by Leigh Himes
What a civilized way to live, I thought.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Owwwwww!!!” screamed Gloria as I accidentally jabbed her with a bobby pin. After twenty minutes of trying, I still couldn’t get the red yarn Raggedy Ann wig to stay on right.
“Sorry, Glo,” I told her. “This thing just won’t lay right.”
“It’s stupid, anyway,” she said, tugging her white pinafore down over the blue printed dress. “Why can’t I be a vampire? I really want to be a vampire, Mommy.”
“These are the costumes we were told you should wear,” I said, eyeing Sam in his blue overalls, oversized buttons, and sailor cap. “I’m not going to argue about it anymore. Now, stand still.”
Gloria might have felt miserable, but she looked adorable. And the pair of them, with her brother in a matching Raggedy Andy costume, were off the cute chart: two tiny dolls with red circles of rouge on their cheeks, shiny buttons, striped knee socks, and black patent shoes. These costumes might not have been what the kids wanted, but they were one hundred percent cotton and campaign approved.
Frank didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance. Monsters were “too violent,” witches “sexist,” movie characters “too liberal Hollywood elite,” and ninjas or toy soldiers would highlight the fact that Alex had not served in the armed forces. That left us with animals, fairies, or dolls. Personally, I thought Depression-era Raggedy Ann and Andy were ridiculous for a wealthy family like ours, but Frank liked that they were red, white, and blue. May’s sister had made them by hand, and Oscar had picked them up late last night.
The plan was for us to join Alex at a political rally after Gloria’s school Halloween party, then have dinner and go trick-or-treating together as a family. May usually worked Fridays, but since we had the debate tomorrow, her day off had been switched. I was glad she wasn’t with us. I was looking forward to spending time, just the four of us. After today, there were only three days left until the election, and we probably wouldn’t see much of Alex again until it was all over. I made sure I looked good: a gray Lanvin suit with a dotted, white-on-white silk blouse, diamond studs, black leather boots, and bright red lips. The rally was outside, so I twisted my hair into a chignon and sprayed it until it shone.
With minutes to spare, I grabbed the kids’ candy bags, my giant white YSL purse, and a pink cardboard box containing four dozen dark chocolate and buttercream cupcakes, each topped with a marshmallow ghost dipped in edible white glitter, with two mini-chips as eyes. Thank God for city bakeries; they’d honor any last-minute request if you didn’t mind the rush charge. We didn’t.
Downstairs in the lobby, the kids’ patent leather shoes squeaked on the glossy black floor. When they spied Oscar waiting outside in a Darth Vader mask, they squealed with delight and ran faster, the doorman barely getting the door open in time.
I caught up and Darth wedged the giant cupcake boxes into the trunk while we waited on the sidewalk. Passersby oohed and aahed at the old-fashioned costumes, but Gloria ignored them, still fuming about the vampire costume veto. At least Sam seemed pleased, touching his head and repeating “hat” over and over. Word number twelve, I silently whispered to Jimmy.
He had always loved Halloween, as all landscapers do. It’s the holiday that marks the end of their busiest season and kicks off the short lull before they start plowing snow and hanging holiday lights. He celebrated each year by going all out: decorating the yard with bales of hay, potted mums, and black bats hung from invisible wire. He also always insisted on full-size candy bars for the kids and a keg of pumpkin ale for the parents. Friends from high school or work would stop by with their kids, and the party would stretch well into the night, neighbors putting their sugar-crashed kids to bed and slinking back for one last beer.
Halloween in the city was sure to be different. The van Holts didn’t even have a pumpkin.
In the car on our way, my phone rang. It was Alex.
“Please tell me you didn’t write a check to Ronald Ferguson for ten thousand dollars,” Alex said, clearly annoyed.
“Yeah, I did. Why?” My heart moved up into my throat.
“Are you kidding? Abbey, we’ve talked about this.”
“We did?” Uh-oh.
“Didn’t we have a whole conversation about him a few weeks ago?”
“I guess we did.”
“You guess we did? Well, then, why the hell did you write him a check? I thought I made myself clear. If I can help Holy Rosary, I will do it after the election.”
“Right. Sorry.”
I heard voices in the background and Alex telling someone he needed a minute. “I swear, Abbey, I don’t know why you do this. Are you trying to sabotage the campaign? I thought this is what you wanted.”
“It’s just a donation. To help them with food and electricity and stuff. How can it hurt the campaign?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because your friend Father Ferguson has been doling out birth control to teenagers and Rome has him on some sort of watch list. Or maybe because he’s rumored to have a girlfriend up in Kensington. And here I am—right now!—on my way to meet with the Catholic Coalition to ask for their support.”
I felt sick to my stomach. “Don’t worry; I’ll call him and tell him not to cash it until after the election.”
“He’s already posted it. How do you think I found out? I know ten grand is just another day at Neiman’s to you, but for most people, it’s noticeable. Thankfully Randall at the bank is going to stop payment.”
“Stop payment? Alex, please don’t. Let it go through. I swear no one saw me. No one will know.”
“I’m running for Congress, Abbey,” he snapped. “Everyone knows everything.”
Five minutes later, as we pulled up to the children’s school, picture-perfect with its trees of orange, gold, and maroon against gray stone, I was still shaking. And trying not to cry. I forced a smile, though, and thanked Oscar, then ushered the children through the gate while carefully balancing the cupcake boxes. Inside, as we walked through the noisy, bright hallway, the familiar smells and sounds of an elementary school calmed me. I began to feel a little better.
Gloria, Sam, and I dodged glitter wings and plastic swords to find her classroom and unload the treats. Gloria ran off to join her friends while Sam and I found seats in the child-sized chairs in the back of the room where we could wait. Sam wanted to run to his sister, but I distracted him with a lollipop I grabbed off the treat table. He sucked happily as I looked around, admiring the colorful rugs and decorations, as well as the wide windows that overlooked a lovely stone courtyard, a vegetable garden, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, an Alexander Calder sculpture.
After a few minutes, a teacher just seconds out of college approached, so naturally pretty that even her Harry Potter wig, glasses, and painted-on scar didn’t diminish her perfect features.
“Good morning, Mrs. van Holt,” she said with a wide smile. “Gloria looks so cute.”
“Thank you, Miss Regan,” I said, proud of myself for learning her name before we came. “I’m sorry we have to leave early, but Gloria’s dad has a campaign event and really wants her there.”
“Of course,” she said, pushing her costume glasses up her nose. “I understand.” She stood smiling expectantly, as if waiting for something. After a few more seconds, she asked, “So is your driver bringing the pumpkins?”
“Pumpkins?”
“For the pies.”
“I thought I just had to bring the cupcakes.” I felt that same anxious feeling I’d had last week when I realized too late it was “pajama day” at Gloria’s school.
“The cupcakes are for this class,” she explained. “I believe you also signed up to bring pumpkins for the ‘alt trackers.’”
“What?”
“The twelve pumpkins for her alternate track. For the ‘snow leopards.’”
“But I thought Gloria was a ‘manatee,’” I said, exasperated. Last night, I had painstakingly reviewed all of Abbey van Holt’s e-
mails yet again and had figured out that Gloria’s classmates were nicknamed the manatees, that her teacher’s name was Miss Regan, and that for Halloween, I was assigned “ghost-, ghoul-, or witch-themed cupcakes” for the party. What was this “alt track” business?
Miss Regan continued: “On Fridays she has her other track, too. And for their party, they are going to make pumpkin pies. Bryant’s mother already brought the gluten-free flour for the crust. And Kennedy’s mother brought the organic butter from Shepperton Farms.”
I would have been annoyed at all the dietetic pretense if she didn’t look like she was about to cry. I had no choice: I had to find some pumpkins. And fast.
“Don’t worry. I’ll just run out and get some. I’ll be right back,” I told her in an overconfident tone. Then I grabbed Sam’s hand and rushed out the door. So I needed twelve locally grown organic pumpkins. How hard could it be? It was Halloween after all.
But outside, I paused, not knowing which way to turn. If this had been Grange Hill, there would be pumpkins at every grocery store and corner market, but here in the city, I hadn’t seen any stores, let alone pumpkins. I pulled out my phone to check for a Trader Joe’s or any other grocery store, but the nearest one was north of Market Street, a mile away. I searched for a bodega or produce shop, but the only one I found and called didn’t have any pumpkins. I even looked up and down the street, for a moment thinking of “borrowing” some from the steps of the nearby brownstones. But there was only one, and it was already carved. I stamped my foot in frustration.
A little Ninja Turtle—Donatello, I think—passed by, escorted by two fathers. I asked them if they knew of a place to buy pumpkins and they directed me to a farmers’ market in Fitler Square, just a few blocks away.
“You’re in luck,” said the older man, his arms full of candy apple–making supplies. “This is the last weekend before they close for winter.”
I thanked them profusely, swung the baby up onto my hip, and trotted off in the direction they had indicated. In my high heels, I limped a little as I jogged, like a sulky on its last lap.
My luck continued at the farmers’ market, which was in full swing when I arrived. Moms with strollers vied with aging hippies for five varieties of kale, home-brewed kombucha, vegan soups, and apples ranging from light pink to deep red to lime green. One table held pyramids of handmade soap, another displayed hemp onesies, while another offered pamphlets for a Green Party candidate running against Alex. I picked it up and shoved it in my purse even though I knew the guy didn’t have a chance; I’d never heard Alex or Frank even mention him. Finally, in the back corner near the bear statue, I found a young man selling beautiful green and orange “heirloom” pumpkins.
“I’ll take all of them,” I told him. “Provided they are organic. And that you deliver.” He looked up from his guitar and smiled, his teeth bright against his long black beard and red-and-black-checked shirt.
“Yes to both, milady,” he said, jumping up. “As long as it’s not far. I only have an oxcart.” He pointed to a rickety wooden contraption in the corner. It would work.
“It’s just three blocks away,” I assured him, then opened my purse. “How much?”
He did the math in his head and, with all seriousness, told me, “Two ninety-five.” I almost fainted. But then again, thinking of Miss Regan’s worried face, and given my new circumstances, I would have paid double that.
I set Sam down among the gourds, stretched my back, and pulled out my wallet. I had nine dollars. That wouldn’t even get me one pumpkin, let alone twelve.
“Do you take credit cards?” I asked sweetly.
“Nope.”
“Personal checks?”
“Sorry.”
“Do you think you could just take a check just this once? I promise I’m good for it… I’m married to Alex van Holt, the guy running for Congress.” I was not above playing the husband card if it meant fulfilling my parent-teacher duties, especially now that I had no full-time job and no excuse for flaking out.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a big smile. “I’m sure you’re good for it. But I don’t have a bank account.”
I stared at him. He continued: “I’m cash only. Or barter.”
Cash only? Barter? Was he serious? Did he not understand that there were twelve little alt trackers waiting eagerly to clean, cut, scoop, pulverize, mix, and bake these pumpkins into low-sugar, gluten-free organic pies they would take one bite of and then reject? Looking at his expression, blissful and somewhat vacant under his Fidel Castro–style hat, I realized he didn’t. Nor did he care. Unless he was willing to exchange these pumpkins for a cute toddler with a really wet diaper, I would need to find some cash.
“Fine. I’ll go to the ATM. But please don’t sell these pumpkins. I’ll be back in five minutes.” I swung Sam back up onto my hip and shuffled off again.
I found a money machine outside a bar on the next block. I slipped in what looked like a debit card and entered my pin number, but it was rejected. I looked at the screen in confusion, then remembered. Of course. My anniversary date was different in this world. I remembered the date engraved on that heavy wedding album—June 19, was it?—and entered 0619 next. But no luck. I then tried my two kids’ birth dates, also a favorite pin, but the machine spit my card back out. And worse—a message told me I had to wait twenty-four hours before I could try again.
I’d have to find where the van Holts did their banking and make a withdrawal from the teller. Surely “Randall at the bank” wouldn’t have a problem with me buying my daughter some pumpkins on Halloween. I pulled out my checkbook to find the institution’s name, only to have Google tell me the nearest location was ten blocks away, on the fourteenth floor of building across from city hall.
I was so tense, I didn’t realize that I was holding Sam’s hand in a death grip. He looked up at me with a pouty lip, whimpering.
“Oh, Mr. Magoo, I’m sorry,” I said, picking him up and hugging him close. “This is ridiculous. The snow leopards are just going to have to get over it.”
And they did. Except for one. Mine.
Finding Gloria and her classmates in the school’s kitchen, each with a ball of dough at the ready, Sam and I attempted to slip in and nonchalantly explain to Miss Regan that we had an epic pumpkin fail but were able to find nine cans of Libby’s easy pumpkin pie mix at the local bodega (which, thankfully, was happy to take a credit card). Miss Regan actually took the news better than I expected, but Gloria was furious. She stomped over to me with balled fists and narrowed eyes.
“Where are the pumpkins?” she said, glaring. “You were supposed to get pumpkins!”
“Gloria, calm down. You’ll just use the canned stuff. It’s fine.”
“What? The Native Americans didn’t have cans!”
Well, they probably didn’t make pies either, I wanted to say. But I bit my tongue. Never in my life had I seen her so irate. Not the time I accidentally threw out her prized shell collection. Or when I told her she couldn’t go with Roberta to the dog track. Not even the time Sam threw up on her beloved Lambie.
This was white-knuckled, teeth-baring, five-year-old fury.
I knelt down and tried to pull her close, whispering, “It’s okay, GloWorm. It will be just as fun. And honestly, a whole lot easier.” But she pulled away from me, her face growing redder, her little arms and legs taut with frustration. By now the class was silent, watching. Even the local pastry chef they had brought in to help was staring, his floured rolling pin poised in midair.
Gloria sucked in a deep breath and shouted “No!” so loud it reverberated around the room. Then she raised her hand and slapped me. Slapped me. So hard it took my breath away. And by the sound of gasps around the room, everyone else’s, too. I think even Sam understood, his mouth opening in a silent “WTF.”
It was one of those moments, like in the seconds just after a car crash, where the world stops turning. Where you are floating, and have time to notice things you wouldn’t normally noti
ce. Like a row of cherry-red mixers on the counter. The expensive bamboo flooring beneath your feet. How long and black your daughter’s lashes are.
It’s where the most painful reality—usually tucked away with old photographs and graduate school catalogues—finally escapes from its hiding place and confronts you head-on. Where you can see your child for what she is: spoiled, uncontrollable, and spiteful. But also a victim. A victim of indulgence, overscheduling, and a terrific case of “everything she wants but nothing she needs.”
And where you recognize yourself, as the mother, as the main perpetrator of that crime.
With that clarity comes a strange exchange of emotion. You do not feel mad, as you would have thought. You do not even feel embarrassed. You feel sadness, to the point of heartbreak. So much so that you no longer feel the soreness in your feet and arms, or the stinging of your cheek.
It’s the thinking about your daughter as Gloria van Holt—and the five and a half years of her life that have passed without you—that really hurts.
CHAPTER NINE
Inside the bathroom of a West Philadelphia electronics store, I could hear the noise of the crowd gathering for the rally. It got louder by the second, much like Sam’s whining as he tried to wrestle himself out of my arms. I wouldn’t let him down, though, the place dirty and cluttered, and his costume overalls suit so pristine and white. I looked for a changing table or any kind of shelf but found only a tall radiator too thin and rickety to hold Sam. I gauged the width of the plastic toilet seat and the back of the toilet but ruled them out as well. I cringed, knowing I had no other choice. The rally was about to start.