“Thanks for that,” I mutter under my breath.
“When are you coming home?”
“I’m not sure yet, bud. Soon. I promise, you won’t even miss me. You guys are going to have so much fun together.”
The buzzer rings, announcing Buck’s arrival. Zadie doesn’t move.
“I think he’s here,” I say.
“Yup. Okay. I should go,” Zadie says, sounding unconvinced. Caleb attaches himself to her leg like a barnacle. She buries her nose in his mop of hair and makes a snuffling sound.
“Zadie.”
After a few seconds Zadie manages to detach herself from Caleb and steer him back in my direction. “I’ll call you boys tonight,” she says, sounding teary.
“Have fun,” I remind her. I pick up her suitcase and usher her out the front door.
She gives me a ferocious hug. “Maybe you and Caleb can come out and visit us this weekend?”
“Maybe. Don’t worry about us. Really. You haven’t had a vacation in forever.”
The elevator doors open.
“Go,” I say, pushing her inside.
“I love you guys.”
“We love you. Stop looking so worried! I’ve got everything totally under control.” Never, I think, as the elevator doors slide closed behind her, has a statement been further from the truth.
• • •
It takes us exactly two hours to get out of the house. I can’t tell you what happened during those two hours; all I can say is that it felt vaguely like a scene out of Apocalypse Now. I can, however, tell you what did not happen. Caleb categorically refused to eat breakfast until I allowed him to watch an episode of The Backyardigans. He screamed like the world was ending when I suggested the possibility that he might have to clothe himself before leaving the house. Have you ever tried to forcibly dress a writhing five-year-old? It’s like trying to stuff an angry squirrel into a sock. Eventually we compromised on his Dora the Explorer pajama pants, a polo shirt, and fuchsia Crocs. I did not eat breakfast, check e-mail, or imbibe a single sip of the pot of coffee that Zadie thoughtfully brewed for me just before she left. I did not manage to call Fred, as I had planned to do every single morning until he gives me my job back, and I did not respond to the three text messages Alison has sent me, updating me on her attempts to contact Marissa. In short, it was a shit show.
• • •
Every time I’m doing something wrong, I run into our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Goodrich. Mrs. Goodrich is a grand old dame. You know just by looking at her that her name can be found in the Social Register. She’s the sort of woman who doesn’t leave the house without perfectly coiffed hair and a purse that matches her shoes. Occasionally, she slips a handwritten note under our door informing us that the noise level from our apartment is, once again, unacceptable or that our Amazon.com boxes are blocking the back entrance to her apartment. Other than that, we have almost no contact, except, of course, when I’m in the middle of doing something untoward. Mrs. Goodrich was there the day I got the stomach flu and vomited all over the elevator floor. She witnessed the only screaming fight Mira and I ever had. The argument was, of course, about my work schedule: Mira wanted to go to a wedding in Big Sur; I was in the middle of a case and couldn’t imagine leaving the office for an evening, much less a full weekend. I was yelling something to that effect when Mrs. Goodrich rounded the corner of Seventy-Third Street and Lexington Avenue. The horrified, condemnatory expression on her face will be forever etched in my memory. Mrs. Goodrich was also present the night I stumbled home drunk from a friend’s bachelor party wearing a feather boa and carrying a light saber. There’s really nothing that sobers me up faster than a steely “Good morning, Mr. Goldwyn” from a woman who’s a dead ringer for Barbara Bush.
So it is inevitable that Mrs. Goodrich is standing in the vestibule, waiting for the elevator, when Caleb and I emerge from our apartment. She is looking especially proper today in a cream-colored suit and hat. As our door clicks closed, she casts a reproachful eye over us, as though we are hobos who have elected to set up camp in her foyer.
“Good morning, Mrs. Goodrich,” I say loudly, hoping Caleb will follow suit.
“Do-do-do-do-do-do-Dora!” Caleb shouts, a rough approximation of the Dora the Explorer theme song.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Goodrich intones.
She takes a quick step back as Caleb makes a swipe for her purse.
“Caleb!” I bark. “Stop it! What are you doing?”
“I want to touch!” Caleb flops back beside me, frustrated.
“That’s not polite, Caleb. So sorry,” I say, with an awkward laugh. “We’re training him to pick pockets. Gotta earn his keep somehow, you know.”
Mrs. Goodrich does not know. She presses the elevator call button several times in rapid succession, keeping a close eye on Caleb the way one would a wild-eyed homeless person on a subway platform.
“And where is your sister this morning?” she asks me primly. “Not sick, I hope. I hear there’s a nasty stomach bug going around.”
“No, no,” I say, smiling as pleasantly as I am able. “Nothing like that. She’s out in the Hamptons. We’re having a superfun Daddy Day today. Right, Caleb?”
“No.” Caleb glares at me, still annoyed about the purse.
“Ha ha, well. We’re trying our best anyway.”
The elevator doors open, sparing Mrs. Goodrich from having to respond.
After some Tetris-like maneuvers with Caleb’s scooter, the three of us manage to squeeze uncomfortably into the elevator. Caleb, I notice, is still eyeing Mrs. Goodrich’s purse. Mrs. Goodrich notices, too, and tries to move as far away from him as possible. The tension between them is palpable.
Just before we reach the lobby, Mrs. Goodrich turns, looks me straight in the eye and says, “You know, Mr. Goldwyn, I have never been a fan of profanity.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmur, wondering if somehow a curse word unknowingly escaped my lips in the last four minutes. Deciding it’s possible, I add, “I’m so sorry.”
She shakes her head, rejecting my apology. “I must tell you, I did not approve of the language you used in that speech of yours.”
I nod, dumbfounded. You know a video has gone viral when Mrs. Goodrich has seen it. I’m frankly surprised to hear she has an Internet connection.
“That being said,” she continues, “you addressed the very important issue of balancing a career with family life. My husband, Frank, God rest his soul, was an investment banker with J.P. Morgan. He spent every waking second in his office. In fact, he died in his office. At the time he died, he was a wealthy man. But both of our sons moved to the West Coast right after college. He never called them. He hardly ever saw them. In fact, I imagine if you were to ask them, they would tell you that their father spent far too much time thinking about money and far too little thinking about them. These early years with children are precious, Mr. Goldwyn. Don’t waste them.”
“Daddy! Door’s open!” Caleb screams.
“Thank you, Caleb,” I say quickly, before turning back to Mrs. Goodrich.
“He’s a special boy,” she says, as we exit the elevator together. “Great spirit. And very, very smart.”
“He is,” I say, thinking about the pinnipeds. My heart swells with pride. “I hope to be more like him when I grow up.”
Mrs. Goodrich nods. “You’re a good father, Mr. Goldwyn. Your heart is in the right place. Enjoy this time with your son.” And with that, Mrs. Goodrich sweeps out of the lobby doors.
Richard, the doorman on duty, offers me a quiet high-five. “Way to go, man,” he says. “Mrs. Goodrich’s a tough crowd.”
“You’re telling me,” I say. I’m smiling as my feet hit the pavement outside. The sky is a cloudless, brilliant blue. Caleb finally seems calm, humming quietly to himself in a way that is adorable instead of irritating. It’s going to be okay, I think. It might even be a good day.
• • •
My good mood dissipates when we arrive at Caleb’s
preschool, where he is enrolled in summer camp for June and July. If our apartment was Apocalypse Now, the drop-off scene is straight out of Lord of the Flies. Kids are everywhere. They push past me with the urgency of morning commuters on the 6 train. Their mothers and nannies, too, are frenetic. There’s not nearly enough space for all of the strollers and scooters, and only the most aggressive manage to weasel their way into the lobby of the building. Instead of pushing, I decide to hang back until the crowds have thinned a bit. I am, I notice, the only father here.
Caleb cranes his neck around and looks at me. “I’m going to be late,” he says, his voice tense. He points to the lobby. “I’m supposed to go in there.”
“I know, buddy,” I say. “But it’s pretty crowded, so let’s just hang out for a sec, okay?”
“You’re not supposed to be late. Then you miss ‘The Welcome Song.’ ”
I wonder how my laid-back hippie of a sister manages to navigate this crowd every morning without going into cardiac arrest. I can’t see her pushing and shoving her way into the lobby like some of these crazy women. Still, I would bet dollars to donuts that, under Zadie’s watch, Caleb has never once missed “The Welcome Song.”
When we finally make it into the building, no one is behind the registration desk. Two nannies stand beside it, chattering away in Spanish. A clique of moms in yoga pants huddle together in the corner of the lobby, their shoulders pressed together in a way that doesn’t exactly invite questions. All the kids have been whisked off, presumably to sing “The Welcome Song,” by caretakers more adept than me. I look around for a friendly face, feeling suddenly like a freshman on the first day of high school.
“Caleb,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Do you know where to go?”
He looks at me blankly, then shakes his head. It’s only his second week of camp, I realize. He probably hasn’t totally gotten the hang of things himself.
“Okay, no worries, buddy. I’ll figure this out.”
The Spanish nannies are leaving, laughing riotously as they go. I take a deep breath and head towards the Mommy Corner.
As if on cue, they all turn and stare at me. A couple of them look suspicious, as though it’s possible I’m a pedophile here to prey on their children. Most, though, offer me sugary smiles. I see them assessing the situation: the pajamaed child, the unshaven father. I can practically hear them whispering to one another, “Oh, how adorable! What a good husband. Peter doesn’t even know the kids are doing a summer camp; there’s no way he’d take the time to drop them off himself.”
“Hi.” I wave awkwardly. Caleb’s grip tightens around my other hand. “Could one of you help me? My son, Caleb, here is in the summer camp and we’re a little late, and I’m not entirely sure where to go.” I smile helplessly at the one who looks the least intimidating.
“Oh, sure,” she says, stepping forward. Of all of the women, she’s the only one who looks like an actual parent. She’s got rings beneath her eyes, and her hair is tied back in a messy, unkempt bun. Like the others, she’s wearing stretch pants and a sporty zip-up, but hers are old and overwashed, better suited for doing the dishes or lounging in front of the television than hitting the gym. The other mothers look like the grown-up version of the girls everyone hated in high school. They are thin, tan, and manicured. They all wear versions of the same thing: expensive-looking athletic wear paired with expensive-looking handbags and jewelry. It’s a strange look, a kind of studied casualness that leaves men like me scratching their heads.
“Is he in Sports Kids, Gym Kids, or Gym Juniors? Or are you guys doing Me and My Special Grown-up?”
“Excuse me? Me and my what what?”
She smiles again, this time with marked condescension. “Are you staying with him for the class? Or does he do the program by himself?” She speaks slower now, as though English is clearly not my first language.
“Oh, no”—I shake my head—“I’m not staying. At least, I didn’t think I was supposed to stay.”
“Okay. So he’s in one of the sports programs.” She bends down and addresses Caleb directly. “Sweetie,” she says, “do you remember what room you are in? The Blue Room, the Red Room, or the Green Room?”
“Pink,” Caleb says defiantly. “My room’s pink.”
She frowns, puzzled. “No, sweetie, not at home. Here. There are only three rooms. Blue, Red, and Green.”
“I SAID PINK!” Caleb shouts, loud enough to stop the other mothers cold in their tracks.
The mom stands up, her smile gone. She gives me a look that I can only interpret to mean: You are raising a serial killer.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “His room at home isn’t even pink.”
The other mothers are getting antsy. Two are checking their iPhones. Another is inspecting herself in a small compact mirror. The last one is stretching her quads. My incompetence is the only thing keeping them from working out, and it’s getting old fast.
“I would just check with the woman at the desk,” the woman says, waving her hand in the direction of Reception. “She’ll be able to tell you more.”
One of the other mothers, a skinny brunette who looks vaguely familiar, steps forward and gives me a quizzical look. “Are you Charlie Goldwyn?”
For a moment I consider lying, but realize that’s probably not the best example to set for Caleb.
“Uh, yep. That’s me.”
Her eyes flood with recognition. She smirks, but only for a second; she’s too well-bred to openly laugh in my face. There’s no denying it, though: she’s seen the video. I can picture her at a dinner party with her fancy friends, everyone loose and chatty from too much wine, discussing the demise of some idiot named Charlie Goldwyn. “Our kids went to preschool together,” I can hear her whispering candidly. “The son is a little odd. He dresses like a girl. Poor boy, being raised without a mother.”
“My husband works at Harrison Brothers,” she says. “Hunt Callahan?”
I remember Hunt, if only vaguely. I can picture his red, piggish face and shiny bald head and irritating penchant for pocket squares. This woman is an Amazon; Hunt is roughly the size of a hobbit. I wonder momentarily what any woman would see in Hunt before I remember that he’s a Managing Director who probably rakes in a couple mil a year. He must look taller when standing on his wallet.
“Yes, Hunt, of course. Send him my regards.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, but she’s already turned away, sliding her sunglasses onto her nose. “Take care.” She has no interest in sending Hunt my regards, I realize. She will mention me only as a funny side note tonight at home. I’m no longer Charlie Goldwyn, Attorney-at-Law. I’m Charlie Goldwyn, the Video Guy.
Caleb, understandably, has begun to cry.
I can’t say I blame him. In fact, I’m pretty close to joining him. “Hey, buddy,” I say, kneeling down. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you to the right class.”
“I want Aunt Zadie,” he whispers.
“I know, buddy,” I say, ruffling his hair. “I know.”
“I don’t want to go to camp today. I want to go home.”
I pause, bite my lip. It’s hard to admit defeat before noon.
“You know what, buddy?” I say, straightening up. “How about we go to the park? It’s a beautiful day. We shouldn’t waste it inside.”
I put my hand on Caleb’s back and usher him towards the door. A few of the moms turn to gawk as we walk past; I do my best to ignore their judgmental stares.
“We can even stop for donut holes on the way there,” I add, loud enough so that the moms can hear us. “The more frosting the better. I’m getting pretty hungry.”
Caleb’s mood brightens substantially. “Fiona likes donut holes. Not the kind with the jelly inside, though. The sugar kind.”
“Great. I’m glad Fiona approves.”
At least someone does, I think, as we head to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts.
• • •
We have the playground mostly to ourselves. Caleb throws himself gleefu
lly into the sandbox, a sad-looking pit of grayish sand, which, I realize a moment too late, is potentially filled with hypodermic needles and dog urine. Two nannies sit on a bench close by, chatting as they sterilize plastic buckets and shovels with antiseptic wipes that they wisely carry in abundance. After reminding Caleb not to eat the sand, I find a quiet spot in the shade. I’m farther away than the nannies, but close enough, I reckon, for me to make a flying tackle if Caleb decides to make a break for it.
I’m drinking my coffee and enjoying the last donut hole when my BlackBerry begins to buzz. A slight shiver runs down my spine when Fred’s number pops up on the screen.
I take a deep breath and answer his call.
“This is Charlie Goldwyn,” I bark, the way I used to when I was in the middle of something important at work.
“Charlie? It’s Fred.”
“Hi, Fred,” I say, trying not to sound desperately excited to have him on the phone.
“I’m sorry I’m just getting back to you now.”
“No problem. I’m sure you’ve been busy.”
“I have, yeah. But I know I owe you a call.”
A call? I think furiously. A call? You owe me a job, you asshole. I worked my tail off for you for ten years. And then I screw up once and you toss me out the door like yesterday’s newspaper? You owe me more than a fucking call.
The nannies are staring at me. I realize that I’m pacing back and forth, a nervous habit. I smile at them in an attempt to assure them that I’m not a lunatic. They return to sterilizing their buckets. I slip off behind an oak tree and lower my voice to a near whisper.
“I stopped by the office on Saturday. I was hoping we might meet in person.”
Fred pauses. “Yeah, we can do that. But things are a little hectic on my end right now, so if you could wait a week or two—”
“I can’t wait a week or two, Fred,” I blurt out, unable to keep my cool any longer. “I need a job.”
“I know, Charlie. I’m sorry,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice disarms me. “Look, I hope you know that I don’t approve of what happened to you at Hardwick. I fought Welles and Steve tooth and nail on that decision, but when it came down to it, we all had a vote and it was two against one. But I’m going to make sure you land on your feet. If you can just be patient and give me a little time to work things out, I promise you, I won’t let you down. You just have to trust me.”
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