Peedee Rabinowitz slammed the apartment door shut behind her, stripped out of her too-tight, bad-girl clothes, and breathed a sigh of relief. She loved her job; the pay was okay and the people were interesting, but her working clothes were always at least a size too small.
She kicked off her stilettos and padded across the room to the floor-to-ceiling window of her studio apartment, where she gazed down on the sparkling black of Central Park. The view alone made the ridiculous cost of her apartment worthwhile. She loved it, no matter what anyone else said. It might be shabby, but it was hers. And, she didn't need anyone else's help, or approval, to keep it.
Staring out the window and idly rubbing at the red marks made by her constricting work clothes, she considered for a moment the view of herself that she was offering to anyone who happened to glance up from 57th street. "Well, let 'em look," she thought. One of her earliest memories was of her mother saying, "All the world's a stage." Wasn't that the truth!
At the thought of her mom, a tiny chill shot up her spine. She'd managed to avoid her for the past week, but that couldn't continue—not with a family like hers; not with news like hers.
There weren't many boundaries in her family. Everyone was always mixed up with everyone else, and there was no such thing as a private decision. She dreaded the scene they'd make once they heard what she had to tell them, but she couldn't hide it anymore, and she didn't want to.
It was "her" life, her decision. She loved her family, but she didn't owe them anything. So far, she had done everything they'd asked. She'd followed the Rabinowitz tradition and gone into the family business right after graduation, even if she hadn't been completely sure that this specialty was right for her. And look at her now! She was promising to be the best of the lot. Clients were asking for her by name—sometimes even asking for a Peedee "type."
Of course, some would-be clients got the wrong idea of what her "type" was, but she soon put them in their place. Although she might not be top-shelf yet, she had too much pride to play their game. She was a first class, born-to-the-art Plot Device (Peedee for short) and now, she was one of the rising stars in Romance fiction.
Peedee poured herself two-fingers of Scotch, and toasted the city beyond the big window. She'd seen a Mike Hammer Macho Hero PD do it in some Mickey Spillane novel she'd done back when she was still taking small parts as a Femme Fatale PD. It had taken her ages to work her way up from there to Other Woman, but today, she'd done her first gig for Nora Roberts, the most famous name in Romance. Today, she'd been the Mistaken Other Woman—her first really sympathetic character. This was her biggest part yet, and as her older sisters always told her: it's the size of the part that matters. This could be her big break.
Drink in hand, Peedee plopped into the well-worn, chenille-covered chair that she'd placed in front of the window so she could look out at the night and contemplate fate. The chair creaked as she sank into its battered cushions. The view might have been exquisite, but the furniture—like the apartment itself—wasn't much to write home about. She could afford better if she were willing to accept help from her family, but she wasn't. She wanted to do things her own way; to be a Stand-Alone PD. There wasn't anything she could do that would satisfy her mother, anyway. Mom was more critical than the New York Times Book Review.
Perfectly foreshadowed, the phone rang. Peedee glanced at the Caller ID, and was not surprised by the number that came up. She took a deep drink of her Scotch to brace herself for the coming storm, and picked up the phone.
"Hi, Mom. How'd it go today?"
Mom was the best Metaphor in the business, having long ago paid her dues with poets and politicians. Currently, she was working where the real money was: advertising. Mom was Estee Lauder's new perfume and color cosmetics Metaphor, and Peedee couldn't have been prouder.
"Well, it was no day at the beach," she replied. "You know ad people—real pains in the ass. Those guys are absolute slave drivers."
Peedee winced. Mom must be exhausted, to be sinking to Aunt Cliché's level. It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to soften her up a little before broaching The Subject, because she knew that Mom "lived" to give advice.
"I'm glad you called," she lied, twirling one of her auburn locks with a manicured finger and feigning innocence—a Romance stock movement completely wasted on a phone call to Mom. "I have a gig with a first-time novelist tomorrow; a middle-aged housewife in New Jersey who's going to write her first sex scene. You remember how first-timers are: they never have the right word. Maybe you have some suggestions of euphemisms for . . . um . . . you know."
"Oh, sure. Start with the classics: staff, hardness, member, manhood . . . .It all depends on whether she's writing funny or not. You know, your father just calls his 'Jolly Roger,' and sometimes—"
"Stop! Too much information," Peedee interrupted. Daddy was a high powered Conflict Resolution, but at home, Mom said he was her "Snuggle Bunny"; which was gross enough, without the added details.
She took a deep breath. "Mom, is it okay for me to bring someone to Simile's service?"
Next week was her little brother's Naming ceremony; his first introduction to The Editor at His Holy Press. She couldn't believe Simile was old enough for it, but she was proud of him, and she wanted a special someone to be there.
"What?" Mom said, her tone sappy sweet, "A new boyfriend to bring to services? How long has this been going on? Am I the last to know?"
"Actually, you're the first person in the family I've told."
"Well, at least that's something, I suppose. So, tell me about him."
"He's tall, dark, and handsome."
"That's good. He meets all the right stereotypes. So what is he? A Hero? He's not another Villain, is he? Honestly, Peedee, you've been involved with far too many of those. I know they're good fun for a while, but it's time you started thinking about settling down."
"No, Mom. He's not a Villain." Peedee took a deep breath before continuing, but her voice still shook a little. "He's a doctor." She scrunched up her face and held the phone at arm's length, but all that came from it was silence.
Peedee slowly brought the phone back to her ear and said, "Mom? Are you still there?"
"I'm not sure. I think I'm hearing things. Maybe I've stepped through the looking glass. A doctor? You're seeing a doctor?" She sounded bewildered. "You want to bring him to the Naming? How can I show my face at my own son's Naming if you bring a doctor?" Her voice rose with every word, until she was almost shrieking.
"Just great," thought Peedee, "What a way for Daddy to find out." Peedee knew it wasn't possible that he was missing this, even if he was following his typical modus operandi and hiding in the basement during Mom's tirade.
The phone went silent for a second. Maybe it was over?
"Oh My God!"
Nope, she was getting her second wind.
"Your Nonna will be there," Mom continued. "There's no telling what she will say. And, in a holy place, no less!"
Mother-fear ran in the family even more strongly than fiction, and Nonna was formidable. Before she had retired, she'd been the Plot for Homer, and Shakespeare, and Asimov.
"Oh, come on Mom, now you're starting to sound like Grandma Tragedy." Peedee regretted her words as soon as they fell from her mouth. She could feel the icy blast, right through the phone.
"I am nothing like your father's mother. But you just remember, Miss Plot Device Rabinowitz, that your grandmother will be at that naming, and she'll have something to say about your 'doctor.' I wouldn't want to be in your shoes, young lady."
"You're just a bunch of bigots!"
"No, we most certainly are not. We just know what we know: 'A fish may love a bird, but where will they live?'"
Peedee cringed. She realized that her mom wasn't faking it, or even just exaggerating for effect. She had to be really upset if she was quoting from Fiddler on the Roof. It wasn't even one of her bits—she'd didn't do musicals.
Her mother went on, relentlessly. "So, tell me, where did you meet this doctor of yours? Does he at least come from a good fiction? Do we know his people?"
Peedee held her breath, stiffened her lip, screwed up her courage to the sticking place—all the good things Metaphor had taught her—and said, "No, Mom. His people are scientists. They work with textbooks." She took a deep breath. "Mom, they're strictly non-fiction: Orthodox."
A gasp of utter disbelief was followed by silence, and then a loud cry: "Conflict Resolution Rabinowitz, you come here right now! You have to speak to your daughter."
