Alligators in the Trees (52 page)

As the taxi carried her to her assignation, Roxanne rehearsed her appeal for financial aid. Had it been solely for the purchase of a new car, she would’ve never wasted the cab fare. But she suddenly saw her situation in a new light, and she was determined to bilk it for all it was worth. After all, $275 was a drop on the mortarboard compared to what her folks had dished out on her four siblings in the education department. She did not think it was at all presumptuous to include in her request $7,000 for a ‘pre-owned’ automobile and another five hundred for proper real estate-pedaling attire. It was a heck of a deal, she would tell them, a one-time, up-front disbursement that would provide their youngest child with a fresh start and a means to the financial freedom she longed for.

With this zippy mantra on her lips, she paid the cab driver and got out. It wasn’t until she was standing at the foot of the driveway that she realized the unbroken line of cars parked along the curb in front of her parents’ house belonged not to the neighbors, but to three of her four of kith and kin.
Damn, another oversight
.

At first she had the paranoid thought that in the space of time it took her to shower, put on her makeup, dress and get over there, her parents had sounded the call for reinforcements. But she realized this would’ve been unnecessary, seeing as how—their assorted degrees notwithstanding—there was no other place on the planet Felicity, Bronte and Lloyd would rather spend their free time than at the bosom of their learned parents. The fact that Wes lived on the East Coast was the sole reason he wasn’t in on the love-fest.

Roxanne took several deep breaths and forcibly restrained the hand which had automatically begun probing her purse for cigarettes and matches. “Keep focused, keep focused, keep focused,” she chanted as she climbed the walkway to the front door of the seventies stucco faux-Mediterranean, two-story house, badly in need of some updating.
Should I knock or should I just go in?
She knocked.

As soon as her knuckles hit the door, two small mongrel dogs began barking feverishly as they raced for, and eventually slammed into, the glass panels on either side of the door.

“Damn mutts,” Lloyd said, as he held the spastic dogs at bay with his foot while cracking the door open barely wide enough for Roxanne to slip through. Lloyd, glasses riding down on his nose, his hair alternately spiked and flattened from sleep, customary tome dangling from one hand, took the cigarette from his mouth with his free hand and kissed his baby sister on the cheek.

“Everyone’s in the living room,” he said unnecessarily, for where else would they be? Perhaps twice a year they all mounted sufficient interest and energy to venture outside for a rousing game of croquet. But other than that, mother and father, two sons and daughter occupied their own particular space, be it sofa, chair or window seat, as much a part of the fixtures as the peeling grass cloth.

“Whiskey! Buff! Stop that infernal barking!” Harold Burrows shouted, rising out of his chair to give his command more emphasis. To Roxanne’s surprise, this worked, and the two flea-infested mixed breeds resumed their stations at the patriarch’s side, where they immediately recommenced the never-ending chore of chewing and clawing themselves.

“Roxanne’s here,” Lloyd announced, also unnecessarily, to the rest of the clan.

“Hello, darling,” her mother said, standing to receive her daughter in the wings of her pink pleated muumuu. Despite the casualness of her attire, Daphne Burrows’s face was perfectly made up, as was her silvery-white hair, swept up and back and held in place with an enamel inlay comb, naturally of the same color in her tent-slash-dress.

“Hey, Rox,” Bronte said from one of the two sofas that flanked the floor-to-ceiling white brick fireplace. He reminded Roxanne of a grown-up version of Conner when he was engrossed in one of his games.

“Give your sister a proper hello,” Harold admonished in his upper-class British accent, a cherished remnant from decades ago. If anyone wanted to be unkind, they could say this characteristic was merely a cultivated affectation. And they would be justified in saying so, seeing as Harold Burrows hadn’t lived in Jolly Old England since his mid-twenties. Nor was he the spawn of English parents, though he
was
born in London, a fact he mentioned as often as his sense of propriety would permit.

“Just a sec,” Bronte said, as he typed furiously away at his laptop keyboard. Roxanne bent over and gave her brother’s head a kiss, regretting it as soon as his hair goo began stinging her lips.

“Hi Sis,” Felicity said, rising out of her seat without taking her eyes off the trade magazine she was engrossed in. She did manage to refocus her attention long enough to give her sister a halfhearted hug before turning back to her preferred reality.

“Sit down, dear,” Harold said, after giving his daughter a warm embrace. Roxanne glanced around. What space wasn’t taken up on the sofas by her brother and sister was hopelessly laden with every imaginable form of reading material.

“Bronte, make some room for your sister,” Harold said, lending a hand by shifting one stack to the coffee table. Bronte grudgingly pulled a stack towards himself as he slid closer to the other arm of the sofa. Not once did his eyes stray from the computer screen.

“There you go, dear,” Harold said, repositioning himself in his wingback chair which stood directly in front of the seldom-used fireplace. Roxanne liked to think of it as his throne. Smiling munificently, he re-unbuttoned his jacket and smoothed down his ancient Cambridge tie.

“You’re looking very well, Roxanne,” he said, though Roxanne wasn’t sure if he really thought so. “Isn’t she, dear?” he asked of his wife.

“Yes, very, darling. Would you like a cookie, Roxanne?” Daphne asked, standing to extend the silver platter containing a variety of cheap butter cookies, the kind nearly every supermarket whipped out on a daily basis, ValuWise being no exception. As Roxanne waved the tray away, she regretted not having brought some token gift along. Her parents were great fans of token gifts.

“Oh, shoot!”

“What is it, dear?” Harold asked in alarm.

“Nothing. I had a bottle of wine for you, but I left it in the taxi.”

“Oh, gracious! Perhaps you can ring the taxi company and have them drop it by,” Daphne tentatively suggested. Roxanne pursed her lips.

“Umm, it probably got snatched by the next fare,” she said gravely. “It was a really good bottle of wine,” she added wistfully.

“Well, it won’t hurt to give the taxi company a call,” Daphne said, once more levitating out of her chair.

“I’ll call, Mom,” Roxanne said, grabbing her bag as she headed for the kitchen. Once she passed through the swinging slatted doors separating the dining area from the kitchen, she went through the charade of looking up the number in the phone book, making sure she accentuated every little noise of the process.

While one hand was thus engaged, the other sought out cigarettes and matches from the bottom of her purse. She allowed herself three quick drags before faking a call to Speedy Cab. She puffed generously between inquiries, then ran what was left of the cigarette under the faucet to extinguish it before tossing it in the trash. Strictly speaking, this whole act was unnecessary, for smoking was not a taboo vice in the Burrows household. But Roxanne’s confidence was flagging, and she needed this ruse to give herself a chance to regroup.

“Stay focused, stay focused, stay focused,” she repeated as she popped a breath mint into her mouth.
Don’t let them throw you off balance
, she cautioned herself, trying to play down the presence of her siblings.
They’re so self-involved, they won’t pay any attention to what you’re saying anyway.

“Well? Any luck?” Harold asked expectantly as Roxanne returned to the living room. She frowned her disappointment.

“No. I’m sorry,” she said, retaking her seat near her father.

“Oh, that’s a shame, darling. But I guess honesty and integrity are just too much to hope for, in this day and age,” her mother said, picking up her needlework as an antidote to the downfall of humanity.

“It
is
a pity,” Harold agreed with a sad shake of his head. “But don’t let it trouble you, dear. It’s the thought that counts.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” Roxanne said sweetly, wondering how many bad karma points she was racking up with this shameless deception. “I’ll bring a replacement next time.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” Harold said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “So…what was it you wanted to talk to us about?” he asked, giving his youngest the benefit of his undivided attention.

“Well…” Roxanne began, her eyes wandering to the distracted faces of Felicity, Bronte and Lloyd. Satisfied she could make her appeal without any kibitzing from them, she gave it her best shot. “…as you know, I’ve been pretty unhappy working at ValuWise…for quite a long time now.” This statement elicited raised eyebrows from both parents, as neither of them could understand how she let a “temporary” position as a checker become her life’s work.

“My new boss, Stan Kemplehoff, is driving me batty…but I won’t bore you with the details.” Judging from their expressions, her parents were relieved by their daughter’s discretion. “So…I’ve been trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. And after giving it a lot of thought, I think I’ve found something that really interests me,” she said, looking back and forth from her mother and father expectantly.

But as she did, she discovered that this dramatic buildup had caught the attention of the others as well. Now all five heads were turned her direction, all ten eyes zeroing in on her, waiting for the big announcement.

“That’s fabulous news, dear! We’re all very excited for you. So, tell us—what have you decided to do ‘with the rest of your life?’” Harold inquired grandly. Roxanne took a deep breath, a forced smile stuck to her lips, as she surveyed the room. Suddenly, the plausibility of what she was trying to accomplish seemed extremely dubious. She had serious doubts that she was actress enough to finesse her decidedly hair-brained strategy.

“Tell us, Roxanne—we’re all ears,” Felicity said, as she laid the magazine across her lap and folded her arms in a challenging fashion. Her brothers also looked especially keen to hear this revelation.

“I’ve decided to become a real estate agent,” Roxanne said, with as much dignity as she could hold together. Barks of delighted derision assailed her as soon as the words left her tongue.

“
You
? A real-a-tard?” Bronte cried out gleefully.

“You’ve never sold anything but Girl Scout Cookies in your life,” Felicity happily reminded her.

“That’s our Roxanne—leaping into an industry during its worst crisis in history,” Lloyd obligingly pointed out.

Roxanne was stunned into silence. She knew their attendance hadn’t boded well for her, yet she was shocked by the enthusiasm with which her brothers and sister ripped her decision to shreds.

“Now, everyone—let’s give Roxanne the benefit of the doubt,” Harold said, holding up his hands to quell the abuse. “If she’s made the decision to become an estates agent, I’m sure she has her reasons.”

“Dad, what makes her think she has what it takes to be a real-a-tard?” Bronte asked peevishly.

“Stop calling it that,” Roxanne snapped.

“Bronte!” Harold scolded his son.

“That’s one of her words,” Bronte replied defensively, leveling a mocking smirk at his sister.

“Daddy, can we discuss this in private?” Roxanne asked, standing abruptly.

“That’s not necessary, Roxanne,” Daphne said. “You are free to say anything you wish without censure in this household, and I want your brothers and sister to remember that. So, sit down, darling, and explain this decision of yours to us so that we might understand it.” Daphne let her gaze hover over her offspring while she let her message sink in.

“Go on, dear,” Harold said encouragingly.

“Well, that’s it, really. I’ve done my research and found a course that seems practical and offers a money-back guarantee—”

“That’s handy,” Felicity said under her breath.

“…and I can complete the course and take my exam in five or six weeks.”

“What’s the guarantee cover, passing the exam or earning a living?” Bronte asked.

“Let’s say you do pass the course, then what?” Lloyd asked, his normally placid face positively glowing with malice.

“Then I become a licensed real estate agent and start looking for a company to work for.
What
?”

“I know you’re not one for keeping up with current affairs, but haven’t you heard anything about what’s happening in the real estate arena these days?”

“For your information,
Lloyd
, I do read the papers and I do know what’s going on in the ‘real estate arena.’ But this is California—it’s one of the most desirable places in the country to live. And there are many reasons for that—the climate, the access to beaches, deserts, mountains, the lifestyle. California’s the Golden State. Everyone who doesn’t live here fantasizes about it at some time or other. We may be experiencing a down market, but it’s only a matter of time before the situation will stabilize,” Roxanne concluded, hoping the others found her assertions more convincing than she did.

“Looks like you’ve got the spiel down, but as Felicity pointed out, you have virtually no sales experience,” Lloyd rebuked her.

“Forget experience—what about aptitude. I’d say she’s the least likely candidate for real estate sales I’ve ever come across,” Bronte fired off.

“Why do you say that?” Roxanne demanded. Bronte waved the question away, as if it were too obvious to require an explanation. “Is it because you think the only worthwhile pursuits involve selfless devotion and the willingness to work for a salary only modestly above the poverty level?”

This barb drew astonished gasps from her parents, jeers from Lloyd and Felicity, and a stoic leer from Brother Bronte. Working as a crisis counselor at youth shelter afforded Bronte not only a pitifully small pay check, but a gold star, halo and all the rest. In other words, Saintly Bronte was beyond reproach. Never mind that he held two master’s degrees—one in psychology, the other in English—each costing in the neighborhood of a hundred grand a piece. Why should anyone expect him to make a decent living?

“There are more noble endeavors in life than just going for the almighty buck,” Bronte replied with pious condescension.

“Funny how what you do for a living is noble, yet the fact that I work hard to support myself and my son is somehow less than noble. How does that add up?”

“Really, Roxanne—are you saying that Derek doesn’t provide child support?” Felicity asked caustically.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I have to work to pay the bills. And you’re wrong if you think his support covers all of Conner’s expenses. Sure, we may be getting by—barely—but is it really wrong to want more than that for myself and my son?” Roxanne challenged.