by Karen Quinn
In the end, I looked pretty darn hot; at least that’s what everyone in Faith’s closet said. I know, I could practically have given birth to the girls George usually takes out. Still, I wanted him to think I was pretty.
By 7:00 P.M. on Friday, I was made-up and coiffed, wearing my drop-dead designer outfit and Faith’s Christian Tse Chandelier Choker, awaiting the arrival of George’s stretch. Every five minutes, I was in the bathroom with stomach cramps.
At 7:36 P.M., an obnoxious motor sound filled the room. Oh great. The Hell’s Angels must be having another rally outside the house. The girls and I peeked out the window, and lo and behold, there was George Clooney getting off a beautiful red-and-chrome Harley-Davidson right in front of our building. He took his helmet off and looked around, trying to figure out where I lived. Within five seconds, my entire block of neighbors had congregated around him. It was as if a truck had driven up and down the street, megaphone blaring, announcing his arrival. Even Philip walked outside to see what the commotion was about.
The whole scene would have been thrilling if not for the crisis. Three independent events had converged to create the perfect fashion emergency: (1) George Clooney was approaching my door; (2) Our transportation would be a motorcycle; and (3) I was wearing a miniskirt and white underwear. If I rode the bike, my panties would show. Even worse, I’d have helmet hair for the entire evening. Damn. I ran into my bedroom and quickly put on an ancient black lycra girdle so no one would see a big white spot between my legs as we rode. I grabbed one of Kate’s scrunchies to pull my hair back, panicked that all my primping would be for naught. This would have to do. Disaster averted.
The doorbell rang, and Kate ran to the door to answer it. I hung back, not wanting George to think I was anxious or anything.
“Are you Ivy, my date?” he asked Kate.
“No,” she giggled, “that’s my mommy.” He smiled that gorgeous George grinned smile and Kate melted. “Would you be my new daddy?” she asked.
George grinned and ruffled her hair. “Aren’t you the cute one.”
“No, really, would you?” she insisted.
I walked into the room, mortified. Oh, fuck it. He’s got to be used to girls throwing themselves at him by now.
“Hello,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m George Clooney.” Like I didn’t know that with every fiber of my being.
“Hi,” I answered. “I’m Ivy Ames, the lucky girl who won you at auction.” Act normal. Act normal. Act normal.
He smiled again. Oh, I can’t stand it! What a hunka hunka man. I wanted to jump up and down and scream like a teenager at a sixties Beatles concert, but I restrained myself. He offered me his arm ever so gallantly and said, “Shall we?”
I had purchased a disposable camera to record this moment, but it seemed like such a dorky thing to do that I left it sitting on the table. There would be no tangible evidence of our evening together. I’d have to commit every second to my fallible memory.
“Wait,” I said, changing my mind. “Can I get a picture? It’s not every day that we meet someone like you.” Hot diggity, this could be the centerpiece of my annual holiday letter!
“Of course,” he said.
We shot the whole roll. George alone. George alone with each of us. George with all three of us. George with the two girls. George alone with me and Sir Elton. George with Sir Elton. George with the family and Sir Elton. George with June, a college girl who was babysitting. He was a sport.
After we said goodbye to the girls, we walked outside. There must have been fifty neighbors, including Philip, standing there. That alone was worth the $35,000 that Faith had spent on this.
The crowd applauded. I was deeply embarrassed but pretended not to care.
We got on the motorcycle and he gave me a helmet. Goodbye hairdo. “Make sure you put your arms around my chest and hold on real tight,” he said. Like I need you to tell me that? As I hugged his chest and plastered my body against his back, I fantasized that we were in bed together, spooning. On a scale of one to ten, how pathetic does that make me? Don’t answer that.
We drove to Rao’s uptown, on 114th Street. A model intercepted us at the door and acted like she and George were old friends, air-kissing him on both cheeks. Hel-loow? My name is Ivy. Get your paws off my date or I’ll take you down. George politely extricated himself from her clutches and introduced me.
“Oh, hi,” the floozy said. “I thought you might be his aunt or something.”
“No, I’m his girl,” I said sweetly, moving to position myself between him and the tart. It didn’t matter. George went off to schmooze the owner, who was standing at the bar. Turning my back on the trollop, I silently wished her a loveless marriage to a short, bald, fat guy who would bring her nothing but misery. I joined George, who introduced me to the owner, who was called Frankie No on account of all the people he’s turned away, including Madonna. The bartender, Nicky the Vest, offered me a drink. Frankie walked us to our table.
Dinner was spectacular. Frankie No serenaded the diners with an old Sinatra tune. Then a guest sang Puccini. We were treated the way Rao’s treats everyone—like royalty. George turned out to be a real card. At one point, he had me laughing so hard I blew wine out my nose.
After dinner, we choppered down to Balthazar for a drink.
The place was packed, but they kicked out a table of mere mortals and gave us their seats. People he knew from the entertainment biz dropped by the table. Fans stopped over to tell him how much they enjoyed his work. Women brazenly gave him their phone numbers right in front of me. I tried to be gracious, but I wasn’t having fun.
He must have sensed that because he suggested we leave after one drink. “Where can we go that’s quieter?” he asked.
“My house,” I offered.
When we arrived home, I excused myself to go to the bathroom and take off my girdle, just in case. We each got a beer out of the fridge and went outside to sit at the picnic table. It was a cool evening, so he put his arm around my shoulder to keep me warm. “Oh, do that to me one mooh time, I can ne-vah get enough of a man like you-oo,” I sang softly. Corny, I know, but effective. He reached over and kissed me like he used to kiss Nurse Hathaway on ER. Yes, if you insist, I will go to bed with you.
“I’d better go,” he said. “If I stay, we may do something we’ll both regret.” No, it’s okay, George. I won’t regret it. I promise.
I stood up and told him what a wonderful evening I’d had. We walked around the side of the house and he got back on his Harley. Before he put his helmet on, he took my face in those large, manly hands of his, the same hands that captained the Andrea Gale in The Perfect Storm, and he kissed me again gently, deeply, easily. Ooooh, when it comes to love I want a slo-ow hand. Don’t worry, this time I didn’t sing.
4. The Curse of the Kid Parent
Philip called out to me as I was leaving to take Skyler to her dance lesson the next day. I swear he’d been lying in wait. “Hi he said.
“Hi back.”
“I see you’re dating a movie star now.”
“No, we’re just friends.”
“That was a friendly kiss he gave you in the backyard last night.”
Yes! He’d been watching. He’d seen my once-in-a-lifetime moment with George Clooney. There IS a God.
“Well, who knows where any friendship is destined to go?” I said cryptically. Yes, I might become George Clooney’s lover and wife. See what a prize you broke up with, Philip? You fool.
Philip looked at me strangely. He was jealous.
“Well, bye. We’ve got to go,” I said. “Skyler, hold my hand while we cross the street.”
“Is that so we’ll die together if a car hits us, Mommy?”
“Very funny.”
Skyler and I walked to the corner and waited for the bus that would take us to the Alvin Ailey studio. After an eternity, it arrived and we boarded with a motley crowd of neighbors. As we took our seats, Skyler said, “Mom, why don’t we buy a car again?”
“We can’t afford it, honey.”
“I wish I’d gotten the money parent,” she mumbled.
“What?”
“You know. Daddy made the money and you took care of the kids. You’re the kid parent and Daddy’s the money parent. If we’d gotten Daddy, we wouldn’t be poor,” Skyler said.
“Excuse me?” I said. “I’ll have you know that Daddy’s made no money for the last year. I’ve been the kid parent and the money parent. And before that, I always pulled my weight financially.” Stop it, Ivy. You do not need to defend yourself to an eight-year-old. That’s Penelope Leach 101.
“Mommy, it’s okay,” Skyler said, patting my knee. “Everyone knows the man makes the money.”
“Honey, that’s not true.”
An old lady got on the bus, but there was no seat for her. “Here, take mine,” I offered, getting up. For the rest of the ride, I stood next to Skyler.
She looked up at me. “I’m tired of being poor, aren’t you?”
“We’re not poor. Why would you say that?”
“Mommy, look at the facts. We don’t have a car. We don’t have a driver. We don’t have a jet. We don’t have a pool at our country house.”
“Honey, we don’t have a country house.”
“And that’s just sad.”
“Most people don’t have those things, Skyler.”
“Everyone I know does.”
“Your new friends don’t.”
“Yeah, but I made those friends after we got poor. Can’t we go back to being rich, Mommy?”
“Skyler, it’s a good thing I put you in public school. I hope it wasn’t too late.”
“Chloë and Mardet won’t be my friends anymore because I go to public school. What’s wrong with public school?”
“Nothing. Your old friends are being snobs.”
“That’s another thing, Mommy. None of my old friends’ll come over anymore because we live next door to a crack house.”
“We do not live next door to a crack house.”
“Mommy, pleeeease can’t we go back to the way things used to be? Why’d you have to start that dumb business?”
“Skyler, I lost my job and I started the business to support you.”
“Then get your old job back so we can be rich again. Maybe Daddy would come home.”
“Skyler, sweetheart, they wouldn’t give me my old job back even if I asked. And Daddy and I aren’t getting back together. I’m sorry.”
“I wish you’d never been born.” Skyler crossed her arms and looked out the window, tears welling in her eyes.
“Skyler, if I hadn’t been born, then you wouldn’t have been born,” I said as I pressed the button signaling the bus to stop.
“No. Daddy made me once and he could make me again with another woman,” she said just loud enough for everyone on the bus to hear. The old lady who took my seat smiled. She tapped me on the leg and asked, “Teenager?”
“No, she’s eight.”
“Better you than me,” she said, shaking her head.
5. Not Our Kind . . .
Ollie Pou, my maid with big dreams, was a joy to work with. She never threatened me. She never belittled me. She never fired me. She was always kind, always respectful. In fact, she reminded me a lot of Mom—determined to give her child a better life than she’d had.
Ollie met with me before every interview so I could prep her for the visit. She took copious notes and reported back after each session. She was my prize pupil, the one client I could count on to stay with the plan. Things were progressing perfectly. I’d compose a thank-you letter for her after each school visit. Then she’d handwrite it. Ollie had beautiful penmanship, and having such elegant personal notes in her file would be a plus.
Ollie’s only obvious mistake took place during her first interview. We met to debrief immediately after her visit and I saw that she was wearing a royal blue suit with rhinestone buttons, a matching hat with ostrich-feather trim, dyed silk pumps, and a purse that coordinated perfectly with the outfit. It would have been fine for a wedding or church, but it was all wrong for a private-school interview. If she wore it, someone was sure to laugh behind her back.
“Where did you get that suit?” I asked.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s gorgeous. Although, I don’t think it’s quite right for interviewing.”
“It’s my dress suit. I wore it to my niece’s wedding last summer.”
“It’s too fancy to wear when you meet with the directors. Let me lend you something more conservative.” Ollie wore a size smaller than I did, but she shopped my closet and picked out a black Christian Dior suit that Faith had handed down to me. The lady had taste.
Irving’s test scores were over the top. Even better, his behavioral write-up could not have contained one more gushing adjective. I would be meeting with his nursery-school teacher next week to show her how to write a school report that would sell any child. Irving was the first student she’d ever had who was applying to private school.
Willow Bliss, Tiny Herrera, and Jack Henry Bliss-Herrera were my other favorite family. They lived in a comfortable apartment at 1040 Park Avenue, one of the most exclusive co-ops in town. It was filled with gorgeous artifacts from around the world, like the ancient praying Buddha they’d hand-carried back from China. I always felt at ease, surrounded by the bright oranges, reds, and pinks of their apartment. Willow would prepare elaborate dinners from scratch. Not even the vegetables were frozen.
On this particular night, Jack Henry treated us to a concert, singing “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen” and both Oscar Mayer wiener songs, three interesting choices. Willow explained that D.W. sang the first song in an episode of Arthur, so I shouldn’t read too much into the selection. For his second tune, he just loved the words: “Oh I wish I were an Oscar Mayer weee-ner . . .” For the third song, he was just showing off that he could spell such a big word: b-o-l-o-g-n-a.
“Why do you want to be an Oscar Mayer wiener?” I asked Jack Henry.
“Then everyone’ll be in love with me,” he explained.
“We already are,” Willow said, giving him a kiss.
Tiny told us about a new animated TV series she was developing for Nickelodeon—Marvin and the Magic Wheelchair. It’s about a boy named Marvin who flies all over in his amazing wheelchair, performing heroic acts. Tiny felt the show would go a long way in helping children become more accepting toward disabled kids.
We had applied Jack Henry to some of the top-tier schools on the Upper East Side, since that’s where they lived. I also convinced his moms to try a few schools in Greenwich Village. Uptown, Jack Henry would always be the gay-black-disabled triple-header. Downtown, the lesbian thing wouldn’t be a blip on the radar screen.
After visiting a few Upper East Side private schools, Tiny was starting to agree. She was also concerned that being one of the only black children in his grade might prove overwhelming for him. I suggested that we meet with an older boy of color who was currently attending a Baby Ivy to find out what the experience was like. I just had to dig up a kid like that.
“The courses they offer at the private schools are amazing,” Tiny said. “Take a look at this.” She showed me Harvard Day’s high-school curriculum: The History of New York City from Eight Perspectives, The Tragic and Comic Modes, Theory of Computation, Theory and Ear Training for Jazz Musicians, Astrophysics. “I’m sure you won’t find classes like this at any public school.”
“You’re right. Jack Henry could take fabulous courses if he went to private school,” I said.
“But would it be worth going through school as an outsider?” Tiny asked. “I mean, with his disability and having me and Willow as parents, he’ll always be different. I wonder if being one of the few black kids in his class would make it even harder for him.”
“I don’t have the answer to that, Tiny. You know, I was different from the kids I went to school with. I was fat and poor. My classmates tormented me b
ecause of it. But I have to believe we live in more enlightened times,” I said.
“Me, too, Ivy. I was always different. And not to the extreme Jack Henry is. That’s what worries me.”
Tiny and Willow were about to interview at Stratmore Prep, the most conservative school in the city. “You know,” I began delicately, “Stratmore Prep is not going to be as welcoming to lesbians as other schools. Maybe at this school, and only this school, just one of you should interview. You can say you’re a single mother. I think Jack Henry’s chances would be better.”
Tiny and Willow looked at each other. “You mean hide the fact that we’re lesbians?” Willow asked.
“Well, yes,” I said.
“But if Jack Henry got in, it would be under false pretenses,” Willow said.
And your point?
“Ivy, we won’t do that. We want Jack Henry in a school that knows who we are, knows who he is, and says yes to us based on that. Living our lives honestly is what we’re about,” Tiny explained.
Wow. That was something. Principled clients. They were proud of who they were and willing to sacrifice to maintain their values. I admired Tiny and Willow, even though I thought they were being chumps in this instance. “That’s fine,” I said. “Just know that your chances won’t be as good at this school. If you’re willing to accept that, so am I.”
“We are,” Willow said. “We want to find the best school for our son, but not at the expense of our integrity.”
Yeow. These girls had guts. I worshiped them.
“Do you know if your nursery school has sent out Jack Henry’s school report yet?” I asked, changing the subject.
Tiny and Willow exchanged worried glances. “Oh, didn’t we tell you about that?” Tiny asked.
“No, is there something to tell?”
“Well,” Tiny explained. “About a month ago, Jack Henry began having a ‘behavior problem.’ ” Tiny made quotation marks with her fingers when she said “behavior problem.” I don’t know why people do that. It’s so goofy.