The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 13
“How hard could it be to have the Mafia bump him off? It’s Italy, for crying out loud.” Her dad, my father-in-law, was a practical man. (You know, it’s weird. When you divorce someone, you basically cut off their whole family. You no longer have in-law status, so you no longer have in-laws. But when your husband dies, you still have your in-laws, and there isn’t a revised term for them. Late sister-in-law? No, because she’s not dead. Ex-mother-in-law? No, because she’s still your mother-in-law, even if her son is gone. It’s tricky, and a good example of an epic fail on English’s part.)
The topic at hand was, “What the hell does Lilian do now?” Leah and the kids were adding their two cents.
“Maybe you should go back to school for something totally different.” Rachel had brought two bottles of wine as well as Maggie, and things had gotten a little giggly.
“Such as?”
Maggie raised her hand. “How about nuclear physics?”
I shook my head. “Too much math.”
“Vet?” Rachel’s suggestion.
I shook my head again. “I barely keep the animals I have alive.”
Clare got into it. “You could be an ice cream maker. I like ice cream.”
I smiled. “I do, too, but I doubt there’s much money in it.”
Rachel frowned. “Tell that to Ben and Jerry.”
“What about being a doctor? You’re good at taking care of people.” Annabel was under the table, playing with Frank.
I was surprised. “You think? No, see earlier comment about math. And besides, I’m too old to do that much school again.” I stood up. “Now, ladies, it’s time for your bath.”
“No!” Clare tried to be fierce, but it didn’t work. I went to run the bath, herding her in front of me. Maybe I should be a sheepdog. I’ve had plenty of practice.
Once the bath was run, with both girls in it, I wandered back to the kitchen for a fresh glass of wine. They had been plotting in my absence.
“Maggie needs to get out,” announced Rachel, “and I have deemed that it shall be so.”
“You’ve had too much to drink,” I responded. “You always start talking like that when you’re buzzed.”
“Like what?”
“Like an English lord or something.”
“Gadzooks, Lilian, you couldn’t be more in error.”
I raised my eyebrows. She ignored me.
“So, we are going out on the town, and Leah has graciously agreed to babysit.”
I looked at Leah, who grinned at me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go out with them and leave me with the kids?” I said.
She grinned harder. “I don’t know how to break this to you, and don’t take it the wrong way, but spending an evening with three drunken middle-aged single women isn’t all that appealing.”
Maggie and Rachel protested. “That’s just harsh!”
“Wow, that’s vicious.”
I laughed. “They’re upset at the middle-aged part, not the drunken part.” Then I shrugged. “OK, why not? But nowhere crazy, Rachel. Let’s just go get a drink, or maybe coffee and pie somewhere.”
Rachel put her fingertips together. “I’m way ahead of you. I have the perfect place in mind. Think of it as dessert.”
• • •
It turns out they don’t serve food at strip clubs. I guess they worry about slippery floors. After all, when a guy’s leaping around your table dressed as a Native American, or at least a muscular person wearing a feather headdress and a small quiver for his arrow, the last thing you want is for him to slip on a potato skin. It would ruin the mood, for starters. And just think of the liability.
It had taken Rachel and Maggie twenty minutes to persuade me to go into the club, which Rachel persistently referred to as a bar. She said I had to do it, for Maggie’s sake.
“She needs distraction. She needs to see other men.”
“Does she need to see them naked?” We both looked at Maggie.
She shrugged. “I’ve never been betrayed by my husband before. I don’t really know what will help. But if a young, naked man sitting on my lap might lift my spirits, then I’m willing to try it.”
Rachel pointed at her, carefully. “You, madam, are a scientist.”
Maggie nodded. “True story.”
The clientele was female, unsurprisingly, and those videos of young girls going wild on vacation have nothing on the mostly middle-aged women yelling “Show us your cock” while falling out of their push-up bras. I stepped between a woman and a carpenter (tool belt) who was apparently fixing the leg of her chair (well, he was kneeling down) and nearly got knocked to the ground.
But I was here for Maggie, for moral support, so I found us a table next to the runway thingy, and let Rachel order us all more drinks while I surveyed the scene.
There was a lot of creativity going on. Apart from the carpenter and the Native American, there was a pilot (peaked hat and a gold-braid thong supporting a passport for coverage), a doctor (stethoscope and some carefully wound ACE bandages), and, my personal favorite, a pirate (large hat, small skull-and-crossbones flag). There were also waiters, who were wearing bow ties and boxer shorts, which actually looked sexier to me because I’ve never had sex with a pirate, but have frequently had sex with someone wearing boxer shorts—at least up until the last minute. They were all young and handsome, too, which didn’t hurt, but again I must be missing something because several of them looked young enough to be high school students, and all I could think of was, Shouldn’t they be home on a school night? And was it even legal for them to be in here?
Maggie looked a little nervous, too, but we applied ourselves to the tequila shots and eventually the place took on a homey air.
I leaned on my elbows, somewhat carefully, and shouted at Maggie.
“Tell me, are you still missing Berto, or is this helping?”
She looked thoughtful.
“I’m mostly distracted,” she yelled back. “But sometimes I think of him and forget that he’s a cheating sack of shit, and just wish he was here.” She sighed. “It’s pathetic.”
A dancer appeared at the table, literally flinging his thing about, side to side. If the music hadn’t been so loud, I imagine there would have been a gentle thwapping sound.
“You’re going to get a bruise if you keep doing that, you know?” Rachel yelled conversationally.
“Two bruises,” added Maggie. “One on each side of your head.”
He went away.
“I never found penises all that attractive per se,” I shouted. “It’s what’s inside that counts.”
“Inside the penis?” Maggie was confused.
“No, well, that counts, too, but I meant inside the person. Honestly, the handsomest penis in the world can’t disguise a horrible person.”
“Nope,” said Rachel seriously. “Not unless it’s really big.”
“Right,” I said, pointing my finger at her.
“And,” she went on, warming to the theme, “some of the least impressive penises have turned out to be the most impressive, once they’ve gotten going.”
“Amen, sister. I believe the phrase is ‘grower, not shower.’”
“Right! It’s all about hidden potential.”
“Yes.” I pointed the other finger. “And all this waving about can’t be good for them, although at least they’re getting some air.”
“I’m going to be sick,” Rachel said, then got up and did one of those fast but erratic walks to the bathroom, where you can see the floor going by as if there was a hole in the car floor, and suddenly you’re in the bathroom and the tile comes up at you a little fast, but you’re so glad to feel it.
Maggie and I waited at the table for a while, but she didn’t return. It was a prime spot, and there were several clumps of women eyeing it, but we weren’t moving. I got up, making Maggie promise not to pay for a lap dance, and went to find Rachel.
It wasn’t hard to find her. Her long hair was streaming out from under one of the stall doors.
“Are you OK, Rach?” I asked.
The hair moved.
“I’m dead,” she replied.
“I hope not, you have work tomorrow. Can you stand up, or do you need to puke some more?”
There was a pause, and the hair disappeared. “Hang on, let me do a systems check.” Another pause. “I’m good. I think.” I heard the lock slide back, and she appeared, looking totally fine.
“I had a little nap, I feel much better.”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “On the floor?”
“Yes. It wasn’t too bad. I was very tired.”
“Let’s go home.”
She shook her head. “No, let’s go eat something. I’m starving now. Let’s go to Pink’s and get hot dogs.”
Pink’s is an L.A. institution. People line up for hours for hot dogs, which, unless they’re made of filet mignon, could not possibly be worth it. It’s the slowest line in history. People starve to death, and their bodies are kicked aside. But at that moment, it sounded awesome.
“You’re a genius, Rach.”
“You are, too, but I’ve forgotten your name. I knew it, but then I opened my mouth and it went away.”
“I’m Lilian. I’m your sister.”
“That’s right.”
With that clarified, we gathered Maggie, headed out of the club, and went off to eat hot dogs, which at least maintained the phallic theme.
• • •
The cool night air helped a little, and we managed to wander over to Pink’s without any major incidents. Maggie had reached the silent, owlish portion of her drinking, and I was feeling a little cranky. Rachel, having significantly decreased the amount of alcohol she had on board, was feeling full of beans and chatty as a jaybird.
“You could always teach art at a school. Maybe you could get a job at the girls’ school, and then they could be the teacher’s kids, like that girl Jessica was at our old school. I always wanted to be a teacher’s kid.”
“You’re babbling.” Her voice was starting to annoy me. “Besides, being a teacher would be fine, except there are all those kids around.”
“True. How about just going all bohemian and painting wonderful pictures?”
I snorted. “Fine, but who would pay all the wonderful bills?”
“Edward! You could go out with Edward. He’s rich.”
“Great, so now I’m a prostitute?”
She laughed. “No! A bohemian artist with a rich boyfriend. Totally different.”
I frowned at her. “And what about my daughters? Should I farm them out, too?”
We stood in line for five minutes and moved forward three places. I sulked.
Rachel spoke again. “Something will turn up. It always does. You’re lucky like that.”
I was feeling sick, which is probably why I lost my temper. “Lucky? In what way am I lucky? In the widowed-at-thirty-four sense? In the single-parent sense? In the unemployed sense?”
She flared up, too. “Or maybe in the no-sense sense. Why are you getting mad at me? I didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, I’ve done everything I can to help you, and all you do is complain.”
There was a pause. If, at that moment, I had just apologized, it would probably all have been fine, but I was too far gone to save myself.
“Complain? I never fucking complain! I am so pathetically grateful to you. Everyone knows you saved my ass. Saint Rachel, she gave up her life to help her crazy sister. She took care of her crazy sister’s kids for her. Poor Rachel sacrificed so much, blah, blah, blah.” I may have tossed my head. I was certainly feeling like a thirteen-year-old having the third period of her life and completely losing her mind.
Rachel had gone totally white. Everyone else in the line had turned to look, with that openly interested and enthusiastic air that people in L.A. have. Either they’re actors and this is raw emotion they can feed off, or they’re writers and it’s material. Maggie just looked glazed.
My sister was spitting mad. “You are so full of shit. I have never once, not once, asked you for thanks, or even expected it. I did for you exactly what you would have done for me. You’re just pissed off because your libido woke up and you’re too chickenshit to deal with it.” She started to walk away, furiously, the line pivoting to watch her exit, and then turned back. “And as for the Saint Rachel thing, what about your martyr complex, you selfish bitch? Poor Lilian, lost her husband, love of her life. Well, what about me? I lost one of my best friends. What about the kids? They lost their dad. What about Maggie, eh? She’s standing right there and she lost her only brother. It is not all about you, and it’s about time you realized that.” And with that final salvo, she really did walk away, and I stood there and realized that (a) she was totally right, (b) I was a total dickhead, and (c) Maggie had just thrown up on my shoes.
• • •
I managed to call a car and get Maggie home, and Leah and I cleaned her up with a whole packet of baby wipes and put her in the guest room. She had essentially been unconscious through the whole thing, but as I backed out of the bedroom, she called my name.
“Yeah, Mags?”
“Don’t tell Berto we went to a strip joint.”
I nodded. “I promise.”
“Or that I puked on you.”
I smiled. “OK.”
She let out a little sob. “The room is going round and round, and I miss my husband.”
My throat felt tight. “I know, sweetie. It’ll be better tomorrow.” Which was, of course, a big fat lie.
• • •
I started the next day the right way, by throwing up. I’m not a big drinker, largely because I’m not very good at it. Dan used to describe me as Fratboy’s Remorse: “You’re supercute, which is great, and you get drunk on two drinks, which is better, but then you get bitchy, which is not so great, and then you puke, which is a total downer. You’re every guy’s best dream turned worst nightmare.” Then he would smile fondly, and I would give him the finger. Good times.
I tried to call Rachel as soon as I woke up, but she didn’t answer. I felt awful in every way possible.
Needless to say, the kids couldn’t have cared less that I was hungover. When you’re rosy with the glow of new pregnancy you don’t fully appreciate that the job you just signed up for involves working for sociopaths, 24-7, for the rest of your life, with no vacation days and the opposite of health benefits. I dug deep and found the superhuman strength required to dress and feed the little swines.
Then I tried Rachel again. Still no answer.
Maggie stumbled out of the guest room while I was hopping around trying to get my legs into my jeans, which turned out to be more physically challenging than usual. She didn’t look much better than I felt, and she leaned against my bedroom door to watch me.
“Do you need help?”
I shook my head, and regretted it.
“Did I do anything really bad last night?” Her voice was hoarse.
“You don’t remember?”
She shook her head, stopping just as quickly as I had. “Ow. Fuck. No. I remember the club, but that’s about it. Did we eat?”
“No. We went to get a hot dog, but Rachel and I had a fight and you threw up on me, so we came home.”
She shut her eyes. “Sorry.”
“No big. We went to college together, remember? I believe I’ve thrown up on you more times than either of us can count, so one in the other direction is probably well deserved. Can I get you some coffee?”
“No, I’m not ready yet. I may never be ready. What did you and Rachel fight about? You always fight with someone when you drink, what’s up with that?”
I shrugged, which wasn’t much better than the head shaking. “No clue. Suppressed inner rage? Social anxiety? We fought about her being so supportive and wonderful.”
“Yeah, I can see how that would rile you up.” She kept swaying slowly back and forth, apparently without realizing it.
I finally got my pants on.
“I have to take the kids to school and go to work. Are you going to be OK?”
“Sure. I’m going to surgically remove my head and rinse it under the faucet, then go back to sleep.”
“Good plan. I’ll call you later.”
We hugged, carefully trying not to wobble each other, and I bravely headed out the door, into the achingly bright and aggressive Los Angeles sunshine.
• • •
I called Rachel every hour, all day. Voice mail. In the beginning I left messages in which I babbled my apologies, but as time passed I started singing songs or making up poems. But she didn’t pick up at all, and by the end of the day we still hadn’t spoken. It was awful. When you’re used to speaking to someone three times a day, silence can be very pointy.
When I got home, Maggie was just leaving, having finally regained control of her central nervous system. She headed off to her parents’ house, and I tried Rachel’s number again. Bubkes. Maybe she’d gotten hurt, or ended up somewhere unexpected. I absentmindedly made the kids their dinner and poked at mine. When someone knocked on the door, I jumped up, thinking it was her, but it was Edward. He was carrying a huge box and grinning. The girls were beside themselves, screaming and clutching at him, because they remembered what he’d promised to bring. He looked at me over their heads and smiled, and I was surprised by how glad I was to see him. He saw the dinners still uneaten on the table and spoke to the girls. “We’re not opening it until you complete your dinners. Otherwise, your mother will be mad at me.”
They started to whine, but he started to pick up the box again and they stopped. Besides, they liked lamb chops, so it was a win-win for them. Thirty-two seconds later, they were done. Forty-five seconds later, they had also finished their peas, and Edward was happy.
Once they had bussed their plates and pushed all the other crap on the table to one side, Edward was ready.
