathy. Henry called me for a Rae extraction, but I let the message go to voice mail and never returned the call.
Ernie phoned me after the dust had settled. Linda told him everything.
“I sure didn’t see that coming,” Ernie said.
“It was more complicated than we thought,” I replied.
“And
you
figured it out,” Ernie said, sounding unduly impressed.
“I guess so.”
“You’re a natural-born detective, Izzy.”
“Why, thank you.”
And that was the last I ever heard from Ernie. I’m going to imagine that he and Linda lived happily ever after.
Morty sends me postcards from Florida. He’s found a deli by his house. The pastrami is out of this world. He played shuffleboard once and he’s pretty good, so he might play again. He told me he looks terrible in shorts, but he wears them anyway. Sometimes he takes a dip in the pool.
My father and I continue to have lunch. Dad asks the hard questions: “What do you want out of life?” I ask the soft ones: “Were your eyebrows always like that?”
Some things change and others remain exactly the same.