Happy Family Part 6

Cookie almost loses her footing on the ladder. She hates listening to Mz. M. getting misty over that dead fool.

"What are you trying to do? Kill yourself? Basta, Cookie, basta! Come down from there."

Cookie shakes her head in disgust, then slowly descends.

"I go up myself." Cici totters on her heels like a glittering catcher at the bottom of the ladder, trying to figure out where to grab Cookie to help her down.

Cookie waves her off. "I can do it my d.a.m.n self."

Cici dispatches Cookie to get another bottle of Sancerre, knowing she'll take a pull off their liquor bottles while she's downstairs, like she's been doing for decades. Cici clicks on the intercom and asks for profiteroles as well. There's some muddled answer. Cookie pretends she doesn't know how to use the intercom so she can later say, "I didn't hear you ask for that."

It is less than two weeks before Cheri's birthday, and Cici hasn't decided yet on the piece of jewelry she will send her. A ring? It's a tradition, to give something of hers to her daughter each year-why save it all until she dies? She'd gladly give Cheri anything she wanted, but her daughter doesn't want any of the things she has to give. No matter what she picks, Cheri won't wear it or like it. But perhaps one day it will have meaning for her. After their last conversation, she's tempted to skip the ritual this year. Family stays together, not in a hotel!

Cheri was never a warm child. She didn't like to cuddle or be hugged; she was hard to get to know and even harder to understand. Sol simply treated her coldly in return, but Cici wasn't the kind of mother to pull away, like her friend Charlotte Detemeirs, who never once spoke about her son after he was in the newspapers for taking part in a money scandal.

Looking through her vault is like spending time with old friends. Without opening the box, Cici remembers when and where she got each piece, the carat size, country of origin, the l.u.s.ter, brilliance, dispersion, and scintillation of each gemstone. They speak to her in different ways and different tongues. Like this jabot pin that somehow got mixed in with the c.o.c.ktail rings. She immediately recalls: 24K gold, tenth-century, made from horse-bridle ornaments. Solomon purchased it at an antique shop in East Hampton and gave it to her when she came back from her first trip to Italy with Cheri. It was an apology for the fight they'd had over the portrait. Looking back, it was more her fault than his. Cici had meant it to be a nice surprise for him, a painting of his two girls, Cici and Cheri. She didn't think he would want to be included; he was so busy with work, and men did not want to sit and pose for hours. But she had used the wrong words to describe it. "This isn't a family portrait," he kept saying, accusing her of leaving him out of his own family. She was so upset that all she saw was his anger and not his hurt. Even after she had the artist redo the portrait, Solomon insisted she hang it in the guest room where he would never lay eyes on it. When she goes to return the pin to its rightful drawer, she spies a heart-shaped black velvet box all the way at the back. Indian ruby Bulgari ring in 24K gold setting, June 6, 1981, Lutce in New York City. Ruby: preserves chast.i.ty, kills poisonous snakes, can cause water to boil, declares love. Well, it was a declaration. Whether it had anything to do with love and happiness was another matter.

She thought Solomon was happy when he gave her the ruby ring for her fortieth birthday. His patents for the special coating on pills were making him a lot of money; he'd just bought a pied--terre in the city. Providing for her, buying her beautiful things, he said, made him happy. He was rarely home before seven thirty. But on her birthday that year, it wasn't even six when she heard the crunch of his tires on the gravel path and saw his headlights sweep up their driveway. She sipped her negroni.

She smoothed her skirt while standing at the kitchen sink and rubbed a cut lemon under her nails to remove any traces of garlic. She had been making pasta sauce that day, freezing it to give to Cheri, now at NYU, so she'd have something decent to eat. Solomon promised to spend the weekend in Montclair to celebrate Cici's birthday. She'd wanted Cheri to come home too, but Cheri, as usual, preferred to stay in the city with her friends.

Cici could tell by the way Solomon was whistling "Just the way you look tonight" as he walked through the front door that he was happy. She heard him place his keys on the hallway entrance table, listened to his footsteps, the slight drag of his left shoe. His legs had become swollen and stiff from phlebitis. He had always been so strong, with such beautiful legs in his white tennis shorts. But she tried not to let it bother her. "Nothing else for today, Cookie," she heard him say.

They went to their favorite restaurant, Lutce, and sat at a table by the fireplace, next to the wall with elegant paper that looked like yellow flowers and green leaves on trellises. In the sophisticated quiet, they heard the clink of silver, the clearing of a throat, the sound of an aged port being poured into heavy lead crystal. He kissed her hands and put the pigeon-blood ruby ring on her middle finger. As she raised her champagne flute to toast Sol's gift, the large gem slipped to the side. But Cici twisted it back with her thumb before Sol could see that the ring was much too big for her finger.

They ate ginger crme brlee and profiteroles and drank too much. It was rare that they were alone. She spoke about her concern for their daughter, wearing torn clothes, piercing her body, and looking so thin. He told her about how he managed to scoop up the new apartment and recounted with pride his outmaneuvering of the co-op board, how there were many people who'd wanted that apartment. Now Cici had a new design project; there would be architects and plans to coordinate and she could spend more time in the city, more time with him.

He touched her back. She s.h.i.+vered; was it from his touch? She would like to feel s.e.xy with him; maybe tonight she could. He steered her out of Lutce into the drizzle of the street and helped her into their waiting town car with its purr of cla.s.sical music. "Buon compleanno, Carlotta," he whispered in her ear, "you are more beautiful to me at forty than you were at eighteen."

When they got home, she peignoired herself, put her hair up, lingerie and pearls beneath. She browsed through Architectural Digest because it was on her nightstand and she didn't want to appear too eager. It was a sensitive situation. Would he want to make love? Ever since her hysterectomy, even when she craved his touch, intercourse was painful for her. She'd tried the olive oil her doctor suggested, but it made a great mess; she'd tried the breathing exercises and reading s.e.xy stories. Once, they'd watched an erotic movie together. She had tried. But it never felt the same again and she could not have an o.r.g.a.s.m. And Sol could always tell when she was just doing it for his sake. She felt ashamed and guilty. They slept like spoons, kissed h.e.l.lo, good-bye; he did not often try to do more. He never came home early.

"I have news, sweetheart," he said when he slid next to her in bed wearing his green silk pajamas. His face was smooth and she could smell the warm cashmere of his aftershave. "I've decided to go to law school." He announced it like a boy bringing home a blue ribbon. She didn't know what to say except "But you are a dottore."

"And soon I'll be a lawyer. G.o.dd.a.m.ned lawyers-they always travel in groups, three on a call, three at a lunch, and three per hour on your bill. I added up what I've been spending on lawyers for Entercap-it's ludicrous. I could prosecute my own patents with what I've learned in the past decade. This just means I'll have more control over my business, sweetheart. I'm still a dottore. But I'm also a businessman." Cici had been so proud of her husband, standing tall in his white lab coat, inventing something to change the world. "I'm doing it for you and for Cheri. And for the children she might have one day."

"Of course she will have children," Cici replied. She imagined herself posing with them on a family Christmas card.

Sol had already given her such nice things; their house with the lilac trees in Montclair had been plenty. But once his pill coating had been adopted by every major pharmaceutical company in the United States, there was more money. Yet the more money Sol made, the more he felt he needed to make. Now he was always traveling, working, meeting, can't talk, late business dinner, He's unavailable right now, Mrs. Matzner.

"Are you no too old for school?"

"I'll certainly be the world's oldest law student." He laughed. "You're right about that." The more questions came to her, the more anxious she became. Would he still be a doctor? Cici liked being a doctor's wife. She knew what it meant. "I don't need to practice anymore, but I'll still run the research facility," Sol rea.s.sured her. "I know this is unconventional, but law school will be easy compared to med school. I'm doing all of this now, while I still can. Entercap is my legacy-and yours."

"Where is this law school, is it out of the state?"

"Here, Cici. Of course, right here in New York. I'm looking into a few accelerated programs in the city so I'm close to my office. NYU has a good one." Cici sat up straighter.

"You go where Cheri goes? Would you, Solomon?" More than anything, Cici wanted Cheri to have a good relations.h.i.+p with Sol. The kind that had been cut short with Cici's papa and that she had never had with Marco D'Ameri. "It would be wonderful, you can see your daughter more."

"NYU is a big school. And I'll be taking mostly evening cla.s.ses. I'm not sure she'd be so happy to have her father going to her same college. She's not very receptive, at least not to me."

"No say that, Solomon. She is almost an adult now. It was difficult for me as well, with her so dark, so hard, nothing I did was good enough. But you fight with her and then you just give up. She is her own person. Maybe she is not as we want her to be-I pray that she can look pretty again, she is so pretty and smart. Ma, please, if it is not too late for school, it is not too late to try with your daughter."

"It's not like I don't want to try, Cici," Sol said with a sigh. "She just puts up so many walls. But NYU does have the most flexible program."

Sol went downstairs to his office to make a call, just for a minute, he swore. Cici looked at her ring, the color of an unripe pomegranate, of pigeon blood. "The best rubies are pigeon-blood red," she remembered her mama telling her. She would call Bulgari in the morning and get it sized. She slipped between the sheets of their marital bed and fell asleep waiting for Sol to return to her side. Her fortieth birthday ended as quietly as a ruby dropping onto a jeweler's felt.

The next day, Cici called Bulgari. It was such a simple request.

"I need to get a ring sized. Yes, it was purchased by Dr. Matzner." Cici was in her kitchen in Montclair, talking into the phone and making hand gestures at Cookie, who was staring into a pot on the stove, confused about what to do. "No, I don't have the receipt, but you should...what? He bought two rings? Yes, I hold."

"Come on, Mz. M., are you saying stir or pour? The rice is jumping around."

"All these years I teach you how to do the risotto, you no listen? Yes, I am here," Cici said into the phone. "Am I calling about the emerald ring?" Cici turned her back to Cookie. "Yes, that's right. Dr. Matzner's emerald ring...in eighteen-karat gold setting? Yes, that is correct." Cici pulled out a pad of paper and Cookie gave her a questioning look. "I would like to know the address you have for me. Also the telephone number, yes, to make sure you have the correct information." Cici's hand trembled as she scribbled on a piece of paper.

Ms. Catherine Webster, 5521 Forest Drive, Rye, New York, 555-0139 Cici was in her bathroom. She traced the name and address, going over each letter with the point of a fountain pen until the paper started to tear. She felt every loss rise up in her, the pain was so deep she could not bear it. She scratched at her arm, clawing at her flesh. It was not enough; she needed to cut all the way down, to hit the quick. She took the point of the pen and stabbed at her arm until she broke the skin. For a moment, she felt the relief of physical pain.

Cookie had been pounding on the door, and now she said: "I'm calling Mr. M. if you don't give me a sign you haven't slipped on the bathroom floor and split your d.a.m.n head open like a ripe tomato."

Sol had had to go into the city, citing unexpected problems with the new apartment. He would be home late that night before he went on his business trip, or he might stay over. She thought of all the nights he'd stayed in the city, how she'd worried about him being there alone. She thought of how he always took a shower when he got home late. She thought of little things and big things; there was no size chart for lies.

The fountain pen had leaked all over her hands. Blue ink stained her skin and dripped onto the marble floor. Her white slip too; she'd bunched it up to get at her stomach, to dig at her scars, but they were too resilient, wouldn't be opened. How would she clean up the mess? She took her toothbrush and started scrubbing the floor.

"I'm calling him," Cookie shouted, still pounding on the door.

"No," Cici said, her voice surprisingly strong.

Cici leans back in her chair in her jewelry vault, her muled feet propped up on the ottoman next to the unopened Bulgari box. The empty bottle of Sancerre lies on the oriental carpet, next to the profiterole plate that's clean save for a few coagulated drops of chocolate. Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor plays softly from the speakers; candles diffuse cardamom and bitter-orange scents.

Her right knuckle is swollen with age; the ring might fit her now. The skin on her hands is still soft, but she hates the sunspots and veins. She had her jewelry, and Sol had his wine cellar. Sol taught her about wines, how to look at the color with the gla.s.s tipped. If it was thick, almost blood-dense, it was a Big Red, and Sol loved his Big Reds. If jewels are the patron saint of the guilty, then the ruby is the Queen of Hearts.

Once she knew about the emerald ring, Cici couldn't stop picturing her husband and Catherine Webster, their naked bodies rising up to meet each other. She had sat for a long time in their bedroom, looking at the piece of paper with her husband's mistress's name on it. Then she'd searched the house for scissors. She was sure she had some in her sewing box.

The first cut was easy. Cici almost wished Sol were there to witness it. She was a little tipsy; she'd been drinking the best of his Big Reds. Her right hand held the scissors while her left hand riffled over the rows of Sol's pants, jackets, and ties. She'd taught Sol how to dress. Had picked out all of his clothes, had his monogram sewn on the sleeves of his custom-made s.h.i.+rts. She thought about the weather where Sol would be going for a conference in California, he said-day wear, evening wear, maybe something a little sporty for afternoons. She color-coordinated the ties, s.h.i.+rts, and suits and grouped them on the floor. Then went into her closet and got tissue paper. Once she had everything organized, Cici cut. She started with the pants of his favorite blue suit. The leg came off with several satisfying snips.

She cut arms, toes, crotches, ran the scissors over the compression socks Sol used for his phlebitis, and they curled like ribbon. Threads scattered across the floor like spring pollen. She folded his clothes and packed them with tissue paper, like she always did, so they wouldn't wrinkle. She layered the items carefully, concealing the cuts. When it was all nice and neat, she closed the suitcase. For a moment, she was not sure she could follow through with this. It is amazing the things we think we cannot do and then when the time comes, it is so easy. As easy as a kiss on the cheek to say good-bye, travel safely.

When Sol got back from his trip, he called from the airport to say he'd be staying over in the city.

"How was the weather?" she said, gazing out the window of her Montclair kitchen at the lilacs in full bloom.

"Fine," he said, "it's always nice in Southern California."

"So they say." She heard the bustle of the airport, someone being paged over the loudspeaker. "You sleep well in the hotel?"

"Everything was fine. The driver is here, I have to go, darling."

"But was the weather too warm? Did you have the right clothing?"

"Perfect," Sol said, "and the thing about travel is...you can always buy what you need."

Tears were dripping down Cici's face when she hung up the phone. She went into Sol's closet and grabbed an armful of the Brooks Brothers and Armani suits off their wooden hangers. She curled herself into a ball on the floor like a child and would have fallen asleep like that if Cookie hadn't interrupted her.

"Twenty-five dollar." Cookie was standing straight and tall like a Miniature Pinscher with an agenda. "I ain't deaf, dumb, and blind-I know what's been going on around here." Cookie picked up a pair of Sol's pants. They're now shorts. She put them back on the hanger. "It ain't none of my business, but I'm here to tell you there's something you can do about this situation. Now get on up, you shouldn't be rolling around on no closet floor."

Cookie handed her one of Sol's handkerchiefs. "Blow good and hard, now." Cici sat up and blew her nose like an obedient child. "All right, I'm only going to say this once." Cookie took the handkerchief, folded it, and placed it back in Sol's drawer on top of a stack of clean ones.

"Twenty-five dollar. That's what it cost you."

"Twenty-five dollar for what?"

"Come on, Mz. M., you got Mafia in Italy, don't you? Just about the only thing That n.i.g.g.e.r is good for is knowing folks who know folks, and yes, you know what I mean."

"You're not saying it is twenty-five dollars to-Cookie! G.o.d, He hears you. Ossia la Madonna!"

"Like G.o.d don't hear Mr. M. when he's doing what he's doing? He don't like that much either. It's always us women who suffer. I don't care what the Bible says, it's not right."

"But...twenty-five dollars, is so nothing..." Cici couldn't help thinking that Sol's life was worth more than that.

"To you, but to some folks-"

"Shhhhhht! It is a sin to even think like this."

"A'right, Mz. M. I just wanted you to know that you could do something constructive instead of drinking and cutting up clothes. That n.i.g.g.e.r can work it out so n.o.body's the wiser. You know what he gone and done? He bought himself a Cadillac; how he got the money I do not know-you think I saw any of it? No sirree. And you know what? That d.a.m.n Cadillac sits in front of the d.a.m.n house because he can't afford to put gas in it. So I told him, Go live in it, fool, go get your money's worth." Cookie chuckled. Cici laughed as well, not because it was funny but because she was now a little afraid of Cookie.

"Thank you, Cookie. But I could not do that." Did Cici consider it, even for a second? She crossed herself and thought she'd have to go to see Father Padua immediately.

Who would think that a human life could cost so little? Cici had no idea Cookie knew those kind of "folks." Cici didn't even know the name of Cookie's husband; she called him only That n.i.g.g.e.r. She thought she should send him a present; maybe he was angry not to be included at Christmas when she'd sent presents home for Cookie's children. Would he like a nice Burberry raincoat?

Cici's thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the pug scratching at the door. John Paul III doesn't like to be alone. Cookie's proposition had made her wonder how well we ever know other people, even the ones we see every day, even the people we love. Sol certainly had his sins, but there were also her own. She had been so pa.s.sionate, so hungry for every pleasure the body offered. She should have gone to church while she was pregnant, confessed her sin of placing her desire over the safety of her baby. Wasn't it a just punishment that after her surgery, she could not make love without pain or fulfill her husband's desire? In some deep unarticulated place, Cici knows this is what led him to Catherine Webster.

40bday 2.0.

The more Cheri looks at the black-and-white card showing a winsome boxer in a birthday hat, the more it resembles Eddie Norris's dog. The birthday card is from Suzanne, the secretary of the Near Eastern Civilizations Department, who sends one every year. The generic Hallmark card is the first communication Cheri has received from anyone in her department in a while-her colleagues evidently thought it best to distance themselves from her in light of the recent allegations.

Suzanne's card was waiting for her on the kitchen counter, along with a growing pile of FedEx packages from her mother, who insists that Cheri celebrate this d.a.m.n fortieth birthday, despite her demand that Michael not throw her a party and regardless of the fact that Cici has remained in Montclair and is not ensconced in the guesthouse to oversee the festivities. It was just as well, after the interrogation Cheri went through at her first meeting with the review committee earlier this morning. Only to be told, at the end, that they wouldn't be reconvening until school recommenced in September.

"Keep your powder dry"-that's what Eddie Norris would have advised. Eddie schooled her in how to have her deposition taken for a case that went to trial: answer only exactly what is asked of you, don't offer more information; when in doubt say, "Can you repeat the question?" And that's exactly how she'd treated the academic gestapo. She had turned over all her grade books, her students' tests and papers. She'd studied her lecture notes from the discussion of sacred prost.i.tution and prepared answers to the committee's likely questions. She'd felt a wave of Punch-Drunk Love anxiety cresting over her, and she'd popped a pregame Ativan.

Eddie's boxer. They called her Trooper General Hole-in-the-Tongue Gonzales because her bottom fang tooth kept getting caught in a hole in her tongue, exaggerating her underbite. When they found the dog, Cheri had been at a low point in her new career in law enforcement. She'd expected hostility from outside-civilians on the Lower East Side hated cops. But their jeers were nothing compared to the onslaught she'd endured inside the Ninth Precinct. She expected the hazing that came with being a rookie. She was used to having to prove herself. What blindsided her was the rage directed at her because she was a woman.

Maybe she'd overestimated gender equality in 1984. She was of the generation of women who were told they could bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. Or maybe she just thought that she could conquer any obstacle through sheer force of will. It wasn't the first time she'd been called a d.y.k.e because of her short hair and the multiple holes in her ears. Her firearms instructor at the police academy took her aside one day and said, "Guys will want to do you. If you won't, they'll say you're a lesbo. And you're a h.e.l.l of a shot, better than most of the men. Might want to tone it down just a bit; Jewish, educated, female-they're going to hate you. Their wives will hate you. Not because they're worried you'll f.u.c.k their husbands, but because they don't trust a broad to have their man's back. You'll have to put up with that s.h.i.+t for years. Your career, your pension will depend on it. Maybe now's a good time to think about going back to school with the rich kids."

There was no way Cheri was going to be that girl. His suggestion only spurred her on, inspired her to prove him-and Sol and everyone else who a.s.sumed she'd fail at the NYPD-wrong. So she kept her mouth shut, didn't protest being relegated to desk work, was determined to survive the daily hara.s.sment, the b.l.o.o.d.y tampons in her locker, having guys walk past her like she didn't exist. Endure. She'd go to the gym and punch the heavy bag when it got to be too much and if a tear spilled, she could say it was sweat. She'd cover her face and scream into her pillow at night so that in the morning she could saunter in again like nothing bothered her. The worst thing she could do was let them see it got to her. How it bored into her like a parasite, the knowledge that they were all saying, "You'll never be good enough to belong." Cops were a family. When you were in the fold, no matter where you came from, you were blood. She yearned for that kind of family, for that feeling of belonging. Withstand.

One morning, nine months after starting with the NYPD, she'd gone to the gym early and noticed in the shower that something was wrong with her conditioner. She couldn't dry her hair; it looked like greasy vinyl and smelled like mayo. Someone's idea of a practical joke. The wood-paneled wall in the muster room had a row of official photographs and plaques inscribed with the names of members of the Fighting Ninth who'd been killed in the line of duty. Cheri had had one of those taken after her graduation from the academy. One of the photographs was of a man who looked barely twenty. She stared at the name on the plaque-PTL Timothy Rocco-searing it into her mind. It was as if a sponge blotted up all the noise, the humiliation, even her desire to keep wiping at her hair. And then the room was full again and the sergeant was pointing to her, saying she was in the rotation. They were short-staffed. Somebody had to take Cheri in his car. She waited like the last kid to be chosen on the ball field. And that's when Eddie Norris walked in late and, without looking at her, said: "She's with me." Everyone knew that if Eddie Norris tapped you, it meant something. There were protests and guffaws but Eddie Norris gave no explanation and made no apology. All he said to her was "If you f.u.c.k up with me, you won't f.u.c.k up again."

It wasn't until their last call of the day-a complaint of a foul smell coming from an apartment off Avenue C-that they found the boxer. The stench of the apartment made bile rise in her throat. But Cheri wasn't going to pull a rookie move and throw up in front of Eddie Norris. The dog was severely emaciated and dehydrated, barely able to lift her head. On the floor next to her was the decomposing body of a woman still holding a crack pipe-the coroner had to break her fingers to get it loose. The dog went nuts when they started to move the body, sinking her teeth into Eddie's hand.

Eddie saved that dog just like he saved Cheri. He nursed the dog, cooked her rice and chicken, and eventually her eyes brightened and her fur grew back with a new l.u.s.ter. For months, she smelled like chicken soup, and Cheri joked that it was from Eddie's being a Jewish mother. Eddie took the boxer everywhere and the precinct adopted her as one of their own; she even slept for hours under Eddie's desk while he and Cheri were on duty in the projects of the Lower East Side.

It's funny what Cheri remembers. Trooper General had a thing for toes. She liked to go after Eddie's feet, especially when he and Cheri were having s.e.x. He'd swat her away, but she'd get excited and turn in a circle like she was chasing her tail, her tongue hanging like a wind-blown necktie. She was comic relief from the a.s.sault of the Job, and Cheri went from tolerating the dog to looking forward to seeing her. Trooper General had the unnerving habit of staring at them while they were sleeping; if Cheri woke up, there she'd be, her eyes trained on them. "She just wants to make sure we're still alive," Eddie said.

"Your mother's gone crazy again with the presents," Michael says as he walks into the kitchen. "Are you going to open those packages or just let them pile up until the day of? You'll have to move them before our company comes."

"What company? Tonight?" Cheri instinctively slides the birthday card back into the envelope.

"Next week. I'm waiting on the exact date. We finally got that Sedona p.r.i.c.k to let the shaman come here for a few days. You wouldn't believe the negotiations with customs and immigration. They're treating him like he's a terrorist because he's brown-skinned; talk about racial profiling. I don't know how he did it, but Bertrand got the U.S. consulate in Ecuador to help with doc.u.mentation to verify he's a tribal elder so he can bring in the yage."

"Yage?"

"Plant medicine, DMT-aka ayahuasca. You know the footage we shot with Del Rio-you should really look at what I've done with it before he comes. Can you do that, please?" Cheri remembers that footage: initiates in the thrall of the hallucinogen, wailing, retching, the shaman walking among them making a high-pitched, keening sound like an aboriginal cantor.

"So, wait, is the shaman coming here to do a ceremony?"

"Well, I have to interview him again." Michael shakes one of Cici's packages. "More towels?"

"Is he coming alone or does he have an interpreter?"

"Yeah, they're giving me the second-string interpreter. The main guy is staying in Sedona. Can you believe it? Everything is a f.u.c.king battle."

"Okay, just let me know soon." The last thing Cheri wants is more people she can't communicate with in the house. Tripping on yage or not tripping. "Taya's coming to town and I'm trying to plan my birthday."

"You'll know as soon as I know. And don't worry, they'll bunk in my office." Cheri gives him a look: It's okay for the shaman to stay there but not her mother?

"It's work. And only for a few days," Michael insists as she grabs the package away from him and holds it protectively.

"I told Taya we're going to get together with her and her new guy; we were all going to do something for my birthday."

"You said you didn't want to do anything for your birthday. I took you at your word."

"I said I didn't want a party," Cheri says measuredly. "Remember, I told you she's dating that artist. Von something. He's around your age-he was big in the seventies. He does nudes..."

"Sorry, darling, but sometimes we have to accommodate other people's schedules. I know Mezzo America's not your field, but I thought you'd appreciate meeting a Shuar medicine man. He's the first to come to the States ever; some people would consider it a blessing. Can we talk about this later? I'm exhausted. I was just on my way upstairs to take a nap." He's almost out of the kitchen when he turns around.

"You had your meeting with the review committee this morning. How was it?"

"I kept my powder dry," she says, relis.h.i.+ng that the context is lost on him.

"I found a genius place for your birthday, CM," Taya says. Cheri has answered her cell in the locker room at the gym after getting a few sets of weights in. The lady changing next to her is giving her a dirty look, which Cheri pointedly ignores. This isn't a f.u.c.king yoga studio, Cheri wants to say.

"It's an authentic country-and-western bar with a real mechanical bull. My old guy is in if your old guy is in." Taya thinks all old guys will like each other, kind of like babies; just throw the oldies in Barcaloungers with bottles of whiskey and they're happy.