The Queen Gene (7 page)

“I don’t need a receipt, darling,” Anjoli informed me.

“You’re one of a kind, Mother.”

“Thank you.” Anjoli moved on. “I wonder what Paz’s new name will be. Now, Lucy, it will be very important for you to call Paz by his new name after the rebirthing. Any reminder of his old life could trigger a relapse.”

“Mother, I go through that every time we talk,” I said. “Maybe I should get a new name. From now on, please call me Jennifer.”

“Blah!” she said.

“Mother, I need to go,” I said. “Aunt Bernice is taking us to the broadwalk tonight, and it’s getting dark.”

Jack, Bernice, Adam, and I made it to the ocean in time to watch brushstrokes of periwinkle settle into night. The broadwalk offered a Latin jazz band reminiscent of Tito Puente. How my aunt had the energy to dance every number while carrying Adam in her arms was beyond me. “Care to dance, miss?” Jack asked me.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I said shyly, pretending we just met. “I’m not sure it would be a good idea.”

“It’s a very bad one, I assure you,” Jack said, winking. “Dance with me until we’re old enough to live down here.”

“Then what?” I asked, batting my eyes coquettishly.

Jack grabbed my hand and yanked me on to the dance floor. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look on this trip?”

Mentioned how beautiful I look on this trip? Or on this trip has he mentioned how beautiful I am — always?

Upon our return to Bernice’s apartment, there were two messages. Each was from Paz. I’m sure because I could hear my mother chattering away in the background.

Early the next morning, Paz hit redial yet again. He must have known of his pending fate. I picked up the phone.

“Bernice’s house,” I answered. Pause. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?”

Yap yap yap.

“Paz, is that you?”

I heard my mother and Alfie in the background. They were talking about the price of real estate in Greenwich Village while also discussing “what a shame” something was.

“Mother!” I shouted. “Hang up the phone!” No response. “It’s Lucy. Your dog is calling me again. Please hang up!!!”

“Darling, it’s not like she was a young woman,” Anjoli said in the distance.

“Hello! Hang up the phone!” I shouted.

I heard Alfie’s voice return, “Well call me the bleeding-heart queen, but I hate to see anyone kick the bucket.”

Oh my God, who died?!

“Hello! Pick up the phone, please. Who died?!” I shouted louder than before.

Aunt Bernice rushed into the room. “Lucy, stop tawking like that. You’ll frighten the whole building. It’s bad luck to tawk about dying in the condo.”

It is?

I heard Anjoli again. “She bought the place before I did, so I know she’s not carrying a mortgage. Four apartments. If I could buy it below market, it would be an incredible investment, darling. And think about how easy the property management would be with me right across the street! Maybe I could convert it to a co-op!”

Alfie interrupted my mother’s real estate fantasy. “And why, pray tell, do you think her kids would sell you the place below market?” Pause. “Oh Jesus, they’re taking the body.”

“Why would they put her into an ambulance like that, darling?” Anjoli asked.

“Like what?” Alfie inquired.

“Like
dead,
darling.”

“I’m going to miss Mrs. MacIntosh,” Alfie said. “She was like an institution on your block.”

“Me, too” was Anjoli’s empty return.

So, Mrs. MacIntosh from across the street had died. When Anjoli bought her place, Mrs. MacIntosh was the first one to come by and give us an old-fashioned welcome to the neighborhood. She was the only one on the block who consistently provided chocolate for trick-or-treaters. She was the one I’d go to for the spare key when Anjoli accidentally locked me out.

My mother was appraising the property before her dead body had been removed from her home. “Four apartments,” my mother said dreamily. I heard Alfie ask a question. “
That,
my darling Alfie, is why I think I’ll get the place below market,” Anjoli replied.

What was why? What was why?! I hated only being able to hear. Who had just entered stage left?

“Lord have mercy, look at those bangs!” Alfie said.

Whose bangs? They couldn’t mean Mrs. MacIntosh, could they? Were they really saying a dead woman was having a bad hair day?

Alfie continued. “Oh God, I hate it when they cry like that. Honey, get a grip. Throwing yourself on the body is not going to bring mumsy back to life.”

They’re making fun of a woman who just lost her mother?

“Those bangs really are atrocious,” Anjoli added.

I cannot believe what I’m hearing!

“Tell me about it, she looks like Xena the Warrior Princess got married and moved to the suburbs,” Alfie added.

“Xena is a lesbian,” Anjoli corrected.

I stood in Aunt Bernice’s guest bedroom, unable to speak. Paz was silent too, presumably as appalled as I was.

“Oh, sorry, love,” Alfie snapped. “How ludicrous of me to suggest that Xena might get married and move to the suburbs. Not like the other oh-so-realistic elements of that show. Bangs on a warrior, puh-lease! She’d have to get the damned things trimmed every six weeks. Have you ever seen a salon on the show?”

“Hello!” I shouted. They continued.

“So why do you think Xanax the Suburban Warrior is going to sell you the place below market?” Alfie asked.

“Anyone with hair like that won’t have a clue what the place is worth, darling,” my mother said with satisfaction. “She’s the type of dullard who thinks experimental theater is Cathy Rigby crossing gender lines to play Peter Pan. Do you think it would be in poor taste to go over there now?”

“To make an offer?” Alfie asked.

“Uh huh,” Anjoli returned.

“Very. Why don’t you go over and extend your sympathy or something?” Alfie suggested.

“Fabulous!” Anjoli exclaimed. “Lay the groundwork. Alfie, run to Jefferson Market and pick up a pie for me, won’t you, darling?”

“I’m already there,” he said. Then he gasped. “Oh Jesus! Look at what’s under those bangs! Curse the breeze that revealed
that
to my fragile eyes!”
What the?
Alfie’s next comment filled me in. “Has she
not
heard of Botox? I could compose music on that forehead.”

“It is unfortunate, isn’t it?” Anjoli said.

“Tragic,” Alfie agreed. “Okay, I’m off to pick up pie. You go do your thing.”

Chapter Eight

When Jack, Adam, and I returned home, we were delighted to see that Tom had repaired the front stairs to our house. Before we left, one step looked as if it would break off the next time someone set his weight on it. I hoped he had had similar success with removing the cold spots from the house.

Later that afternoon, we drove past Tom and Robin’s. We saw Tom unloading groceries from his car and slowed down to chat.

“Thanks for all your work around the house, Tommy boy,” Jack said, catching his attention. “Make sure you’re keeping track of your hours, okay?”

“Yeah, I gotta tell ya, bro, something weird’s going on at that place of yours,” Tom said, skipping the niceties of exchanging details of our respective vacations. “Robin and I stopped by on Wednesday to see how much tile I needed to pick up to finish the bathroom. Thursday I come back with all the stuff, and it’s done.”

“What do you mean done?” I asked from the passenger seat of our Volvo wagon.

“I mean the job is finished. Done. Someone finished the bathroom tiling between Wednesday night and Thursday morning.”

“Impossible,” Jack scoffed. “No one else has the key to the house.”

“That’s not all,” Tom continued. “When we’re there on Wednesday night, Robin tripped on your front steps and broke her ankle.”

I glanced at Robin who was now standing in the doorway, waving. Her ankle was in a cast.

“Sorry ’bout that,” Jack said. “We’ll be happy to pay the medical bills.”

“I’m not worried about that, bro. We got insurance. But what freaks the fuck out of me,” Tom paused, glanced at Adam and apologized. “What freaks me out is that when we went back the next day, first thing we notice — before we even make it inside to see the bathroom tile — is that the steps are brand-spanking new.”

“You didn’t fix them?” Jack asked.

“I wish I could take credit. I’d love to charge you for it, but I didn’t do a thing.”

Jack and I spoke in unison. “Then who did?”

“No idea,” Tom said.

Robin slowly made her way out to say hello. “How was Florida?” She brushed her blond hair away from her full face.

“Fun,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your ankle.”

She waved a hand dismissively and said she’s always been a klutz. “I’ve been due for an injury for months.”

“So is your husband just being uncharacteristically modest or did he really not do all of that work on our house?” I asked.

“No, he really didn’t do it,” she said. “What can I say? You must have elves.”

We all gave a collective shrug, though Jack and I were concerned. When we returned home, we checked to see if any of our valuable items were missing. Everything was exactly where we had left it. It appeared that we had an intruder who stole nothing and did home repairs.

* * *

“I have some news, darling,” Anjoli said the next day when she called. “Spot is doing worlds better.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Spot,” Anjoli said. “It’s Paz’s new name. I know it’s
tres passé,
but the numerologist says it’s his true name and if we address him as such, he’ll feel at ease and stop chewing his fur.”

“Really?!” I was amazed. “And you say it’s working?”

“He hasn’t chewed once today. Oh, no! Stop it, Paz! I mean, Spot. Lucy, darling I’ll have to call you back. He’s at it again!”
Click.

“Who was that?” Jack asked.

“Who do you think?” I asked.

“The dog?”

“No, it was her. Paz was rebirthed last night. She’s calling him Spot now,” I updated Jack.

“Rebirthed?”

“It’s a breathing exercise that’s supposed to help you overcome the trauma of birth,” I said.

“Oh, of course,” Jack laughed. “How silly of me. Why is she calling him Spot?”

“It’s his
true
name according to her numerologist,” I explained.

We both rolled our eyes. Jack said he wanted to take Adam to see Clifford the Big Red Dog who was visiting a local book shop. He asked if I wanted to join. “I’m going to pass if it’s all the same to you,” I said. “Maybe I’ll call Robin and see if she wants to swim laps at the gym since we’re now both members of the bad ankle club.”

Jack kissed my forehead and went into the kitchen where Adam was playing with a See and Say toy. “Suit yourself,” he said. “You couldn’t keep me away from an overgrown red dog that’s free of nervous disorders. Hey, maybe that should be your next book, Luce — pets who undergo new age healing therapy. I can see it now,
Clifford’s First Séance
. Whaddya think?”

“I think you’re adorable,” I laughed.

“Or Minnie Mouse’s cousin from California who wants to know who moved her cheese?” Jack continued.

“Or maybe she goes to an acupuncturist because someone moved her chi?” I added.

Jack pouted playfully. “I hate it when you one-up me.”

“Go!” I said. “Let me get some work done. Say hi to Clifford for me.”

* * *

A week had passed since we returned from Florida, which meant we had only four days until Maxime and Jacquie arrived from France. Although Jack and I had been corresponding with them for months, they were still strangers, and the prospect of having them come live with us until after Labor Day was a terrifying one. They seemed like an easygoing couple, but Jack and I were still nervous about how our first guests would react to our artist colony. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Jack and I sat at Steve’s Lunch in Ann Arbor, eating Bi Bim Bops, sketching our dream on their plain paper placemats. In many ways, it was another lifetime. We were just dating then, and hadn’t been through four miscarriages and a tough pregnancy. We hadn’t nearly divorced, then found our way back to each other.

Robin and I swam laps together twice, but neither of us saw any progress. My doctor said that sprains could take several months to completely heal and gave me a list of exercises to do at home. Admittedly, I had done none of them, but I blame Robin for my lack of motivation. After her first attempt at self-administered physical therapy, she reported that her ankle actually felt worse. I decided that the most therapeutic route to take was to do nothing.

As I was shopping for bedding for Maxime and Jacquie, my cell phone rang. The caller identification indicated it was either my mother — or her dog. “You are not going to
believe
what is happening to me, darling!” Anjoli shot.

“Hello, Mother,” I said. “How are you?”

She failed to get my point. “How am I? I am in
crisis
, darling, that’s how I am. Can you not detect a tone of horror in my voice?!”

“What is the crisis du jour, Mother?”

“I’m sure you remember that I put an offer in on the brownstone across the street, darling,” she began.

“Oh yes, Mrs. MacIntosh’s place,” I said, sadly. “The block won’t be the same without her. I’m sorry we couldn’t make the funeral. How was it?”

“How was it?” Anjoli snapped. “It was a funeral, what do you want, a review? We drove out to Queens, listened to an hour of prayers and speeches, then stood outside in twenty-degree weather and watched them drop a casket into the ground. People cried, survivors wore black,” she rushed. “Anyway, I specifically told her daughter to talk to me before she listed the property with a realtor.”

“You told her this at the funeral?” I asked.

“Don’t be ludicrous, darling,” Anjoli said. “I waited until the reception.”

“The reception?”

“You know, darling. The reception. It’s where we all cram into someone’s house, and they put out a crumb cake, some cheese, and coffee,” Anjoli said.

“So you approached her about real estate at her mother’s funeral?” I asked.