The Devil's Interval (22 page)

He looked up. “I'm just about done,” he said. He looked sheepish. “I thought I'd get most of it finished while I was listening to Dad's team,” he said. “But I got way too interested in what they were saying.”

I moved his shin guards to the floor, so I could sit on the edge of his bed. “What did you find most interesting?” I asked.

He regarded me suspiciously. “You're interviewing me, Mom,” he said.

Busted! “Okay, maybe I am,” I said. “You're a pretty interesting subject to me.”

He put his pencil down. “I thought it was cool how they weren't competitive. Like, they help each other out, and they're into paying attention to each other. I know it's hard work, what they're doing. Dad said so. But it looked like they were having fun. And nobody's telling them to work that hard. It's not like it's a class or something.”

“You're right,” I said. “That's when work gets really fun. When nobody tells you what you have to do, when you have to do it, and how—you just have a job to do and you figure it out. That's one way work is way better than school.”

“Geez, I hope so,” said Josh. “School sure seems dumb a lot of the time. Read this; answer these questions; do a topic sentence; blah, blah, blah.”

“It gets better,” I said. “Trust me on that. Soon you'll have choices about what you work on. High school is different. College is way different. College is like a reward for all the stupid stuff you have to do in school.”

“And if you go to law school, you get to hang out with girls like Krissy,” he said with a sly smile.

I stood up. “Let's remember our feminist principles, young man. Krissy is a beautiful young woman, but she's also talented and hardworking, and more than worthy of your respect.”

“I know, Mom. You don't have to get all PC on me. You let Dad call women ‘hot babes' sometimes.”

Note to self: Continue to clean up Michael's language. “Uh-huh,” I said to my young, politically incorrect son. “Your father has earned a certain latitude through years of being a good citizen-feminist in the real world—changing diapers, doing laundry, voting for women candidates. So, now you've got to earn the right to be a smart-mouth.”

“Can I tell Dad you called him a ‘smart-mouth'?”

Adolescence had arrived, and apparently I wasn't ready. “I would never censor what you discuss with your father. Now, finish
up your math and hop into bed. You can take a shower in the morning.” He turned back to his math. “And no more texting Esme at 11 o'clock at night,” I said.

“Come on, she's just letting me know who's coming to her birthday party.”

“Sleep tight, Romeo,” I said, and shut the door.

G
ertie was stationed by my office door when I walked in the next morning, holding a stack of folders.

“Good morning,” she said with distressing energy.

“Oh, Gertie, I hate it when you start the day all chirpy. It means you've got lists of awful things for me to do.”

“Buck up,” she said. “I do have lists and lists and lists. But only half the things are awful, and after all, you're the one who accepted this job.”

“Yeah, but who knew I'd have Little Mary Sunshine as my constant companion?” I complained. “Okay, sit down. Let's get going.”

While I sipped my latte, Gertie walked me through her color-coded folders—things to sign, invoices to approve, lists of requests for media sponsorship from worthy nonprofits.

“Oh, here's a fun one,” she said. “Want to be the prime media sponsor for the Miss Tranny competition?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, thinking about the sweet young thing on Michael's moot court team. “It's irritating enough to hang around women who look so much better than I do when they're in jeans and a T-shirt. Why should I subject myself to transvestites and transgendered people who get all dressed up and put me to shame as well?”

Gertie looked at me over her readers. “Get over it,” she said. “Soon you'll be my age and you'll have to hope you're loved for
how you think and feel, instead of how you look.”

“I love you for how you look,” I protested. “You make L.L. Bean look chic.”

Gertie gave me a disgusted look. “I'm from Chicago,” she said, “not East Frostbite, Maine. I wouldn't touch L.L. Bean with a ski pole.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Where were we?”

Gertie handed me the schedule for the rest of the day. “Staff meeting this morning, lunch with some J-school seniors at Cal. They're coming here. I've ordered in Middle Eastern. Hoyt said to remind you your Editor's Note was due today, and Calvin said he'll pick you up this afternoon for a shoot in the East Bay. Oh, and here are your messages,” and with that, she dropped a handful of pink slips on my desk. I shuffled through them: Alf Abbott, our dipsomaniac publisher, wanted me to rethink the editorial budget for the rest of the fiscal year and was trying to decipher my message about the Death of a Socialite story and the link to Michael's firm. Alf was never enthusiastic about making a call to the magazine's counsel. No matter what, it would cost something. A job-seeker fresh out of journalism school at Missouri. Lulu Brown, the annoyingly perfect head team mother, who wondered how I was doing on gathering auction items for this year's youth soccer benefit. And Michael, reminding me we had Dr. Mephisto late this afternoon. “Oh, goody,” I said.

“One more thing,” said Gertie, pushing an envelope over to me. “Who said ‘the social ramble ain't restful'?”

“Satchel Paige,” I said. “And it sure ain't, considering how much work it was to pour myself into that red number for that Give-Back Venture Fund dinner.” I pulled the card out of the envelope.
It's an old-fashioned rent party
, the card read on the cover. I opened it.
Benefit for Ivory Gifford & The Devil's Interval
.

Come for the jazz, the drinks, the friends, for Ivory
.

Oh, just come for the hell of it
.

The date was two weeks from Friday, at The Devil's Interval. I didn't want to miss it.

“What's it all about?” asked Gertie, reading over my shoulder. “What's a rent party?”

“Old idea,” I said. “In the Depression, jazz musicians used to get together and play music, eat and drink, and throw some money in the pot to cover rent for whoever was in the worst shape.”

I looked at the names listed on the bottom of the card: Alex Acuna on drums, Frank Martin on piano, Sheldon Brown on reeds, Karen Blixt on vocals. “Look at that,” I said. “They've got some good names lined up for this. R.S.V.P. yes for me, would you? Let's buy two tickets; if Michael doesn't want to go, I'll take Andrea or Calvin.”

The rest of the day went by in a blur, and at 1:30, as I left the conference room after falafels and career chat with the Cal students, I ran into Calvin.

“Let's go,” he said. “I'm in a towaway zone, the engine's running, and I've burned through my traffic luck for the month.”

I grabbed my hat, coat, and purse and ran after him.

“Don't you want to know where we're going?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” I said. “I was ready to get out of there, and I've got to meet Michael at Dr. Mephisto's at four o'clock, so I'll be on the right side of the Bay and you can drop me.”

“And once again,” said Calvin, “the world arranges itself for Maggie Fiori's personal convenience.”

“I know,” I said. “Isn't it grand?” I punched a few buttons on Calvin's stereo system, until he slapped my hands.

“Will you stop that? Last time you fooled with my system, and I had some continuous loop of ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head' for a week.” He hit one button, and the car filled with the sound of the Dixie Hummingbirds.

“Calvin,” I said. “I love gospel music. But isn't this way too ethnic for you to listen to?”

“I'm trying to be more open-minded,” he said. “My mom keeps sending me gospel classics and she asks every week if I've listened to them. Dixie Hummingbirds, Blind Boys of Alabama, Soul Stirrers, Mighty Clouds of Joy—I've got the greatest hits of
all of them. What do you think?”

“Loves Me Like a Rock” was pouring out of Calvin's speakers. “It's great,” I said. “I grew up on this stuff. My mom worshipped Mahalia Jackson.”

“Yeah, well, it's not Green Day,” said Calvin, “but it's pretty listenable.”

I shot back, “When Green Day is dead, buried, and biodegraded into the ground, people will still be listening to The Byrds,” I said. “Okay, now I'm ready to know—where are we going?” We were heading across the Bay Bridge, and since it was early afternoon, there was mercifully little traffic. The view from the bottom deck looked south back to the City, and the never-ending construction retrofitting the Bay Bridge, and northeast to Oakland's port, bristling with containerships, cranes, and huge containers suspended in thin air. Once San Francisco's port had been important for shipping—now it was home to touristy faux-amusement parks like Pier 39, chi-chi restaurants, and one great idea, the old Ferry Plaza building reconfigured into the world's most delicious stroll-and-nibble venue. Organic vegetables, a champagne-and-caviar bar, high-end chocolates of every kind, places for tea, sushi, Vietnamese haute cuisine at The Slanted Door, flowers, wines—it was a delicious destination.

I turned my attention back to Calvin. “So, we're going where?”

“Back to the place it all began for Grace Plummer,” he said. “Her grandparents' house in Oakland.”

We pulled off the bridge, out into the sunlight, and took the 580 split to Oakland. Within five minutes, we were parked on a side street near Holy Names College. The houses were older, not particularly large, and well-kept, and the trees had plenty of years on them. Some were showing spring color.

I pulled my ever-growing Death of a Socialite folder out of my briefcase and riffled through the latest batch of info Andrea had compiled. “So, according to the property tax rolls, Grace's grandparents died within a year of each other, nearly fifteen years ago. And Grace sold the house, to a family named…” I turned over
a page. “Hothan. Mr. and Mrs., Harold and Joyce.”

“Wholesome white people,” said Calvin. “The 'burbs are way too full of them.”

“Look who's talking,” I said. “Mr. Prep himself.” I flicked his Burberry scarf. “Honest to God, you went to Stanford, not Yale. Do you have to look so preppy all the time?”

Calvin grinned. “Not preppy. Classic. Drives the women wild. Besides, I've got the world's preppiest girlfriend now. I think of Burberry as our family-crest-in-the-making.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “I'd just love to hear what Andrea thinks of you discussing family crests. You've got a long row to hoe with that girl before you start talking about family anything.”

“I don't know,” he said. “Andrea's modeling in the Junior League fashion show this year, and her mother is coming out from Connecticut to cheer her on. And guess who's invited to escort Mumsie to the show?”

“Mr. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner himself?”

“Exactly. I'll be in killer-charm mode. She won't be able to resist me.”

“That I'd like to see.”

“
Small Town
's got a table at the show,” said Calvin. “The magazine is always a sponsor. I assumed you were coming.”

I rummaged in my purse for my Blackberry.

“When is it?”

“Like next week or something,” he said. “Hey, you should come. You know who else is modeling? Grace's best buddy, Cinnamon or Fennel or Nutmeg…whatever that chick's name is, the one who sounds like a Spice Girl.”

“Ginger,” I said. “And of course she's modeling.”

There it was, on my calendar, high noon at the Design Center. The beautiful people would be out in force.

“You're right, I'm in,” I said. “Boy, I'd love to get a chance to talk to Ginger's beloved, Mr. William Brand, too. Not to mention,” I looked over at Calvin, “being witness to your lovefest with Andrea's mother. May I suggest you practice calling her Mrs.
Storch, so ‘Mumsie' doesn't slip out by accident?”

Calvin ignored me, pulling into a place right in front of the Hothans' home. “Hey,” he said. “Actually, I think these are highly integrated 'burbs. Maybe the Hothans are cooler than we think. I'm willing to bet money they're not white folks.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Front door,” he said. I looked at the front door. It was a distinctive color of green-tinged blue.

“
Haint
blue,” said Calvin, “the color that keeps bad spirits away. Somebody in this house is from the Carolinas.”

I unsnapped my seatbelt. “Let's go find out.”

In fact, the Hothans were not white, and were delighted to tell us that Calvin was correct, they were from the Low Country, and had painted their front door to honor Mr. Hothan's Gullah grandmother. They were, as Mr. Hothan explained to us, both retired schoolteachers. He had to shout a little to be heard over the tango music playing in the background. Mrs. Hothan peered over his shoulder. She seemed to be wearing a rather slinky black dress and very high heels for the middle of the afternoon.