The Spellman Files (34 page)

The new and improved Rae lasted only a few weeks, tops. Eventually the recreational surveillance and sugar highs returned, but she did manage to limit both activities to the weekend only. My parents never followed or paid anyone to follow me again. My father officially fired Jake Hand when he caught him looking down my mother’s shirt. David got a tattoo with Petra’s name on it as an engagement present. Once again, Petra railed against me for not stopping him. They continued to plan their September nuptials. And Uncle Ray went missing again.

I
t was officially Lost Weekend #27. He was last seen on a Thursday, and by Sunday my father and Rae began making the customary telephone calls. They tracked my uncle through a series of poker games in the city until the trail went cold. Dad then checked the activity on all of Uncle Ray’s credit cards and found charges at the Golden Nugget resort in Reno, Nevada.

My mother and father had a new-client meeting in the morning and so the responsibility of collecting Uncle Ray fell to me. But I would not go alone. It is an essential rite of passage for all the Spellman children to, at one time or another, take a road trip to collect their uncle.

Within an hour of discovering Uncle Ray’s whereabouts, Rae and I were packed and on the road. Four hours later we arrived in Reno and checked into the hotel. My father provided a letter detailing his credentials and references, which allowed the hotel to provide me with Uncle Ray’s room number and an additional key.

As usual, the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign was hung on the door of room 62B. I knocked out of courtesy and waited for Ray to bellow out something along the lines of “Can’t you read?” or “I’m conducting important business here.” But there was no answer, which I assumed meant he was passed out.

I slid the card key into the door and opened it a crack. Just as quickly, I pulled the door shut. The smell was unmistakable. The brief whiff I got told me all that I needed to know.

“What’s wrong?” Rae asked, sensing my tension.

I wasn’t ready for her to know the truth and I was equally unsure of how to proceed. I needed to buy some time, to keep her unaware as long as I could.

“Uncle Ray’s having sex,” I said. Only after the fact did I realize that this was a lie of which my uncle would have wholly approved.

My sister promptly plugged her ears and started singing, “La la la la la la la.” I took her by the arm and suggested we go to our room. Rae checked out the view and noticed the swimming pool three stories down. She asked if she could take a dip. I was grateful for the opportunity to make some phone calls in private and practically shoved her out the door.

I watched Rae from the balcony as she floated on her back in the pink-bottomed pool. I phoned the coroner and then my parents. I returned to Uncle Ray’s room one more time to be sure.

According to the police, Uncle Ray died of asphyxiation. He had passed out in the bathtub approximately two days earlier. Ray had slipped housekeeping an extra twenty to give him his privacy. Prior to his death, he gambled away six thousand dollars at the Caribbean Poker tables. His death was determined to be an alcohol-related accident. There was no follow-up police investigation.

Rae returned from her swim as I was finishing up a conversation with the coroner’s office that included words like
body, autopsy,
and
transport.
So she figured it out.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Rae showered for two hours and then went to bed without uttering a single word, shattering all previous records. She finally spoke the following morning as we put our bags into the car.

“How will he get home?” Rae asked.

“Who?”

“Uncle Ray,” she snarled.

“They’ll fly him back when the autopsy is complete.”

“Uncle Ray doesn’t like flying.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind now.”

“Why can’t we drive him back?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because he’s dead. Because he has begun to decompose. Because I don’t want to hang around in Reno for three days until the coroner’s office releases his body. Get in the car, Rae. This is nonnegotiable.”

Rae responded with a frustrated sigh, got into the passenger seat, and slammed the door behind her.

The first hour along the barren stretch of I-80 was punctuated by sighing and gloomy stares out the window. It wasn’t until she turned to me and snapped, “He shouldn’t be dead,” that I realized she was angry. She was angry because as long as she was able to witness it, no one had tried to stop Uncle Ray from poisoning himself. She saw only the second half of the story, which included an entire family turning a blind eye to his self-abuse.

I pulled off at the next rest stop and washed away the tears that had settled beneath my sunglasses. I returned to the car and found Rae on my cell phone, speaking with the coroner’s office, trying to negotiate a car or train ride for the return of her uncle’s body. I opened the passenger-side door, snapped the phone out of her hand, and kneeled down in front of her.

“We all have the right to destroy ourselves. He was a grown man and that was his choice.”

Rae fell silent again as we got back on the road.

We crossed the Bay Bridge two hours, one hundred and forty-seven miles, and half a box of tissues later. It was only then that the silence was broken.

“Izzy?”

“Yes, Rae?”

“Can we get ice cream?”

T
he fact that I can now put writer (or the more pretentious “author”) as my occupation on all tax forms seems unbelievable. For a while there I was certain I wouldn’t amount to anything. I am now certain that it would not have been possible if I had to do this all on my own. Therefore, I feel lengthy acknowledgments are appropriate. If you don’t know me or anyone connected to me, don’t feel obligated to read this. In fact,
don’t
read this. It’s personal and filled with inside jokes that won’t make any sense and might make me seem weird.

First I must acknowledge the people directly responsible for turning my manuscript into a book. Stephanie Kip Rostan, my agent: I can’t believe my good fortune in finding you. Your wit, perfect advice, and patience astound me. My genius editor, Marysue Rucci: You have made this book so much better than I ever thought possible and working with you has been effortless.
1
Simply to meet another person who finds the same things funny as you do is great; for that person to be your editor is like winning the lottery.
2
David Rosenthal, my publisher: You had me at “molestation charges.”
3

Also thanks to Carolyn Reidy, president of Simon & Schuster; your support of this book is invaluable and I am extremely grateful. Alexis Taines, Marysue’s editorial assistant, thanks for answering all my questions past and to come. Also at Simon & Schuster, thank you, Victoria Meyer; Aileen Boyle; Deb Darrock; Leah Wasielewski; and Aja Pollock, my very overworked production editor. Thank you to everyone at Levine Greenberg Literary Agency, especially Daniel Greenberg, Elizabeth Fisher, Melissa Rowland, and Monika Verma for all their hard work. And finally, a big thanks to Sarah Self, at the Gersh Agency, who didn’t bat an eye when I kept saying no.

Now, I would like to thank all of my friends who have supported me over the years, but I am going to limit this list to only those who have
both
lent
4
me money and read drafts of scripts or manuscripts. To begin, Morgan Dox,
5
boy were you wrong about the whole Westernville thing. It
was
a good idea. Steve Kim,
6
I couldn’t ask for a better friend. Thanks for everything, especially for reminding me about the Cone of Silence. I owe you big. Rae Dox Kim,
7
thanks for letting me borrow your name; I’m going to need it just a bit longer. Julie Shiroishi,
8
thank you for telling me to write a novel, when actually it hadn’t really occurred to me. Ronnie Wenker-Konner, you can stop blaming yourself for the other thing; I’m good. Now I’m just going to start listing people in no particular order because this could get really long if I don’t: Julie Ulmer,
9
Warren Liu,
10
Peter Kim,
11
David Hayward,
12
Devin Jindrich, Lilac Lane, Beth Hartman, and a special thanks to Lisa Chen, who is lending me money at the moment and gave me some great notes. An honorable mention goes to Francine Silverman, who I don’t recall lending me money, but who read some of the strangest adolescent writing imaginable (and laughed), and Cyndi Klane, who gave me four pages of notes even though we had never met.

If you are a friend of mine and your name was not mentioned in the previous paragraph, it does not mean that I do not value your friendship, it simply means that you did not lend me enough money or read enough dreadful drafts to qualify for mentioning. Remember, there will be a second book, and I’m wiping the slate clean for that one. While I no longer need to borrow large sums of money, you’ll still have the opportunity to spot me a twenty every now and again. As someone who knows me, you also know that I don’t like to carry around cash.
13

Now I’d like to mention my war buddies from
Plan B:
Greg Yaitanes, Steven Hoffman, Matt Salinger, and William Lorton. You made me feel like a writer, when I was entirely unconvinced of that fact. Your kindness, respect, and loyalty I will never forget. And, once again, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. While I’m on the subject of
Plan B,
another thanks goes to J. K. Amalou.
Mirufshim,
as they say in your country.

Most importantly, I really must thank my family. There is something decidedly fishy about a person in her midthirties who refuses to let go of an idea. To my mother, Sharlene Lauretz, not once did you tell me to get a real job and get on with my life
14
. I might still be working on the novel if it weren’t for your generosity and belief in me. To my aunt and uncle
15
Beverly Fienberg and Mark Fienberg, thanks for employing me all those years, not complaining about my bad attitude, and giving me a place to crash when I got tired of paying rent. A big whopping thanks to my aunt and uncle
16
Eve and Jeff Golden. You gave me a home
17
in which to write. It was a dream come true, living in the middle of nowhere, working on my first novel. There are no words to express what you have done for me. Jay Fienberg, my cousin, please read the damn book. Dan Fienberg, also my cousin, thanks so much for all your help/advice/etc. Anastasia Fuller: We are all so lucky to have you in our family. Thanks for reading the sloppiest draft ever and thanks in advance for everything I’m going to make you read in the future.

This next person deserves her own paragraph. Kate Golden, my cousin, my first copy editor. Who knew so many words had hyphens? You are brilliant and will find great success. But I am so pleased I had time to exploit you in your impoverished youth.

Last, I must acknowledge my friends from Desvernine Associates
18
: Graham “Des” Desvernine, Pamela Desvernine, Pierre Merkl, Debra Crofoot Meisner,
19
and especially Yvonne Prentiss and Gretchen Rice, who have patiently read drafts, answered endless questions, and reminded me about a job I had all but forgotten. The Spellmans are pure fiction, but they could never have existed without you.

Note to reader:
With the exception of my mother, I have paid everyone back.