by Karen Quinn
The two of them left to go shopping on Orchard Street, leaving me alone with my coffee and thoughts. What to do? I wanted that million dollars so badly I could almost spend it. I needed it. I deserved it after all I’d been through. I looked over at Michael, who was working hard to serve the hungry crowd. What would he think of me if I took Buck’s bribe? Could I ever tell him? Could I live with myself if I betrayed my clients? Dad would have done it in a heartbeat. Philip, Tiny, and Willow wouldn’t have. But they were stronger than I was. My conscience unequivocally said, “Don’t do it,” but my practical self, the one with two kids to support, screamed, “Do it! Do it! Do it!”
Maybe I should move away, forget this year ever happened. I could make this the last lie. The lie that ends the lying. At this point, I had no dignity left anyway. I’d been so corrupt that there was nowhere to go but up. This could be my final wayward act, and then I’d reform. That sounded like a fair solution, so I pulled out a yellow pad and composed this letter to Shalom Day:
Dear Rabbi Jacobson,
Dee Dee and I would like to thank you for considering Moses Epstein-McCall for admission to your kindergarten class next year. We want nothing more than to send our son to a school steeped in Hebrew tradition such as Shalom Day. You are our first choice. If you offer Moses a place, we will accept.
As you could probably tell at our interview, Dee Dee is absolutely committed to Shalom Day. I want you to know that I am willing to do anything to ensure Moses’s acceptance. I’m sure, like most New Yorkers, you have heard of the McCall family (McCall Hall, McCall Performing Arts Center, McCall School of Medicine at NYU, McCall Stadium). If you take Moses, we would be happy to discuss an immediate seven-figure donation to Shalom Day, the only condition being that you rename your school McCall Day.
Although we will be major donors to the school, we won’t abuse our position by asking for special treatment too often. We do have one request, however. It is imperative to Moses’s ongoing treatment that his psychopharmacologist be allowed to observe him in the classroom bimonthly. We would appreciate it if his teacher would welcome the doctor and spend time with him following each visit, providing an update on any unusual or disruptive behaviors Moses may have exhibited at school.
Again, many thanks for considering our son for admission next year. We look forward to being active members of the McCall Day community next fall.
Sincerely,
Greg McCall
3. Who Yo Daddy?
Archie stopped by again. I was worried about him. He was taking his role as Winnie’s father waaaay too seriously. “Ivy, we visited The Balmoral School yesterday, and I have to insist we withdraw the application,” he said.
“Why? It’s an excellent school. My own girls went there.”
“I’m sure the education is wonderful. The mansion is amazing, and I liked the ballet studio and the roving masseuse, but that’s not the point,” he explained.
“What is the point, Archie?”
“This very sophisticated junior, Antoinette, gave the tour. She had just gotten back from the Bahamas, where one of her classmates had a Sweet Sixteen party. Her parents flew the whole class, in a private jet, to Eleuthera for the weekend. From what she said, that’s normal. Ivy, WaShaunté comes from humble roots. She would never fit into a world where the children around her don’t understand what it means to be hungry.”
“Archie, remember, WaShaunté’s name is Winnie. She isn’t really black. She’s a white Jewish girl from the Upper West Side. She’ll manage.”
“Even if that’s true . . .”
“Which it is; you know that, don’t you, Archie?”
“Yes, of course I do. Ivy, I don’t know if you’ve been to Balmoral lately, but the older girls are all anorexic. They carry Prada backpacks and wear uniforms designed by Steven Tyler. When I asked Antoinette what she was learning at school, she recited the rankings of the buildings on Fifth Avenue by status. That’s just wrong,” he said. “If WaShaunté goes to that school, what kind of person will she grow up to be?”
“Archie,” I said. “Her mother put Balmoral on her list. It’s what she wants. There’s nothing I can do. Once Winnie gets in somewhere, she’ll be out of your life and mine forever. Have you told Wendy about your concerns?”
“We talk after every interview. I’ve been straight with her about my feelings. We’re having dinner on Friday. I’ll tell her then.”
“Just don’t forget that this is an acting job, it’s not real life.”
“Yes, but it’s WaShaunté’s real life.”
4. Undue Influence
On Monday morning, I was getting dressed and listening to the Today show out of one ear when Ann Curry reported a chilling story:
The Justice Department is looking into reports of corruption involving the Food and Drug Administration, American Standard Paper, and Phizz Pharmaceuticals. Independent sources alleged that Lilith Radmore-Stein, the chairman of American Standard Paper, bribed Lyndon Pratt, the former chairman of the FDA, by arranging for her company’s publishing subsidiary to purchase his novel Approval Hell, a roman à clef about the inner workings of the FDA. In exchange, just before leaving office, Chairman Pratt overrode the FDA ban and approved Phizz Pharmaceutical’s new over-the-counter botulinum toxin type-A home injection kit, a wrinkle-reduction therapy for the do-it-yourself crowd that works like Botox.
Expected to be marketed as “Baby Face,” the product had been opposed for some time because of the high occurrence of patient error when the toxin was self-administered during trials. In two out of ten cases, subjects injected the product into the wrong muscles and nerves, causing complications such as droopy eyes, frozen grimaces, and other expressions most commonly associated with stroke victims.
Approval of Baby Face will mean hundreds of millions of dollars in profits for Phizz Pharmaceuticals. Sources close to the Justice Department confirm that Mrs. Radmore-Stein arranged for then-Chairman Pratt’s intervention in Baby Face’s cause in an attempt to induce Phizz’s CEO, Buzz Wendell, to influence the approval of her son’s kindergarten application to the exclusive Stratmore Prep School, where Mr. Wendell is on the board of trustees. Spokespersons for former Chairman Pratt, Mrs. Radmore-Stein, Mr. Wendell, and Stratmore Prep all expressed shock and denied the allegations.
No! This can’t be. How did this come out? The only people who knew were Lilith, Mort Small-Podd, me, and then Chairman Pratt and Buzz Wendell, I suppose. If I do jail time over this, I will be so pissed off.
The telephone rang. It was that reporter from the New York Times, the one I’d hoodwinked last spring. She was doing another story on the cutthroat world of New York City private-school admissions in association with the Baby Face scandal. Could she ask me a few questions? “No comment,” I said, and hung up on her.
The phone began ringing off the hook. The Wall Street Journal. The Daily News. The Associated Press. People. Time. Newsweek. Forbes. Quilting News. Quilting News? “No comment.” “No comment.” “No comment.” What could I say? I was there when Lilith planned the crime. Does that make me an accessory to a felony? I wondered.
Am I going up the river?
5. Ivy in a Pickle
I dropped the girls at school and immediately went to the Knishery looking for Michael. He was a businessman. He’d know what to do. Unfortunately, I was told, he’d taken a few days off to go snowboarding in Canada. Snowboarding? Michael? Screw it, I’ll find Philip. Luckily, he was home.
“I’m in big trouble,” I said.
“What’s the problem?”
I told him about the report I’d heard on the Today show and all the press that had called.
“The thing is, I knew Lilith Radmore-Stein was planning to influence a board member at Stratmore Prep. But I had no idea she would bribe the chairman of the FDA. Do you think they’ll arrest me? Am I an accomplice?”
“I don’t even know if what you did is a crime.”
“What should I do?” I asked. “I can’t afford a lawyer. I can’t go to
prison. I’m responsible for two little girls. And don’t say I should have thought of this in the first place, because I know that.”
“Ivy, I’m no lawyer, but it seems to me that you should call the Justice Department. Tell them you’re a witness and you want to come forward with information,” he suggested. “Then, if you accidentally did something illegal, they’ll cut you a break. They want to nail high-profile crooks, not nobodies like you. If you help them develop their case, I can’t believe they’d charge you with anything.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll throw myself at their mercy. But before I drop the dime on Lilith, I’ll deal.”
Philip looked at me strangely.
“You know, if I sing before I bargain, I won’t have any leverage. Don’t you watch Law and Order?”
“No, not really,” said Philip.
Philip called directory assistance and got the number for the New York City branch of the U.S. Justice Department. He went through six people before finding an investigator assigned to this case. When he’d explained the situation, they invited me in for an “informal chat.”
6. To Tell the Truth, Part 1
Philip and I headed downtown to headquarters, which was really the Federal Building on lower Broadway. He insisted on accompanying me for moral support. When we arrived, Mr. Baker was waiting. He looked nothing like the detectives on television. If I’d seen him on the street, I would have tagged him as a thirty-year-old investment banker. I introduced Philip and asked if he could stay. Mr. Baker said that would be okay. Then he asked if he could tape my statement.
That’s when I made my move.
“Mr. Baker, I know what happened here. I was a witness to a meeting where Mrs. Radmore-Stein concocted this preposterous plan. I was there and I told her it was a bad idea, but she obviously went ahead with it. I wasn’t involved when she put the plan into motion. But I knew what she intended to do. Anyway, I’m willing to tell you everything I witnessed, but I’m worried that I’ll say something incriminating and you’ll want to prosecute me. I have two little girls, Mr. Baker. I can’t go to jail. If you want this canary to sing, you have to agree not to bring charges. And I want it in writing. Frankly, Mr. Baker, if you don’t deal, I’ll lawyer up right now.”
“You’ve obviously watched a lot of television, Ms. Ames,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He left the room.
“Do you think that’s a yes?” I whispered to Philip.
“I don’t know, Ivy. This is my first time in the pokey,” he whispered back, smiling.
“Look.” I pointed to a mirror on the wall. “I’ll bet that’s a two-way mirror. Do you think they’re watching us? Don’t look. Act natural.”
“It probably is a two-way mirror,” Philip whispered.
Mr. Baker came back with a piece of paper entitled “Cooperation Agreement.” It said I wouldn’t be prosecuted for any crime if I told them everything I knew about Case Number 5708982 and agreed to testify should that be required. It was a standard form that he tore off a pad. They must make deals like this all the time, I thought.
Mr. Baker signed the paper, as did I, and he handed me the yellow carbon copy. He turned on his tape recorder. With that, I spilled the beans on Lilith. I described the meeting in her conference room and fingered Mort Small-Podd, whom they didn’t know about yet. He asked me lots of questions about school admissions to get a better understanding of why parents would take such risks to get their children into private school. Motive. Obviously, he was trying to establish motive. I suggested to Mr. Baker that the smoking gun just might be the fact that more than four hundred boys would be competing for eight Caucasian spaces at Stratmore Prep. Four hundred well-mannered little gentlemen versus alphabet-burping, armpit-farting Ransom Radmore-Stein. I rest my case.
After hours of being grilled with no relief, I asked Mr. Baker if we could take a break and eat. He agreed and was nice enough to give us complimentary lunch tickets to use in the Federal Building’s basement cafeteria.
As we were looking for a place to sit, I spotted a friendly face. “Ollie,” I called out, waving. She waved back and invited us to join her. I introduced her to Philip and asked what she was doing there. Did it have something to do with Lilith?
Ollie explained that she was being interviewed just like we were. “Are you a witness?” I asked her. “Did you see anything?”
Ollie said that something terrible had happened. About a week ago, Stratmore Prep had phoned for Mrs. Radmore-Stein. Thinking it was about Ransom’s application, Lilith had taken the call immediately. After a few moments, Ollie heard her boss screaming, “I’ll have your fuckin’ ass, Ollie!!” She went to Lilith’s study to find out what she had done now.
It seems that Stratmore Prep just wanted to verify Ollie’s salary. They were discussing Irving’s financial-aid package in committee, and fact-checking was part of the process. In making the call, Stratmore Prep inadvertently revealed to Lilith that Ollie had applied Irving to their kindergarten this year.
Ollie said Mrs. Radmore-Stein was seething. Did Ollie not understand that Irving was competing with Ransom? Lilith demanded. If Irving got in and Ransom didn’t, Irving would have stolen what was rightfully Ransom’s. And even worse, if they both got in, Lilith would have to attend school events with . . . with . . . with the domestic help. Did Ollie think they would both become class parents and carpool together? She told Ollie she was fired and that she would never give her references.
Before Ollie left the room, she had the audacity to ask Lilith for her wages. Although her weekly salary was $400, Lilith deducted $100 for taxes and Social Security and $200 for room and board in Lilith’s one-room basement maid’s quarters. The balance was just $100. On hearing the words “Can I have my $100 for the week,” Lilith lost it and began throwing her plaques and awards at Ollie to drive her out of the house.
“I had was to run for my life. I thought she was gonna knock my teeth down my throat.”
Ollie had known this day was coming. Not necessarily over this, but at some point Lilith would banish her from the kingdom just as she regularly expelled other staff members who displeased her.
Ollie was no dummy. She’d always known that she needed some dirt on Lilith so that when Lilith screwed her, she’d have a way to fight back. For that reason, Ollie always kept her eyes and ears open. Recently, while cleaning Lilith’s bathroom, she’d overheard Lilith tell Johnny that the chairman of the FDA had agreed to approve Mr. Wendell’s new injection kit if she would publish the chairman’s book. She went on to say that Mr. Wendell had promised to get Ransom into Stratmore Prep if his injection kit was approved.
Ollie knew there was something fishy about that arrangement. She believed it might be something she could hold over Lilith’s head to get the $100 she was owed.
The day after Ollie was axed, she called Lilith Radmore-Stein at work and told her secretary that she was from the admissions office at Stratmore Prep. Of course, Lilith picked up. Ollie immediately launched into her speech, demanding her $100 and telling her former boss that if she didn’t give it to her, Lilith would live to regret it. “Oooooooh, I’m scaaared,” Lilith taunted. “Ollie, you ignorant maid. I refuse to give you another second of my time.” And she slammed down the phone.
Ollie was upset about the $100. She was upset about the snake in Irving’s lunchbox, the hide-and-seek fiasco, the dryer, the air-conditioning vent, and all the other abuse she and Irving had suffered at the hands of Lilith Radmore-Stein and her devil-child. So Ollie called a New York Times reporter and told him what she had heard.
This morning, the Justice Department had summoned her for questioning.
“So, Ollie, now that you aren’t with the Radmore-Steins, where are you living?” I asked.
“We’re staying at the Quaker shelter on Sixteenth Street.”
“You’re homeless?” Philip asked.
“Just until I get another live-in job. It’ll be harder to find, ’cuz there’s me and Irving to put up, but I’m pray
in’ it’ll happen soon.”
“Ollie,” I said excitedly, “I know about a job that’s open. Meet me at the coffee shop on Second and Seventy-third, the one where we first met, at noon tomorrow. Are you available?”
“Of course—I’m not working. Time is all I have.”
The next day, Faith, Ollie, and I met at the coffee shop as planned. Irving devoured a hamburger and a milkshake in the next booth. Faith told Ollie about the closetkeeper position she was trying to fill, and Ollie said yes before Faith had finished her sentence.
“Ollie, don’t you want to hear the pay before you decide?” Faith asked.
“Oh, if you’re a friend of Miss Ivy’s, I’m sure it’ll be fair.”
“How does this sound—six hundred a week cash, plus room and board?”
“How much will the room and board cost?” Ollie asked.
“Nothing—it’s part of the deal. You and Irving can stay in one of the staff suites we have downstairs. It’ll have one bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Is that okay?”
“It’s more than okay,” Ollie said. “It’s the answer to our prayers.” Ollie put her head in her hands and cried.
Irving looked at his mother nervously. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Ollie said to him. “Everything’s good. We just got ourselves a job and a home.” Irving smiled broadly and clapped his hands. Ollie turned to Faith. “Don’t you worry, you won’t even notice Irving is there. He’s quiet as a mouse and he’ll stay in our room.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ollie. We love having kids around. Mae and Lia will adore Irving. I’m hoping he’ll be a real friend to my girls. In fact, when he goes to school next year, I can have my driver drop him off every day when he drops the girls. Would that work for you?”
Ollie started weeping again. Faith took that as a yes.