“You must be mistaken. My wife died in a stingray attack,” he said, squeezing his voice in pretend sorrow, wiping fake tears from his eyes. “Just like the Crocodile Hunter. The barb tore right through her heart….”
Oh, did I mention that Rumpelforeskin was as topical as he was comical? And he went on, without any encouragement on my part other than the fact that I was still standing there and hadn’t jumped over the rooftop fencing and parachuted to safety with the excess fabric of my mommy-to-be muumuu.
“And the weird thing about it was that it happened in a swimming pool….” Then he broke character and started cracking his own shit up. The rubbery flesh bobbed up and down. Erect. Flaccid. Erect. Flaccid. Ew.
I was one second away from screaming, “Rumpelforeskin! Rumpelforeskin! Rumpelforeskin!” when Bethany came and tugged on my elbow.
“Can I steal you away for a moment?” she asked.
And as I went off with my sister, I thought about how the MILFs would have loved the story of Rumpelforeskin, that is, if he didn’t happen to be married to one of them. “s Marin okay?” I asked. “Oh, she’s fine,” she said. “Liesl’s son, Driver, was having a moment.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks for rescuing me.”
thirty-four
“Is Marin okay?” I asked.
“Oh, she’s fine,” she said. “Liesl’s son, Driver, was having a moment.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks for rescuing me.”
She didn’t respond. Since Marin wasn’t involved in the fracas, I assumed Bethany had faked her urgency. But when she led me past the partygoers, downstairs and into the quiet of her bedroom, I realized that she really did want a one-on-one. I spent a lot of time at my sister’s place, but rarely entered her bedroom, which was expensively decorated in a minimalist and modern fashion designed to showcase the grandest panorama in all five boroughs.
“Christ,” I whispered under my breath. “You can see everything, from the Statue of Liberty to Lower Manhattan.” I pressed my head to the glass. If I stretched my neck, I could even see the spire of the Chrysler Building.
My sister pointed out, “See that crane, right there? That’s where the World Trade Center used to be. The towers were twice as tall as any of the other buildings in the skyline.”
Then we stood next to each other, silently looking into that empty space in the sky, both imagining what it must have been like to wake up every morning to that sight. And on that one morning in particular.
“You know what’s weird?” Bethany asked.
“What?”
“That the best thing about our home is the view of someplace else.”
Intentionally so or not, it was one of the deepest observations I’ve ever heard come out of my sister’s mouth. I almost said so, but she spoke first.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about a few things,” Bethany said after a few moments, gesturing for me to sit next to her on an ochre velvet chaise at the foot of her mahogany platform bed.
“Bethany,” I said, interrupting. “I know what you’re going to say….”
“I don’t think you do,” she said softly.
“You want me to work for the Be You Tea Shoppe,” I said. “I think it’s a great idea, but…”
Bethany shook her head, and the sun bounced off individual strands of her hair that were more golden than others. “That’s not what I’m going to say.”
“Then what?”
“I want to make you Marin’s legal guardian.”
That is definitely not what I thought she was going to say.
“Oh my God!” I gasped, digging my fingernails into her upper thigh. “Are you sick? Are you dying?”
Bethany mustered a laugh. “No, no,” she said. “I’m perfectly healthy. So is Grant. The chances are very unlikely that you would ever be called upon to act in that capacity.” Bethany’s impersonal word choice hinted that she had rehearsed this speech before delivering it. “But you know, things happen,” she said, darting a nervous glance out the window. “And we need to know that Marin will be in good hands….”
And those good hands were mine? Watching her for two hours every afternoon is one thing, but being her parent? I mean, I didn’t take one step toward the playroom when I heard the shrieking. I wasn’t programmed to react like any protective parent would. Was it instinct? Or could I learn how? And the most vexing question: Did I even want to?
It was a lot for me to process.
“Why are you asking me now?” I asked.
“Well, there are several reasons, actually,” she said, tracing circles into the velvet with her fingertip. “Marin starts school tomorrow, and I had to fill out all this paperwork—you know, emergency contacts and such. And it just got me thinking about who would take care of her in the event of a real emergency.”
“You waited until now to designate someone? She’s four years old. What if something had happened already?”
“Oh,” she said, looking down. “Until now, Mom and Dad were her legal guardians. But…”
I knew what was on the other end of that “But.”
“Not this again!”
“I have reasons to be worried….”
“Mom is not leaving Dad just because you caught the wrong episode of Oprah.”
“Jessie,” she said with big-sister irritation. “All the Signs are there.”
The Signs That My Mom Is About to Leave My Dad
1. She’s Asserting Her Financial Independence
My mom brings in more income than my dad’s post-retirement pension by redecorating, or “staging,” homes for sale in a way that makes them more attractive to potential buyers.
“You think it’s just a coincidence she named it Darling’s Designs for Leaving?” my sister argued.
2. She’s Improving Her Physical Appearance
The Botox was one thing. But now my mom’s face is so full of high-tech fillers that on a molecular level, it more closely resembles my running shoe than anything animal in origin.
“She’s a GILF,” my sister said.
“Ack,” I said.
3. She’s Distancing Herself from Her Spouse
It’s true, my mother is hardly ever at the condo anymore.
“But I saw them having sex!” I cried.
“Can you please stop reminding me that you saw Mom and Dad having sex?” Bethany snapped.
“You just called her a GILF,” I shot back.
“You walked in on them two years ago,” she pointed out. “And that doesn’t prove anything, anyway.”
I know she’s right. I’ve convinced myself that the only upside to walking in on my parents having sex was knowing that they still loved each other, despite all evidence to the contrary. I know it’s naive to believe that one afternoon delight is enough to keep any unhappy couple together, but it’s all I’ve got.
“I’ve seen it before, Jessie.” Bethany nodded sagely. “I know the cycle.”
“Where have you seen it before? And talk shows don’t count.”
“With one of my friends,” she said.
“Dierdre?” I whispered, shooting a furtive look at the closed bedroom door.
“No!” she said, her eyes exploding with surprise. “Why Dierdre?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because her husband was just totally hitting on me.”
“He was?”
“Yes! Ack! He was!”
“Are you sure he wasn’t just being friendly?”
“No, he was being skeevy.”
“Wow,” she said, looking off into the middle distance for a moment.
“Okay, so who is leaving her husband?”
“Liesl,” she said.
“Liesl?” I was surprised. “But she and her husband have sex ten times a week!”
“Again with the sex,” Bethany said. “Is that all you think mature relationships are built on? I hope not for the sake of your future with Marcus.”
(I suppose I could have told her right t
hen about the proposal, but it just didn’t seem appropriate.)
“Anyway, even if I’m misreading the signs, and I’m just being totally crazy here, it doesn’t change the fact that Mom and Dad are getting older and aren’t the best choice anymore.” Bethany took my hand and looked me in the eyes. “You are.”
“And Grant agrees?’
“Well, yes,” she said with a sigh. “He doesn’t think much of his own parents’ child-rearing skills. And his brother is the eternal frat boy. Grant says that the idea of him being Marin’s legal guardian would make an amusing Adam Sandler movie, but in real life? Not so much.”
I wanted to tell her that the idea of me being Marin’s legal guardian was like a Kate Hudson movie, only without flattering lighting and designer wardrobe. But it wasn’t a time for jokes.
“Even though I’m single? Shouldn’t Marin have a father figure?”
Bethany mustered a rueful laugh. “Her father figure is hardly around as it is.” (I’m glad she said it before I did.) “And you make it sound like you’re going to be single forever….”
(FOREVER.)
“So me.”
“So you.”
I don’t know how long we sat next to each other, listening to the sounds of the party above, gazing out the window into the void. Then I finally responded.
“I need to think.”
“Don’t stress yourself about this,” Bethany said. “Don’t think too much.”
(Where have I heard that before?)
thirty-five
Marin was so enraptured by the Non-Stop Party Patrol that she’d had nothing to do with me the whole time I was there. I wanted to wish her luck on her first day of school, so I popped my head into the playroom.
“Marin?”
Marin was wearing a purple ringer T-shirt and a sparkly yellow tutu over jeans. She positioned herself in front of a perky, ponytailed dancer with her legs apart, arms up, and hips gyrating round and round. Her tongue was out, and her chin was slick with spit, both signs that she was concentrating really hard on learning the choreography to “2-Getha 4-Eva,” the closing number from Grease 3: The Return to Rydell. My niece had forced me to watch this DVD more times than anyone with memories of the original should be reasonably required to endure.
This was our little secret, you see. If Bethany had any idea that we had spent so many weekday afternoons in front of that DVD, I doubt that I would have vaulted past all the others on the list of potential legal guardians. When Marin is in my care, I am supposed to follow The Fun Chart™, a calendar created by a team of leading child psychologists that structures each day around “activities that aid in the acquisition of specific developmental milestones.” The Fun Chart™ has met MILF approval, proving that the reviled Park Slope Mommies have not cornered the market on “multidisciplinary explorative colloquia.”
Watching Grease 3 might be acceptable once, maybe twice a month, and only if it was a day officially designated by The Fun Chart™ toward the cultivation of Marin’s Auditory, Creative Expression, and Language skills. By allowing her to watch Grease 3 once, maybe twice, or even three times a week if we’re both tired and cranky enough, I’m defying The Fun Chart™ mandate to engage in Fine Motor, Visual Perception, and Cortical play, which means she’ll never get into one of the “better Ivies” and her life is ruined.
Obviously, all that stuff is B.S. Back in the day, my mom’s idea of educational play was devising the rehearsal dinner menu for Barbie and Ken’s wedding. And I turned out okay, despite an utter lack of Proprio-ceptive stimuli. Likewise, I doubt that there was much emphasis on your Tactile/Kinesthetic skill set when you were in juvenile detention. And just look at you now, a Princeton Tiger.
As a babysitter, I can get away with breaking all the rules because, as any amateur Freudian knows, it’s Bethany and Grant who can do the most damage to Marin’s fragile psyche and future earning potential. I can’t imagine a more high-pressure job—especially in this city.
Case in point: Marin fell off the monkey bars a few weeks ago. She landed in a bloody tangle of arms and legs. She howled for a few minutes but calmed down with the promise of ice cream and Grease 3. No broken bones, but her knee took the hardest hit, making it difficult for her to walk. I did what any sane caregiver would: I scooped her up and carried her back to Bethany’s place. I was about halfway there, waiting patiently for the Walk light, when a smug thirtysomething wearing a heart-rate monitor and three-hundred-dollar running shoes looked right at Marin and said, “You should be walking.” He dashed to the other side before the comment registered.
It was a dick thing to say, because it was none of his goddamn business. What made it worse was his cowardliness. Oh, it takes a big man to admonish a four-year-old still sniveling over her bloody boo-boo instead of the adult who happens to be holding her. But I let it go because this guy was obviously a fitness Nazi who had made it his moral imperative to end childhood obesity by berating one injured, immobile preschooler at a time. By the time Bethany got home, I was ready to joke about it. But she didn’t think it was at all funny.
“ARRRRRRRGH!” Bethany growled, balling up her freshly manicured hands into fists. “Why can’t people mind their own business?”
“He was a jerk.”
“Everyone thinks they have a right to parent everyone else’s kid in this city! Everyone’s an expert!”
“Let it go….”
“You try to let it go when you know that every time you walk out the door, people are passing judgment on how you raise your child.”
From that afternoon on, I could hardly blame Bethany for surrendering to the MILF groupthink. I know I’m an adequate babysitter. Sometimes I’m even an above-and-beyond babysitter. But am I ready to accept permanent responsibility for Marin’s care and well-being? I’ve never had a pet. Not a guppy, not even a sea monkey.
After the fourth or fifth attempt to draw her attention away from the Non-Stop Party Patrol, my niece finally half-turned her blond head in my general direction.
“Auntie J,” she said, with a whine beyond her years, “can’t you see I’m busy?”
Bethany assures me that such withering disdain is a sign of the deepest devotion.
“After all,” Bethany said, “you can only really, really hurt the ones you really, really love.”
(Oh, don’t I know it.)
thirty-six
When I returned to Sammy, the apartment was empty. The ride on the subway and the ten-block walk back to the apartment had left me feeling sticky, so I decided to take a cold shower. As soon as I stepped inside, I caught a whiff of the mildewy plastic. Our shower curtain was slick with pinkish mildew, and the moistest bottom corners were flecked with specks of greenish mold, a sort of preppy nastiness. The tiles were dull with soap scum; the grout had turned gray. I stood ankle-deep in a dirty puddle because the drain was clogged with the foulest congealment of human hair and conditioner.
The inability to bring our bathroom up to reasonably clean hygienic standards is one of the grossest examples of our collective immaturity and incompetence here in Sammy. Of course, we all wanted a clean bathroom, but only Shea—yes, Shea—had the wherewithal to actually pick up a sponge. She had the lowest tolerance for scum, and would be the first to hit the bleach when she couldn’t take it anymore. Of course, while doing so, she’d unleash an expletive-laden tirade about how we were the most worthless pack of spermburping jizzmops she’d ever met, but even that was a small price to pay for a clean shower stall.
So I was in the shower, lathering up with Hope’s ginger-scented shampoo, debating whether she would also notice if I used her razor to shave my legs, when I heard the unmistakable sound of the bathroom door bursting open. I poked my frothy head through the curtain just to confirm that it was the pervert I knew, and not a pervert off the street.
“Christ, Manda! Privacy!”
Her thong was already at her ankles. “That’s an amusing request coming from someone who is watching me pee!”
I grumbled and yanked my head back inside the stall. “Don’t flush!” I yelled out, but it was already too late. The hot water surged from the showerhead and singed my skin. “OUCH! FUCK!”
“Oops!”
I waited for the sound of the door opening and closing behind her. When I didn’t hear it right away, I stuck my head outside the curtain yet again. Manda was still in the same spot, panties up, toilet lid down. She was bent in half, lazily inspecting her pedicure.
“Hope called,” she said breezily. “She’s at the studio. Can’t do dinner. The usual.”
“Okay!” I said. “Thanks for the message! You can leave now!”
“I assume you didn’t get laid,” Manda said. This is her standard greeting whenever I’ve returned from just about anywhere.
“I have a boyfriend, remember?” I asked, quickly rinsing my hair.
“Fiancé,” Manda corrected. “Remember?”
I could feel my blushing embarrassment, even under the hot water. With the ring off my finger I had, in fact, forgotten. I changed the subject. And quickly.
“Well, I was hit on by a married man who resembles an uncircumcised penis.”
I expected her to heave a bored sigh and say something like, “Haven’t we all?” But instead she said, “Sara called. She had the baby.”
“Welcome, Destiny Estrella.”
“You mean Alessandro Destino.”
“What?”
“Turned out that their little girl was hiding something between her legs.”
Well. So much for the D’Abruzzi Pussy Legacy. Is nothing sacred?
“I bet Scotty is happy about it,” I said.
“They both sound really happy,” Manda said. “Like really, ridiculously happy. So happy that we both kind of forgot that we hate each other.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Okay, you can leave now!”
Manda paid me no mind. “So happy”—she paused to draw a deep, dramatic breath—“that I had an epiphany.”
I turned off the water and poked my head out again. Manda was still picking at her toenails, waiting for me to ask about her epiphany.
Fourth Comings Page 13