“I am so, so sorry,” I said, kneeling down and wiping her tears with my sleeve. I hugged her tiny body close to mine, stroked her matted hair, and whispered, “I think we have a change of clothes in the car. Let’s go and get cleaned up and then we’ll come right back. And I promise—this time I truly promise—I will play with you.”
I left Phoebe’s wet clothes next to my phone in the backseat, and together we returned to the playground. This time I was going to keep my promise to Phoebe and for once I didn’t care how Marco felt about it.
A little boy who looked about Phoebe’s age started on the swing next to us. “Higher, Mommy, higher!” Phoebe shouted, which prompted the boy to say to his mom, “Higher, más alto, Mamá!”
“Looks like we have a little competition here,” I said to the mom, who was wearing jeans and a royal-blue fleece almost the exact same color as mine. “This high flier here is Phoebe. And I’m Jessica.”
She smiled warmly. “I am Lupita.”
Lupita’s hair was pulled back in a low ponytail except for a few dark spirals that bounced around her face with each push. “Hold on tight, Samuel!” she said, and he pumped his legs and flew up higher still. I tried to explain to Phoebe how to pump her legs, and before long she started to catch on and Lupita and I fell into an easy rhythm of chatting and pushing the kids.
Lupita told me she had been a high school history teacher in Mexico, near Monterrey, and was working toward her PhD when the violence of the drug wars escalated and she fled to the States to join her brother and his family in Suffern, about three years ago. But when she arrived, she found out her teaching degree would not transfer and was now attending SUNY Rockland Community College to repeat all of her undergrad credits on her way to becoming recertified. She hoped one day to continue on to graduate school here, but she wasn’t certain it would be possible. For the moment, she was working at her brother’s restaurant to support her studies and Samuel, who would be turning four in the fall. No mention of a husband, and I didn’t ask.
Phoebe and Samuel finished with the swings and sat on the edge of the sandbox. Samuel was taking plastic dinosaurs out of a small backpack and showing them to Phoebe one by one. “This is a triceratops,” he said, and set it carefully on the sand in front of her. “And this one is a baby apatosaurus.”
“He’s so bright,” I said. “Where is he in school?”
“Sometimes he goes to the day care at the church, and my sister-in-law’s mother looks after him when I am at work or at class. And next year he can start pre-K.”
“Mommy, look, a stegosaurus!” Phoebe exclaimed. We hadn’t been to the dinosaur exhibit at the Museum of Natural History in ages and I was astonished she was able recall its name.
“Have you been to the Museum of Natural History in the city?” I asked Lupita.
“No. But we have read about it.”
“Oh, you have to—Samuel would love it. We used to live a few blocks from there and it was practically our second home. Not many people know but there’s this great spot downstairs, the Discovery Room. It’s a hands-on area where they give the kids archeology tools and aprons and have docents to help explain what they ‘find’ digging in the sand. And then after you can look at beetles and butterflies and bees and other creatures under a microscope.”
“Dead ones, I hope,” she chuckled.
Aaron and I had loved taking Phoebe to the museum, even if she was too young to absorb it all. Sometimes we’d go twice in a weekend to say hi to the dinosaurs and African elephants and half-zebra okapi, all displayed in the same still-life tableaus as I remembered from my visits as a child. And my favorite, the big blue whale, suspended over our heads in the beautifully renovated Hall of Ocean Life. Every time I stood underneath its giant peaceful body I marveled at its gentle greatness and how much there was in the world for Phoebe yet to explore.
I felt sad all of a sudden as I realized we never took Madison to see the whale, at least not out of her infant stroller. We’d moved before we had a chance to show her the walruses and the giant squid—before we had a chance to spin with her until we were dizzy like we had with Phoebe, pretending we were airplanes on the wide-open carpeted floor.
The sun started to set behind the mountains and I could feel the temperature take a dip. Phoebe then said what she usually felt around four thirty p.m.: “Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“Why don’t you come to the restaurant with us for a snack?” Lupita suggested.
Phoebe peered up at me with big eyes. “Please, Mommy?”
We still had about an hour before I had to get home to relieve Noreen—it was a little random but Phoebe was having such a good time so I said, “Why not?” and we followed behind Lupita’s car to downtown Suffern and found a spot on Lafayette Avenue near the movie theater.
I had walked on Lafayette many times before but had never noticed the cozy restaurant with gold tablecloths and a sign on the window that read, Se Habla Español. Lupita gave a kiss on each cheek to the hostess and introduced me to her brother who worked there, and shortly thereafter the kids were munching on cheese quesadillas and I was sipping a cup of strong and delicious Mexican coffee, feeling warm and comfortable. Phoebe looked positively smitten as she and Samuel leafed through a dinosaur sticker book together.
I asked Lupita about the classes she was taking—two this semester, one about child psychology and another on the history of Rockland County.
“You know, we’ve lived here almost a year and I’m embarrassed to admit I know practically nothing about Suffern.” From my online research back at the time of our move, I remembered that George Washington had once slept in Suffern and this was its claim to fame.
“That is more than most people know. This block we are on right now was actually an important crossroads back during the Revolutionary War. And besides Washington, other famous people from that time ate and stayed at John Suffern’s Tavern. Look at the street names: Lafayette Avenue for the Marquis de Lafayette, of course Washington Avenue. Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr were both here too, in the years before their duel. Sorry, I know I’m probably boring you with all of this.”
“Not at all.” I loved being right here on the same street as our nation’s forefathers, part of history’s living continuum.
“My history professor is visiting this year from Ithaca College. His specialty is in early American politics and he asked me to help him with research for a paper he’s working on. I’ve been spending many months with my head in the library and Suffern’s museum in the municipal building around the corner. Sifting through old books and property records, reading about all of the people who passed through here and lived here two hundred years ago.”
“What’s the paper about?”
“How politicians, even back then, maligned their opponents in the media to influence public opinion and win elections. Back in the early days, they used newspapers and political pamphlets, and today there are of course more choices, with TV and the Internet. Bashing your opponent worked then, and it still works now.”
“Gossip always sells papers.” I told Lupita how I worked with the media, and although not in politics, I was very much aware of how the ebbs and flows of eyeballs affected the market. And, I admitted, I still preferred to read the actual newspaper on my train ride into the city; despite being the recipient of more than a few curious stares, I liked the feel and the turn of the pages, and I liked seeing the full-page ads we placed, which still worked to sell theater tickets.
“I have been reviewing the case study from back in 1804 when Alexander Hamilton used the paper he founded—then the New York Evening Post, now the New York Post—to slander Aaron Burr to try to prevent him from winning the New York gubernatorial race. There was much bad blood between them: years before, Burr had won a senate seat from Hamilton’s father-in-law and that is when their feud started. Hamilton said Burr was absent of any moral fiber; Burr publicly stated that Hamilton was not fit to be Washington’s secretary of the treasury. In fact, the wo
rds that were ultimately printed in the Post and other papers of the time, whether or not they were true, directly led to their infamous duel.”
“The Post has certainly done a good job since then staying true to its gossip roots,” I said. “Have you seen Hamilton on Broadway?”
“I have heard of it, but no, I have not.”
“Oh, you would love it. It’s all about the Hamilton-Burr feud, but it uses rap to tell the story in this very cool and contemporary way. It’s been a huge, huge hit—sold out for ages—and has completely infiltrated pop culture too. That’s an incredibly rare thing for a musical to do. Most people couldn’t care less about what’s on Broadway these days.”
“I have always wanted to see a Broadway show. Maybe Hamilton could count as research,” she said. “My professor has a hunch that Hamilton and Burr were connected in some other way through Suffern; the records I have found so far show they might have actually both been here at the same time. If only I could find the time to lock myself in a room for a week with nothing else to do but research. Unfortunately, most of the documents are not yet digitized, and it is very slow work. But as I know you know, there are many things more important than work vying for our attention.” She smiled and tousled Samuel’s hair. “It’s hard to focus sometimes but my professor said he will give me coauthorship of the paper, which could be very important for me, to submit it to the journals and perhaps have a published piece.”
I admired Lupita’s drive and passion. “I know you will get it done. And I want a signed copy when it’s published!”
A text from Noreen popped up on my phone: R u coming home soon? We were forty-five minutes past the time I’d promised—whoops—I had been so engrossed in Lupita’s story I had completely lost track of the clock.
“I wish we could stay but I am so sorry, we have to get home for the sitter. Phoebe, it’s time,” I announced, and felt just as disappointed to be leaving as Phoebe looked. “Maybe we can meet up at the playground again next week?” And sometime soon take a trip to the museum, I thought; even though we had just met them I could somehow imagine us exploring the halls together, and with Madison along this time too.
“Here,” Samuel said, holding out the stegosaurus figurine for Phoebe.
“That is so sweet, you don’t have to do that,” I said, but Phoebe was already clutching the dinosaur.
“Thank you,” Phoebe replied, without any prompting.
“We promise to take good care of him and will return it the next time we see you,” I added. “Hopefully soon.”
Lupita and I exchanged contact information and I held onto Phoebe’s hand on the short walk back to the car. The gaslight streetlamps lining the block were now glowing, each with a banner proclaiming the village’s motto, Tiens a la Vérité—Hold onto the Truth—1773, sketched in a blue and white crest.
Hold onto what truth? I wondered.
Like Lupita had said, the papers, the news, the gossip, even history—who knew what was actually true. It was so refreshing to discuss something other than the usual daily dribble for once, to stop and think about how the facts we think we know are woven through malice and motives and the passage of time. Headlines and scripts, even dinosaur fossils: we never really know for sure what is truth, what is fiction. So much is written and posted and printed to suit the powerful, the rich, and the influential, even today. I always prided myself on reading the Post with a grain of salt, but I so rarely took the time to question the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal. The stories on the eleven o’clock news.
I clicked Phoebe’s car seat latch tight and could feel the past swirling around us in the early-evening chill. Washington, Lafayette, Burr, and Hamilton—names from two hundred years ago, and yet we’re still talking about them, still wondering about the truths and lies and secrets that might be hidden in the streets and sidewalks of Suffern, still smiling through Hamilton’s ten-dollar visage.
* * *
I jumped as the phone on my desk rang. It was Sybil. “Can you come in here a minute?” she asked. I walked down the long hallway to her corner office, wondering if I was about to be berated for dropping off the conference call last week. I had left Marco a message apologizing but hadn’t heard back. An emergency, I’d tell her, I would tell her Phoebe had a medical emergency and that’s why I had to go.
“Have a seat,” she said, glancing up from her computer. Sybil sat at a big glass desk with floor-to-ceiling windows behind her that presented a breathtaking view of Times Square. She and her partner Larry Glancy had come a long way from the early days of their budding Broadway advertising agency run out of a tiny back office in a theater off Eighth Avenue. Twenty years and almost fifty employees later, they were at the top of the industry, but new competitors were constantly sprouting up, eager to snatch their clients. While I waited for her to finish typing, I eyed the photos on her credenza—arm in arm with the mayor; backstage with Matthew Broderick; on a boat with her husband and two grown sons. As long as she doesn’t take away my Fridays, I thought nervously. No matter what, I had to protect my Fridays at home.
“I would like to discuss the marketing presentation today for Marco.” She took off her glasses and placed them on her desk. “Are you ready to nail this?”
Sybil wasn’t the kind of boss who usually found the time or need for a pre-presentation pep talk. I wondered what else was going on.
“It’s all under control. I triple-checked the deck this morning,” I lied; the untouched draft sat on my desk. “You and Larry will kick it off, and then I’ll take everyone through the research and the details of the plan. We’ll blow him away.”
“Good, that’s all I wanted to hear.” She looked back down at her computer, my signal that we were done. As I stood up to leave she asked, “So, how are the kids?”
Here it comes, I thought. Sybil very rarely asked me about my children. She was one of those highly successful women who built her career by working nonstop, well before the conception of work-life balance.
“They’re great, thanks for asking,” I said warily, but then added without thinking, “I think Madison’s starting up a little early with her terrible twos.”
“I remember those days,” she said with an inward smile. “I can’t believe mine are all grown up already. It all goes so fast—enjoy it while you can.”
“I will,” I said, as a fast-forward filmstrip of Phoebe and Madison from bottles, to braces, to bridal gowns raced through my head. Way too fast, I thought, and could feel myself actually start to swoon. There was no way I was going to let myself pass out in front of Sybil. She’d probably think I was pregnant again. Which would have been medically impossible given the state of Aaron and my sex life lately. “Let me know if you need anything else,” I said quickly before turning for the door.
What did that mean, Enjoy it while you can? Was that some code signaling her plans to let me go?
Back in my office, I racked my brain for what could be up. My review was in a month—technically I was up for a VP spot, but I thought a promotion was doubtful. Was it possible she was thinking I wasn’t keeping up?
No way, I told myself. All of the shows on my docket were doing great, and if anything, I had been going overboard lately to prove I could still get it all done. Plus, she needed me—I was the point person for our top two accounts, and now Marco. But ever since becoming a mom, in the back of my mind I worried there would come a day Sybil would call me into her office to tell me she actually did notice all of those times I was on the phone making pediatrician appointments and running out early, that my head wasn’t fully in my work the way it used to be and that she had hired someone else, someone younger and unencumbered. If I had to defend myself, could I prove I was still delivering?
I tried to make sure I attended all of the important staff meetings. But I had skipped most of the Broadway League’s last road conference, the place where new relationships with producers were spawned and incubated, networking in the hallways before lunchtime group sales panels
and schmoozing over cocktails at Joe Allen. I knew it was important to be attentive to our clients—and until recently, I’d always felt I had that piece covered. But in Sybil’s eyes, new business was even more valuable. If she was questioning my worth, bringing in more clients would be my only insurance. Finding and cultivating new business would take a ton of extra work, work I didn’t even know if I was capable of. I’d have to scour my list of contacts and set up breakfast and lunch meetings with the few people I knew at production companies; spend a lot more weeknights in off-off-Broadway theaters, sitting through tedious hours of new shows working their kinks out in development.
Before Phoebe was born, I used to love being the first at the workshops and previews, sitting up front in comped house seats with a backstage pass granting me stage door access after the show. Now, whenever invites came up for tickets or after-work cocktails, unless it was absolutely required I opted to hop on the train to get home instead, for story time and kisses good night.
Hop, jump—more like sprint. Going in the morning was usually okay, but coming home was turning into a nightmare. State budget cuts had put a serious crater in my perfect express schedule and now if I missed the 5:38 the next three trains were all locals, and my as-advertised less-than-an-hour commute was now turning out to be more like an hour and twenty. Every day around 5:15 I found myself debating whether or not I could speed through the copy in the eight minutes I had remaining before I would miss that train; copy I knew I should proofread at least one more time before passing it along to the art department if the ad had a chance of going live online that night. More often than not I went with it as is, with a note to call me if they had any questions, and then I’d run down the subway stairs crossing my fingers an A or C would be waiting on the tracks with its doors sliding open so I wouldn’t miss my golden 5:38, the only train that would get me home for mommy time.
There was no way Sybil was going to promote me with that level of sloppy oversight. But I hoped she’d also noticed all the times the producers called with their inevitable late-afternoon emergencies—Quick, change the headline and the photo for the taxi tops. And it was my job to be at their service—Sure, we can do that, we can absolutely make those changes—and then I’d frantically scramble to figure out who could call in a favor with the ad rep to extend the deadline and which designer could stay late to finish it and then e-mail it back for final approval, watching the clock tick past six and sometimes past seven, and by the time I finally pulled into the driveway my heart hung heavy, knowing my children were already long asleep.
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