Trail of the Spellmans (30 page)

“Not a problem anymore,” David replied.

“Speaking of Rae,” I said.

“Nice transition.”

“Your conscience will feel better if you just come clean.”

“What makes you think my conscience is involved?”

“Sugar consumption and refusal to retaliate against the Banana Offensive. Oh, and that throwaway comment you made the other day when Rae was up a tree. Or had just come down from a tree—”

David swallowed a Tim Tam whole and removed himself from the table as I was still speaking.

“Hello?” I said. Then I snagged another cookie.

A few minutes later, David returned to the kitchen with a plastic binder containing professional (i.e., not by David) black-and-white illustrations. It was a mock-up of a children’s book. I could describe it for you, but it’s better if you see it for yourself.

That wasn’t the end, I’m afraid to admit.
³
Suffice it to say that the book does more than suggest that
everything
can be negotiated.

“You wrote this?” I said to David.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied.

“When?”

“Sophomore year in college.”

“What kind of crazy class were you taking?”

“I had to take a creative writing class—”

“You got away with turning this in? Damn, your looks have gotten you even further than I thought. The illustrations are good. Who is Jaime [I pronounced it “Hymie”]?”

“Jaime [pronounced “Jamie”],” David replied. “My girlfriend for a few weeks.”

“The exact amount of time it might take to illustrate a book?” I asked.

“It was a side project. I was reading about publishing and it seemed like all the money was in children’s books and this was a niche that hadn’t been filled.”

“What niche?” I asked. “Business books for toddlers?”

“
Why not teach them how to remain calm under pressure,
was what I was thinking at the time,” David said, clearly not thinking that anymore.

“You weren’t teaching them how to
use their words,
you were providing a play-by-play for deep manipulation.”

“I know that now.”

“I take it you read this book to Rae.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. She was my . . . I don’t know what the word for it is . . .”

And then it all became clear to me.

“Rae was your guinea pig,” I said.

“Yes,” David replied.

“Wow.”

“You see my problem.”

“What she did was worse,” I said. “You know that, right?”

“But I made her what she is,” said David.

“Dr. Frankenstein, I think you’re giving yourself a little too much credit.”

OLD HABITS

I
needed a drink after my morning with Sydney and my afternoon with David and my life with myself. I figured Bernie still owed me something and I could drink for cheap at the Philosopher’s Club.

I found Gerty serving booze behind the bar.

“I missed that pretty face,” she said.

“He’s put you to work already?” I asked.

“I always wanted to be a bartender.”

“Really?” I skeptically replied, even though I had my turn as a bartender and I can’t deny that it had its perks.

“People tell me their troubles,” she said. “So spill it, sweetie, because you’ve got trouble written all over your face.”

I asked for a drink first. Then for another. I told her about my creepy siblings and their reciprocal experiments. I told her about my mother trying to smoke Grammy out of the house and Grammy telling me that I’d spend my life alone. I told her about the Chinese wall, even mentioning that I blackmailed our computer geek to breach it. Then I told her about Walter and his mysterious intruder and how even he found someone who could live with his grand flaws, and yet he couldn’t live with hers. I mentioned the way he raked his carpet after I’d made footprints. And then I
told her about Vivien and her awful parents who insisted on surveilling their own daughter. Although I also had to admit that her behavior was highly suspicious. Then I told her about Adam, Edward, and Meg and all the rejected lovers left in their wake. I contemplated whether happy unions were possible anymore. Or ever had been. Gerty wisely mentioned my parents, but I batted that idea aside. There are always exceptions to the rule.

Then Bernie showed his face. He kissed Gerty on the lips right in front of me.

I felt a little queasy.

“Do you have to do that?” I asked.

“My bar,” Bernie replied.

“It used to be my bar.”

“I’m willing to share,” Bernie said.

I swallowed the rest of my drink and asked to use the phone. I dialed the number by memory.

“I’m drunk,” I said. “I need a ride.” Then I hung up the phone.

Twenty minutes later, Henry showed up. I noticed that the hand Bernie seemed to have permanently attached to Gerty’s waist magically detached in Henry’s presence. I wished he could show me the same courtesy. Bernie’s manners also shifted in front of Henry. He suddenly stood up straighter, enunciated better, and kept an appropriate distance from Henry’s mom. The two men shook hands and said their hellos. Henry kissed his mother, asked her how she was doing, and she suggested they have lunch the next day.

“What are you doing here?” I said to Henry.

“I heard you needed a ride.”

“I called my brother.”

“He called me.”

“He shouldn’t have done that.”

“Let’s go.”

“I don’t feel like going now,” I said. “Bartender, I’ll have another.”

Bernie turned to Henry for guidance.

“Don’t look at him. I’m the paying customer.”

Then some silent exchange must have taken place because Bernie pointed to the sign that says that he has the right to refuse service.

“Do you really want to mess with me again?” I asked.

“You’ve been drinking free all night,” Bernie said. “One of these days we’re gonna be even. Now take the ride and get outta here.”

Henry picked up my coat (which conveniently contained my wallet and keys) off the bar stool and headed out the door.

“I’ll be back,” I said, as a threat.

“Looking forward to it,” Bernie happily replied.

“How’ve you been?” Henry asked as we shot down Portola Drive.

“Great. You know, enjoying my freedom.”

“Is that how you’re going to play it?” Henry asked.

“You don’t actually want me to be honest, do you?” I said.

“Um, yeah. I do.”

“Well, I must admit, the dishes don’t wash themselves. I hope you’re enjoying your clean kitchen.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“So now you admit it.”

“We didn’t break up over dishes.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“We can still be—”

“Don’t say it.”

He didn’t. In fact, nothing else was said until Henry pulled his car in front of David’s house.

“Would you like some tea?” I asked. I don’t usually ask questions like that.

“You have some on you?” Henry asked.

“No. I meant do you want to come in for some tea? Or another beverage? I relocated
¹
some of David’s booze to my apartment. They shouldn’t keep it around a toddler anyway.”

“You’re inviting me inside?”