Been There, Married That, page 16
* * *
A few days later, Trevor was planning an important meeting at the house, so he had Coliti-Girl call to ask (demand) tearfully that I clear out in the morning. Make myself scarce.
Trevor’s wrath had spread like an oozing sore.
Meanwhile, I’d taken to crossing off the days on the ASPCA calendar like a prisoner, except that I wasn’t a prisoner. I could walk out at any time. Except I couldn’t walk out at any time because divorce. And lawyers. And leverage. I was drinking the leverage beverage.
“You cannot leave,” Anne said. “Do I need to come down there and lock you in a bathroom?”
“Say one of us happens to can’t stand it anymore,” I said. “Hypothetically. Like, one of us keeps dreaming of strangling the other one in our sleep.” I was straining myself to summon my inner Beyoncé, but she’d given way to my inner Marie Osmond. Trevor, in the meantime, seemed to be enjoying the torture of living with me. More like living at me. We’d crossed paths dozens of times, yet he hadn’t spoken a word to me since the swinging door incident. He’d once told me his mother had given his father a silent treatment that had lasted years. A legendary silent treatment, one for the books! In my house, growing up, the silent treatment couldn’t make it three seconds; we were all about the yelling treatment.
“Your presence in that house is the only power you have,” Anne was saying. “Where would you go?”
“I’ve been looking on Craigslist. Maybe I could find an apartment without a homicidal roommate? Maybe just a kleptomaniac or petty larcenist?”
“You’ll lose your daughter. Ulger will call an emergency hearing. I’ve seen this scenario a million times.”
“Trevor doesn’t want to raise his own kid; none of these guys do.” I thought of all the rich, powerful, divorced men I’d seen over the years at parties and premieres and lunches; they’d never looked so uncomfortable and miserable as when they had to help a kid into a child’s seat.
“He doesn’t have to. He has staff to raise them.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem fair,” I said.
Anne started laughing—a light, bubbling laugh. Then the bubbles expanded and multiplied, a bubble bath of a laugh. Trevor’s assistant was standing behind me, clearing her nervous little throat.
“Gotta go,” I said, hanging up as she bubbled on.
“I’m sorry to ask, but do you think you could…” Coliti-Girl double-cocked her head toward the door.
“Oh, right. The big bad meeting,” I said. “Who’s it for? Who’s coming?”
“George Treadwell.” (She actually mouthed his name.)
“Who?” I teased.
“Don’t tell him I told you, please please please.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, but she had already gone, leaving behind an air of panic. I made a call. Fin answered before the second ring. Desperate times call for desperate measures (and backup).
“What’s up?” she asked, sounding sleepy.
“I need help,” I said.
“Get to a landline,” she said, and I was right back to the grounds of my elementary school, staring at the business end of a big girl’s fist. Hearing my sister’s words as she ran up behind me.
“Fuck with my sister,” she’d said, “that’s the last time you use that hand!” My baby sister (by eighteen months, but still) had always come to my rescue. Fists up, hip turned, last punch.
“Not that kind of help,” I said. “How soon can you be here?”
“I’m on my way,” Fin said.
“What? How are you getting here?”
“Drone,” she said. “What do you care?”
* * *
I heard Fin all the way from Sunset. A roaring tidal wave of machinery. A thunder storm of badass. A bracket of Harleys.
(What do you call a group of Harley riders? Is it a pod? A gaggle? A flock? I wish there were a ’90s band called a Flock of Harleys.)
Trevor flew into the kitchen as the Harley riders circled round and round the courtyard, a torrent of surround sound.
“What is this shit?!” he demanded, spittle flying from his mouth, his face red and gnarled.
“I can’t hear you,” I mouthed, sipped my coffee. From an empty cup.
“Bitch!” he screeched.
He raced outside, jumping up and down and waving his arms in front of the motorcyclists, who rode a few more spins for good measure, oblivious to the tall, lean gentleman on the razor’s edge of a coronary.
“Muerte,” Gabriela said as she stared out the window. He’s going to die.
The motorcyclists took off up the driveway, leaving a lone passenger in their dust. Fin slipped off her helmet and whipped her hair. There was a duffel bag at her feet.
She picked it up, slung it over her shoulder, and walked past Trevor.
“Hey, Trev,” she said. “How’s it hanging?”
I greeted her at the kitchen door with a big hug.
“You’re not staying here,” Trevor said, following Fin into the kitchen on his tiptoes, elevated by rage. “You can’t stay here!”
Fin smiled at Trevor, swiped a match on her hand, and lit a cigarette. “Take it easy, Trev,” she said. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.”
My Solange had arrived.
* * *
The thing about George Treadwell is that he’s a totally open, friendly guy who also happens to like motorcycles. He sauntered into the kitchen as Fin and I were sitting on the island taking turns eating from a peanut butter jar. Fin had her nose in the script Sami the Uber driver had given me; she’d swiped it from my office, where I’d left it on the box filled with my extra books. She didn’t bother to take one of my books. Not bitter, I.
“Hey,” Treadwell said. Trevor must have taken a pee break; his movie star had entered the domain of the untouchables.
“Hi,” I said, standing at attention. GT, a dazzling creature, seemed to move under an invisible spotlight. Movie stars are different from you and me (unless you happen to be a movie star); they just are. GT, J.Lo, Eddie Murphy (still), Will Smith, Denzel, Julia Roberts—I’ve been around them and they’re just better than the rest of us. Sorry. (Are you okay?)
“Hey, was that your ride?” Treadwell asked Fin after giving me a nod. I saw what he saw. Fin with her long arms, her pert nose. Dragon tattoo on her shoulder. Boy hips. Full lips. And not into him. Fin was aging like Lauren Hutton (look her up); her fearlessness made her even sexier.
Me? When I looked in the mirror, my eyes looked skittish, my worry lines were having worry babies. I’m fine, I’d repeat. I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine. (Not fine.)
“Nah,” Fin said without looking up. I wondered if she had no idea who George Treadwell was. Was that even possible? I thought about the years she’d spent in weird, out-of-the-way places—jail, the desert, the mountains, no TV sets, no phones. Is it possible?
She eyed the peanut butter spoon in my hand. “Yo, are you done with that?”
I handed it to her. She went back to the script. Treadwell cleared his throat.
“I prefer a Triumph—like, say, ’93,” she said, finally giving Treadwell a slow once-over. “I like a Harley for weekend rides, you know?”
“Cool,” Treadwell said.
“My dream ride,” Fin said, “hands down—Ducati M900 Monster.”
“I, ah, own a Ducati M900 Monster,” Treadwell said. He puffed out his chest, his smile blazing.
“You’re fucking with me,” Fin said, pushing herself up from the chopping block. “No one. No. One. Owns an M900 Monster.”
“You’re looking at a man who owns an M900 Monster.” He shot us that famous smile again, folded his arms across his chest, eyebrows dancing.
“You listening to this guy?” Fin said to me, gesturing with the spoon. “What’re you, trying to get in my jeans?”
Treadwell smiled. “Maybe. You have an extra spoon? I’m starving.” Then he laughed like a lunatic.
Fin handed him hers. “Help yourself.”
He grabbed the spoon. “What’re you reading?”
“Nunya,” Fin said, turning a page.
“What?”
Fin smiled. “Nunya.”
“Fin!” I said, I reached over and pinched her side.
“It’s a story about Nunya that takes place in a land called Nunya. The lead’s name is Nunya.”
Treadwell smacked the island with his hand. “Where did you come from?”
“Jail,” I said.
“Punk,” Fin said.
“Let me see the cover, at least,” Treadwell said, trying to snatch it from Fin. He wasn’t fast enough.
“You like Gabriel García Márquez?” Fin asked. “I read him when I was away.”
“You read GGM and you didn’t read my books?” I asked.
“Gabriel…,” Treadwell said, his eyes searching. “He’s a director, right?”
“No,” Fin said. “Follow me, here. This script is like his novels, magical realism, but in Beirut in 1984.”
“Whoa!” Treadwell said. “Mind blown!”
“Yeah, and there’s this wizard guy, you don’t know if he’s real.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know, thirties, forties,” Fin said.
George hit his chest. “I could play that part.”
“What? No,” Fin said. “He’s Lebanese.”
“I’ve played Italian, Jewish,” Treadwell said. “I do all the ethnics!”
Fin narrowed her eyes and sniffed, coldly assessing the biggest movie star in the world.
“She’s looking at me like I’m bad meat,” Treadwell said, looking to me for reassurance.
“Get me a job on one of your sets and I might consider you,” Fin said.
“Acting?” Treadwell asked.
“Fuck no,” Fin said. “Stunts.”
Trevor appeared at the swinging door, puffing through his nostrils, a bull seeing red, red everywhere.
“Oh my God,” he said as he stumbled toward Treadwell.
“Trev, man, your sister-in-law is a beast,” Treadwell said, looking over his shoulder. “You know what this girl rides?”
“Come on, stop,” Fin said, punching Treadwell in the arm. He wince-grinned.
Trevor looked from Treadwell to Fin and pulled on his hair.
“Fin, right? She’s badass,” Treadwell said. “Hey, can she do stunts on this pic? Let’s set her up.”
“Jump out of buildings and shit,” Fin said. “That’s my jam.”
“Trev, you’ll give me her info,” Treadwell said.
“Great idea. Shall we wrap up?” Trevor asked.
“Sure,” Treadwell said. “Hey, nice talking to you.” He shot at us with trigger fingers.
Fin “shot” him in return. He clutched at his heart.
Trevor glared back at us as he hustled his next big paycheck through the swinging door.
Fin looked up at me and sniffed. “What’s up with that guy George? He’s pretty … enthusiastic, right? Is that real? Is he rich? He smells like he’s never had a bad day. He smells like sunshine.”
“Fin,” I said. “That was George Treadwell.”
She twisted her lips and scrunched her nose. Fin thinking face.
“Nope,” she finally said. “Hey, you think he’d really give me a stunt job? I need to find something. Parole’s on my back.”
“Fin, it’s not going to happen. Trevor will never let it happen.”
“Oh yeah? We’ll see,” Fin said, slapping the script. “Now shut up while I finish.”
12
Membership Revoked
Fin and I had our feet up on the coffee table that had never supported a cup of coffee in the living room no one had lived in. Over a box of Dunkin’ Donuts, Fin decided she was moving in for a “bit.”
“What is this ‘bit’?” I asked as I licked powdered sugar off my lips.
“A bit,” she said. “A while, a spell, until my sister can function on her own,” she said as she pushed doughnut holes aside in the box. “You need help. Protection. Where the fuck’s the apple fritter? What did you do with the fritter?”
“I frittered it away,” I said before I burped.
We stayed up playing “Fin-der” (as she christened Tinder) until she caught smartphone thumb. She topped out at 150 matches.
“The last time I dated, you used a phone to call people,” I said. “Now, you order up dick just like pizza.”
“It’s dick-convenient,” Fin said. “Better than Uber. Although, Uber delivers dick, too, depending on the driver.”
I’d boiled water for tea because tea made me feel calm and righteous. Wine required less work but also made me feel sad. And didn’t Beyoncé sip herb tea, if I’m understanding her husband’s lyrics? Anyway, chamomile with mānuka honey, if you’re wondering. Meanwhile, I wondered if I would be able to afford mānuka honey after the divorce.
“I’m so not ready for this new dating world,” I said. “If only Trevor were a little more—”
“Not Trevor? Un-Trevor? Anything but Trevor?”
“Fin, how do you get guys to swipe right?” I asked, grabbing her phone. “It says on your profile that you’re on parole.”
Fin shot me her say what, now? face, which she employed when I’d inadvertently, or maybe advertently, said something stupid. She popped her cigarette box on the side of her hand and flipped a stick into her mouth.
“Do you not understand the male of the species, bruh?” she asked, the cigarette bouncing on her lower lip. “Dudes love a bad bitch.”
I braced against her stack of silver rings as she play-punched me.
“And … that’s going to leave a bruise,” I said, looking at my shoulder.
“I’m signing you up,” she said, grabbing my phone.
“Don’t do it,” I said.
“I’m doing it,” she said.
“You can’t. You don’t have my Facebook password.”
She looked at me and laughed. “Sis, I know all your passwords.”
“You do not.”
“Morley89, Password7, Fin73,” she recited. “Peppers.”
“Shit,” I said, interrupted.
“First dog, sister, birth year, favorite number,” she said. “Now who’s the smart Murphy sister?” Fin grabbed my arm to give me an Indian rub, which is probably racist as well as painful.
“I’m still smarter,” I said, pushing her off and wrapping my arm around her neck. “I’ve never gone to prison.”
“You just never tried,” she said. She slapped my knee, wriggled out from under my grasp, and jumped up off the sofa.
“C’mon,” she said, pulling my arm from its socket. “Let’s go have some fun!”
* * *
I woke up groggy and late with doughnut crumbs sprinkled on my chest to find Fin and Trevor on either side of the kitchen island staring each other down as though on a dusty main street in an old Western (substitution: fully stocked kitchen in the Palisades Riviera). Trevor chewed his precisely cut apple slices slowly while Fin, freshly showered, ripped apart a bagel with her teeth.
“I know what you did,” Trevor finally uttered, his voice a low growl. “I know what you both did.”
I coughed, ducked my head, and made a beeline for the coffee machine.
“Hey,” Fin said to me without losing the staring contest.
“G’morning,” I said, grabbing the coffee cup Gabriela gave me for a Mother’s Day, emblazoned with a picture of Pep dressed as a bumblebee. Her first Halloween. I’d waited years to dress a baby as a bee; it was worth the wait.
“Tell me what you did!” Trevor yelled, banging his fist on the island.
“Why don’t you tell us, Trevor?” Fin said. “Because I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Are you, Aggie?”
“You’re not welcome here,” Trevor said, I’m not sure to whom.
“Morning, Trev,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t want a felon around my child!” he said.
“Half your friends would be doing time if I took a look at their taxes,” Fin said. “Besides, I have every right to be with my sister in her time of need.”
“You have to admit she’s right,” I said. “The Palisades would be wiped out if anyone bothered to audit entertainment expenses.”
“I don’t care! This is not your sister’s house. She is not allowed to move my things!”
“Can you…” Fin’s lip started quivering; she was trying to suppress a laugh. “Can you describe what was moved?”
Trevor rapped his knuckles on the island. “My pencils, my pads. All my pads. My mouthwash. My toothbrush. My shoes. My Yeezys. My Prada T-shirts. My camos. My Supreme hoodies! My … toiletries.” (He means condoms.) “My … my…”
He gestured with his hands.
“Is it … furniture?” Fin asked. “Something heavy. Like, a bed, maybe? Am I warm?” She held his eyes as she moved the island notepad an inch to the side. Trevor’s nostrils flared. I could hear his breathing intensify.
“I couldn’t sleep!” Trevor finally said. “You’re going to pay for this!”
Last night, on a sugar high, we’d moved all his belongings just two inches. Everything we could find. The bed took a while, but we moved that, too. He hadn’t even seen the gym yet. We’d moved his stationary bike. The TV screens. Anything he touched, every single day.
Trevor grabbed his backpack.
“Hey, Trev,” Fin said, “what does a producer do?”
He stopped, mid-stride, an automatic response to a question he loved to answer. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve got this beautiful place up here; it’s way too big, but it’s secluded. I like that. I’m not too fond of people,” Fin said. “So I was just wondering what a producer does. Like, what do you do all day long?”
“He makes movies, Fin,” I said. I feared where this was going, even though I had no idea the destination.
“And television,” Trevor said. “I’ve won ten Emmys, fifth most in the history of the Emmys.”
“The ones that look like angels. You know what kind of metal they use?” She tapped her rings on the counter.
“Why?”
“Just curious about the melting point,” she said, smiling. Oh, please, I thought. Please, Fin, do not make those Emmys into ankle bracelets.
