The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  Did you ever? “I’m sure about Saturday night,” I said. “But I can help you with something else. Something more important. I have a client, a nice gentleman, very rich, who lost his wife recently. Anyway, she was right in the middle of redecorating their apartment when she passed. Do you want me to recommend you to him, to finish the job?”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. Would you do that? Would you call him today?” she asked. Could this woman be any pushier?

  “Sure,” I said. “It’d be my pleasure. If he calls, his name is Omar, just so you’ll know who it is.”

  I invited Omar to have dinner with me at Kratt’s. Michael must have thought it strange, my consorting with a notorious mobster, but he didn’t say anything. I ordered the beef-brisket-and-potato-pancake special and encouraged Omar to do the same. He updated me on the last of his interviews and assured me that his trustee friends were working behind the scenes. It looked like Maryvale and St. Andrew’s were in the bag.

  “Plus, I think that director at Harvard Day really liked me. She wants to fuck me. I’m sure she’ll offer Maria a space,” he boasted.

  Tipper? Not possible.

  “But here’s the best part, Ivy. I’m already seeing changes in Maria. She got angry last night when I told her it was time for bed. She folded her arms, turned her back, screwed up her face, but didn’t scream! Can you believe it? She didn’t scream! What a pistol my girl is! We’re making progress, and it’s all because of that fancy psychiatrist you recommended. I’m forever in your debt, Ivy,” he said kindly. “If you ever need anything, anything at all, just ask.” That was good news. It’s always nice to have a mob boss owe you one.

  “I’m happy for you, Omar. And guess what? I have another recommendation. Remember when you told me you needed to finish your apartment? Well, I have a friend who’s a talented decorator. I think you’ll like her work. She’s also a beautiful single woman who lost her husband not too long ago. I think she’s lonely, and you might be able to fill a certain void in her life.”

  “Say no more, Ivy. Give the broad my number. Va-va-voom!”

  Omar had such a way with words.

  16. The Kids’ Limo

  On Saturday, Faith picked us up in her chauffeur-driven kid stretch, the one stocked with juice boxes, rice cakes, a DVD library of children’s shows, a twenty-four-inch plasma-screen TV, first-aid supplies, changes of clothes, and Pull-Ups. This was a must-have for every billionairess mom juggling the demands of children and obscene fortune. Of course, her personal chauffeur drove the less conspicuous Mercedes Maybach whenever Faith was sans children. We were on our way to the Museum of Natural History, always fun and educational, but more important, an expedition guaranteed to wear out the girls. As is often the case with children, the reality didn’t live up to the fantasy. The day started out as a real whine-fest.

  “I want to see ‘Shrek Three-ee,’ ” Lia said.

  “They haven’t made it yet. We’re going to the museum,” Faith said.

  “I haaaaate the museum,” Lia wailed. “It’s the most boring place eeeee-ver.”

  “Lia, would ya put on your anti-whining cloak?” Mae said.

  “I wanna eeeeeat,” Kate said. “Let’s go to Popeye’s for chicken.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Mae. “I love Popeye’s.”

  “Nooooo,” Skyler said. “I only eat chicken nuggets, not reeeeeeal chicken.”

  “Guess what, everybody? My mommy’s gonna have a baby,” Mae announced.

  “What!” I turned to Faith. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Busted.” Faith smiled guiltily. “Sorry, Ivy, we didn’t want to say anything until I was three months along. I wanted to be sure before telling you.”

  “Congratulations,” I said, hugging her. “That’s so exciting.”

  “Do you know if it’s gonna be a boy or a girl?” Kate asked.

  “No, we don’t know yet,” Faith said.

  “Do you know if it’s gonna be black or white?” Kate asked.

  “We’re pretty sure it’ll be white,” Faith said, smiling.

  “Mommy, Mae’s tweating me like a skunk,” Lia tattled.

  “Say it, don’t spray it,” Mae said to her sister.

  “See what I mean, Mommy?” Lia snitched.

  “She kicked me first for no apparent reason,” Mae said.

  “No, Mommy, Mae diswespected me. She called me a pubic hair. That’s the weason,” Lia insisted.

  “You bwabbewmouth,” Mae said to Lia, making fun of her speech impediment.

  “What’s a pubic hair?” Kate asked Lia.

  Lia shrugged. She had no idea. But it sounded bad.

  “Mae, leave your sister alone or we’ll turn this car around right now and take you home.” She turned to me. “I think having another one of these will be delightful, don’t you?”

  I laughed. “You should have asked. I would have given you one of mine.”

  “By the way,” Faith said, “my closetkeeper, Virginia, just quit. Keep your ears open for someone, would you? We have the agency working on it, but so far we haven’t liked anyone they sent over.”

  “You got it,” I said.

  “Lia, did you just wet your pants?” Faith said, noticing a big wet stain on Lia’s crotch.

  “No, I went swimming,” she said with her head hanging down.

  “Come here, let me change you.” Faith reached below the seat of her well-stocked limo for some dry clothes.

  “I do it,” Lia said.

  “Fine.” Faith handed her some dry panties and a skirt. “Just remember, the tag goes in the back.”

  “We’re almost there,” I announced as we turned onto Central Park West. “Everyone get your shoes on.”

  “Mommy, Mommy,” Kate shouted, “what if you could go back in time and stop either my birth or Skyler’s. Which one would you stop?”

  “Neither, I love you both.”

  “No, but if you don’t stop one of us from being born, everyone in the world including you would die.”

  “Oh, well, when you put it that way, I guess I’d stop your birth,” I said.

  “I knew I was the favorite,” Skyler said. “Yessssss!”

  “Do you really wish I was never born?” Kate asked.

  “Of course not, but don’t ask me silly questions like that. I could never choose between the two people I love most in the universe.”

  “Mommy.” Lia was pulling at Faith’s sleeves. “Mae just called me the F-curse.”

  “You’d better not have,” Faith said to Mae, “or I’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “What if I just think the F-curse? Is that okay?” Mae asked.

  “No,” Faith said.

  The car pulled up to the museum steps and the kids noticed the hot-dog stand in front. “Let’s have hot dogs!” Mae said. “Yeah, yeah,” the others agreed. Finally. Consensus.

  “Mommy, I wish Daddy would quit his job and become the hot-dog man,” Mae said.

  “Me, too,” Lia agreed.

  Faith looked at me wistfully. “Sometimes, I wish that’s all he were, too. Life would be simpler.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I whispered, tugging on Faith’s arm.

  “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Faith said, shaking her head.

  17. Snooty with a Chance of Attitude

  Dinner at my house is a less-than-casual affair. Kate, Skyler, and I sit at our tiny table. Sir Elton annoys us, begging for scraps. There’s no silver bell that I ring to signal the chef in the kitchen to bring on the next course. There’s no chef. There’s no separate kitchen. There’s no next course. It’s broiled steak or some Crock-Pot dish that cooks itself while I work. The Rugrats is on. Conversation between us is minimal because we are lost in the world of Tommy, Chucky, and Angelica.

  “Which Rugrat do you think is the smartest, Kate?” Skyler asks.

  “Tommy,” Kate answers.

  “But which Rugrat do you think looks the smartest?�
�� Skyler asks.

  “Chucky,” Kate answers.

  “Has anyone heard the new Madonna album?” I ask, looking for common ground with my daughters.

  “Ma-DON-na!” Skyler says. “She’s so over with.”

  “Madonna’s old. She’s gonna die soon,” Kate adds, feeding Sir Elton her steak.

  “Kate, don’t give the dog people-food. And eat your steak. It’s good for you.”

  “Did you see the animated steak on The Simpsons last night?” Kate asks Skyler.

  “Yeah, I saw it. But you know what’s even more delicious than animated steak? Animated ribs!”

  “With animated barbecue sauce!!!” Kate adds.

  I’m sorry to say that this is the kind of spellbinding repartee that goes on at our dinner table. But by 7:00 P.M., I don’t have the energy to top off a day of work, cleaning, errands, school, dog-walking, baths, homework, and refereeing with meaningful conversation. I’m spent. My plan to pass half an hour of daily quality time with each of my daughters was a bust. My new plan to schedule meaningful conversation for weekends when I’m fresh seems to be working. For now, I’ve come to accept and embrace my less-than-perfect reality. So the three of us sit, chewing, each in her own private stupor, six eyes converged on Nickelodeon.

  The phone rang. It was Sassy, calling to thank me for introducing her to Omar. Apparently, he had given her a huge commission to complete his renovation and they were getting along famously, FAMOUSLY! Bully for them. I hung up as quickly as I could, not wanting to miss the part where Angelica got her own talk show.

  The knocking at our door took me by surprise. Now what? The universe was conspiring against my seeing the climax of Rugrats. It was Archie, Winnie’s fake father. I invited him to sit in the kitchen with us where I could keep one eye on him and the other on the show.

  “I’m concerned about WaShaunté’s interviews,” Archie began. “We went to St. Andrew’s today and had a bad experience.”

  “What happened?”

  “You know how the kids are supposed to come to that visit prepared to talk about something important to them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, WaShaunté brought her security puppy, the one she’s been sleeping with since she was a baby, you know, Red Puppy?”

  “No, I don’t know Red Puppy specifically, but that sounds like a good item to bring.”

  “Well, it wasn’t,” Archie explained, miffed. “As someone who calls herself a professional, I think you should have advised me better on this one.”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “Archie, you aren’t even the actual father. You just play one in real life.”

  “There were six kids at the interview, and they all went in with the teacher. I stayed back talking with the rest of the parents as usual, and the conversation got around to what each child was going to share. One mother told us that her son was studying anatomy and had brought in an earthworm he was going to dissect for the group.” Archie sniffed.

  Good grief. What kind of four-year-old boy has the fine motor skills necessary to dissect an earthworm? “Skyler, would you please turn down the volume?”

  “I can’t hear the TV with you two talking so loud,” she said.

  “Turn it down now.” She did.

  “Another mother told me her daughter was a student of modern dance and was going to perform Alvin Ailey’s Aspects of a Vibe, a twenty-minute jazz piece. Then a Jamaican babysitter mentioned that the little boy she takes care of, a white boy I might add, had taught himself Mandarin Chinese and would be reading a traditional Mandarin story to the group in the ancient form of the language. Of the two kids left, one was going to tell an African folktale. Another was reciting postprandial sonnets. We sent WaShaunté into a situation where she was way over her head, and somebody should have known better,” he accused.

  “Postprandial sonnets?” I asked. “What are those?”

  “I have no idea. But I guarantee they’re more complex than Mother Goose.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, Archie, I should have known this. You’re right. It’s just that at most schools, children only have to draw shapes or pictures, count, write letters, stuff like that. St. Andrew’s takes gifted kids, but I didn’t realize they would expect so much raw talent from four-and five-year-olds.”

  “Well, in the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d do your homework before casting us to the wolves like that. Apparently, the other children made WaShaunté feel like a baby for bringing in her special puppy. This was no ordinary show-and-tell.”

  “I’m sorry, Archie. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” Archie barked.

  You could have scraped me off the floor. Archie was morphing into Stu Needleman. On the one hand, it was good to see that he was taking his role as WaShaunté’s (I mean Winnie’s) father so seriously. On the other hand, he didn’t have to be so snippy about it.

  PART 5

  The Importance of Being Accepted

  1. Not to Be Rich and White in New York City

  Tiny, Willow, and I knocked on Isaiah Jenkins’s door. I’d hidden behind a parked car and watched the boy leaving Stratmore Prep. He looked about sixteen. Boldly, I quasi-stalked him home to 128th Street and rang the bell. Introducing myself, I explained to his mother, Deirdre, that I had some friends who had adopted a black child and wanted to know what it was like to be one of the few children of color in an exclusive private school. Deirdre told me how happy Isaiah was at Stratmore and what a difference it had made in his life, and she graciously made a date to introduce her son to my friends.

  Entering Deirdre’s small but cozy living room a few days later, we smelled and then noticed a plate of boiled mini-hot-dogs laid out in our honor. Isaiah and the four of us devoured the weenies before we got down to business.

  “Isaiah,” Tiny said, “Willow and I have a little boy who’s applying to private school. He’s black, like you. We’re trying to decide whether private school’s right for him. Can you tell us about your experience at Stratmore Prep? Have you been happy there?”

  “I like my school okay. I’ve made friends, and the teachers are nice. I’ve learned a lot, I guess.”

  “You love it there,” Deirdre said. “Show a little enthusiasm.”

  “The thing is, Mom,” Isaiah started, “I’m not sure they should send their son.”

  Deirdre’s mouth dropped open.

  Isaiah turned to Tiny and Willow. “I’ve been going to Stratmore Prep since kindergarten,” he explained. “When I hang out in my own neighborhood, people think I’m different. No one talks to me, no one plays ball with me, no one invites me over. They call me ‘Boozhie,’ you know, bourgeois. I don’t fit in here. I don’t have it.”

  “What don’t you have?” Deirdre asked.

  “You know, it, my identity, my groove, my black soul. I’ve tried to fit in, but how can I? I talk like I’m white, I walk like I’m white, I dress like I’m white. Have you ever heard me say ‘whaddup dawg’ or ‘yo’ or ‘thang’? I sound ridiculous.”

  “I can teach you to be black, Isaiah. You don’t need to go to school in the neighborhood to learn that,” Deirdre said.

  “You can’t teach me. You’re yuppie black. You’ve made it so I don’t belong with my own people, Mom. And I don’t belong at Stratmore Prep, either. I go to school with kids who don’t look like me, don’t live the way we live. Their parents won’t let them come to my house. I think you should have let me live the life I was born to.”

  “Isaiah, I sent you to Stratmore Prep because I thought it would open doors that staying in Harlem never could. When I grew up, I was never exposed to the privileged world you operate in every day. I wanted you to be part of that. I was trying to do my best for you, that’s all.”

  “I know you were, Mom. I’m only saying that it’s made me an outsider at home and at school. I don’t think it was worth it,” Isaiah said. He turned to Tiny and Willow. “Maybe this won’t matter for your son. He’s being raised in the white
world already. He may not care about identifying with his own people.”

  Tiny, Willow, and I listened, fascinated. This was particularly interesting to me because lately Skyler had begun talking with a Puerto Rican accent. I’d been telling her to stop, not realizing that perhaps she was trying to fit in with her new friends.

  “Isaiah,” Deirdre said, “why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “You never asked.”

  When Tiny, Willow, and I left Isaiah’s house, we were all lost in our own thoughts, none of us sure if the advantages of a private-school education would outweigh the part of Jack Henry’s soul that the experience might extinguish.

  2. A Crisis of Conscience

  On Sunday morning, I met with Greg and Dee Dee at Kratt’s to discuss their first-choice letter. After standing in line for forty-five minutes, we finally got a table, ordered coffee, bagels, lox, sable, and cream cheese.

  “I like the Shalom Day School. What about you Greg?”

  “I like Shalom Day, but I also like Harvard Day. I know it’s not technically a Jewish school, but don’t they have a large contingent of Jews in the parent body?” Greg asked.

  “Huge. They have a huge contingent of Jews,” I replied.

  “It’s got a much finer reputation than Shalom Day, Dee Dee,” he explained.

  “Much finer,” I agreed.

  “Yes, but Moses won’t speak Hebrew at Harvard Day. He won’t learn Jewish traditions,” she argued.

  “That’s true, Dee Dee,” Greg said. “But a lot of the kids go to Hebrew school across the street at Temple Hillel. And the kids from Harvard Day get into the best Ivy League schools,” he added.

  “The best of the best,” I agreed.

  “Are you two ganging up on me?” Dee Dee asked.

  “No, not at all,” Greg answered. “If you want Shalom Day, we’ll try for it. But let’s at least make Harvard Day our second choice, okay?”

  “Okay, deal,” she said. “Ivy, go ahead and send our first-choice letter to Shalom Day. Harvard Day’ll be our second choice.”

  “Done,” I said.