Lucy's Launderette (12 page)

I dug him hard in the ribs with my elbow. “Leo.”

“Well, you can't expect these poor Latins to carry on the role of oppressed subservience forever, can you?” The maid smiled wryly for a second, then looked oblivious.

Cherry appeared at that moment, dressed in something made of a bronze silk knit and slinky enough to show off every nub of her backbone and her flat, flat stomach despite three pregnancies. Her raven-black hair was in place, as usual.

“Lucy. You're here. Lucy and…” Her expression took a little tumble. “Have we met?”

“This is Leo,” I said.

She offered her hand and Leo leapt in and did a European thing, kissing her on both cheeks and saying “Enchanté.”

Cherry was clearly flustered. “I'm Charlotte-Mary.”

The big fake. Nobody ever called her Charlotte-Mary. You couldn't say it all without choking on it.

She regained her composure. “My, Lucy. Aren't you…active? We were expecting you to bring Jacques.”

“I just love the whole business of being single. Not tied down to anybody. It's so nice to have variety in life.” I grinned. Leo was doing the can't-keep-hands-off routine. I gazed into his eyes and whispered, “Not here, darling.”

“But we have so little time together.” He laid the sexual urgency on thick.

“Leo's flying out tonight,” I said to Cherry. “He has to conduct some opera in New York in a few days. What did you say it was, Leo darling?”

We had decided to slightly expand Leo's career for Cherry's sake.

He looked appropriately world-weary as he spoke. “Wag
ner.
Lohengrin.
I don't mind a few phoney swans. But last year it was the whole
Ring
nightmare. Tons of dry ice and cast-iron tits.”

Leo had just gone up about ten notches in Cherry's estimation. When it came to industrial-strength snobbery and collecting famous people, she had all the right genes. “Really?” She grabbed him by the elbow. “You must tell me all about it. I have a full subscription to the West Coast Opera Company.”

“You do? You have my deepest sympathies,” muttered Leo as Cherry led him away.

My mother was already fluttering around in the kitchen, one of Cherry's aprons protecting her cleavage-flaunting flame-colored chiffon dress.

“Hi, Mom. Where's Cherry's demon brood?”

“I do wish you wouldn't call them that, Lucy. It's just asking for trouble.”

Something small and greenish-brown wriggled on a plate. My mother bopped it with a wooden spoon. All movement ceased.

“Okay. Her little Attila the Hun clones then.” I went over and eyed what was on the platter. They looked like slugs.

“Really and truly, Lucille. I gather they're spending the night at a neighbor's down the road.”

“Shouldn't we check down the road then for smoke or the arrival of the bomb squad?” My mother shook her head. “Any news on Dad?” I asked her.

“Your father's still on the loose, I'm afraid.” She didn't seem very upset about it. In fact, she appeared to be thriving as never before. “Now where's that charming Jacques?”

“I didn't come with Jacques. I came with Leo.”

“Do I know him?”

“No.”

“You really must try to hang on to your man. You lost Frank and…”

“Frank needed to be lost.”

“I thought he was very nice. Very intellectual.”

“Forget about Frank, Mom. I want to know about Dad.”

“Oh, he's around. He pops in to clean up and catch up on family business. We're still friends, of course.”

“STILL FRIENDS?” Did I catch the whiff of separation?

“But I think if he were to become a grandfather, it might just help him get his feet back on the ground.”

I fled into the other room and the drinks table where Michael was pouring.

“Triple gin tonic, please, Michael.”

“Hi, Lucy. How's it going?”

“Just fine. You can put a little more gin in that.”

He handed me my drink. “I think I'll join you.” He raised his glass and said, “Here's to…I don't know what. What should we toast to?”

“Success. Any way you want it,” I said.

“Cheers. You here alone?”

“No. I'm here with Leo.”

“Oh. Do I know him?”

“No.”

Cherry swept in just then and stood beside Michael, looking glowing. They were as much like a portrait of the happy couple as was possible at that moment, Cherry yanking Michael closer and telepathically commanding him to smile.

It was a buffet dinner, and it began with everyone awkwardly balancing plates of peculiar little fried and slimy hors d'oeuvres, snails, frogs' legs and other amphibious creatures' body parts, then progressed to larger animals. Ostrich. Buffalo. Reindeer.

“It must be mad cow hysteria,” whispered Leo.

 

Halfway through dinner, I approached Cherry and said, “My mother tells me you've been keeping a lot of baby clothes. I'm very interested in laying my hands on some.”

“Really?” Cherry looked at me as though I'd just sprouted wings, then a smug expression swept across her face. “Is it you we're talking about? If I may be so bold?”

I just stared at her. She would read into it whatever she wanted.

“Yes,” she said, “looking at you now, I can see that you're starting to show, aren't you? Well then. This is definitely news. Might we know who the father is?”

I played along. “It's impossible to say. I've lost count of all the men in my life. Several have offered to take responsibility though.” In my dream life!

She blanched before saying cautiously, “I've got all sorts of things in the attic.”

“So Mom was saying. Let's talk about it later. After all, this is yours and Michael's evening.”

 

When we got to the desserts, there was a lot of clinking of glasses and speech-making about thoroughbred race-horses that were only good for the short run and Clydesdales and plough-horses that were good for a lifetime. It seemed that Cherry was being compared to a plough-horse, which didn't sit well with her at all.

After all the anniversary toasting, Cherry said, “I think Lucy has an announcement to make.”

“No, I don't,” I snapped.

“I think you do,” said Cherry.

“Okay. I'll make an announcement. I'm happy to announce that I am maintaining the status quo of single unfettered womanhood.”

Cherry frowned.

I escaped to the kitchen. I was in the pantry rooting around for some soda crackers to settle my stomach when a hand grabbed one of my buttocks.

“Leo.”

“Don't think so.”

But the voice was very familiar.

I
craned my neck. “Michael.”

“You're looking very sexy these days, Lucy. I like a woman with a shape to her, and a little something up top to hold on to.” His hands had migrated north and were carrying out an extensive exploration of my breasts.

“It's awfully hot in here…MUST…GET…AIR…” I pried myself out of his clutches and ran out the back door, down the steps to the garden and to the swimming pool area. I kept out of sight, lurking for a while behind the shrubbery, pretending to make an inspection of the bulbs at the side of the house. If I waited long enough, Michael would be too drunk to remember anything. On the other hand, he might be even more aggressive. I went back around to the pool area and tried the door to the little pavilion where the changing rooms were. It was open, so I went inside.

I must have been there for a half hour when Cherry ap
peared. She towered over me. She clamped her hands onto her hips and spat out her words. “They're going to find out sooner or later. It's ridiculous…it's so childish to think that hiding out here in the garden will help. These things can't be kept secret. I know the hormones make you do strange things but you really should grow up. Being a parent is a big responsibility.”

“Jesus, Cherry. Lighten up. I'm not pregnant. I was just pulling your leg. Hasn't Mom told you about Connie?”

“Connie?” Cherry was a cousin on my mother's side. It was unusual that any tidbit of gossip ever escaped that particular network.

“Jeremy's girlfriend.”

“That…person…Jeremy brought back from the States? I know Connie. Why? Your mother didn't say anything about her.” Cherry's mouth tightened with a superior air.

I had just assumed my mother knew. If she didn't know before, she would know before the evening was out.

“We're going to have a new aunt or uncle,” I said.

“We're what?”

“Connie's pregnant.” In a sucky tone, I said, “It means my father's going to have a half brother or sister and we're going to have an uncle.”

“That's absolutely disgusting.”

Poor Cherry. She couldn't stand the unconventional unless it was in art or fiction. When it showed up in real life, it terrified her. I felt a tiny little tingle of power, knowing her perfect husband was a perfect lech. I felt a little sorry for her, too, for the first time in my life.

“I just wanted some baby things for Connie. She's been having a hard time. The nausea hasn't gone away and with Jeremy's death and everything…”

Guilt. The gift that goes on giving.

Cherry scrunched up her eyebrows and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her dress. After a long pause she said huffily, “Oh all right, we can take a look at the things a little later. They're boys' clothes though.”

“She hasn't mentioned the sex. I'm not sure she's even been to a doctor.”

“How grossly irresponsible.”

“Give her a break. She doesn't have your…advantages.”

“I find that people generally get what they deserve in life,” said Cherry, very sure of herself.

I lowered my voice to a near-whisper. “Well, Cherry, maybe you've got what you deserve and don't even know it yet.”

“What did you just say? I didn't catch that.”

“Oh nothing.”

 

That night I left with a cardboard box full of sleepers, booties, bibs, sweaters, undershirts, burp cloths and more.

In the taxi, Leo kept putting his finger in his throat and making very exaggerated gagging noises. “You're not becoming one of those broody women that are always goo-gooing and gaw-gawing and drooling and slobbering over other people's reproductive efforts. God, before we know it, you'll be knitting for other people's little pissers, too. There'll be the ubiquitous clicking of needles wherever we go. Then I suppose when you are old and barren and childless, and you've been dumped by numerous men, you'll just give up completely and let your mustache and chin hairs grow long.”

“My leg and armpit hair, too, Leo. At that point, I might as well throw in the towel.”

“Well, I must tell you, there's one advantage with age, the chin hairs turn white and you don't notice them so much.”

“Thanks, Leo. Your comments are awfully consoling.”

“Your two eyebrows will revert to one, then you'll invite all the stray cats into your one-room apartment, and there'll be a terrible smell of cat piss and all the neighbors will complain and you'll feed your kitties people-food, and knit little booties and coats for them and talk to them as though they were your children.”

“There might be worse things in life,” I replied. Although I couldn't think of a single one.

 

It was another Sunday morning at the gallery. I imagined Nadine curled up in her bed with one of her many sex slaves, or some other person who shall remain nameless.

I was forced to sit there at my desk, propping up my hung-over head, suppressing yawns. The world went by and people stared in through the big plate-glass window from time to time, as if I were a fish in a tank. I didn't feel like one of the pretty ones though, the angel fish, or even a goldfish. I felt like one of those black bulgy-eyed Victorian curiosities that suck up stones then spit them back out onto the surface of the fishtank.

I called Reebee. She said, “You read my mind. I was just thinking of you and your Connie problem. I had some herbal preparations for aggravated morning sickness made up. They won't harm the child but I should probably come so I can make sure the instructions on how to take them are understood.”

“A baby shower,” I said.

“A baby shower?” asked Reebee.

“I know. It's a hopelessly fifties idea but I just couldn't think of anything better so I thought I'd pretend that Connie was normal and that everything was all right. I put together a few baby things and I figured if there were other people there we could call it a party, a baby shower and she wouldn't kick me out of the house so quickly.”

“When did she ever kick you out of the house?”

“Well, never. Actually.”

“Then she probably wants you to be there. She needs the company, whether she knows it or not. I think a shower is an excellent idea. I'm sure I can scrounge up the odd thing.”

“It's a good excuse to stuff our faces with gooey sweet desserts.”

“A cheesecake. Some carob brownies. A carrot cake. That way we can say it's a bit nutritional. Must think of health. When are you going to spring it on her?”

“I'll let you know.”

“Lucy, another question. Your painting? How's it going?”

“What painting?”

“I see.”

I phoned Connie that morning. She picked up after twelve rings and was her usual sullen self. I told her I needed to see her and that I would be over on Monday night around seven, if she was home, that was.

“Where am I going in this condition? Yeah, I'll be here,” she droned.

I was flipping through catalogues from other galleries when a shadow fell across my desk. I looked up. Pressed against the window was Dirk. Six-feet-four inches of rapid-cycling manic depression with a long beard and mud-stained Chlorpromazine Cloisters pajamas. I shrieked, ran into Nadine's empty office and locked the door. Then I called both of Sam Trelawny's numbers. I had taken to carrying them next to my skin for just such an emergency.

I got Sam right away at the second number.

“He's here,” I blurted.

“Wait a minute. Who's where? Who's speaking please?”

“Lucy. Lucy. It's Lucy Madison. He's here. Dirk's here. He's
outside and about to come in. Send help. Send in the Marines. Send somebody.”

“Lucy. Calm down. You'd find the Canadian Marines a bit of a disappointment, I think. Tell me where you are.”

“Rogues' Gallery.” I gave him the address.

“Okay, Lucy, now you hang up. I'll call the police and the team, and then call you back. Give me the number you're calling from.”

Five minutes later, sirens screamed up in front of the gallery. I unlocked the door and peeked out. Of course there was no chance that Dirk would still be there. But on my desk was a note scrawled on a stick'em note with one of my pens. “YOU'RE HAMBURGER,” it said.

I let the two officers in, then began to rant and rave at the ceiling and the gods in general. The two cops stared at each other hopelessly. Then I started on them, “You two. Go out there and get him. He can't be far away. How far can he have gone in five minutes? He's a wanted felon. He's a fugitive. Don't just stand there like lumps of dough.”

I was so ineffective that they couldn't even be bothered to take offense. The two of them shrugged. The police department had spared sending me their best and brightest that morning. It took the two officers a long time to get a statement from me, the dotting of i's and the crossing of t's presenting all sorts of problems. When they'd gone, the phone rang.

It was Sam again. “Are you okay, Lucy? I'm really sorry to tell you this, but the team isn't available right at this moment. They have a hostage-taking situation in the West End. Some very upset man holding his wife and kids at gunpoint. The usual scenario. Man was just fired from his job. Went off his medication a few months ago. I'm really sorry.”

“That's okay. It's useless anyway,” I said through my
tears, “they're never going to get Dirk and if they do get him, they won't be able to keep him.”

“You're crying,” he said.

“It's nothing. I'm a crier.”

“That's good. It means you let it go. You release your feelings.” His voice ran over me like a gentle hand.

“If you say so. But I wish I didn't.”

“It must seem to you that we're all pretty incompetent.”

“Well…”

“Well, we are. We're letting you down. I'm the first to admit it. But Dirk really is calling for help. I know it doesn't look that way but he's going to come to earth and the landing will be hard… Lucy, are you there?”

Paul Bleeker had just come in. I quickly dried my eyes and tried to look collected. He sat on the edge of my desk and grinned at me.

“I'm here. Listen, Sam, I have to go.”

“Okay. Remember, Lucy, he's wanted and we're going to get him.”

“Sure. Bye.”

Paul took the receiver out of my hand, hung it up and said, “Lucy, I came around to your place yesterday evening but you weren't there.”

And to think I could have spent my Saturday night with Paul instead of my family.

“I was out,” I said.

He bent over and kissed me. Then he pulled me up out of my chair, put his arm around my waist and led me to the back of the gallery, where he began to open doors.

“What are we doing?” I asked. Pre-exhibit preparations I hoped. I couldn't wait to see how he had immortalized me.

“What do you think we're doing?” he said.

He led me into the storage cupboard. It was filled with
old crates, boxes, pedestals and room dividers. He lunged at me and I tumbled onto a heap of filthy old dustcovers and rugs.

The fact that I was wearing a skirt made him gleeful. “I just love this kind of clothing,” he said, lowering himself on top of me and not even bothering to unbutton my blouse. “So easy to ravish you.” As usual, the ravishing took approximately three minutes and I was covered from head to toe with dust when I finally stood up and brushed myself off. Once out of the storeroom and back in the gallery, he lit up his Sobranie. I tried not to let it get to me, but I have to admit, I was starting to feel a little used.

“No smoking in here, Paul.” At first I whispered it and then when he appeared not to have heard, I barked it.

“Good lord, listen to little Miss Propriety. Nadine's never complained.”

“Well, the day that we have to call the fire department because the place has burned to the ground and the insurance won't cover it because someone was smoking and they find that cute little gold tip, believe me, she'll be complaining.”

Paul looked around for an ashtray, saw Jeremy's urn and began to make a move.

“I think we've been through all this before, Paul. This is my grandfather and I will personally cut the marrons glacés off anybody who tries to butt their cigarette out in his remains.”

He looked slightly startled then smiled. “Yeah, all right. Try to come round to the studio when you have a moment. I wouldn't mind doing a few last-minute adjustments. It's not absolutely essential but it could be helpful. Do try to make it round. See you, luv,” he said, and headed for the street.

 

Reebee came to pick me up on Monday evening. I'd talked Sky into coming, too. The back seat of Reebee's car was full of baby things. A high chair, a small cot, a basinette. We also had lots of food.

Connie opened the door, took one look at all of us, shook her head, turned around and went inside. She motioned with one hand for us to come in and we followed her to the smoky living room. The house looked undisturbed. Neither messed-up nor cleaned-up. As though no one had been living there.

Her face was caving in. She was so thin, a stick figure with a bulge. She scrutinized us and lit up a cigarette.

“How's it going, Connie?” I asked.

“How do you think it's going? Life's a fucking bed of roses, isn't it?”

Reebee suddenly became stern and matronly, her eyes were like twin storms. “Sky. Lucy. Go take a walk around the block. I want to be alone with this woman.”

Sky rolled her eyes and said, “Voodoo. C'mon.”

Reebee continued, “In about an hour you can bring in the things from the car, okay? Now disappear, both of you.”

“Jeez,” said Sky. “When she acts like a mother she can be such a Nazi.” This seemed to please Sky somehow.

We walked around the block slowly. It was well into April and spring was beginning to make itself felt. The early buds on the trees made a lacy backdrop and the air was a little warmer and sweet with the scent of the first daffodils and new grass. Sky raved about Max and I raved about Paul and the two of us decided we would drive to Seattle that Wednesday, my day off, and spy on Max.