C15 Engagement Ring

Chauncey entered the sumptuous dining room, with sliding

doors at both ends and walls hung with white silk drapery. Nora was on his arm, now dressed in an outfit from Louis Vuitton.

She wore a sheer blouse with leather shorts and black pumps that laced below her knee. She looked like a teenage hooker. Both Chauncey and Nora had six lines and three shots of tequila rampag- ing in their blood.

Nora was giddy with the prospect of their engagement announcement. They had decided that the proper time would be just after Daddy made his annual Christmas toast.

But Chauncey was thinking about his trousers, the ones he found China Doll rifling through in his bathroom. The ring was delivered on Christmas Eve. It was a half a million in glass and silver. He bought the rock from a Hasidic Jew he met on the street during a business deal in Antwerp. He had it cut there. He had it set there. He had been running around all day with the ring in his pocket.

He called the Hasidic Jew in Antwerp to thank him for such a beautiful job and discovered his phone was disconnected. He called the jeweler who cut the stone to find out where the Hasidic Jew was and discovered his phone was disconnected.

Was the rock a fake?

He’d been snorting coke all night. He’d been drinking all night. Did he lose it at Joe China’s place?

Did he lose it in the opium room?

Or did China Doll have it in her pocket?

Where the fuck was China Doll?

“Why do you look so guilty?” Nora broke his thoughts. “Guilty? What are you talking about?”

“You’re downright pale, darling.”

“Snow white?” he said and laughed.

But Nora suddenly seemed clear eyed.

“You never showed me the ring, darling.”

“Let’s keep it a surprise,” Chauncey said and waved to Maxine

and Alfred, who had just entered the dining room through the set of sliding doors nearest the head of the table.

“Oh, Mummy!” Nora exclaimed. “You look divine!”

Maxine was wearing McQueen. Maxine only wore McQueen. She looked like a drunk Marie Antoinette, with spit curls twirling up in a tall bouffant on top of her head. Maxine was known to have thick chestnut hair that covered her buttocks. This was in contrast to her daughter whose stringy blond hair was best kept in a girlish ponytail.

Maxine showed no hesitation in showing off her tits. The crev- ice of her décolletage always made Chauncey’s mouth water. It made Chauncey’s mouth water now as the younger couple made their way across the floor to her parents.

Alfred was a silver fox in his sixties. His father was a chemist who invented stretch. He trademarked it. He made a penny on every square foot of stretch ever sold. He invented Rayon. He trademarked it. He made a penny on every square foot of Rayon that was ever sold.

Alfred was a man of simple habits. He stopped at the barber’s every morning to have his silver hair and mustache trimmed. His hairdresser was paid well for detecting microscopic lengths of hair and snipping them off.

Alfred liked to Bridge. Every day he drove to the city and had lunch with his cronies at the Pacific Union Club at the top of Nob Hill. Alfred drank and played Bridge all afternoon.

Chauncey’s senile father also lived in one of the rooms upstairs, reserved for senior members who were no longer loved by anyone.

Alfred was dressed in blue serge for Christmas. Alfred had thir- ty-six blue serge suits in his closet. He had forty-one pairs of black wingtips in his closet. He had sixty-seven white shirts. He had thir- ty-two red and blue ties.

Alfred did not share the same obsession with European fashion shows that his wife and daughter did.

Maxine had more pedigree than Alfred. Her family lineage could be traced to a pair of criminal stowaways on the Mayflower. Her greatest grandparents of all were a thief from Liverpool and a hooker from London.

Between them, they made enough money during the crossing to fund a land-buying spree, acquired by handing childlike trinkets to childlike Indians.

It was he who inscribed the family coat of arms with the ques- tion: Why pay for it when you can steal it?

By the end of it, he owned enough land to start a small state.

Maxine still attended meetings of the Mayflower Society once a month just to remind the world of her family stock. Maxine was raised to spend money. Somebody’s got to do it, she liked to tell herself.

Nora and Maxine were the stuff of legend on their shopping sprees in Paris and Milan. Alfred didn’t mind. He was glad to pay the bills. He was glad to get rid of them.

When the two couples greeted each other, there were hand- shakes and air kisses all around.

“Chauncey, you look like death warmed over,” his press-hungry prospective father-in-law told him.

“Oh, leave the boy alone,” Maxine said and cupped an affec- tionate hand to Chauncey’s cheek. “The boy’s been out whoring all night—just like you were, Daddy.”

Maxine had a habit of letting her fingertips drift down the but- tons of a man’s shirt and then further down if she felt inspired.

“Mummy!” Nora shouted.

“Get your mother another drink,” Alfred told Nora.

“I don’t need another drink,” Maxine said, thrusting her hand

in the air. “I’ve already got a drink!”

Maxine was always one for the grand gesture. She lifted her Martini in the other hand and half of it spilled on her McQueen.

Of course, Nora never made her mother a drink unless they were huddled in Maxine’s bed together, telling secrets about failed love affairs and crying in each other’s arms.

Nora and Maxine didn’t have much to do with their lives. Neither had ever cooked a meal. Neither had ever cleaned a house. They spent their lives trying to be beautiful.

The amount of cosmetic surgery Maxine so badly desired had only left her looking like a rapidly aging, rebuilt Barbie Doll.

Six marionettes in black and white starched cotton and sturdy heels with heavy silver trays of food entered the dining room from the kitchen. After sitting the trays on sideboards, they stood behind the high-backed chairs at the table waiting for their masters, and any last minute guests, to saunter over to the table.

Two stewards were already preparing salads on another sideboard.

“Well, let’s sit down!” Maxine said enthusiastically. “I’m sure Chauncey’s got some exciting news to tell us as always.”

Maxine leered at her daughter with lust and envy. Chauncey felt himself turn paler. Sweat was beginning to fall in drops from his forehead.

As they all were seated, Maxine said, “I’ve got some interesting news myself.” She shot a fierce glance at Alfred.

“Shut it, Maxine,” Alfred snarled. “Shut it and sit down.”

Chauncey was glad to sit down at the table and grab a nap- kin before anyone noticed his excessive perspiration. He delicately tapped his forehead with the thick lace napkin, as if it was simply a mannered gesture. Only when he set the napkin on his lap did he see the blood.

“Christ, I’m having a nosebleed!” he thought and pressed his nose in the same delicate manner as he had touched his forehead.

He made sure no one was looking directly at him when he pulled the napkin away. He heard a snicker from the marionette standing behind Alfred’s chair.

Alfred was engrossed in a soft roll and butter.

The table was built to seat twenty-six. The four of them sat at the end near the blazing fireplace. There were Christmas decorations on the mantelpiece and table. Alfred sat at the head of the table, as always, with his wife on his left and his daughter on his right.

Chauncey was seated farthest away from him, next to Nora.

A cart with ice buckets and champagne on top, and a respectable bar on the bottom, sidled up to the table. Four of the marionettes opened bottles of champagne and began pour flutes of the bubbly stuff for their masters. Maxine snatched a bottle of vodka from the lower cart and set it under the table, within reach.

When everyone was happy, the marionettes pushed the cart across the room and then stood at attention behind it.

Daddy stood up to give his annual Christmas toast. But just as quickly, Maxine jumped up and announced, “I’m leaving your father!”

Maxine threatened to leave Alfred twice a year. It all began a month after their wedding when Maxine found Alfred in a state of dishabille with one of the maids in the stables.

Alfred didn’t mind. She hated sex anyway. It was all about easy money, as far as Alfred was concerned. With good reason, Maxine never trusted him again.

“I’ve had enough!” Maxine continued. “I caught him shtupping Delia Ross this morning!”

Alfred heaved a sigh of patience.

“We merely fell into a slumber on the living room couch, dar- ling,” he said. “She was having some fatherly feelings toward me.”

“Like hell she was! Her stockings were down! Her skirt was up to her thighs! Her panties looked like they were torn off by a monster!”

“Delia doesn’t wear panties, Mummy,” Nora said.

“Oh, Maxine, will you please just stuff it for once in your fuck- ing miserable life,” Alfred added.

“I’ve decided to take on a twenty-year-old lover!” Maxine exclaimed.

“How much are you paying him?” Alfred asked.

Maxine swung her champagne glass in a full circle above her head.

“Delia Ross is a slut!”

“I’m down for that,” Nora encouraged her.

“Delia Ross has half the tits I do!”

“So does everyone else, Mummy,” Nora said.

“Delia Ross has a black pimp in the Tenderloin who’s tricking

her out at two bucks a pop.”

“God, Mummy, where you getting all this ghetto talk—it’s so

fucking cool!”

“For Christ sake,” Alfred defended himself, “it was a failed

attempt at a blowjob in the back of the limo. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“I’m leaving your father forever!” she bellowed at Nora.

Maxine had never actually left Alfred. She was like a child set loose in a large pink bubble. If the real world ever crashed in, it would be an emotional tsunami that would capsize her insanity big time.

“Oh, Mummy, just let Daddy give his Christmas toast,” Nora said, “and then you can go back to bitching.”

Suddenly docile, Maxine sat down. Alfred gave her a conde- scending kiss and stood up.

Chauncey followed Alfred’s Christmas toast—something about purpose and progress—but all he could see was China Doll lying in the bottom of the Dumpster. The Beretta was lying beside her.

Where was the Dumpster? What would Joe China do?

Chauncey was holding the lace napkin up to his nose, pretend- ing he was transfixed on every word that Alfred uttered and was afraid to interrupt him with an imminent sneeze. But it was becoming more difficult to maintain this pose after a while, what with Alfred going on about the moral fiber of the country.

He lowered the napkin and lowered his eyes. The bleeding had slowed down. There was blood in his nose, but he hoped his quiet little sniffs kept it at bay. He would dash to the bathroom as soon as Alfred was finished.

Then, somewhere out of the blue, he heard Alfred asking, “What do you think about Donald Trump leasing his brand to McDonald’s, Chauncey?”

Chauncey forced the fog to clear. Alfred had directed a ques- tion at him. The fading effects of the opium helped him sense how important it was.

Alfred didn’t know shit about business. Alfred’s business experi- ence consisted of depositing dividend and royalty checks.

But he liked to discuss newspaper headlines from the business section of the newspaper as a way of testing Chauncey’s acumen to assure himself that his future son-in-law could manage the fortune that would fall into his hands once he passed out of this world.

“McDonald’s?” Chauncey asked.

“Yes, Chauncey, didn’t you see the news yesterday? Don’t you think it’s an exciting prospect?”

“To be perfectly honest, Alfred,” he said, “it looks to me like McDonald’s is in trouble.”

“That’s an excellent answer, Chauncey!” Alfred assured him and looked reassured as well.

“It’s going to be a great year for business,” Chauncey assured him.

Alfred lifted his fourth glass of champagne.

“I’m glad you’re onboard!” Alfred assured him.

Chauncey smiled back at him with the feigned affection that a

loving son might show his own father. As the marionettes removed the untouched salads from the table, Maxine began singing “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.”

Nora sidled up to Chauncey, her greedy fingers pressing his chest just about where his silver cigarette case might be.

“I really must run to the little girl’s room, darling,” she said. “Would you like to join me?”

“Put that shit away,” Alfred scolded them. “We’re here to enjoy Christmas dinner.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Nora shot back. “Delia said you two were doing lines all night.”

Maxine flew up in a rage.

“Don’t mention that whore’s name at this table again!”

The stewards brought the turkey and ham and all the trim-

mings in from the kitchen.

“But Mummy—Delia’s my best friend!”

“Nora, I’ve regretted the fact that I brought you into this world since the first time I heard you cry.”

“I know you have, Mummy,” Nora said. “I’m glad you can be so honest about it.”

“Don’t you dare bring that little bitch into this house again!”

“The servants are ready to serve us, Maxine,” Alfred consoled her. “Would you like white meat or dark meat?”

“You know I like dark meat, darling,” Maxine responded.

“Oh, Mummy,” Nora scolded her. “Only poor people like dark meat—didn’t you know that?”

“Your mother’s not talking about turkey, Nora,” Alfred chas- tised her.

“Mummy likes dark meat,” Nora said to Chauncey. “What kind of turkey do you like, Chauncey?”

Chauncey was beginning to nod off but quickly caught himself. “Both,” he managed.

The marionettes worked around the guests with the disman-

tled twenty-pound turkey and bowls of exotic vegetables, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. Thousand-dollar bottles of rose and white wine were opened. Glasses were upturned and filled. Napkins had been placed on laps.

Chauncey tried to manage Alfred’s collection of real silver sil- verware. The fork weighed at least two pounds.

“Ah, Chauncey,” Alfred said. “Why don’t you take the helm and offer us a little toast for Christmas and any exciting other events you expect to occur in your life in the next year or so.”

“Daddy!” Nora said. “Don’t pressure him.”

“Oh, the suspense is killing me,” Maxine said.

Nora leaned against Chauncey and whispered, “You do have the

engagement ring, don’t you, darling?”

“Come on, Chauncey,” Alfred encouraged him. “Don’t be shy.” But Chauncey couldn’t hold his head up any longer. He no lon-

ger had control of it. His head simply hung there as the others looked on.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, darling,” Nora said. “Just come out with it.”

But Chauncey saw the light. Chauncey saw the dark red drops dripping from his nose and landing upon a piece of white turkey.

“Why now?” he asked himself.

And then he understood. As he put all of his concentration into one bright red drop sitting on top of the piece of white turkey, he recalled the Dumpster. He recalled where it was located. He recalled the homeless man sleeping inside it.

“Chauncey!” the other three screamed in unison.

The blood was pouring out of his nose now. Drops of bright red blood were working their way up from his lap to his tie to his shirt and to his jacket. Chauncey threw back his head in a vain effort to stop it.

“I forgot it,” he pleaded. “I forgot it.”

“You forgot what?” Nora bellowed directly in his ear. “You forgot what?”

“I forgot to bring the engagement ring.”