Hooking Trout - 2. Grandma's 80th

If pushed, I would have to lay the blame for this fuck-up on the impaired hearing of Elizabeth Spencer, better known to her grandchildren as Grandma Beth. If not for an instance of misapprehension by the matriarch, my life would still be carefree and unruffled.

The tragedy happened on Saturday, eight days before coffee with Doug, at a birthday party in her Fifth Avenue residence to celebrate her eightieth. To put you in the picture, her late husband, my grandpa, the only son of a wealthy Californian family, bequeathed nothing to his three sons and everything to his wife, including a multi-roomed apartment overlooking Central Park Lake and enough money to buy a small Greek island or two.

That the residents of Panoramic Mansion actively shun the tabloids and blackball any potential residents who might attract them, might give you an idea of its exclusivity. My grandmother's dwelling is one of two on the seventh floor and my grandpa took great joy in personalising each of the rooms during a crazed period of his short-lived retirement.

In the main room, he chose to cover one furniture-free wall in mirrored panels, which makes the already spacious living chamber appear cavernous. Throughout his life, he also developed an unhealthy passion for French baroque furniture and now, together with the twinkling crystal chandelier pouring in from the stucco ceiling, and the white and gold flecked marble flooring, the room resembles a set from War and Peace. Except that on closer inspection, there are small concessions, little hints at my grandma's origins, in the cowboy boots lamp stand on the baby grand or the embroidered tapestry above the marble fireplace depicting horses on her father's Texas ranch with the lasso slogan 'Get Down and Cool the Seat of Yer Pants.’

On that temperate June afternoon, I arrived to the sight of pink and pearl balloons pecking kisses on the ceiling. Near the open balcony windows of the apartment a small stage had been set up where a band of decrepit musicians performed melodies written well before any of them were born. Elegantly suited guests had already gathered in tight groups, absently checking out at their doppelgängers in the mirrored wall, while waiters expertly balancing trays, provided the only animated evidence this was not simply a high society photograph.

Behind a spider plant sprouting out of a marble jardinière at the edge of the room, I spotted my stepmother characteristically hidden away from the main gathering. Her white Dolce and Gabbana suit hugged like a second skin, hanging better than on a woman half her age. She accessorised impeccably, a burgundy patterned scarf of Chinese silk draped across her shoulders with perfectly complemented pearl earrings and necklace. Sadly the illusion ended there. Hangover shadows underlined the eyes of her make-up free face and she had clearly pinned up her dull straw hair in haste, random wisps hanging down like branches after a hurricane. As I approached, she acknowledged me with a scowl. I had a fleeting yet endearing memory of the last time she’d been here, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc spilling from one hand, a smouldering Marlboro Light in the other sprinkling ash wilfully onto Grandma Beth's prized Persian carpet.

"What in God's name are you wearing?" she asked, waving her cigarette at me in a benediction. I’d chosen a casual creation of charcoal cotton jacket and matching jeans, with white silk shirt open at the neck. "The invitation said black tie, not heavy metal."

"I couldn't find my tux," I replied. I’d lent the ensemble I rarely use to my straight friend Tommy for a Blues Brothers party and never saw the outfit again. "I had to fork out hard cash for this lot."

"Whatever," she said, already bored by the topic and craning over my shoulder. "I don't suppose your father and his whore are with you?"

I don't know who invented the word acrimonious, but my stepmother and father managed to give the adjective a new dimension during the swan-song moments of their ten-year marriage. After my birth mother died, just before my sixth birthday, my father James—a career obsessed banker back then, and not someone who coped well without a little woman at home—moved us back to New York to be near grandma and grandpa. This meant I had a string of sympathetic nannies and other hired help to care for me. While I was away at college in California, he phoned and told me about his intention to marry his English girlfriend, Helen. If I didn’t show much enthusiasm at the time, it’s because he had done the same thing at least a half a dozen times before with other hopefuls, only to have the engagement called off at the last minute. And even though Helen managed to get him past the post, the marriage soon hit rough waters. Anyway, Helen moved back to London with her substantial settlement straight after the divorce to find her roots, and a quick glance at her two-tone hairline confirms at least partial successful.

"No, mom, but when I see him next, I’ll be sure to give him your best," I replied, adding my warmest family smile.

As usual, she flinched at the word ‘mom’, one I miss no opportunity to use. I can’t even begin to count the number of occasions she has told me to call her Helen, but I know how many times I have.

"I hope the bastard rots in hell," she said, puffing smoke into the spider plant.

"Well, I believe he's in Colorado at the moment, so you're not far off the mark."

"Why isn't he here? This is his bloody mother's party, not mine. What's his excuse?" She sucked another deep drag from the Marlborough clamped between chipped scarlet fingernails.

"Probably you. Every time he sees you sets him back a couple of grand."

"The shit owes me. I gave up a promising career for him. Let alone having to step into Saint Barbie's bunny slippers."

This old chestnut again. Her way of getting back at me for the mom dig is to slip in acidic comments about my mother, my real one. 'Chalk and cheese' my grandpa used to call them, far more polite than Grandma Beth's arsenal of Texan sentiments about Helen, a favorite being 'I wouldn't piss on her even if she were on fire.'

"Career?" I spluttered. "A six week contract?"

"As a top fashion model. Seen by thousands."

"A body photo in a catalog for thermal underwear for the over-sixties, mom, does not make you a fashion icon. Except perhaps to the widowers in God’s waiting room of Florida's seafront retirement homes.

And most of those poor old sods will have shuffled off this mortal coil by now."

"They had plans for bigger and better things—"

"Incontinence diapers?"

"—until your father came along and spoiled everything. If he pays now, tough shit. I have a lifestyle to maintain."

She exhaled smoke with each word, then drained her glass and shoved the empty vessel into my hand. I accepted without thinking, a Pavlovian response. Kneeling unsteadily, she slid her body down the paintwork and reached behind a sofa backing up against the wall in the main room. Accompanied by a dull clunking sound, she produced a fresh bottle of wine.

"Stockpiling again?"

"The waiters are more interested in their own reflections than serving. Hell, why am I telling you, I suppose you've had most of them?" With one expert snap, she removed the cap of the bottle. "I love screw tops; they're all the rage at the moment. In my day screw tops meant cheap and nasty, usually Lambrusco. Everything's fucking retro these days, and I for one, love it. I'm all for quick release."

“You don’t say.” I held out her wineglass. "Sure you wouldn't prefer a vase?"

Ignoring the taunt as always, she splashed in the pale liquid, hastily dumping the bottle among the leaves of the plant holder and snatching back her glass. She craned into the room and glowered at the guests.

"Look at the freeloaders. Little do they know she's leaving everything to Glynis and her bitches."

To close family members, Grandmother had made no secret of the fact that she intends to leave the lion's share of her fortune to the Glynis Arkwright Animal Foundation for female canines.

"Is Colin with you?" Colin is her latest fling, barely three years older than me. I met them both a couple of weeks after she returned from London. Unbeknown to her, Colin swings both ways, something I found out one particularly drunken night at Spank, while out with friends.

"Colin's a fuckwit," she said, barely a whisper.

"I'll take that as a 'no' then."

When she stubbed out her cigarette into the plant pot I couldn’t resist the jibe, anything to get a small knife between the ribs.

”You're supposed to smoke on the balcony, mom, not indoors."

"I'll smoke where I like. And anyway, Glen Miller and his zombie cronies are blocking the way.”

I did my best not to laugh, not wanting to encourage her.

“So did you bring an accomplice?" she asked, before rolling her eyes. "No, of course you didn't. Nothing worse than foisting male bimbo conversation on the masses."

At that moment, a darkly handsome man dressed like James Bond neither of us recognised strolled up and peered cautiously into the darkened corridor. Turning, he took in my mother, smiled and appeared about to speak. She met his eyes, and plucked the glass away from her lips.

"What the fuck are you staring at?"

Shocked, he held up a hand up defensively, and was about to retreat back into the room, before I took his elbow and pointed down the hallway.

"Excuse my mother, she's fresh out of rehab. Restrooms are down the hall, second on the right." Just before he hurried off, he nodded to me, before frowning at the glass in my mother's hand.

“You guys English?"

"She is. I'm officially a cross-breed," I replied, and followed up with a subtle wink.

"Anything else you'd like to know?" chipped in Helen, now glaring at the man, who, taken aback once again, shook his head.

"Good," said my stepmother, adopting her best Queen's English, “In which case, why don’t you piss orf."

I watched disappointed as the man turned abruptly and disappeared into the shadowed hallway.

"Good to see you've lost none of your charm, Mom."

"Far too old for you, anyway. Find someone your own age. Or have you already had everyone your own age?"

Like a mist, a small crowd gathered nearby mingling happily for a few moments before dispersing again around the room. Helen and I remained in awkward silence until I realized our declining conversation had become as drained as her glass. Eager for fresh air, I stretched and yawned.

"I'm going to get Marisse and June," I said, glancing at my watch. "Two-twenty."

June is my stepsister, Helen's daughter from her first marriage, the best thing to come out of my father's remarriage. Marisse is her sullen college friend. The pair have been living together for three years and although everyone suspects more to their relationship, in true British-American family tradition, no one mentions anything. They live out in Queens, so rather than brave the subway or chance a taxi, I promised to give them a ride.

"Whatever," said Helen. "As long as you don't expect me to come."

"Perish the thought." I blinked away the vision of my stepmother cradling a wine bottle or snoring in the passenger seat.

As I turned to leave, that's when I noticed Grandma Beth behind us sitting alone at the end of the sofa, beaming up at me, beatific. Even at eighty, she looked in good shape and dressed impeccably. I smiled and bent to kiss her on both rouged cheeks.

"Happy birthday, Grandma."

She placed her contoured hands either side of my face and squeezed, her eyes glassy with tears.

"You are such a dear boy. Even if your pa's useless as the tits on a boar hog on his old mom's special day, it don't matter none, 'cause my grandson done made it all worthwhile. A silver dollar in a bucket of horse doo-ey. So when am I going to get to meet the lucky lady? Wendy?"

"Sorry?" I remembered asking, slightly confused, but recovering quickly. "Oh. Soon Grandma. Soon.”

It's not unusual to have no idea what she's talking about. She even gets her grandchildren mixed up. Once she gave me a lengthy lecture on personal hygiene, food preparation and self-defense because she confused me for Darren, a cousin who is also a chef in the armed forces. June believes things to be worse, swore she caught her talking to an imaginary friend during one visit. On the phone that very morning, while making arrangements to pick her and Marisse up, she asked me if grandma would be bringing Harvey to the party.

She pulled me in close then and whispered. "And when it's my time to join your grand-pappy upstairs, I won't forget what you done today."

The 'favorites' game is something my father despises. Grandma uses the ploy whenever she wants something from her offspring; three brothers who still hold out the hope of a change of heart and a sizeable departing handout. I smiled and pecked her on the cheek before walking away. For some reason, I remembered turning and noticing the intense scowl she aimed at my stepmother's back. Along with my father, she is not an avid fan.

On my way out, Uncle Bob, my father's brother, caught me. With his trademark slicked-back bronze hair, chestnut tweed suit, and red and white striped silk bowtie, he stood out like a gingerbread man in a jar of licorice.

"Hey, big man," he said, in his usual jovial tone, so unlike my father. "You leaving already?"

"I'm going to fetch June. Why?"

"Your grandma's giving a speech later. Where's Helen? She ought to be around for this?"

"She's in the corner behind the spider plant doing her best for the Napa Valley economy."

"Aw heck. She ain't soused again?"

Distracted, he handed me an empty champagne flute and disappeared into the crowd. On leaving the apartment, I placed the glass onto the nightstand wondering if my stepmother's childhood training had become infectious.

Two hours later, June, Marisse and I returned, and crowded behind Uncle Bob who was using a firm arm to bolster my unsteady stepmother. Grandma was already in full swing up on the stage.

"...and of course, as most of you's are aware, my Bertie passed away seven years ago last February and I miss him every day. We was married in the summer of June ’62 and had forty nine wonderful summers together."

There came a smattering of light applause.

"Poor bastard.” From somewhere in front, I heard my stepmother slur. “Hope to God whatever celestial ranch he's on right now, they have a nag-free policy. And I don't mean the horses."

"Some of y'all may not be aware that I ain’t been so well of late, and at my age you can't be too careful. And without Bertie by my side, I often wonder if there's anything special worth sticking 'round for."

A hum of polite dissension stirred among those gathered.

"But this afternoon I found out a wonderful thing, something to keep me hanging on. My grandson, James's boy, is getting married next June. And if that ain't darn special, I don't know what is!"

Polite applause surrounded me and I noticed my stepmother crane unsteadily around at me with baffled amusement. I shrugged back at her.

"And Helen, I heard you say you won't be there—after all, as you make quite clear at every opportunity, he's not your own flesh and blood. Well woman, I sure as hell will be—if God'll let me. So here's to my lovely grandson."

Leaning against Uncle Bob, my stepmother's head nodded to her chest. Her arms folded behind her back and both fist clenched into tight balls. Slowly and carefully each displayed a solitary protruding middle finger.

"One more thing. Brandy? You there somewhere?"

She shielded her eyes with a hand and looked out across the sea of beaming faces. Brandon Jackson, the family lawyer, waved from the back of the room.

"As most of y'all here know, I planned to leave my beautiful little 'Cedarwood' to one of my grandkids. So in front of y'all gathered, I want it known that this is gonna be my wedding present. For James' boy and his dear wife-to-be. So I requested a favorite ballad of mine to help them along—something you might have thought about, Helen. Hit it, Lester."

As the band broke into "Stand By Your Man", my turn came to join the collective intake of breath. 'Cedarwood' is grandma's Hamptons retreat, a six bedroom beach house in Montauk. Some of the smiles that beamed my way stretched way too wide, especially from my cousins. After a few seconds, my stepsister gave me a puzzled frown before leaning in close.

“Wife? Something you want to tell me, big brother?"

"I've no idea what she's talking about. You know she's losing it, June. I'll go over and straighten her out.”

But before I had time to turn around and find her, a delegation of well-wishers descended upon me. Last up was my cousin, Garrison 'Stinky' Spencer, oldest son of Uncle Bob.

Where Uncle Bob is loud and generous by nature, Stinky is the exact opposite, quiet and calculating. My father believes he inherited these traits from Bob's father-in-law, a Boston funeral director. His two other sons, Darren and Marky, are similar in temperament to Uncle Bob and we got along fine as kids. Stinky rarely deigned to join us, and if he ever did, treated us like a tiresome burden.

"This is some kind of joke, right?"

Garrison is a self-employed tax attorney with allegedly a few big ticket names on his books. Ten years in practice and he makes no bones about letting everyone know how well he's done. Oddly enough, he and his family still live in a modest house in Brooklyn. He takes after Uncle Bob's ex-wife, Shirley, with his well-groomed dark hair, stylish clothes and complete lack of humor.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Garrison?"

Once, as six year olds, we organized a game of hide-and-seek on grandma's Connecticut ranch. We all ran off to hide while Stinky reluctantly agreed to play the seeker. I made a bad choice. I hid in the john in the yard, a chemical affair constructed in a sweaty plastic shack used by the farm workers. Stinky, realizing I was in there, blocked the door with a heavy piece of timber. I was stuck inside intermittently gagging and yelling for almost an hour listening to both Darren and Marky plead with him to let me out. Eventually, one of the ranch hands came by to use the thing and I escaped.
Two mornings later, he finally found the heaped bowl of cow crap left under his bunk. For the rest of the vacation, despite showers and changes of clothing, the smell followed him around like a lovesick skunk.

"How long have you known her, this—?”

A thin smile settled on his face, but his eyes simmered with barely contained anger. He was clearly trying to catch me out.

“Fiancée? A few—months."

"And how come none of us knew about her until now? Darren told me you’re a fag.”

I hate that word as much as the next gay man. But before I could dig up suitable words to respond he leant in close, his familiar bad breath bathing my face.

"If I find out you've concocted this fairytale just to get your filthy paws..."

He straightened up and peered over my shoulder.

"Actually, I've met her," came the voice of June as she appeared at my right arm. "She's really sweet, a bit like your wife. Except she possesses a personality, has only one chin, and doesn’t have an arse the size of Manhattan.”

I had forgotten how much June resembles Helen, her mother, parrying with her clipped British accent. His eyes narrowed again but this time his focus became June.

"Don't smart mouth me, little miss. I'll squash you both like flies."

"Really?" June stepped forward to confront him. "Then do your worst, Stinky."

"Everything okay here?” Uncle Bob, who had appeared at my left shoulder, slapped me on the back and defused the moment. "Hey, young fella. Aren't you the dark horse? That's a darn fine piece of land. Someplace Garrison here woulda liked to have got his hands on."

"You think?" said June, before smiling sweetly at Garrison before heading back to join Marisse.

Uncle Bob had been about to say something when Danny Rodriguez, grandma’s carer and confidante, approached. After a wink at Uncle Bob, he took my elbow and led me away to a quiet corner.
Thirty-four year old Danny has been with grandma since the year after grandad popped his clogs, and he has literally become her right hand man. Lucky for me, he also bats for my team and, although there is nothing between us, we get on really well. Today, in honour of grandma’s birthday, he is decked out in an Armani tux and, with his slicked back dark hair, looks like a South American porn star.

“Something you want to tell me, cupcake? Have you switched sides?”

“Fuck, Danny. I have no idea what that was all about. Hasn’t she said anything to you?”

“Nah, I think it must have happened today. What did you say to her?”

“Nothing. Hello. How are you doing? The usual. Maybe someone slipped something in her drink. Can you find out for me?”

“Leave it with me, honey. But, you know, she’s gonna leave Cedarwood to somebody, so it may as well be you. Not some stick up his ass lawyer who doesn’t deserve the sweat off the end of my nose.”

I’ve been to afternoon tea with grandma and seen how Garrison tries to order Danny around as though he’s a waiter from Cheesecake Factory. Once, I spied Danny dropping a couple of pills—I didn’t ask what—into the special cafe latte he made for Garrison. June reckons they were Sweet n Low tabs, but I’m not so sure. Mess with Danny Rodriguez at your peril.

“What are you saying?”

“Look, this goes no further than the two of us. But she really is quite ill, and your news has put a much-needed sparkle back in her eyes.“

"How bad is 'quite ill'?"

"A step away from as bad as it gets. But you know as well as I do, she's a tough old bird. Doctor said they’d have given any normal patient six months, and that was eight months ago. I'm convinced these positive thoughts are what’s keeping her going."

"Look Danny, I—I don't—"

“Breathe, honey. I’ll find out what I can and give you the lowdown. Deal?”

“Deal” I answered, relieved. “And thanks.”

His eyes flicked then to someone over my shoulder, and he plastered on a smile before replying loudly.

“And I think you've got a call to make, don't you? Let that certain special lady know the news about Cedarwood. Speak to you soon, Trout.”

He smiled and kissed me on the cheek, before moving past me.

“Garrison. Lovely to see you. Enjoying the party? Come, I’ve got someone I am dying for you to meet.”

After being rescued by Danny, I pulled out my smartphone and found the number I needed under my contacts. Because right then, I knew without question the one person in the world—apart from Danny—who would have the good sense to help me sort out this mess, to do the right thing, who would provide sound advice without judgment or interference, was my oldest pal Doug.