Name Dropping

by Jane Heller

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “And everyone will think it’s beautiful,” he said.

  “They sure will,” I said.

  “Did you tell your boyfriend where you got it?”

  I smiled. “I told him I got it from one of the smartest, most generous boys in my class.”

  “Yeah, but did you tell him I was a pirate?”

  “Fischer.”

  “Did you, Miss Stern? Did you tell him I found it in a chest full of buried treasure in the middle of the night?”

  “Oh, Fischer.” I had to talk to the Levins. It was one thing for Fischer to play make believe; it was another for him to keep harping on the pirate thing, to obsess about it, to let it blur his sense of reality and impair his ability to relate to others. “Are you ready to go back inside the classroom and behave yourself?”

  He shook his head and pouted. “I want to stay here with you.”

  I reminded him about the cookie baking, and he changed his mind. Getting chubby Fischer to eat wasn’t exactly a struggle.

  After school, I had another go-around with Penelope. She and Deebo were in her office, sipping tea, when I asked if I might have an audience with her.

  “Nancy. Yes, of course,” she said, seeming in a pleasant mood. Perhaps she and Deebo had been exchanging Valentines.

  Without being asked, Deebo vacated her chair and left me alone with Penelope. There was an awkward silence as she shuffled papers on her desk while I shifted in the chair.

  Eventually, I broke the ice. “Penelope, I know we’ve been over this territory, but it’s Fischer again.”

  She nodded, lips pursed, her mood deteriorating.

  “Before Christmas I felt that he was making progress,” I said, “but since he got back from the trip to England he’s been as disruptive as ever.”

  Still no verbal response; only another nod.

  “What I’m most concerned about, though, is that he’s stuck in his fanciful thinking, stuck on his pirate fixation, to the point where I really feel his parents should be contacted.”

  That produced a verbal response. “We have been over this territory,” she said irritably. “It is my opinion that his parents should not be contacted. It is also my opinion that young children often indulge in fanciful thinking and it needn’t scar them for life.” Her expression softened slightly. “You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t report behavioral problems to me, Nancy, and I do appreciate the dedication you bring to your work. It’s teachers like you who enhance Small Blessings’s reputation.”

  I tried not to choke. What did she think flattering me was going to do? Shut me up?

  “Then we finally agree on something,” I replied. “Small Blessings’s reputation is enhanced by its teachers, not by the size of its library or the size of the investment portfolios of the parents who put up the money for its library. What attracted me to this school, when I was first applying for jobs, was that everyone said it was a place where the parent-teacher relationship was nurtured, just as the children themselves were nurtured. But here you are, telling me not to contact the parents of a child who’s lonely and isolated and needs help. Has the school changed its philosophy or have you, Penelope?”

  “Fischer Levin is just fine,” she said, gathering herself up in her chair, nostrils flaring, pearls realigning themselves as the veins in her neck bulged. It occurred to me that she was the one who needed help.

  “I beg to differ,” I said, then told Penelope about the pin, about how important it was to Fischer that I wear it and how he clung to his belief that he had pilfered it from a treasure chest instead of picking it out during a shopping errand with Olga.

  “A pirate, a cowboy, a forest ranger.” Penelope waved her bony hand at me. “Boys will be boys, Nancy.”

  How do people like her even get into positions of authority, let alone hold onto them, I thought. “So you refuse to let me call the Levins.”

  “It’s not necessary for you to call them,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll be speaking to Gretchen Levin soon regarding the school fund-raiser. She’s on the decorating committee, you see.”

  No, I didn’t see.

  “If I feel it’s appropriate,” she added, “I’ll mention your little dilemma to her then.”

  My little dilemma. I thanked Penelope for her time and left her office. I was halfway down the hall to my classroom when I knew with absolute certainty that I would call the Levins in spite of her forbiddance. I’d be risking my job if I called them, but I wouldn’t be risking my life. It’s important to keep things in perspective, I decided.

  The high point of the day came the minute Bill walked in the door of my apartment to escort me to dinner. He was taking me to a hip new place in SoHo—the sort of “in” spot the other Nancy Stern used to frequent—and then we were spending the night at his apartment.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” said Bill as he handed me a small lime-green box which I recognized right away as one of Denham and Villier’s gift boxes, lime green being the store’s signature color.

  “Oh, Bill,” I said, throwing my arms around him. “Thank you so much.”

  “Hey.” He laughed. “How can you thank me when you don’t even know what I’ve gotten you?”

  “It comes from Denham and Villier. How bad could it be?” I opened the box. Resting on the layer of cotton were a pair of crescent-shaped gold earrings, each dotted with a tiny emerald, my birthstone. They were tasteful, simple, authentic. Like Bill.

  “I adore them,” I squealed, putting them on immediately. “They’re the best Valentine anyone’s ever given me.”

  “I’m glad,” said Bill, admiring his purchase, admiring them on me. “I wanted you to have them for two reasons.”

  “And what might they be?” I said, twirling around, dizzy with happiness.

  “Number one, because you just had your jewelry stolen and I wanted to help you restock your inventory.”

  “Very noble of you. Number two?”

  “Number two, because I love you, Nancy. I hope the earrings make that clear. I may work at Denham, but I don’t go around throwing the merchandise at every woman I meet. I hope you know that.”

  I smiled at him, still not believing my good fortune. “I do,” I said. “I really do.” I flew back into his arms then, kissed him. “I didn’t have this with John, didn’t understand what it means to be in love with a man and be loved equally, in return. You’ve changed my whole view of love, Bill. You’ve changed me.”

  He held me close for a long time—until I remembered that I’d bought him a Valentine too.

  I reached over to the foyer table and grabbed the box there. “Here,” I said proudly, handing it to Bill. “Direct to you from Bloomingdale’s.”

  He opened the box and grinned when he saw what was inside. It was a leather picture frame—a double frame designed for two photos. One for each of his sons, I told him.

  He was thrilled with it, he said. Called it the perfect Valentine. Promised he’d take new pictures of Michael and Peter when they came to New York for their vacation the following week and install them right in the frame.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet them,” he said as we left for the restaurant.

  “Do you think they’re ready for that?” I asked, even though meeting his boys was my ardent wish.

  “Why not?” he said.

  Why not? I thought.

  Bill was working late the next night, so I took the opportunity to call the Levins, screwing up my courage as their phone rang. One ringie dingie. Two ringie dingies. Three ringie dingies. Either nobody was home or nobody was answering. I was mentally rehearsing the message I would leave on their machine when Bob Levin picked up.

  “Yeah,” he barked.

  Don’t you love when people greet their callers that way? Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy.

  “Mr. Levin?” I said.

  “You got him.”

  “Hi. This is Nancy Stern, Fischer’s teacher at Small Blessin
gs?” I hated that I put a question mark in my voice at the end of that sentence. I knew who I was, for God’s sake.

  “My wife’s not here,” was his response, even though I hadn’t asked to speak to her. In the Levin household, matters pertaining to Fischer were handled by the womenfolk, apparently.

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “Don’t have a clue. She’s in Switzerland at some clinic.”

  “Oh. Is she ill?”

  “Whadayoukidding? She’s having a face-lift.”

  “I see.” Gretchen Levin was younger than I was. “Then I wonder if I might take a few minutes of your time, Mr. Levin. I know how busy you are, but there’s a situation concerning Fischer that I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Not that again,” he boomed. “I told you, you teachers coddle the boy, don’t appreciate what you’ve got there. A real tiger, that’s what he is. A chip off the old block.”

  “Yes,” I said with a little laugh, in order to give Bob Levin the impression that I thought being a chip off his old block was a plus. “But the problem I’m referring to isn’t Fischer’s aggressiveness. It’s his fantasizing.”

  “Haw-haw. You’re telling me he got his hands on a Playboy magazine or something?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that, Mr. Levin.” You crude gasbag. “He fantasizes about being a pirate, and he communicates this both to the other children and to his teachers. Now, it’s not at all uncommon for children to play pretend or have an imaginary friend. In fact, such behavior is a healthy part of growing up. It’s only a problem when it interferes with the child’s ability to function, his ability to enjoy real life. I’m afraid that’s what’s happening with Fischer, Mr. Levin.”

  “That’s complete bull. Fischer’s a great kid.”

  “But is he a happy kid? Happy kids don’t talk incessantly about being a pirate. His entire self-esteem seems linked to this pirate fantasy.”

  I explained about the pin and Fischer’s constant chatter about how he stole it from a buried treasure chest.

  “Complete bull, like I said. Fischer got the pin from the Wal-Mart store in Branford, Connecticut. The nanny took him there to buy it on their way up to our weekend place. He told me about it on the plane to London just before Christmas. He was all keyed up about it.”

  “That was sweet of him.”

  “He’s a sweet kid, I’m telling you. He even brought the receipt along to show it to me, because I taught him that the IRS comes after you if you don’t keep receipts.” He laughed at this, but I doubt he was joking. “Fischer doesn’t pull any of that pirate fantasy shit with me. Which proves my point, Miss Stein.”

  “Stern.”

  “Yeah. My point is, you teachers baby the boy, so he acts like a baby and hands you all kinds of baby stories. But here at home? He’s a normal kid.”

  I didn’t have an easy comeback. I was feeling defeated, out of answers.

  “Listen. About the pin,” Bob Levin added before I had a chance to respond. “I didn’t get a look at the thing, but it had to be a piece of junk, judging by what they paid for it. Sorry about that. The nanny’s a nice-enough gal, but she’s got taste up her ass.”

  Poor, poor Fischer, I thought as I hung up the phone. What must it be like to have that creep for a father.

  The phone call didn’t accomplish what I’d hoped, obviously, but it made me more committed than ever to watching out for Fischer, to doing whatever I could to see that his little life had meaning.

  Chapter Twenty

  For the next seven days I was off from school for President’s Week, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Fischer, about the fact that he was spending his vacation without his parents. His mother was still in Switzerland, and his father flew down to Palm Beach for a little polo, which meant that he was left alone with Olga yet again. My heart ached for the boy.

  Speaking of boys, Bill’s sons arrived in New York for their much-anticipated visit. As he and I weren’t engaged to be married or even living together in any formal way, we didn’t think we should throw me at the kids but rather ease me into their lives, introducing me without fanfare, describing me simply as “a woman Dad enjoys spending time with.”

  “So you’re Dad’s squeeze?” said Peter, the older boy. He was not being disrespectful, just colloquial.

  That’s what you get for trying to fool kids, I laughed to myself. I should have remembered that they pick up on everything adults are feeling. He and his brother would have had to be blind not to see that Bill and I were crazy about each other.

  Bill winked at Peter and admitted that yes, I was his girlfriend, and that we had grown very close since he moved to New York.

  Peter, who at fifteen was a virtual clone of his father, with the same tall, lanky frame and dark good looks, studied me for a few seconds and said, “Cool.” I didn’t know whether he meant that I was cool or that his father’s having a girlfriend was cool, but I took the word to be a positive assessment of the situation.

  As for Michael, the twelve-year-old, he was a redhead with a sly, toothy grin—the spitting image not of Bill but of Britain’s Prince Harry. He seemed delighted that I was in the picture, but then he seemed delighted by everything. He rated Manhattan “cool” and his father’s apartment “cool” and the Hard Rock Cafe where we took them for dinner “way cool.”

  Over burgers, both boys demonstrated that they were not, in fact, monosyllabic teens and conversed easily about their school, their friends, and especially sports, which interested them more than girls, apparently. The only tricky moment came when one of them brought up their mother. Bill tensed at the mention of her name, I noticed, but recovered quickly, asking how she was and then changing the subject. Yet again, I had reason to admire him. No matter how badly his ex-wife had hurt him, he wasn’t about to poison his children against her.

  Dinner was a rousing success. I liked Peter and Michael very much and they more than tolerated me. We got along so well that when Bill announced that he had to be at the store for part of the day on Saturday instead of taking the whole day off as he’d planned, Michael asked if I’d be willing to “hang out” with them. I was thrilled by the invitation.

  I picked them up around noon, took them to lunch at Serendipity and then on to the motorcycle exhibit at the Guggenheim. As we were leaving the museum, it was beginning to snow, so I suggested we cab it over to my place and hunker down until Bill got off from work.

  I was in the kitchen, making everybody some hot chocolate, when Peter ambled in and after a few back-and-forths commented that I was nothing like his mother.

  The remark was a little unsettling, naturally, because I didn’t know whether being nothing like his mother was a plus or a minus in his eyes. But I remained the very essence of the calm, domestic goddess, stirring the chocolate into the warm milk and pouring the mixture into coffee mugs.

  “What’s your mom like?” I said casually.

  “She’s mad a lot,” said Peter.

  “Mad. Oh. Do you have any idea what she’s mad at?” I said, figuring it was standard-issue ex-wife stuff, having to do with alimony, child support, or dumper’s remorse.

  “My dad,” he replied matter-of-factly, as if the answer were obvious. “She hates the kind of life he has, and she doesn’t try to hide it. But you’re different. You don’t mind what he does.”

  The kind of life he has? What he does?

  I stood there, attempting to figure out what Peter meant and couldn’t. Why, for example, would the former Mrs. Harris be angry about what Bill did for a living? Managing a famous jewelry store wasn’t exactly a career to be ashamed of. He made good money, he was an honest, ethical businessman, and he was a loving, responsible parent. What was there to find fault with?

  “I’m sorry, Peter, but I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I said. “What is it about your father’s lifestyle that upsets your mother?”

  He cocked his head at me. “You don’t know? I mean, Dad hasn’t told you?”

>   “Told me what?” I was getting nervous now.

  “I, uh, just thought, well, since you’re his girlfriend…” Peter was clamming up, becoming tongue-tied suddenly.

  “Hasn’t told me what?” I repeated, gently but determinedly.

  “Nothing. Really.”

  Nothing, my ass.

  My mind raced as Peter slunk out of the kitchen with hot chocolates for himself and his brother. Could there be a side to Bill that he hasn’t shown me? I wondered. And if so, what sort of side is it?

  The kind of life he has…What he does.

  Peter’s words were puzzling and disturbing.

  What if Bill’s on drugs? I theorized, jumping to wild conclusions, my thoughts spinning instantly out of control. What if he’s a hopeless gambler, a religious zealot, a fetishist of some type? Yes, what if he pays hookers to chain him to the headboard and spank him silly?

  Stop it, Nancy, I commanded myself. Just cut it out. There’s a simple, innocent explanation for what Peter said. There has to be.

  I reminded myself that it’s not unusual to experience doubts about one’s beloved in the early stages of a relationship. The period is fraught with anxiety: Does he really love me? Does he really think I’m attractive? Is he who he appears to be? It’s normal, normal, normal.

  Still, I wanted desperately for things to work out between Bill and me, which meant that I did not want there to be anything seriously wrong with him. So whatever his ex-wife was angry at him about, I certainly hoped it was without merit.

  To punctuate that hope, I gave my hot chocolate a shot of bourbon and went to join the boys.

  An hour or so later, Bill showed up, surprising us with tickets to The Lion King for that very evening.

  “A long-time client of Denham’s is one of the show’s producers,” he said. “He did me a favor.”

  Great excitement filled my little apartment as we huddled together to decide what to wear to the show and where to eat before the show and whether we’d be able to get a taxi to the show, given the increasingly heavy snowfall. In other words, the conversation I intended to have with Bill, in which I would report Peter’s comments and he would immediately allay my fears, would have to wait.