by Avery Corman
“Do you like fried chicken?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
Satisfied with the exchange, he walked into his room and went to sleep.
“I just met your son.”
“Oh?”
“He wanted to know if I liked fried chicken.”
Ted began to laugh. “Do you?”
“Yes, I like fried chicken. This is quite a bit to handle.”
“It is?”
“This is not a conventional situation,” she said rather literally.
Phyllis stayed in his life for two months. She was impatient with small talk, they discussed social issues, the nation’s morality. Ted read so many magazines, he was able to be up-to-the-week on current thinking. They had evolved to an intellectual relationship with sex. Her congressman from Cleveland offered her a job in Washington. She thought the position was desirable and that it was too early in their relationship to jeopardize “an important career decision,” she said, and Ted, ambivalent about his own feelings about her, agreed. “Also, to be honest,” she told him, “I don’t think I am prepared for such an ambitious undertaking as this.” They said goodbye, kissing warmly, and promised to write or call, and neither of them did.
Ted satisfied himself that he had been able to break out of the one-night, two-night carrousel he had been on. Someone had been in his life for a couple of months. But Phyllis had pointed out to him that it could be awkward for a woman to walk into “such an ambitious undertaking as this,” with a divorced man and a little boy.
TED AND THELMA BECAME close friends. He did not have much confidence in his romantic interludes and he thought if he tried to make love to Thelma, he might gain a night and lose a friend. They both set aside ideas of becoming involved on any other level than friendship, and were there for each other, to support each other, to help each other get free for a few hours. If Ted worried, as he had begun to, that he was focused too much on the child, it was Thelma who reminded him this was inevitable—they were parents alone with their children, and Billy was an only child. As an assembled family group, they went to the playground one day, and it was a particularly difficult time. The children spent the day scrapping. “I don’t like Kim. She’s bossy.” “I don’t like Billy. He’s rough.” They argued over sand toys, apple juice, motorcycles, Ted and Thelma spending the afternoon as peacemakers. Ted took a sobbing Billy to the other side of the playground to calm him down. As he was walking across the playground, coming in the other direction was a father with his small boy.
“If you walk them out,” the man volunteered, “and take them out to the furthest ices stand, and they eat the ices there, and you walk them back, it’ll kill twenty minutes.”
Ted could not understand what the man was saying to him.
“Twenty minutes, easy, I’m telling you.”
The man was a Sunday father, putting in his time, or his wife was off shopping somewhere and would be back soon.
“I’ve got a little more than twenty minutes to kill,” Ted said.
The day concluded with Billy and Kim eventually joining forces to throw sand at a third child, whose mother started screaming at Thelma, calling her “an animal.” Billy was keyed up so high, it took a hot bath and many stories to get him to sleep. Ted wondered if he had been acting up that day or just being boisterous. Kim was capable of sitting for much longer periods, painting or coloring, than Billy, who was more random in his attention. Was it because boys and girls were different, or was it because these two particular children were different? Was it because he was hyperactive? Is he all right? Am I watching him too closely? God, I love him. Jesus, what a shitty day!
BROKEN PIECES FROM PLASTIC trucks, wooden people with splintered torsos, loose pages out of torn coloring books—Billy’s room was littered with unusable items and Ted, the Grim Reaper, was coming through on a clean-up, Billy following him, fighting over every stubby Crayola.
“By the time you’re ten, this place will look like the Collier Brothers lived in it.”
“Who?”
“Two old men and they had a room that looked like yours.”
He had been tempted to do this at a time when Billy was out, but months later Billy would be upset to discover a missing broken car.
“Out!” A windup truck that no longer wound up.
“No. I love that.”
Ted surveyed the room. It was still Collier Brothers. He decided to do it a different way. He took Billy to a hardware store and bought several clear plastic boxes. Somehow it came to $14 just to organize part of a child’s room.
“Now, try to keep all the crayons in the crayon box and all the little cars in the little-car box.”
“Daddy, if I’m using the crayons, the box will be empty. How will I know it’s the crayon box?”
They were into Zen crayons.
“I’ll put labels on the boxes.”
“I can’t read.”
Ted could not resist laughing.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It isn’t funny. You will read one day. Until then, I’ll tape one of whatever is supposed to be inside the box, outside the box, and then you’ll know what’s supposed to be inside the box. Did you follow that?”
“Oh, sure. Good idea.”
“You’re the top pussycat, pussycat.”
On the floor, on his knees, combining three different sets of crayons into the crayon box, he had an insight, like an apple or a Crayola that landed on his head. Clean it up! Combine!
The next morning he was waiting outside Jim O’Connor’s office with his idea.
THE COMPANY HE WORKED for published a magazine in each of several leisure areas—photography, skiing, boating, tennis, and travel. It had suddenly occurred to Ted that they could combine all of their magazines into one package. This would be an across-the-board buy for advertisers at a special rate.
“It’s so logical. We could still go on selling each book just as we’ve been doing. Except we’d have this new package on the side.”
“With a name.”
“We could call it anything we want. The Leisure Package.”
“Ted, I’d like to tell you it’s brilliant, but it’s not.”
“I thought it was.”
“What it is—is perfect. Perfect! What the hell have we been doing here? Why didn’t anybody think of it? Perfect, but not brilliant.”
“I’ll take a perfect.”
He had never seen Jim O’Connor respond to an idea with such enthusiasm, which O’Connor carried on to the research department, which was put to work that morning on statistics, and to the promotion department, which was to, come up with a campaign immediately for The Leisure Package. Within a week, a sales presentation had been prepared for Ted to use on exploratory sales calls for the company’s new advertising package, within two weeks a rate card and promotional brochure had been distributed to their sales list, and within three weeks ads began appearing in the advertising trade press selling The Leisure Package. A company that had been struggling along was now using this new sales concept as a sign of vitality. The response at advertising agencies was positive. Ted was taken off the travel magazine he worked on to do the selling of the new concept. He was receiving promises of revised advertising schedules and in several cases, orders for ads. The publisher and owner of the company, a dapper little man named Mo Fisher, who was seen as a presence moving in and out of the office with golf clubs and $400 suits stopped Ted in the hall. His last words to Ted had been several years before when Ted first joined the company. He said, “Good to have you aboard,” and had not spoken to him since. “Nice going,” he said, and kept on walking to the golf course.
IN THE LATE FALL in New York, the city was lovely—cool, clear weather, people promenading, the trees in the parks were doing their best to be autumnal. On Saturdays and Sundays Ted took long bicycle rides with Billy behind him in the seat through Central Park, stopping off at the zoo and at playgrounds. Billy was four and a
half and had grown out of a baby-clothes look and was now wearing authentic little big-boy pants, jerseys with football numbers, a ski jacket and ski hat. With his dark saucer eyes and small nose, and now in his big-boy clothes, Ted thought him to be the most beautiful child he had ever seen. Ted had his successes at work during the week, and on the weekends he was with Billy for their autumn days outdoors, the city becoming the setting for this love affair of a father with his little boy.
THE NEW ADVERTISING CAMPAIGN was working. At a time when two of the other salesmen were told to look for pink slips for Christmas, Ted was promised a $1500 bonus. On one of his sales calls to a new agency on his list, he met a secretary, a gamin wearing dungarees and a sweat shirt. She was twenty years old and he had not gone out with anyone that young virtually since he was twenty years old. She lived in a studio apartment in a walk-up in Greenwich Village and he was faintly surprised to discover anyone still did that. Angelica Coleman. She walked through his life with sandals and insouciance. Going out with an older man who had a child was “experiential.” The experience was “spacey.” She was going to “get my act together” in New York and “do the business thing,” and why didn’t he want to smoke dope?
“I can’t. I mean, I used to, now and then. But I can’t now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, what if I have a bad experience? I’ve got to stay intact. I’ve got a kid at home.”
“Profound.”
On a rainy Sunday, she stopped at Ted’s apartment without calling, wheeling in her ten-speed bicycle, and got down on the floor with Billy and played with him for an hour. He had never seen anyone relate to Billy so openly. With her wet hair, and wearing one of Ted’s sweat shirts, she looked even younger than usual. He was in a time machine. He was dating a camp counselor from the girls’ side of Camp Tamarac who had come over for rainy-day-play in his bunk.
After a few weeks, he decided they did not have enough in common “experientially.” It was a long way from the lyrics of Oscar Hammerstein to David Bowie.
He phoned to tell her.
“Angie, I’m just too old for you.”
“You’re not that old.”
“I’ll be forty.”
“Forty. Wow!”
TED RECEIVED HIS BONUS at work and to celebrate he made a reservation at Jorgés, a new, expensive restaurant. He walked in with Billy of the combined crayons.
“Are you the two for Kramer?” the maître d’ said disdainfully.
“We are.”
“We don’t have a high chair.”
“I don’t sit in a high chair,” Billy protested in behalf of himself.
The maître d’ led them to a not very desirable table near the kitchen, turning them over to an equally disdainful waiter. Ted ordered a vodka martini and a ginger ale for Billy. Another waiter passed by en route to a table with a giant broiled lobster.
“What’s that?” Billy asked, apprehensively.
“Lobster.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You don’t have to have it.”
“Lobster from the water?”
“Yes.”
“People eat it?”
This was a difficult issue, the origin of food. That lamb chops came from little lambs, and hamburgers from animals that looked like Bessie the Cow, and if a child got on that track, who could predict when he might eat again? Ted recited suitable items on the menu—steak, lamb chops—and on the beat, Billy wanted to know where they came from and immediately lost his appetite.
“I’ll have a sirloin, rare. And a grilled-cheese sandwich.”
“No grilled cheese, sir,” the waiter said in a typical I’m-an-actor-I-don’t-have-to-do-this-for-a-living New York waiter voice.
“Tell the chef. I don’t care what it costs. Make one.”
The maître d’ appeared.
“Sir, this is not a diner.”
“The child is a vegetarian.”
“Then let him eat vegetables.”
“He doesn’t eat vegetables.”
“Then how can he be a vegetarian?”
“He doesn’t have to be. He’s four and a half.”
To quiet the lunatic and keep order in his restaurant, the maître d’ saw that the order was forthcoming. At the table, they chatted about nursery school events, Billy enjoyed watching grownups eat, and they savored the celebration dinner, Billy in a special-for-the-occasion shirt and tie, sitting on his knees, the only person of his height on the premises.
As they were leaving, Ted, delighted with the meal, turned to the maître d,’ who had nearly fainted at the sight of the chocolate ice cream Billy had for dessert making its way off Billy’s chin onto the white tablecloth.
“You shouldn’t be so rude to royalty,” Ted said, his arm around Billy, proudly leading his boy out.
“Really?” the maître d’ said, momentarily uncertain.
“He’s the Infant King of Spain.”
ELEVEN
“MERRY CHRISTMAS, TED. IT’S JOANNA.”
“Joanna?”
“I’m coming to New York. I’m on my way through to visit my parents. I want to see Billy.”
She spoke quickly in a flat tone.
“How are you?” he said, completely off-stride.
“I’m fine,” brushing his question aside. “I want to see him. I’ll be in New York Saturday. I’d rather not come to the apartment if it’s all the same to you.”
In her tone of voice and choice of words, she was making it clear. This was not a phone call of reconciliation.
“You want to see Billy?”
“I’ll be at the Americana. Can you bring him there at ten A.M., Saturday? I’ll spend the day with him, take him around, sightsee. I’ll have him back by his bedtime.”
“I don’t know.”
“Why? Are you going to be away?”
“No. I just don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“It could be disruptive.”
“Come on, Ted. I’m not the Wicked Witch of the West. I’m the boy’s mother. I want to see him.”
“I really have to think about it.”
“Ted, don’t be a shmuck.”
“Oh, that’s persuasive.”
“I didn’t mean that. Please, Ted. Let me see him.”
“I’ll have to sleep on it.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He had a consultation with Thelma, who confirmed what did not require much confirmation for Ted—that Joanna obviously was not seeking to return to his arms. As to the wisdom of her seeing Billy, Thelma was thinking more of Joanna. “The price of independence,” she said. “It must be rough.”
Ted attempted to clarify his thoughts by placing his exact position. He called the lawyer.
“Do you think she’ll kidnap him?” Shaunessy asked.
“I wasn’t thinking of that.”
“It’s been done.”
“I don’t know what’s on her mind. I doubt kidnaping.”
“Well, you’re within your legal rights to oppose her on seeing the kid. And she’s within her rights to get a court order to see him. A judge would grant it. Mother, Christmas. You’d never win. On a practical basis, I’d say if you don’t think there’s a risk of a kidnap, you’d save yourself a lot of hassle to just give her the day with him.”
Was it better for Billy to see his mother or better for him not to? Should he force her to go to court and make her work for it? If he did, he would be harassing her at the expense of stirring up his insides. Would she possibly kidnap him? When Joanna called, he put the question directly to her.
“You wouldn’t be thinking of kidnapping him, would you?”
“What? Ted, you can stay twenty paces behind all day, if you want to. You can sneak around corners and tail me. I’m coming into New York for a few lousy hours, I’m going on to Boston, and then I’m going back to California. And that’s the whole deal. I just want to go to F.A.O. Schwarz at Christmas with my son and buy him
a goddamn toy! What do I have to do, beg?”
“Okay, Joanna. Saturday, the Americana at ten.”
Ted informed Billy that his mommy was coming to New York and was going to spend Saturday with him.
“My mommy?”
“Yes, Billy.”
The child grew pensive.
“Maybe she’ll buy me something,” he said.
Ted took extra care with Billy that morning, brushed his hair, dressed him in his best shirt and pants, and made certain he, too, was wearing his best—no frayed edges here. They arrived at the Americana, and promptly at ten, Joanna emerged from the elevator. Ted felt weak. She looked stunning. She was wearing a white coat, a bright scarf on her head and had an attractive midwinter tan. The girls at parties, the gamins in sweat shirts, all his carrousel riders were also-rans against her.
Joanna did not look at Ted. She went straight for Billy, kneeling in front of him. “Oh, Billy.” She hugged him to her, cradling his head beneath her chin, and she started to cry. Then she stood up to appraise him.
“Hello, Billy boy.”
“Hello, Mommy.”
For the first time, she turned to Ted.
“Thank you. I’ll see you here at six.”
Ted just nodded.
“Come,” she said. “We’ll have a nice day,” and she took Billy by the hand and led him out of the hotel lobby.
Ted was anxious all day. If she kept her word and after seeing the boy left immediately for points elsewhere, would this be jarring to Billy—would he feel lifted up and then dropped again? What right had she to make such an invasion? Every legal right, he conceded. On edge, he went to a double feature, window shopped, and was back in the hotel lobby forty minutes early, waiting.
Joanna returned with Billy a few minutes before six. The boy looked tired from a long day, but was smiling.
“Look, Daddy,” he said, holding up a box of plastic figures. “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.”
“Weebles.”
“My mommy bought them for me.”
Joanna took a last look at Billy and then closed her eyes, as if the sight of him were too dazzling for her.
“See you, Billy,” she said, hugging him. “Be a good boy now.”
“See you, Mommy. Thank you for the weebles.”