Which is why, this morning, I’m on this three-quarters-empty bus heading over to Three Rivers again. I think my patience may have finally paid off. Because how often do I get a Saturday off? Almost never. And yesterday, it was her voice I heard. She’s there. So all the ducks are lining up. And if my luck holds out, no one else will be around when I get there: the husband, the kids. It will just be Annie and me, the same as it used to be.
Looking out the window, I catch my own reflection smiling back at me. It’s all good, Kent, it seems to be saying. It’s all good.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Andrew Oh
Aw, what’s the matter? Does the twerp have a big head this morning? Gee, I wonder why.”
“Shut up,” Marissa says. Clunks her head down on the table, just missing the bottle of Advil. Ariane shoots me a look. Hey, why should I shut up after what she knocked down yesterday?
Minnie puts a heaping platter of scrambled eggs on the table, and a plate of English muffins, toasted and buttered. It’s like we’re in some old black-and-white movie from the 1950s: the colored maid waiting on the white folks. “There ain’t no jelly in the ’figerator,” she says. “None that I could see.”
Ariane says there might be some in the cabinet and gets up to look. Comes back to the table with a jar of strawberry jam and hands it to me. “You want to do the honors, He-Man?” I unscrew the lid for her. “My hero,” she says. Marissa snorts into the tabletop.
“So, Minnie, how did you guys make out last night?” I ask her.
“Made out good,” she says. “Them motel mattresses were so comfortable that when Hector come by to take Africa for breffest, I had to wake him up.”
“Where’d they go?”
“To that IHOP near where we stayin’ at. Last time I took that boy to one of them IHOPs, he ate so many chocolate chip pancakes, I thought they were gonna start comin’ out of his ears.”
“He’s a cutie,” Ariane says.
“He a handful is what he is,” Minnie tells her. “I just hope Hector don’t let him eat so many pancakes that he make hisself sick.”
Minnie’s standing at the counter, grabbing some breakfast, too. I hook my foot around the rung of the empty chair and pull it away from the table. “Come sit down with us,” I tell her. “Take a load off.”
“Nah, thass okay. I’m good right here, thanks.”
“So what time do we have to head over there for the big event?” I ask. Ariane glances at the clock on the wall. In about an hour and a half, she says.
“And what’s the plan? Are we all driving over together?” Ariane shrugs, but Minnie knows. She says Hector’s picking her up after she’s done here—that he’s bringing her and Africa to the ceremony and I’m driving my mother and sisters. I wonder what Minnie thinks about this lesbian wedding she’s going to witness. I read somewhere that, statistically, blacks tend to be less tolerant of gays than whites are. It’s true of the guys in my company; that much I know. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, and don’t shower anywhere near me,” LeRoy says whenever the subject comes up, and it never fails to get a laugh. And Donyel told me one of his homeys is doing time for beating a tranny within an inch of his life after he realized the woman he was in bed with was a guy. But who knows? Maybe black women are more tolerant. Either way, Minnie’s got to be cool about it, I guess, given who signs her paycheck.
Ariane reaches for the eggs and scrapes most of what’s left onto her plate. Takes another muffin, loads on the jam. “This is the most I’ve eaten in three months,” she says. “Hooray for me. My appetite’s back.”
“Back with a vengeance,” I kid her.
Ari laughs, swats me on the arm. “Still a wiseguy,” she says.
“Still an asshole,” Rissa mumbles.
“You’ll feel better if you eat something,” Ari tells her. “Coffee and Advil on an empty stomach? Not good.” Yeah, it’s no wonder she’s gotten so skinny. Too skinny, in my humble opinion. Bony arms and legs, tiny little waist.
Marissa raises her head. “Did someone mention coffee?” she says, holding up her mug. Minnie walks over to the table, carafe in hand, and refills it. I slide mine over to her, and she warms me up, too. For the next several minutes, no one says anything. I guess the three of us are all mulling over what’s in store a little later on. Then, out of the blue, Ari asks me how my fiancée is doing.
“Casey-Lee?”
“No, your other fiancée,” Marissa says. I ignore her, but Ari’s waiting for an answer.
“She’s good. Busy.” I’m going for nonchalance, but I’m not sure I’m pulling it off. Why haven’t I told my sisters that the engagement’s off? I was going to when we were driving down from the Cape yesterday, but then I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t up for the third degree that would follow. I’ll tell them, though. Tonight maybe, after all the hoopla’s over with. “Lots to do. You know? At the beginning of the school year?”
“Is that why she couldn’t come?”
“Hmm? Yeah. Yup.”
“So what does she think about Mom marrying Viveca?” Marissa asks. “Aren’t you Bible thumpers all about how marriage has to be between a man and a woman?”
“Yeah, we kind of think that’s what Our Lord and Savior had in mind.” She rolls her eyes. “But hey, what do us ‘Bible thumpers’ know? We’re not nearly as cool and sophisticated as you New Yorkers who pray to Mammon instead of God.”
“Who’s Mammon?” she asks.
“Not who. What. Look it up. It’s in the Bible.”
Ari tries to short-circuit this little exchange we’re having. “And what grade does she teach?”
“Same grade as when you asked me yesterday. Kindergarten.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, I’m really looking forward to meeting her.”
“Uh-huh.” I pick up the jam and ask Minnie if she wants any. She comes over and takes it from me. Grabs a tablespoon and piles some onto her muffin. It’s like that article I read in class a while back about the connection between poverty and obesity, the prevalence of diabetes in blacks.
“So what’s your Lord and Savior’s plan for gays and lesbians?” Marissa says. “Castration? Chastity belts?” I’m trying to think of some equally smart-ass answer to give her when Mom enters the kitchen, all-business.
“Morning, everyone,” she says. She hands Minnie the two dresses on hangers she’s holding. “These traveled pretty well. Just a light pressing ought to do it. I have yours here, too, Marissa.”
“Jesus, Mom, I said I’d bring it down,” the twerp snaps.
“Well, now you don’t have to. What about your dress, Ariane? Does it need to be ironed?” Ari tells her she’s already ironed hers. “Oh, okay. Great. How did you kids sleep last night? Better than me, I hope. When I looked in the bathroom mirror just now, I thought a raccoon was staring back at me.”
“I’ve got some really good shit from Bloomie’s that’ll cover up those circles no problem,” Marissa tells her. “It’s super-expensive, but it’s worth it.”
“Yeah, must be,” I say, waving my finger at her neck. Ari kicks me under the table. She knows something about how the twerp got those bruises, and I plan to pursue it when I get a minute alone with her. Those black-and-blue marks, her weight, her drinking. Bottom line is: I’m worried about Marissa.
Minnie’s left her half-eaten breakfast to set up the ironing board, plug in the iron. Over her shoulder she says, “Them eggs must be cold by now. You want me to cook you some new ones, Miz Anna?” Anna is Mom’s New York name, I’ve noticed. Viveca calls her that, too.
Mom says no, then reaches for the last English muffin. Sits down next to Marissa and cups her hand around her shoulder. Asks her how she’s feeling.
“Like shit,” I say. The twerp gives me the finger.
“All right, you two,” Mom says. “Let’s not start. Okay?”
“Too late for that,” Ariane says. I know I shouldn’t, but I pick up the Advil bottle and shake it like a castanet.
“Jesus Chri
st, would you stop it?” Marissa says. “What are you? Twelve years old?”
Ever the peacemaker, Ariane changes the subject to who’s taking showers when. “I’ll go first,” I say. Get up from the table. Mom asks me if I need anything ironed. “Nope, I’m good.”
“Are you wearing your uniform, honey?”
“Nah. I tried on that gray suit in my closet. Still fits.” When the doorbell rings, I tell them I’ll get it.
It’s some kid in a Yankees jacket. He’s carrying a box. “Florist,” he says.
“Just a second,” I tell him. All’s I’ve got in my wallet is a bunch of twenties. Well, fuck it. “Here you go,” I tell him, handing him one.
He hands me the box and glances down at the twenty. “Hey, thanks, yo,” he says.
“Yeah, no problem. I don’t usually tip Yankee fans, but what the hell.” He grins. Turns and heads back down the front walk.
I bring the flowers into the kitchen. “Oh, good,” Mom says. “I was hoping that’s who it was.” She opens the box, and the girls ooh and ahh at their bouquets.
“There’s a boutonnière in here for you, too, Andrew,” Mom says.
“Oh, goody. Okay, I’m going up to hit the rain room.”
An hour later, Minnie’s gone and I’m waiting in the kitchen for the others. The twerp’s the first one down. “You look nice,” I tell her. “That’s a pretty dress. You feeling any better?”
She nods. Tells me Viveca bought the dress for her. “You wouldn’t believe how much it cost,” she says.
“Yeah, well, your new stepmother’s got pretty deep pockets.”
“Our stepmother,” she says. “Seriously, Andrew, you should give her a chance. She and Mom are very happy together.”
“Yeah, at Dad’s expense.”
“Daddy’s doing fine,” she says. “I just wish he’d answer his fucking phone. I can’t believe I forgot mine up there.”
“What’s the matter? You going through withdrawal?”
Something like that, she says. She’s been waiting for a callback from some casting agent. “But he’s probably not going to call on the weekend. Right?” I shrug. How should I know? She gets up and goes to the fridge. Takes out the flowers. “You want me to pin your boutonnière on for you?”
“Yeah. Just don’t stab me.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she says.
Her hands are shaky, and there’s alcohol on her breath. Man, she really is becoming a boozer. Either that, or maybe she’s not so gung-ho about Mom’s wedding as she lets on. Maybe this is a hard weekend for her, too. She pins the flower on, pulls on my lapels, and then stands back to inspect her handiwork.
“Thanks,” I say. “So seriously, how did you get those bruises?” She rolls her eyes, sticks to her story: she fell in her kitchen, hit the table on her way down. “Were you drunk when it happened?”
“I may have been a little tipsy,” she says.
“Then maybe you should cool it on the booze, huh?” She frowns. Tells me she’s got everything under control. “Okay, good,” I tell her. “And if some other time you get banged up by someone—some asshole guy, let’s say—”
Tears come to her eyes and she looks away. “Yeah?”
“Then you just pick up that cell phone of yours and let me know so that your big brother can come back and have the pleasure of beating the shit out of him. All right?”
She looks back at me. Smiles. “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
In the silence that follows, I can hear Mom and Ari coming down the stairs. “Well, don’t you look handsome,” Mom tells me as she enters the room. “And Marissa, you look like you should be on a red carpet somewhere.” Mom looks nice, too. Younger than she is. Ariane? Well . . .
“That dress is perfect on you, Mom,” Marissa says. There’s the usual girl talk: how Mom found her dress at some shop, who the designer is. When Rissa compliments her on the sapphire earrings she’s wearing, Mom says they’re Viveca’s.
“So that takes care of borrowed and blue,” Ari says. “What about old and new?” Mom says she just took her stockings out of the package, and that she herself is old—that she feels a little silly being a bride at her age. Marissa says something about how fifty’s the new thirty. “And your dress is vintage,” Ari says. “So you’re all set: old, new, borrowed and blue.”
“Hey, I hate to break up this little hen party, but are you guys noticing the time?” I ask. That gets everyone up and moving toward the front door.
I’m the last one out of the house. Mom and Marissa climb into the back and Ari gets in the front with me. When I start the car, Mom asks me if I remembered to lock up. “Daddy said there was a break-in in the neighborhood a while ago,” she says.
“Whose house?” Ari asks. Mom says Dad mentioned the name, but she didn’t recognize it. “Must be one of the new families.”
I know I locked the front door, but now I’m not sure about the one off the kitchen. “I’ll double-check. Be right back,” I tell them. I get out of the car, walk around the house to the back and try the door. Yup. Locked up tight. When I get back in the car, I’m hit with the aroma of all those flowers.
On the way over to Bella Linda, Ariane turns around and asks Mom how she’s doing. “I’m a little nervous, but fine otherwise.”
“Happy?” Ari asks.
“I am, yes. We’re very different from one another, but it works somehow. We complement each other.” Yeah, and I imagine Viveca thinks so, too. Mom makes all the art and she pockets the commission. But I’m probably just being cynical. . . . Or jealous, maybe. Wasn’t that why I broke it off with Casey? Because we didn’t “complement” each other? But I wonder if that arrangement stays the same, now that they’re getting married. Does Viveca still get her percentage when she sells Mom’s work? “I’m just so grateful that you kids took time out of your busy lives to share our day with us,” Mom says. “That makes it even more special.”
Marissa asks her if she’s excited about going to Greece.
“Yes, now I am. At first I wasn’t sure about going there for a full month. Being away from my work for that long. But it will still be there when I get back. Right?”
My sisters say it simultaneously. “Right.”
Then, out of the blue, Mom says, “Oh, shit!”
I tap the brake. “What?”
“No, honey, it’s all right. Keep going. It’s just that I promised Viveca I was going to look around for something that’s back at the house someplace—a painting that Lorenzo might be interested in buying. But I can look for it later.” One of hers? Marissa asks. “No, it’s by an artist who used to live in that old cottage out in back.”
“Josephus Jones,” Ari says. “It’s probably not even there, Mama. Daddy took all of those paintings with him up to Viveca’s beach house.”
“All of what paintings?” Mom asks. “There’s only the one.”
“No, there’s a bunch of them. A couple dozen, maybe.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Marissa asks. “Who’s Josephus Jones?”
“The man who died back there,” Ari says. “Remember how we were never allowed to play out in back because someone had drowned in that old well? Daddy told me there was some question about if it was an accident or—”
“Oh, please. Don’t even talk about that damned well,” Mom says. “It still gives me the creeps. But I don’t know what paintings you could be talking about, Ariane. There weren’t any others except for the one that we found up in the attic after we moved in. The family that had sold us the house had left it behind. But now he’s become quite collectible. Probably because so little of his work survived.”
“Well, the ones Daddy has up there did,” Ari insists. “And I know they’re his, Mama, because his signature’s on them.”
Is she talking about those paintings that Jay and I used to look at when we went out to that old shack to smoke weed? I can’t remember much about them except that there were naked
women in some of them. Not exactly Playboy centerfolds, but we were what? Fourteen? Fifteen? Boobs were boobs.
Mom says if there were other Josephus Jones paintings at our house, she’d have known about them. And even if there were, why would Dad have taken them up to the Cape with him? “Because the house is on the market,” Ariane says. “He said he didn’t want strangers walking around the property because they’re valuable. And because he didn’t want—” She stops midsentence.
“He didn’t want what?” Mom says.
“No, nothing. You should just ask Daddy about it.”
“Yes, I guess I should. But if there was a stash of valuable artwork hidden away at our place, why wouldn’t I have known about it?”
“Because you never went down in the back,” I tell her. “Except for the time you busted Jay and me when you caught us up on the roof.”
“Don’t remind me,” she says. “You two could have gotten seriously hurt out there if that thing had collapsed. And that well? The fact that someone might have murdered him? Let’s change the subject. Shall we?”
“Yeah, let’s,” Marissa says. “So Mom, any of Viveca’s celebrity clients going to be here today?” Mom says she doesn’t remember, and that she might not recognize the names anyway. For the next mile or so, nobody says a thing.
Bella Linda is out on the edge of town, a little after this golf course we’re passing. It’s still pretty wooded out here. I’m surprised no one’s developed the hell out of it yet. Wetlands, maybe. The ground looks a little swampy. . . . Up ahead on the left, I see the sign. Slow down, put my signal on. “Oh, no! The rings!” Mom blurts out. “Andrew, we have to go back to the house. I forgot our rings.” Ariane says she doesn’t think there’s time.
But the clock on the dashboard says 11:29. “Okay, don’t sweat it,” I tell them. “We’ve got about half an hour until showtime, right? So let me drop you guys off, and I’ll go get them. Be back in twenty minutes, max.”