The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  “And what do you do?” she asked Michael.

  “I own Kratt’s Knishery downstairs.”

  “What a darling little place! Are you able to make a living on that alone?” she said, batting her eyelashes all innocent-like.

  “Sassy, I don’t think that’s any of—” I started.

  “The Knishery and a few other investments. Stocks, bonds, real estate,” Michael interrupted.

  “Oh, I’m impressed. Who would imagine that a small business owner in this neighborhood would be such an astute investor?”

  Come on, Sass, would you play nice? I thought.

  “Michael is a man of many surprises, Sassy,” I said. “So, Philip, how’s your new book coming?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Oh, are you a writer?” Sassy said, perking up as soon as she realized that there might be someone closer to her caliber at the table.

  “He won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction,” Archie bragged.

  “Really,” Sassy said, deeply impressed.

  “No, no, it was the National Book Award,” Philip explained. “Archie, could you pass the mustard?”

  “I haven’t heard of that one,” Sassy said. “Is it a big deal?”

  “Huge,” I said.

  “And, they’re making it into a movie starring Nicole Kidman and Denzel Washington,” Archie added.

  Even I didn’t know that. Barely broken up and we’ve already lost touch. Tragic.

  “Did you get to meet Denzel and Nicole?” Sassy asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Aaaaaannnnd?” she pressed.

  “They were cool,” Philip said quietly, as he slathered mustard all over his hot-dog bun.

  “Well, what’s your new book about, Philip?” Sassy asked.

  Before he spoke, Philip took a bite of his hot dog and then washed it down with beer. “It’s about an unusual woman during the forties named Ariana Nabokov von Geltenburg Chopra Gross,” he started.

  “She was a spy during World War Two, and both Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler’s lover,” I added enthusiastically.

  “Yes. I just worked on a scene today where Eva Braun walks in on Adolf and Ariana making love in the Führer’s suite at the Berlin Ritz. You should have seen the fur fly,” he laughed.

  “Sounds like a fun read,” I said. God, I missed Philip. I wondered if he still thought of me when he wrote about Ariana. I noticed that everyone had finished eating, so I gathered up the leftovers and threw away the dirty paper plates and plasticware.

  Michael brought out a succulent cinnamon-peach pie. He had baked the top crust in the shape of a peace sign, and he whispered to me that he was calling a truce between us. I gave him a hug and thanked him for giving me another chance.

  “I have news,” Sassy trilled. “I’m starting a home design business.” She looked at us expectantly. What? Are we supposed to applaud?

  “That’s wonderful, Sassy. I’m sure you’ll be very successful,” I finally said.

  “My apartment’s for sale, and everyone who sees it remarks on how beautifully decorated it is, so I decided to hang out my shingle,” she said.

  The other guests congratulated her.

  “Are you getting any action on the apartment?” I asked.

  “There’ve been lots of lookers. But I’m hoping my case’ll be resolved so I can take it off the market.”

  “Are you suing Myoki over the accident?”

  “Yes, but that’ll take years. I plan to come to a quicker settlement with United over Drayton’s ashes.”

  “What happened to his ashes?” I asked.

  “I flew to Maui to spread them on the beach and United lost the suitcase I packed them in.”

  “You packed your husband’s ashes?” Michael asked.

  “Well, I couldn’t very well carry them on board with all the security these days. Anyway, they traced them to Guam and then they disappeared. They’re still looking. If they don’t find them soon, United’ll have to compensate me for my emotional distress.”

  “You must feel terrible about it,” Philip said.

  “Not really,” Sassy said, chewing a mouthful of pie, “but don’t tell United. I was just gonna scatter them in the wind. They’re worth a lot more to me lost than found.”

  “Speaking of ashes,” Michael interrupted, “Antonio Banderas ate in our restaurant last week.”

  “What does that have to do with ashes?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I just don’t like to talk about death,” Michael answered.

  “I love Antonio,” Sassy said. “Who was he with?”

  “Melanie Griffith.”

  “What did he order?” Sassy asked, apparently fascinated with all things celebrity. Until then, I hadn’t realized just how truly shallow she was.

  “He had knockwurst on rye, matzo ball soup, and rugelach for dessert.”

  “Did Melanie eat dessert?” Sassy pressed.

  “Yeah, she did. I’m surprised. She was looking a little zaftig,” Michael answered.

  “What does that mean? Sassy asked.

  “Chubby,” Michael said.

  “Thanks. I don’t speak Hebrew. You know, I read in the Observer that Antonio and Melanie just bought an apartment on Fifth. If they come in again, here’s my card, Michael. Would you give it to Melanie? Maybe tell her about me?” Like Melanie Griffith would hire Sassy Bird, amateur decorator, complete stranger, to do her magnificent new apartment. Right.

  “If they come in again, I promise to give it to her,” Michael said. You had to hand it to Michael. He’s a mensch.

  When the barbecue was over, I declared the evening a success and felt smug about being so kind to Sassy, even though I’d been intermittently snide in my mind. Maybe in time we’d become friends and I’d be less judgmental.

  As Sassy and her children were leaving, she gave me a heartfelt hug.

  “Thank you for having me,” she said. “This was the first time I’ve felt happy since . . . you know . . .”

  I took her hand in mine and squeezed it meaningfully. “I know,” I replied. “I’m glad you had fun, and we’ll do it again very soon.”

  “And thanks for introducing me to Philip. He’s so sexy. I invited him to dinner next Friday and he’s coming,” she said, sounding kind of breathless.

  WHAT! Why you despicable decorator-slut. You destroyed my marriage. You stole my apartment. You ruined my daughter’s party. Now you want the love of my life, too?

  I looked up at Heaven, closed my eyes, and prayed for a moment. Drayton, I’m sorry, but I can’t help your wife anymore. You have to release me from my obligation because I can’t do it, buddy. I can’t. I won’t. I’m sorry. You’re on your own, pal.

  “Don’t you think he’s a little young for you, Sassy?” I asked.

  “Heavens, no. I’m at my sexual peak. He’s at his. It’s perfect.”

  I swallowed. “I’m pretty sure he’s gay.”

  “Well, we’ll just find out next weekend, won’t we?” she giggled.

  “Yeah, I guess we will,” I giggled back. “You be sure to let me know.”

  I closed the door behind her, sat down, and wept.

  PART 4

  In Search of Class

  1. A Cautionary Tale

  Stu was on the phone and he was seething. This was not unusual.

  “Veronica’s ERB scores came today,” he began.

  “Is there a problem? Didn’t she do well?”

  “Her numbers were fine,” he said. “She scored ninety-eight percent and above on all the sections.”

  “That’s wonderful, Stu. Congratulations,” I said. So why are we so grumpy today?

  “The writeup on the second page could present a bit of a problem,” he chided.

  “What did it say?”

  “Let me just read you what the tester wrote under ‘Contributing Factors.’ ” Stu began: “Her ease with test was evident from the outset. She displayed an almost psychic comprehension of directions, correctly beginning each task befo
re she was even told what to do. Throughout the session, Veronica made comments such as ‘I’ve done this before.’ ‘My tutor showed me how to play that game.’ ‘You skipped a question.’ ‘I’m not sure. Can I call Ivy?’ Veronica is either a gifted clairvoyant or was coached for this test. Her scores are not reflective of her genuine capabilities.”

  Listening to him read, I felt sick. I knew it had been a bad idea to teach Veronica the answers, but no, Stu had to do it. I didn’t want to say “I told you so,” but I TOLD HIM SO. The fact that the tester openly accused the family of cheating was devastating. Usually, psychologists resort to disguised language understood only by admissions directors. For example, “Susie gave up easily when confronted with difficult tasks,” really meant “Susie is a loser who will never amount to anything.” “A delightful child” not paired with other gushing superlatives really meant “There’s nothing special about this kid.” ERB reports were filled with cryptic hints, allusions, and hidden messages decipherable only by admissions directors privy to the code. In Veronica’s case, they hadn’t even made a pretense of disguising their opinion. Not good.

  “Ivy, this is unacceptable,” Stu said.

  “Stu, you knew it was a risk to teach her the answers to the test.”

  “I never should have let you talk me into that. It was cheating and I was always uncomfortable with that,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m furious with you for insisting on teaching her the test. You’ve probably ruined her chances at every school. Now we’ll have to move to Scarsdale,” he hissed.

  “Stu, it was you who insisted I teach her the answers, remember? I told you I was doing it under protest.”

  “No,” he argued. “I told you I was letting you do it under protest. So far, your service has been pathetic, Ivy. I’d have been better off on my own.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Stu. I know you’re disappointed about the test. But I do think I provided real insight when you put your list of schools together. And I know you’ll agree that my work on your essays made a difference,” I reminded him.

  “What are you talking about? I wrote my own essays.”

  “Stu, I spent hours editing your first draft.” Kind of true. It was really a famous author who put in hours of his time rewriting your so-called essays, but still.

  “Ivy, your revisions were a disgrace. I threw them out and used what I wrote myself.”

  Does this man have a death wish? I wondered, remembering his inarticulate, mistake-filled essays.

  Stu laughed bitterly. “I should fire you right now, Ivy. But I won’t. You’d better deliver what you promised. If you don’t, I will hunt you down and make your life a living hell. I don’t care if you are Steven Lord’s friend, this is my daughter we’re talking about. If you ruin her life, I’ll ruin yours.” And with that, he slammed down the phone.

  2. Black Like Me

  Winnie Weiner’s interviews were coming up. Since Wendy had burned her bridges with thirty-five schools last year, we had to keep her in the closet and find someone to pretend to be Winnie’s father. I considered asking Cadmon, who had been quite the charmer when we interviewed for Skyler and Kate. Then I thought, naaaah. He hadn’t been calling lately, so why go there?

  During our barbecue, it had occurred to me that Archie might be game. He was a performance artist. This would be a good opportunity for him to work with his clothes on.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked him after explaining the job.

  “This is what you do for a living?”

  “Not usually. But Wendy screwed herself last year and she can’t show her face again,” I explained. “We’re desperate.”

  “And this little girl is black?” Archie asked.

  “No, she’s white.” Whoa! That gave me an idea. Her chances would improve if she were a minority candidate, I mused. We could take her over to Golden Glow and put her in the spray-tanning booth. “On second thought, we may be able to present her as African American.”

  “Oh, really? How would you do that?”

  “Don’t worry about the details. Leave them to me.”

  “What happens when she starts going to school next year? How long do I have to play her father?”

  “Good question. Maybe you can show up with her alone in the beginning. Then you can start bringing Wendy with you, as your new girlfriend. We’ll ease you out of the picture slowly. How does that sound?”

  “Okay,” Archie said. “Why not? This should be interesting. Will you give me a script?”

  “How good are you at improvisation?”

  “There are those who say I’m gifted. But you’ll need to help me understand my background and motivation.”

  “You got it. And I’ll brief you on each school and what you can expect them to ask. I promise there won’t be any surprises. Oh, and Archie, one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t say anything about being the Naked Carpenter. That won’t sell at Balmoral.”

  “Of course. I know that. When can I meet my daughter?”

  “Stop by later. Her mom’s bringing her over so we can change her appearance. We don’t want anyone recognizing her from last year.”

  That afternoon, Wendy and I cut Winnie’s long hair and dyed it Clairol Deep Chocolate #43.

  “What do you think, Winnie?” I asked her.

  “I like it. I look different.”

  “You look pretty. Did your mommy explain to you why we’re making you look different? How it will help you get into a wonderful new school?”

  “Yes. It’s for my own good. And I have to keep it a secret.”

  “Are you good at keeping secrets?”

  “Yes. Like the secret about Mommy having her face-lifting operation. I didn’t tell aaaanybody.”

  “Good girl,” I said. Shit. We’re dead.

  Later, Wendy and I took Winnie for a double-dark misting at Golden Glow and bought her an African-inspired outfit to wear on her interviews. She would easily pass for Archie’s daughter. I was particularly thrilled by the prospect of presenting her as a diversity candidate. That would quadruple her chances!

  You may find this hard to believe given my track record, but I was worried about how this charade might affect Winnie. Were we permanently warping her psyche? How much therapy would she someday need in order to get over this? But what choice did we have? No private school would take her if they knew whose daughter she was. I was deeply conflicted about our little scheme, but I decided to go ahead with it. I couldn’t think of an honest way to ensure that Winnie got the education she deserved.

  “I have two questions,” Wendy asked in that squeaky dolphin voice of hers.

  “What do you need to know?” I said.

  “When she gets in somewhere, how long do I have to keep her black like this?”

  “Well, I’d say you start the year as dark as she is now. Then each month, lighten her hair and skin just a shade. By the end of the term, she can be herself again and I doubt if anyone will notice the change. It’ll be a gradual transition,” I explained.

  “And what should I tell her school now? About why she looks so different?”

  “Tell them that she has a part in an Off-Broadway show,” I suggested. “They’ll buy that.”

  And that’s how Winnie Weiner, nice Jewish girl from the Upper West Side, adored student of Rodeph Shalom Sunday School, became WaShaunté Washington.

  3. Mad About George

  According to Sassy, she and Philip were an item. I couldn’t believe it. How could he not see that she was a phony and a liar?

  I’d never told Philip about the part Sassy had played in the breakup of my marriage or how her husband had so deftly screwed me out of my job. If I mentioned it now, it would look like a smear campaign.

  Sassy had taken to calling me every time she and Philip went out. I was her new best friend. When she told me that she was his inspiration for the main character of his new novel, I almost puked. Was that j
ust a pickup line he used?

  I missed Philip. Then again, maybe I just missed having a man. Luckily, the date with George Clooney that Faith had bought me at auction was coming up. He lived in Los Angeles and couldn’t schedule it until he was going to be in New York. The timing couldn’t have been better. I craved the attention of a hunky guy. It didn’t matter if he was an auction prize. I could pretend.

  In preparation for my date, I was given full access to Faith’s closet with Avi Portal on hair, Raquel Morley on makeup, and Christophe directing. It was obvious that Christophe didn’t relish the assignment. While my hair was being ironed, he paced back and forth talking to himself. “Purple Alberta Ferretti. No. Too froufrou. Blue Missoni with tummy cut-out. No. Impossible with that tummy. Gold Roberto Cavalli blingbling wear. No, too predictable. Karl Lagerfeld turquoise tulle. No. Too prom queen. I have it! Dolce and Gabbana leather miniskirt. Miu Miu see-through black tee. That’s so crazy it just might work. It just might work.”

  In the end, it did work. “What kind of footwear does this ensemble call for?” Christophe asked.

  “Manolos?” I ventured.

  Christophe looked like he’d just witnessed his dog being run over.

  “No?” I said.

  “My dear, dear Ivy. You are about to go out with the sexiest man on the planet. Do you know what I would give to be in your shoes? I would give anything. AN-NEEEE-THING! Your job is to bring this man to his knees until he begs for mercy, slay him, end his misery, and then send him to his glory. That calls for . . . WHAT?”

  “Jimmy Choos?”

  “YES! You will wear red lace-up Jimmy Choo fuck-me boots. Nothing else will do.”

  “Red?”

  “If you learn nothing from me, learn this,” he said dramatically. “When in doubt, always wear red.”

  Avi gave me a feng shui haircut and blow-dry, which was something he’d just learned from a California Zen stylist at the International Hair and Makeup show. The look was balanced, sexy, and infused with positive Ch’i. He placed a Bagua Map over my head, then added extra-bright highlights in the love and marriage area. My past experience with feng shui hadn’t been so good, but I figured why not try again? Frankly, I’d have my hair’s astrology chart done if there was a chance it would make George Clooney love me.