Claire Voyant (9 page)

“Drop the smart-ass crap, would ya? You may have opened up a can of worms here, and it could mean serious trouble…. Please repeat the name of the man who died.”

“Sure. No problem. His name was Abraham Fabrikant. From Miami. A very wealthy humanitarian who helped save the lives of all these—”

“Oh my God.
Oy, oy, oy.
I can't believe what I'm hearing. This isn't happening.”

“Actually, that's what Grams said when I told her his name…but I don't get it. Did we know him? Because if we did, I swear I don't ever remember hearing you mention him.”

“Claire, listen to me, and listen good. For your own sake, I do not want you to have any more contact with this family. Do you understand? These are not good people.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. So far they've been wonderful to me. Yesterday they gave me a limo and a driver for the whole day, they offered to let Grams move into Mr. Fabrikant's apartment for free no matter how long she lives there, they invited me to speak at the funeral—”

“Speak at the funeral? Are you out of your mind?”

I had to hold the phone from my ear or risk permanent hearing loss.

“Please. I'm begging you,” he said. “No more contact. Your mother and I will be on the next flight down. We'll take care of everything. And don't mention any of this funeral business to your
grandmother, because I'm telling you right now, this will be the death of her, too. No wonder she threatened to kill herself—”

“Hey, wait. She pointed the gun at my head, not hers.”

“Exactly. Because you brought this mess into the house, like we needed to deal with even more craziness right now.”

“Would you stop blaming this on me? It's not my fault a man died, it's not my fault that Grams has been neglected, it's not my fault that—”

“Whatever. Just tell me if the gun is loaded.”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Don't be fresh. Just find a good hiding place so she can't get a hold of it again.
Oy givalt
. I needed this today like I needed a hole in the head. I got clients coming in from New Jersey…I'm still way behind after tax season…Roberta! We're going to Florida. Pack the bags. I'll call JetBlue…. No, not Adam and Lindsey, too. Did you hear me say anything about this being a vacation to Disney?”

 

Okay, you think this was sounding bad? Not two minutes later, Drew called. Did I happen to remember the name of the nice man down the hall who played cards with his Pops, because Channel 6 was planning to do a story for the evening news, and they wanted to interview the two of us together.

Believe me, I seriously considered finding out if that damn gun was loaded.

S
URE AS
I
PREDICTED,
G
RAMS HAD NO INTEREST IN PAYING GOOD
money to eat at some restaurant where the son-of-a-bitch waiters never got the order right and the bagels were stale. But if I couldn't talk my grandmother into going out for a nice breakfast, what hope did I have of getting her to take a walk with me to look for a Starbucks? Trouble was, I was starting to feel a little shaky without my triple grande cinnamon nonfat latte and dreaded the headbanger I'd surely get if I had to survive on her brand X decaf and lactose-free milk substitute crap.

I would just tell her I was going out for my daily jog and hopefully find that my favorite caffeine oasis had opened nearby. Although what were the chances that a place that charged a minimum three dollars for a cup of coffee would survive in a neighborhood with elderly patrons who wouldn't pay that much if Juan Valdez personally ground the beans?

Unfortunately, now that she was feeling so refreshed after her good night's sleep, she decided to whip us up a batch of her famous buckwheat pancakes. I didn't have the heart to tell her the only thing they were famous for was weighing you down for two days. But to be polite, and because I wanted her to be in good spirits when I told her that my parents were en route to Florida, I said I would be glad to eat pancakes after my run.

But what to do with the gun? Pack the pistol in my bra? Leave it
with the doorman? (“Excuse me, would you mind holding this?”) Couldn't hide it under a couch. There was no couch. Or any furniture. Speaking of which, where did she plan to serve breakfast? Would we be eating every meal standing up? Of course not, she said. There was a bridge table and chairs in the front closet. Did I think she was crazy? Matter of fact yes!

I suddenly thought of the laundry hamper. That was my mother's favorite hiding spot when she was on Weight Watchers and needed a safe haven for her contraband Snickers bars. I just had to hope Grams had no plans to do laundry.

 

I'll admit that my jogging attire attracts attention. It's skimpy. It's tight. And the Lycra content is so high, I have to stay away from lit cigarettes for fear I'll blow like a Firestone tire. But in my defense, the shorts and jog bra are comfortable and they inspire me to run for miles.

But when I got outside and looked at my watch, I realized I was kidding myself if I thought I could get a run in. Grams was probably pouring batter on the griddle right now and had no idea a five-mile jog took more than five minutes. I should probably just go find a place for coffee before she came down looking for me, holding a plate of pancakes.

Too bad Viktor would miss that little reprise. Or maybe he wouldn't.

After squinting, I thought I recognized a familiar white stretch parked in the circular driveway. Sure enough, there was Viktor, newspaper in hand. I tapped on the window.

“Good morning, Miss Claire. Yur feeling better today, em I right?”

“Much better, thanks. What are you doing here?”

“Mr. Ben seys to wait here for when yur ready. Yur to go shopping…get your hair blown up.”

My hair blown up? Oh, right. Ben had told me to buy something to wear to the funeral, and then to have my hair done. But no way
could I pull that off now. Not with the Fabrikant name causing such a furor, not with my parents arriving in a few hours, not with me being so worried that Grams would find the gun.

“Oh, end Drew sez to get eh second outfit for the television news tonight.”

“No, no, no, no. There is no television news tonight.” What a disaster, I thought. It was bad enough I was going to be lying to Abe's family and friends at the funeral. The least I could do was draw the line at defrauding the viewing public.

“Viktor, I gotta be honest. I'm in little bit of a bind here. My grandmother isn't feeling well. In fact, I'm on my way to the drugstore to pick up some medicine for her. And my parents are flying in this afternoon because they're very concerned. So I can't leave. But maybe you can do me a favor.”

“Viktor ken do enything.”

I have no doubt.
“Please tell Drew I'm very sorry, but Abe never mentioned the name of the man who he played cards with, and I'm too overwhelmed with grief to speak to the media right now.”

“You don't look, how you say, overwhelmed.” He took in an eyeful of my breasts.

“Yeah, well, I am, okay? And tell Ben I appreciate his generous offer to let me spend the day shopping, but I don't have time. I was thinking maybe you could pick out something.”

“Me go to thi store? I don't know enything about yur clothes.”

“It's easy. All I need is basic black. Here. Give me a piece of paper and a pen. I'll write down what I need: black skirt, size six; black T-shirt in small, V-neck preferable over round neck; black mules, size ten—”

“Mules?” He wrinkled his nose. “Where do I find thet? The Miami Zoo?”

“Sorry,” I laughed. “Mules are ladies' shoes. Open-backed. Try Neiman Marcus, Saks, I don't really care. Then be a doll and leave everything with the doorman, okay?”

“End what about yur hair?”

“Don't worry. I'll blow it up myself.”

“Okay, but I'm not the best et this…. Maybe I take yur measurements.”

Yeah, that's going to happen
. “You'll be fine. Just ask the sales ladies for help. Meanwhile, do you think you could take me to the nearest Starbucks?”

“In this neighborhood, are you joking? End what about yur grendmotherz medicine?”

“Oh yeah. The medicine.”

“And you hev no purse. No money.”

“Oh my God. You're right. I can't believe where my head is. I forgot my pocketbook.”

In spite of the fact that the sun was burning my back, the look in Viktor's questioning eyes gave me a chill. I may have liked playing “Liar Liar,” but that didn't mean I couldn't be a contestant myself. I just hoped that he wouldn't share any suspicions about me to the Fabrikants. Then again, Mr. Let-Me-Spill-It-to-the-
Enquirer
should be more concerned about what I had on him, rather than the other way around.

“Not to worry.” Viktor opened the car door for me. “I ken take care of yur every need.”

“Really? Can you divert a JetBlue flight that's en route from New York?”

 

Amazing what the mind can handle when the body gets its caffeine fix. Viktor knew of a little Italian coffeehouse down Biscayne Boulevard that served an eye-popping brew. Now I would be able to handle eating Grams' huge, dry pancakes and listening to her crazy story about Abe. Or so I thought. When I returned, I found her fast asleep at the bridge table, a stack of pancakes on my plate.

Naturally, given what I'd been through, and my mother's warning about mixing prescription meds with sleeping pills, I went into panic mode. Thank God that after a little nudging I was able to rouse her. But this time, instead of being chipper, she was on a warpath. What did I think? She would wait around all day for me to show up to eat? (It
was eight-fifteen in the morning.) And how dare I call my parents after she forbade me? (Apparently they called and admitted to being on the way to the airport.) And why did I steal her gun? Didn't I know I could accidentally kill someone (unlike her, who pointed the thing at my head)?

“Grams, get a grip, okay? I have something really important to talk to you about.”

“Eat your pancakes before they get ice cold.”

“Fine.” I cut the stack into tiny pieces. “It's great news, actually. Solves all your problems.”

“What problems? So my arthritis acts up every once in a while. Not so terrible.”

“I'm talking about your apartment problems. The fact that you want to move, but it has to be a place with special services.”

She shot up so fast, the flimsy card table shook. “Where's the gun?” she huffed. “'Cause I'm gonna kill myself right now! You're not putting me in one of those goddamn nursing homes where the son-of-a-bitch orderlies steal your things and the big black Haitian ladies touch your private parts when they give you a bath. That's the thanks I get for keeping this family together—”

“Grams, sit down. I'm not talking about putting you in a nursing home. After you fell asleep last night, I went out and found a beautiful assisted living center for you. The apartment is big and brand-new, there's a nice pool, they take you to the doctor…it's even furnished. You'll love it there.”

“How much? 'Cause I'm not made of money, you know.”

“That's the best part. It's actually less than you pay now.”

“Is that right?”

I nodded. “Would you like to go over and see it later?”

She ran over to hug me. “You were always my favorite. My little
shayna punim
. I would say to Harry, you'll see. Claire will be the one who looks after me in my old age, not our
fershtunkeneh
daughters, what do they care?”

“I'm so glad you're excited, because when I saw this place, I couldn't believe how perfect it was for you.”
And maybe me
.

“Where is it? Close by? Because you know me. I'll want to come back to visit my friends.”

What friends? Yesterday you told me they were all dead
. “I'm sure that won't be a problem.”

“How did you find an apartment so fast? Was there an advertisement in the paper?”

“No…it wasn't in the paper. The friend that I made yesterday. He told me about it.”

“That's what I always say.” She clapped. “It's not what you know, it's who you know. So who's the friend? A young man, maybe? You know, a girl your age should be settled down already. Not running around like a teenager.”

“Would you stop? I've got another few years before Social Security kicks in. Anyway, this guy is already engaged.”

“Too bad. Who's the fella?”

“Funny you should ask.” I cleared my throat. “It's Abe Fabrikant's grandson, Drew. He offered you Abe's apartment as a way thanking me for trying to help on the plane.”

“What?
Oy, oy, oy
. Didn't I tell you never to mention that son-of-a-bitch's name again?” She pointed her arthritic finger in my face. “And who said you could stick your nose in my business? I'll find my own place to live, thank you very much.”

“Grams, calm down. What are you getting so crazy for? I'm just trying to help you.”

“Ha! You want to help me? Then stay away from those lousy, good-for-nothing—”

“I don't understand. You keep telling me you never met Mr. Fabrikant, so how would you even know what he or his family are like? You're probably confusing him with someone else.”

“Oh, it's him, all right,” Grams sniffed. “Believe you me, missy. I am not confused!”

W
HY IS IT THAT WHEN AN OLD PERSON TELLS A STORY, THERE IS NO
such thing as cutting to the chase? They much prefer the big buildup, like the endless previews shown before the feature film. Ten minutes can go by, and still no movie. But if I had known then what I know now, if I had any inkling what my grandmother was about to tell me, I would have told her to take all the time in the world. For the instant the words were spoken, my world would never be the same.

“If it was up to me, you would have heard this a long time ago. When you were a little girl. But who listens to me? What does the grandma know?”

“Fine, fine, fine. I get the point. We should always listen to you.”

A dry, chalky piece of pancake got caught in my throat. Oh, for the days when she remembered step two: mix ingredients.

“You never knew my Gary. A beautiful boy. Smart. Good heart. Such a
mensch
.”

“I don't mean to be rude, Grams, but I know this part, and I really want to jump in the shower.”

“When he came home from the army, such a lost soul. Didn't know whether to finish college, get a job, work with Grandpa Harry at the shoe store…. We told him, go to school. You're whole life is ahead of you. You could be a teacher, an accountant, maybe even a lawyer.”

“You know the Jewish position on fetuses. They're not considered viable until law school.”

I presumed Grams couldn't hear my little sidebars because she hadn't cranked up her hearing aid yet. No doubt the expression “give a shout out” started with some little kid trying to talk to his hearing-impaired grandma.

“So anyway,” Grams continued, “he finally decides he'll go to school in the city. Why he had to
schlep
all the way to Manhattan, I don't know. Long Island had plenty of nice colleges. Your cousin Mark. You know, Sydelle and Marvin's son…he got a fine education there. Became a dentist. But Gary, he had his own way of doing things, a stubborn mule like his father.”

“Grams, you're killing me. Get to the part where the story starts.”

“Believe me, this
is
where the story starts…. So Gary's going back and forth to the city, he's making friends, some I didn't care for, I can tell you that. With their loud music, and boys wanting to look like girls with those long ponytails…. But Gary, he looked real nice. Clean-cut like a young man should. I guess the army taught him good.”

I was trying to be patient, but I was starting to feel like I was driving behind an old guy in a Caddy. Didn't look good for making the light. No wonder I preferred phone calls over visits. At least I could pluck my eyebrows or read
Vogue
while she went on and on.

“Anyway, one day he comes home and says he met a girl. Very smart and pretty. So naturally I say, bring her for dinner. But he says no 'cause she's a picky eater, and he thinks maybe I'm going to try to stuff her, which broke my heart, because
that
I would never do. Have you ever seen me push food?”

My whole life
. “Never.”

“Then one day he shows up with her, like it would have been too much trouble to call first? No. He's gotta walk through the front door, and say, ‘Ma, I'm home.' And I run out from the kitchen 'cause I don't know why he's announcing himself, and there she is. The most beautiful girl I ever saw. Tall. Big bosoms. Looked like a movie star.”

I snuck a peek at my watch. I really hoped this was going somewhere.

“So they stay for dinner, and I'm running around trying to put together something nice, maybe a brisket, a chicken with roasted potatoes, I don't remember, and she sits down at the kitchen table and says to me how much she likes Gary, how he's been real sweet to her, and then I look up, and I see she's crying. Who the hell knew why?”

“She was pregnant?” I yawned.

“Who told you?” Her eyes could not veil fear. “Iris the big-mouth?”

“No, Grams. C'mon. This is a dime-a-dozen story. The girl gets knocked up, and can't tell her parents, so she goes to the boy's parents and says she needs money for an abortion.”

“Exactly!”

“What was she? Eighteen?”

“Nearly twenty. And old enough to know better.”

“Oh, stop. She was a baby herself. Probably scared out of her mind. She had to be thinking, do I really want to screw up my whole life because of a little, careless mistake I made?”

“Is that so, Miss Big Shot with all the answers? You think that's how the world works? You make a little mistake? A butcher takes a knife to you. One, two, three. No more mistake?”

“I'm not saying that's what I'd do. I'm saying if I was nineteen, I would have been just as freaked out. But I bet I can tell you what you said to her. ‘Look here, Missy,'” I mimicked her raspy, tarred voice. “‘Life is precious, so don't think you can just walk in here, ask us for money, then run off to some back room down on the Bowery.'”

Grams pouted.

“Okay. Sorry. I'm stealing your thunder. I'll let you tell the rest.”

But from the way her nostrils flared, I knew I'd pushed too far.

“You think you know everything?” She waved her fist. “Well, I'll let you in on a little secret, Missy. You don't know nothin'! 'Cause this is not what you call one of them dime-a-dozen stories. This is my story.” She began to cry. “Do you hear me? MY story!”

“Sorry, Grams.” I followed her into the bathroom. “C'mon. Don't cry. Now I feel awful.”

“Good! 'Cause this is very hard for me.” She blew her nose. “And believe me. I warned your mother and Aunt Iris. I said, I am not going to my grave with this, you understand?”

“Yes, yes. They understand. Now let's go sit down in your nice lawn chairs. You can tell me everything, and I promise not to interrupt.”
God help me
.

I sat her in the chair, no longer in shock that two pieces of outdoor furniture constituted her entire living room set. That and the big RCA TV, with the
yahrtzeit
candle that had flickered through the night. Soon the tiny wick would curl, and a puff of black smoke would billow from the thick glass. A flame snuffed out swiftly and without warning, like the child whose memory it honored.

Oh God. What was wrong with me that I had just sat there and made light of her heartbreaking past? I guess I assumed that after all these years, the pain had subsided. But from the sorrow in Grams' eyes, the way she slumped in the flimsy metal chair, clearly I was wrong.

I thought it might rejuvenate her to let some light into the room, so I tugged at the chain and drew open the stiff plastic blinds. Sun poured in, yet an ominous darkness enveloped the room, as if the brightness could not keep doom from descending upon us. Frankly, it scared the crap out of me.

As did the realization that Grams had just yelled at me the way I went nuts on Pablo when I thought he was judging me. Hadn't I accused him of being clueless and arrogant for presuming to know what my life had been like? Except that I was no better. I had just made my grandmother feel as though the details of her story were mundane and predictable.

How odd that in spite of our fifty-year age gap, our lives were starting to parallel one another's. We both felt past our prime, misunderstood, and resentful of having painful experiences dismissed by people who thought that the statute of limitations on feeling bad had run out.

“Okay.” I clapped. “After these words from our sponsor, we now continue with our story.”

“Uch, forget about it. Why open a can of worms? It's too late. What's done is done.”

“No, please. I really want to hear this. I used to ask my mom about Uncle Gary all the time, but she refused to tell me anything. You're my only hope.”

It took some coaxing, but after reminding her she just said she didn't want to go to her grave with this story, she agreed to keep talking.

“So anyway,” she sighed, “we spent the whole night trying to tell the girl to talk to her folks. But no, she says she can't do that because they're different than Harry and me. They save people. They don't believe in…what did she call it?…early termination. Like we're talking about a savings bond. Anyway, she says they won't understand. But I say, a parent is a parent. No matter what, they love you. They'll forgive you. But she insists no they won't…and that was that.”

“So, wait. She had the abortion?”

“Well, she went to the place…it was the Sunday right after Thanksgiving. I remember 'cause it was pouring, and Gary called me from a pay phone. He was standing there, shivering, and he said, ‘Ma, we're coming home.' She couldn't go through with it…make us a nice Sunday dinner, but no more turkey. We're sick of it.”

“Oh wow. So she did have the baby. That was good. Right?”

“To be honest, it wasn't good at first. She moved into Gary's bedroom, and all they did was fight. I tell you, every night we'd hear them. She's crying, he's throwing things…and I was afraid, you see, because I loved my son, but he could blow up like a firecracker…a terrible temper. Not that she didn't deserve a good
zetz
across the face with that big mouth of hers. But I'd say to Grandpa,
oy,
I pray to God one day he doesn't kill her.”

Okay, now I understood where this was going. Grams' only son had killed his pregnant girlfriend. Then, to retaliate, her family took a contract out on his life. Which would certainly explain why nobody ever wanted to talk about Gary. His story was scandalous, shameful, bad for the Jews.

How clever of me to figure everything out. But it was only because
I'd read so many scripts, and knew there were maybe a dozen original plots. Everything else was just a variation on the same theme. Boy meets girl. Boy screws girl. Girl's parents seek revenge. Boy is sorry he ever met girl.

“Finally they settled down and got used to the idea they're having a baby,” Grams went on. “So we said, what about getting married, but that they don't want to hear because they're hippy-dippys, and what's marriage got to do with babies? And besides, she's gotta open her big trap and tell us she's not planning on keeping it because she wants to finish school. Like the world would end if she didn't study the theater? You like acting? I said. Go see a show.”

“Gee, thanks, Grams,” I laughed. “Good to know you support the arts.”

“Arts, schmarts. I was trying to tell her she shouldn't be wasting her time sitting around some hole-in-the-wall theater down on Fourteenth Street. But you know me. I don't like to push.”

Oh, I know
.

“Meanwhile, the girl won't tell us nothin' about her family. Where they live. What they do, 'cause she's afraid we'll call 'em. But at least, thank God, we found out she was a Jewish girl.”

“I can see where that would make everything better.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“So anyway, a few months go by, and now she's big as a two-story house.”

“How come you keep saying
she,
Grams? You used to yell at me all the time for doing that. ‘
She
has a name, Claire…where are your manners, missy?'”

“Sure, she had a name,” Grams sighed. “Used to like that name, too. Penelope.”

“Oh, yuck. Are you serious? Penelope? That's an awful name.”

“Maybe to match the awful person she was.”

“You didn't like her?”

“What was to like? Such a cold fish…. She did something so terrible you can't even imagine.”

“Oh God. Please don't tell me she hurt the baby.”

“Worse than that.”

“She killed the baby?” I reached for Grams' hand. This was the last thing I expected to hear.

“No, no. Nothing like that. Bite your tongue.”

“So what did she do?”

“Well, after the baby was born—”

“Boy or girl?”

“A sweet little girl. An angel. Not fussy. Except Penelope wanted nothing to do with her.”

“Probably because she knew she was going to give her up for adoption.”

“Turns out she couldn't go through with that, either. On account of Gary. Once he held his daughter, he went crazy for her. All of a sudden he wants to get married. Be a family man…. But Miss Stinker says to us, he can keep her for a while and see how it goes. Like the baby's a new Buick you take for a test drive.”

“What a bitch…. But whatever. What did they name the baby?”

“Well, that's a whole 'nother story…
oy
…until they could finally agree…. But thank God they stopped fighting and picked one…Hannah.”

“Oooh, now, that's pretty. Biblical yet modern. Classy but warm…Hannah Moss. I like it.”

“No.”

“No?”

“All of a sudden Penelope decides she wants Hannah to have
her
last name.”

“Why?”

“Who the hell knows? She always had a bug up her ass about this, that, or the other thing.”

“Well, it was the seventies. Women's lib and all…. So what was Penelope's last name?”

Grams stood. “You'll never in a million years believe.”

It startled me how small and demure she looked compared to the imposing figure she'd cut in her younger days. Eventually I met her
eye to eye, then passed her completely, but when I was younger and would look up, she always seemed soldier tall, though never at ease.

“Fabrikant,” she whispered.

“I'm sorry?” Maybe I was the one who needed a hearing aid.

“Penelope Fabrikant…that was her name.”

“Are you kidding me?” I gasped. “That's…I don't know…really bizarre.”

“Why God is still punishing us, I have no idea. He doesn't think we suffered enough?”

“Wait, wait, wait. That's why you're all so freaked out? Because you think she might have been related to Abe Fabrikant?”