Authors: Lisa Lutz
I’ll spare you the long, drawn-out argument and give you the basic facts. Henry, for the last five months, had been dating a public defender for San Francisco County named Maggie Mason. Maggie has an apartment in Daly City—not the quickest commute to the superior court building on Bryant Street. Henry lives in the Inner Sunset. It’s only natural that Maggie would spend time at Henry’s home and not the other way around. Two months ago, she got a drawer in his house; one month ago, she got a shelf in his pantry.
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Last week Henry made a copy of his key and gave it to her in a jewelry box. My sister, convinced that Henry wasn’t really ready to take the next step, took it upon herself to change the locks in his apartment a few days later. How my sister had access to his home and how this act of subterfuge went unnoticed by the neighbors, I cannot explain. Suffice it to say she did not deny her role in this particular drama. I’m sure you can imagine what happened next: Maggie arrived at Henry’s house after a long day
of work. She tried her key and it failed. She interpreted events the way any woman might: Henry gave her the wrong key, which was a subconscious or passive-aggressive communication that he was simply not ready. What had not occurred to Maggie was that my sister was playing saboteur in their relationship. Certainly there had been moments of tension between Maggie and her boyfriend’s odd version of a “best friend,” but Maggie had failed to see Rae’s outright hostility. None of this escaped Henry’s notice.
“Tell your sister,” said Henry, “that she is no longer welcome in my home.”
“We’re back to that again?” I asked.
Rae’s response was not the wisest. “I have a key,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I had the locks changed this morning!”
Henry replied to my sister at a volume I did not know his voice was capable of.
“Total waste of money,” Rae replied.
Henry finished his second drink, stood up in a huff, and said in his most threatening tone, “Mark my words, Rae: This isn’t over.” Henry nodded a silent good-bye to me and left the bar.
Rae nervously folded her cocktail napkin in quarters, then eighths, and attempted sixteenths. Her defiance softened and worry lines crinkled her smooth brow.
“He’s really angry, Rae.”
“I know,” she replied.
“I’ve met Maggie. She seems nice. What do you have against her?”
“Nothing,” Rae said. “It’s just that if somebody doesn’t do something about it, he’s going to marry her.”
Saturday
1400 hrs
A lawyer walked into the bar. Sorry, there’s no joke here. It was my brother, David,
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sporting three-day-old stubble and casual attire—cargo
pants, sneakers, and a
GUINNESS IS GOOD FOR YOU
T-shirt, which I’m almost positive was mine. My point is, David’s ensemble was in direct conflict with his usual dress code. It was as if he were wearing a costume for someone planning a day at the park. Instead of ordering what was advertised on his shirt, David asked for a Bloody Mary, just to make me work. I added extra Tabasco and pepper, just to make him suffer.
“What are you doing drinking on a Saturday afternoon?”
“My vacation starts today.”
“Some vacation,” I replied, scanning the surroundings for emphasis.
“I leave for Europe on Monday.”
“For how long?”
“Four weeks.”
“Nobody tells me anything,” I said.
“It’s a last-minute thing,” David replied.
“You traveling alone?” I asked.
“No,” David said in a way that indicated the discussion was over. I, of course, did not agree to the inexplicit request.
“So, who are you traveling with?”
Familiar with my questioning tactics, David stayed his course. “I was thinking I should have someone watch my place while I’m gone, and since you live in a dump,
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I figured I wouldn’t have to pay you.”
“Not that you couldn’t afford to.”
My brother handed me an envelope, leaned across the bar, and kissed me on the cheek. “The key and instructions are in there. I leave for the airport around ten
A
.
M
. on Monday. Don’t enter the premises until at least ten thirty, in case I’m running late. I will return exactly four weeks later in the afternoon, so make yourself scarce by noon of the third Monday from this Monday. Got it?”
“Don’t you want me to hang around so you can bore me with all your travel photos?”
“Not really,” David replied. “Now, behave while I’m gone,” he said, raising a stern eyebrow. Then he left.
I cracked the envelope the second David exited the bar. As promised, it contained a key and a typewritten sheet of paper.
RULES FOR ISABEL WHILE STAYING IN MY HOME
Do…
Do NOT…
After I recovered from the insult of the list, I phoned David to clarify a few matters.
“Did you forget to include your itinerary?” I asked.
“No,” David replied. “I’m not sure where I’ll be.”
“How will I reach you if there’s an emergency?”
“Just call my cell phone.”
I hung up the phone without any more answers than when I started. There was only one thing I could say for certain: David was lying to me. About what, I couldn’t say.
As I contemplated my brother’s suspicious behavior, the afternoon regulars began to arrive.
Clarence Gilley strode in shortly after four. He pretends he’s on a schedule when it comes to drinking. Four o’clock is his start time and if he shows up any time after that he says, “Sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.” I like Clarence. He tips well, tells me a single joke each visit, and then he remains silent, studying the sports section of the
Chronicle
for the next four hours.
Saturday’s joke:
An amnesiac walks into a bar. He asks, “Do I come here often?”
1700 hrs
Mom
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walked into the bar. Whatever my father lacks in good looks, my mother makes up for it. Mom is petite and elegant with long auburn hair that comes straight out of a bottle. From a distance, she appears years younger than her age. In fact, Clarence whistled when my mom entered the bar. (Although I can’t say for sure that he was responding to her and not to some alarming news from the world of sports.)
Like my father’s, Mom’s “casual” visits to the Philosopher’s Club were thinly veiled interrogations. To my parents’ credit, though, they managed
to mix things up just a bit. This is a close approximation of my conversation with my mother that day:
ISABEL:
What can I get you?
OLIVIA:
A daughter with a purpose in life.
ISABEL:
Sorry, we’re all out. What’s your second choice?
OLIVIA:
I can’t decide between a club soda and a real drink.
ISABEL:
I’d prefer you had a real drink.
OLIVIA:
Fine. I’ll have a gimlet.
ISABEL:
But just one drink. Then I’d like you to be on your way.
OLIVIA:
I’ll leave when my business here is done.
[The drink is served; the patron takes a sip and grimaces.]
OLIVIA:
It needs more booze.
ISABEL:
When I serve it to you with more booze, you say it needs more lime juice. Has it occurred to you that you just don’t like gimlets?
OLIVIA:
I used to love them.
ISABEL:
Sometimes we need to accept change.
OLIVIA:
Is this what you’re getting out of therapy? Learning to embrace your inner bartender?
ISABEL:
I’m just doing my time, Mom. That’s all.
OLIVIA:
Tell me something. Do you talk about me with Dr. Ira?
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ISABEL:
We talk about everyone in my life at one time or another. It’s possible I haven’t mentioned Bernie
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yet. But I’m sure it will happen eventually.
OLIVIA:
Are you blaming me for all of your troubles?
ISABEL:
No. Actually, I’ve been blaming David.
OLIVIA:
Fair enough.
[Mother/patron crinkles nose when she takes a second sip of her gimlet.
Daughter/bartender sprays an ounce of club soda into her drink.]
ISABEL:
Try it now.
OLIVIA:
That’s much better. How do I order it if I need to?
ISABEL:
You don’t. But if you have to, call it a gimlet watered down with soda.
OLIVIA:
Very nice.
ISABEL:
So, I’ll trade you one honest answer for one in return.
OLIVIA:
Agreed.
ISABEL:
Did you send some guy into the bar on Tuesday to drill me for information?
OLIVIA:
I did that once two months ago. Will you let it die already?
ISABEL:
So, that’s a no?
OLIVIA:
Yes, it’s a no. My turn?
ISABEL:
Shoot.
OLIVIA:
Are you dating anyone right now? [Long pause.]
ISABEL:
No one to speak of.
OLIVIA:
What are you hiding? [Another significant pause.]
ISABEL:
Milo and I hooked up a few weeks ago. It’s been awkward ever since.
OLIVIA:
That’s so gross, it’s not even funny.
ISABEL:
Yeah, you’re right. I thought it might be funny, but when I said it, I just felt nauseous.
OLIVIA:
In what direction are you heading, Isabel?
ISABEL:
Nowhere, at the moment.
Sunday
Milo walked into the bar, which isn’t all that unusual, what with it being his bar and all. I usually cover my afternoon shifts solo so Milo has more time off, but Sunday afternoon we always work together and take stock of the inventory. I’ve known Milo going on ten years now; he’s been my employer
for only five months of those. Bar owners’ expectations differ from other employers’: Show up on time, don’t steal, make the right change, and don’t be too generous with the booze. Most nights, I’m at least three for four.
While I cleaned glasses, Milo did the
San Francisco Chronicle
’s crossword puzzle, which he considers to be some form of actual work. (Something about keeping his mind sharp being good for business—don’t quote me, I wasn’t paying attention.)
“What’s a four-letter word for a lunch staple?”
“Beer,” I replied, because how is Milo staying sharp by asking me to do his crossword puzzles for him?
“That’s not it. It has to be something you eat.”
“Fish.”
“It’s not fish. Fish isn’t a lunch staple in any place I know.”
“I still think it’s fish.”
“Soup!” Milo shouted as if it were a different four-letter word.
“Congratulations,” I said. Frankly, I was happy to know he could get at least one clue in the puzzle. Another minute passed in peaceful silence. But then it was over.
“I was talking to a friend of mine the other day,” Milo said as he hung his coat on a rack behind the bar.
“Fascinating story.”
“Give it time. It gets better.”
“And then what happened?” I asked with rapt interest.
“He was telling me about this time he went into a bar, was making casual conversation with the bartender, and the next thing he knows, the bartender for no good reason tries to strangle him with his own tie and accuses him of having some kind of conspiratorial relationship with her own mother.”
“I’m sure he’s recovered by now.”
“Not completely. There are a few lingering side effects.”
“For instance?” I asked, playing along.
“He’s got a closet full of ties—a regular clotheshorse, this one—and
yet he’s afraid to wear all of them. Used to be his signature look. Now he’s got to figure out a whole new thing.”
“Tragic story.”
“Izz, he don’t know your mother. We were conversing the other day, he has a situation, he needs a detective, he’d rather not pay an arm and a leg like your parents charge, so I mentioned you might be able to help him out.”
“I have a job, Milo.”
“This isn’t a career, Izzy.”
“For you it is.”
Milo tossed his newspaper on top of the bar and sighed dramatically. “I’m cutting your hours to three days a week. It’s time for you to get back in the game or find an entirely new game that doesn’t involve serving booze.”
“How much are my parents paying you?”
“Nada.”
“I don’t approve of your random use of Spanish.”
“Ernie’s gonna drop by again today. He’s gonna tell you about his problem. You’re going to offer him your services. You’ll both negotiate a reasonable price. You’ll do a good job for my friend.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
“I’ll trim your hours some more.”
1800 hrs
As promised, Ernie Black returned to the bar.
His problem was the kind of problem you hear about all the time, at least in my line of work—or my previous line of work. Scratch that. In every line of work I’ve known,
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the suspicious wife (or husband) comes up often.