Been There, Married That, page 28
“That hurt,” I said. “Hey, maybe we should meet weekly.”
* * *
A long time passed until the door cracked opened. Anne, her shoulders slumped forward, appeared in the doorway; I finally saw her age, which made me feel guilty, of course. The weariness etched on her face was my handiwork.
“Well, that was interesting,” she said. “I got the sentence down.”
The expanse of time between Anne’s statement and my next question lasted hours. Days. A year.
“What sentence?” Blood rushed in my ear.
“You’re sentenced to two days downtown,” Anne said as she sat beside me and placed her briefcase at her feet.
“I don’t … I don’t understand.”
“Contempt of court,” she said.
“It could’ve been weeks,” the bailiff said. “Seen it. Told you she was fair.”
My eyes bounced from the bailiff back to Anne. They shared the expression of someone who’d warned the dog not to pee on the living room rug.
“Your bail is set at fifty grand,” she said. “Can you post bail?”
“What? That’s more than Fin’s bail,” I said. “And she’s an actual felon, according to the California penal code. I’m the good sister! I’ve never broken a law in my life! I didn’t even ditch school!”
“She’s been like this the whole time,” the bailiff said to Anne.
“Do you have the money?” Anne asked, again.
I thought about the sheets and towels money. Thank you, Pratesi. Half of it was already gone to the Triplets, Pep’s school, a bit thrown Anne’s way.
“Do you know anyone who could help?” Anne had already heard my answer in my expression.
“Trevor, ha ha ha,” I said. “My friend Liz. But I don’t want to ask.”
Anne pushed a lock of blond-gray hair from her eyes.
“I’m a good mother. I’m not good at a lot of things,” I said. “Like games that involve balls … and Sudoku. And breaking down doors.”
Beat. They waited.
“But I am good at being Pep’s mommy. I don’t deserve this.”
Anne sat down next to me and put her arm around my shoulder. She smelled like vanilla and fresh schnauzer. I wanted to ask if I could move in with her.
“I stayed with my husband for twenty-five years,” she said. “I waited until the last boy was out of the house. I drove that boy to college, drove back, packed my bags, and left. All so I could avoid exactly what you’re going through.”
“I’m not sure that’s the helpful parable you want it to be.”
“It was a choice.”
“Was it worth it?”
“No,” she said. “The boys had their mother full-time. But that mom was unhappy. Numb. Closed off. ‘Emotionally unavailable’ is what my middle child calls it now. I was there, but I wasn’t there. I was a ghost mom.”
I sniffed and nodded and found myself crying. The bailiff handed me another tissue.
“I sacrificed my happiness for theirs, that’s what I told myself. But truthfully, I wasn’t there for them. They never saw their mom fully happy.”
“Robot mom,” I said. “Robo-Mom.” I moved my hands around like a robot. “Billy, would you like scrambled eggs?” I asked in robot voice.
“You can be divorced and be the best role model for your kid. Once you get over the guilt and sadness.”
“Please tell me you’re happy now,” I said. “I’m not going to be able to make it through the day unless I think there’s something to look forward to.”
“I am. I’m really happy now,” she said. “Believe it or not, someday, you will be, too. Especially if you adopt a schnauzer.”
“English bulldog,” the bailiff said.
“I don’t want a dog; I want my daughter,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I don’t think I’ll make it through the weekend.”
“You’re going to make it. You have to. She’s counting on you.”
“Don’t let Pep down,” the bailiff urged. “She needs you.”
“We’re coming back,” Anne said. “This isn’t over. The judge said this is temporary. It’s a temporary edict. We’ll come back, and we’ll fight.”
I shook my head.
“No, I don’t want to fight anymore,” I said, staring at my hands, my chipped nails, my empty ring finger. “I’m done.”
“Hey,” the bailiff said, snapping his fingers. “I know where I’ve seen you before.”
We looked at him.
“That pee-pee video,” he said. “Oh, boy, I’m glad you didn’t do that in here. Hey, would you sign a book for me? I mean, when you get out?”
“You … bought my book?”
“Everybody’s buying that damned book,” he said.
* * *
Fin was right. Jail wasn’t so bad. I’d endured more discomfort at catered events. Hijacked in a large venue, watching a cross-eyed late-night talk show host kiss the ass of a guy who fired half the studio before lunch—that was suffering. Jail was like high school with orange uniforms. My cell was cold, my bed was hard. My towel was scratchy, the pillow flat. The sheet wasn’t exactly Pratesi.
I felt like I could write here.
I slept like a baby.
The next morning, the warden tapped on the cell bars.
* * *
Fin was outside the holding area, wrestling the grin on her face.
“I can’t believe it! I had to bail you out!” Fin said.
“How did you do it?” I asked, “You don’t have any money.”
“Anyone can get money,” she said. “It’s not that hard.”
“Translation: I don’t want to know,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” she said and punched me in the arm.
Fin ripped down the 10, then up the 405 on the way to the dead zone, which would be gone in less than thirty days. I had to pack.
“Have you heard anything from Pep? What happened yesterday? Is she okay? Who picked her up? Did Trevor come back to the house?”
“Hold up,” Fin said, rapping her rings on the steering wheel. “First of all, Pep is fine. I talked to her. I laid it all out. I told her you lost your mind in court but only because you love her so much. I told her to call me anytime, day or night. I’m on call, Auntie at your service, 24-7. I said to view this time like it’s a vacation with Daddy. She might turn out to be a Daddy’s girl, like us.”
“Do not ever say that again,” I said. “Did Trevor pick her up, or did he have assistant number one, two, or three do the honors?”
“Actually. Trevor,” she said. “I made it known that if anything happened to Pep, I’d be up his ass with a hammer.”
“That should play well at my next court date.”
Fin exited off Sunset.
“Just so you know, Trevor called me fifteen times last night. Pep sneezed and he thought he’d catch a cold, and his movie’s falling apart.”
“Poor Trevor,” I said. “Poor him.”
“Yeah, he didn’t sound too stable,” she said. “I told him not to worry about Pep; it’s probably just salamander flu. He’ll only have to be quarantined for a week.”
“What’s the salamander flu?”
“There is no salamander flu.”
Houses went by, a blur of white clapboards and ivy. “Waverly told me things were going to get worse for me. How did she know?”
“It’s obvious,” Fin said. “You’re divorcing a powerful guy. They hate that, even if it’s their idea. Come on!”
I looked at her. “She said George Treadwell was the key to this divorce. That somehow, he’d make things right.”
“The actor dude?”
“Yes. George Treadwell. The actor dude.”
“Come on.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Crazy.”
“Should we ask him?”
“Yeah,” I said, “let’s call him right now.”
“’kay.” Fin scrolled numbers on the console.
“What … what are you doing?”
“Calling George—you want me to call him,” she said. “He gave me his number. Y’know, I’ve been thinking about it, discussed it with Sami. We think he’d be pretty good as the lead, the magic man.”
I went mute; I felt my mouth drop open.
“Of course, I’d have to see tape,” Fin said.
She’d scrolled down to: George Actor.
“Stop!” I jabbed the console, ending the call.
* * *
This whole thing was ludicrous, but it made sense if you knew Fin. Men were drawn to her like flies, this mermaid to Hugo Boss pirates with a bad-girl fetish.
I called Trevor because I couldn’t get through on Pep’s phone. He grunted, more distracted than usual, and handed the phone over to Pep, who seemed fine and not at all down with salamander flu. Which minced the remainder of my heart.
My phone buzzed.
“I’m home,” Gio said. “I just landed. Can I come see you?”
“Now’s not a good time,” I said.
“What’re you doing?”
Well. I was sprawled on the floor of Pep’s bedroom, a pile of her clothes on my lap. I’d told myself I was “sorting,” but what I was really doing was crying into her old onesies.
“It’s important that I not tell you,” I said.
“Why?”
“I’ll just start crying again,” I said as I started to cry. And here, I was so sure I’d met my tear ration.
“Hey, hey,” he said. “I’ll be right over. Is it so sad?”
“I’m that saddest thing of all,” I said. “A childless mother.”
“Oh no. I’m functioning on three hours’ sleep, but nothing would make me happier than to put a smile on your face,” he said.
“You’d have to draw it on,” I said, “with permanent marker.”
“I’ll bring a Comté and a good Bordeaux,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, sniffing, then hung up.
“Fin!” I yelled.
Fin appeared in the doorway. “You okay?”
“Yes. No,” I said. “Fin, I’m about to have grief sex, and I haven’t even grief-waxed.”
“Get it!” she said, high-fiving me.
* * *
Gio arrived, as promised, bearing gifts of a twelve-year-old Comté and an Alsatian goat cheese and several bottles of a velvety Bordeaux. He brought crackers and fig jam and those teeny, tiny gherkins that are so cute you don’t want to eat them (but you do), and he set everything up, humming Italian opera as he moved along. All of this was done without a cape.
Fin and I watched, sipping from our wineglasses. She leaned over to me. “He has kind eyes.”
“You said that about Trevor.”
“I never said that about Trevor,” she said.
“You absolutely did,” I said as Gio belted out an aria.
“No,” she said. “You don’t listen to me. I said Trevor had vulnerable eyes. That’s different. That’s dangerous.”
“Thanks for the years-after-the-fact heads-up,” I said.
“Kinda think you should’ve known who you were marrying. But that’s just me.”
I glared at her over my wineglass.
Gio finished the aria and brought the cheese plate over, setting it between me and my sister. I watched as he ate con gusto. I wondered if he fucked con gusto.
I drank down the rest of my wine.
* * *
Fin went to bed after a phone call from her parole officer asking her what happened to her ankle monitor. She’d told her she’d clipped it and gave her the complicated but truthful reason that her sister lost her mind in divorce court, and after some swearing, the parole officer said okay, come in tomorrow. And then Fin said something that made her laugh, and the parole officer said come in when you can and have a good night.
Gio had listened and clapped at the end.
“I wish you were my agent,” he told her. “You’d negotiate rings around these idiots.”
“Who’s your agent?” Fin asked.
“Fin,” I said. “C’mon.”
“I need one for Sami,” she said.
“Who’s Sami?”
“My writer,” Fin said. She was already talking like a Hollywood producer; writers were considered property.
“The Uber driver,” I said. “Fin, you have to be realistic about the way Hollywood works.”
Fin looked at me. “Why?”
“Yeah, why?” Gio asked as well, then turned to Fin. “Are you developing a script?”
“Is that what it’s called? Developing? Why do they have to make everything sound so important and complicated? It ain’t science,” Fin said. “I just want to edge it up before I show it to George.”
“Fin, come on,” I said.
“George who?” Gio asked.
“That guy who was here, funny accent, he looks like this,” Fin said and grinned like a maniac.
“Treadwell?” Gio asked. “I did a movie with him.”
“Is he any good?” Fin asked.
“I like him,” Gio said. “For a star, he’s not a total waste of oxygen.”
“I want your notes before I give it to George,” Fin said. “If we get George, we get China. If we get China, we shoot in Mexico in two months.”
My head was spinning. “Impossible! George Treadwell is doing the movie with Trevor, Fin,” I said.
“George told me it didn’t work out,” Fin said. “Creative differences with the director.”
“Neither of them was creative,” Gio said.
“You made a deal with George Treadwell,” I said.
“Sounds like she did,” Gio said.
“He likes the idea,” Fin said. “He wants to read the script. He’s got an opening in his schedule. I told him, ‘Don’t get your hopes up, dude; I have to see tape.’”
“George Treadwell agreed to do tape?” Gio asked.
“Yeah,” Fin said.
“You’re a witch,” he said.
“Nah, dude,” Fin said. “I’m a producer.”
“I’ll give it a read,” Gio said. “Why not?”
“Tonight?”
“I’ll be busy tonight,” Gio said, eyeing me.
“Priorities,” Fin said.
Gio laughed, and his laugh filled the kitchen and made me think of all the laughter that hadn’t existed there before.
I walked Fin out to the guesthouse, holding her hand. She hated walking alone in the dark, even when she was little.
“He’s like Santa,” Fin said.
“I don’t want to fuck Santa.”
“I always had a crush on Santa,” Fin said. “Who better to take care of you? You don’t even have to cook, and he brings you presents. Like cheese and wine.”
I kissed her cheek, and as I walked back to the main house, I wondered if Gio would be okay that I hadn’t shaved my pussy in a year.
I bet he would.
23
Decent Proposal
Gio was splayed out on one of the deck chairs, staring at the sky. He brought out a pack of Marlboro Lights, lit one, and handed it to me.
“I don’t smoke.”
“They used to think smoking was good for you,” Gio said. “Smoking makes you breathe deeply. Calms you. Helps you think.”
“Think of it as nicotine meditation,” I said.
I hadn’t taken a puff on a cigarette since I was eight years old, in the garage with Fin, who’d stolen one of my mother’s. I coughed and threw up and got us both grounded.
I took the cigarette and sat on the edge of the chaise, and Gio pulled me in next to him. We snuggled and smoked and looked out at the night sky. A coyote howled, and a Ferrari driver in the canyon below gunned his engine.
“How many women have you fucked?” I asked.
He jolted and looked at me. “Which decade?”
“Start with the ’80s.”
“Why not start with the ’70s?” he said. “I’ve never really counted.”
“If it goes into triple digits, I’m outta here.”
“It’s just a number, like age.” He laughed.
We took a hit off our cigarettes. I felt incredibly sophisticated and drunk and out of my realm.
“That’s why I became a director. Pussy. I should’ve been a doctor like my father. Not some piece-of-shit director.”
“You’re not a piece-of-shit director. You’re an icon.”
“Have you seen my last couple of movies?” he asked. “There are scenes I love, perfect moments; they emerged straight from my big head,” he said, tapping his big head. “I’m a cog in the system now. I have to listen to notes. Notes from the d-girls, notes from the studio, notes from whoever owns the studio, the Germans, the Chinese, the Japanese, the French. And they’re all scared of their own shadows. There’s no joy left.”
“We were talking about all your hoochies,” I said.
“Right,” he said.
“How many did you propose to?”
“Every single one,” he said and kissed me.
* * *
Fin wasn’t awake when Gio and I wandered into the kitchen for coffee in the morning. We were all alone. No housekeepers, no gardeners, no orchid replacement assistants.
I made coffee, and Gio took a seat at the kitchen table and opened The New York Times. Everything felt calm. Normal. The flickering of a happy new routine, full of promise. I’d write all day, cook dinner, put Pep to bed; Gio and I would have a drink on the deck in his backyard and stare out at the stars and trace patterns on the leaves in the pool. Then we’d fuck until we slept.
“How do you like it?”
“Black,” he said. “Like my soul.”
We’d broken the antique Indian headboard above the bed. I’d always dated men who had athletic bodies, skinny bodies, bodies with no excess. I figured that was my type. I figured wrong. Sleeping with Gio was like diving into a warm pool. If that pool were a cunnilingus master.
“They’ll find another headboard,” he said. “Marry me.”
“You’ve been married.”
“Only four times,” he said. “Fifth time’s the charm.”
“Fifth’s the time when you know it’s you and not marriage.”
“I take umbrage to that remark.”
