Tart (12 page)

Of course, there's no place to sit, and we both look around in awkward confusion. Somehow I can't see the two of us comfortably kicking it on the futon or the bare mattress, and he doesn't look limber enough to fold himself onto the floor without damaging something. Then again, if he pulls a muscle, my odds at a successful escape increase dramatically.

“Not much furniture yet,” I say. “Been too busy.” He nods, unsmiling. “Um, there's a café next door. Should we talk there?”

He hesitates—am I being too chummy?—but then takes another look around my chairless studio and nods his assent. “A cup of coffee sounds good. I'm near the end of my shift—starting to drag a little.” Thank God. Maybe he'll be slow on the draw.

Once we're settled at a table in the Java House, him with a cup of black coffee, me waiting for my decaf mocha (I fear caffeine might inspire me to lunge for the gun), he gets down to business, pulling a notepad from his pocket and jabbing his ballpoint pen into the poised position.

“Now, it seems there was a vehicle reported missing last week in Austin, Texas, by—” he pauses to study his notes “—Jonathan Van Zandt.” I do the math in my head: I nabbed the bus two months ago, at the beginning of September; Jonathan's friend Perry, the appointed bus-sitter, wasn't scheduled to get back from Chile until mid-October; some confusion must have followed, phone calls were made, and they finally reported it stolen last week. I feel perversely comforted by my ability to visualize this timeline, as if it indicates I've got a modicum of control here.

“We recently matched the vehicle identification numbers of the stolen bus with the numbers found on the remains of an abandoned vehicle—a bus that caught fire in—” he's squinting at his notes—why is his voice so
weird?
“—September, on Highway 17.” I nod to show that I'm following, and try to keep my expression perfectly blank.

“When we informed the owner of the situation, he gave us your name, indicating that you had recently moved to this area from Austin. Also, that you were one of the few people in possession of a key. Ms. Bloom, are you all right?”

“Sorry?”

“You're pale, and you're—” he hands me a napkin “—perspiring.”

Oh, Lord, I am such a miserable criminal. I might as well be wearing a neon sandwich board that reads “Take me, I'm guilty.”

“Decaf mocha with whip,” the barista yells, and I jump up, mopping my forehead with the napkin quickly.

“Be right back,” I say, and turn to eye the exit. Would he shoot if I ran? Probably not, but better not to push my luck when the prize is a bullet between the shoulder blades. I walk to the counter and pick up my mocha, taking my time about it. This could very well be my last steps as a free woman.

I sit down with Officer Cordell again, determined not to make a scene. “So,” I say pleasantly. “You were saying?”

“Look, Ms. Bloom, I don't want to upset you. You're not under arrest or anything.”

“I'm not?” I can feel my face lighting up with glee, then realize how bad this looks and backpedal. “I mean, I'm not,” I say, going for sane and reasonable.

“When someone—say, a partner or, you know, ex-partner—takes a vehicle, it's not really a legal issue unless someone decides to press charges. In this case, Mr. Van Zandt. So far, he doesn't seem inclined to do so.” He puts his notepad down and sips his coffee. “But we did feel it was important to follow up, given the circumstances. The vehicle in question was really—well, in plain terms, it was toast.” His mouth
curls up at the corners and I realize this is his version of humor, so I giggle; it comes out much more nervous and high-pitched than I'd hoped, but he seems not to notice. “Of course, we suspected whoever was driving had escaped unharmed, but there was always the possibility that they hadn't, which would not be—” he taps his pen against the coffee cup “—good.” He takes off his glasses and wipes them with a napkin. “Ms. Bloom, was it you in that vehicle?”

Okay, stay calm. He's already said you're not in trouble. Right? You're almost certainly not going to spend the rest of your life in solitary confinement—he practically promised you that. And let's face it, Bloom, your lying skills suck.

“Yes.” It comes out as a squeak.

He leans toward me. “I'm sorry? Can you speak up?”

“Yes,” I say, too loudly this time, and several students swivel their heads in my direction. Oh, God, one of them is
my
student. It's Miranda. I nod at her in greeting and turn my attention back to Officer Cordell. “It was me.”

“That's what I thought.” He puts his glasses back on and pushes them onto the bridge of his nose, scribbles something in his notepad and nods at me.

“Am I in big trouble?”

He shrugs. “Like I said, it's unlikely that Van Zandt will press charges. We don't like to interfere in cases of domestic—” he smiles at me “—or in this case, semidomestic, disagreements, unless we have to. But in the future, when the vehicle you're driving explodes on the side of the road, give us a call, will you please? We like to know about these things.” He gets up. “Been a pleasure,” he says, tucking his notepad back into his pocket. “You take care now.”

He walks out, leaving me staring at my mocha in silent awe. Shit, maybe I should steal my exes' cars more often. If I'd known it was this easy, I would've gone into crime a long time ago.

I
take another healthy swig of my mother's organic merlot and wonder if there is a god in the great pantheon of deities who could save me today. I mean, come on, there's a god out there for everything, right? Surely one of their job descriptions includes looking after emotionally stunted neo-new-age families who attempt to have Thanksgiving together.

At the head of the table is Gary, my mother's husband. I can barely look at him without wincing. He's short and Yul Brynner bald with a thick black mustache and furry nostrils, dressed in a white cotton tunic and Guatemalan-print pants. Around his neck are several strands of large wooden beads. The weird thing is, you could put him in a used-car salesman's suit and he'd look a lot more natural. Every time I'm with him I see a guy from New Jersey who took a wrong turn in 1985, ended up in Mill Valley, California, and has been passing himself off as a guru ever since.

Across from him is my mother (Mira, if you want to keep your head intact) with her long, glossy brown hair and her
big, Carly Simon mouth painted a matte orange. She's looking a touch hefty these days; her boobs were always huge and she's naturally got a Venus de Milo figure (plus the arms, of course), but today she looks a little bloated, and the skin around her eyes is slightly bruised with exhaustion. Tensions are running unusually high between her and Gary. Their only exchanges have been terse, monosyllabic ones. Even when she smiles, there's a sadness in the curve of her lips.

Next to her is Emily, who is also a touch chunkier, though in her case we're talking about a toothpick filling out to a pencil. The last time I looked she had long blond hair, but now it's dark brown and cut close to her head, which looks really feisty and sexy on her. She's wearing a tight pink T-shirt, sparkly pink eye shadow, and she's sporting a tiny little diamond in her nose.

On her right is my father in a grass-green Izod shirt, fiddling nervously with his horn-rimmed glasses. Under the table I think he might be holding the hand of Didi, his first girlfriend since Sally left him. Didi is, as my mother reported, the librarian at the high school, and she looks the part; she's painfully thin with a graying bob, and silver reading glasses dangle from a chain around her neck. She watches everything with alert, intelligent eyes that give me the feeling I'm going to end up in the principal's office any minute now.

Next to me is Rose, who's just radiant in her favorite, sky-blue cotton sundress; her right hand keeps snaking out to caress the long black hair of her latest soul mate, Marco from Rome, who is admittedly a sweet guy, though his English is halting at best, so it's hard to know where he stands on most issues. He's a giant—six-five, with a head the size of a watermelon. One can't help but wonder about sex with him; his hands look like they could crush boulders.

My jeans already feel too snug, and my discomfort in them is heightened by the positively balmy weather. Thanksgiving should be outlawed in California. Why tor
ture ourselves by openly gorging on cellulite-inducing foods when it's still so warm you'll be expected to don a bikini that very weekend? These jeans will have to be surgically removed if I eat all the butter and turkey fat quivering on my plate. If it weren't for Gary, I'd be at home getting pleasantly shit-faced with Rose and Marco, probably nibbling on popcorn and listening to demo tapes of Marco's awful band, Total Eclipse. It was Gary who thought it would be “special” and “karma-cleansing” to bring the whole extended divorced-but-civil clan together for the first time ever. See, in other states, broken families accept that there's nothing to salvage from the wreckage; it's only in California that people feel compelled to get all chummy with their exes and
heal the emotional wounds,
like bingeing on carbs together somehow means all is forgiven.

Gary is currently espousing the virtues of his Spine Aligner, and I'm getting progressively more involved with my merlot.

“You see, what most people don't understand is that the sacrum is the center of our existence, the place from which well-being springs.”

“Excuse me, did you say the
sacrum?
” Didi asks.

“That's right—the base of the spine.”

“I know what the sacrum is,” she says, tight-lipped. “I wasn't sure I heard you correctly.” She pronounces each syllable with the crisp enunciation of a
Learn English in Twenty Days
tape.

Gary turns to Marco, an easier audience than Didi; Marco's MO is to nod vigorously at every word in order to camouflage his total lack of comprehension. “The kundalini lies coiled in the sacrum, ready to arise once awakened. It's like a sleeping cobra. The Spine Aligner gently prods it into action.” Gary smiles his mournful, constipated smile, showing his enormous yellowing teeth, which are sporting bits of broccoli. “It's really a fascinating process.”

He looks at Rosemarie, who, much like Marco, can't help
but look sweet and interested in even the most vacuous bullshit. “I've seen women who couldn't even look at themselves in the mirror turn into savage goddesses.” What this means, exactly, in Garyspeak is anyone's guess, but it's obvious he's caressing Rosemarie with his creepy, hypnotic voice, and Marco slips his massive arm over her shoulder, for once not nodding.

“Anyway, how's your job at the Catalyst going, Rose?” asks my mother, her voice barely concealing a low buzz of irritation. If she doesn't divorce Gary in the next couple of weeks, I suspect homicide is a realistic possibility.

Rose blushes prettily. “I, um—don't work there anymore.”

“Oh, really?” She shoots a very quick glance at me—so quick even I can hardly read the
I told you so
subtext, which I hope Rose doesn't catch. “Did something happen?”

“Well, I met Marco and started managing his band.” She looks dreamily at his profile as he devours an enormous mound of stuffing. “Which is a lot of work, you know. It's pretty much a full-time job. And that was my career plan, when I got on at the Catalyst—to find a band to manage.”

“Good for you,” my mother says, but her tone sounds like Rose just offered her a cockroach.

“You're a musician?” Emily asks Marco, perking up. Little groupie, I think. Keep your paws off this one. Okay, so maybe my Lolita sensors are working overtime, but I've seen Emily flirt, and she's had a take-no-prisoners style since before puberty. Much to my relief, Marco doesn't look up from his plate, and Rose answers for him. When there's food involved, Marco frequently misses his cues.

“Yes. He's a wonderful bassist. They're called Total Eclipse. Isn't that a great name?” Actually, I think it's about the worst name I've ever heard, though not exactly a misnomer, as Marco's band does totally eclipse any desire to hear more.

“Sounds kind of…eighties, doesn't it?” Emily says scornfully.

Rose's smile fades. “No, it sounds poetic. They're into
their lyrics, they don't just throw random BS together, like most bands do these days.”

“Are the lyrics in Italian?” Mira asks, and I can't tell if she's being arch or not.

“No. The lead singer's Irish,” Rose says, looking at Emily triumphantly. She thinks this is her trump card, as if having a lead singer from the U.K. automatically makes her Brian Epstein.

“Have you heard of—” And here my mother lowers her voice slightly, in deference to the band of the Unmentionable Rock Star Emily is “dating,” whatever that means.

“Mom,” Emily says, suppressing a smile, in a fake how-could-you tone that really says yes-yes-go-on. But it's not her tone that makes me nearly choke on the cranberries I've just shoveled into my mouth, it's that one-syllable word. How can Emily possibly call Mira Mom? She's not even blood, and here she's using the very term of endearment I've been denied since I was thirteen. The presumptuous little cow.

I wait for my mother's face to register something—anything—surprise, disgust, disdain, but no, she just goes on chewing her food serenely, her jaw working with dogged determination. As I'm staring at her with God knows what sort of expression on my face, her eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second, but then she turns back to Emily and
puts a hand on her hand.

“Oh,” says Didi, with disdain. “Them. What a lot of noise.” This earns her daggers from my mother and Emily.

“Yeah,” says Rose, her voice more neutral. “Of course I've heard of them.”

“Emily is dating—” and my mother whispers Rock Star's name.

“Mother,” says Emily, half whiny, half smug, and I can't help it, I push my chair back and rush for the door. I can hear Rose calling after me faintly, but my vision is blurred and I feel that woozy panic, like when you're in the fourth grade and the milk in your thermos is sour but you don't
realize so you drink it, anyway, and suddenly you're going to throw up all over the schoolroom floor.

I lunge my way out of the sliding glass doors onto the sprawling deck. I find myself surrounded by Gary's meticulous Japanese gardens and flowering trees from Tokyo. I lean against the railing and breathe steadily until I'm pretty sure I'm not going to puke. My skin is cold-clammy, though, and I stand there for a few minutes trying to think clearly. Mira-fucking-Ravenwing. Most of the kids I knew with divorced parents lived with their moms, and some even became the prized jewels in bloodthirsty custody battles. But Mira Ravenwing just flew off, careless as could be, flitting from husband to husband, purchasing skunk weed in bulk, learning to finger-paint her chakras, delving into her past lives as Korean prostitutes and Swedish clockmakers. Why did she never think twice about her past life with me? Didn't she think I'd miss her, defending myself against Sally the migraine-suffering stepmother and dealing with my father, the pussy-whipped patriarch?

“Claudia?” Rosemarie's warm hand is on my back. She leans on the railing next to me, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and tries to get a good look at my face. I just keep staring down at Gary's prized koi swimming aimlessly in their tiled, kidney-shaped pool. “What's up?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey. You can tell me.”

Something in her voice forces me to come clean. “My mother doesn't love me,” I whisper, and I feel so childish saying it I can't even look at her.

“Shh. She does, too.”

“She never even let me call her Mom.”

“Listen, Claudia, Aunt Mira has serious issues, okay? Of course, my mom does, too. But it's not our fault. It's got nothing to do with us.”

I turn to her; she's so lovely in the mellow November light, with her warm olive skin flushed slightly from the wine and her dark eyes full of concern.

“I figured that out a long time ago,” she tells me, cupping my shoulder with her palm.

“But why can she be so warm with stupid little Emily, who's not even her kid?”

Rose thinks about this for a second. “Maybe she's grown up some, and now she's a better mom. I don't know. You could ask her.”

I scoff. “Yeah, right. You know Mira. She'd change the subject—fast.”

“Yeah, probably.”

I sigh, casting a glance over my shoulder back at the house. “How embarrassing. I feel like a pouty little kid.”

“Family,” Rose says, shaking her head. “Look at the bright side. At least your mom has kind bud. Maybe she'll share with us for dessert.”

I laugh. “Yeah, that's all I need, to be stoned and paranoid on top of depressed.” I turn and stare at the sliding glass doors, so slick and clean, reflecting the compulsive grace of Gary's garden, created and maintained by his Australian mistress.

“And Gary,” I grumble. “Yuck.”

“You can say that again,” Rose whispers. “You tried to warn me, but shit, he really is smarmy, isn't he?” She presses her lips together tightly to suppress a giggle. “That Spine Aligner shit? Is he for real?” We laugh a little, trying to keep it down. It's like having the sister I always craved—someone to giggle with in conspiratorial secrecy, someone who'll remind me I'm not the crazy one when the adults all behave like mental cases on acid.

When we've stopped laughing, she touches my hair affectionately and cocks her head in a question. “Ready to face the enemy?”

“As I'll ever be, I guess.”

So we march back inside, putting on brave, cheerful faces. Except nobody notices, because by the time we get back to the table, Thanksgiving dinner has gone from pretty-bad-but-under-control to total anarchy.

 

“He is
not.
” Emily is screaming at Didi. “He's only thirty-eight, okay? So fuck you.”

“Whoa,” Rose mutters, touching my arm.

“Emily,” Gary says, his eyes wide. “What on earth are you…?”

“Sweetheart.” Mira reaches for Emily's hand again, and my stomach contracts slightly, but not as bad as last time.

“And it's a
good
band,” Emily continues, her tone seething and belligerent. “It's like totally out-there music, and nobody expects a stupid, uptight bitch like you to get it, all right?”

“Wait a minute, young lady,” my father says, squinting at her over his glasses. “Maybe nobody here cares about your manners, but—”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” growls Gary, offended.

“Obviously she gets away with murder in this house—”

“And your daughter was a perfect angel, I suppose?” Gary glances at me before returning his hostile attention to my father. Wait a second. What exactly did Mira tell him about me?

My father looks at me, confused, and sputters, “Claudia's got nothing to do with this—I'm only saying—”
Thanks, Dad, for that heartfelt defense.
“I'm only saying that Emily should not be allowed to scream obscenities at Didi, here.” He puts a shaking hand on Didi's shoulder.