by Lois Cahall
Unlike Kitty, I’m not looking for a new man to make me a star. I’m looking for a new me. I stand up and gaze out the window. “I’m moving on. I’m going to Paris,” I say, and then twirling back around. “Who was it who said ‘I love a society where it’s an acceptable occupation to sit in a café and drink all day?’”
“I don’t know, but if he’s buying, I’m in,” says Kitty.
I sit down and rock back on the Aeron office chair, a contented smile coming over my face, looking to my left and right at the girls. I love my friends - Bebe the peacemaker and Kitty the hell-raiser – two completely different women who get me from completely different angles.
“Well, I won’t be drinking anytime soon,” says Bebe, lowering her head. “If Tamara smells any alcohol on my breath she freaks out and pushes the glass away from me.”
“I bet it has to do with her birth mother,” I say.
“Was her mother an alcoholic?” asks Kitty.
“No, I think some man in her life may have been. Maybe the mother’s boyfriend,” says Bebe.
“What about Bernie?” asks Kitty. “He’s a lush.”
“Funny you say that,” says Bebe. “Last week I went to pour a glass of cranberry juice from the plastic container on the fridge door and it smelled weird. It tasted even weirder. Bernie had spiked it with vodka!”
“The entire container?” asks Kitty.
“Yes!” says Bebe. “Explains why Tamara was acting so loopy all day long. She was drunk!”
“Oh my God, that’s child abuse!” says Kitty.
“Yes,” says Bebe. “And she keeps saying ‘Daddy don’t touch Mommy’ even when he’s being affectionate toward me.”
“Her crack whore mother definitely had a bad-news boyfriend somewhere along the line,” says Kitty. “But wait, aren’t you dumping Bernie?”
“Yes. As soon as possible. I just have to, for everybody’s sake,” says Bebe. “And then I can focus on my new daughter, who by the way has picked up a new habit. She thinks that we have to do everything on TV because the TV voice said, ‘Call this number on your screen now.’”
“It’s just the language barrier and the cultural difference,” I say.
“It’s just horrible,” says Bebe. “Sometimes I have to wait for her translator to just fill in what I can’t figure out.”
“How often does the translator come to help?” I ask.
“Three days a week,” says Bebe. “I have a list of things to ask her. I find myself counting the moments until she arrives.”
“Honey, fire the translator. All kids translate into nightmares!” says Kitty. “What else do you need to know.”
“Kitty! I say. “I mean Kat!”
“Whenever I reprimand Tamara she says, ‘I don’t think mommy likes me very much.’ But I have to keep setting boundaries,” says Bebe. “Submission and acceptance.”
“Sounds like last night with Helmut!” says Kitty with a sly smile. “I think? I just remember he was intense and irrational. Like his art.”
In a way I’m glad she can’t remember the sex with Helmut, because I can’t help but think of Clive. And he certainly doesn’t deserve this. Kitty’s making what could amount to the biggest mistake of her life, but then why aren’t I telling her? It’s like I’m escorting my friend into the lion’s den and then letting go of her hand.
Maybe that’s because I know there’s no convincing Kitty. She’ll have to live and learn, and I’ll have to be there to hear about it later. And then I’ll just have to bite my tongue and hold back from saying ‘I told you so’ because I’ll know that I didn’t.
“Helmut is just one of those friendly – um, what do you call them?” says Kitty.
“Friends with benefits?” says Bebe.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Well if he’s a friend with benefits he’d best come with a dental plan.”
Bebe clears her throat. “Do you two mind? We’re not talking about Kitty and Helmut’s sexcapades,” she says. “This is serious. Raising a child is hard. Nobody warned me. I don’t know what I’m going to do during all these parental crises with the two of you gallivanting off to Paris…”
“C’mon, you’ll be fine,” I say. “I raised two teenagers with no help at all.”
“Yeah, well you knew what to do. No wonder my daughter adores you. You’re all she asks for.”
“Just go with your instincts, Bebe,” I say. “Your maternal side will kick in. And besides, remember, life is better when it’s tough, right?”
The two of them look at me like I’ve got a third head.
“I mean, c’mon. Remember in The Third Man? Orson Wells says, ‘In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo…”
“Yes! The Renaissance…” says Kitty.
“Leonardo diCaprio!” says Bebe.
“You mean Leonardo deVinci,” Kitty corrects her.
“And in Switzerland,” I say, “They had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce?”
“The cuckoo clock,” says Kitty.
“Oh, I love Switzerland,” says Bebe. “The skiing!” She sinks back in her chair. “I have a lot to consider these days. Like who will care for Tamara if anything happens to me.”
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” snaps Kitty. “But just say that it does, I’m not going to be stuck with some kid.”
“Make a will if it makes you feel better,” I say. “It’s important to a parent to know things are in order.”
“Okay, you’re right, Libby,” says Bebe, lighting up.
“You’re doing fine, Bebe, really,” I say. “You’ve come so far…”
“And I’m expanding my horizons,” says Bebe. “Did I tell you that I joined a book club?” she says. “I’m reading a book a week.”
“Do they have pictures?” says Kitty.
“Look at that,” I say, nudging Kitty. “You’re doing new things and you’ll be a great mom while we’re gone.” The doorbell rings. “Perfect timing. And, besides, do you think I’d leave you without a solution?” I say, jumping from the chair.
“Is that her?” says Kitty, rising toward the door buzzer.
“Her who?” asks Bebe.
“Right on time,” I say.
“Her who?” asks Bebe.
“And Bebe, you’re going to love her!”
And then she’s there at the top of the staircase. “Yvette!” I say, giving her a double cheek kiss and helping her to remove her coat and scarf. She gives Kitty a hearty hand shake and then she’s in front of Bebe.
“You’re Yvette, from the shelter?” says Bebe. “Libby has told me so much about you.”
“Yes, and you must be Bebe,” says Yvette.
“Yvette usually deals with American women,” I say, “but I figured that the language of prostitute mother is universal.”
Yvette takes both of Bebe’s hands in hers. “Libby tells me you’re having a rough time with little Tamara ….”
This may be my good deed for the day, but a slipcover on Grandma’s sofa can’t wash away the stains, and in this case, that’s Tamara’s memory of her life before her new mommy, Bebe. And there’s something else. Tamara’s distant past may be have been full of poverty and abuse. The strap marks on her left butt cheek are the evidence. I had silently observed them when I was undressing her one evening for her bath.
But her recent past had been all about straight-A report cards and success. Tamara had been the beautiful blonde star of the orphanage. Now everything she’d face would be a struggle – a new language, new social skills, the culture shock of America children with their American habits, and the list goes on.
It’s a long road to connecting mother and daughter, America and Kazakhstan, but in the end, I knew Bebe would be a much better human being for trying to save a child’s life. This was, after all, a very big deal - even bigger than that famous Neiman Marcus fantasy gift catalogue at Christmas: the one
where you can buy then the “his” and “hers” Super G18 Beechcraft planes or twin submarines.
“Ouch,” says Kitty, banging her thumb with the hammer intended for the nail in the wooden art crate. “Why am I scrambling to put together all this work for all these glorified conventioneers? Goddamn it! I should be skiing, in Gstaad, with a gorgeous rich, unencumbered husband. Do you know I spent my morning schlepping to fucking Maspeth – that’s right, Maspeth – the outermost reaches of beautiful Queen! To pedal art like some beaten-down Bible Salesman. This is crazy!”
“That’s it!” says Bebe, “I’ll go to Gstaad. Just Tamara and me on a ski trip.”
“See?” says Kitty. “Do you even know where Gstaad is?”
“It’s in the mountains,” says Bebe.
“Forget it,” says Kitty. “Let’s go, you and me, Libby. While these two try to save little Orphan Annie, can we save an olive from a martini? We can talk about what it’s like to be in the snowy Swiss Alps, where muscled blonde love gods look into our eyes and tell us they want to make…”
“Cuckoo clocks,” I say. “I can’t go anywhere tonight. I have to save a child, too. You know it’s my reading night for the children’s literacy group. And Yvette’s here, so they’re already one body short.”
“Honey,” says Kitty. “Let’s at least have a glass of wine first. It’s not like you’re going to be reading ‘War and Peace’ to five-year-olds.”
“Dr. Seuss,” I say.
“Exactly, Green Eggs and Ham, Sam I am – it makes you sound plastered already. The kids will never know the difference.”
“Kitty c’mon.”
“Don’t give me that look,” says Kitty. “I’m not going with you. Are you crazy? There’ll be kids there! You know I don’t do kids.”
*
The cramped room of tiny bookshelves, desks, chairs and little cubbies bears a lingering odor that’s just screaming for an open window. After several attempts at identifying the smell I come up with a subtle combination of musty socks and stale peanut butter sandwiches. Kitty smells it differently. “Dirty diaper pails.”
A group of small children desperately in need of a bubble bath and a double-rinse shampoo stare at Kitty and me. A few other volunteers have just entered the room. Kitty hangs back from the rest of the group by hovering at the bookshelves. We’ve been assigned two little girls – Daisy and Freida – who stare at us with eager faces.
“Did you bring your Purell?” whispers Kitty to me, all the while staring down the little girls as though they might bite.
I ignore her.
“You’re going to get the flu from them,” says Kitty. “We need hand sanitizer and we need it now.”
I still ignore her.
“Look how they wipe their noses on their sleeves,” says Kitty. “You’ll be sick for Paris.”
“Pay attention,” I whisper.
Kitty tunes into the group leader, an overzealous woman whose looks could double as the singer Lauren Hill. She’s named “Orange Blossom” whose day job is a one-man-show poet on a Times Square corner right next to the Naked Cowboy. Orange Blossom explains that we’ll be breaking into small groups, before escorting Kitty and I to four tiny desks near the coat cubby. Kitty cautiously lowers herself down on a red plastic seat sizable for a five year old, but not for our fat asses.
Our first assignment is to take questions from the children in hopes that they’ll learn from our answers about life, values, careers and even fears. My assigned child, Daisy, kicks the metal rungs on the bottom of her chair, her head cocked to the side in deep thought. Then her eyes light up and she becomes all smiles. “I’m a leap-year baby,” announces Daisy. “My birthday is on February 29th so I’m really only three.”
“Oh, that’s so cool,” I say.
Kitty says nothing. She’d be enthused if the leap-year baby were offering a free round of dirty martinis served by an even dirtier shirtless waiters.
“Ummmmm, let’s see…” says Daisy. “What’s your favorite place in the whole world?”
“Paris!” say Kitty.
I smile and nod at Kitty as though to say, “See that wasn’t so bad.”
“What are you most afraid of?” asks little Freida.
“Rats!” I say. “And sometimes snakes.” I make a slithering sound toward little Daisy and Freida’s faces, sending them into a flutter of contagious giggles.
Now they look at Kitty. “What are you afraid of?”
Kitty ponders. “Loneliness. The depths of misery. Running out of Prozac.”
Daisy and Freida share a look before shrugging their shoulders.
“Ummm…..” says Daisy thinking, “Um, um, um - what’s your favorite color?”
“Green” I say, “Like the planet earth.”
Daisy looks toward Kitty who doesn’t answer.
“I’m thinking,” says Kitty scrolling her Blackberry. “I guess my favorite color is chartreuse. Maybe taupe. Occasionally persimmon….”
The two little girls knit their eyebrows.
“What’s your favorite movie?” says Daisy, seemingly proud of her particular question.
“Um, let me see,” I say. “Oh, I know! ‘Slumdog Millionaire!’” I light up at the memory of pretty Latika on that train platform draped in yellow.
“Spell it,” says Daisy matching my enthusiasm, “I want to write it down in my diary.”
“Okay,” I begin slowly. Very slowly. “S. L. U. M. D. O….”
“Do you know how long it takes to spell the words slumdog millionaire?” snaps Kitty. “Who the fuck finds a millionaire in a slum anyway? The writer was delusional!”
“Kitty! Your language,” I say. “And he did win an Oscar.”
“Sorry kid,” she says to Daisy. “I get testy when it’s past happy hour. Forget that movie. Just put this movie down instead… ‘Milk.’ M.I.L.K. Easy. Simple. Four letters.”
“But I hated “Milk,” I say. “It was so overrated.”
“I hate milk, too,” says Daisy.
“That’s why we need martinis!” Kitty indicates her watch. It’s going on 7:45 p.m.
“Okay, last question before we start our reading segment. Now it’s our turn to ask you…” I look at my little Daisy, who straightens up in her seat, happy to participate. Freida leans over, fascinated to watch Kitty text message on her Blackberry.
“Okay, sweetheart,” I say to her, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Um…” Daisy thinks about it. “I really love animals. So when I grow up, I want to be a veterinarian, which means I have to be a vegetarian because I can’t eat the things that I take care of.”
“Wow, great answer, Daisy!” I say. ‘And do you have pets?”
“I have three chinchillas.”
“Really?” says Kitty, suddenly interested, “Two more and we could make a coat to wear in Paris!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
An airport security man sticks his latex-covered hand into Kitty’s Gucci bag. He pulls out a bottle of Advil, a hairbrush, eyeliner, a tampon and a blusher compact. But that’s not good enough. Now he reaches deeper inside the satin pocket lining and removes a two-inch vial. He holds it up to the light.
“Breast milk?” asks the security guard, peering at the creamy white liquid.
“No, it’s not breast milk,” says Kitty. “Are you crazy? That would require kids. I don’t have kids. I barely have breasts! Although give me a couple of months. Implants are in January.”
The security guard hands the vial to another man for further inspection. The look on his face tells us he thinks it could be something perverted.
“Oh, for godsake,” says Kitty, her voice escalating to a level that might easily carry from JFK all the way to Charles de Gaulle airport “It’s for my client’s art installation. He’s planning to splatter the liquid on a canvas.”
Another guard arrives and snaps the vial from the first guard. He twists off the top, smells it, and steps back with a knowing look on his face.<
br />
“It is bull sperm,” he says with a heavy Spanish accent. We all stare at him in disbelief.
‘Where the hell would Helmut get bull sperm?” asks Kitty.
“I know bull sperm when I see it, when I smell it, when I taste it,” insists the guard with the heavy Spanish accent, dipping his pinky finger in the vial and bringing it delicately to his tongue. “My father was a matador.”
“Oh, my God,” says Kitty. “Helmut kept insisting that I drive him to that farm in Amish Pennsylvania to look at Black Angus balls!”
“It’s bull sperm,” he says again.
“Give it back or I’ll be bullshit!”
“I pretend not to know her, inching my way backwards a few feet behind the other people in line. “Ellis fucking Island would have been easier than clearing security these days,” says Kitty.
For my own selfish reasons, all I can think of is whether I’ll be able to board the plane before she gets arrested. Finally Kitty snatches the vial back. “Libby, Helmut is such a genius,” she says. “Bull sperm on canvas.” And with that she drops it in her purse and moves forward through the terminal.
*
Now it’s my turn to make it through the Sing Sing gates as Kitty watches from the “cleared” side. Wallets out, cell phones out, keys tossed, shoes off, belts off. “Christ!” says Kitty snapping her boarding pass in her palm. “This makes a Baghdad checkpoint seem like a Broadway musical,” I continue to pretend I’m not with her.
I stage-whisper to the man behind me, “This certainly puts a damper touch on my thrill of going to Paris.”
“Pretty soon they’ll make us walk through naked,” he says. “What’s left to remove?”
Some security woman with a bored, bitchy look on her face is rummaging through my purse. She pulls out my Evian Spray. She holds it up, snapping the gum in her mouth.
“But it’s a Brumisateur water bottle, I explain. “See, right there. Read it.”
She points to a sign that clearly indicates I’ve exceeded the ounce limit and whips my Evian spray into a trash barrel full of plastic drinking bottles. Then she snatches my Three Musketeers bar. It’s just over the four-ounce limit. “Please don’t,” I beg. “I’m PMSing.” She doesn’t toss it. But she doesn’t give it back either. Instead, she keeps her eyes locked on mine as she slides it carefully over to another conveyor belt. I know what she’ll be eating on her lunch break. Bitch!