Only, as I was driving away, I caught Rae with that cyclist guy again, and while I had no intention of following them or infringing on their privacy in any way, I did pull out my digital camera, focus with the zoom lens, and take several high-definition shots of the pair looking remarkably cozy. Just as I was pondering how Rae was planning on getting home, David pulled up in front of the school.
When his car came into view, Rae and the cyclist took on the roles of complete strangers. My sister casually walked over to my brother's vehicle and my siblings departed. Briefly I considered that Rae had dirt on David and that was why he was driving her, but I followed them a short distance (just a few blocks; don't judge me!) and realized that they were headed to Maggie's office. Everything made sense now, except for the secret boyfriend. But that was none of my business and I was done investigating family members. For the day, at least.
Maggie and Rae were celebrating over Jelly Bellies and root beer. Their appeal had been successful--Levi Schmidt's case was reopened. The crime lab was currently testing for any leftover DNA evidence. Barring any laboratory or storage mishaps, there was an excellent chance that science could free Schmidt, although Rae would take all the credit.
When my sister started to appear drunk off the sugar, Maggie cut her off and reminded Rae that she had to refocus her energy on the upcoming SATs. As we were leaving, I asked Maggie if she had any concerns that she needed to voice.
"I'm fine," she casually replied.
It seemed impossible that someone could be casual in the aftermath of Sunday night's dinner, but I took her at her word.
"If you have any problem with my mother, let me know."
Rae, who had taken my car keys, started honking the horn.
"There's only one Spellman who scares me," Maggie said, eyeing Rae through the office window. "That one."
I couldn't argue with her.
SON OF.
SUNDAY-NIGHT DINNER.
It's remarkable how quickly seven days can pass. I had to admit, I was ready to author a rule that limited Sunday-night dinners to every other Sunday. There's only so much bland food and conflict-laden conversation that a person should be expected to tolerate. And since I worked at the house all week, it seemed especially cruel to make me show up on Sunday.
When I arrived, Mom had burned a roast and called out for pizza. Rae, I was told, was in her room celebrating. This seemed as good a time as any to clear up the situation behind Mom's crying jag, so I knocked on Rae's door, although I didn't wait for an invitation to enter.
She was hanging upside down off her bed and in the midst of a conversation.
"All I did was turn up the oven to five hundred degrees for an hour and then turn it down. Voila, pizza. That's how it's done--"
My entrance interrupted her sentence, but at least now the roast mystery was solved (Mom's roasts are not exactly good, but the woman knows how to follow a recipe).
"Got to go," Rae said, and then she quickly ended the call.
"I knocked," I said.
"Then you wait for an invitation," Rae replied. "That's how it's done."
"I have information," I said. "I figured you'd be interested."
Rae sat upright. "Shoot."
"Don't worry about Mom," I said. "She's okay. An old friend died."
"What friend?" Rae asked.
"Martha Givens."
"From high school?"
"Yes."
"I heard about that," Rae said.
"Well, then, mystery solved."
"No. Not solved. I was there when Mom got the e-mail from Aunt Martie. Martha Givens was the superhero of bitches. She and Mom liked the same guy--his name was Benjamin something--"
"Ben Frankel. That's Uncle Ben.1 You know, the guy who always wears sock garters."
"Mom and Uncle Ben used to go out?" Rae asked.
"Yes."
"Oh my god," she said, and then she made that hairball face and shivered. "First let me clear that image from my head."
Rae closed her eyes and breathed. Then she continued.
"So after some guy named Ben and Mom started going out," Rae said, "Martha put drain cleaner in Mom's shampoo. But Mom smelled it first, so nothing happened. But then Martha told all these lies about Mom."
"Like what?"
"That Mom put out on the first date. You would have been like the school slut if you lived in Mom's day," Rae said.
"And you'd be in reform school," I said. "Now back to Martha. So, they were never friends?"
"They were full-on enemies," Rae replied. "I don't think Mom wanted her dead, but I know that crying spree was not for the loss of a woman who tried to make her go bald."
"Huh," I said. Then it occurred to me that Mom was really a spectacular liar. This is a fact I have always known, but sometimes it's good to take notice of a fresh reminder.
"So why was she crying?" I asked.
"I don't know," Rae said with a little too much nonchalance.
"Something strange is going on in this house."
"Tell me about it," Rae replied.
Dinner was better this time around for a number of reasons: We all like pizza and no one was delving into anyone else's sex life. Although there was an awkward moment when Mom was giving Dad a quick shoulder-rub and Rae suggested they get a room.
The only other notable incident was when David brought to light a minor observation.
"What happened to that hideous light fixture in the downstairs bathroom?"
"We changed it," Mom awkwardly replied after a brief pause.
"I've been asking you to change it for the last fifteen years."
"So we did," Mom said.
"Why is the towel rod missing?" David asked.
"It's missing?" Dad said.
"I took it down," Mom interjected.
"Why?" David asked.
"I didn't like it," Mom replied.
"She didn't like it," Dad echoed.
David studied my parents for signs of misdirection but eventually gave up when no member of the unit offered up their usual tells.
"Maggie, how has your week been?" Dad asked.
"Great. As you know, we won the Levi Schmidt appeal, so now we just have to wait for the DNA evidence to come back. Which takes forever, Rae, so you don't have to keep asking."
"I heard you loud and clear the first five times you said that."
"Well, you didn't hear me loud and clear, Rae. Because if you did, you wouldn't have asked me every single day this week."
"Got it," Rae replied, attacking another slice of pizza.
"Maggie won another case this week too," David interjected.
"Well, that's good news. What was the charge?"
"Armed robbery and aggravated assault," Maggie replied. "A jury of his peers found him innocent."
"Congratulations," said Dad.
"Thanks," Maggie replied. "Too bad he was guilty."
TRASH DUTY.
The next Tuesday rolled around and I was back on garbology, which meant a simple trip to Shana Breslin's residence to pick up her recycling and then drop it off at Pratt's place.
The neighborhood was sufficiently quiet; the puffy plastic bags were in their place. I dropped the recycling into the trunk of my car and drove off unnoticed. I phoned Jeremy from the road and told him that I would be stopping by. He lived in the Mission, off Folsom near Twenty-second Street. A one-bedroom apartment, not unlike mine, but newer, cleaner, and paid for by somebody else. I knocked on his door and he answered wearing several layers of cotton T-shirts in various sleeve lengths, topped with a navy-blue short-sleeved shirt that had a skater logo on it, although there was no skateboard in sight. Rae would call him a poser. I would call him a moron. My mother would call him useless. My father would call him a dropout. Grammy Spellman would call him a good-for-nothing, which seems to be the most accurate description. Less-judgmental folk would say that he was finding himself, but some people have the luxury to look; others don't.
Jeremy was on his cell phone when I entered with the "goods." He continued his conversation, interspersed with brief comments aimed in my direction.
"[To phone:] Dude, where are we meeting Friday night? Okay, I'm down with that. [To me:] You can leave the bags in the foyer."
"If that's all, I'm going to go," I said.
"Hang on, hang on," Jeremy said to the phone.
Being dismissed like the help by a twentysomething trust-fund hipster with a failed screenwriting career shot me full of adrenalized hate. Oh, how I wanted to sucker-punch Pratt and tell him to get off the fucking phone if he had something to say.
I kept my tone even and interrupted his other conversation.
"I don't have all night, Jeremy."
I did have all night, but my delivery was delightfully cold and had its intended effect.
"Dude, let me call you right back."
Jeremy flipped his phone shut and turned to me. I could see his attitude like steam coming out of his pores.
"Is that it?" Jeremy said, nodding at the bags on the floor.
"Yes," I replied. "Unless you want to pay an arm and a leg, I suggest you try to piece them together yourself."
"Do people actually do that?" he asked.
"Some do. It just depends on how important it is to you."
"Other options?"
"Surveillance," I replied.
"I'm not made of money."
"It seems you're mostly made of a wide variety of fabrics, as far as I can tell."
"Can we check her phone records?"
"It's kind of hard to do that these days."
"Can I listen in on her conversations?"
"If she's in public, sure."
"No, like, can you tap her line? Or could you put some kind of recording device in her house? I mean, all I'd need to do is listen to her for a few days and then I'd know for sure."
"Sorry, can't do that," I replied. "It's illegal."
"People do it all the time in the movies."