Cheap Trills, page 4
A series of things started to add up—Aunt Helen’s uncharacteristic cheerfulness, Sister Ellery’s insistence it was good for the business for me to attend the shower. Had Barry been in on it, too? After all I’d done for his parents? Wow.
And my mother. How could she? I veered between the gut punch of her betrayal and an urge to strangle her. But I could only kill her if she were alive. In Peggy Newsome’s hands, that was a crapshoot.
I was so distracted thinking of my mosquito magnet mother wracked with dengue fever, I boinked straight into one of those stupid “Baby Manzoni!” mylar balloons flapping above the Colonial blue mailbox. Remembering they were the number two cause of power outages in the U.S., and that party-givers could be held financially responsible for the damage, I whipped my travel nail clippers out of the side pocket of my Balenciaga, made a snip here and a snip there, and released five of them right under the electric lines for the north Fort Hamilton grid.
I saw sparks, then the domino effect of a two block, “take that Angela Hepler,” blackout in my rearview mirror, as I headed for Third Avenue. Aside from the day I shared a truck bed with an incensed warthog, it was the longest ride of my life.
Chapter Seven
I slammed my Galaxie sideways into the “Reserved for Employees of Redondo Travel” parking space behind our building and ran inside.
“Get the hell off my computer. Never touch it again.”
Sister Ellery, overexposed in a burnt orange tank top, flapped her scrawny arms up in the air. “I can explain.”
“I don’t care. Out. Seriously.”
She tried the look that had worked on me in eighth grade. Not anymore.
“Lurch over, you lying sack of nun!”
I think it was the first time I’d ever said anything mean to one of my elders. I felt like throwing up. But this was the second time she’d betrayed me “for my own good.” Plus, I was tired, I was angry, and I hadn’t had enough finger food. “Get out!”
Finally, I heard the door slam. I leaned forward and saw the computer screen.
No. Mom was booked on Adam Air. They’d had two crashes already this year. And she’d left last night. Had Uncle Leon lied to me, too?
The phone rang. “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.”
“Don’t hate her too much,” Sister Ellery said. “She won the trip. In the Catholic Woman’s League raffle. You know she never wins anything.” It was true, not even Scrabble. “You have to let her walk on her own, even if she falls. It’s not like she doesn’t know she can call you.”
“She should feel too guilty to call me. Plus, she doesn’t even have a cell phone.”
Christ on a bike, my mother didn’t have a cell phone. I started to hyperventilate. I put Sister Ellery on speaker, dumped the sandwich she’d left out on the desk, and breathed into the empty paper bag. Nothing like the stench of liverwurst on rye in a crisis.
“Don’t worry. I gave her your standard emergency bag and instructions with the burner phone and your number on speed dial. Whatever is happening, she can deal with it. She’s dealt with you for thirty-two years and you’re no picnic.”
“Thanks a lot.” I hung up on her, changed my computer password and shut the server down. I picked up my Balenciaga, but where could I go?
Not home. My sneaky aunt was there. Not Chadwick’s. There weren’t any fifty percent off or more sales this weekend, and Debbie was probably still at Angela’s shower, which I hope had descended into a non-refrigerated melee.
I considered the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. When I was tiny, my Uncle Ray told me I’d always be safe if I kept the bridge in my sights. But if everyone in town, including my own mother, was willing to conspire against me, maybe I couldn’t trust the bridge anymore. It was one thing to be a fish out of water in Tanzania or Tasmania. It was another to be a fish out of water on Third Avenue. I wished I could go to Uncle Ray for advice, but that required a visitor’s pass and was only possible on Tuesdays and Thursdays, between twelve and two.
The phone rang again. I was not in the mood.
“What?”
“Cyd? Oh thank God. It’s Mom. Do you speak Jakartan?”
Chapter Eight
“Jakartan? There is no Jakartan. Are you in Jakarta? Why are you calling?”
If she wanted help, she was going to have to ask for it.
“Cyd, your father’s been dead for twenty-eight years.”
“I know! What does that have to do with anything?”
I heard a scuffle, then a Virginia Slims voice. “Cyd Elizabeth Madonna Redondo, your mother has just been roughed up by Customs in a foreign language. Get your travel agent ass over here.”
“Madge?” I remembered that Madge had thrown her mid-sixties divorce rage into a series of wine-soaked, self-help-themed book clubs. And she’d gone over to the Newsome dark side. This was probably her fault.
“Are you just winding me up? Because they execute people there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. Look it up!”
“She’s fine.”
I tried to calm myself. “Are there any more traitors with you?”
“Bea Ann is here.”
“Bea Ann North is with you?” So much for a lifetime of loyalty to the Brooklyn Public Library system. I’d have expected better from the woman who introduced me to Harriet the Spy.
“Call Peggy Newsome. Isn’t she your travel professional?”
“We tried. She’s at an ashram and has taken a vow of silence. She can’t be disturbed.”
Holy Mother of God, I thought. “Okay, start from the beginning.”
• • •
From what I could decipher, Peggy had booked them with impossibly tight connections, so of course they had missed their second and third flights. Madge, afraid to call me, had managed to get them onto alternate flights as far as Jakarta. But there were no flights to Bali for four days on the death-watch airline Peggy had used. Plus, their luggage was nowhere to be found.
“Put my mom back on.”
More scuffling. “Hi.”
“Do I go on a spiritual journey when I have a tour in progress, full of women who’ve never been abroad before? No, I do not. And even if I did, I would check in on everyone online, since it would not violate ashram rules. Put Madge back on.”
“Madge here.”
“You will pay for this. But right now, I need all your ticket numbers, the names as they appear on your passports, your credit card numbers, with expiration dates and security codes, and cell phone numbers. I will try to rebook you on the earliest possible flight to Denpasar. Do you have reservations once you’re there?”
“Absolutely. Peggy took care of everything.”
“Well, yes. Everything but this. Do you have roaming set up on your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’re going to arrive late at your hotel, so you need to call and let them know. Can you do that while I sort out the flights?”
“Yes.”
“Madge? Take care of my mom. And tell Bea Ann I’m very disappointed in her.”
“I’ll look after your mom. But I’m going to put the Bea Ann thing on hold. Humidity makes her cranky.”
“Fine.” I hung up.
Before I hacked into the Patriot Travel computer system, I called Peggy’s office to see if there was anyone there. It went to the answering service.
“Patriot Travel. Travel better.”
“Jen?”
“What is it, Cyd?”
Jennifer Hedges and I took Shop together. She worked for three answering services and had always sounded as much like Betty Boop as she did now.
“Peggy has stranded my mother, Madge Dupree, and Bea Ann North in Indonesia. They were told she was in the midst of a vow of silence?”
“That’s what she told us to tell everyone.”
“So where is she, really?” Another long silence. “Jennifer. How many people know about your suspended sentence for shoplifting?”
“Cyd! You wouldn’t!”
“This is my mother and our childhood librarian she’s screwing with.”
“Okay, fine.” It turned out Peggy—surprise, surprise—was not at an ashram. She was at a spa resort on the west coast of Bali. She was actually in Bali and wouldn’t help my mom. This time I was going to do more than flatten her tire.
“Jen, give me the info!” She did. “Thanks. Your Kate Spade bag is safe.”
My favorite IT guy had given me Peggy’s login codes in exchange for a four day/three night “raclette” tour to Montreal. He’d wanted to practice his French.
I found Mom’s reservations under a file labeled “Eat, Pray, Losers.”
I called the Indonesian airline and used a combination of Bahasa Indonesian and English to explain the situation to a clerk—who was using a similar language combo. I negotiated a refund by threatening to have them put the three women up in what I knew was an expensive hotel. At least, I think that’s what I did. It was the first time I’d had to use the language with another person, as opposed to my cassette player.
I made new round trip reservations for the three woman, Jakarta to Bali, on a safer airline. I couldn’t find their checked luggage, yet, though. That was a headache for later.
I called Madge back. “Your flight to Bali is on time and departs in an hour.”
“An hour? That’s not much time.”
“What didn’t I understand about stranded? You need to check in at the Eva Air desk and get your boarding passes, okay? The airport code is D as in despicable, P as in Peggy fricking Newsome, and S as in son of a bitch. DPS. Got it?”
“Yep.” She hesitated. “Thank you.”
“Mom should have a Bahasa Indonesian phrase book in her emergency kit if you need it. Did you get through to the hotel?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, give me the info, I’ll do it from here.”
I reached for my last two pieces of Bazooka Joe. This was a double-bubble situation.
I opened the files again and almost sucked the gum down my throat. I stopped myself just in time, since there was no one to perform the Heimlich maneuver and I was too tired to hurl myself against the back of my chair.
Mom, Madge, and Bea Ann didn’t have any reservations in Bali—at all.
Chapter Nine
There are a few basic things you should expect from your travel professional. We should be familiar with destination time zones, understand the international date line, and know each country’s national or religious holidays and any other quirks in their calendars before making reservations, booking connections, etc. There are a million things that can go wrong if we don’t.
If Peggy had done more than read the back cover blurb of Eat, Pray, Love, she would have known that the Balinese operate on three separate calendars. Their most important one, in terms of their day-to-day lives, has 210 days in a year rather than 365. And, since Peggy didn’t know the difference, or care, she’d failed to check the box for the Gregorian calendar, and booked her clients’ reservations according to the wrong one, like the over-coiffed and irresponsible half-wit that she was. She was probably the only travel agent on earth who could have screwed this up.
So, my mother’s reservations were for over two weeks ago, as were all their prepaid tours to the volcanoes, ceremonial dancing performances, snorkeling in the coral reefs, trips to three temples—complimentary sarongs included—and a half day in the Ubud Monkey Forest. And per the fine print, there were no refunds if they were no-shows. On top of that, the Bay Ridge matrons were landing in an airport where lying about your accommodations had serious consequences. With the image of the three of them standing in ill-fitting sundresses in front of a tropical firing squad burned in my brain, I called their original hotel. They were completely full, with a long waiting list.
At least I’d recently reconnected with the one person who might be able to help me—the queen of Bali travel, Jill of Jill’s Adventures.
Jill was an Aussie who’d come to Bali to surf in the early seventies, fallen for a Balinese man, and never left. She’d had her agency for over thirty years. We’d shared horror stories at a “Rehabilitating the 777” convention at Madison Square Garden after 9/11.
With the exception of Peggy Newsome, travel agents are the best. They are calm, practical, well-educated, curious, and tech-savvy. And the ones in Southeast Asia regularly had to navigate airport shutdowns, monsoons, plane crashes, the occasional political coup, and death by firing squad if their clients were caught smuggling drugs, animals, or large amounts of cash. I thought my job was tough, but Jill was a study in badass.
“Jill’s Travel, Jill speaking.”
“Jill! Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel. I’m so glad you’re there.”
“Cyd! Glad you caught me. I’m off on holiday in three days. What can I do for you?”
“Three words. Peggy fricking Newsome.”
“No! What is it this time?”
I told her. She said there was a small but comfortable hotel near Denpasar with rooms she kept reserved for emergencies like this. I could hear Jill’s keyboard clicking over the line. “Do all their tour arrangements need to be rescheduled as well?”
“Yes. Please. I trust whatever you’d suggest. I really owe you for this one, Jill.”
“Nope, I’m still paying you back for front-row seats to Lord of the Dance, 2003.” She paused. “Customs is very strict. They’ll penalize you for an overstay. I’ll send my second in command, Lu, to pick them up. Should I add a fourth reservation? You want to come over? It’s ceremony season.”
My mother might resent it. But if Jill was leaving the country, at least I’d be on the ground for any other emergencies. There was another good reason. Peggy was there and not expecting me, which put me in a power position, for once. As ever, I erred on the side of responsibility. And revenge. “Yes. I’d better. I’ll let you know when I’m arriving.”
“Do you want to give me a credit card for the rooms?”
I’d have to lock the office and put the calls on forward. I called my former high school lab partner and current owner of Lockness Monster Key Service for an emergency lock change for the office. While I waited for him, I called in a couple of favors and cashed in some miles on Singapore and Eva air. My flight left in five hours. It would be tight, but at least all my shots were up to date.
I grabbed my vaccination records, forwarded the office phone to my “client emergency” cell and backed up all my client files onto a flash drive, which I put inside two ziplocks, inside a small pink Tupperware container, inside one of the padded pockets of my purse. Finally, I shoved a set of the new keys into a prepaid envelope addressed to Debbie Pinkowski and patted the office door for luck.
Our house was dark except for the light in the foyer. There was no drone of Nova in the den. If my Aunt Helen and Uncle Leon were home, they were upstairs in their room.
For the twenty years when I’d barely left the neighborhood, my emergency travel bag had been ready for all time zones and climates. Ironically, now that I’d actually been somewhere, my trusty prepacked carry-on was missing vital items.
I pulled out my laminated “tropical locations” list and added three-ounce containers of industrial-strength antiperspirant, Avon bug spray, anti-frizz hair serum, 55 SPF sunscreen, and waterproof mascara to my quart-sized “liquids” ziplock. They just fit.
I checked that I had water purifying tablets, cornstarch, a crushable sun hat, two pairs of high-heeled sandals and a few scrunchies. My Balenciaga was up to date.
As I’d be going through airports in two Muslim countries, a miniskirt—my preferred travel uniform—wouldn’t work. I crept down to my mother’s room. I remembered she had a flowy red knit maxi skirt that would be modest, but not dull. I added a black silk boatneck shirt with my beloved Hermès scarf, and a pair of nude Charles David patent-leather heels.
I triple-checked everything, zipped up my carry-on, weighed it on the bathroom scale by subtracting what I hoped was still my current weight, and carried it all to the landing.
I stood for a minute outside Uncle Leon and Aunt Helen’s door. You never know what’s going to happen on a trip. Even though I was furious with them, I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye. I knocked and cracked the door.
“What is it, Squid?” Uncle Leon sat up. His nightcap was positively Dickensian.
“I’m going to Bali. Just wanted you to know that, even though you betrayed me after I saved both your lives, I love you anyway.” I blew him a kiss and heard a groan from Aunt Helen.
Her hairnet twinkled as she turned over. “Everybody deserves a vacation.”
Chapter Ten
I’d split the difference between the easiest and the cheapest trip, finding flights that had the best on-time and safety records. I needed to get there fast, but I wasn’t going to help Mom, or anyone else, if I missed two connections, or careened off a runway. I’d managed to get all bulkhead seats. My maxi skirt was wide enough to hide my Balenciaga from the flight attendants and I’d be first in my section to get off the plane, which would help if the flights were delayed.
Which, of course, they were. I was due to have a two-hour layover in Qatar, but our late departure sliced it to thirty minutes. I’d run through the Doha airport, holding up Mom’s skirt, my Hermès headscarf slipping over my eyes, to catch the plane to Jakarta. At least I’d been prescient enough to wear stilettos for balance and speed. I made it onto the jetway just before they closed the gate. Then waited on the tarmac for forty-five minutes. So we were late arriving in Indonesia, but that was all right, as my Eva Air flight from Jakarta to Bali was delayed, too.
My experience with the Jakarta airport was limited to multiple viewings of the movie The Year of Living Dangerously, so I was happy to take the time to explore, keeping my eyes modestly low and my headscarf modestly high.
