Claire Voyant(1).docx

Claire Voyant

Saralee Rosenberg

Chapter 1

“WILL YOUR GRANDFATHER BE NEEDING ANY SPECIAL ASSISTANCE?” The gate agent asked as she waited for my boarding pass to print out.

“My grandfather?” I said. Frankly, it was a little late for special assistance, as both of them were dead. I assumed she must be speaking to the person behind me.

“Does he need a wheelchair? Extra time to board?” This time the woman looked right at me, and without glancing at her airline ID, I knew her name wasn’t Patience.

Let me guess. She would walk off the job if she had to deal with one more skinny blonde in Prada who couldn’t grasp a simple concept.

Normally this sort of profiling offended me. It was bad enough having just been felt up at the security check-in because my underwire bra set off the metal detector and I had to be ruled out as a terrorist threat. But to be typecast as a bimbo by a woman who clearly colored her own hair, that was just wrong. It reminded me of all the times Hollywood producers wrote me off because I was more Darryl Hannah than Julia Roberts, and they had like zero imagination.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “That gentleman over there.” She pointed to an elderly man who was dozing in a corner chair. “Aren’t you two traveling together?”

“I don’t know. Is he rich?”

“Ma’am, I have no idea…. Your seat assignment is next to his. I just assumed…I thought I noticed a resemblance.”

I studied the silver-haired geezer whose pant waist was up to his pupik. “Yeah, I can see the confusion,” I laughed. “We’re practically twins.”

“Sorry,” she sighed. “It’s been crazy today, with the rain and cancellations.”

“Although I’ll be honest”—I leaned in—“I did request to sit next to a hot single guy. I guess next time I should be more specific about the age.”

“Believe me, youy boat from Tiffany’s, which if she was smart she would swear she never received.

I promised myself that as soon as I returned from Miami, I would explain to Elyce that although I was very happy for her and what’s-his-name, I just wasn’t in a bridal party frame of mind these days.

But what I was dying to say was, I couldn’t believe people needed years to plan the affair. Jewish funerals were thrown together in less than forty-eight hours, and they had all the same things as a wedding. The rabbi, the chapel, flowers, speeches, limousines, guests…. And just like a funeral, once Elyce married this guy, her life was over.

Not that I would fret over her future. I had returned to New York on a “Me” mission. Goal #1: Fall in love. Goal #2: Pursue opportunities unique to the East: Broadway, commercials, and most definitely, a visit to Law and Order’s casting office in Chelsea Pier.

Unfortunately, after reading BackStage diligently, it appeared that the open-call season was over. The only promising tryout I could line up was located a little south of the city. Specifically, South Beach, Florida. And it wasn’t exactly for a speaking part. More like a go-see at this hot modeling agency that specialized in booking asses for the studios.

You heard me. I was so desperate to break into movies, I was flying to Florida to drop my thong in front of the gay photographer who owned the agency. So that after a few test shots, he could give me his opinion if my aging but still pilates-tight tuchas was the perfect size, shape, and color producers would pay thousands for when their ass-ashamed stars needed an understudy, so to speak.

I had learned of this incredible “back door” opportunity when my former roommate in L.A., Sydney Sloan, instant-messaged me.

SYDERELLA (11:56 PM): u should go…butt doubles can make a quick 10 gs

CLAIREBEAR1(11:57 PM): r u serious that’s how much they’ll pay u?

SYDERELLA (11:57 PM): i no this grl who made 20G to do a crappy little scene for Dana Donovan.

CLAIREBEAR1 (11:57 PM): a love scene?

SYDERELLA (11:58 PM): in the shower/// show her ass

CLAIREBEAR1 (11:58 PM): wow

SYDERELLA (11:58 PM): then Dana canned her…said her ass was 2 fat and pale…her fans would no its not hers…EGO bitch.

CLAIREBEAR1(11:59 PM): did she still get the $?

SYDERELLA (11:59 PM): hell yes.

Naturally, my parents thought the very idea of having my ass evaluated was ridiculous. Didn’t I have any pride? (Not for twenty grand I didn’t.) Didn’t I care what the neighbors thought? (Translated: How could they brag I was in a movie if they had to ask everyone to close their eyes?) Didn’t I want to help out Cousin Arnie who ran a drama school for kids? (Sorry, but my most valuable lesson was showing girls how to duct tape their breasts to give the appearance of being perkier.)

But after reminding my parents that I didn’t need their approval, and that the connections the agency could make for me would be worth the humiliation, they backed down. Even agreed to pay for my airfare, provided I stayed with my grandmother (I call her Grams), and took her around to look at all the new assisted living centers going up in the area. It was a great plan.

Until I ended up seated next to a heart attack victim on a flight without a single medical professional on board. Only a group of anxious flight attendants who looked much happier passing out headsets than operating high-tech life-saving equipment.

Meanwhile, all I could think was, I sure hope God hadn’t put me in 8B as punishment for my growing list of transgressions. Yes, I had run out on my creditors, abandoned my agent, been unsympathetic to my parents, and judgmental of Elyce. And yes, I had just ignored a perfectly nice person for no other reason than I was in a pissy mood.

So as I stood over the grayish-colored man whose name I never bothered to ask, I prayed for a miracle. Please God. Revive this man’s heart. Otherwise I’ll never be able to live with the fact that his last few hours alive were spent with me, Claire Greene, Not Very Nice Girl.

Chapter 2

“HIS NAME IS ABRAHAM FABRIKANT,” I BLURTED WHEN THE COPILOT emerged from the cockpit.

First Officer Freeman hadn’t yet laid eyes on the old man lying face up in the aisle, but he looked sickly in anticipation of the moment. Then, mindful of his oath to stay cool so that passengers didn’t panic, he crossed his arms, indicating his comfort level with the job his coworkers were performing in the forward galley. “I understand this is your grandfather?”

Jeez. Not again. “No sir. We just met.” I sniffed into a cheap tissue from the lavatory. “She gave me his wallet and I found identification.” I pointed to the perspiring flight attendant who was frantically alternating between administering CPR and shocking the man with the automated external defibrillator. “His driver’s license is expired, but it says he lives in Miami.”

First Officer Freeman didn’t bother pretending that this little tidbit interested him. “The tower cleared us for an emergency landing in Jacksonville,” he whispered to the crew. “Until then, do the best you can.”

“It’s too late.” One of the flight attendants clutched the masks and gloves from the emergency Grab-n-Go kit. “There’s no pulse or respiration. He’s blue.”

“Please don’t give up on him,” I cried. “I once was on ER and there was this scene where the third shock was the one that worked…. He told me his whole family is waiting for him…. It’s…his birthday.”

“Oh Christ. Second Code Red this month, too.” The copilot looked away. “Well, it’s best we’re removing the body before the passengers get alarmed. Gayle, prepare the cabin for landing.” to me, Mrs. Moss, your check came back. So I says, yeah, well, so did my arthritis.”

“Oh no. Not more bounced checks. Mommy’s going to kill you.”

“What’s the big hoo-ha? One to the doctor, the other to the drugstore. Serves those sons-of-bitches right. They make all us sick customers walk way the hell to the back for medicine, but the idiots who come in to buy cigarettes? They get to pay up front!”

Hmm. I’d have to give her that one.

“And those sons-of-bitches at the bank? All a bunch of no-good idiots. They leave the doors wide open so anyone can rob the joint. But the pens? Them they chain to the counter…. So this fella on the plane. The one who died. You knew him?”

“No, of course not. He just happened to be in the seat next to mine.”

“But me you know your whole life, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Twenty dollars says I know where you’re going with this.

“Now a total stranger is more important than your own grandmother?”

Vintage Gertie, the country’s top travel agent for guilt trips. “No, Grams. I didn’t say he was more important. I just didn’t think it was right to leave him here all alone.”

“Like he’d know the difference? Where did you say he was from?”

“Miami.”

“Oh. Miami? Uh-huh. Did he happen to mention his name?”

“We talked about a lot of things.” I coughed. “The weather. His hobbies. His old neighborhood in Brooklyn.”

“Where in Brooklyn? Flatbush? Coney Island?”

“Yeah, Grams. Coney Island.”

“I wonder if he knew my cousin Estelle. Did you ask him?”

Absolutely. I said to him, maybe you know my grandmother’s cousin Estelle, a woman she hasn’t seen in twenty years. “No, I didn’t get a chance. I’ll explain everything when I get in.”

“Well, don’t spend the whole day there. I made your favorite meatloaf.”

“Oh good.” I’m sure the sugar-free, low-sodium, low-fat, no-cholesterol version is even better than the original recipe, which used to make me puke.

After an Advil chaser, I started making calls. First one was to Raphael de Miro, the owner of the modeling agency, to inform him of my unexpected delay. I couldn’t tell if he believed my crazy story. But then he told me that something similar had actually happened to a friend of his. And to be careful, because the family of that deceased person accused his friend of poisoning their mother’s wine when she went to the lavatory.

“Oh my God. That’s terrible,” I said. “What happened?”

“I really don’t know, darling. It was probably true.”

Next I called my father’s office, never expecting it would be harder to get through to him than the in-demand Mr. de Miro.

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Linds, it’s me. Don’t you know my voice?”

“I’m sorry. Who is this?”

“Your sister? I live down the hall from you? I have to talk to Daddy.”

“He’s in a meeting right now. Can I take a message?”

“Yes. Tell him that his younger daughter reminds me of Claudia Schiffer.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Because of my highlights, or because I’ve been bleaching my teeth?”

“Because you have Schiffer brains. What are you doing?”

“I don’t know. Daddy yelled at me before because I don’t sound professional enough.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean with family. Just please put him on. It’s important.”

“I don’t think he wants to talk to you right now. He’s sort of pissed.”

“Why? What did I do?”

“It’s a long story…Oh wait. He’s coming out of his office.” Lindsey cleared her throat. “I’ll see if he can take your call now. And thank you for calling Greene and Levinson.”

I had no idea what Lindsey was getting at. My father rarely got angry with me anymore. Unless by some odd coincidence he found out my nude scene with George Clooney was in his apartment, not a film like I’d suggested. But that little lie notwithstanding, I knew he’d be pleased by my Good Samaritan deed, as it would give him bragging rights on his next golf outing.

Except that I never got the chance to tell him why I was sitting around an airport lounge in Jacksonville, because he was too busy yelling at me. So Lindsey was right. He was mad at me. And what a coincidence. It was all thanks to her.

It seemed that after I left home this morning, my darling little sister couldn’t wait to tell them that I had refused my oldest childhood friend’s invitation to stand up at her wedding.

Of course! I’d forgotten that she and Elyce’s younger sister, Monica, still hung out together, and that word of my insolence would make front-page news in the Plainview Gazette: CLAIRE GREENE TURNS BACK ON BEST FRIEND. WEDDING PLANS RUINED.

“How could you say no?” my father asked. “It’s not like you to hurt someone’s feelings.”

“I didn’t say no, exactly. I just didn’t say yes. You know how much I hate big weddings. The music is awful, and you have to smile every time the happy couple walks by, and tell them how much you love the food and the flowers, and everything is so beautiful….”

“When did you become so cynical and angry?”

“After the Supreme Court gave us a cheerleader for President who bombed his SATs.”

“I’m serious, honey. Your mother seems to think you’re depressed.”

“You’d be depressed, too, if you had to show up in public wearing lime-green chiffon.”

“Look. If it’s the money you’re worried about, we’ll pay for everything.”

“I appreciate that. But why do you care if I do this or not?”

“Because we’re loyal people, Claire…and Ira’s father sends me a lot of business.”

“So fine. We’ll all go to the wedding, act happy, and you’ll give them a very generous gift.”

“I don’t understand how you could deny Elyce this happiness. Adam and Lindsey would never do such a thing to a good friend.”

“Oh my God. Why do you always compare me to them? Trust me, Dad. They’re hardly poster children for model behavior, yet I’m the one you pick on.”

“I don’t pick on you. It’s just, with you, I always have to point out the painfully obvious. But tell you what. If you say yes, next month I’ll set you up in an apartment in the city.”

“Tell Elyce I’m a size six.”

Oh God. Had I really just agreed to be a bridesmaid, and run for fittings, and give my opinion on floral arrangements, and be available for frantic late-night calls whenever Ira went out of town and Elyce couldn’t find him (“He promised he’d be back at his hotel by eleven”)?

But here is what bothered me more. The fact that my parents thought of me as angry and cynical. I was sarcastic, definitely. But never bitter. In fact, I subscribed to the Single Girl’s Credo. Better to laugh at desperate moments than to cry and ruin a perfectly good Botox treatment.

Like after the time I found out a studio lawyer I’d been dating had a serious drug dependency. I just thought his mood swings and teeth grinding were a result of his high-stress legal life. But when I found him snorting coke at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning, the bell went off.

Did I bawl my eyes out? No. Did I play the role of rock-star wife and plead with him to go into treatment? Certainly not. I grabbed my clothes and said, “Steven, if I wanted to date a cold man with slush for brains, I would have moved back to New York and slept with a snowman.”

And that time I got a job working in the men’s department at Saks? I dreaded going in because my boss was this two-faced psycho-bitch who had no idea what shirt looked good with what tie, but who never failed to remind my customers that I was still in the training program.

Still, I maintained a positive outlook, as the commissions were high, and I’d already gotten a chance to do close-up work with James Brolin and Sean Connery. In fact, after outfitting each of them, I stuck my glossy and résumé in their bags. The unadvertised free gift with purchase.

Which explains why I got fired. But did I have a temper tantrum or cry for mercy? No. I ran after said boss and yelled, “Wait! Can I trade this job for what’s behind door number two?”

So you see? I wasn’t really the angry type. More like tired. Tired of people who always assumed their needs were more important than mine. Tired of hearing thoughtless words from insensitive people. Tired of dealing with those who never extended themselves, but who felt entitled to receive the royal treatment.

Oh God. What if Mr. Fabrikant had decided that after eighty years, he was tired of the same things? What if he looked at me, so self-absorbed and aloof, and said enough was enough? If one person couldn’t even be bothered to say hello to another person anymore, what was the point of living?

On the other hand, my father would probably tell me to stop dwelling on my mistakes and simply chalk this day up to being a good learning experience. He was a big believer in those life-altering, fall-on-your-sword events that if they didn’t kill you, made you stronger.

But here was my own personal experience with experience. All it did was help me recognize the same dumb-ass mistakes when I made them again. Which inevitably I always did.

Chapter 3

I’LL ADMIT TO HAVING WOUND UP IN A LOT OF STRANGE PLACES UNDER strange circumstances in my time. The as-yet-unexplained morning I woke up in the back of Brad Pitt’s truck wearing only a bedsheet and a Burger King crown. Or the time I went hiking with friends in Jackson Hole, got lost looking for a place to pee, and walked onto some recluse’s property who had a rifle and no interest in hearing how much I liked his flak jacket with the NIXON FOR PRESIDENT buttons.

Not exactly the sort of skirmish a civilian girl from Long Island had been trained to handle. Frankly, the only battle for which I’d been prepared was fighting over a parking spot at the Roosevelt Field Mall the week before Christmas.

So I suppose as unexpected excursions went, spending the morning in Jacksonville, Florida, wasn’t the worst detour. In fact, I was sort of getting off on hanging out in a comfortable airport lounge frequented by bonus-happy executots. It was just unfortunate that I hadn’t dressed better for the occasion, as I was the only one in the room wearing flip-flops and shorts.

Nor had I walked in holding the requisite bag of electronic toys, or tried to close a million-dollar deal on my cell phone. Although if I’d wanted, surely I could have pretended to be in a scene, and acted the role of a corporate ass-kicker taking a much-needed vacation day. “I swear, they had to literally push me out of the office.”

But who was I kidding? No Palm Pilot or cell phone could mask my unaccomplished past. Compared to all these magazine covers in the flesh, I looked old and obsolete. Dowdy Miss Claire, director of the Sharper Image Nursery School.

Then, in the middle of my self-pity party, I got this strange vision of two tall men walking in a dark hallway, and they were headed in my direction.

“Ms. Greene?”

“Yes?” I walked over to the reception desk.

“The family has left the morgue. They’re on their way up to meet you.”

The woman made it sound so official, I felt bad for not preparing any welcoming remarks, as if dignitaries were visiting my country. I also wished she’d given me more than thirty seconds’ notice so that I could have put myself together. For just as I reached for my pocketbook, two stunning men entered, and I had to force myself to place my tongue back in my mouth.

Not even their sullen expressions and hushed tones could detract from their sexual lure. Abe Fabrikant’s next of kin were hot! How did I know that they were related to the deceased? The older of the two men carried the same canvas bag that Mr. Fabrikant had tucked under his seat.

I guessed the son to be in his late fifties, although his taut abs and snow-cone biceps spoke volumes about the benefits of sticking with a gym. The younger man—a grandson, I presumed—was a head taller, and closer to my age. And although leaner and lankier than his father, he, too, had six-pack abs, shoe-polish-black hair, and a George Hamilton tan. (Hey. Didn’t I wish for a grandson?)

Put either of them in Italian suits, and they would pass for morning talk show hunks. The kind you just knew smelled good and said the right things before sex. I could tell because of the flowers that Junior Stud was clenching.

Amazing how fast word spread in the Jewish community. Loved ones had already started calling the caterers, liquor stores, and florists, who heard the word shiva and jumped into their We’re sorry for your loss, that’ll be $260 mode. Unless…Oh no. Was that bouquet for me?

After the receptionist pointed in my direction, I tucked my hair behind my ear and smoothed my shirt. Didn’t matter. I still looked like a shlump who’d rolled out of bed and caught the first flight out to Miami, never once stopping to think that this might be the day I met the crown princes of Dade County.

As they walked toward me, I felt a chill. There was a certain familiarity to these strangers, impossible as that was. For if I’d known men this attractive, wouldn’t I have remembered? Then it hit me. A minute ago I’d had this strange vision of two tall men approaching, and here they were.

I guess you could call it a premonition, not that I had much experience with this sort of phenomenon. To the contrary, I had zero psychic abilities, as was evidenced by the fact that I had both bought a Kia and voted for Bush.

“Claire Greene?” The older man removed his shades, revealing red, swollen eyes.

I nodded yes, and he hugged me so tight I could hardly breathe. “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done.”

“It was really nothing.” So far I wasn’t lying.

“No. No,” he insisted. “You are a wonderful person. Please.” He took the bouquet. “We’d like you to have this small token of our appreciation.”

“Thank you.” You don’t know how small a token I deserve.

“I’m Ben Fabrikant, and this is my son, Dr. Drew Fabrikant.”

“Hi, Dr. Fabrikant. I’m Claire, and I’m very sorry for your family’s loss.” I extended my hand and didn’t want to let go. He had a warm jock grasp and a dazzling, dentist-chair smile.

“Please. Call me Drew…. We were so relieved when we heard a stranger tried to come to my Pops’ aid. He was such a great man….”

Ben couldn’t contain himself at the reference to his father in past tense, and began sobbing on Drew’s shoulder. So I reached into my pocketbook for tissues, but pulled out Mr. Fabrikant’s wallet instead. Right! The flight attendant had asked me to search it for identification.

“I’m sorry.” Ben took a deep breath. “We are in such shock. I mean, he wasn’t well, but we just spoke to him this morning. He sounded fine.”

“You’re never prepared for the call.” Drew sniffed.

“Of course not,” I said. Hey. You think you were surprised?

“Is that my Pops’ wallet?” Drew eyed the worn leather billfold.

“Yes. The flight attendant asked me to hold on to it.”

“I told you no one stole it.” He punched his father’s arm. “Didn’t I say it would turn up?”

“Yes, you did.” Ben turned to me. “When we didn’t find it on him, naturally we thought someone stole it. Not that he carried much money around. A few credit cards….”

“And ‘My Sky,’” Drew added. “This poem he liked. It’s like his American Express card. He never left home without it.”

Oh my God. The man walked around with poetry in his pocket? I hate myself!

“I still can’t believe Aunt Charlotte invited him to the party.” Drew looked upward, as if he might catch a glimpse of the gate for departing souls.

“She’s unbelievable.” Ben shook his head. “We begged her not to, didn’t we? We said please don’t send Pops the invitation because you know him. He’ll come.”

“He never missed an occasion,” Drew sniffed. “Did he tell you why he was in New York?”

Shouldn’t that be something I knew? If only I’d asked, “So what brings you to New York?”

“His great-granddaughter’s first birthday,” Drew continued. “We said, Pops, it’s not necessary. It’s just a little party in Aunt Charlotte’s backyard. If only it had been any other weekend, I could have gone with him.”

“Drew’s fiancée had her bridal shower yesterday,” Ben explained.

Damn! He was engaged. Was my timing in life always going to be this bad?

“Did he…happen to say anything about our family?” Drew hesitated.

“Yes. He seemed so proud of all of you.” What was a little white lie if it eased their pain?

Ben closed his eyes. “He did love all of us, especially this guy.” He punched Drew’s arm. “Mr. Lacrosse Star. Mr. First in His Class at Podiatry School.”

Bummer. Not a real doctor. But who was I to be a snob? I didn’t even have a job, let alone one that people viewed as second-rate. Even my brother, Adam, was more gainfully employed than me. Then, as if on cue, my cell phone rang, and it was the prodigal brother himself.

“Thanks for blocking me in with your car, moron. Where the hell are your keys?”

“Excuse me.” I signaled to Ben and Drew that it was an important call. Ha! “Check the rack by the TV in the kitchen,” I whispered. “That’s where I always hang them.”

“Well, guess again, genius! They’re not there, and I gotta be at work in twenty minutes. Where else should I look?”

“I have no idea. Maybe Lindsey or Mommy took them, but they’re not on me.” I hope. Oh no. What if they were still in my pocketbook? I’d been so busy running around packing last night, and the cab came so early this morning, maybe I’d had a brain freeze and forgotten to leave them.

“I already asked, and they haven’t seen them. Just tell me where the spare is.”

“The spare?” I gulped. You mean the key I lost ages ago, and never got around to copying?

“You freakin’ idiot. You don’t have another key?”

“It was on my to-do list.”

“Yeah, well, add hiring a bodyguard to that list. How the hell am I supposed to get around?”

“I don’t know. Call AAA. Don’t they open cars all the time?”

“Gee. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll get in your car and be able to drive NOWHERE!”

“I’m really sorry, Adam. Maybe call Honda….”

Then it was like, boom, another vision. I was picturing the wind-breaker I’d worn yesterday, and if there was a God, maybe I’d left the keys in a pocket. I wasn’t sure what made me think of it, but Adam checked, and amazingly, there they were.

“Thanks for the heart attack,” he grumbled.

“Funny you should mention that,” I sighed. “Believe it or not, the man next to me on my flight just dropped dead from one, and I got off in Jacksonville to be with the family.”

“Gross! You had to sit next to a dead guy? I woulda made them stick him in an overhead bin or something.”

“Which is why it’s looking doubtful kids will ever get a day off of school in your honor. Anyway, sorry about the scare.”

“Whatever.”

“My kid brother.” I pointed to the phone when I returned. “He called to express his condolences.”

“We’ve been rude, Claire,” Ben sighed. “We haven’t even asked about your family.”

“There’s nothing much to tell, really. We’re from Plainview, Long Island. It’s my parents, my brother, sister, and me. My dad is an accountant, and my mom…is not.”

“If they raised a daughter like you, I’m sure they’re nice. Come. We’ll grab a bite and talk.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t eat. I’m still a little queasy.” From pigging out on bagels in the lounge.

“Of course you’re still upset. One of the flight attendants told us that you went nuts on them. Like y...