66
Tía Carmen
M
y cell phone rings. It can’t be Mrs. Mayor since she’d never do this while around Mr. Mayor. He would not approve of her speed dialing me when we are under the same roof. Sometimes when Mrs. Mayor wants something quick she uses the intercom and it never fails to scare the bejesus out of me to hear her voice echo throughout the Mansion. This is also frowned on by Mr. Mayor. (How he can overlook the fact that his own mother uses a buzzer to summon the help is beyond me.) If his wife wants to speak to me, she can very well have Anita or Lei fetch me.
I let it ring two more times. Rice is sticking to the roof of my mouth, but I’m not about to spit out an $8 piece of abalone.
“Hello, this is Jacquelyn.” I wipe my face even though no one can see me.
“Jacqs, it’s me, Noel.”
“What’s wrong? Is
Mamá
OK?” I ask, feeling panic rise in my throat. I don’t know why, but I’ve been waiting for this call since I moved away. I guess I figured since I am not there, my mom would be bound to have some sort of accident or get sick and die with me not there to save her.
I secretly have an outfit picked out to wear: a black grosgrain knee-length pencil skirt and jacket with a notched collar and a ribbon-tie front. If she’s in the hospital, I’ll need something more casual and comfortable, since I’d expect to be there for a while, but not too casual. (One thing I’ve learned from my time with Mrs. Mayor is that people take you way more seriously if you’re dressed well.) Dr. N says there is nothing really wrong with preselecting an outfit for your mother’s funeral, even if she is still alive. She says it’s a coping mechanism.
“No, Mom’s OK. It’s Carmen. She’s had a stroke,” Noel says in a flat voice.
He never liked
Tía
Carmen either. She was the one who ratted him out to our mom about his smoking. She reduced my mom to tears, granted not a hard thing to do, by going on about lung cancer and everything else that was going to happen to Noel if she didn’t make him quit the instant he got home from his after-school job at Burger King.
“A stroke? You’re kidding me.” I feel a tinge of, not concern necessarily, or even remorse, but fear for my soul. I don’t know how many times I’ve wished something bad would happen to her because she’s just so mean. Now that something
finally
has I have to assume I’ve had something to do with it.
“Does Lina know?” There are tons of hotels in Las Vegas and unless Lina was wishy-washy enough to tell them where she’s staying, she could enjoy a relatively peaceful honeymoon.
“
Tía
Carmen was on the phone with Lina when it happened.”
“Of course she was.” What would be the purpose of having a stroke if you couldn’t have it on the phone talking to your guilt-ridden daughter?
“How is Dad taking it?” For some reason our dad always deferred to her and expected us to treat this particular aunt with the utmost respect.
“He’s upset, saying how she was a second mother to him,” Noel says in a tight voice. Even though he still lives with my father he isn’t any closer to him than I am.
“Well, that explains a lot of his problems.” I hear Noel start to laugh and cover it up with a bout of fake coughing. “How about Mom?”
“You know Mom. Saying how terrible it is and how she’ll be next ... Yolie wants to talk to you,” Noel says quickly and next thing I know Yolie’s voice is in my ear.
“Have you heard.”
This is not a question, but a statement. Yolie obviously has her suspicions as to who is responsible for the stroke. And it’s not
Tia
Carmen’s fatty diet or that stick up her ass, it’s me. Always me.
“Of course I did. Noel just told me. Is she OK?” I have to ask, I suppose.
“She’s in the hospital. Did you know that Lina went to Las Vegas to get married?” Yolie asks, not accusingly, but she’s ready to cast her stones.
“Married! Tell her congratulations from me and let me know where she registered. I can’t make it for any party, I just got back. Really busy here at work.” This should let Yolie know that if I won’t come home for my favorite cousin, I sure as hell am not climbing on a plane to see
Tía
Carmen. The woman is Satan in stretch pants. Stroke or no stroke.
“And she’s pregnant,” Yolie says. I can almost see how saying it twists her mouth.
“Who is?
Tía
Carmen?” I ask stupidly. I enjoy jerking Yolie around and so does she. It gives her a concrete reason to dislike me and I am only too happy to oblige.
“You don’t feel bad at all! Do you!” Yolie yells. I can see her working up into a fine tirade. I need to nip this in the bud. I don’t need to hear what an awful, selfish person I am because I’m not prostrate with grief after hearing such unshocking news.
I clear my throat and say, as calmly and reasonably as possible without betraying the laughter building in my chest, “I didn’t give her the stroke. God did.”
Yolie slams down the phone in my ear and I go back to eating my sushi with a renewed appetite.
67
Terry
I
’ve been in the Mansion all morning and have not once talked to Mrs. Mayor face-to-face. She has ensconced herself in a converted bedroom, as big as my living room, featuring a custom-built massage table and dubious therapeutic equipment, where the colonic technician has set up her butt-cleaning device.
When the butt tech, a supremely calm woman named Terry, comes out after giving Mrs. Mayor her flush, I can’t help but ask if she noticed anything odd about Mrs. Mayor.
“Well, now that you mention it ...” Terry looks around to make sure Mrs. Mayor isn’t lurking around. “She seems to have had a lot of dairy. Much more than usual. It was all clotted—”
“OK! No, I mean about her ... anything about her face?”
“Her skin is a bit congested, but I’m sure that’ll clear up now that we got most of the cheese out of her.”
“How about her eyes?” I ask before Terry goes any further. She can talk shit all day, but not the kind of shit I want to hear about. I know it from personal experience because she once, ONCE, gave me a colonic and she described in detail all the crap she was hosing out of my ass.
“Her eyes? She had a compress over her eyes. To help her relax her sphincter muscles. She tends to get a little tense when I’m inserting the hose. Oh, damn, look at the time. I have a client in Pacific Heights. Make sure to keep her hydrated and keep that wheatgrass and carrot juice flowing. Hee hee. Get it? Flowing,” Terry snickers. Terry makes colonic jokes every chance she gets.
“Yeah, thanks, Terry.”
“And you should really come back for another colonic.” She gently takes my chin in her hand and inspects my skin. “You’re building up lots of toxins again. We’ll have to give you an intense cleanse again if you wait any longer.”
“I wouldn’t want that. I’ll check my schedule and give you a call,” I lie. There is no way in hell I’m subjecting myself to the hose again.
68
Cortez
M
y cell phone rings, my personal phone that only Bina, Vivian, Natasha and my family call me on. A 415 area code and number I’ve never seen before pops up.
I can’t take any more bad news, but I can’t resist my curiosity either. “Hello?”
“Señorita
Jacquelyn,
cómo estas?”
“Emilio?” I’m so surprised I drop my jam-smeared croissant. It hits my desk with a sugary splat.
“A breakthrough! You do love me. Now, quit that job of yours and run away with me.”
I can imagine him sitting back at his desk with his feet up while one sexy assistant massages his shoulders and another pops peeled grapes into his mouth.
“What do you want?” He must want something. Something big, because he’s never called me before.
“I just called to see how you are doing,
linda,
” he says in his husky voice, both of his accents pitch-perfect. He’d be great at phone sex. “There is nothing wrong with that, is there? A chat amongst
amigos
.”
“My mother taught me to watch out for
amigos
like you.”
“Smart woman. I’ll send her some flowers. I heard Rustiques are very popular now.”
There is an edge to his voice. He has the upper hand and knows it.
“I wouldn’t know.” My heart beats in my chest and I squirm around in my seat, and not just because he’s on to something about flowers. It’s been how long since I’ve had sex? With another person?
“Jacquelyn, you know I have nothing but the utmost respect for you as a fellow Latino in the trenches.” I look around my cushy office scented with burning $75 scented French candles. “And I thought I’d come to you first as a friend before I run my column.”
“I’m not a source, Cortez. Just because you gave me a bite of your overpriced waffles in Santa Barbara doesn’t make us friends. Especially friends who share information
anonymously
.” This should cover my ass in case this conversation is being recorded.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m going to write?” He sounds surprised. I guess this is a first for him, a woman playing hard to get and not kidding about it.
“No. I don’t. I don’t even want to have this conversation with you, Cortez.” I really don’t. The less I know the better. I’m sure the Mayors already suspect me of being in league with Cortez. How else could they explain the leaks?
“I admire your loyalty to your boss, Jacquelyn. But perhaps it’s misplaced.
Comprendes
?”
“I understand more than you know, Cortez. Just please ...”
Please what? He’s doing his job and I’m doing mine. It’s the person between us that’s making things easier for him and harder for me.
“Sí?”
He sounds almost gentle. I suppose in his own way he understands my situation, even if he doesn’t agree with it.
“Please don’t use that one picture of her where one eye looks bigger than the other. It drives her crazy.”
69
Mrs. Mayor
I
knock on the door and wait.
“Jacquelyn, is that you?” Mrs. Mayor sounds drowsy and relaxed.
“Yes, do you need anything?” I am dying to get in there and check out her eye for myself, but since she didn’t say come in and doesn’t sound like she’s in danger of having a heart attack or anything, I stay behind the closed door.
“Oh, now, I’m fine. Just have Lei and Anita send up some juice to my room.”
“OK. I’ll be in my office.” I wait a few seconds but she doesn’t answer back.
Down in the Kitchen, Anita and Lei are fixing all sorts of concoctions, from recipes Terry has provided, that will help detoxify Mrs. Mayor from the inside out. Everything is ultranatural and therefore almost inedible.
“She’s ready for some more juice,” I say to both of them. They’ve been taking turns trekking up stairs and I’ve lost track of who is next. I watch Anita push some grass through the juicer until it fills up a water glass. She wrinkles her nose and holds it as far away from her as possible and marches out of the Kitchen.
Lei then cleans out the juicer and goes back to stirring a pot of something vile that constitutes Mrs. Mayor’s dinner.
“OK. I’ll be in my office.” I haven’t done much all day. I did some shopping over the Internet. Called some friends. Watched some TV, read a book Mrs. Mayor wants me to summarize for her, buffed my nails and picked at my skin. All in all, I’ve led Mrs. Mayor’s life and I’ve found it very boring.
I’m about to sit down when my phone rings. The call is coming from the master bedroom.
“Hello?”
“Jacquelyn, I’m all set here for tonight. You can dismiss Anita and Lei for the day. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Have a good night.” She hangs up.
“OK. Hello? OK.” I look at my watch. It’s not even noon. I wonder if I should remind her that Mr. Mayor is out late tonight and Danny is with him. After Anita and Lei leave, and aside from the security team outside, Mrs. Mayor will be all by herself in the Mansion. Something I know she hates.
Either way, it means I have some free time to go to the movies. My finger is poised above the keyboard to check movie listings when the phone rings again.
“Oh, it’s me again,” she says. Who else would it be? “Please make sure the security system is on before you leave.”
“OK. Of course.” I’m tempted to invite her out to dinner with me, Bina and Vivian, but can’t make myself take that leap from boss to friend. Plus, it’s not like she could eat real food. Plus, it would eliminate about one-third of what we usually talk about: her.
“Have a good night, Jacquelyn. See you tomorrow,” she says drowsily into the phone and has a bit of trouble replacing the receiver.
“Good night, Mrs. Mayor.”
70
Bina and Vivian
I
’m starting my second drink, this one with booze, when Bina lays her head on my shoulder.
“I need a hug,” she says despondently over the buzz of hetero voices at Absinthe, a terminally hip and crowded bar in the equally hip Hayes Valley. Bina takes off her jacket and sits down next to me. “Sanjay is driving me crazy. He thought tonight was my bachelorette party.”
“Your what?” I ask, alarmed. Bina hasn’t said anything about a party. Bridal shower, yes, but nothing about a bunch of women carousing around town drinking and being obnoxious, it seems very un-Indian of her. Though I know for a fact that all her Indian relatives, the women at least, like to party when away from their husbands.
“Don’t worry. I’m not having one. Too many parties. Too much family. Too much stress. This wedding will be the death of me,” she sighs.
Even working with a professional wedding planner hasn’t alleviated any of the stress on Bina. Sanjay’s new hobby is finding fault with the wedding planner’s ideas, which he relays to Bina on an hourly basis.
“Is there anything I can do?” I’m in charge of little things, nothing too important, since Sanjay doesn’t trust me. Number one on my list is keeping Bina as stress-free as possible so that’s why I take any and every opportunity to get her away from Sanjay. And I wonder why he doesn’t like me? Who cares, the feeling is more than mutual.
“Yes, get me drunk and fat so I won’t remember the last few weeks and won’t fit into my dress. Take that, Sanjay!” Bina jabs the air, her engagement ring sparkling.
“What the hell is Sanjay’s problem now?” Vivian asks as she takes a seat opposite us.
“He’s crazy. My crazy fiancé,” Bina answers. “I heard you’ve been having man troubles, too.”
I can feel my face flame up. To Bina everything is one big pelvic exam where one doesn’t mince words.
“You can say that. The bastard is going through with this divorce.” Vivian desperately tries to flag down our waiter. “I’ve had to go see a lawyer.”
“At least the tire slashing hasn’t gotten out,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going. The press finally picked up on the story and anyone who bothers to read the local papers knows that the Mayor’s sexy press secretary has been kicked out of her million-dollar loft by her tragically hip, magazine-publishing husband.
“That’s all I’d need. More innuendo, rumors, scandal. I’d have an easier time of it if I was a vegan transsexual suing my sexual surrogate for custody of my conjoined twins.”
“True.” Bina pats Vivian’s hand, doctor style.
“I’ll just have to be invisible.” Vivian looks doubtful.
Part of the problem is she’s so attractive. In a city where wearing makeup automatically pegs you either as a tourist, from the South Bay or a department-store drone, Vivian stands out too much to fade into the background. Vivian can wander most streets in relative obscurity even though her face has been on TV and in the papers as the official spokesperson for the Mayor of San Francisco. But that was before gossip, juicy gossip was attached to her heartbreakingly beautiful face.
“They’ll lose interest soon enough,” I add untruthfully, but hopefully. “You know how people are here.”
Both Bina and Vivian nod and sip their drinks.
San Franciscans have a combination of tunnel vision, apathy and an obsession with alternative media. Most people concern themselves with mass transit issues, homeless problems and dog rights, but on a one-to-one and block-by-block level. When they do set their sights on City Hall it’s to complain, then they all turn out in hordes.
It’s a beautiful thing.
I’ve done it myself—bitched and moaned about something or another, done nothing, weeks later spotted a flyer and found myself marching in the streets on a Saturday morning. Surrounded by the true populace of San Francisco, light-headed from the stink of body odor and pot smoke I could almost feel what the sixties were like, except for the regular pit stops for lattes and iced coffee and people handing out product samples on corners.
Some scandal concerning a public servant and a magazine visionary will barely be a blip on the radar screen of most San Franciscans. They like to think they’re above it all.
“I don’t care. I came here to get drunk.” Vivian takes a sip of my drink.
“And I came here to get fat!” Bina yells.
A table full of young women cheer her on. Bina stands up and bows.
“Well, let’s get to it.” I open the menu and decide now is not the time to bring up Mrs. Mayor’s black eye.
Many, many hours later we emerge feeling a lot better. I’ve almost managed to forget about Mrs. Mayor, and Bina and Vivian are arm in arm, singing the praises of single life.
“Are you OK to drive, Bina?” They both drank way more than me and I already convinced Vivian to let me drive us both home. “I think, to be on the safe side, I should drop you off at home. You and Sanjay can pick your car up in the morning.”
“Sanjay who!” Bina yells.
“Woohoo!” Vivian yells even louder.
“OK. Let’s all quietly walk, if you can, to my car. Bina! Keep your top on!” I usher them toward the parking garage and stuff them both in the backseat.
“Put that CD on, Jacqs. The one by that cute teenager,” Bina slurs.
“Which teenager?” Vivian is still clumsily trying to fasten her seat belt.
“He’s not a teenager.” I have a not-so-secret thing for Justin Timberlake. Last month it was a newscaster on CNN. I went as far as to TiVo his broadcasts.
Since I got divorced and stopped dating I’ve found myself careening from one junior-high crush to another. I’m starved for romance and affection. But junior high was many years ago and I know real life will never live up to my fantasies.
“What teenager?” Vivian gives up on the seat belt and sticks her head and most of her torso in between the front seats. “Jacqs, have you made a man out of some young lucky teenager?”
“It’s Justin Timberlake. He’s cute, admit it. And young, and very fit.” Maybe that’s what I need. To go on some sexual mercy mission for some young, young guy, over eighteen but under twenty-one. I would be doing good while getting done. And I could help him with his geometry homework. I was a whiz at geometry.
“Oh, he is. Nice hairless chest,” Vivian moans.
“He probably waxes it,” Bina says sensibly. “I wish Sanjay would wax his. Or at least his back.”
“Sanjay has a hairy back?” This is something I should already know by now. I would never have allowed things to get this far between Bina and Sanjay if I’d known.
“No. Just so he can see what real pain is.”
“You’re mean. I like that in a woman.” Vivian reaches over and gives Bina a sloppy pat on the head. “Why don’t we go over to my place, sorry, my former place, and tie up my soon-to-be ex-husband and wax the hair off his balls.”
“Maybe another night, girls.” I double-park outside of Bina’s flat and help her out. I look up and see Sanjay in the window. I give him a cheerful wave but he ignores me. I heave Bina out of the car and can tell she has put on a few pounds since the last time I did this. “OK. Up we go!”
“No! Let’s go dancing.” Bina leans into me, grabbing my shoulders for support. “Remember how we used to go dancing, Jacqs? You’re the best dancer. Hey, Vivian, did you know Jacqs is the best dancer ... Vivian?”
We look into the backseat and stare for a moment at Vivian’s passed-out figure.
“Well! Let me walk you to your door, Bina, my pet. I’m sure Sanjay will be eager to see you. Kiss, kiss. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You’re the best friend a girl can have, Jacqs. I don’t care what the fuck Sanjay says. That asshole,” Bina says as she stumbles inside. She shuts the door without saying good-bye.
I get in the car and even though I know I should get Vivian home (she has a press conference in the morning), I start toward George’s.
He’s left me a few messages, but I’ve been avoiding calling him back since I found out about the flowers. I don’t know what to think, but it’s a safe assumption to make that if he’d “cheat” on his wife with me, he’d cheat on me with someone else.
If this is the case, I’m not sure what I should do. We never came out and said we’d exclusively see each other, even though I haven’t been seeing anyone else. And it’s not because I love George. I like him, sure, but it’s more laziness on my part. George satisfied just about every need, except the sexual aspect of a relationship. And the monogamous-commitment part, and the emergency-contact part, but otherwise I’ve been perfectly content with our arrangement.
And, up until now, I thought he was, too. I’m funny, smart, sexy, interesting and even though I never said sex was out of the question, he just had to ask and I’d consider it. I’d need to really be in the mood. Maybe we’d get a room at the Ritz. And there’d have to be lots of flowers and maybe a thoughtful gift or two.
I know I should feel slightly appalled at myself for even considering this, but I don’t. Why should I? I’m an adult. So is he. He’s the one who is married and I don’t expect him to leave his wife for me.
“Where are we?” Vivian mumbles from the backseat.
“Almost home, sweetie. You OK? Are you going to be sick?” I know from experience that vomit smells will linger for years in car upholstery, no matter how well you clean it up.
“No. No,” Vivian says, sounding exactly like she’s going to be sick.
I look behind me and see that Vivian is nodding off again. I hope she wakes up enough to make it up the thirty-six steps to my third-floor flat.
I double-park two mansions down from George’s. Even though it’s dark I don’t want to take a chance of him seeing my car. Who knows if he’s looking out his window at 1:30 in the morning? People do weird things. I peer out of my windshield and see the house is dark. Whoever is in there is asleep. In their separate bedrooms, I assume.
“Are we there yet? Jacqs?” Vivian shakes herself awake and leans forward, breathing into the back of my neck. “Hey! Where are we? We going someplace else for a drink?”
“Yes. No. We’re going home. You just sit back and relax. Try not to get sick all over yourself or my car, Viv.” I rub my eyes and feel pathetic. I’m spying on my married boyfriend. Look what spying got me the last time. A big kick in the ass. Still, I can’t help it. I want to know but I can’t even stomach the thought of asking George outright if he’s seeing someone else.
“I promise not to barf, Jacqs. You’re the best friend a drunk girl can ever have. You have it so together. I should be more like you. We all should.”
“Yeah, it seems that way, doesn’t it?” I put the car in DRIVE and force myself not to glance at his house as we pass it.