The Practical Navigator, page 8
* * *
“So where’s she stand on insurance?” asks Leo, kicking at what might be the remains of the dining room table. In Leo’s experience, no one has enough home insurance. They go for the minimum, thinking catastrophes will only happen to other property owners, never to them. This is why Leo rents.
“She doesn’t have any,” says Michael.
Leo grimaces. Old people are the worst. They assume they’ll be dead before any kind of disaster hits. “I thought you gave her money.”
“She spent it on bulbs.”
Lightbulbs?
“Flowers, Leo.”
“Oh. Any insurance on them?”
“No, I think we’re pretty much screwed here.”
Something catches Michael’s eye. He picks it up. The silver frame has been blackened and twisted by the heat. The glass is broken. Half the photo is gone. The bride—Penelope—has been burned away. All that’s left is the singed but still smiling uniformed groom—his father.
“I want it.”
Michael turns. Jamie has quietly approached. His eyes are on the broken silver frame and smudged black-and-white image within.
“Not much here, little man.”
“It’s what’s left.”
Out of the mouths of babes. Michael hands Jamie the frame and photo.
“Hold on to it. We’ll get it all cleaned up for you.”
“We need new pictures.”
“We’ll take some.”
Michael’s heart suddenly feels lighter. Things were lost but, given time, things can be replaced. People can’t. His mother and son are still here to take bad photos of. As are others. He hasn’t called her yet but he will. They’ll cross the bridge.
Like his son, he wants this.
18
“Bebe! Everett! No running!”
Anita, in an old, too-small bikini scavenged from a bureau drawer, is sunning by the pool when her younger sister arrives. Beth comes across the dark slate pavement stones of the upper terrace, preceded by two children in swimsuits and followed well behind by a skinny, scowling older boy who wears a T-shirt and baggy jams that fall below his knees. The two children come in a noisy rush down the steps and run straight into the water—boom—splash.
“Dammit!” says Beth. “Did I or did I not say—”
“Ah! Momma, it’s cold!”
“Too bad! Jonathan, watch your brother and sister!”
“Mom!” the older boy whines.
“And you can change your attitude or lose computer privileges for the weekend.”
“It’s not fair!” The boy throws himself into a lounge chair. “I don’t even want to be here.”
“Well, you are, so deal with it.”
Beth drops towels and bags and plops down onto the recliner next to Anita. Leaning back and closing her eyes, she moans as if exhausted. “God, I love my life,” she says.
“Hi to you as well.” In the pool, the kids are seemingly trying to drown each other. “Which is which here?”
Beth points. “Bebe. Everett.”
“Can they swim?”
“Christ, I hope so. I have no intention of going in after them.”
Anita smiles. Her sister is funny. Sarcastic, sharp, and self-deprecating, almost always making you laugh as she tells you the truth. Hers was the vocal equivalent of not blinking an eyelash when Anita called her on the phone.
“I’m home for a while.”
“Good. ’Cause it really sucks around here.”
Beth takes off her wide-brimmed straw hat and shakes out her hair. Unlike Anita, she is fair skinned with the freckles and strawberry-blond hair of their father. She slips out of the light jacket she’s wearing and settles back. Never entirely comfortable with her body, she wears a one-piece bathing suit.
“Sunscreen?” asks Anita.
“No, I think I’ll get a nice burn today.”
There’s a cooler next to the lounge chair and Anita grabs a bottle of Corona beer, opens it, and hands it to her sister. Beth takes it. Anita is pleased to see that Beth’s nails, though short, are neatly filed. When her sister was a little girl they were usually bitten to the bloody quick.
“You look terrific by the way.”
“I look like Jabba the Hutt with three kids.”
“How’s Bob?”
“Still working for Dad down at the bank. We’re in debt up to our assholes.”
“I see Mom’s still on the Jesus kick.”
“You haven’t had to live with it.”
“The health food thing is new.”
“Mom gives botulism a good name.” Beth sits up in her lounge chair. “Jonathan, you’re not watching!”
“Yes I am!”
“No you’re not. You’re staring at your aunt’s tits.”
“Mom!” Outraged, the boy turns away, his face turning crimson. “You’re such an asshole!”
“Takes one to know one.” Beth settles back in the lounge chair. “You believe he talks like that to his mother?”
“Where do they get it from?” says Anita, feigning dismay.
“Not from his father,” says Beth, her voice saying she wishes he did. UCLA Bob. Bruin Bob. Bland, boring, dependable Robert Black whom Beth met in Westwood sophomore year and whom everybody likes. Her sister, Anita knows, secretly covets leather-clad rock stars and tattooed, muscled bikers and has serious fantasies about engaging one of each in a torrid threesome.
“Speaking not of which,” says Anita, drinking some bottled water, “when did you get the boob job?” It’s true. The bathing suit, though modest, emphasizes her sister’s newly ample chest.
“Just keeping up with the Kardashians.” Beth sounds just a touch defensive. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Didn’t say there was,” says Anita.
“You always had great boobs,” says Beth. “You still do.”
“Yours weren’t so bad.”
“Now they’re better.” Eyes closed, Beth puts her head back, happy now. Anita reaches out and takes her sister’s hand in her own. “Love you, Bethie,” she says.
“Missed you, Neets,” Beth replies.
“Family dinner, huh?”
“Gee, maybe Dad will make martinis.”
19
“I don’t like this!!!”
Sitting at the head of the long dining room table, with a squat cocktail glass of ice and Tanqueray at his fingertips, Neal Beacham takes inventory of his family and, once again, finds it wanting. His granddaughter, called Bebe of all the goddamn things, is squalling as his daughter Beth, who has the mothering skills of an egg-laying reptile, cuts her food. His younger grandson, Everett, is making train noises—“Choo-choo-choo-choo!”—while his older grandson, Jonathan, sulks and pushes food around his plate. His wife’s dog, the latest in a long line of pathetic rescue mutts, has its head between the two younger children, hungry for scraps, while Beth’s boob of a husband, Bob, whom Neal is forced to suffer at work every day, wolfs his food and stares longingly across the table at his son Neal Beacham Jr.’s latest girlfriend, a voluptuous, blue-streaked blond Barbie doll, who, for some goddamn reason, is eating with chopsticks. Neal Jr., who at the age of thirty-what is it again? still tends bar for a living, and as all know, lives in a condo provided for him by his parents, is talking popular culture of all the goddamn things, with his mother, seemingly forgetting that Tisha is about as interested in popular culture as she is in sex, which—at least with Neal Beacham—is not at all. And then there’s Anita. With all his wife’s cold, tensile strength but none of her propriety. Back home, arriving with no word of warning, from who knows where. Anita, who keeps looking at him, studying him, as if with her unsettling gaze she can read his mind and, in doing so, finds what’s written there wanting. His wife is constantly telling Neal Beacham that drinking makes him angry and volatile. His wife is full of it. It’s not drinking that pisses him off, it’s the people he’s forced to drink with.
* * *
“Well, I thought it was a very original movie,” says Neal Jr. Anita, serving herself from a bowl of sauced vegetables held by the longtime Mexican housekeeper, Maria, feels that if there’s one thing the family all agrees on it’s that her brother, a pleasant-looking hybrid of his parents with Tisha’s blond hair and Neal’s broad features, has never had an original idea in his life.
“I know what it is,” says Tisha. “And it’s trash.”
“How can you say that when you haven’t seen it?”
“I don’t need to see it. It’s nothing but violence and nudity. That’s all there is these days.”
“Can I see it?” says Jonathan, his first words all evening.
“You can shut up,” says Beth.
“Honey,” says Bruin Bob, as if pained. “Don’t tell the boy to shut up.”
“Oh, shut up,” says Beth, scowling and reaching for the red wine.
“Well, Kayden and I saw it,” says Neal Jr. “We liked it, didn’t we, Kay?”
“It had a certain grounded energy to it.” The girl, Kayden, has a gentle, sonorous voice that belies her dyed hair and hourglass figure. “These vegetables are delicious, by the way.”
“Thank you,” says Tisha. “So few people appreciate vegetables in this house.”
“So few people appreciate anything in this house,” says Beth.
“Beth,” intones Tisha Beacham, frowning in disapproval.
“Kidding, Mom,” says Beth, trying to smile but wincing. And drinking. Glug-glug.
“What the hell did you say your name was?” Neal Beacham, his food still untouched, is now eyeballing Kayden from his end of the table. Kayden, a mascara-eyed raccoon caught in yard lights, blinks uncertainly at Neal Jr.
“Kayden,” says Neal Jr., his mouth full and his brain in neutral. “Dad, this is Kayden.”
“Why the hell isn’t she eating with proper utensils like everybody else?”
“Kay likes to use chopsticks, Dad, and a lot of places don’t have chopsticks, so she brings her own.”
“Use not knives at table lest you be reminded of the slaughterhouse,” adds Kayden, as if quoting a pleasant proverb.
“On that note, pass the steak,” says Beth.
“I think it’s damn rude,” says Neal Beacham.
“Neal,” says Tisha Beacham, “I think you’re the one being rude.”
“We all know what you think,” growls Neal Beacham, draining his glass.
“Kayden,” says Bruin Bob, the subject of the new dinner guest now broached, “you look familiar. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” Kayden says brightly. “But it certainly is possible.”
“Kay’s a dancer,” says Neal Jr., spearing another potato from the bowl. “She’s done Vegas, Miami, Atlanta, Dallas.”
“Ballet?” asks Tisha Beacham, the only adult at the table not to recognize a stripper when they see one.
“Modern,” says Kayden, the only adult at the table who takes the question seriously.
“Gee, why don’t you give us a show after dinner, Kay,” says Beth. “Maybe Bob will remember where you met.”
“C’mon, Beth,” murmurs Bob.
“I don’t understand,” says Kayden, suddenly alarmed.
“Don’t worry, we’re being silly,” says Anita, feeling sorry for her. She is reminded of some mind-numbing, highly acclaimed play she saw some years ago where a dysfunctional Oklahoma family carved up the curtains, the carpets, and one another. Amateurs, all of them.
“Oh, for the love of Jeez—what the hell is this?” At the end of the table, Maria has brought the serving bowl to Neal Beacham and he is staring down into the dish as if it’s toxic sludge.
“Ratatouille,” says Tisha. “If you don’t like it, don’t ruin it for everybody else.”
“Get it away,” says Neal Beacham. “Get it away!”
“Gracias, Maria,” Anita calls as the woman, serving now done, retreats gratefully to the kitchen to wash dishes.
“I swear,” says Tisha Beacham, trying to make it sound amusing, “your father’s been so grumpy ever since Dr. Brady told him he needed to lower his cholesterol.”
“When was that, Mom,” says Beth. “Thirty years ago?”
“Beth, you’re not funny,” says Tisha.
“I’m kidding, Mom,” says Beth. “Don’t you know kidding when you hear kidding?”
“Don’t grit your teeth at me, Beth.”
“They’re my teeth and I’ll grit if I want to. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Say, how’s the golf game, Daddy-Neal?” says Bruin Bob, trying to divert his wife.
“Jesus Christ, do not call me that,” snarls Neal Beacham.
“People at this table,” says Tisha, her voice like ice, “will stop taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Hah!” says Neal Beacham, rising and moving to the sideboard, where gin and olives await. “Don’t bother talking to me if you’re going to talk to me like that.”
“Neets,” says Neal Jr., still oblivious to anything but his food. “You hear your mother-in-law’s house burned down?”
Anita blinks, trying to hide her dismay. “No. When?”
“Sometime the end of last week. It was in the paper.”
“What started it?”
“She did,” says Neal Jr. “I hear she’s losing it.” He whistles the theme from The Twilight Zone as he waves a finger near his ear—cuckoo-cuckoo.
“That’s not nice, Neal,” says Tisha.
Neal Jr. frowns at the reprimand. “Why? You never liked her. You didn’t say two words to her at Neet’s wedding.”
“So? She hardly said two words to me at mine,” says Beth.
“Beth, I am warning you—”
“I am kidding!” Beth’s voice rises shrilly. “For Christ’s sake, Mother, do you know what kidding is—”
“And you will not take the Lord’s name in—”
“Oh, for the love of—the dog, the dog, the goddamn—” At the head of the table, Neal Beacham is waving, his head turned away in disgust. Midway down the table, Bebe has offered her dinner plate to her canine dinner companion. Food spills to the floor as the dog frantically gobbles.
“Bambi!” yells Beth. “You little shit!” Half rising from her chair, she swipes at the dog. She succeeds only in toppling her full wineglass off the table into her daughter’s lap. Bebe drops her plate to the floor and begins to howl.
“Beth, that was not Bambi’s fault,” says Tisha, glaring at her husband’s back.
“Oh, really? Then you clean it up!” says Beth.
“Beth, it’s okay,” says Bruin Bob. “Calm down.”
“Shut up, Bob! If you can’t stand up for me, keep your big mouth shut!”
“I hate dinner here!” screeches Jonathan, his second utterance all evening. “I hate it!”
“You little—” Spinning, Beth slaps him across the face.
“Beth!” says Bruin Bob, half rising. “We don’t hit!”
“Shutup! Shutup-shutup-shutup!” shrieks Beth, and throwing her napkin at her husband, she turns and runs sobbing toward the kitchen.
“Momma!” cries Bebe, as if abandoned.
“Ahhh!” screams Everett, not to be outdone.
“I have had enough of this idiocy,” says Neal Beacham, and glass in hand, he exits toward the living rom.
“Where has Maria disappeared to?” says Tisha Beacham, eyeing the table stain and her husband’s retreating back with disapproval.
“Are you people always like this?” murmurs Kayden, staring quietly down at her plate.
“Actually this has been one of the better evenings,” says Bruin Bob, instantly regreting it.
“So how long you around for, Neets?” says Neal Jr., blithely contemplating leftovers.
“I might be staying,” says Anita. “For good.”
Silence hits the table like a shrouded rock. Sensing something momentous, even the kids stop their whimpering.
“Well…” says Tisha. “Isn’t this good news.”
“Yeah, but … what are you going to do?” says Neal Jr., as if doubtful his sister can do anything.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“If you’re looking for a job, I know the club is hiring,” says Kayden, trying to be helpful.
All find it more than a bit rude that Anita is laughing uncontrollably as she puts down her napkin, rises from her chair, and leaves the room.
20
“How was your day?” asks Penelope, carefully drying a plate.
Michael’s not sure if it’s dementia kicking in but this seems to be how every conversation begins of late, often more than several times in the course of an evening. It’s enough to make him lament the lack of a working dishwasher, not because he’s averse to washing dishes by hand but because Penelope, since moving in, now feels it’s her duty to dry them. She has him trapped.
Through the doorway, he can see Jamie and Abigail on the living room floor watching Toy Story together. It’s as if they’ve taken their space in Penelope’s house and transferred it here. The dog is adapting to its new home better than its owner.
“I already told you, my day was fine, Mom. How was your day?”
“Inconvenient,” says Penelope, not looking up from the plate in her hands.
This is another thing that’s newly disconcerting. His mother has always had the ability to carry on a conversation single-handedly and at length. Single-word answers and doleful silences now hang uncomfortably in the air. Michael brought home packets of flower seeds today. Impatiens and alyssum and sweet peas. She smiled once and then ignored them.
The doorbell rings, surprising them both.
* * *
“Hi,” she says.
Anita wears jeans, a sweatshirt, and worn leather Rainbow sandals. Her blond hair is pulled back and she has her arms wrapped around herself as if she’s cold. She looks pale and nervous in the light of the deck.
