The Queen Gene Read Free Page B

nipple on, our little boy grabbed the bottle and said, “My do it!”
    “It’s all yours, little man,” Jack said, forfeiting the bottle. “Luce, want some OJ?”
    “Okay, thanks.”
    “So tell me about the dog. Come sit,” Jack said, patting the kitchen chair beside him.
    We had recently finished remodeling the kitchen to maintain the rustic look of the rest of the house while modernizing it. The cabinets were cherry wood with handles that looked like pewter Rorschach splotches. Every appliance bore a stainless steel face. Brightening things up were oatmeal-colored limestone countertops and floors that were similar except for a few brown glass tiles inserted into the pattern. We had knocked down almost an entire wall in the kitchen to make way for a sliding glass door leading out to a deck that Jack built with the help of our neighbor, Tom. The two were so thrilled with the outdoor-indoor effect of our new kitchen that they later installed a large skylight, then moved on to our family room to do another there. Jack painted twelve ceramic tiles representing each month and hung them around the periphery of our kitchen. He is going through his abstract expressionist phase, so our kitchen has a Jackson Pollack meets Swiss Family Robinson feel.
    I sat next to my husband and couldn’t help notice how well his thick gray sweatshirt expanded across his chest. Smoothing his snow-dampened brown hair with his fingers, he urged me to continue. “So the dog’s got a nervous disorder?”
    “He pulls out his own hair,” I said, shrugging.
    “Trichotillomania?” Jack asked.
    “You’ve heard of it?” I was amazed.
    “One of my old clients had it. Put the hairs on the canvas, if you can believe it.” Before Jack started — rather, got back into — painting, he was an art dealer and owned a fabulous little gallery in SoHo. He continued reminiscing about the artist. “Sold well, though. Who’d’ve thought people wanted hairy art, but he was one of my best sellers.”
    “Well, Paz has got this trick, trick — what do you call it?”
    “Trichotillomania,” Jack offered.
    “Paz has got this trichotillomania thing and is pulling his paw hairs out. Anjoli took him to her acupuncturist today, and the poor thing went into a taxidermic freeze.”
    “You were there?” Jack asked.
    “No, Paz called me right before he was taken out of Mother’s purse, I guess.”
    Jack sipped his orange juice and went to get Adam the cookie he was pointing at, demanding. “Luce, have you ever considered that Paz is calling you for help?”
    “Very funny,” I said, scrunching my mouth to one side. “Seriously, I feel sorry for little Paz. Can you imagine being so wound up that you’d want to pull your hair out?”
    Jack pondered that for a moment. “After living with your mother for a couple months? Yes.”
    “Jack!” I swatted him but couldn’t help laughing. “It’s a chemical imbalance. Anjoli’s not responsible.”
    “I don’t know, Luce. That whole nature versus nurture debate has never been settled. All I know is that a couple months ago your mother adopted a perfectly healthy puppy who is now in need of psychiatric care,” Jack said. “It explains a lot, though.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, she raised you, didn’t she?”
    “You are just a riot,” I said, sipping orange juice into my straw then blowing it into his face. When Jack got up, I knew it was time to run. He caught me at the couch and tackled me down onto it and started tickling me, the ultimate torture.
    “Stop!” I shrieked, laughing uncontrollably.
    From the kitchen, we heard Adam squeal with delight in his high chair. “Mommy, Daddy silly!” he shouted.
    “Daddy is bad!” I shouted, still laughing.
    “Mommy, crazy!” Jack corrected.
    “I come play now!” he demanded. “Mommy come get now!”
    I whispered, “I’ve got to get him, but this , my good man, is not over. You have been very bad today. Tonight I shall exact my revenge,”