Episode 18: Missionary Position
Episode 18: Missionary Position
Mimi Schmir, one of the writers from "Grey's Anatomy"
I was going to call the Concubine. I meant to do it right away, before I chickened out, or lost focus, or got strep throat courtesy of Roo's germy school classmates. I was going to call her before I remembered that she had once been my really good friend who I swapped shoes with (pre the Saks Laboutin incident), before I remembered that one night, when I was out of town promoting my comic creation Willa the Tail Girl, she had shed her Agent Provocateur cami in front of my fetish happy husband. I was going to call her because Jeffrey spent one hundred grand putting his penis into hookers. I was really going to call her because I may be many things (kind of like Sally Field in Sybil), but I am not a girl who wants even the ex-friend who blew her husband to get some pestilence-like centuries-old disease. I was going to call her but one thing happened, and then another (pipes burst, aforementioned strep throat, Raoul taking an unannounced three week vacation and leaving ripped up linoleum in my kitchen) and then before you know it, it was Easter.
In our neighborhood, Easter is about many things. It is about resurrection. It is about chocolate. And most importantly, despite that fact that a good many of the participants are card-carrying Jewish, it is about the Hartigan Hunt. The Hartigan Hunt is a centuries old tradition (or at least a few years old, I'm not really sure) where the venerable old, Irish Hartigan family opens up their sprawling home, hides about five hundred eggs more or less in plain sight, cuts a pink ribbon that they fashion into a starting line and then lets the kids go wild. (Of course, taking the average age of the West L.A. moms gathered into consideration, I'd say there are more eggs hidden in the flowerbeds than in all of us combined — but I digress.) There's always a bunch of catered food (bunny cookies, carrot cake, undressed lettuce for the anorectics) and because (or despite) of the fact that they're Irish, there's plenty of alcohol involved.
Now, personally, I love the Hartigan Hunt. Annabelle, on the other hand, despises it with a passion. For starters, she hates the sun. Unless she's on a lounge chair by the pool at The Four Seasons Hualalai with a pina colada in her hand, Annabelle would rather be anywhere than standing in the ninety degree heat watching a bunch of screaming kiddies pushing each other out of the way, in a quest for the Golden Egg. (There is always a Golden Egg at the Hartigan Hunt. It is really big, and gold colored, of course, and last year there was a massive scandal because a parent found it and gave it to his kid when you are never supposed to do that on pain of death, or some other equally unpleasant torture.) The rules of the Hartigan Hunt clearly state that only the kiddies are allowed to search for any of the eggs, but most especially the Golden Egg, which is full of a fair amount of money, and which the kiddies, without knowing why exactly, really, really want. Needless to say, this year the offending parent and child did not show up at the Hartigan Hunt. Rumor has it they were banished and had to go to Disneyland so they'd be out of town, which is a veritable nightmare on Easter weekend, even if there is a Goofy parade involved. (Who knew Disneyland could be the perfect hideout for parents on the lam?) Anyhoo—
Since Annabelle refused to go this year, and Cody was out shopping for a new Vegan Purse (yes, my friends, there is indeed, such a thing) I took Roo and Mr. Handsome to the H.H. on my own. (Wait, before I forget — the Vegan Purse is such a hot item now that you can really only get it at Fred Segal in Santa Monica, which, if you have never been there, is a collection of really tiny boutiques stuffed to the gills with hot items you never knew you just had to have and Cody was so determined to get in on the Vegan Purse craze that she was there, in line, on Easter, at eight in the morning, a full two hours before they opened, just to make sure she could save one more poor cow from becoming a leather bag by buying one — or possibly three, Vegan Purses — for her very own.)
So we get to the Hunt, and after dumping the car with the Valet Vixens we go inside. The Valet Vixens are the company that is all chicks and always gives you a rose when they bring the car around. (I know, I know, this is L.A., but at least they're not that other set-up where the girls all prance around in bustiers that are fashioned into suits) and I should point out that when I say "neighborhood party" I don't exactly mean my neighborhood. My neighborhood is made up mostly of old people clinging to life until their kids sell their unrenovated "tear-downs" to young dot-com couples for two million a pop. The Hartigans live in a "top of the hill" Mulholland manse where old Hollywood and new perch on stilts, caring more about the views than the earthquakes. The Hartigans, if you're not familiar with their work, are a stunt family from three or four generations back which is how they made all their money, jumping off of buildings into flaming car wrecks, that sort of thing.
Anyway, we get there, and the kids immediately take off for the starting line, Easter baskets in hand. And they're raring to go, waiting for Billy Hartigan (he's the Dad, you may have seen him in the old Million Dollar Man TV series) to cut the ribbon so they can all start stuffing their baskets with candy and egg loot by slapping each other out of the way. (The older kids are supposed to let the younger kids go first, but I guess following the "all is fair in love and war" adage, which apparently applies to me as well as to my children, nobody ever listens to that rule.)
So I turn around for a minute, barely avoiding the dude who's all done up in Harley wear (I saw his bike parked outside when we came in, the Vixens had been given the big "hands off" on that one) and he eyes me up and down and I say something like, "Who are you, Easter Rider?" which I'm pretty sure he doesn't get and then I see her. She's bending down and helping Roo put eggs into his basket (he's one of the littler ones and hasn't really ever done the hunt before) and for a moment I catch my breath, because it should be me, not the Concubine who is filling my kids' basket with eggs, and then, like a lightening bolt has hit me, I have a quasi-religious experience and I reconsider.
I walk up to her. "Happy Easter, Lucy," I say, brightly. The Concubine looks at me, clearly a little nervous. "Happy Easter, Esme," she says. Then looking around, not quite sure what to do, she rocks back and forth on her platform sandals (not Laboutin, I notice) and sighs. "Do you want me to leave?"
I consider this. "No, that's fine," I say magnanimously (because I sense where this is going.) "It's Easter. The resurrection, you know." She eyes me, warily. "You're Jewish, E." "Half," I say. (I tend towards accuracy.) "I can still resurrect, can't I?" Around us, the kids are screeching with delight and/or pain, depending on where they are in the egg finding equation. I hear one bellow, "That's my egg. Your butt is fat!!!" before being carted off by a tipsy parent.
"By the way, Jeffrey's not here," the Concubine tells me. "In case you were looking." "I know," I say. "You do?" (And I swear she looks a little sad. Like she's wondering how I know this and she doesn't.) "Because I don't know where he is, actually. I haven't heard from him in five days, myself." I hear a kid screeching in the background, "Mineminemine!" I see all the Dads huddled in the shade while the sweaty moms try and fill their kids baskets. (What a surprise.) I feel the Concubine watching me and waiting. And I realize in this moment that I know some things. (Maybe more than I should.) What I am trying to say is, it is Easter, the day of resurrection. It is Easter and I realize, in the spirit of the holiday and of timing and of re-birth, in the spirit of all of that (plus the fact that it is fucking hot and I have to move this thing along) I need to tell the Concubine the truth.
I look around for the kids. Roo is on the trampoline, which means he is good for at least an hour and Mr. Handsome is playing baseball in the ninety-degree heat. They're fine. A drunk dad wanders up to me. (An out of work actor, he's splitting up with his wife and has been pawing at pretty much every woman that has the misfortune to come his way.) I shoo him to the side. (On another day, we might have found ourselves in the bushes, but I suddenly have a purpose here.)
I lean in to the Concubine. "How well do you know Jeffrey?" I whisper. She looks around, confused. "Uh...I don't know. Pretty well, I guess?" I can tell she is starting to get nervous. "Why?" I take a pause, as if what I am about to say is really important. (And it is.) I raise an eyebrow at her. "Did I ever tell you that when I first hooked up with Jeffrey, a million years ago or whatever it was, he told me, "The missionary position is a gift from God."" I laugh a little. "A gift from God. Did I ever tell you that?" The Concubine rolls her eyes a little. It's like her personality is daring to peek out. "He's said that to me too," she giggles. And then she looks horrified. Like she's spilled some terrible secret. "Oh, no," she says, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." I stare into her eyes. "Lucy, I'm telling you this because you used to be my friend." She backs up imperceptibly. "What? What's going on?" I sigh. Even in front of an enemy, this is no fun. "Look, I don't know how to say this." "You've never had that problem before," she says. "Good point," I agree. "Okay, fine. Jeffrey's been sleeping with hookers. A lot of them. His penis is a Traveler. Like those Irish gypsies you hear about. I thought you should know."
By this time, it is probably ninety-five degrees out. It is scorching hot at this particular Hartigan Hunt and the sun is high in the mid-afternoon sky. I am sweating bullets, and can feel mascara (that new Revlon stuff everyone is buying) sticking to my eyes. The Concubine backs up another step. I'm positive she is going to slug me. She raises her arm, and I instinctively flinch but I see she is just wiping some sweat off her lovely, botoxed forehead. "I know," she sighs. "He doesn't know I know, but I've known for a long time."
I stare at her. I'm not quite sure what I'm hearing. "You know he's fucking hookers?" I manage to stammer. She shakes her head, sorrowfully. "It's a terrible thing, Es. Jeffrey's got a disease." I catch my breath. "You mean he really has syphilis?!" I yelp. She stares at me, confused. "He's a sex addict, Esme. He's in therapy, I think." She stares at her perfectly manicured fingernails. "He's in a lot of pain." (Pain, huh? Well, for a hundred grand, pain better be on the menu. Though he certainly never asked me to break out the cat-o-nine-tails.)
A waitress wanders up to us with a tray in her hand. "Drink, ladies?" she offers, perkily. "What is it?" I croak. (I am suddenly flattened by the heat, the sun, by the fact that my attempt to reach out and share my knowledge as a missionary of good has been thwarted.) "It's called a "Pink Nose with Whiskers," says the waitress. "You should try one." I, of course, grin like a Cheshire Cat and almost do a spit-take. Hoarding eggs is one thing at a party full of peri-menopausal women. But serving drinks named after the vagina is another.
"Bottoms up," I say to the Concubine. I grab one and swig it down. "Mmm, good," I say, thirstily. I'm about to go for another when I remember I have the kids in tow.
The Concubine looks at me, considering. "You didn't think I knew, did you." "Not really, no," I say, a little flustered. "I know, it's weird," she says. "But I think I love him. When I'm with him I feel all genres of happy." "You...what?!" I do my best not to burst out laughing. "Jeffrey's a mixed up son-of-a-bitch," I say, instead. "But you're off the hook," says the Concubine. "He's my mixed-up-son-of-a-bitch now."
And with that, I realize that my day of missionary goodness is over. I have tried to do the right thing and though it may have backfired miserably, in some way, I feel okay. They deserve each other, Jeffrey and the Concubine. And when I realize that, I realize that I have forgiven Lucy, at least in some small way. And okay, if I haven't really forgiven her, I can just possibly tolerate her. At the very least, I can tolerate her today.
"You wanna go to a hula hoop-er-cize class sometime," I ask her, tentatively. "Sure," she says. "I've always wanted to try that out. I've heard that if you do it long enough, you can spin a quarter on your butt." I consider this. "Don't you get bored by the missionary position?" I ask her (with just a touch of evil.) "Not really," she says. "I'm kind of boring myself, you know."
Suddenly, we hear a scream and a giant crash. We turn to look. Billy Hartigan has thrown himself through a plate glass window and the kids, all hopped up on sugar, are cheering with gleeful abandon. Though it seems to come out of nowhere, Billy does this every year. Every year he throws himself through glass, then stands up, picks the shards out of his t-shirt, and walks away as if nothing's happened.
"Happy resurrection, Lucy," I say to her. And I mean it.
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