Close Your Eyes Read online

  “I love the capitol building,” added Betty. “I’ve seen pictures. Let’s have a view of that, wouldn’t it be neat? And I’d like to walk to a park.”

  “There’s Zilker Park,” I said. “Barton Springs is a great place to swim.”

  “Okay, let’s be able to walk to the park, whatever,” said Ben. “And maybe something sleek, something modern, you know?”

  I thought of the folder in his hand, which was filled with photos of sprawling limestone homes decorated with cowhide furniture.

  “And at least two fireplaces,” said Betty. “A nice big garden, maybe a cozy extra bedroom for my sewing? A turret or a widow’s walk would be over the top, I know, but a gal can dream, right?”

  “Tell me about your home in Boston,” I ventured.

  “Big stuffy old place in Sudbury,” said Ben. “Terrible commute. The house is full of the kids’ crap.”

  “It’s a charming Victorian,” said Betty. “It has four bedrooms, but now that the children are gone, it does feel large. Then again, the boys come home for holidays.” My palms grew sweaty with the realization that I was trapped on Highway 183 with a couple on the verge of divorce.

  “We’re looking for a change,” said Ben. “That’s why I took the transfer. A new leaf.”

  “I’m a little nervous,” confessed Betty. “I’ve heard some Texans are … a bit gauche. Kind of nouveau riche. Big hair, right? But you’re a nice girl. So that’s a start!”

  “I think I’m getting a better idea of what you’re looking for,” I said, deciding to show them homes way out of their budget so at least they could see the problem for themselves.

  When I started out in real estate, I used to take people’s budgets seriously, showing clients only homes they could comfortably afford. But as the years passed, I realized that people were leaving me for Realtors who showed them their dream homes and then either figured out the financing or let them decide they had to look at less expensive homes. Clients wanted to dream. They didn’t seem to care if you respected their bank account.

  “How about we start in Clarksville? That’s a beautiful historic area adjacent to downtown,” I said.

  “Clarksville,” mused Ben. “I think I’ve heard of that one.”

  “It has a nice ring to it,” said Betty. “Very classy.”

  “Clarksville has a long, storied history,” I said, “and yet is one of the sleeker, more hip places to live in the city.”

  Both Hendrixes leaned in, listening with rapt interest as I began talking about the former plantation of Governor Elisha M. Pease, historic Nau’s drugstore with the working soda fountain, and Jeffrey’s restaurant, which was rumored to be George W. Bush’s favorite. I wondered which Hendrix had had the affair. While Ben seemed a likely candidate—the sleek stuff sounded like it was parroted from some youthful secretary’s Facebook page—there was something squirrelly about Betty, all her talk of fireplaces and snuggling cats.

  “Let’s pop into a local breakfast spot,” I suggested, thinking of Lucinda’s, an Austin institution, which was scheduled to be demolished soon to make room for a Marriott. “You can get the feel of downtown Austin, and I can call my assistant for some more central listings.”

  “Okay,” agreed Ben.

  “That sounds perfect,” said Betty. “I love it here already!” She reached forward and patted Ben’s hand, then had a second thought, unbuckled her seat belt, lunged, and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. He looked both stunned and pleased.

  By the time we had eaten (egg-white omelet for Betty; migas with extra cheese for Ben; egg, papas, and cheese taco for me), Jonesey had sent a list of addresses to my phone. They ranged in price from one to two million.

  As the Hendrixes sipped their coffee, I called Jonesey from a bathroom stall. I explained Ben’s sleek, modern desires and Betty’s fireplace fixation. Jonesey, an elegant gay man in his sixties, sized the Hendrixes up at once. “Oh Lord,” he said, “affair city.”

  “Right-o,” I said. “So what do I show them?”

  “The guy’s posturing,” said Jonesey. “Show them the condo first. It’s so modern that everyone on the hike-and-bike trail can watch you brushing your teeth. Floor-to-ceiling windows. An aquarium built into the kitchen, plasma screen in the bathroom.”

  “Sounds awesome,” I said, thinking of my cluttered apartment, my fat TV with rabbit ears.

  “Then hit the five-bedroom in Clarksville. It’s too ye olde colonial for its own good. Three fireplaces, needs work, but it’s a million, and she’ll go low. Lady’s desperate, wants to retire. Window units, for God’s sake.”

  “Is she moving to Lakeway?” I asked, naming the town near Austin where many Texans moved after their children left home. Lakeway had golf courses and houses with fishing docks.

  “Oh, no, honey,” said Jonesey. “She’s moving to the W downtown.”

  “Glamorous,” I said.

  “Haul them out to Lakeway before rush hour. Show them a few of the waterfront listings. Then drive back around four-thirty, five. That will give them an understanding of what they’re paying for, living central.”

  “Right, Lakeway,” I said.

  “What’s your take?” said Jonesey.

  “Hmm?”

  “What do you think they’ll buy?”

  “My guess is a nice two-, three-bedroom close in. Traditional. He says he’s looking for something new and different, but I don’t know …”

  “Okay. Drive through Tarrytown next, east of Exposition. The houses are smaller there, a bit cheaper, but still dripping with charm. Then bring them to my place.”

  “What?” Jonesey was a notorious homebody who loved cooking every night for his husband, Gil. Gil came from big money, and they shared an amazing colonial in Pemberton Heights.

  “Gil’s out of town. What the hell. Invite Gerry, too. We’ll have a little cocktail party. Seven sound good?”

  It did. I put on some lipstick and straightened my blazer. I let myself imagine how fantastic a sale would feel. I hadn’t sold anything substantial in a while, just some student crumboxes. If I got a big commission, we could move, or at least buy a new couch. Maybe I could convince Alex to meet me and Gerry somewhere thrilling for a vacation.

  I smiled at myself in the mirror and went back to the Hendrixes. We had a big day ahead. I approached the table and felt it immediately: there had been a fight. Ben was red-faced and bristling, and Betty looked gray and deflated. “Ready to go look at some homes?” I asked brightly.

  Betty crossed her arms. Ben said, “I think we’ll go back to the hotel for a bit, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course,” I said. They were staying at the Quality Inn all the way back near the airport, but I wasn’t going to hold them captive.

  “Honey,” said Betty, not to me.

  “There is a condo right on this block,” I fudged. “Quite modern, if you’d like to check it out before we drive back.”

  “Let’s do,” said Betty.

  “Fine,” said Ben.

  “Brunch is my treat!” I said. I left cash on the table, and we walked outside. Surreptitiously, I scanned my listings. There was indeed a condo on the block, but it was a studio, and I had no idea whether or not it was modern. I strode purposefully along Congress, the Hendrixes lagging behind and hissing at each other. The listing had a note: Call before showing. I punched in the phone number, and a man who sounded sleepy answered.

  “Hello,” I said, “this is Lauren Mahdian from Sunshine City Realty. I’m hoping to—”

  “Lauren?” said the man.

  “Yes,” I said. “I was wondering—”

  “That’s a great name,” said the man. “Underrated.”

  “Uh,” I said, “I was wondering if I could show your condo now?”

  “Oh, okay,” said the man. “Give me a sec to get dressed.”

  “Great,” I said, cutting the call. I whirled around to face the Hendrixes. “Isn’t this a vibrant street?” I said, feeling like Vanna White. I w
aved my arm, almost hitting a bearded wino with my purse. “Watch it,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Glorious!” said Betty with some desperation.

  “Is it much farther?” asked Ben, eyeing what appeared to be an antiwar rally heading our way.

  “Here we are,” I said, pushing open a glass door. A chilly blast of air that smelled like Band-Aids greeted us. Behind an onyx-colored desk, a black man with platinum hair smiled. “Welcome to Le Dome,” he said. “What can I do to please you?”

  I quickly checked the address: we were not in some sort of brothel but a new high-rise. “Hi there,” I said. “We’re visiting Unit 302, taking a look.”

  “Bien sur,” said the concierge. “The elevator is on your left, past the lovebird cage.”

  Betty looked charmed and Ben, nervous, as we boarded the elevator. “This unit does have a fireplace,” I said, and Betty said, “Do tell.” Ben studied his shoes.

  When we reached the third floor, an attractive, balding man about my age was leaving Unit 302, a computer tucked under his arm. “Enjoy,” he said, brushing past us. Before he stepped into the elevator, he turned back and caught my eye. “I’m Arthur,” he said. Flustered, I did not answer.

  We went inside the condo, and Betty said, “Whoa!” It was blindingly bright: a wall of windows showcased Congress all the way to the capitol. A kitchen filled with stainless steel ran against one wall, and a spiral wrought-iron staircase led to the second floor.

  “Everyone can see me,” said Ben.

  “Many of the more modern condominiums feature large windows or walls of glass,” I agreed. I felt myself morphing into enthused-Realtor mode. It was strange how this happened to me—I went from my normal low-key self to a sales dynamo. In a way, I liked this showy, confident side; it was heady to be a loudmouth instead of my usual shy self. And then I could finish with the Hendrixes and go home and put my feet up.

  “Good thing we don’t have toddlers anymore,” said Betty, testing the staircase with her navy heel.

  “Who cleans the windows?” asked Ben.

  “Cleaning services are included in the monthly fees,” I said, reading from the listing. “As well as use of the pool, the entertainment pavilion, and the Armadillo Spa.”

  “Armadillo Spa?” said Betty.

  “The armadillo is the state animal of Texas,” I said dopily.

  “Oh,” said Betty with an expression of distaste.

  “The state mammal is the Mexican free-tailed bat,” I noted. “And the state reptile is the Texas horned lizard.”

  “Aren’t you a fount of information,” said Betty, curling her lip in annoyance. I told myself to dial it back as she climbed the staircase gingerly. At the top, she exclaimed, “This is gorgeous! Benny, get up here this very minute!”

  Ben dug his hands deeper into his pockets. His bluff, it seemed, had been called. He cleared his throat, then marched toward the staircase and tromped up slowly.

  “I’ll be down here,” I said. “Take your time!”

  The living room was furnished elegantly, with a soft gray couch and reclaimed-wood table. On the kitchen counter was an antique typewriter. I peered at the page, which read: Nobody could tell. Still, he felt he knew her, could see her heart through her silk blouse. Her heart, her ribs, her nipples.

  My face grew flushed. From upstairs, I heard a laugh, then Betty saying warmly, “You old fuddy-duddy, you!”

  When the Hendrixes came down, I went over a few more listings with them and relayed Jonesey’s cocktail invitation. The Hendrixes accepted. By the time we walked past the blond doorman again, something had warmed between them: they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  That night, after dropping the tipsy Hendrixes at their hotel, Gerry and I took Lamar Boulevard home. I drove, and Gerry rested his hand on my knee. I wondered if we would ever be as ill at ease around each other as the Hendrixes. I did feel often far away from Gerry, but I assumed this was normal. It was what I wanted. I had found a good man who wanted a simple sort of joy. Wasn’t this love?

  10

  “What do you remember about your mother?” said Jane Stafford at our next Wednesday meeting. I was settled in, my raincoat balled up next to me, rubber boots sticking out from the couch awkwardly. Jane sat in a high-backed leather chair, her slim legs crossed.

  “She’s dead,” I said. “I believe I mentioned that.”

  Jane folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head. “Are you feeling angry?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  The sound machine purred as if someone invisible were whispering, “Shhhh.”

  “A little angry, I guess,” I amended. “I miss Alex.”

  “He’s still in Iraq?”

  “What is he doing there? You know? He’s a fucking doctor. I’m sorry. He’s a medical student. He’s almost done with his residency. I didn’t mean to swear.”

  Jane nodded but did not speak.

  “You know one thing,” I said, “is that you need some new magazines in your waiting room. I’ve pretty much finished with that Glamour.”

  “Do you think you use humor,” said Jane kindly, “as a way of avoiding troubling emotions?”

  I took a breath, then let it out. “It’s as if …” I said. Jane waited, silent. “It’s as if Alex feels like he should atone for something,” I went on. “Volunteering to go to Iraq.”

  “You said atone for something. What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. Like he couldn’t save our mother, so he needs to save some Iraqis. It doesn’t make sense. As if I don’t need him!”

  “What could Alex have done?” said Jane. “How could he have saved your mother?”

  I sighed. “Alex doesn’t think my father did it.”

  Jane nodded. Her brow creased. “Alex thinks your father is innocent.”

  “Right.”

  “What do you think?” said Jane.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, I do know. My father killed her. He was the only one there. If he didn’t do it, who did?”

  Jane had no answer for that one.

  “And there were times …” I put my hands over my eyes.

  “Are you feeling dizzy?” asked Jane.

  “No,” I said.

  “What are you feeling?”

  “I remember this framed picture … of my parents. My mom kept it on the kitchen counter.”

  “Go on.”

  “It was a snapshot of the two of them in Egypt,” I said. Though I hadn’t held the photograph since I was a child, I could see the image clearly in my mind: my parents holding hands. While my father looked hot and annoyed, my mother was beaming. In the photo, my father wore an ankle-length gallibaya shirt; my mother was young, in cotton shorts and a University of Texas T-shirt, her blond hair in a ponytail. “It was my mom’s first visit to Cairo,” I said.

  “Go on,” said Jane.

  I shook my head and began to tell Jane my mother’s story, which had always troubled me.

  The whole city of Cairo was beyond her comprehension. There was always something happening: a donkey defecating, a child screaming, men’s laughter, shisha smoke, car exhaust, blinding sunlight, the call to prayer blasting from the minarets. Izaan’s parents’ apartment was filled with mirrors and fringe, and every possible object was ornamented: the Kleenex box had a gold tasseled cover, the toilet seat glittered, and Izaan’s brother had suspended CDs on strings from the ceiling of his car, lending the interior of his Honda Accord a dizzying disco feel.

  Izaan’s family had been polite to my mother, though it was clear they weren’t thrilled about the upcoming wedding. Izaan had called off an arranged marriage to the daughter of a prominent Egyptian family at the last minute, after meeting my mother, who they thought was entirely unsuitable.

  My mother preferred the company of the men, who sprawled on cushions, smoked, and spoke raucously, laughing often. The women served fragrant dishes of ground beef and rice. In the kitchen, they gossiped
in low tones. My mother didn’t know any of the people they talked about, even when they tried to translate, and she knew even less about the European designers Izaan’s sisters revered. The women were very physical with each other, and my mother tried not to shrink away when they hugged her impulsively or kissed her cheeks.

  She hadn’t known how wealthy Izaan’s family was, by Egyptian standards, until they’d arrived. It helped explain his arrogance. Izaan took my mother boating on the Nile with his friends. They motored past weary women washing clothes and naked children bathing near the muddy banks. My mother asked one of Izaan’s friends if he felt uncomfortable in the fancy boat, blaring music from the stereo, but the man shrugged, smiling under his sunglasses. “In shalla,” he said. He told my mother this meant it was God’s wish. She found out later that it actually meant if God wills it so.

  On their last day in Cairo, Izaan finally acquiesced to my mother’s pleas and took her to Khan el-Khalili, the giant market, which sold glassware, spices, mother-of-pearl backgammon boards, sandals, clothes, leather goods, and water pipes. Izaan’s brother dropped them off, snapping the photo that would end up in our house on Ocean Avenue, and then they walked into the teeming marketplace.

  My mother loved the dim stalls, the smell of incense. When she walked by other tourists, she felt superior, with gorgeous Izaan at her side. She bought a chess set for her father, Mort, and a leather bag for her mother, Merilee. Izaan wanted to barter, telling my mother the vendors didn’t respect someone who didn’t haggle, but she shook her head and paid the first price. Izaan told her she was a softie.

  At one stall, knives were laid out in a row, glinting. “These are beautiful,” said my mother, putting her hand near them but not daring to touch. The vendor came from shadows, speaking in Arabic to Izaan. Switching to English, he said, “These are the best knives in the world. Very special. A special price for you.”

  “How much?” said my mother. She looked at Izaan, who shook his head. The man named a price, and she reached for her wallet.

  “No,” said Izaan. “These knives do not belong in our kitchen.”