Dating Is Murder

“Actually, the show’s not that popular.”

“-exacts a price?”

“What about actors?” I asked. “They’re all in danger?”

“Actors are interpretive artists, playing parts, which minimizes the effect, but yes, they are damaged, as is obvious when you meet one. This is the cost of art. But you reveal yourself without the filter of character. Why do you suppose indigenous people shy away from cameras?”

The phone rang, and I grabbed it in irritation. “I don’t know a lot of indigenous people. Yes, hello.”

“There’s a couple of Hopis I could introduce you to,” the voice said.

“Hold on,” I said to the phone, then addressed my mother. “I have a contract. I can’t break it, it would be unethical. Bad karma.”

My mother drew herself up to her full height. “Don’t bandy about words the meaning of which you have no true understanding. This is my life’s work, and I tell you that walking away is the only course of action with integrity.”

“Well, I’m not go

“It is.”

“I’ve had a fatiguing day,” my mother said, oblivious to the fact I was talking to someone else. “I shall retire. Your refrigerator leaves something to be desired. Is there a place to buy tofu tomorrow?”

“Hold on, Simon.” I slid the phone to my chest. “Yes, Prana. This is still L.A.”

“Good. I have borrowed a pair of socks.”

This could go on forever. “Simon,” I said, “I’ll call you in ten minutes. Someone’s about to barricade herself in my bedroom and I’m desperate to get out of these pantyhose.”

“You’re wearing pantyhose?” he said.

“Pantyhose?” my mother said. “Good God, how Republican.”

Prana had appropriated not just socks but my bed, all four pillows, the cashmere sweater Joey had given me for my birthday, and the half box of Godiva chocolates stored in my refrigerator. She’d also marked her territories with scented candles and lotions. None of this surprised me. Leopards may go to live in ashrams, but they don’t change their spots.

The good news was that my mother was soon tucked away to sleep, read, meditate, or whatever it was she did in “retirement.” She could do it for up to twelve hours, I knew from experience, a blessing for those who needed a half day to recharge their Prana-tolerance batteries.

I was back in the kitchen, in sweatpants, when the phone rang. “You have an elastic idea of what constitutes ten minutes,” Simon said.

I poured Cocoa Puffs into a bowl. “I come by that naturally.”

“Okay. So you thought I was a DEA agent-”

“No, Joey thought that.” I opened the refrigerator. Instead of milk, I found a carton of something called Soy So Licious. I looked down. My milk carton was in the garbage can. “Oh-and she wondered what kind of car that is you drive.”

“A Bentley.”

“Is that a big deal?”

“It’s a Continental GT. The cheap Bentley.”

“Oh, okay.” Again, I was struck by how easy it all was on the phone. “So you’re not some kind of drug dealer.”

“No. I’m not any kind of drug dealer.”

“Good. Not that I wouldn’t associate with you if you were. But we’d never have a long-term relationship. Or even di

“Lunch?”

“Yeah, lunch. I’d have lunch even if you worked for the DEA. Lunch is a noncommittal meal.”

“Are you asking me to lunch?”

“Well, not-”

“Yes,” said a new voice. “Come tomorrow for brunch.”

Silence. Then I found my voice. “Prana, what a ghastly thing to do, listening in on my phone calls. Would you hang up, please?”

“I am not eavesdropping. I picked up the phone to call Solvang.”

I mentally ground my teeth. “Simon, meet my mother. Mom, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. I’m sure Simon has-”

“I’m aware of the date. I’m not a mental defective. Noon, Simon.” My mother went into a purr she reserved for the male of the species. “If you care to bring something, champagne would not go amiss.” There was a click.

I cleared my throat. “It would make me very happy if you’d ignore-”

“I’m very happy to come for brunch.”

“-because it’s news to me we’re even having it, and you must have family plans. Besides-brunch: such a pretentious meal. Who has brunch on Thanksgiving?”

“I love brunch. Eggs Benedict, bloody Marys… See you at noon.”

“Wait, this is-awkward and-I don’t know your last name, or anything about you. You can’t come to brunch, you don’t want to meet my mother, I don’t want you to meet her, I’m not even sure-okay, you’re not DEA, but who are you, what is-”

“My last name is Alexander. I’d love to meet your mother. I eat everything except beets, no allergies, and I’ll try not to embarrass you in front of your family.”

“Okay, but the thing is-”

“I need to talk to you in any case. In person. It’s why I call. Repeatedly.”

“Yes, but-”

“And I know who Richard Feynman is.”

That stopped me cold. I’d forgotten for a moment, but it all came flooding back. A

“Let’s save that for brunch.”

“Who is he?” I nearly screamed it.

He was silent.

I pulled myself together. “Listen, Simon Alexander, whoever you are-who are you, by the way?”

A pause. “Someone with an interest in your well-being.”

“Why do I feel like I’m on a game show? Personal or professional interest?”

“Both.”

Well. That was something. “And you’re not in the DEA? And you weren’t on Temple Street the other day?”

“I’m not in the DEA. I was on Temple Street the other day.”

“Doing what?”

“We’re working out some jurisdictional issues with the DEA.”

“Who’s-who is-” My voice shook a little. “‘We’?”

Another pause, during which my breathing stopped. Then: “The FBI.”

I woke with a stiff neck, a sore back, and no immediate sense of why I was on the living room sofa with the sun assaulting my face. Slowly I remembered my mother.

And the FBI.

It was so much worse than the DEA, I’d gone into a coughing fit when I’d heard the words. I have no history with the DEA. The FBI, on the other hand, has been pissing off my family since the days of J. Edgar Hoover. And not just my biological family. Ruta had been a Communist in the Nixon years, a lonely era for Reds. She’d populated my fairy tales with witches, goblins, and G-men. I hadn’t gone into this with Simon. I’d gotten off the phone as soon as I could, collapsing onto the sofa for a night of unrest and dreams populated with witches, goblins, and G-men.

The doorbell rang. My body cranked itself into a standing position. Still sore from Krav Maga-what had those people done to me?-I hobbled to the door.

Uncle Theo and P.B. stood in the hallway.

Suppressing alarm, I hugged my brother. P.B. wore a green striped shirt with khaki pants I’d given him for his last birthday, which was okay, except that he’d paired them with floral bedroom slippers he must’ve acquired at Rio Pescado. I was exasperated with Uncle Theo for having allowed this sartorial flub until I saw that Uncle Theo wore an orange fringed poncho suggestive of a pumpkin or a monk. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Summoned for brunch.” Uncle Theo hugged me and held out a sheaf of wheat secured with a twist tie. “We caught a ride with some of P.B.’s troops, on a holiday pass. We ran into that nice bookshop man on Santa Monica, who says to stop in soon.”

This was bad. P.B. was a social wild card under the best of circumstances, and brunch with the FBI was not the best of circumstances. His schizophrenia featured a preoccupation with surveillance by alien forces and government agencies. He was not currently delusional, but even asymptomatic he was intense. As for Uncle Theo, he’d actually known Ethel and Julius Rosenberg. Numbly, I accepted the sheaf of wheat, a bag of kaiser rolls, and a box of sprouts, and went into the kitchen, where P.B. tuned my radio to a show about insects they’d been listening to in the car.