A Girl's Best Friend (18 page)
“What did the paper say this morning? Am I engaged to someone I should know about?” I might as well have it all in front of me before I go in and try to sell myself as the newest fashion maven.
Poppy doesn’t answer me but instead drives for a long time until she gets to the edge of the Embarcadero past the Giants’ stadium. She pulls over to the side of the road. The Bay’s waves are lapping up against the docks, and occasionally over their edge, and I realize how much I miss the view. Here, when I look into the horizon, I feel like there’s a whole life of adventure and opportunity out before me waiting to be lived. I’m not boxed in Lilly’s windowless loft actively searching for something that may not exist. The truth is I’ve never had a better opportunity to sail off into the sunset than right now, and I certainly hope today’s my day.
“There’s a rumor circulating that you aren’t really your mother’s daughter,” Poppy says in a low and serious tone. I imagine it’s the voice she uses to tell someone they need surgery.
“Oh trust me,” I laugh. “If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times about my mother’s poor abdominal muscles ripped to shreds by me, the enormous baby.”
“It’s just a rumor, Morgan; they got it from the Hollywood press.”
I laugh out loud. “Next thing you know, I’ll have sprouted from her costar chimpanzee if you believe what you read.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. I just thought you should know about it, in case we run into anyone who might ask.”
“What’s the point of this?”
“I suppose it’s to dispute your mother’s fortune.”
“Oh right, because
The Main Street Follies
made her so much cash. She wasn’t Marilyn Monroe, Poppy. Traci Malliard’s claim to fame was her halter-dress dance in a B movie.” I scratch my head. “No, at best a C movie. She basically had a few bit parts in the
Alexander the Great
or
Waterworld
of her day.”
“People don’t realize that. I think they believe anybody on TV is wealthy, and your mother did marry wealthy. But maybe we’re assuming the worst—or at least the newspaper is.”
“Where are we going first?” Even as I say it, I don’t believe it. I loved my mother, and though she may not have been Mrs. Cunningham, she tried in her own way. She bought me painting canvases and tried to teach me to paint. I get the past mixed up with her illness, and by then the drugs had settled into her system. I don’t know what her truth was, I suppose.
“I got you an interview this morning for a VP job of shoe purchasing at Ami’s Boutique,” Poppy says, pulling out a sheet of paper and turning towards San Francisco’s fashion district.
“Oh, I love Ami’s.”
“Now, you’re supposed to have shoe-buying experience, so you need to embellish a bit.”
“What do you mean? I can buy shoes.”
“You have to know about how many to buy in which sizes and such, and you have to purchase the shoes people will want, so it means being ahead of the trends.”
“Poppy, look who you’re talking to.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I am so glad I brought my Cole Haans up to Lilly’s. I have to go back for my Donald Pliner’s if I get called in for a second interview. Can you imagine showing up in cheap shoes?”
“Let’s get through the first interview.” She eyes me.
Poppy knows me well. “There’s a coffee shop right there. I need a brew.”
Poppy exits traffic like the proverbial bat out of the dark place and pulls into a twenty-minute parking zone. “Let’s go.”
Walking into the coffee shop, I sniff the rich scent of espresso and pop a few chocolate-covered coffee beans they have out for sampling. “Oooh, I feel a buzz coming on already.” If you want to feel your humanity, try going without a steady diet of whatever your addiction might be. I’ll tell you, I never thought walking into a roasting company would feel like an extravagance, but here it is.
Poppy shakes her head. “I don’t know how you can drink that rotgut, much less eat it in pill form. Do you know what it’s—”
“Yes, I know what it’s doing to my kidneys, and my liver, and all the other hosts of organs, and it’s still worth it, so that ought to tell you something. Maybe your detoxified system is missing out.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll wait outside.”
Once at the counter, I see the newspaper and the picture of me on the runway in the wedding dress. Isn’t that the epitome of irony? I’m in the newspaper every day as a bride, and I’ve never been one. It really takes on a sickening hue of irony. If it were someone else, I might actually see the humor in it.
I
t’s an odd feeling to walk into the behind-the-scenes warehouse of a boutique you’ve frequented. There are boxes everywhere, piled high to the ceiling as we walk along a dank hallway. Trust me, it’s not the same high as walking into a carefully
arranged shoe boutique where there are smartly dressed shop girls jockeying for your attention. Still, I’m mystified by the power of the box. Loving shoes as I do, I can’t help but wonder what type of magic is within each box. The space smells like old books, though I don’t see any, and I suppose I’ve never kept a pair of shoes long enough to find out if they do, indeed, eventually smell like books.
Ami Crittenden has several boutiques and has made a name for herself in San Francisco. I’ve never met the woman, but I’ve seen her in the newspaper. Which, I imagine, is one thing we have in common.
Poppy is behind me, praying loudly and asking for God to cover me with His grace as I go into the interview. Now, I’m all for praying, but Poppy sounds like she’s having her own revival right here in the hallway. I turn and face her.
“Do you have to do that?”
“Pray? I thought you’d like it. I enjoy it when people pray for me.”
“I do like it, but you know God has really good ears. We needn’t shout.”
“I want Him to know I mean it.”
“God looks at the heart, Poppy. He knows you mean it. Are you coming into the interview with me?”
“No, I’m just making sure you get there. You have been known to chicken out at important events, you know.”
I know Poppy means well, but sometimes, she’s as bad as Mrs. Henry or my father. She watches me to the point that she hovers and makes me overly anxious. I’m going for a job interview as a shoe buyer; just how stress inducing can this be?
“I’d have been smart if I chickened out of Lilly’s fashion show,” I say aloud.
“Look at the good side of it—her gown appears in the newspaper almost every day.”
I just gaze at her. “With me in it. Not really a highlight of my life, Poppy.”
“Yeah, but it’s Lilly’s turn, Morgan. We’re the ones always singing backup to your lead. Don’t you love seeing Lilly be important to San Francisco fashion with all she gave up to get there? In college, we remember what it was like to see you in the Women of Stanford calendar in your cute little shorts. No one asked us to be in the calendar.”
“Would you have been?” I ask.
“Of course not; my father would kill me.”
“My father suggested it. I wore a San Francisco Jeweler’s T-shirt.”
“We remember, Morgan.”
The only saving grace for my little calendar stint is that no one actually cared at Stanford. People went on with their lives, and the importance of a calendar to raise money for alumni was met with about as much interest as the girl’s water polo team efforts. Maybe less than that.
I cross my arms to say something else, but I know Poppy is right. She’s always been there for me, acting as a human Kleenex and putting her own needs aside as I went through one trauma after another. Most of them of my own making.
I can’t really quibble with a friend like her. When the girls made fun of me for posing in the demeaning calendar, she was there to say to them that I had my reasons. Even if they weren’t my own. When Poppy says to me that it’s someone else’s turn, I suppose she’s right.
“Poppy, thank you for coming up here and for getting me this interview. I know I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”
“You bought me my first chiropractic table when the bank wouldn’t lend me money,” she reminds me. “You bought Lilly fabric so she could start her business. You’ve been there for us, too, you know. Now it’s our turn.”
But as she says it, it sounds like my father’s money has been there for them more than I have.
My cell phone rings just as I reach the end of the hallway. I think about not answering, but what if it’s Ami canceling my appointment? Maybe she saw me in the cheap shoes and my interview is over.
“Morgan Malliard speaking,” I answer professionally.
“Morgan, it’s Daddy.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“I need you to come home, princess. The lawyer just delivered the list of indictments against us. They’ll be read to us soon before a grand jury. It’s only because George is friends with someone that we got a preview.” He stops for a long time, and I think I hear him choke back a sob. “It’s not good, Morgan.”
I feel panic for only a moment, then I actually wonder what it would be like to have a father who lost at something. Not a father in jail—I don’t imagine that part—but to have a daddy who had time to listen to me because he hadn’t celebrated his latest win. A daddy who didn’t have a meeting to attend or a city hall battle to create. When I hear emotion in his voice, all the possibilities come to mind, and mostly, I wonder what if my dad might ever share my faith. Granted, it’s a huge leap from a speck of emotion to salvation, but as I’ve stated, I’m ever hopeful.
But my hope is quickly doused like baking soda to the flame.
“They’re saying we owe more than I ever made. They’ll ruin me, Morgan.” His sense of entitlement is back with a wave of saliva. I hear him spit his words.
“Daddy, it won’t be that bad. We’ll pay them what we owe, and we’ll start again. We can’t possibly owe it all, and you know the diamond business better than anyone. That’s never going to change.”
“Morgan, I need you to come home. I have some papers we need to shred, and there’s a litany of items we need to go through before we meet with that idiot lawyer.”
For a moment I set aside the thought that my father actually used the words “papers to shred.” “I thought you said he was the best?”
“Which means he’s a great white among tiger sharks. Still a shark. It’s not a compliment. He’s still a lawyer. He’s still a leech making a buck off my money.” I can hear the muffled words coming through his clenched teeth, and I can picture that vein bulging in his neck.
“Daddy, you’re getting too upset. You need to calm down. We’ll work this out. I’ll be home after this job interview I have right now.”
He starts to series-curse, stringing together a litany of swear words in something that sounds like Chris Rock’s monologue. And then there’s silence followed by a loud thump.
“Daddy?” I call. “Daddy!” I say more frantically. No answer. “Mrs. Henry!” I start to yell into the phone. “Mrs. Henry! Oh my gosh,” I rake my hand through my hair and try to figure out what to do next. I’m just standing in the hallway, confused about what to do, who to call. I try to imagine my father is just playing chicken with me, to get me to do what he wants. He’s just pretending, I tell myself while he shreds documents and my future. That’s all this is. He’s buying time to make me feel sorry for him.
But I continue to hear the deafening silence at the other end of the phone line, and I start to run back towards the door, grabbing Poppy’s hand as I go. “Poppy, you have to get me home. Right now!” I hang up and dial back, but I only get a persistent busy signal. I pull Poppy along behind me down the hallway, hitting redial all the way. “Pick up, Daddy. Pick up the phone! Poppy, hurry!”
“Morgan, what can I do?” Poppy questions.
“I think something’s happened to my father. He was screaming like he does, then it sounded like he fell down. We’ve got to get home.”
We tear down the street to her car, and Poppy starts to shout-pray again, but this time I don’t mind. This time, I know my father is in deep trouble, and it has nothing to do with his bank statements.
I continue to dial the house until it finally occurs to me to call 911. I dial and
relay my fears to an overly calm operator, who takes my words down as though I’m giving her the weather report on a sunny day.
“Are you on a cell phone?” the operator asks.
“Yes! Yes, I am on a cell phone, but my father isn’t with me. The address is what I gave you. Do you have the address?”
“I have the address, ma’am. The paramedics are on their way now. Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”
“No, no. Just get them to the apartment!”
I clip my phone shut and tap my foot against the floorboard of the car. I’ve seen the ambulances try to get through San Francisco. I’ve always hoped that I would never need their services, as the city dwellers can rarely be bothered to move over for emergency vehicles. They’d rather allow innocents to bleed in the street than be late for a personal shopping appointment. “Come on, come on. Step on it, Poppy!”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” she says as we go airborne over a San Francisco hill, hitting the roadway with a hard wallop as we come down. Driving up Hyde, the cable car lumbers up in front of us, slowing traffic, and Poppy’s right behind the old-fashioned trolley. As cars pass us to the right, I notice the tourists gaily taking pictures and pointing at the beautiful view I’ve taken for granted my whole life. Time seems to have stopped for me, but I can see by the enthusiastic expressions and cameras flashing that it does indeed go on. I hear my own heartbeat in my head, praying for my father to hold on, and wondering if a tourist will get home to Japan and see our Subaru driving erratically up Russian Hill, my frantic face in his viewfinder.
“Come on, come on, come on!”
As Poppy drives around the cable car, the first sight of my building comes into view, and I can see that the paramedics aren’t there yet. Poppy drives the remaining block on the wrong side of the street, and we pull into the underground parking with enough force to bring the entire garage staff out to see the ruckus. I don’t stop to speak with them. I just tear out of Poppy’s vehicle and fumble for my elevator key, stabbing it into the wall of silver buttons. As the elevator climbs ever so slowly, it finally reaches the top floor with a subtle ding. I run into the penthouse to find the phone off the hook, but my father missing.