Trophies, page 49
“Jerry, Cooter, I need you to tear your eyes away from Nana’s boobies an’ come with me onna errand,” said Pepper. “Besides, she and your daddy got some talkin’ ta do.”
“Aw, Mama.”
Ari continued to stare at his mother as his daughters reclaimed his lap and jostled for position. Pepper collected her sons, then pecked her husband on the top of his head. On her way out, she leaned in to Mercedes and whispered, “If I didn’t see it with m’ own eyes…thanks.”
Mercedes made the internationally recognized sign for “Shhh!” and winked again.
90
Rites of Passage
A dream is a wish my heart makes
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
De, de, de, de, de, da, dum, de
Whatever the wish I can keep
Have faith I forget the words now
My rainbow de, de shining through
Da, da, da how my heart is grieving
I will go on believing
The dream I will wish will come true…
“Ah, ah, ah, BULLSHIT!” Claire sneezed as she packed her things. She took her time.
Billy was at a film festival, leaving her plenty of time to pack.
Katia had gone to the store and it didn’t matter that her stepdaughters were still here. Haley was in bed sick, and Eva was off sulking somewhere. Brooke had broken into a victory dance when she saw Claire hauling the suitcases to the master bedroom.
“Hi! You ready fer lunch?”
Pepper was standing in her doorway.
“Pepper? Oh, my God. Oh, I am, ah, so sorry. I thought I said I didn’t know about having lunch today.”
“But I do know,” said Pepper, who took her Stage II “care and feeding” duties very seriously (especially since Maya was unreachable). She stopped looking at the suitcases and, employing a mommy grip, pulled Claire out of the room. “C’mon down in the kitchen. I make a mean tuna melt.”
Claire burst into tears. “I’m not happy here! Everyone hates me and I hate me too!”
“Didn’t your mama tell you not to make any decisions onna empty stomach?”
Thinking about it, Claire realized she had done precisely that.
“An’ don’t worry ’bout yer girls. Jerry an’ Cooter’ll keep ’em occupied.”
From down the hall, they could hear screams erupting.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Claire told Pepper everything over tear-dampened tuna melts (and a few beers).
She also told Marion, who joined them for lunch via speakerphone.
The Wynn, a hotel in Las Vegas, was covering the no-longer-private Black Book sale/auction which would begin at 8 P.M. sharp. They could catch her on the live coverage on MSNBC!
After hearing all the reasons why Claire didn’t fit in her new roles as mother and wife and was never able to fit in anywhere socially, Marion took a minute to think (and deal another hand of baccarat) before saying, “What was different, in Winamac, between you and Billy?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I was more sure of myself there,” sniffed Claire.
“Obviously. Weren’t you working for him?”
“Oh yes. I was his liaison to the city. I told him where to shoot and who to talk to and places to park and what to blow up. Stuff like that.”
“Mmm. And who seduced who?” Marion asked.
Claire blushed.
“Chee dith,” said Pepper, finishing off the second half of her sandwich.
“Okay.” Marion clapped her hands. “First things first: get rid of the nanny.”
“But Billy won’t fire her!” Claire waited. “She works for Pam!”
“Then Pepper will.”
“On it,” said Pepper, sneaking a bite of Claire’s tuna melt.
“Next, young lady,” Marion continued. “I think it’s not a matter of ‘you fitting in.’ It’s a matter of you—the real you, not some ass-kissing, nanny-and-stepchild-and-ex-wife-whipped, style-morphing mouse.”
Claire gasped.
“Sorry, darling, but Billy was on the market for some time. He didn’t marry a girl from L.A. He married a girl from Winamac.”
Claire’s wheels began to turn. And the tuna melt was leaching the remaining “new strategy” from her system. “A Harvest Queen ambassador hostess from Winamac,” she corrected.
“Exactly,” said Marion. “Don’t feel bad. This is a rite-of-passage. When a Stage One finally figures out that all that geisha shit isn’t working for her.”
“It means yer ready ta move up ta Stage Two!” said Pepper brightly.
“Kick ass on the sale, Marion!”
“Keep your fingers crossed,” Marion told her. “Good luck, Claire. You too, Pepper, with that other thing that gives me the chills just to think about.”
“Thank you!” Pepper winked.
When Katia showed up in the kitchen and demanded to know who was going to clean up the flooded playroom upstairs, Pepper hooked her by the elbow and hauled the nanny into the den, where she promptly poured her a shot of Jim Beam.
“Okay, name yer price,” she told her.
“What on earth are you talking about? Who are you? Are you the mother of those two creatures upstairs?” snapped Katia.
“I said, name yer price. How much is it gonna take ta make you go away?”
Claire, who had been listening to this exchange from the other side of the door, almost fell through when she heard Katia say, “Two hundred thousand.”
Pepper nodded. “Just a minute, I’ll be right back. Sure, pour yerself a refill. Ain’t my booze.”
Moments later, she emerged from the den with a corkscrew. “Okay,” she said to Claire. “Which one do you hate the most?”
Claire was alarmed at first because she thought Pepper was talking about her stepdaughters, who appeared to be losing the battle with Pepper’s sons, judging from the noise upstairs.
But Pepper had already moved into Claire’s now le Quinne–decorated living room and was taking stock of the walls.
Claire pointed to a nine-by-six-inch painting of a pug dog. “Start with that one,” she said.
As Pepper went to work, unframing the painting, Claire decided that her day was getting better by the minute.
As Katia was hauling her suitcases, along with an armload of rolled-up art, out of the house, Craig-the-stylist was hauling an armload of dress bags and store packages into it.
He and Katia crossed paths at Claire’s front door.
“You’re next!” declared the nanny.
“A couple more shots and that Adam’s apple will go down,” Craig repeated over his shoulder as he draped his load across the chest in the entry. “Eddie, I think I just concocted a miracle!” he said dramatically, unzipping a nine-hanger bag and rummaging around in it. “I have in my hot and huge hands three samples of—” He stopped when he saw Pepper’s Miu Miu boots step into his line of sight next to the bag he was leaning over.
He followed them all the way up. “Hey, chick-o’-stix!” he said, attempting to be dismissive. “Fancy seeing you here. Shouldn’t you be home breeding or leaking, or whatever it is you do when you’re not out carpooling?”
Pepper zipped Craig’s bag back up for him. “I’m here to give you the heave-ho, button eyes.”
“It’s not up to you! I am here to help Claire!” Craig sniffed, not budging.
“Yeah,” said Pepper, collecting some bags. “I remember how much ya helped me back when I first got here. Think I’m still payin’ the bills.”
“Aren’t you late for an episiotomy, or something? Come on upstairs, Eddie, we’ve got some major surgery to perform,” Craig said, snatching his bags away from Pepper.
Claire walked to her front door and held it open. She drew herself up into her best pageant three-quarter stance and broke into her best Harvest Queen smile. “As we say back in Winamac: ‘Get the fuck out.’”
Craig didn’t need to be asked twice.
At this juncture, Pepper hollered for her boys, who trudged downstairs looking disappointed.
“The big one’s eye shadow only melted in that Easy-Bake Oven,” grumbled Cooter.
“Yeah,” said Jerry. “It didn’t explode at all.”
“Well, it ain’t a microwave, sillies!” said Pepper, ruffling their hair. She turned to Claire. “This house is now clean. Rest is up to you.”
After saying good-bye, Claire headed upstairs to check on Haley.
She was in charge of the girls now.
Claire was met in the hall by Brooke, who was brandishing her cell phone. “I’m calling my mother right now to tell her you just drove Katia away!”
“Nobody drove anybody,” Claire said, passing her and heading into Haley’s room. “Six canvases did the trick.”
“Katia said not to disturb Haley!” cried Brooke as Claire flipped on the light.
“Katia isn’t—” Claire stopped.
Haley didn’t look good. Her face was flushed and her head was tilted at a funny angle, like she was gulping for air. Claire ripped the covers off her bed and felt her head and underarm.
“Did Katia say your sister had a fever?” she asked, flying into the bathroom and tearing open the drawers and medicine chest. Locating an electronic ear thermometer, she dashed to Haley’s side.
“Get away from her!” Brooke screamed. “I’m calling my mom!”
Ignoring the girl, Claire sat Haley up. The child was listless and could barely keep her eyes open. Her temperature was 104.9 degrees! Claire started pulling her pajamas off.
In the background, she could hear: “Mommy, this is Brooke. When you get this message, please, please come over quick because—”
Brooke suddenly dropped the phone and flung herself on Claire’s back, grabbing at her hair and pulling her away from her sister. “What are you doing to her?! Don’t take her clothes off, you freak!”
Claire had begun her childhood in a split-level house in a nice suburb of Winamac. But she’d finished it in an apartment. Downtown. The change in location hadn’t been wasted on her. She snatched up Brooke’s fist in one hand, got ahold of her neck with the other, and planted a knee in her chest. And Brooke froze in fear.
Claire spoke quietly and directly. “You have been watching too much trash TV and spending too many hours on the Internet. Your sister is sick. Go into that bathroom and run a tub of tepid water…now.”
Then Claire let her up.
“What’s wrong—”
Claire was already stripping Haley down and lifting her. “NOW!”
She turned to Eva who appeared sucking her thumb at the edge of the bed. “Eva, we’re going to be in the bathroom. I need you to stop sucking and get me a head of cabbage from the refrigerator.”
Eva quickly complied.
Claire then grabbed Brooke’s cell and dialed 911.
When she hung up a few moments later, Haley started to seize. Not the comic imitation Claire had done at the Zane guardhouse, but the very scary, very real thing.
Claire twisted a dry washcloth over her hand and clamped down on Haley’s tongue and lower jaw so she could breathe. Then she deftly lowered her into the water, then climbed in with her to keep her from injuring herself.
Brooke started up again with the screaming.
Claire dealt with her quickly. “Shut up and grab that bowl! DO IT! Start pouring water over her body…don’t worry about me, I’m already wet!”
Just then, Eva returned with one of the big cabbages Katia used in the foul-smelling stew she was always cooking. Claire put a big leaf on Haley’s forehead. It was limp in under twenty seconds.
“Eva, we need to change these as soon as they get soft. Don’t stop until the paramedics get here. Then go open the front door.”
Eva went to work alongside Brooke.
“Brooke, turn on the cold water. Don’t stop pouring the water…”
Claire started CPR.
All ambassador hostesses had been required to take the course.
Eva went through the whole cabbage before the paramedics arrived.
Turned out Haley had a peptic ulcer with internal bleeding.
The paramedics told Claire that Haley would have died without her quick thinking.
And the look on Brooke’s and Eva’s faces told her that her stepdaughters were now hers.
91
Dancing Queens
“Ya know, that new rump of yours would look a lot hotter if you weren’t scratching it every five minutes,” Lyndy’s partner told her.
“And your mouth would look a lot better without my Jimmy Choo planted between your teeth, so why don’t you shut it and dance us closer to the center of the room,” she replied.
“It’s your bar tab, sweetie. Follow me!”
Lyndy was living her dream.
She was taking her new bootie out on the town and shakin’ her stuff on the dance floor.
All the boys’ heads were turning too.
She just wished they were turning her way instead of toward the shirtless young man in the white jodhpurs and boots who was dancing with her.
And she wished they weren’t the only ones dancing. What was wrong with the boys in this bar? She had been promised that Fubar was a crazy place. Fubar was supposed to be fun!
And she wished her butt didn’t feel so frightfully itchy as it healed.
It must have been because of all the healthy blood rushing through it.
It was redder than a Georgia ham.
Flushed and ready for fun!
Even Max had taken the butt bait. He’d been all over her this afternoon, until he saw the Brazilian wax she’d undergone in honor of her ass freedom. “Good God, Lyndy,” he exclaimed. “What have you done?”
“It’s called a Brazilian! I’m feeling frisky!”
Max blanched. “I’m feeling frightened. I could lose my keys in there!”
And that is why Max hadn’t been invited out on the town tonight.
Just then, Lyndy caught herself scratching her ass. It was healing full speed ahead, all right. Healing.
Not infected. Oh no-no-no-no-no-no-no!
She was too busy living her dream.
Lyndy checked her watch. It was almost nine o’clock. “After this song, I want to go to a straight club. I don’t want my new equipment to go to waste!”
“Are you sure?” asked her partner. “The ones that’re open this early have much brighter lighting.”
“Just shut up and dip me,” she told him.
“Only if you promise that the G-string stays on.”
“Now!”
As Lyndy Wallert was dipped down and threw her leg up to the ceiling, she decided that she’d have to find a new gay best friend.
ASAP.
Craig-the-stylist wasn’t that good a dancer.
92
A Very Full Moon
Aristotle was late. He must have been entangled at home.
But Mariah was sure of her spells. They were as strong as those she’d cast upon all the other helpless fellows. Ari would come, eventually.
He had no choice.
Mariah was anxious to see him. She had spent the early evening between worlds while the ancient succubus took possession of her body. The spirit was ravenous in her now and she could barely contain it.
“Soon,” she told it. “Soon you shall feed.”
Mariah added a final dab of oil to her bosom. She fluffed her luxurious, dark-as-night mane. No earrings, which could be dangerous if the spirit became wild. Her skirt and blouse would come off with a tug. She wore no undergarments.
The footfalls on the stairs to her apartment were light.
Her man was eager. Her charms had worked well.
He wouldn’t be disappointed.
Mariah flung open the door without waiting for his knock.
Instead of Ari, she was face-to-bust with the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in her life.
Pepper never once looked into Mariah’s eyes as she beat the living shit (and succubus) out of her. (And ground the charms, candles, and other “stalker crap” into the garbage disposal.)
She did use a cross, though. Her Lori Rodkin Maltese diamond ring left a cookie-cutter outline below Mariah’s fractured right eye socket.
It went well with the newly shaved head.
To let the witch know she meant business, Pepper forced one of the punch-closed eyes open wide enough to see the doll she’d made out of Mariah’s hair and fingernails, and told her that if she wasn’t on the next flight to Athens (or wherever the fuck she came from), Pepper would start in with the pins.
The doll was old-fashioned hill-country revenge.
Mercedes hadn’t been the only mama Pepper had called.
As Pepper was leaving Mariah’s apartment, Pam-the-ex arrived at Beverly Hills Central Hospital, nearly two hours after Claire had managed to finally reach her and tell her not to hang up again and that her daughter had just had emergency surgery but was stable and whole.
Pam’s makeup was perfect.
She waltzed past Claire and into the ICU as if Claire were invisible.
Didn’t she want to know where her other girls were?
Or to speak to them? Pam couldn’t possibly have reached Brooke and Eva by phone.
Since only five of the eight bedrooms in Patti’s children’s wing were currently occupied, Patti had come by and collected them for the night.
No wonder Billy’s daughters were mean.
After watching Haley sleep a bit and talking to the doctors, Pam was starting to leave—without even speaking to Claire.
Oh, no you don’t!
Claire grabbed Pam by the wrist and with her best ambassador-hostess polite-but-firm-tour-guide tone of voice said, “Right this way. That exit is closed.”
Claire was lucky she’d stopped relying on the “medicine-chest strategy.”
One more week of Xanax and company and she wouldn’t have outweighed the ex.
As she was being dragged into the nurses’ lounge, Pam made the mistake of asking, “Where is my husband?”
“My husband is flying in from Toronto. My name is Claire Price and I will be your tour guide to your new reality…”
