Family Affair (16 page)

“I understand that you think Sammy Davis Junior loves you more,” she states.

What’s this doublespeak crap?
“No,” I say. “I don’t
think
Sammy loves me more. I know he does.”

“Heh, right.”

Oh, no, she isn’t going there
. “Yes. I know I’m right.”

Then she laughs this annoying laugh that I’ve only heard eight thousand times before. It’s that derisive laugh she’d give if we were watching some dumb show on TV, one of her nineteen bazillion dramas, and some guy made a romantic gesture toward the female lead on a day when I was in the doghouse. She’d give that laugh without looking away from the TV, but I’d know what she was thinking:
Wow. Must be nice to have a guy do something that sweet. I’m sure that guy on the TV would do those things for me if I wasn’t married to this asshole
. Oh, and if it wasn’t scripted by sappy dickwads who I swear write that shit just to make the rest of us shmucks look bad.

She gives that laugh. It makes my blood boil.

“Clearly you think I’m mistaken,” I say.

“I’m just trying to play with Sammy. What’s it to you?”

“That’s my dog.”

“No, he’s not,” she says. “He’s a family dog, and technically he was Scotty’s when we got him. ‘We’ as in: I was there, too, the day we brought him home.”

“Home to
my
family’s house.”

“Whatever,” she says. “Sammy and I know the truth. Don’t we, baby?” And then she kisses Sammy on his snout. And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he nodded yes.

“The truth?” I say, raising my pitch a whole octave. “Why don’t we put your truth to a test?”

“Um … okay?” She stares at me.

“Great. We’ll have a duel.”

She snorts. “A duel? When, Brett? At sundown? Give me a break.”

“I’m serious,” I tell her.

“Fine,” she scoffs. “What’s the duel?”

“We’ll stand on opposite sides of the lawn and call Sammy. We’ll see who he loves more.”

“You can’t be serious. This is the most juvenile thing I’ve heard you say in, well, minutes.”

“Scared?”

“Yeah—not so much,” she says.

“Great. Then you stay away from Sammy for the next hour or so, and when it’s time we can have
my dad
bring Sammy to the lawn—the lawn that
I grew up on and you didn’t—place my dog
in between us, and we’ll just see.”

“It’s amazing our marriage didn’t work out. You’re the height of maturity,” she mutters.

“You’re the height of something else.”

There are no words to describe the level of jackassery I am witnessing on the front lawn at Casa Foster. On one side we have Brett, who I love dearly but am also
obligated
to love by blood relation. And then we have Layla, whom I love and admire enough to have chosen as my lifelong business partner. Yet when I see the two of them, on opposite sides of the lawn, calling out to poor Sammy Davis Junior as he haplessly runs back and forth to the point of exhaustion, I want to kick them both in the vagina.

“Here, Sammy! C’mon, boy,” Layla shouts. Sammy runs to her. “Good boy! Attaboy. Atta baby. C’mon, baby boy …”

“C’mon, boy, that’s—no, Sammy! Here, buddy, c’mere,” Brett hollers. And Sammy runs back in the other direction.

The intensity on Brett and Layla’s faces suggests they’re trying to telekinetically move Sammy toward them. Their mouths are magnets, perhaps, and the bigger they get, the greater the attraction. Back and forth Sammy goes, and I want to stop it—I want to put Sammy out of his misery and bitch-slap both upright-standing apes—yet I’m mesmerized. I watch like I would some poor assistant on a Starbucks run, carrying eleven lattes back to the office, one cup precariously perched atop the bunch, about to
tumble over and spill everywhere. The cup will inevitably crash to the sidewalk, and I’ll think to myself,
That was partially my fault—I’m guilty of not doing anything
.

“Sammy!” Brett calls. Back Sammy runs, although it’s not so much a run as a confused trot. I watch this for a few more laps when suddenly I notice something curious. Sammy Davis Junior, like all dogs, is stomach-motivated. And upon closer inspection it’s becoming apparent What Makes Sammy Run.

I walk over to Brett. “What’s on your hand?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Brett snaps. “Mind your own business. You’re distracting him.”

“Let me see your hand.”

“Stop interrupting, Trish.”

“What’s on his hand?” Layla asks, as she starts to make her way across the lawn.

“Nothing is on my hand!” Brett shouts. “Go back to your mark. You’re cheating.”

“Funny choice of words, Brett,” I say.

Layla has now made her way over, and she grabs his hand. She turns it over and then lifts it to her nose. “What is that … dog food?” she asks.

“No!” Brett snatches his hand back. “Like I’d put dog food on my hand.” He rolls his eyes, exaggerating how offended he is at the very suggestion.

Layla grabs it back, leans in close to inspect. She sniffs again. “Liver paste?”

“What?” Brett says defensively. “I didn’t wash my hands after lunch.”

“You’re cheating!” Layla says. “Disgust—”

But before she can get out the “ing,” Brett notices something new on his hand and grabs at Layla’s. “Hang on, Miss Perfect, what’s on
your
hand?” he shouts.

“Nothing.”

“What’s this?” Brett inquires, as he points to what could be
Skippy creamy peanut butter if I were a betting gal, but I’m staying out of it now. “What is
that?”

Now it’s Layla hiding her hand behind her back. I feel like I’m refereeing children. Then I watch Brett grab Layla’s hand and lick it.

“Peanut butter?” he says.

“What are you gonna say about it, Liver Paste?”

“I don’t know what to say,” he answers.

“I know what to say,” I finally butt in. “Both of you—I’m saddened to think I associate with you. I just witnessed the most disgusting spectacle I’ve seen since Chevy Chase had his own TV show. You’re trying to
buy
our parents, you’re tormenting the poor dog, what’s next?”

They’re quiet for a moment. A single moment.

“Well, I was thinking about buying you a Vespa,” Brett says to me. “But since you’re so horrified to even know me, I’ll just take that money and put it toward—”

“A life?” Layla interjects.

Then Layla and Brett resume shouting at each other, putting on quite a show—sniffing each other’s hands, arms flailing, curse words flying—insisting that they start the battle over. (“No hands!”) Sammy Davis Junior walks between the two of them, looks up at me, and barfs.

Brett turns to Layla. “So, you gonna clean up after ‘your’ dog?”

I like to think I add value to the Foster family. I wouldn’t be so bold as to say that I am the glue that holds them all together, because that would be obnoxious and assuming—and we all know what happens when you assume.

That said, I am the one person who is closest to every member of the Fosters if you take each relationship as a stand-alone. Okay, well, maybe I’m not closer to Bill and Ginny than they are to each other, but I am pretty damned close to all of these people.

I’m the only one who plays poker with Bill and his gang of louts, and who’s his first mate on the SS
Barbecue
whenever he wants a cookout: I pass out the plates and get more buns. Scott’s more into art than sports, so he and Brett don’t connect in every way. So it’s usually me who bonds with him over his girlfriends, or lack thereof. He comes to me for advice nine times out of ten; we have our favorite TV shows that we watch. Ginny? We shop together, we have lunches at Il Pastaio on Canon every Saturday, and come holidays, we’re the ones who cook and decorate to make the Foster home the institution that it has become. Although it’s unfortunately now turning into a
different kind of institution—or, rather, one or all of us are going to end up in an institution if we don’t figure out how to manage this split.

Brett’s being a total baby about his family siding with me. Which they’re not. They’re just not siding with him. They love us both, and they’re treating the situation as they would if two of the other family members got in a massive fight. Which is making Brett feel like they’re choosing me.

God, it’s ugly. He gave his family an ultimatum yesterday: It’s
me
or
her
. And he expected everyone to make a choice! This was right after he pitched a fit because I was helping organize a scavenger hunt that Bill and his friends are doing in two weeks, which he said I have no business getting involved in. Um, right. Except for the fact that the whole thing was my idea to get them to do something healthy that didn’t involve poker chips.

I understand that Brett feels like I’ve somehow co-opted his family, but he was also the one who encouraged me to get close to them. He loved how close we all were, until he stopped loving me. Now it’s inconvenient, so I have to stop?

I’m not letting go without a fight. Even then I’m not letting go. And so it’s with this in mind that I show up at the mediation Brett insisted we immediately have, in order for us to decide how to deal with our separation and who should get quality time with his family. I have to admit he’s been cool about the divorce, not pushing anything through yet or suggesting anything stupid regarding money matters. I’m glad to see there’s one line he feels too sheepish to cross, because I’m not so sure how confident I am in my counsel.

Brett suggested getting this person he’s heard about to mediate, and I agreed against my better judgment. (He was pretty convincing about not wanting either of us hit with frivolous lawsuit judgments, and I saw his point, considering how silly we’ve both been acting. But sometimes I just can’t help it. He infuriates me!)

The whole family got instructions to show up at nine-fifteen a.m. at Happy Valley Family Therapy Center, which I guess doubles as a mediation site. Handy, when that whole therapy thing just doesn’t work out. I wonder if it ever does.

I arrive with Tommy Thames at my side, wishing he’d pressed his suit. I kick myself for being shallow, but really, how hard is it to show up not looking like you’ve donned a shar-pei? He’s been bugging me about filing actual legal claims for the divorce, and so far I’ve been putting him off.

Bill and Ginny are there when I walk in, as is Trish, who looks bored before we’ve even begun. I think she’s still convinced this is just a fight and doesn’t see why we have to get all dramatic. Brett is there with his lawyer, Tim Ning, the attorney I myself first called.

Tim sometimes works for UCCC, which is how Brett and I met him. He was negotiating the divorce of the college athletic director—and oddly, his subsequent retirement—after he got caught by his wife doing something similar to the doggy paddle in a steam room with a member of the women’s swim team. He’s something of a shark, and though he was kind of funny at that cocktail party, and Brett and he sort of chummed it up, now he just looks like an asshole. He reminds me of the character Ken Jeong played as the uptight gynecologist in
Knocked Up
, who scares the bejesus out of poor Katherine Heigl. No bedside manner. Ning smiles and actually winks at me when I walk in. I assume it’s because he remembers that I also reached out to him when this began, but I hope he doesn’t wink at all of the soon-to-be ex-spouses of his clients.

Scott walks in wearing a Warcraft T-shirt that I bought for him two Christmases ago and gives me a half-smile as he sits on the couch next to his mom. A short man enters next, wearing short sleeves with a too-short tie, and he’s looking at us with what I swear is an apology. Everything about this man is apologetic,
from the way he holds the folder in front of his chest to the way he leans toward us, though only from the neck up.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but it’s time we begin. I’m Burt Hollander. And … Matt says hello, Brett.”

Matt?
Brett’s moron friend from college? I don’t know any other Matts that he knows. I dart a glance at Brett, and he looks kind of sheepish. Tim Ning smiles at me and shrugs. I feel my temperature start to rise. How is this going to be fair? How do Brett and Matt know this guy? No one else seems to be objecting, not even my counsel, Tommy Thames. I grind my teeth.

“You can call me B—”

“Mr. Hollander?” Scott breaks in.

“Or Mr. Hollander, yes. Yes?”

“Yes,” Scott says. “I would like to say, on behalf of the Foster clan, if you will …” Scott draws a jagged circle with his right hand, but it’s not exactly clear who is included.

“Scott!” Bill snaps. His son lowers his hand and says nothing more.

“Yes, well, good point,” Burt says, as if to validate the circle. Each one of us nods in agreement, sensing that somehow this meek man is going to be deciding our fates, sitting in judgment of the whole circus. Excellent point all around.

Hollander is relieved. He smiles and speaks as though he’s announcing what we’ve just won. “I’ve prepared a list of questions for Mr. and Ms. Foster,” he says, looking around at all of us cautiously—then he realizes that we are all Mr. and Ms. Fosters. He seems very sorry.

The questions start innocently enough, and seem oddly like non sequiturs. I can’t help but feel like I’m on a game show—the prize being other Misters and Misses Foster.

“Brett, what is your mother’s favorite food?” Hollander asks.

“Uh … she likes angel-hair pasta a lot. And fish …” He trails off.

I throw my arm nearly out its socket, not unlike Horshack on
Welcome Back, Kotter
.

“Layla?” Hollander says, allowing me my turn.

“Ginny does like pasta, but not too often, as she shies away from carbs. When she has it, she prefers it to be cooked al dente and makes a delicious tomato-basil sauce so good there’s almost no point in ever ordering pasta out in a restaurant, because it can only suffer by comparison.”

“She’s not just kissing ass here,” Brett says. “She basically just gave my mom a rim j—”

“Brett!” Trish shrieks. “That’s our mother!”

“Can we have us simply answer the questions asked so I don’t lose my Cocoa Puffs?” Brett growls.