A New Lu Read online

  “How nice?” I offer him my best imitation of a come-hither glance, which always cracks him up. I think it’s embarrassment, but he laughs it off as a joke.

  He tucks his angular body back into a narrow chair. Long and thin as a coat hanger in black jeans and T, he reminds me of a raven given a spin in the blender. Odd bits of gelled and feathered black hair stick out from his head. He uses black mascara to make his red eyebrows and eyelashes match to achieve his current Goth look.

  The ever-present camera bag slung over his shoulder betrays his profession. Otherwise he could be mistaken for a high school dropout.

  “So, Ms. Tallulah, you ready to get your party on for Saturday night?”

  Now I have to back up a sec. Yes, my given name is Tallulah. And, yes, it does make one wonder why a loving mother would name her only daughter after a drinking, drugging, foul-mouthed southern diva known for her notorious nymphomaniac, bisexual excesses.

  Mom loved Tallulah Bankhead from the moment she saw her in The Little Foxes on stage at the National Theater during her first trip to Manhattan. Even critics hailed Miss Bankhead’s performance. Mom was only thirteen. What she saw and what she’s always believed was that Tallulah was a role model, the first woman in her experience to be more than a match for the three men in her life. In 1940, that was an admirable trait. Consequently, she never believed, when she was old enough to finally hear the lurid gossip, tales of the dissolute hellion Tallulah really was.

  “Celebrity gossip,” she would say with dismissive certainty. “Stars have to keep their names in the public eye.”

  At fifteen, I fully realized the implication of the mantle I had inherited when a want-to-be boyfriend offered me gin and a joint, because he thought that was how to lure me into sex. When I refused to participate, his taunts went from “Lu-sen up!” to “Lu-natic” to the standard from my elementary school days, “Lu-ser!” I pointed out to my mother—after she’d repeated the celebrity-gossip bit—that Tallulah could have opened orphanages or backed a Children’s Hospital if she wanted publicity. She was a slut, and I hated my name.

  Mom broke into tears. What’s a dutiful daughter to do? I looked up the origin of the name, certain it was made up. Surprise! Talula is Choctaw for leaping spring, the joyous sound of running water meant to gladden a saddened heart. It was 1969. Cher, part Cherokee, was famous—for the first time. A Native American name I could live with. I told Mom this, and we both felt better.

  Which brings me back to the present. Only Curran is allowed to use my full name. Not even Jacob had that privilege, unconditionally. It requires too much explanation at a simple meeting of strangers, who never allow the name to pass unquestioned. In public, Jacob uses Lu. Lu doesn’t require a dossier.

  Why Curran? Because we share a passion for black-and-white photography, old movies and Catherine Deneuve films. A name like Tallulah was bound to have some repercussions. It could have been much worse.

  “Mocha cappuccino with whipped cream, and an onion bagel with a smear. No lunch,” I add for Curran’s benefit. Then I stifle a yawn.

  “You’re not sleeping well?” He looks concerned. He’s appointed himself guardian, of sorts. Doesn’t think much of “any man who’d walk out on a fine woman like you.” As I said, I like Curran. But I suspect his attachment to me has more to do with the fact that, poor as he is, most young women won’t give him the time of day. I’m a substitute gal pal until he finds true bohemian love.

  “I sleep fine,” I assure him. “I took a nap before lunch.”

  He reaches for his camera. “Mind if I take a few shots?”

  I shrug and reach for my bagel. Curran has a serious shutterbug jones. Any excuse, and he’s snapping photos. I’m one of his models because he says I don’t pose. That I allow this invasion of my down time is another reason I’m his favorite of the moment.

  “Yeah!” he says to himself as his camera whirs with the automatic advance. “We could do some serious work, some respectable work.”

  “We?” This sounds more like “werror” because I have a mouthful.

  He pauses to grin at me over the top of his camera. “Older women, they’re, like, amazing. My favorite fantasy is an hour alone with Isabelle Huppert or our Catherine—and my camera. Try to squeeze into a single frame the lives they’ve lived. Cannot be done, Jack! Only collage can capture the elusive essence of a mature woman.”

  I smile, nod and swallow. “Too bad our new boss doesn’t share your view.”

  “I heard about the makeover. Bummer about the outcome. But Tai said I’d be doing some real honest photography for a change.”

  I pause in mid-sip of my cappuccino. “You’ve been talking with Tai?”

  He lowers his camera and reaches for his latte with skim milk. “Offered me a job, extra pay, a full layout.”

  “Doing…?”

  “You.” The vivid blush that washes through his face is enough to embarrass me, too.

  “She told you about her proposition to me?” Why are we suddenly speaking in suggestive language?

  “Bummer about the outcome.” He’s repeating. Young men have a very limited vocabulary for disappointment. “After all that work, your face won’t have any genuine character. But think of the ‘before’ images? A record of the real you! I’ll do you very Georgia O’Keeffe. Stark lighting. Facial lines etched by shadow into dry riverbeds. Lids like awnings. Sweet!”

  “No.” His unique perspective of my “maturity” may be a compliment, but I can’t dredge up any enthusiasm for the project as a whole. “I’m not undergoing any reconstruction that involves scalpels and collagen.”

  “Good on you!” Curran can’t keep his cool when he’s excited. “Screw it! I don’t need a new Nikon macro lens or a shearling coat or even a twelve-speed bike.”

  “That’s not on par with Grandma needs an operation,” I deadpan.

  He grins. “Can’t fault a guy for trying. I mean, I think you’re beautiful just as you are. But let me mourn a moment my fifty-Benjamin high.”

  “Tai offered you a five-thousand-dollar bonus for before-and-after photos of me?”

  “If she liked them. But, like, what’s not to like? Right?”

  It’s not that I don’t think Curran could produce pictures worth the money. But I was once a reporter, a real newspaper reporter, and I smell a rat. Tai obviously isn’t just waiting for me to think over her idea. She’s hedging her bet. Offering Curran the opportunity to have a spread in a major magazine! She’s working on him, so he’ll work on me. And, of course, that makes me the villain if I nix his dream. But how did she know Curran and I are friends?

  That woman’s dangerous.

  “What’s wrong with Dallas?”

  My conversations with my son have no preamble. I sit up on the sofa where I fell asleep in front of the evening news. “PMS.”

  “Oh.” Davin is not big on discussions of “girl” things.

  “Premarital syndrome, Davin.”

  It takes him so long I begin to wonder about my darling boy before he breaks into a snicker. “Pre-marital syndrome. Good one, Mom!”

  That’s my boy!

  “Look, Dal called me, and while I don’t give a flying f—Well, anyway, who cares about asparagus au gratin?”

  “You won’t be required to eat it.” I glance at the clock. It’s half past seven. I was out cold.

  “Listen, Mom, the thing is, you can’t sell the house. Dad loves that house. He’ll eventually get tired of apartment life. Then he’ll want to come home.”

  “I suppose I should be thrilled with the thought your dad might resettle for me if I come with the house of his dreams.”

  “You’re getting weird on me, Mom.”

  “No, Davin. Groggy.”

  “You’ve been drinking?”

  “Sleepy. I fell asleep.”

  “Unassisted?” Really, where did my children get this idea that I can’t function without supervision?

  “I’m clean and sober. I’m not suicidal or despairing
or even deep-down hurt about the divorce decree, Davin. All I need is time to figure out the shape of my immediate future and a nap. Preferably in reverse order.”

  “You sound okay to me.” This was in doubt? “Dal says you’re not yourself.”

  “Have you done your laundry this week? Finished your paper for Black Studies? Told Angie you need your space?”

  He chuckles. “You’re fine. Got to run. Love you.”

  “Me, too.”

  3

  “If I agree to change my column, won’t I be caving in, folding my tent, reneging on a principle—”

  “Bending over and taking it?” Andrea suggests this as she picks her way through a bin of Villeroy & Boch ramekins at the Liberty Village Outlet Mall in Flemington.

  “You know I hate male-inspired homophobic expressions.”

  Andrea pauses in her count of ramekins. “’S’cuse me, Ms. PC.”

  “You’re right. That was an absolutely bitchy thing to say.”

  “Can I say amen without you blowing your whistle again?”

  Andrea Fábregas-Prem is half Puerto Rican and half Thai. Thanks to a childhood in Brooklyn, she’s all urban sass. And gorgeous. Not tiny gorgeous. She’s got more curves than rigatoni pasta. Then there’s that Asian-Carib salsa-slide to her walk. Men literally trip over their feet when she walks by. I’m never bored in her company.

  “2005 is the Year of Me,” she announced in January. At thirty-eight, she’s dedicatedly single and totally self-absorbed, except when it comes to her family and friends. Which is not to say she isn’t looking for Mr. Right. There are just so many clauses in her personal prenup that no mere mortal man could ever hope to pass the inspection. She owns three weighty engagement rings but never had a groom. “The price of taking up my time,” she’ll proudly say as she displays one.

  She’s also the closest thing I have to an unconflicted ally.

  Other friends have studiously avoided the Nichols clan while we divvied up our marriage. Who wants to get caught backing the wrong party? Andrea knows Jacob by sight. She never chose to improve on that level of acquaintance, which makes her invaluable to me these days.

  “I say, take Ms. Leigh up on her offer. Did you see what they did for that woman with the split lip on Extreme Make-over?”

  I shudder, remembering the too-graphic operating-room footage. “It’s one thing to correct a deformity. Another to believe that one less wrinkle in your eyelid or abdomen will make you a better person. That’s so shallow.”

  “But that’s me. Muy somera!”

  We both laugh. I’ve known Andrea since she bought a huge fixer-upper in Upper Montclair five years ago. Years earlier, Jacob and I had settled on a less-expensive proposition a few blocks away. We met when she stopped to ask who was repointing our chimney. When I told her the cost, she exploded in a combination of Spanish and Thai that did not need translation. After that, we swapped numbers and comments on the various contractors who poured in a steady stream in and out of our lives. Jacob always went with the cheapest bid. Andrea taught me how to get the best cheaply, a notable distinction.

  That’s why I’m spending my free Friday two hours from home, strolling through outlet stores in the central part of the state. She needs a matching set of ramekins for her Easter soufflés. There are closer outlets but Andrea says it’s worth the drive. I wanted company—this the price of hers.

  Andrea is a corporate attorney, the first person in her extended family to finish college. Her separate journey began after she won a regional spelling bee at age twelve. Her intellect attracted the attention of two benefactors who wanted to help an inner-city child. Andrea parlayed that interest into college tuition at Columbia, and then Yale Law School. She is grateful, but proud of her achievements. She once told me, “I needed a leg up, not a handout. After tuition and books, I paid my own way.”

  She worked as a cook while in college, then as a caterer throughout law school. She calls her method Thai-ribbean cuisine. My favorite is her black beans with ginger and lemongrass and just enough chilies to make the top of my head sweat.

  She is all business when she needs to be. The rest of the time, she plays hard. On summer weekends the neighborhood vibrates with the sounds of her Brooklyn family on holiday in the Garden State. They earn their keep. Uncles, brothers, cousins and nephews build, repair and refinish. Sisters, aunts and nieces sew, paint, reupholster and plaster. Her place now looks like one of those chi-chi B and Bs. During the winter months, she lays out a monthly spread for a select group, sumptuous enough to satisfy the snootiest gourmand. As a result she’s the A-list hostess in our area, knows everyone. But she’s no fool. Complain about her exuberant relatives in July, you will not be sitting down to beluga with lime as a first course in December.

  “My folks are in the restaurant business,” was all she said as she offered blue-point oysters on the half shell or fresh sockeye salmon in mid-January.

  “Mafioso,” Jacob often murmured.

  I don’t know if there’s a Puerto Rican Mafia, let alone a Thai one. I rather suspect she’s got connections in the restaurant business. I do know she can make a dollar go farther than a Sosa home run. Thrift and extravagance, she makes it work.

  While she pays for two dozen pieces of matching porcelain at fifty percent off retail, I wander out into the crisp afternoon air and over to a village shop window displaying shoes. All my shoes have shrunk. Right now even my Keds feel like vises gripping my toes. I have gained five pounds. Unaccounted for. Where was the wanton abandon to calories that’s supposed to accompany unwanted weight?

  A sharp pain twinges in my left shoulder as I heave a shopping bag full of Andrea’s other purchases onto a nearby bench. A hand from behind snags my purse strap as it slips from my shoulder toward the ground.

  “You’re losing something.”

  I turn my head in reflex annoyance at a stranger’s daring and meet the nicest smile I’ve seen in a while. My frown softens into a flirtatious smile. “Thanks.”

  He nods. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

  Ma’am? And he isn’t even that young. Thirty-five or six?

  “Same thing happened to my sister last year,” Andrea responds when told of the incident a few minutes later over lunch. She dips her goat cheese and tomato wrap into pesto sauce and takes a healthy bite. Sustenance for the drive home. “Face it, you could be going through the change. That’ll make men’s interest pause before it gets to you.”

  Andrea can be so reassuring.

  “Out of luck and soon to be out of work. Story of my new life.” I sip my chai tea. Food seems suddenly to come only in varieties of greasy, smelly or green.

  “So, you’re serious? This is a moral issue for you?”

  “I’m willing to do a lot for a job but that doesn’t include mutilating my body for column inches. Tai made it clear at her first editorial meeting yesterday, it’s her way or the highway.”

  “Phom/di-chan sia jai ka.”

  Andrea is frowning, but that’s not why she has my full attention. She doesn’t know much Thai. Her father didn’t think it was useful for an American girl. For her to pull it out now means she has something serious on her mind.

  “I got to say this, Lu. You look bad. I mean, I know you, right? We’re tight. You can take a truth. You look beat down, girl.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  “You slept all the way out here.” She leans in for a closer look. “Maybe you need to see a doctor.”

  This kinda shakes me up. Andrea is a strict believer in herbal remedies. “You don’t approve of physicians.”

  “That’s me. You’re a Western medicine baby. You got to go with what you know.”

  I glance down at my watch and remember I have a date. “Are we done here?”

  Andrea puts her hand on my arm to stop me collecting things. “Got to give you credit, Lu. You handled yourself beautifully during the divorce. But even stone will crack, put under enough pressure.” She pauses for emphasis, black eyes wid
e with compassion. “You need to take time off.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  She sighs and nods.

  “I can’t just take a holiday. Tai might discover how dispensable I am.”

  “That’s just when you gotta disappear. Let her know you’re not afraid of her.”

  “But I am. I desperately need this job.”

  Andrea doesn’t believe in microexpressions. When she’s emotionally involved her whole body gets a workout. She throws up a French-manicured hand and rolls her head back on her neck. “Then get your belly suctioned and stop complaining. Or tell this Tai woman to kiss your ass-sets, and then make sure the door doesn’t smack you in the behind on your way out. Either way you gonna lose something. Oh-kaaay?”

  No wonder she’s an attorney. Andrea does have a way with words.

  “I’m sorry, Cy.”

  “Not half as sorry as I am. But I understand.”

  I’ve taken the cowardly way out, calling instead of knocking on my neighbor’s door. “It’s just that I’m bushed. Maybe I’m coming down with something. Wouldn’t want to expose you.”

  “I should be so lucky, catching something from a pretty girl at my age.”

  If you ever need a pick-me-up, try Cy Schelgel. “Can I have a rain check?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “You’re a sweetheart.”

  “Tell all your friends, the single pretty ones.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Lu, you need anything tonight, anything at all. Even in the middle of the night. I’m here. Now, lock up tight.”

  I hang up feeling worse, if possible, than after my conversation with Andrea. I know how much Cy looks forward to our monthly outings. He probably got a haircut today and his shoes shined in town.

  Cy is my neighbor and movie companion since shortly after his wife died three years ago. We have a standing date, third Friday of the month. Amazingly, it was Jacob’s idea. Cy’s seventy-two, the semiretired owner of a prestigious architectural firm that still benefits from his name on the door. He and his wife always went to the movies on Sunday afternoons, until she became too ill. After Esther’s death, Cy became all but a recluse. His children tried to pry him loose from his home, but he wouldn’t budge. Then they sicced the grandkids on him.