This One Is Mine: A Novel (35 page)

The phone rang. David answered it. Sally held herself up, both hands on the counter. Her insides stung as if she’d just been eviscerated.

David handed her the phone. “Dr. Naeby, for you.”

“Oh,” said Sally.

“Okay. I’m going to the office. See you later.” David left. She waited for the door to shut, then took the call.

“Hi, Sally,” said Dr. Naeby. “How are you this morning?”

“Fine.”

“No cramping or excessive bleeding?”

“No, everything’s fine.”

“That’s the good news.” Dr. Naeby changed gears. “Now, about your blood test. Something of concern showed up in the first one, and that’s why I wanted to run another. . . .”

K
ARA
stood proudly before David. Not only had she pieced together Geddy Lee’s message, but she’d also found the eBay auction and e-mailed David the link. David seemed unusually interested in it and had asked her to get Geddy Lee on the phone. David had just hung up and called Kara in.

“The bass?” he said.

“Yes?” Kara had pen in hand, ready to take notes.

“Pay for it with cash. I want that bass, the seller’s name, and where he lives on my desk before lunch.”

It took Kara a second to realize she was committing the number one cardinal sin of an assistant: standing there with the deer-in-headlights look. She had to say something, but all that came out was “Muawh —”

“Get it done,” David said.

“Of course.” Kara calmly walked down the hall to the office of the guy who did the bookings. “Hi, would you mind covering David’s phones?” she asked his secretary.

“Sure,” said the older Hillary, who had no choice. As David’s assistant, Kara outranked her.

Kara returned to her computer and found the auction. There was an option that let you “Buy It Now.” Which was a whopping $10,000. The actual auction had only reached $1,200 and it closed at five. It seemed stupid to pay $10,000 now, when David could probably buy the bass in a few hours for much less. Kara rose from her chair to point this out, then sat back down. It wasn’t her job to second-guess David. She bought the bass, contacted the seller, and got his address. He wanted to know more about her, but she said nothing. Any information was too much information.

The messenger from the bank arrived with the cash, and Kara walked him into David’s office. David tore open the plastic envelope, counted the money, and signed for it.

“I have the address and I’ll leave now to get the bass,” Kara said.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“Really close: 8907 Sunset Boulevard.”

David’s head shot back. “That’s on the strip, right?”

“A place called Mauricio’s Boot Shop.”

David blinked. And blinked again. “Mauricio’s?”

“Yeah.”

David stood up. “I’ll get it myself.” He started out. The brick of hundreds was still on his desk.

“Don’t forget the money!” said Kara.

“Go to the bank and deposit it back into the account.”

“Of course,” said Kara.

Now she’s fucking Kurt Pombo!
David fishtailed onto Sunset Boulevard. All he could figure was that Violet had moved on to Kurt Pombo and was funneling him rock memorabilia to sell on eBay. Had the great Violet Grace Parry truly stooped this low? It was impossible to fathom. David double-parked outside Mauricio’s and left the front door of his Bentley open. He flew into the boot shop. If he had a baseball bat he would have been wielding it.

The joint was empty. But not for long. Kurt entered from the back room. “Hey, David,” he said with a yip. “What’s up, bro?”

“So that’s how you wanna play it?” It must have come out pretty fucking menacing, because Kurt fled into the back like the little bitch he was. “You want to fuck with me?” David charged him. Kurt had nowhere to run in the tiny workroom. He cowered in the corner. David grabbed him by the Hawaiian shirt and threw him against the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Kurt yowled. He slid to the floor. “I’ll give it back. It’s right there —”

“I don’t give a fuck about the bass.” David kicked Kurt in the gut. After two lonely months of Saint David, kicking the shit out of a wannabe lowlife sure hit the spot. “I’m here because of my
wife,
you asshole. But I don’t want her back, either. Whatever the fuck you two are doing together, she’s all yours.” He kicked him again.

“I swear — I didn’t — I swear. I’m not the one fucking your wife.”

David stopped.

“I just stole that shit from the car.” Kurt stood up. “I took the shit she was about to give to that other dude — the guy in the Stones cover band.”

David cocked his head and walked himself through the logic of this new information.

“I promise you, man,” Kurt said, “I never touched your wife. Take the bass. And the phone and the golf clubs. It’s all there. And your kid’s cough syrup.”

On the cobbler’s bench, among cowboy boots in various stages of finish, sat Dot’s eczema medicine. David had to smile. He extended his hand to Kurt, who recoiled. David grabbed his daughter’s medicine and left.

V
IOLET
sat in her car at the bottom of George Harrison’s former driveway, flipping through the escrow papers. Gwen had insisted on meeting at the property before Violet made any “rash decisions.” Violet had finally acquiesced. She felt a strange tenderness toward this older divorcée, her very own Ghost of Christmas Future. Violet then noticed that David had forgotten to sign the middle of page four.

“Shit,” she said.

“Shit,” said Dot.

“No, darling, we don’t say shit.”

“Mama? Out. Out.”

“We can’t get out.” Violet turned on the stereo.

Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bobby . . . Bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-bo-Bobeeeee.

Violet checked the rearview mirror. Dot was mesmerized, as always, by the opening number from
Company
.

Bobby, baby. Bobby, Bubby. Robby. Robert, darling. Robbo. Bobby, baby. Bobby, Bubby.

Dot whispered along, keeping up as best she could. Violet smiled. It was never too early to indoctrinate Dot into the glories of Stephen Sondheim. Dot, named after the artist’s muse from
Sunday in the Park with George
. David was dismissive of Sondheim, saying, He can’t write songs. Violet fervently disagreed. She didn’t care if other children grew up to the Wiggles or Dan Zanes. Hers would adore Sondheim. Violet had declared it that joyous day of the first ultrasound. David conceded her Sondheim if she’d give him the Mets. They shook on it in front of Dr. Naeby, who raised his brow and went about his business.

There was a knock on the window. “Ooh, you brought the munchkin!”

“Gwen, hi.” Violet turned down the volume.

“I have my walking shoes on!” Gwen lifted a hiking boot to the window. Perhaps she’d been a dancer once.

“I really can’t,” started Violet. “I have the baby. You know how enthusiastic we were, but the geology report leaves us no choice but to cancel. You understand.”

“Oh.” Gwen’s face came crashing down.

“Mommy?” said Dot.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Shit.”

“I’m ignoring that,” Violet informed Gwen. “Thanks for everything, but our decision is made. Here are the papers. David didn’t sign page four, but he signed everywhere else —”

Gwen swung her hands up, as if avoiding being served. “Nope. Can’t accept those. No point in trying. Papers gotta be signed. No can do.”

It was impossible to hate Gwen. Violet would send her a check, or a client, even see if there was a one-line part for her in the new TV show.

“I understand,” Violet said. “I’ll fax them to your office by five.” Gwen pivoted, climbed into her car, and drove off.

“Out!” said Dot. “Mommy, want out!”

Dot had been a trouper all day, plus it would be good to burn off energy before the nap. “Just for five minutes.”

A green car crunched up the dirt road and stopped. “Green car,” said Dot.

“Yes,” Violet said. “That’s a green car.”

“What dat man’s name?” asked Dot.

“I don’t know,” Violet said. “Now run around and then we’re going to go home and take a nap.”

A door slammed. The green car’s trunk was open. Behind it was that guy Sally used to date, with the hair and the Hawaiian shirts.

Violet’s instinct was to protect Dot. “Honey, don’t go far.”

Then, this guy — Kurt, she thought — loaded his arms with Geddy Lee’s bass, the set of Callaway golf clubs, and the bag from the Apple store. He walked over and dumped them at Violet’s feet.

“Take them,” he said. “Get them out of my life. I don’t need the karma.” He turned around.

“Where did you get these?”

“I took them out of your car.”

“Oh.” Violet said. “Wait —” She glanced at Dot, who was climbing the nearby hill. It was rocky and steep, but thanks to RIE, Dot had good balance. Violet turned to Kurt. “How did you know I was here?”

“I went to your house and Sally told me. I’m sorry. I’m a fucking moron. If suffering serves as a springboard to expand your life state, then I’m going to have the biggest life state in the universe.” His Hawaiian shirt was torn, his hand bandaged, and one eye was starting to swell.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Ask your fucking husband.”

“Oh God.” Violet’s stomach roiled.

Dot was squatting, completely absorbed in some discarded strawberry baskets. “Bobby baby, Bobby bubby,” she sang to herself as she filled a basket with rocks.

“He thought I was fucking you or something,” said Kurt.

“Why would he think that?”

“Don’t ask me. What goes on between you and your husband is your business. My only business is to chant until I transform my destructive tendencies from poison into medicine. I’m like Pigpen with a black cloud of bad karma following me everywhere.”

“Hang on a second.” Violet frantically tried to calculate the bits of information. “How did you even know this stuff was in my car?”

“I overheard you telling the guy you were fucking.”

“Is that what you told David?!”

“I really don’t remember. I was too busy trying not to get my face kicked in.” He turned to leave.

“No — you can’t go — tell me.” She grabbed both of his arms. “What did you hear? What did you tell David —”

“I told him I’m not the guy you were fucking.”

“What?!” Violet’s whole body throbbed. “What did he say? What did you tell him —”

A shriek echoed across the canyon. It was Dot. No
Mommy,
no
Mama,
just one cry, then silence. It was what Violet had always feared the most, silence.

“Dot!” she screamed. Her daughter had vanished from the hill. Blades of grass and fragile California poppies swayed in the breeze. It was silent and idyllic, like the day-after scenes of Chernobyl.

“Shit,” Kurt said. “She was right here. Where did she go?”

“Dot! Baby! Say something!” Violet fought her way up the hill. “Dot! Mommy’s here. Dot! Where are you?!” Violet screamed to Kurt, who stood at the bottom of the hill, “Help me! Maybe she’s down on the street. Or in a house. Knock on the doors. Oh God —”

Violet thought she might vomit: the reservoir. “No, no.” She scrambled to the top of the rise.

Twenty feet below, splayed among the rocks, was the still body of little Dot, facedown, pigtails askew, wearing her beloved Spider-Man T-shirt and the frilly pants Violet had sewn for her just last week.

J
EREMY
entered his Sherman Oaks apartment. “Sally?” It had been twenty-nine hours since she had told him to get out. She never arrived in Houston, as he figured she would. She hadn’t called once.

He removed the pad of graph paper he kept in his jacket. After the wedding, Jeremy had begun to graph Sally’s moods. He entered the intensities and frequencies onto a basic Cartesian graph. He had intended, through Fourier analysis, to break the master waves into component waves and extend the graph out to predict Sally’s mood swings. But he could only realistically predict sixty-three percent. Although that may have been an impressive number for sports handicapping, it didn’t help when applied to the person you were married to. He then came up with the idea of inputting his own actions into the sine-cosine equation in an attempt to see if he was indeed responsible for his wife’s terrifying moods. She always said they were
his
fault, for being so selfish. But what was he so selfish about? Wanting to go to a restaurant he liked? Wanting to walk instead of drive? Wanting to read the papers every morning in silence? Why wouldn’t
she
be considered equally as selfish for wanting to go to the restaurants
she
liked? Or wanting to drive everywhere? Or blathering on about some television show while he was trying to read the paper? How did that make
him
selfish and not her?

Jeremy had tried to make this point many times, but how did you prove to someone that you felt as much as they did? All the feelings Sally was always accusing him of not feeling — love, anger, fear — he
felt
them. He just didn’t feel the need to talk about them. That was a feeling, too, not feeling like talking about your feelings. If all feelings were so great, why didn’t that one count? Besides, whenever he did try to talk about his feelings, she told him he was stupid to feel what he was feeling. In Jeremy’s opinion, the things
Sally
felt were stupid. Therefore, they should just cancel each other out.

But Jeremy had taken Sally as his wife. All he could do now was try to figure her out. Coin flipping, formulas, first-order discrete differential equations, propositions: all had proven to be dead ends. But Jeremy had noticed that, like his favorite number, the imaginary number
i
, Sally’s moods were cyclical. So he decided to graph them out.

Even though the graphs were ultimately of no use, entering data points and curve-fitting served to calm him. Over the last couple of days, he had recognized that Sally was nearing an instantaneous inflection point and he had braced himself for an outburst. But yesterday’s tirade was a true anomaly. He tried to input it, but the curve had gone parabolic!

He looked through the mail. Among the rectangles was a square. A pamphlet. He flipped it open and read: