Family Affair Read online

  Lacey came over to dry them. They stood in companionable silence. Then, it occurred to Chase that Lacey was doing a drive-by. She ventured out of the city only under unusual circumstances. The hinterland had no appeal despite the beauties of New Mexico. "Why are you here?" Chase asked.

  Lacey dried a cup and avoided Chase's gaze. "What? Can't a friend drop by?"

  "No one drops by where we live unless it's a neighbor in need of something like a shovel or a chainsaw." She handed Lacey another cup.

  "All right, I came for a little chat."

  "What's wrong?" Chase always imagined the worst—a brain tumor, death in the family, horrible car crash or strange diseases. She scrubbed out the coffee decanter more furiously than was necessary. The soapy water resembled a Jacuzzi.

  "It's nothing terrible." She knew Chase too well. "I just have a question. You know, I got to thinking how in high school you always thought boys were gross and all they wanted was to stick it in you—that they had a boy smell and it made you sick."

  "I don't get where this is leading." She rinsed the sparkling decanter. Lacey dried it. Between the two of them it looked brand-new. She stuck it in its cradle.

  "Well, I met this guy. We've kind of been seeing each other." Lacey went to sit in Chase's computer chair, first wiping the dog hair from the seat.

  Chase leaned up against the kitchen counter. "And?"

  "We had dinner at his apartment. I mean it was nice and all but something was different." Lacey turned around in the chair. She was either looking out at the mountains or pretending to.

  This was like trimming the dog's toenails, a combination of pleading and wrestling. "Different how? He decorated weird, he was wearing a toga when he answered the door, he had a tank full of piranhas and he wanted you to stick your hand in the tank, that kind of different?"

  "No, it wasn't like that."

  "Good God, Lacey, fucking spit it out."

  Lacey turned to face her. "We started making out after dinner and well, it grossed me out. I mean, normally I'd be screwing him by now, but I didn't like what he was doing or trying to do."

  "Maybe he just wasn't the right guy. He wasn't forceful or anything?" Chase didn't want to have to threaten to cut off his balls with her orchid pruners because he'd manhandled her best friend.

  "No, nothing like that. I think he thought it was kind of sweet—like I was a virgin or something. I got all flustered and left."

  Now Chase was really confused. She had some idea where this might be leading, but she preferred not to go in that direction. "Sometimes, even the best candidates don't float your boat."

  "He is a nice guy, but I just didn't feel anything, you know, down there."

  "Lacey, don't worry about it. You're not a spinster yet."

  "You're a pillar of compassion."

  "Thanks. Now you better hightail it before the writers group gets here unless you want to join."

  "I can't even write a decent postcard."

  Chase reached out and gave her a hug.

  "I like the new you. You're much more user-friendly," Lacey said.

  "Watch out for the jack rabbit on your way out."

  "Stella told me what happened at the party."

  "Why does she talk to you?" Chase inquired ruefully.

  "Because I'm nice to her like you should be."

  "I invited her to the barbeque didn't I?" Chase said defensively.

  "Yeah, and then look at what you did," Lacey said, pointing at the computer screen saver. Chase had taken the photo of Stella wearing the sage green Crocs and through the miracle of Photoshop enlarged and stretched Stella's feet so they resembled

  large clown shoes. "I couldn't help myself."

  "I'm sure. Okay, I'm off. Tell Jasmine hi for me."

  "You two are still hanging out?" Chase asked as Lacey headed down the stairs.

  "From time to time," Lacey said over her shoulder.

  "Uh-huh."

  Since Chase hadn't finished her mystery novel, she begged off critique. "I've got to get it all down and then we can spend hours, weeks and months poring over it, but I don't want to stop now and think about it yet. Does that make sense?"

  Alma reached over and touched her hand. "Yes, it does. Finish it and then we'll help."

  Bo put his coffee cup down rather forcefully, probably more forcefully than he intended. "Honestly, you're not dogging us?"

  "No, I swear. Even with the moist-mound sagas I finish them completely unless I'm having trouble with the ending before I edit."

  "Dude, that's cool," Delia said. "Some writers are like that."

  "Precisely," Alma said. She refilled her black tar coffee from the decanter.

  Chase winced. Her cup was closer to cafe-au-lait, the kind French parents give to their children in training to become true cafe dwellers.

  "Some writers edit along the way like Kurt Vonnegut who writes and rewrites the same page over and over again until he gets it absolutely perfect and then he moves on. It's like fucking insane. I couldn't do it if God-on-High instructed me. I would've sucked as Moses," Delia said.

  Chase laughed. "You've been hanging out at the Ortega house too much."

  "I know. Jacinda's got little plaques and shit everywhere. It's like osmosis or something. Next thing I know I'll be spouting proverbs."

  "That might be a good thing," Alma said.

  "Oh, no, Delia as the next money-grubbing TV evangelist. Horrors," Bo said.

  "That's a great racket. I wish I could pull it off. It certainly pays better than writing porn."

  Jasmine pored over her manuscript. She was next for group critique. Her manuscript was never far from her person. Chase suspected that she was afraid her husband Philip would snatch it. Jasmine was as superstitious as the rest of them when it came to manuscripts. Even though they were all supposed to have innumerable backup copies—they didn't. It was endless secretarial business to keep it all updated so they usually had a working copy that they periodically backed up. Chase was the worst. She had her composition book and that was all until she typed it into her laptop.

  So far she'd been lucky. Others had not been so fortunate. The French writer Collette had lost a manuscript in a taxi— never to be found. Someone probably threw it away without ever bothering to open it and see what it contained. Or Garrison Keillor who had lost the best story he'd ever written in a train station lavatory. It still haunted him.

  "We could do mine if no one else is ready. I've added a character and I'd like to know what you all think," Jasmine said.

  "Works for me," Bo said. "I'm still trying to make the deadline on that snippet for Hung Magazine."

  "Can we pass on critiquing that one?" Alma said. She took one of the Danish cookies from the tray on the coffee table.

  "Please. That dick stuff doesn't work for me," Delia said. She got up and retrieved a Dasani from the fridge. "Anyone else?"

  "I'll take one," Chase said. Bo's special blend of coffee was eating a hole in her stomach.

  "Listen, girl, I read your dyke porn," Bo said.

  "Children, let's play nice," Alma said.

  "I'll run copies," Jasmine said. She located the section she wanted them to critique. "If that's all right with you."

  "Mi Xerox is su Xerox," Chase said.

  "It's erotica not porn, by the way," Delia said, handing Chase the bottle of Dasani.

  "Same difference," Bo replied, crossing his arms and his legs simultaneously like a Venus Fly Trap on the defensive.

  "Actually, it's not," Alma said. "The sole purpose of porn is the graphic display of sex whereas erotica is about the language and subsequent movements that culminate in sex."

  "She's got you there," Chase said. The copy machine was whirling away in the background. It must be quite the section Jasmine wanted them to peruse.

  "All right, my story is porn," Bo said.

  "It's cool, dude. I wish I could write the pure porn, but chicks aren't like that. It's all the stuff before that turns them on," Delia said.
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  Jasmine returned all flushed. "Sorry, that took so long." She handed out the copies and then she sat down and got up again. "Maybe I do need a water. My throat is a little dry."

  Something was up, Chase thought. Usually, Jasmine dreaded critique, but she seemed more excited than afraid. They'd find out soon enough.

  Jasmine sat back down. "So take a few minutes to read through and then we can see if it works."

  They bowed their heads practically in unison except for Chase who looked on in amusement. Looks like we're in the church of the written word she thought, accolytes of parsing, hunters of adverbs and adjectives. Some to kill, some to keep. Chase was still pondering this when she came upon the part where Jasmine's protagonist now had a lesbian partner. She looked up. "What the hell is this? You've got a dyke in the story."

  "I thought he needed a partner." Jasmine avoided Chase's gaze.

  "So make her a lesbian? I don't get it," Delia said.

  "I just thought it was a nice twist. It's not like I don't know enough lesbians to create a realistic lesbian," Jasmine retorted.

  "This is hilarious," Bo said. He poured more coffee. "We've got a dyke writing straight fiction and a straight woman writing lesbian fiction. Will wonders never cease?"

  "Bo's right. You'll narrow your market," Chase said.

  "Don't we know," Delia said, giving Chase a high-five.

  "I don't care," Jasmine said.

  "My only concern is that you've written a hundred pages without her. You've got to bring her in earlier. Her sudden appearance is very disconcerting to the reader," Alma said.

  "At least I have Alma's support," Jasmine said, sniffling.

  Chase twirled her pencil. This latest development concerned her. Jasmine didn't pull a dyke out of her ass. This meant she'd thought about it. Chase learned long ago that coincidences were often a cheat. Lacey stopping by with her gross-out boy experience and Jasmine's sudden interest in lesbians were not random events. They were connected and Chase aimed at finding out how.

  "Do they fuck?" Delia asked.

  Alma gave her the look.

  "I mean does the dyke have a meaningful and intimate relationship with another woman?"

  "I don't know yet," Jasmine said, glancing away.

  "Let's run a pool on who pulls off the better lesbian versus the straight character. Five bucks a pop," Bo suggested, a glint in his eye.

  "I'm in," Delia said, reaching into her back pocket and digging out her Harley-Davidson leather wallet complete with silver chain.

  "For purposes of expanding characterization I'll do it," Alma said, reaching for her black canvas messenger bag.

  Jasmine and Chase eyed each other.

  "Deal," Chase said.

  "I'm up for the challenge," Jasmine said, rolling up her manuscript and smacking her leg with it.

  "Ready, set, go," Bo said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "Did you find one?" Chase asked.

  "Do we really have to do this?" Addison said, clutching her cell phone to her chest.

  They were sitting in the waiting room of the gynecologist's office. Chase had been barred from taking part in the office visits after she'd been belligerent with Dr. Bertine about his qualifications and his ability to give appropriate prenatal care to her beloved wife and child. She had told him that since he and his staff had ultimately caused the initial screw-up, but now fortuitous gift of life, she had reservations about his credentials. She went so far as to inquire whether his medical degree wasn't some sort of correspondence course. Chase had wanted Gitana to get a new doctor, but Gitana liked Dr. Bertine and had insisted on keeping him.

  "I think it's a good idea. It's part of the new 'us'."

  "I liked the old 'us' better," Addison said, swinging her legs and crinkling up her face.

  "Change is often painful." Chase scrolled through her iPod searching for the song she'd chosen.

  "Very." Addison pulled out her iPod from her backpack and downloaded her song for her mother's name tag.

  "So what did you choose?" Chase asked as she inputted her song.

  "'Wrapped Around Your Finger,' by The Police."

  "How'd you decide on that one? The Police were around years before you were born."

  "I did a keyword search for songs of slavery and bondage," Addison replied.

  "I don't think that is necessarily an improvement on your last one," Chase said, referring to Addison's choice of 'Witchy Woman.'

  "What did you pick?"

  "A better song," Chase said, picking up a magazine and thumbing through it. There were a zilhon ads for diapers and formula.

  "Such as?" Addison asked, pulling the magazine out of Chase's hands.

  An older woman sitting across the waiting room stared at Chase as if she were an over indulgent parent, not Addison's cohort.

  "I chose Sarah McLachlan's song 'Fallen.'" Chase didn't look at her.

  "Oh, that's a much better choice," Addison said smugly. "Isn't that the song with the line, 'I've sunk so low’, in it?"

  "Well, yeah. At least I'm putting the blame on myself," Chase retorted.

  "Gag me." Addison stuck a finger toward her open mouth.

  "Okay, we'll keep trying," Chase said. "Each week we'll move forward."

  "Like a twelve-step program."

  "Precisely. How do you know about twelve-step programs?"

  Chase asked, suddenly alarmed that her nine-year-old cohort might have been a heavy drinker or a heroin addict.

  "My mom made me do it for cuticle biting. It worked. See, look." Addison held out her hands for inspection.

  Chase admired her little hands. They did look good.

  "I've noticed you might need a little help there." Addison pointed to Chase's hands. She had three Band-Aids on the really bad ones and her other fingers were marginal.

  "I know. I can't stop it and this baby thing isn't helping." As if to substantiate her addiction she gnawed on her index finger. "It's a horrible habit."

  Addison grabbed her hand. "Then take control and stop it."

  The older woman sitting across from them now looked confused. Perhaps she thought Chase was mentally disabled and Addison was her midget caretaker.

  "I can help you."

  "How?" Chase looked longingly at her pinky which still had potential. Now that she was about to lose the habit, she craved it more.

  "One finger at a time. We'll start with your thumb because those are the hardest. Here give it to me." Addison dug through her pack until she found a black permanent marker. Taking Chase's right thumb she drew a line around it. "Okay, this one is off limits. You can assault the other nine, which in your case since you're down three already, leaves you six. We'll do one finger a week."

  "Wow, this is going to be a lengthy process."

  "How long have you done it?" Addison asked, putting the black marker back into the pack.

  "All my life."

  "I don't think ten weeks to unlearn a lifelong habit is excessive."

  "You've got a point there," Chase admitted.

  Luckily, she was spared further analytical ruminations by Gitana who returned to the waiting area positively beaming.

  "Everything okay?" Chase asked.

  Gitana handed her a note from the doctor—a synopsis of her current condition. Chase read it quickly. The note mosdy pertained to keeping up the prenatal vitamins, avoid heavy lifting and that Gitana's pregnancy was progressing satisfactorily. "How much longer is he going to be angry with me?" Chase said. "And don't you think his note is a little vague? What does progressing satisfactorily mean exacdy?"

  Ignoring her questions, Gitana said, "Dr. Bertine gave you this." She handed her the Lamaze class video.

  "Great," Chase said, turning it over and reading the back cover.

  "Let me guess, she got thrown out of Lamaze class as well," Addison said.

  "You guessed right," Gitana said.