Revenge of the Spellmans Read Free

ignore.
    “I’ll have another,” she said.
    “Does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked as I served her second round.
    “Nothing. Henry just needs to chillax,” said Rae.
    “Do you have any response to that?” I asked Henry.
    “Isabel,” he said, “this is a bar. Not a soda shop. Adults come here to get away from children. I could have you shut down for serving minors.”
    “Rae, go home,” I said, sensing that Henry needed some space.
    “I don’t think so,” was Rae’s response.
    “I tried,” I said, turning back to Henry.
    Henry finished his club soda and asked for something stronger. I suggested 7UP, but he had bourbon in mind, which meant my sister had done something terribly wrong. I was intrigued.
    “What did you do?” I asked Rae after I served Henry his Bulleit.
    “Tell Henry,” Rae said, “that what I did, I did for his own good.”
    “Did you hear that?” I said to Henry.
    He looked up from the magazine and said, “Hear what?”
    “Um, Rae said that what she did, she did for your own good.”
    “Well, you can tell your sister that it was not her decision to make.”
    “What did he say?” Rae asked, even though Henry’s response was perfectly audible.
    “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.
    “What did he say?” she insisted.
    “He said it was not your decision to make.”
    “Tell him he’ll thank me later.”
    Henry returned to his magazine and continued pretending that Rae existed in some parallel universe where only I could see and hear her. I decided to play along for the time being, since I had to admit I wanted the scoop.
    “She said you’ll thank her later.”
    “Tell her I won’t. Tell her she’s forbidden to come to my house ever again.”
    “You can’t be serious,” she said. Apparently my translating skills were no longer required, because this was directed at Henry’s back.
    “Oh, I’m very serious,” he replied, finishing off the last of his bourbon. I was shocked when he pointed to his glass and asked for another, but I assumed this meant further information would be forthcoming, so I served the drink and eagerly awaited the rest of the story.
    I’ll spare you the long, drawn-out argument and give you the basic facts. Henry, for the last five months, had been dating a public defender for San Francisco County named Maggie Mason. Maggie has an apartment in Daly City—not the quickest commute to the superior court building on Bryant Street. Henry lives in the Inner Sunset. It’s only natural that Maggie would spend time at Henry’s home and not the other way around. Two months ago, she got a drawer in his house; one month ago, she got a shelf in his pantry. 12 Last week Henry made a copy of his key and gave it to her in a jewelry box. My sister, convinced that Henry wasn’t really ready to take the next step, took it upon herself to change the locks in his apartment a few days later. How my sister had access to his home and how this act of subterfuge went unnoticed by the neighbors, I cannot explain. Suffice it to say she did not deny her role in this particular drama. I’m sure you can imagine what happened next: Maggie arrived at Henry’s house after a long dayof work. She tried her key and it failed. She interpreted events the way any woman might: Henry gave her the wrong key, which was a subconscious or passive-aggressive communication that he was simply not ready. What had not occurred to Maggie was that my sister was playing saboteur in their relationship. Certainly there had been moments of tension between Maggie and her boyfriend’s odd version of a “best friend,” but Maggie had failed to see Rae’s outright hostility. None of this escaped Henry’s notice.
    “Tell your sister,” said Henry, “that she is no longer welcome in my home.”
    “We’re back to that again?” I asked.
    Rae’s response was not the wisest. “I have a key,” she said, rolling her eyes.
    “I had the locks changed this morning!”