have,” said Isabel. “They’re on a diet where they have to get certain foods eaten by certain times in the day, and the first time is six a.m.”
Delphine rolled her eyes and got up from her chair. Isabel continued, “He makes her get up at four-thirty so they can get whatever it is cooked and digested. I think it’s organ meats.”
“You’re kidding,” said Charlie, who hadn’t said much yet.
“Kidneys, hearts, sweetbreads, brains. I don’t think I could even open their refrigerator. When I was here last, she was low-carb, but now she’s gone beyond that.”
“Not very Buddhist,” said Cassie.
“I know,” continued Isabel, “but Paul has his own system. He’s got all these students he counsels over the phone. They call him at all hours, too, because some of them are in Australia and France and one is in Croatia. It’s been very taxing for Mom, I have to say, having him get out of bed in the middle of the night and talk some Frenchwoman through an anxiety attack.” Isabel grinned merrily. Elena couldn’t help smiling, though she did like Zoe, as she had told Isabel—who didn’t? Zoe was a mostly good-natured and generous woman, and she was also agelessly and effortlessly beautiful, with a singing gift that no harebrained script or crazy producer had ever been able to dim. Zoe Cunningham could sing any song from “Stormy Weather” to “Happy Birthday” and break your heart every time. Once before this Paul, who had been in the picture now for about three or four months, she had come by to look in Max’s storage room for an old portfolio of photographs that she couldn’t find anywhere else, and Elena had listened to her singing in the bathroom—flushing the toilet, washing her hands, no doubt fixing her hair, and at the same time offering a rendition of “It Had to Be You” that segued neatly into “Bob Dylan’s Dream.” Elena had positioned herself cautiously so that she could listen. When Zoe suddenly opened the bathroom door and there she was, Zoe had said, “Doesn’t that bathroom have great acoustics? I always loved them,” and went past her up the stairs.
In spite of her good nature, though, Zoe Cunningham was irritating, or perhaps “maddening” was the word. Every so often there would be “a crisis,” and when “the crisis” hit, she sought advice and support from everyone around her. Everyone around her gathered and helped her weather “the crisis,” always dishing out much advice, for which Zoe expressed profound gratitude. And then the next crisis would come along, and its terms would be exactly the same as those of the previous crisis, and not only had Zoe not learned anything about how to weather this crisis, she didn’t seem to realize that the two crises were similar. In the year since Elena herself had come into the picture, there had been more than five but fewer than ten (well, six—Elena was a counting sort of person) crises. When Paul turned up, Max had said, “Well, finally she’s got her own in-house healer and guru,” but Zoe had called within a couple of weeks, and “the crisis,” as far as Elena could tell, was no different from the others.
None of her crises were career crises. She was a working machine, which Elena had to admire. If she put out an unsuccessful CD or acted in a stinker of a movie, she laughed it off and did something else, like a concert of standards in New York or a mini-tour of Europe singing cowboy songs (she sang “Red River Valley” like you wouldn’t believe). It was only men that made her crazy. Delphine was reserved in these crises; Elena had no idea how Delphine felt about her daughter or anything else.
Isabel said, “I don’t think Paul considers serving Mom his number-one priority. In fact, I think he sees Mom as just another unit in his array of female admirers.”
Elena looked at Max, and Max looked at her.
Charlie said, “I can’t believe Zoe Cunningham is just going to walk through that door in a half
Delphine rolled her eyes and got up from her chair. Isabel continued, “He makes her get up at four-thirty so they can get whatever it is cooked and digested. I think it’s organ meats.”
“You’re kidding,” said Charlie, who hadn’t said much yet.
“Kidneys, hearts, sweetbreads, brains. I don’t think I could even open their refrigerator. When I was here last, she was low-carb, but now she’s gone beyond that.”
“Not very Buddhist,” said Cassie.
“I know,” continued Isabel, “but Paul has his own system. He’s got all these students he counsels over the phone. They call him at all hours, too, because some of them are in Australia and France and one is in Croatia. It’s been very taxing for Mom, I have to say, having him get out of bed in the middle of the night and talk some Frenchwoman through an anxiety attack.” Isabel grinned merrily. Elena couldn’t help smiling, though she did like Zoe, as she had told Isabel—who didn’t? Zoe was a mostly good-natured and generous woman, and she was also agelessly and effortlessly beautiful, with a singing gift that no harebrained script or crazy producer had ever been able to dim. Zoe Cunningham could sing any song from “Stormy Weather” to “Happy Birthday” and break your heart every time. Once before this Paul, who had been in the picture now for about three or four months, she had come by to look in Max’s storage room for an old portfolio of photographs that she couldn’t find anywhere else, and Elena had listened to her singing in the bathroom—flushing the toilet, washing her hands, no doubt fixing her hair, and at the same time offering a rendition of “It Had to Be You” that segued neatly into “Bob Dylan’s Dream.” Elena had positioned herself cautiously so that she could listen. When Zoe suddenly opened the bathroom door and there she was, Zoe had said, “Doesn’t that bathroom have great acoustics? I always loved them,” and went past her up the stairs.
In spite of her good nature, though, Zoe Cunningham was irritating, or perhaps “maddening” was the word. Every so often there would be “a crisis,” and when “the crisis” hit, she sought advice and support from everyone around her. Everyone around her gathered and helped her weather “the crisis,” always dishing out much advice, for which Zoe expressed profound gratitude. And then the next crisis would come along, and its terms would be exactly the same as those of the previous crisis, and not only had Zoe not learned anything about how to weather this crisis, she didn’t seem to realize that the two crises were similar. In the year since Elena herself had come into the picture, there had been more than five but fewer than ten (well, six—Elena was a counting sort of person) crises. When Paul turned up, Max had said, “Well, finally she’s got her own in-house healer and guru,” but Zoe had called within a couple of weeks, and “the crisis,” as far as Elena could tell, was no different from the others.
None of her crises were career crises. She was a working machine, which Elena had to admire. If she put out an unsuccessful CD or acted in a stinker of a movie, she laughed it off and did something else, like a concert of standards in New York or a mini-tour of Europe singing cowboy songs (she sang “Red River Valley” like you wouldn’t believe). It was only men that made her crazy. Delphine was reserved in these crises; Elena had no idea how Delphine felt about her daughter or anything else.
Isabel said, “I don’t think Paul considers serving Mom his number-one priority. In fact, I think he sees Mom as just another unit in his array of female admirers.”
Elena looked at Max, and Max looked at her.
Charlie said, “I can’t believe Zoe Cunningham is just going to walk through that door in a half
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