“Actually, Sue, I’m glad I ran into you.” I pulled my wallet out. “I’ve been meaning to pay you back. Thank you so much for your help.”
There. I’d made restitution, been vindicated in the neglectful-mother-of-the-year sweepstakes, and paid her back without betraying even a flicker of how painful it was to part with those crisp twenty-dollar bills.
“No problem. So what happened with your friends?” She was bright with security and niceness and good health and grooming and curiosity. She made me feel ancient, gray, drab, careworn, cast off. You name it. “Are they pregnant?”
“Actually, I don’t know. She—they—haven’t told me.”
Sue put the money in her coat pocket. I almost cried at how casually she could treat it. “Considering what I’ve heard about the year-end forecast for bonuses at Bowers & Flaum, I should probably be charging you major interest.”
I smiled. What else could I do?
“I know Rick’s running around working his butt off to deserve that bonus, but Tim said just the other day to tell him not to be such a stranger—they miss him at squash.” I felt the cold wind of she knows down my neck. “Of course then I told Tim not to be such a stranger and it might be nice if we saw him at home occasionally.”
I didn’t want to be having this conversation or going to the meeting. I wanted to be…where? It took me a minute. Home, in front of the computer, working on the next installment. It was the strangest realization. The kids were up ahead. Jared was probably telling Isabella that he hadn’t had a bath in a month or that I made him sweep chimneys after school.
“Do you ever think about going back to work, Sue?”
“Why?” she looked at me. As her clear, blue eyes fixed on my blotchy complexion, I could actually feel the circles under my eyes. “Do you?”
“Sometimes.”
She looked at Isabella and the boys walking ahead. Isabella and Jared were laughing at something Noah had said, probably bathroom-related.
“Being there for my kids has been much more rewarding,” she said firmly.
“But you had such a great career,” I said. “Meteoric, I called it in my article.”
“Yes”—she was still staring at the kids—“had being the operative word.”
I caught a waft of the fifty-cent coffee from the cart at the corner.
“It’s all who you know in PR,” Sue said. “I don’t have the contacts anymore.”
We caught up with the kids and crossed Court Street, then they took off ahead again.
“And it’s not like I don’t have enough going on,” she said as we headed up the front steps behind the kids. “Being PTA president is so time consuming, I can’t even think about anything else. Speaking of which, this should be one hell of a meeting. See you inside.”
“Fish sticks!” Sue was handing out copies of the London Times article. It had a sidebar detailing the horrifying array of chemicals found in everyday foods.
Ken and I, as the Food Committee cochairs, were supposed to be heading things up. His wafting Polo was making my eyes burn and my stomach roil. Did they still sell that stuff, or was he hoarding a bottle from 1985?
Sue’s voice was shaking. “Sure, they look like child-friendly servings of healthy omega-three-bearing fish, but do you know what they really are?”
This was obviously either rhetorical or a Very Important Question. And since no one wanted to answer either one incorrectly, it was met with silence.
“A three inch by one inch cocktail of organochlorines, polychlorinated biphenyls, brominated flame retardants, artificial musks, and organotins!”
“And they’re rolled in white bread crumbs and fried!” someone said.
“And not in organic olive oil,” Ken added.
“And they’re serving them”—Betsy was doing drama— “with ketchup!”
The conference room erupted into a babble of startled side conversations at this hitherto unknown but horrifying fact. I closed my eyes.
“Cassie!” When I opened them, Sue was brandishing a ketchup label. “For your Food Committee folder. I think nutrition labels would be helpful.”
Was it really necessary for me to mention that I did not have a Food Committee folder as such? Once again I blinked at Sue, who increasingly seemed to belong to a whole different world than the one I now inhabited. Actually, she did. One of a husband who came home every night and a secure financial future.
I took the label as Ken said, “We need to make it clear that we’re reasonable—we, as parents, do recognize the value of fish as part of a balanced—”
“Except insofar as practicing vegetarian and/or vegan children are concerned,” Arlene Rundgren said over him.
“What about overfishing!” someone unidentified yelled from the back.
“St. Stanley’s is going 100 percent organic within two years,” Ailsa Grandman said.
Arlene frowned. “Does anyone know who St. Stanley is?”
“Patron saint of college admissions,” Sue cracked.
“Not a real saint at all?” Arlene, herself the patron saint of earnestness, sounded depressed.
“Depends on your religion,” Sue said.
“In order to dispel any perception of negativity, we might want to suggest some alternative methods of fish preparation,” Ken suggested. “I’ll kick things off: Robert likes a filet of had-dock grilled with a dash of paprika.”
My cell phone rang. “Hello?” I whispered.
“Cassie.” Charlotte said. “Are you in the middle of one of those thrilling activities that make up your days?”
“Sort of, yeah.” I looked up. Sue was giving me the hairy eyeball.
“I won’t keep you. Do you think you can get me another entry? The momentum’s really good right now. We decided it would be great if you could be sporadic, like update two or three days in a row and then go a few days.”
“Farmed salmon won’t be tolerated,” Betsy Strauss was saying.
“Can I call you back? I have to go take notes on the fish stick crisis,” I whispered.
“Cassie?” Sue looked really aggrieved about the me-being-on-the-phone thing.
I didn’t blame her. It was rude, but it irritated me that she couldn’t have any conception of what it was like to be caught between two worlds.
“Before coming here this morning,” Arlene said, “I took the liberty of discussing this crisis with Saskia, my nutritionist, and she said to me, ‘Arlene, you can’t be complacent about ketchup!’ And frankly, I think that should be our rallying cry.”
“We Can’t Be Complacent About Ketchup.” Betsy frowned. “I like it. Although I think it needs a tiny bit of tweaking. No Ketchup Complacency For Us?”
“WCBCAK?” Ken suggested. “NKCFU?”
“Cannot,” Sue’s eyes were closed. “The impact, the rhythm, it works better with cannot than can’t.”
“We can-Not be complacent about ketchup.” Betsy was beaming.
“Have you been reading it on the site?” Charlotte asked.
“Not really.” I felt like everyone was looking at me whispering into the phone. “It makes me feel squeamish to think about it.”
“You’re getting comments, people are responding like they get you. Much to my surprise, they seem to like the navel gazing. I think the key is to keep it unexpected, mix the frivolous with the serious.”
The squeamishness was shot through with a spike of excitement at the thought of comments. The blog wasn’t falling into empty space. How weird.
“It’s time to throw something lurid into the mix.” Knowing what was coming, I closed my eyes. Unfortunately I could still hear. “Let’s get you to that orgy.”
“Charlotte, I really—” I was whispering.
“In our house we find a dash of soy livens up a piece of fish nicely,” Ken said.
“It won’t be bad, Cassie. It’s just kind of like watching porn.”
“I don’t”—I dropped my voice further and cupped my hand around the phone—“watch porn. Have
you been to one?”
“Nope.” She sounded cheerful. “For fuck’s sake, what are those people yammering about? Did I hear some woman shrieking about ketchup? Is that what you’re reduced to? Actually having a meeting about ketchup?”
“Cochairing, actually,” I said. “From which duties you are distracting me.”
“I certainly hope so. I’d rather chew my own arm off, and I am not kidding.”
“Teriyaki sauce is a better choice sodium-wise,” Tierney Leblanc said.
“Good for you,” I said to Charlotte. “I can kind of see your point.”
“Oh, and by the way, I talked them into upping the money, still not a lot, but more.”
I wanted to cry with happiness. “I think I might be in love with you.” I said it just a little too loud. Ken gave me a strange look.
“Save that for the blog on same-sex dating,” Charlotte suggested. “Everyone does it now. You’re no one if you haven’t done at least some girl-on-girl kissing.”
“Tamari’s even better,” Arlene said.
“So they say,” Ailsa said darkly.
Charlotte hung up.
“Most kids love aioli,” Betsy said.
I laughed. I assumed she was joking, OK?
Betsy was looking put out. “I guess I don’t understand what’s funny about that. Do your boys not like aioli?” Her voice was stiff.
“They would have to try it to know that,” I admitted.
She frowned. “I’ve always considered it my duty as a parent to broaden my children’s culinary horizons to include representation of other cultures.”
“They like spaghetti,” I said, but things were saved from getting nasty by Laura Spicer raising her hand and announcing that she would like to talk about bread.
Afterwards, Randy grabbed me. “Do you have time for coffee?”
“A quick one. I have to get home and”—I looked around and lowered my voice—“blog about being sent to an orgy.”
She shuddered.
In Starbucks she said, “I gave notice at work. Josh and I talked last night, but I wavered. Then I decided this morning, right smack in the middle of the discussion about genetically modified wheat, to just do it. See?” She held up her BlackBerry. “This thing does come in handy sometimes.”
Even though I’d known she was thinking about it, I was stunned. I’d known Randy since Owen was two weeks old, and she’d always had a restless mind. I just couldn’t picture her contentedly doing the domestic thing, but I wanted her to be happy, so I hugged her. “Congratulations, Ran. I’m glad if you feel good about it.”
She slid her BlackBerry into her bag. “It’ll take me a week or so to clean up loose ends, but then I can really concentrate on what I need to. I just hope it works.”
I hugged her again. “I know.”
Being Randy, the melancholy was gone, instantly. “So I never knew Laura had such a rye fixation. Can you believe she actually did a nutritional cost/benefit analysis on different kinds of bread?”
I gave her a look. “Why do you sound admiring?”
“Not admiring exactly.” She tucked the pages into her bag with the BlackBerry. “But, you know, once I leave my fulfilling, challenging, and stimulating job and I have nothing to do all day other than inject myself with hormones, I can see the possibility of developing an appreciation for this kind of thing.”
www.carpoolconfidential.blogspot.com
I’m at Trudy Bonham’s big emergency meeting. I can’t, of course, disclose the topic, other than to say it is, indeed, big. So I will once again substitute the ever-handy, all-purpose transfat-laden snack cookie.
From the start, the meeting has taken on the tone of a gathering of that modern-day New York equivalent of a lynch mob—a group of private-school parents unhappy about something.
“No more,” Trudy’s voice rises to the rafters, like Jerry Falwell preaching at the Astrodome.
Hallelujah, Lord!
A collective murmur swells as ripples of shock and awe run through the room.
“We must stop this. We will stop it.”
Amen, Brother.
“No more hydrogenated fats!”
I close my eyes. I don’t fit any more. If I think of my life as a puzzle, the upside is that I might eventually with some elbow grease and diligence put it back together. The down is my husband has clearly run off with half a box worth of critical pieces and the picture is never going to look like the one on the box again.
The conversation swirls around me. My stomach is clenched at the thought that I might not be able to afford to send my children here next year. In addition to dealing with the almost-certain psychosis of their father, they’ll have to leave this nice, safe nest they’ve been in since preschool. I only hope the house doesn’t get repossessed too.
A few months ago I would not only have been participating in this but participating with gusto. My children are being fed trans-fats! Now it seems inconceivable that any of this could matter all that much. I know, that as these things do, the crisis will pass. If I’m lucky, if my life plays out well going forward, one day the insignificant will again seem significant. I will care about this again.
In the meantime, I’m preoccupied with orgy etiquette. Chapter number two in my introduction to the real world is apparently going to require my attendance at one. Frankly, I’m wondering why. I mean, who goes to orgies? None of the single people I know, that’s for sure. Not even the ones who are encouraging (i.e., forcing) me to go for the sake of this blog. They’ll all be sitting home in their jammies watching reruns of The Office while I’m in some seedy club watching accountants and people who probably wear earth shoes in real life getting it on in public.
Why? And would you do it? Can I get a little feedback on this, please?
24
I’m Your Man (or Woman)
Jared’s teacher Trina was possibly the nicest person I’d ever met.
“Cassie,” she said the next morning as she sat down in the cafeteria and handed me a cup of coffee, “I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but is everything OK at home?”
“Sure,” I said, as chirpily as I was able.
“I’m asking because Jared’s been…not himself lately.” Then came the laundry list: withdrawn and aggressive, getting upset easily, sucking his thumb, having a hard time with transitions, seeking attention both positive and negative. At least the attention-seeking part explained his Dickensian-misery behavior.
I thought about what was at stake here. Protecting myself from pity and keeping secrets for professional reasons, or coming clean to help my child. It was a no-brainer. I rummaged in my bag for the bottle of Advil I now carried at all times. “Rick left a few months ago.” I washed the Advil down with coffee—a combination that’s highly recommended for the lining of your stomach, I believe—and told her the whole story.
She had her hand over her mouth by the end. “That’s incredible. He’s always seemed like a really involved, devoted dad. Jared talks about him all the time. How awful. I’m so sorry.”
Then I had to explain about the blog and the need for discretion.
“Cool!” Her face was shining. “I go on that site all the time. I can’t wait to read it.”
Which made it the first time that I knew that someone who knew me (other than my closest friends) was going to be reading about everything from my innermost thoughts on my marriage to my feelings about the prospect of using a loofah to prevent ingrown hairs (to wit: I don’t fucking think so) to my trolling of sex clubs. I clenched up in anticipation of the weird icky feeling, but if felt…OK. I smiled at her. “Tell me what you think.”
She smiled back. “Absolutely. I can’t wait.” It struck me that this was the first time in all the years I’d known her (she’d been Noah’s teacher too) that I was revealing anything of myself other than the surface to her. We talked a bit about strategies for Jared, then I thanked her, promised to keep her posted, and ran home to shower and change. There was nothing that was going to
get me to meet Letitia for a Freudian-nightmare lunch at Esta with lank, unwashed hair, old jeans, an old shirt of Rick’s with frayed cuffs, and a down jacket. Nothing.
Did I say nothing was going to get me to meet Letitia for a Freudian-nightmare lunch at Esta with lank, unwashed hair, old jeans, a frayed shirt, and a down jacket? I might have spoken too soon.
As I headed out the doors, my phone rang. I looked at it in my hand (it was Sue Moriarty) and seriously considered splurging for a taxi to lunch just so halfway across I could wing the stupid thing off the Brooklyn Bridge. “Hi, Sue!”
“Listen,” she said, “a few of us got to talking in the lobby this morning. We’re about to get together at Starbucks on Montague. Can you come by?”
“Oh, I’d love to, but I have an appointment—”
“This will only take a few minutes, but it’s important.” She sounded firm.
“I, um—” I glanced down at my jeans. “I really need to—”
“Look, Cassie, I know you’re busy, goodness knows my plate is so full it’s practically overflowing. If you can no longer be counted on, if your priorities have changed, that’s fine. But you just might be interested in knowing that what we’re talking about this morning is a potentially very serious situation.”
I was planning what I was going to wear for lunch and only half listening. There was no way I could compete with Letitia— or even Bouvier—but I was thinking black suede boots and my Catherine Malandrino—
“There’s some psycho woman doing a blog about her husband leaving her.”
—suit with my—Sue’s words cut through. “What?” My mouth was dry. It was the strangest thing. When I was writing the blog, it felt almost out of body, like I was someone else not related to the me standing there on Remsen Street. That person was so other in some way it was almost a shock to hear about her. “I’ve seen it, but why are we having a meeting about it?”
“Because I think I know who it is.”
I was suddenly hanging from a helicopter on a line, swaying. Paranoia arm-wrestled with rationality.
Paranoia: Oh fuck. My life as I know it is now, officially, over.
Carpool Confidential Page 22