either—T.K. has a trust fund from her great-great-grandparents or something like that, and she’s made plenty on her own, but it still hasn’t stopped her from being a total workaholic. “Then what do you usually do?” I asked Charley.
“Usually?” she repeated, as if the word was foreign to her. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had a ‘usually.’ That sounds sort of…bleak.”
“Well, what did you do first?”
“You mean after Brown?”
“You went to Brown? But don’t Truesdales get disowned if they don’t go to Princeton?”
“No, your mother was kind enough to break that mold. At least as far as college. You should have seen the fit your grandparents threw when I told them about the Peace Corps. Then I almost did get cut off.”
“No way,” I said, impressed. “You were in the Peace Corps?”
“Sure,” she said, as if everyone joined the Peace Corps, and as if the Betsey Johnson dress she was wearing was standard issue for Peace Corps alums. “I spent a few years in Ghana, teaching HIV and AIDS prevention. Then I traveled around Africa for a while. The different cultures and climates were fascinating, and I liked the animals so much that I decided to go back to school to be a zoologist. But it turns out they make you study every single kind. Giraffes and elephants are one thing, but who can get excited about mollusks, except maybe the French? And they’ll eat anything.”
“So then came the movies? I mean, films?”
“Oh, no. There was a lot of stuff in between. Let’s see,” she said, using her fingers to tick off occupations. “Africa, and then grad school. Then I got interested in Eastern medicine, but it turns out that I’m a bit squeamish about needles so acupuncture class was a problem. What else? There was the magazine. And the gallery, of course. But the only people buying art back then were Wall Street types. I can’t even begin to describe what stiffs those hedge-fund goons were. Their idea of a good time was golf. ” She shuddered. “It’s like the crash was some sort of divine punishment for bad taste.”
“And then what?” I asked. She still had a few fingers left.
“And then the film, I guess. Unless I kill Gertrude first. Don’t you think Gertrude looks more like a Helga than a Gertrude?”
As if on cue, a cell phone began ringing from somewhere under the bags on the counter. “Speak of the devil,” said Charley. “That’s probably her, even though we’re supposed to be taking the day off.”
She found the phone and checked the caller ID. “Ack!”
“Helga?” I asked.
“Even worse. I think I’ll let voice mail pick this up.”
“What’s worse than Helga?”
“The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. Though maybe you should forget I said that. I don’t want to scare you before you’ve even met her. But it does seem only fair to warn you. The Flying Monkeys are pretty special, too.”
“Who’s the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side? And who’re the Flying Monkeys?”
“Your other aunt and her kids,” said Charley. “Patty’s twins, Gwyneth and Grey. That’s Grey with an E —they went for the British spelling, just in case the name itself wasn’t pretentious enough. But don’t worry. We’re safe for now. I never give out my home number, and especially not to family.”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the landline phone on a side table started to ring. Charley jumped, startled, then she snatched up the receiver and checked thescreen. “How?” she cried. “How does she do it? Nobody has this number. It’s unlisted. I’m not even sure I know what it is.”
There was a click as the answering machine picked up the call, and a moment later a voice began streaming from the speaker. It could’ve just been distortion from the machine, but the woman who spoke sounded like she was sucking on something sour:
Charity, are you there? Are you there? Are you screening your calls again? Are you? You know, it’s really
“Usually?” she repeated, as if the word was foreign to her. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had a ‘usually.’ That sounds sort of…bleak.”
“Well, what did you do first?”
“You mean after Brown?”
“You went to Brown? But don’t Truesdales get disowned if they don’t go to Princeton?”
“No, your mother was kind enough to break that mold. At least as far as college. You should have seen the fit your grandparents threw when I told them about the Peace Corps. Then I almost did get cut off.”
“No way,” I said, impressed. “You were in the Peace Corps?”
“Sure,” she said, as if everyone joined the Peace Corps, and as if the Betsey Johnson dress she was wearing was standard issue for Peace Corps alums. “I spent a few years in Ghana, teaching HIV and AIDS prevention. Then I traveled around Africa for a while. The different cultures and climates were fascinating, and I liked the animals so much that I decided to go back to school to be a zoologist. But it turns out they make you study every single kind. Giraffes and elephants are one thing, but who can get excited about mollusks, except maybe the French? And they’ll eat anything.”
“So then came the movies? I mean, films?”
“Oh, no. There was a lot of stuff in between. Let’s see,” she said, using her fingers to tick off occupations. “Africa, and then grad school. Then I got interested in Eastern medicine, but it turns out that I’m a bit squeamish about needles so acupuncture class was a problem. What else? There was the magazine. And the gallery, of course. But the only people buying art back then were Wall Street types. I can’t even begin to describe what stiffs those hedge-fund goons were. Their idea of a good time was golf. ” She shuddered. “It’s like the crash was some sort of divine punishment for bad taste.”
“And then what?” I asked. She still had a few fingers left.
“And then the film, I guess. Unless I kill Gertrude first. Don’t you think Gertrude looks more like a Helga than a Gertrude?”
As if on cue, a cell phone began ringing from somewhere under the bags on the counter. “Speak of the devil,” said Charley. “That’s probably her, even though we’re supposed to be taking the day off.”
She found the phone and checked the caller ID. “Ack!”
“Helga?” I asked.
“Even worse. I think I’ll let voice mail pick this up.”
“What’s worse than Helga?”
“The Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side. Though maybe you should forget I said that. I don’t want to scare you before you’ve even met her. But it does seem only fair to warn you. The Flying Monkeys are pretty special, too.”
“Who’s the Wicked Witch of the Upper East Side? And who’re the Flying Monkeys?”
“Your other aunt and her kids,” said Charley. “Patty’s twins, Gwyneth and Grey. That’s Grey with an E —they went for the British spelling, just in case the name itself wasn’t pretentious enough. But don’t worry. We’re safe for now. I never give out my home number, and especially not to family.”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the landline phone on a side table started to ring. Charley jumped, startled, then she snatched up the receiver and checked thescreen. “How?” she cried. “How does she do it? Nobody has this number. It’s unlisted. I’m not even sure I know what it is.”
There was a click as the answering machine picked up the call, and a moment later a voice began streaming from the speaker. It could’ve just been distortion from the machine, but the woman who spoke sounded like she was sucking on something sour:
Charity, are you there? Are you there? Are you screening your calls again? Are you? You know, it’s really
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