Free Spanish Disco by Erica Orloff

collagen.
    But I couldn’t wound her. That would imply she cared what I thought. In truth, she cared about when her next facial peel could be scheduled. Where she would vacation. With who? Where was Blaine Trump buying her next pair of shoes?
    “Am I intruding?” Roland’s voice startled me from behind.

    “No. Not really. I guess you heard my messy little family situation.”
    “Partly. Your mother is a bitch?”
    “Something along those lines.” I stared ahead in the darkness, grateful he couldn’t see my face. “She left my father and me when I was a little girl. She was always more interested in her address—that it be Park Avenue—and her couture than she was ever interested in being a mother. Ostensibly, so that she wouldn’t look like the offspring-eating monster that she is, she told all her society pals that I was borderline retarded. Couldn’t read. Needed a special tutor at the private school I attended. So when she moved in with husband number three, there was no sense in uprooting me across Central Park. I should stay with my father and that way I could get the special attention I needed.”
    “Points for cleverness.”
    “Points for evilness.”
    Crabs scattered across the sand. I could hear their scuttling in the still night.
    “Your father is ill?”
    “Not really. He has the ‘big A.’”
    “Alzheimer’s?”
    I nodded, not knowing if he could see me in the darkness. Not caring, really. Just wanting my mother to be shark bait.
    “What are you going to say to her? You do have to call her.”
    “I don’t know.”

    “My in-laws hated me. Until Simple Simon took off and I made enough money to buy my wife a house, I was that good-for-nothing son-in-law. That writer who couldn’t hold a day job. Who wouldn’t.”
    “Did you ever confront them?”
    “After the funeral. I told them how she used to lie awake at night and cry because they were so judgmental of me. How she and I were soul mates even beyond death and their jealousy of that is what made them hate me.”
    “Touché.”
    “Or so I thought. But all these years it’s eaten away at me. Inflicting hurt. I can do it. I can harm others with words. But I choose not to now. I don’t want that skill anymore. Maria’s taught me that.”
    “To be kind?”
    “You could say that. She’s taught me to love that garden. The rabbits. Caring for them has saved me, I suppose. Her gentleness. All I know is what I’m capable of, and what I don’t want to be capable of. Brilliance, my dear, is a terrible burden. But you know that, of course.”
    “I’m not in your league.”
    He put his hand on my shoulder.
    “You know that’s not true. I can already tell you’ve spent your life knowing you were smarter than anyone around you. Which is why you cannot abide by Wheel of Fortune. Your skin crawls each time a contestant can’t fill in the letters and solve the stupid thing. The ‘Wheel,’ Cassie, is a metaphor for life.”
    I smiled. “Love the stupid?”

    “Perhaps. But never underestimate them.”
    “I don’t understand you, Riggs.”
    “That’s okay, Hayes. You will.”
    He turned to walk up the beach toward his magnificent house, an example of what brilliance can buy. Then he paused.
    “Tomorrow…the manuscript. You know pain.”
    With that he sauntered up the beach, scattering the crabs as he went.

9
    T he next day around 11:30, I checked my voice mail. They were enough to send me searching for Maria’s bottle of Tabasco sauce. I wanted to drink it and put myself out of my misery.
    “Hello…Cassie, this is Martin Morris III. I sent you a manuscript entitled The Secret Life of a Hairy Woman. I’m not sure if you read it yet. It’s about the real-life circus love affair between a clown and a bearded lady. I was wondering what you think…please call me at 555-8773. Area code 562. Thanks. Did I say this was Martin Morris III? I think I told you I was the son of a former circus performer. The Human Hammer. He used to