Fate and Ms. Fortune (12 page)

“It’s the day he died,” he choked. “December twenty-second.”

“No, the World Trade Center was on nine eleven.”

“Not the day Larry died. Mo. The day Mo died.”

“Oh my God.” I started to weep. “They’re both…?”

Ken looked at me, one eye bandaged, the other wet with tears. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him how sorry I was, but he had been ever so clear about his feelings about pity. And yet, what could be worse than to be this young and the last man standing?

“I don’t know what to say.” I sighed.

“I do,” Eddie Fisher called out. “It means I need one of them cellular phones. My kids are always telling me, Dad you gotta get one, but I said what for? Who’s gonna call me? The bill collectors? But maybe it’s a way my Veronica can reach me…”

Ken and I looked at each other. Who here had a decent explanation? Even a wild-ass guess.

“I frankly don’t know what to say, either.” Ken squeezed my hand. “But obviously there is plenty to think about.” He smiled.

I
NEVER UNDERSTOOD
the concept of paying to have the crap scared out of you at the movies. Frankly, life was surreal enough. And yet, somehow, without my expressed, written consent, I had inadvertently walked onto the set of a Fellini film, where confusing and improbable scenes were being shot in real time, with me playing the lead role. Please. Somebody yell, “Cut.”

Think I’m being a drama queen? Not after the day I had. And it wasn’t over. In the cab on the way home from the hospital, Phillip called for a Mom update, and when I said, once again that day, that I had no idea where she was, he went nuts. “Then get her a goddamn cell phone already!”

“I don’t want to get her a goddamn cell phone. I want her to go home so she can’t read my mail and listen to my messages and hock me every morning about brushing my gums and taking my vitamins and ask me ten times a day where I’m going and when I’m coming home and who I’m going out with and is he from a good family and what do his parents do…I’m not kidding. By next week I’ll be up on murder one.”

“Then I promise to represent you.”

“You’re a bankruptcy lawyer!”

“Exactly. You need to protect your assets during your incarceration.”

“I
have
no assets.”

“Even better. Then you won’t interfere with my paying clients.”

“I know where you live, Phillip. Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m under a lot of stress right now.”

“Oh that’s right. You work for a living, unlike me who raises sheep and lives off the land.”

“You’re just pissed that I didn’t tell you about the cancer.”

“Damn right. That was unforgivable.”

“Tough. I still think we did the right thing. Anyway, what did she say when you told her?”

“That she’s fine and to leave her the hell alone.”

“Yeah right. Like she’d ever let us ignore her. That would be a story for
Daybreak.”

“Actually, the late-breaking story is she wants to fly to Phoenix.”

“For what? She hates the heat.”

“Oh right. I didn’t get to tell you her other big secret.”

“Save it for later. I have to go get Max at hockey practice and pick up dinner.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t try to tell you about Marvin Teitlebaum.”

“Who?”

“The man Mom was engaged to until he got cold feet and married some Asian girl. Now she wants to hunt him down in Phoenix and ask him if had any regrets.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Yes, because that’s what I do in my spare time. I dream up stories to try to fool you.”

“Wait…What did you say the guy’s name was?”

“Marvin Teitlebaum.”

“Really? That’s strange. A few weeks ago I did a favor for a new client, Alan Teitlebaum. He asked me to set up the estate plan for his father in Phoenix…and I think his name was Marvin.”

“Interesting…By any chance was Alan half Asian?”

“No, but come to think of it, I met his sister. She came up to the office to sign some papers, and she was one of those. Korean, Filipino. I don’t know. Something.”

“Wow. Hard to believe you’re not a UN ambassador.”

“Funny…You think it’s the same guy? Wait. Maybe his name was Alan Teitleberg…”

“Tell you what, chief. How about I get right on it and do a thorough investigation?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m telling Mom you cursed.”

Two minutes later, the gypsy mother herself checked in. Seems she hadn’t enjoyed her day with Aileen because breast reduction and tummy tuck aside, the woman hadn’t changed a bit from her self-absorbed days when she drove to the annual block party, just to show off her new car.

And what good was it having money to eat in nice restaurants if your idea of a decent meal was one of those
ferkakteh
“shooshi” places where they served nothing but squid and seaweed (and no cake and coffee)! Oh, and would I mind if Sierrapaigemather stayed at our apartment tonight because the poor kid would rather sleep on the floor than go home.

Did she just say OUR apartment?
No, she couldn’t bring her home. It wasn’t Noah’s Ark, where runaways lined up two by two. “By the way, whose phone are you using?”

“Hers. We’re in a cab on the way back to Brooklyn.”

Then while I was on the phone, Ken left a voice mail. I seemed like a very nice person, but he hoped he hadn’t given me the wrong impression when he held my hand. Obviously
his life was too crazy to get involved right now. As for the funeral, it was at Riverside Memorial at two and could I please look for the navy suit that just came back from the cleaner’s and pick out a shirt and tie I thought looked good with it? “And don’t forget dress shoes, even though I can only wear one.”

Was it too soon to ask for a raise?

I swear I was home maybe five minutes when my work cell and my beeper went off at the same time. My cue to hightail it back to the studio. So like a firefighter who had been trained to slide down the pole, I headed out the door after stuffing a bag with clean clothes, two apples, and a bag of Fritos. What I wouldn’t have given for some delicious “shooshi.”

“Yo yo homie Joe.” My mother laughed as she and Sierra got out of a taxi. “Now where are you going?

“Hold the cab.” I flew down the stoop. “I have to go back to the studio. Gretchen’s nose must be shiny. Did you just say yo yo homie Joe?”

“Isn’t that the cutest expression? It means…”

“I know what it means…See you guys later. Don’t touch my ice cream.”

“You want to go back with her?” my mom asked Sierra.

“What the fuck?” She shrugged.

“No. Uh uh.” I slipped past them into the cab. “We’ll manage without you…The Century Building in Columbus Circle.”

“How kin I go nowhere, ma’am?” The driver sobbed. “I sad for the pope. He with God now…I go to my church for Mass…”

“My condolences, sir…Really. He was the best pope ever…But could you maybe drop me off first?”

“Why can’t we go with you?” my mother whined. “I bet they could use some extra help.”

“Would you stop? I have to get to work. Gretchen will literally go on the air the second I finish her makeup.”

“Iz she thi news lady?” The driver blinked. “Que lindo!”

“Yes. Yes. That’s her. Do you like her?”

“Si. My daughter. She watch her every morning. She going to be big TV star one day, too.”

Lucky for me, Gretchen called. Yes, I was on my way as soon as I could convince the cabbie to take me back to midtown…Unless, wait a minute, would she be willing to march in the Puerto Rican day parade as a favor to my friend, Juan Carlos?

“Hell no,” she yelled.

“She’d love to,” I told him.

“Okay.” He clapped. “We go.”

“We go too.” My mother and Sierra pushed their way into the cab.

“Oh my God.” I shoved over. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“You’ll see.” She slammed the door. “You’ll be glad we’re there.”

“Plus, it’s a free country,” Sierra said. “We can go whereever we want. Right, Sheil?”

I really need to find out the penalty for murder in New York.
I ate my apple.

“Don’t eat with your eyes closed,” my mother said. “You could choke.”

“That’s the idea.”

“What’s gotten into you, Toots?” she asked, as if I’d come home from school with a puss.

“Nothing. I’m great. Couldn’t be better…did you two spend the whole day together?”

“Yes, and Sierrapaigemather couldn’t believe how awful Aileen behaved. Ordering this one around and that one around. P.S. She gained all her weight back. What did you call her, dear?”

“A fugly crap weasel.” She burped.

“All these new words I never knew…it’s marvelous.”

“Maybe you’d like to hear some of my favorites…Did you call Daddy today?”

“Why should I?”

“Don’t you want to know if he’s eating? If he’s taking his blood pressure medication?”

“If he’s hungry, he’ll eat. If he doesn’t want to get sick, he’ll take his pills…What about you? Did you speak to that poor fellow who needs a laugh?”

“Actually, we met.”

“And?”

“And there were all these odd coincidences. Like he started out Penn State and maybe went to Lohikan…and Rachel met him once before…but I don’t know. He wasn’t very nice.”

“But you’ll see him again because maybe he’s one of those who needs time to warm up?”

“I just said I didn’t like him. But yes, I’m seeing him tomorrow. We’re going to a funeral.”

“A funeral? What kind of date is that?”

“It’s not a date. I’m doing him a favor.”

“I never go to funerals,” Sierra blurted. “They’re a total crock.”

“You’re kidding,” I replied. “What if there’s a death in the family?”

“It’s not like the dead guy takes attendance.”

“Exactly. A funeral is to comfort the living, not the dead.”

“I’m sure Sierrapaigemather has her reasons,” my mother chimed in.

“Like she does for making people call her Sierrapaigemather? What is the deal with that?”

“I think it’s because her dad and grandmother died when she was so young,” my mother whispered. “Now every time you say her name, you honor their memories.”

“Mom,” I whispered back. “She’s not in the next room. She can hear you.”

But from the way Sierra peered out the window without uttering a nasty retort, perhaps Detective Mom had found the key that unlocked this girl’s troubled psyche. The what-the-fuck bravado was simply the deadbolt she’d installed as a kid to prevent any more sorrow and disappointment from breaking and entering her heart.

And if it was also true that she insisted on being called Sierrapaigemather as a way to keep alive the memories of two loved ones, I had to admit it was one of the sweetest things ever.

As the cab whizzed past street lights dotting the night sky, I studied my own pained reflection in the window and wondered how so much unhappiness and misfortune could inhabit my tiny world. Could I name even one person who thought life was good?

Within the confines of this car alone sat four burdened souls. A grieving man who feared for his future without the spiritual guidance of Pope John Paul II. A resentful wife who questioned why it was incumbent upon her to make a marriage work if her partner lacked interest. A young woman who came from wealth but was emotionally impoverished. And me, a thirty-three-year-old divorcee whose view of love had been tainted by high levels of broken promises.

And what of the men I knew? My father could look at a globe and point to the tiniest country in the Western Hemisphere. But when it came to finding his way back to his wife’s heart, he was hopelessly lost.

David was squandering his life in a men’s penitentiary, unable to see the irony of devoting his day to hacking the prison’s computer system so he could still gamble on line.

My brother was also imprisoned, but at the hands of his ungrateful, they-have-more-than-us family. Every year he
worked his ass off to provide for them, yet lived in fear that should he for any reason step down, Patti would take the kids and dump him for the first runner-up.

And now there was Ken, Mr. I-Once-Had-It-All. A cynical, sad man who had essentially admitted that after investing heavily in relationships, he had given up believing in the return of a bull market. Love was a cursed commodity.

My WFs were faring no better. In spite of her frequent consults with psychics, Rachel was so exhausted from juggling between the single mommy trap and the lawyer-partner trap, even she had lost hope that her load would ever lighten.

Julia had all the trappings of happiness; beauty, wealth, and fame, but gave about as much thought to her relationships as she did the purchase of a new pair of boots. She chose what looked good, but if they made her miserable after one wearing, off they went to the donate pile.

And finally, there was Gretchen, the grande dame of misery. No matter that she earned the gross national product of a small country. A happy girl did not have to befriend the twins Zoloft and Zinfandel, or prey on married men to assuage her fear that with the crops of young, beautiful TV journalists being delivered fresh to the networks each year, her sell-by date had expired.

So in spite of health, wealth, and the chance to live better than ninety-nine percent of the world, the people in my immediate circle were miserable. And from the likes of the tragic stories we broadcast every day, we were hardly alone. Most everyone, it seemed, felt not only deprived in some way, but incredibly gypped about something.

We expected a perfect marriage. A bigger paycheck. A better body. A newer car. A nicer home. A second home. The smartest kids. The right college. Championship teams. Prosperity. And anything they sold at Best Buy.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes. Maybe the problem
wasn’t so much that we had such high expectations, because we were born hardwired to dream. It was that we all felt entitled to whatever was on our wish list.

Unfortunately, when we put up our lives as collateral for happiness, there was often a small hitch. The harder we pushed, the farther we got from the finish line.

I would love to tell you that these were my insights, except that they belonged to a priest and a rabbi who recently appeared on the show to discuss the universal teachings of the pope. Although up until now, I had given no more thought to their words than I had the next guest, who was a leading expert in the fight against unscrupulous car dealers.

But taking stock of my struggles, and that of everyone around me, it hit me hard. True happiness would not come from praying for that which had eluded us, but being thankful for that which was already in our midst.

I had family, friends, good health, talent, a job, a nice place to live, food to eat and nobody trying to kill me because Jon Stewart was my idol. I think they called this belief system Zen Judaism. Think of misfortune as a blessing. Or else what would you talk about?

“Oh. By the way.” My mother nudged me. “I’ve decided to fly to Phoenix on Friday. All you gotta do is show me how to get one of those cheapy air fares from the computer.”

“No,” I said.

“Can I go with you?” Sierra asked.

“Sure,” my mom said. “Do you know how to do that Internet business?”