Adventures with Max and Louise (7 page)

“Not like those!” She is delighted. “It’s so totally, totally un-Molly.”

“And so totally not what I wanted. Can we please talk about something else? Like, how you landed in the hoosegow?”

“I gotta tell ya, sis, they look good. You are the last person in the world I would have thought about having implants. Of course, from a feminist perspective, it is wrong in so many, many ways, but, what the hell, they look awesome.”

“Why, thank you. I just love talking about my breast implants while walking down a crowded city sidewalk.”

“You don’t have to be such a grouch.” She manages to keep her trap shut for a mere five feet before bursting out, “Will they, like, ever sag? Will you be this eighty-year-old, totally wrinkly woman with completely perky breasts?”

“Yes, I will be the eighty-year-old woman with completely perky breasts with the asinine seventy-eight-year old sister, no doubt still peppering me with inane questions.”

“That’s awesome!” she gasps.

“I’m kidding. They’re coming out in six weeks and four days.”

Denise shakes her head, running to keep up with me. “What a shame. You remind me of a Jeff Koons painting.” We’re at a stoplight.

“Who’s Jeff Koons?” I don’t really want to hear the answer, but Denise has an infectious enthusiasm that sucks me in every time.

“He’s this totally awesome artist who does these really over-the-top, Vargas-style women with really big, really big . . .” There is a crowd of people surrounding us waiting for the light to change. Denise holds her hands out in front of her chest. “You know, well-endowed women busting out of their shirts.” Our fellow pedestrians eye Denise with interest.

“Sounds very classy,” I say and sigh.

“He’s shown in museums all over the world. He was married to a famous Hungarian porn star, but they broke up.”

“Shame.” I punch the stupid crossing button. This has to be the longest light in the world.

“Yeah, she had huge implants.” Denise holds her hands over her breasts again. “Enormous. What was her name? Chicci-something; she was a member of the Italian parliament for five years.”

The light changes. Nobody walks. They’re too busy gawking at Denise. I take the initiative, crossing the street. Is it my imagination, or are a handful of people keeping pace with us?

I have to admit, we make quite a pair. I’m in a revealing shirt. Denise sports a tight black miniskirt, neon purple tights, clunky black shoes, and a jacket that looks like six crows flew into a jet engine. She made it last year using a cardigan, four bags of feathers, and a glue gun.

“Could we please talk about something else besides porn stars and breast implants?” I hiss. “I haven’t even had a cup of coffee.” It’s fine when it’s between me and my mirror, but listening to my hyperactive little sister yammer on about implants makes me feel like crawling into a hole.

“I’m enthusiastic. So kill me.”

Pausing in front of Lilly’s Cafe, I cross my arms and glare at her, using my patented Shut Up, Denise look I’ve perfected over the years. My arms rest higher, above the implants. Another man glances at my cleavage as he exits the restaurant.

Denise gives me a devilish smile. “Come on, you’ve got to admit you love the attention. Or else why would you be wearing that shirt?”

“It’s not mine,” I groan. “It’s Angeli’s. None of mine fit.”

As we enter the restaurant, I promise myself that the first thing after breakfast, I am going shopping.

Lilly’s Cafe is a Seattle institution. Open twenty-four hours, it caters to everyone from downtown hipsters to doddering opera fans. It’s not unusual to see a pair of punks with multiple piercings sitting at a table next to stylish suburban shoppers. The checkerboard floor in Lilly’s Cafe is trod upon by such a wide variety of clientele. The waitresses sport a bored insouciance, as if they are doing you a huge favor by gracing your table. If I were writing a review about where to take your loved one after you’ve posted bail, Lilly’s Cafe would be at the top of the list.

By the time we’ve ordered coffee, Denise has filled me in on the city council meeting last night. It seems she and her artist friends disrupted the meeting and attacked the developers who are turning their beloved artists’ residence into condos. Denise is quick to point out that the attack was verbal, although, she adds as an afterthought, she might have made some paper pellets that she might have discretely spit from a straw. And maybe, just maybe, when the nice police officers arrived and told them to leave, well, then she and the others just might have refused, clinging to their chairs like barnacles.

Then maybe, just maybe, there was a bit of a skirmish, during which three chubby joints fell onto the ground, at which point they were kindly invited to spend the night in jail.

She finishes her story as if there is nothing wrong with landing in jail. The thing I have to keep reminding myself about Denise is that jail time is something of an accomplishment. What I see as a waste of a good night’s sleep is her fight for the greater good.

“And when we went to the jail, I had this,” she says, handing me a rumpled letter.

It is on letterhead from the mayor of Seattle, proclaiming that she is part of an Artists in the City program. It’s notarized with an official-looking seal, which oddly enough has seals on it. Or maybe sea lions.

“What is this?”
Why does the mayor have sea lions on an official seal?

“It means I can document my struggles on film. They let me keep my iPhone. Look.” She shows me a series of photos on her phone. I examine one. Taken from the side, it showcases a middle-aged woman, from her attire, or lack thereof, probably a hooker, throwing up.

“Lovely.”

Our eggs arrive. I’ve lost my appetite.

“Yeah, well, someone has to show the world what happens in the art world when commerce is allowed to run rampant.” She pushes her long, red, ridiculously adorable curls from her face.

“That is a picture of a woman puking.” I push my eggs aside.

“It’s symbolic.” Her mouth is crammed with eggs. When I don’t ask, she continues, “Of the sickness in our culture when artists are pushed out of their rightful spots.”

“And when your rightful spot happens to be prime real estate?”

She stares at me, hurt. Her winter skin is so pale the freckles stand out like pebbles in snow. “Christ, Molly! Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours, honey. But don’t you ever get tired of fighting?” She looks so tired, so touchingly fierce.

Denise juts her chin out defensively. “Don’t you ever get tired of hiding in your kitchen? I mean, seriously, when’s the last time you had a date?”

So we’re fighting dirty. My social life has been a taboo subject for about five years, which is precisely when Martin and Angeli gave up trying to fix me up with their various college friends. The small orbit of my social life has become verboten conversation. Everyone pretends I’m normal. It works, most of the time. This, unfortunately, is not one of those times. Normally, I can brush off Denise and her occasionally insensitive remarks. But today, for some reason, it hurts.

“High school,” I say quietly, signaling for the check.

Denise rubs my arm. “I’m sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean . . .”

I shake my head. “I know you didn’t. It’s okay.” I pat her hand reassuringly even though I feel bruised. I stare out the window, feeling like a fraud in a pair of borrowed implants. How utterly pathetic.

“Don’t go. Even if you don’t agree with me, will you please come with me to the hearing? Please?” She’s touchingly earnest and looks all of fourteen.

“I’m sorry. You know this really isn’t my thing. I’m more the behind-the-scenes kind of person.”

She stirs her cold coffee. “I know. I know.” She gazes into the depth of her coffee, unable to meet my eyes. “You didn’t used to.”

Before Mom died, I was a regular clown. Denise and I used to put on shows and charge the neighbors a dollar to watch. She’d paint the backdrops, and I’d write the plays. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“I remember a lot more than you think.” Her eyes meet mine.

For a moment it’s as if my mother’s ghost floats between us, mingling with the enticing aroma of fresh coffee and newly baked cinnamon rolls. Flashes of memory: her tanned, summer hands, crescents of dirt under the nails from gardening, beside her on the sagging couch, listening to the heavy rain on the roof, on a kitchen stool, talking to her while she cooked dinner. And then, as quickly as she surfaced, she’s gone. Denise and I are back in gray Seattle, facing one another over scuffed linoleum.

“You want to know why I called you this morning?” She’s close to tears.

She studies her eggs. “Because . . . even though we’re really different, and you probably don’t even agree with what I’m doing, I just wanted you there. I mean, friends aren’t the same as family, are they?” She looks up at me, her big brown eyes luminous with tears. “Come on, Molly, please?”

Chapter Eight

T
HE LAND DEVELOPMENT
hearing for the Colony is held in a long, chilly room in City Hall. It’s packed with chairs, filled to capacity. The developers sit in square-shouldered solidity in the front two rows, facing the Land Use Commission, ten strong. They occupy a long table, strewn with files, at the front of the room. Denise and I are the last to arrive. We’re late. The artists are easy to spot by their slouching posture and outlandish getups. Denise joins them, and I follow, sliding into the last two seats available near the back.

The commission, composed of middle-aged bureaucrats and citizens, is busy making notes while an architect outlines the plans for keeping the building’s historical profile intact, while bringing it up to current fire and earthquake codes. According to him, the existing Colony is nothing but a vermin-infested firetrap. The new building will house an additional two hundred inhabitants.

“Some of them might very well be artists,” he says.

Denise jumps to her feet. “Yeah, fat chance they could afford it!”

This brings vigorous applause and shouts from the artists. The developers shift uncomfortably, and the commission head, a stern woman with steely gray eyes, issues a loud warning that she’ll have no more disruption. Several artists lean over me to thump Denise’s back. I can smell the cigarette smoke on their thrift store jackets, the acrid coffee on their breath. Denise grins proudly, as if she’s just delivered a brilliant speech in front of the U.N. I close my eyes and catalogue the top ten meals I have eaten in my life (adding a handsome dining companion to the mix) and desperately wish I were back in bed. Why in God’s name did I agree to this?

After a break, during which the artists gathered on the sidewalk, spewing cigarette smoke like a busy factory, we convene for what I hope will be a speedy summation. The project’s chief counsel takes the podium.

He jumps right to his main point: “The only way the Colony could be protected is if it had been registered as a historical landmark, which, I’m told, it does not qualify as. It was never the primary residence of Jacob Lawrence or any other artist. There is simply no legal basis for impeding this development. I can appreciate that there is a lack of work space for artists downtown. I’m sensitive to their plight, but the laws are clear on this matter.”

Denise shoots out of her chair as if it is on fire. “Then change the law!”

I stare straight ahead, hoping no one will notice the family resemblance.
Sister, what sister?

“This is your last warning. Any more outbreaks of this nature, and we’ll ask you to leave,” says the commission head.

Denise sits down, eyes flashing. She spends the rest of the hearing picking vermilion nail polish off her short, square nails, seemingly disinterested in the whole circus. A dusting of scarlet chips cover her feet by the time artist Matthew Cuttler, a former boyfriend, takes the stand. Matthew’s dyed black hair falls into his face, obscuring his eyes. He mumbles something into his hair. Denise comes alive.

“Son, you’re going to have to speak up,” says a lawyer.

“I just mentioned that there’s plenty of loft space available in Tacoma. It’s cheaper, cleaner, and not that far away.” Denise’s knuckles are white as she grips her chair. “I think that maybe this is less about saving the Colony and more about Denise Gallagher’s need to be on the six o’clock news.”

Denise flies out of her seat. “You lived in the Colony for all of two weeks, during which you never even lifted a paintbrush!”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it!” Matthew shoots back.

Denise screws up her face in disgust, gesticulating wildly. “Matthew Cuttler, you scum-sucking pond refuse! I fucking hate you!”

The commission head bangs her gavel as a loud murmur builds. Thirty-seven butts twist in their metal chairs toward Denise. I feel their eyes on me like lasers, wanting nothing more than to sink into the marble floor. Just disappear, vaporize.
Why couldn’t I have been an only child?

Two Port Authority officers push their way through the crowd. Glancing at a few faces, I have the distinct feeling that I’m back in fourth grade. Sally Hensfield is chanting, “You’re gonna get it. You’re gonna get it.” Cringing, I slouch deep into my seat, but it’s pointless. There is nowhere to hide.

Denise bellows, “You wouldn’t know a cultural landmark if it bit you in the ass!”

The officers reach us, standing menacingly at the end of our row. They are very big and exceedingly pissed. One of them points to Denise, jerking his thumb toward the door.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Denise grouses. She rises casually, gathering her coat as if this were the end of a particularly good movie and she’s being forced to miss the credits.

Bending over to retrieve my purse, I momentarily forget my new appendages. My breasts practically pop right out of Angeli’s flimsy shirt. A man in the row ahead of me lights up with delight. Flushing scarlet, I stand, yanking up my shirt. I catch a quick glimpse of— Oh no, it’s Chas. He is in the front row, craning his head to get a look at the source of all the commotion.

For a split second, our eyes meet. In that moment it is as if ten years have vanished. We’re in the pouring rain outside our high school, alone, and I’m looking into the bright blue vortex of his eyes wishing I had the nerve to tell him how I felt, how the whole world seemed small and insignificant when it didn’t relate to him. The chaos in the room around me subsides ever so briefly, and then, bam, I’m right back in the present, being dragged out of a hearing room by Dumb and Dumber.