Every Boy's Got One (32 page)

Well, let me know. And if you talk to your mother or sister, tell ’em to lay off me. They’ve bled me dry. I don’t have two pesos left to rub together.

Mañana.

Dad

To: Cal Langdon

Fr: Mary Langdon

Re: You

So I take it from your not emailing me back that you have no interest in me or my life. I guess the word FAMILY doesn’t mean anything to you.

Whatever. I can get along fine without you—which is why the judge granted me Emancipated Minor status in the first place.

I’m in Canada, now, in case you’re interested. Not that MY travels could be of any interest to such a jet-setter like yourself. Where are YOU now, anyway? Gstaad? Ougoudagou? Some place more fabulous than where I am, I’m sure.

Don’t worry (like you
would
), I’m sure I’ll be fine. It’s not that cold here yet. Well, except at night. But I’ve been sleeping in the van. Too bad Jeff can’t leave the heat on overnight, but it wears out the battery.

See you in the next life.

Mare

To: Mary Langdon

Fr: Cal Langdon

Re: You

What is wrong with you? Why are you sleeping in some guy’s van? I thought you’d have learned a lesson about that, given what happened last time.

And I DID reply to your last email. If you’d quit changing your email address every two days, you might actually hear from some of the people you’ve written to once in a while.

I can give you another thousand bucks if you let me know where I can wire it. But what happened to the grand I sent you last month? What are you doing with all of my money, anyway? If I find out you’re blowing all of my money on drugs, Mary, I’m cutting you off. Do you understand me? Because I don’t think you’re quite getting the Emancipated part of being an emancipated minor. Which, by the way, at 25, you’re not anymore.

Cal

To: Cal Langdon

Fr: Mary Langdon

Re: You

Oh my God, you are the best big brother any girl’s ever had EVER! Send the money to the Western Union here in Whistler, BC.

And we have to live in the van because all the cheap apartments and hotel rooms are taken by Winter X boarders right now, gearing up for the games. But it’s cool, because we’re selling TONS of tie-dyed shit. We can’t dye it fast enough, it seems.

And I need the cash for necessities, tampons, and food and stuff, until we start showing a profit. Jesus, Cal. I would never do drugs. I need my brain cells for my ART.

Thanks—U R the BEST!!

Much love,

Your little sis

To: Mark Levine

Fr: Ruth Levine

Re: Hello!

Sweetie, I’m sorry to bother you, I know you’re having fun on your little European jaunt, but I need to know ASAP: What size sweater are you wearing lately? I know usually you like a Large, but you joined that gym, didn’t you? So maybe you’ve bulked up a little, and need an Extra Large?

I only ask because it turns out Susie Schramm—you remember, I told you about her in my last email—she knits! Yes! On top of being a high-powered legal eagle AND a size four, she knits in her spare time (I mean, the time she spares from her work and volunteering for B’Nai Brith, of course).

And I’ve commissioned a sweater for you from her. Apparently, she isn’t afraid to use bold colors, either. I know how much you love yellow, so that’s what you’re getting….

Ooops, it was supposed to be a Hannukah surprise! Oh, well!

Write soon and let me know.

Love,

Mom

To: Holly Caputo

Fr: Darrin Caputo

Re: Hello, it is your mother

Holly, it is your mother again. Darrin says I’m not to use his email anymore to write to you, but you do not pick up your cell phone when I call. Either your cell phone doesn’t work in Europe, or you are using that Caller ID, and not picking up when you see it is me.

Which is fine. I understand that you do not want to speak to your mother. Even though I am the one who gave birth to you, and wept with joy when I heard the doctor say you were a girl, the little daughter I had almost given up hope of having after four boys in a row.

I am writing now because I saw Jane Harris’s mother at the Kroger Sav-On yesterday, and what she said to me there disturbs me very much. Your father says it is nothing, but I do not agree. I was telling Mrs. Harris how lucky she is to have a daughter like Jane, who sees only nice Christian boys, like that very pleasant British boy, Dave, and the investment banker, Malcolm.

And Mrs. Harris says to me, “But Mark Levine is very nice, too. Listen, Maria, you must stop thinking of it as losing a daughter, but instead, of gaining a son.”

What does Claire Harris mean by this? Why would she think I am gaining a son? I do not need any more sons, I already have four… five if you count Darrin’s Roberto. Holly, you are not thinking of doing something foolish when you are in Italy, are you?

I hope you know that if you marry this boy Mark, he will NOT be a son to me. Just as you will no longer be my daughter. Think on this, I beg you.

I will pray for you.

Your mother

Somebody needs to take Cal Langdon aside and tell him that that shirt he is wearing, which I am sure he thinks is very cutting edge and SoHo, actually makes him look gay. How can a straight man not know this?

And I know Cal is straight. Not just because he was married before, or the skank I saw slinking from his hotel room, because you know, those don’t really prove anything anymore, in today’s day and age (just look at Curt). I know because of what happened just now at the restaurant we’re having dinner at since it was raining again (what is WRONG with this country?) and nobody felt like cooking outside, much less risking all the electricity going off again by turning the oven on inside.

Plus everybody seems to be in a really bad mood, although no one will tell me why.

It must be the rain.

Anyway, they only let us into this restaurant after we stood at the door for like ten minutes tapping at the glass, then begging the proprietors in broken Italian to please please serve us, as they, like every restaurant owner we have encountered in Porto Recanati (except of course the Crazy Bar and Sexy Tattoo Shop), are actually very reluctant to prepare food and sell it to people, though they haven’t bothered to put a closed sign in their window. Apparently in the off-season what Le Marche restauranteurs do is invite all of their aged friends to sit in their restaurant at night and watch
Magnum PI
—in Italian of course—and ignore any actual paying customer who might wander in.

Thank God Mark is incapable of taking no for an answer, or we would never get fed. He carries this
Guide to Le Marche
handbook around with him and insists we have to eat at all the places Holly’s uncle marked for us. He even showed the restaurant proprietors their ranking, and insisted they feed us. Maybe it’s something to do with him being around sick patients all day, but Mark just exudes this “Be nice to me” vibe, which people totally seem to respond to.

I mean, except for Holly’s mom.

And it’s not really as sickening as it sounds. On him, it works, and doesn’t leave you feeling like you want to hit him over the head with a pool cue or anything.

Anyway, the way I know Cal is not gay, in spite of the shirt and the model ex-wife—and Holly’s assurances to the contrary, of course, but hey, the future wife of the best friend is not always the first to know—is that after
Magnum
, the movie
Babe
came on, the one about the little pig who can herd sheep, and all of the Marquesians or whatever they are sat there, enrapt, in their traditional Le Marche-wear of jeans and Bon Jovi T-shirts, but Cal never blinked an eye. He just went right on drinking his grappa like it was actually good and not something that should only be sold as a facial astringent.

No gay guy can resist the lure of
Babe
. Not that I think the restauranteur and all of his aged friends are gay. They’re just foreigners. They probably cried at the end of
Magnum
, only I missed it because I was in the men’s room, trying to smuggle out a roll of toilet paper, because of course there wasn’t one in the ladies’ room. Ditto a toilet seat.

Which, by the way, I have to say
What’s up with that?
about. Clearly, Italian women never go to the bathroom outside of their own homes. That is the only thing I can think of to explain the state of some of the ladies’ washrooms in Le Marche. What do all the Italian ladies do, anyway, when they have to go? Just squat? I can barely make it into a squat during Pilates, and that’s in drawstring pants. What are the chances of me squatting in control-top panties and a pair of tight capris around my knees? Seriously? Think about it. The restaurant owners obviously haven’t.