Claire Voyant (7 page)

But up-and-comers like myself were always subject to scrutiny, so I could only imagine what Raphael, Pablo, and even Viktor were saying with regard to my cheap ensemble. Pablo probably did an imitation red-carpet twirl. “Who needs Valentino? I'm wearing Target.”

“Now, don't get all
ferklempt
. It's no big hoo-ha.” Grams interrupted my thoughts.

“What?” I said.

Apparently, having tuned out her incessant chatter, I'd missed the part where she mentioned something about her furniture. So the last thing I expected when she opened her door was to see nothing but packing boxes, two lawn chairs, and the TV with a
yahrzeit
candle burning on top.

“Grams! What the hell happened?” I threw my bags down. “Were you robbed?”

“I just told you. I decided to get rid of a few things.”

“A few things? There's nothing left. Where's your dining room set? And the living room furniture?” So much for hoping she'd taken a sudden interest in computers and had created a nice little setup in
the guest room. “Oh God. Please tell me you still have beds.” I raced inside her room.

“You'd be surprised how comfortable the floor is.” She followed me in. “And let me tell you. It's a pleasure not to have to bend over to make a goddamn bed every morning. Eighty years of tucking this and pulling that…terrible for the stenosis on my left side…no, thank you.”

“This is insane!” I opened her closet door to find empty hangers. “Where are your clothes?”

“How much does one person need? A few things, really….”

“Have you totally lost your mind? You can't just decide to get rid of all your possessions.”

“Ridiculous the crap I saved for all these years. Who needs it?”

“I can't believe you did this and didn't tell anyone.”

“Who listens to me? Nobody! I keep saying I don't like it here anymore. I want to get the hell out of this joint. Seventeen years. It's enough already.”

I quickly surveyed the barren room and clung to the closet door-knob to steady myself. Gone was the imposing cherry maple bedroom set and her tiny silver dressing table with the dainty perfume bottles. Gone was her cherished rocker, the chair where she lovingly nursed her three children, and for years mourned the loss of her only son.

“I don't understand why you did this,” I mumbled. “You have so many friends here.”

“Shows you what you know,” she snorted.

“Mrs. Greenbaum would miss you.”

“Not so much. She died a year and a half ago. Colon cancer.”

“Oh. Well, what about that nice man from Chicago with the two shih tzus?”

“Marvin Plotzer. Dead. A stroke in the bathtub. Oy. Such a
shanda
he had with his rotten children. They never came. Never called.”

“Okay. What about what's-her-name? The lady whose son is the big dentist in Boynton?”

“Edith. She moved.”

“Oh.”

“Then she died…a massive coronary right in the middle of her mah-Jongg game.”

“So there's no one left.”

“Dead, dead, dead. They're all dead.”

“No, wait. No, they're not. What about Rose down the hall? This morning you said yourself she was driving you to the doctor. She still has to be alive.”

“Ha! Her arms are so weak she can't hold a cup of coffee. Her arthritis is so bad she can't turn her neck. Her blood pressure medication makes her dizzy, she's got cataracts in both eyes—”

“And that's who drives you everywhere? How can she still have a license?”

“Who said anything about a license? And listen to this. Yesterday she comes over and I say to her, Rose, you're not wearing any pants, and she looks at me like I grew two heads, but I know what I'm talking about 'cause her heiny's showing, and she's talking about going to the market. And believe you me, she's not the only one who's lost her mind down here. They're all batty.”

Except you, of course. You're still perfectly sane
. Naturally, I felt for her. It must be awful to lose all your friends. To know that the next
shiva
might be your own. Meanwhile, what a travesty to reach the stage of life where your presence in the universe meant so little to so few. Where the bustling, ever-changing world not only left you sidelined but rendered completely irrelevant. Functionally obsolescent. Of no use to anyone besides the doctors who profit from your misery.

I studied my grandmother's face. Really took a good look at her tired eyes and sagging cheeks, the once-silvery hair that had lost its tarnish. For as long as I could remember, she had stood so tall and proud, a bean pole among her fleshy contemporaries. Whereas they had wingspans for arms, Grams's remained pencil-thin. Whereas she had always seemed dignified in posture and poise, now she appeared almost minute, her narrow frame hunched, her regal fingers short and swollen.

And here I was, depressed about turning thirty and competing for
film work with a bunch of latent teenagers who didn't know directors' chairs from musical chairs, while my grandmother struggled every day to hold on to the remains of her dignity, or at least her memory.

“All right. I get the point.” I looked around the room. “You want to move. But you gotta be realistic. You can't just sell your stuff and walk away. You have no place else to go.”

“Don't worry, darling. We'll find something. Tomorrow we'll borrow Rose's car.”

“Fine, but this isn't like shopping for a dress. You can't just walk in and buy something off the rack. You have to look around, compare prices…. I gotta call Mommy. She is going to freak—”

“No,” Grams yelled so loud I jumped.

“Yes.” I started to fumble in my purse for my cell. I didn't mean to speak to her like she was a child, but one of us had to play the part of the grown-up.

“She doesn't listen. She doesn't care if I live or die. This is none of her goddamn business.”

“It is her goddamn business, and I'll make her understand. I promise…. Where are you going?” I followed her into the kitchen and watched as she rifled through a drawer.

Meanwhile, I dialed my mother's cell.

“Put that thing down,” Grams yelled, pointing something small and silver at my head.

“Oh my God!” I shrieked. “What the hell are you doing? That's a gun.”

“You don't think I know that?”

“Is it loaded?”

“I don't know that.”

“OH MY GOD. Give it to me, damn it. You could kill me.” I moved closer.

“Drop it!” She waved the gun in my face. “You can't call home, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” I tossed the phone on to the countertop.
This isn't happening. I'm looking at the barrel of a revolver because my eighty-four-year-old grandmother thinks we're Bonnie and Claire
. “Just give me
the gun, Grams. Oh my God…where the hell did you get that thing?”

“From Mr. Morales's son.”

“Who?”

“The super. His son just got married. He needed furniture, so I says to him take mine. I'm moving anyway. Then he tells me he don't have any money, but he's got a gun he can give me.”

“That's absolutely nuts. There's probably an all-points bulletin out for that thing. What do you bet he killed someone with it and had to get rid of the evidence?…I can't believe you.”

“So let the son-of-a-bitch cops arrest me and throw away the key,” she cried. “Then nobody has to bother with me anymore. I'll have a nice place to live…and I won't need no furniture!”

“Grams, give me the gun right this minute,” I said softly. “I won't call Mommy. I promise.”

Just as she was about to hand it over, my cell rang.

“Can I at least see who it is?”

“No. First I gotta tell you a story.”

“Great! I'm being held hostage so my grandmother can read me
Cinderella
.”

“No, ma'am. Not a fairy tale. A true story…about that Mr. Fabrikant. The stupid son-of-a-bitch who died on the plane.”

“I still can't believe you knew him too. Were you close?”

“Never met the man.”

“Yet you have a story to tell me about him.”

“It'll make your hair curl. Ya better sit down.”

“Where?” I looked around the empty kitchen. “Where would you like me to sit?”

“Don't matter. You're gonna fall on the floor no matter what.”

I
'VE ALWAYS SAID, DON'T ARGUE WITH AN ELDERLY RELATIVE WHO HAS
just pointed a gun at your head. If she pulls the trigger, both you and the point you wanted to make will be moot. So when Grandma Gertie ordered me into the living room to sit on her scratchy blue plaid lawn chairs, I sat.

The good news was that I could stop fearing for my life, as we had called a truce, agreeing to leave our weapons on the kitchen counter. Then I served us cups of hot tea and laced hers with a sleeping pill.

Do you honestly think that after the day I'd just had, I would let her yak my ear off with some crazy story about a man she never met but still despised? Then try to fall asleep while a loaded Saturday Night Special was as close as the toaster? I was spent, not stupid. Besides, how could Abe Fabrikant possibly be a bad guy, when according to the rest of the world, he was a saint?

As we sipped tea, the darkened stillness of the room lulled our frayed nerves. The flickering glow of the
yahrtzeit
candle illuminated our shadows. It was then that I realized that although Grams had sold off her couches and coffee tables, she hadn't entirely erased her past. Her treasured family photos remained on the walls, proof that she hadn't always lived among the ruins of old age.

One of my favorites was taken on Labor Day when I was maybe seven or eight. It was a great shot of me, Adam, and Lindsey with her
and Papa Harry at Coney Island, on a hot but happy evening. We were ushering out the summer with double-scooped ice-cream cones when a bearded stranger witnessed our rollicking and offered to snap a picture.

We never actually expected the man with the huge camera to make good on his promise to develop the film and mail us a copy. But a week later, a brown envelope arrived, postmarked Carmel, California. And inside was a luxuriously big eight-by-ten in rich sepia (maybe the greatest glossy of my life) with a note that read,
“Summer Smiles” by Ansel Adams.
I swear to God.

So it was no wonder that whenever I visited Grams and studied the now-infamous photo, I tended not to pay much attention to the other, less extraordinary ones. The usual fare of wedding pictures from the 1920s, where the bride and groom were posed and serious, as if they were preparing to take an oath of office, not profess true love. Where at nineteen, they had already experienced such a lifetime of struggles, they looked old and worn beyond their years.

And of course there were the modern-day shots. The bar and bat mitzvahs of me, Adam, and Lindsey, and our first cousins Alison and Hilary. With each successive affair, the girls' dresses got fancier, the hair bigger. Compared to our ancestors, who looked practically patriarchal in grade school, our faces looked young and exuberant. Our minds focused on our five-hour parties, and the Viennese dessert tables that cost more than our grandparents' first house.

But tonight, a picture I'd seen a million times and ignored suddenly piqued my curiosity. It was a studio portrait of my mother with her younger sister, Iris, and their baby brother, Gary. Three tiny cherubs jammed tightly together for a pose. And in the shadows, I'm sure, Grams praying to God that he spare these beautiful children any harm or misfortune. But it was not to be.

It dawned on me that I knew very little about my late Uncle Gary, as his name was rarely mentioned, unlike other dead relatives whose memories were invoked at family gatherings. The only fact I knew for sure was that he survived Vietnam, but not a car crash a few months later.

But now as I studied the picture of Gertie and Harry Moss's three small children, and the memorial candle burning beneath it, I knew, of course, that it had to be Uncle Gary's
yahrtzeit.
The annual remembrance on the anniversary of his death. For I distinctly remember my Papa Harry's pine casket being lowered into the hard, cold December ground.

I leaned over to ask Grams about her beloved boy, but her short, noisy snorts told me she was lights out. Perfect! The sleeping pill had worked. Now I could make her a soft bed of pillows and blankets on the floor, then call my mother.

I had every right to ream her out for being so neglectful and self-absorbed that she was oblivious to the fact that Grams was slowly losing both her mind and her will to live.

Then it hit me that this might be a wee bit hypocritical. In spite of what I'd led the Fabrikants to believe, I was hardly a good example of the caring, compassionate caregiver. And, too, I supposed Grams shouldn't be my mother's sole responsibility. She and Aunt Iris should be equal partners.

I shuddered just thinking about the scene twenty years from now when it was my, Adam, and Lindsey's turn to look after never-happy Roberta and know-it-all Lenny. Our luck, they'd be divorced and living in separate nursing homes, competing for the title of biggest pain in the ass.

And if I had to take bets, Adam would wipe his hands of the whole mess, citing it as the daughters' job, while Lindsey would probably space out and forget that she had parents altogether. Until the call came from the attorney that it was time for the reading of the will.

Some bright future I've got,
I thought as I tiptoed into the kitchen to get my phone. I was about to dial home when I noticed the voice-mail icon and discovered the call I'd missed while at gunpoint was from Drew Fabrikant. We had exchanged cell numbers before saying our good-byes at the airport, but I didn't expect to hear from him so soon. If there was a God, he had called to tell me the family had second thoughts about my speaking at the funeral.

 

“Are you okay?” Drew asked when I reached him in his car. “You sound upset.”

No. Indecisive. Should I kill myself or order in? Suicide or sushi?
“It's been a long day.”

“Can I do anything for you? Get anything for you?”

Yeah. See if within the next twenty-four hours you can drum up a furnished apartment with padded walls.
“I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow. How are you doing? How is your dad?”

“He's a mess. My mom's a mess. My sister, Delia, is in a fetal position. We're all in shock. But that's not why I called…. We just found something out that kind of surprised us. I think we should talk.”

“Talk?” Oh good. Here came the end to the perfect day. They'd found out I was a big liar, and as punishment I would have to wear a scarlet letter and reimburse them for Viktor and the limo.

“Actually, I was sort of hoping I could see you,” he continued. “There's something I'd like to show you.”

It better not be your penis, 'cause I'm in no mood for those games!
“Right now?” I gulped.

“Are you busy?”

Yeah. I'm babysitting a crazed killer. Don't let the Depends fool you.
“I guess not. I mean, I'm really tired, and my grandmother is sleeping now. She might get upset if she woke up and I wasn't here.”

“Could you leave her a note?”

“It's that important?”

“Yes.”

“Then can you lay it on the line with me? 'Cause I am so on overload. Am I in trouble?”

“In trouble?” he said. “Why would you think that?”

“No reason. It's just…to be perfectly honest? I'm sort of a mess myself.”

“I understand. It was a difficult day.”

“Drew, you don't even know the half of it.”

Just releasing those words, and realizing there was a sympathetic person at the other end of the line, was all it took. The emotional
dam broke, and it was a gusher. I just couldn't bear one more minute of this insane, out-of-control day.

I started babbling about ghosts, guns, and grandmothers. About a job I didn't want but was afraid to turn down. About a bridal party I should have turned down but didn't. About turning thirty while getting a sneak preview of eighty. And that was after having this nice man die on my lap.

“I'm not far from your building,” Drew said. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

“I'm sorry.” I wiped my wet hand on my shirt. “How do you know where I'm staying?”

“Viktor told me where he dropped you off.”

“Right. Good old Viktor. Okay, look. You've been very sweet to me. I guess I could go with you for a little while. I just need to call home, get dressed…I'll leave a note for Grams. Is Marly with you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“She had some gifts to return with her mom. From the engagement party.”

“Uh-huh.”
Great. He's going to make his move now. Maybe I'll bring the family gun.

 

One reasonably expects that a young stud with mega-rich parents will pull up in a Mercedes or a Porsche. Not a Cadillac. Not even a late-model Cadillac. But there was Drew, behind the wheel of a gleaming Eldorado. And before I could utter an insult about him being too young for a Jew Canoe, he told me that this was like traffic court. He was guilty with an explanation.

It so happened that, just as I predicted, he did drive a Mercedes convertible. And a vintage red Porsche on weekends. But his fondest memories were of riding around town with his Pops in his latest Cadillac, windows down, radio up, searching for hot bagels and hotter babes. He was only thirteen at the time, but he never forgot how great it was to come home with a dozen assorted and, on a good day, a pretty girl's phone number.

Drew's mother, however, was less than amused with her father-in-law's juvenile antics when two of those girls' names were included, undetected, on the guest list of friends for Drew's bar mitzvah. Especially after they showed up at the kids' table wearing halter dresses and stilettos.

“Are you serious?” I squealed. “You invited hookers to your bar mitzvah?”

“Miami's finest.”

“Oh my God. Do you mind if I ask what they gave you as gifts?”

Drew's laugh was so spontaneous and hearty, I momentarily forgot what ailed me.

As did he, apparently. But then it was time to return to his original story. About following the casket from the airport to the funeral home, then running over to his grandfather's apartment to pick up a few possessions. “When I found the car keys by his bed, I said to myself, what the hell? Why shouldn't I drive the Caddy? It's still my favorite set of wheels.”

“I can see why.” I rubbed the buttery leather interior. “Thirty-two-valve Northstar V-8 engine, three hundred horsepower, three hundred pounds of torque….”

“Wait a minute. Were you that girl in
My Cousin Vinny
?”

“No. My grandfather on my father's side never drove anything but a Caddy. Sevilles, De Ville's. So is this what you wanted to show me?”

“No, something even better. Something I think will make you very happy.”

“Veal parmigiana with angel hair and a side of garlic knots?”

“No way. Models don't eat like that.”

“This one does. In fact, just today a famous fashion photographer told me I was too thin.”

“That's crazy. You're perfect.”

“Thanks, but I guess plus-size modeling is out of the question. And that's where all the ‘big' money is.”

“Big money.” Drew laughed. “Good one.”

But my sense of humor wasn't the only thing that surprised him. Over dinner at a quaint bistro he swore he had never met a girl who
could, or would, out-eat him. Salad fanatics, all of them. Yet it wasn't the food that made the meal. It was the conversation. The ease with which we talked and laughed, and with apologies to Martha Stewart, the way we chowed down as if our forks were shovels.

As he talked, I realized how very different he was than the men I had known. He hadn't salivated on me like a lion eyeing raw meat, or compared my breast size to the last three girls he dated. He was kind without being solicitous. Intelligent but not condescending. Stunning but unassuming (unlike the vain men of L.A. who wore furs, pampered their skin, and swore on their Speedos that they didn't believe in cosmetic surgery).

Oddly, the only time Drew grew tense was when I mentioned his fiancée.

“Marly? Yeah, she's great.” Drew chugged his beer, then pulled out a picture from his wallet. “This was taken last year on a cruise to Mexico.”

“She's beautiful,” I said. She reminded me a little of Courtney Cox. Petite. A hundred and five pounds. Dark brown hair, great green eyes. Their kids would be stunning.

“Yeah, she is.” He nodded. “You'll love her. Everyone loves her. She does this amazing needlework with her mom. They've got pillows and wall hangings in every room of the house.”

“Oh. Do they own a shop or anything?”

“No…it's more a hobby, I guess.”

“So what does Marly do?”

“Do? You mean for a job?”

This oughta be good
. I nodded yes.

“She sometimes works for her dad. He runs a commercial linen business.”

Jeez. Another Lindsey.
I think I'll come in on Tuesday for a few hours after my manicure….

“That's nice,” I said. “My sister works for my dad, too. Of course, I'm sure Marly's father gives her real responsibilities.”

“Absolutely. She's vice president of buying.”

“Oh. That is a big job.”

“Yeah. She buys coffee, lunch, office supplies…”

“Be nice,” I laughed. “I'm sure she's very bright and talented.”

“Every day she proves she's a helluva lot smarter than me.”

He just didn't say how.

“So let me see your family,” Drew said.

“Mine? Oh. I'm not the picture-carrying type. I change pocketbooks a lot.”
And believe me, they're nothing to look at.

“Really? You don't carry a single picture?”

“Well, maybe one.” I rummaged through my wallet, and lo and behold found an old photo.

“This one's from a few years ago.” I wiped off the smudges. “It was taken at my sister's graduation from Towson University in Maryland. Those're my parents. That's Adam and Lindsey.”