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At least I would give her a chance to salvage her career—it was far more than she had done for me.
I imagined myself lying in wait for Tiffany when she got off work late one evening and stepping out of the shadows, waving her past improprieties in her face like some evil flag.
According to the information in the folder that Pam had given me, Tiffany Nixon was born in Louisville, Kentucky, but she was an army brat. The family moved often and she didn’t spend much time in any one school until she entered Mount Holyoke College in 1975. The reporter was single, asthmatic, lived on 71st Street between Broadway and West End Avenue, played the flute as a hobby, saw her parents on holidays, and didn’t particularly care for her three sisters: Janus, Eleanor, and Oona. In fact, I found a two-year-old column in the folder that she wrote about her family which was downright vicious.
WE CAN’T CHOOSE OUR RELATIVES
by Tiffany Nixon
I’m from a totally screwed-up family. No, I didn’t grow up in a single-parent home nor were we poor.
We just didn’t like each other.
There were four girls: me, Janus, Eleanor, and Oona. I’m the youngest.
Mother’s favorite was Eleanor, while Pop leaned toward Janus and Oona.
No one, including my siblings, liked me at all. Why? Because I’m the dark one. Dark as in too much melanin in the skin to suit them. And so I was ridiculed and ignored.
My parents mercifully have died, but there are still three women out there who claim sisterhood with me at their convenience. You see, as a columnist, I mingle with the rich, famous, celebrated, and infamous. My “sisters” have no problem calling or e-mailing when they want concert tickets or an introduction to someone who can help them get ahead in some way.
Sometimes I help out, but mostly I don’t.
I say all of this to remind my readers to avoid fake and forced cheer during this holiday season. Spend time with people you like and who like you back. Do not feel obligated to spend time with people you detest, simply because they are biologically connected to you.
I stopped doing that a long time ago.
I will spend tomorrow opening presents with a group of my friends and enjoy myself tremendously. Please do the same.
Merry Christmas!
This was great news—if she didn’t like her siblings, the feeling was probably mutual—which meant they might talk to me. The problem was, Janus lived in Philadelphia, Eleanor was overseas with her husband, Oona’s home was in Kenosha, Wisconsin, and I was not allowed to leave New York State. Who would be willing to go on the road for me and what could I offer that person in return?
31
BROTHERS
I dressed like the corporate executive I used to be—a navy blue suit, flesh-colored stockings, and black pumps. No one who glanced my way would equate me with the wild-eyed creature in the televised mug shot. The restaurant/bar called Brothers was located on Hudson Street, a few blocks away.
She was nowhere in sight. I was only twenty minutes late. Had she come and gone? I described her to a passing waitress, who said she didn’t remember seeing anyone who fit that description.
I passed the time sipping ginger ale at a little table away from the window and kept my back to the aging preppies enjoying Happy Hour at the bar. It was a spacious establishment with comfy armchairs, a blond wood floor, ceiling fans, and pictures of famous rock musicians like Mick Jagger, Bruce Springsteen, and Alice Cooper. A tape of their hits played quietly as a backdrop.
Alyssa Kraft showed up just as I was giving up hope. She was wearing black jeans, a gray silk tee shirt, and strappy silver sandals. A stream of apologies fell from her lips as she eased her five-foot, nine-inch frame into the seat across from me. We ordered drinks and catfish sandwiches.
“How are you, Jackie?”
I sighed. “Bewildered, scared, angry, and tired.”
She looked at me with pity in her eyes. “How can I help?”
“I need you to do me a huge favor.”
“Do you need money?”
“No.”
We were quiet for a moment while I summoned up the nerve to ask for what I needed.
