by Sally Koslow
“Are you a friend of Whitney’s from nursery school?” asked the
medium blonde.
“Did Whitney and I go to nursery school together?” Magnolia
asked. What a peculiar question.
The women exchanged a glance. “Did your child go with the twins to the Ninety-second Street Y?” the short one asked. “We’ve never
seen you up at Horace Mann.”
“I don’t have any kids,” Magnolia said.
“Oh, forgive me,” she said, casting her face in dramatic sympathy.
“I am so sorry.” Magnolia was afraid the three of them were going to
hug her. “It’s fine, really,” Magnolia said. This would have been a good time
to add, “I work.” Except she didn’t.
“So how do you know Whitney—from a committee?” Lizzie asked.
“I don’t,” Magnolia said, “know Whitney, that is. Can you point
her out?”
As the women turned to search for their hostess, Lizzie’s long blond
mane swatted Magnolia in the face. “That’s Whitney over by the
chairs,” Julia-or-Rachel said. “Isn’t it sweet the way she’s made this
look like a screening room?”
“Right,” Magnolia said. All she could see of Whitney was that she
was taller than Lizzie—and Wally, for that matter—and blindingly
blond.
The four women stood together awkwardly. As Magnolia drilled
deeper for schmooze material, she was grateful when Julia-or-Rachel
spoke up. “Say, maybe you can help me,” the short one said. “My
housekeeper’s gone AWOL. I’m losing my mind. My son, the apart
ment … It’s been since Monday. Know of anyone? I’m ready to slit
my wrists.”
Magnolia’s weekly cleaning woman had just lost one of her other
day jobs. “Which day do you need?”
“Well, every day,” the woman said, as if Magnolia were brain
damaged. “But for the right person I suppose I could give up Saturday.”
“What are the responsibilities?” Magnolia asked.
“The usual. Laundry, ironing, cleaning, errands, cooking, dog
walking. I like someone to help me get Joshy ready for school, so that
means starting at seven, but she can go home after the dinner dishes
are washed and put away. That’s usually around nine-thirty, some
times ten,” the blonde said and smiled charmingly. “I’m flexible.”
This woman worked Scary hours. She might be a brain surgeon, a
district attorney, an Internet entrepreneur with an international
travel schedule. Magnolia was intrigued. She asked the question
asked of her at every New York social event for the last ten years, the
one she was hoping no one would ask today. “What do you do?”
“Do? ” the blonde replied in the mystified tone Parisians reserve for those who butcher their language.
“Your job?” Magnolia said. “It must be fascinating.” “I don’t work,” the blonde sniffed. “I’m busy.”
Magnolia’s comment hung in the air like a fart. She scoped out the
room, caught Wally’s eye, and waved enthusiastically. He walked over
to Magnolia and embraced her from behind as she noticed Whitney
noticing her.
“I see you’ve met Whitney’s friends,” he said. “Ladies, how do you
like my ex-wife? See, I always get myself a looker. Mind if I steal her
away from you beauties?”
Magnolia imagined they didn’t.
“You might have told me your friends dress up to watch football,”
Magnolia said.
“Whitney’s friends,” he said. “Look at me—I’m the same old slob.”
“Wally, I know that sweater,” she said. “It’s Tse cashmere.”
“Doll, you look gorgeous,” he said. “All the guys are looking at how
you fill out those shrink-wrapped jeans.”
While she knew she wasn’t dressed like a Hassidic matron, neither
did she want to be seen as a tart. Even worse, had she gained weight
and not realized it? “Some apartment, Wally,” Magnolia said, eager to
change the subject. “This place is enormous.”
“Five thousand square feet,” he said. “With the kids, we need the
space.”
Need or want? Another Manhattanite who couldn’t tell the differ
ence, Magnolia thought.
“C’mon, let me show off my favorite room,” he said. “We can talk
business there. I’ve read your contract.” He led her to his upstairs
plaid-as-a-kilt study and closed the door. “Whitney had these shelves
made for my trophies,” he said, pointing to a wall of shiny, engraved
silver cups from two decades of golf tournaments.
She really is a trophy wife. “Very impressive,” Magnolia said.
“Who are you trying to kid—you hate golf,” he said, grinning.
He sat in one of two club chairs and patted the other. Magnolia sat
down. “Listen, I’ve read over your particulars. It’s an interesting
case.” Magnolia didn’t want her case to be interesting. She wanted it to be
over, with her savings, pride, and future intact. “How so, Wally?”
“Well, your company—Scarborough, is it?—could argue that they
acted in good faith. After they stopped publishing your magazine,
they did, in fact, give you another job for quite a few months—until
the end of the year—so they might say they fulfilled their end of the
deal.”
“I’m with you,” she said.
“Then again, this new job, the ‘corporate editor’ thing, one might
argue that it was bullshit …”
“One might.”
“… and that Scarborough did not, in fact, act in good faith—stick
ing you in a crappy job they planned to eliminate, and, if you’ll par
don the expression, leaving you up shit’s creek.”
“That’s my address, all right.”
“Then again, had I been your legal counsel when you accepted this
job, I’d have made damn sure we paid attention before you started,
and addressed the contract issue then and there,” he said. “You and
your attorney were asleep at the wheel, toots.”
“I didn’t have an attorney,” Magnolia admitted. She was suddenly
afraid she might cry. Why hadn’t she gone over the details with a
lawyer? Because the thought had never occurred to her.
“That’s my girl, Miss Naive and Frugal,” Wally said in his own
sweet way. He began to doodle on a legal pad. “I keep wishing there
was more to this,” he muttered. “Some point where I could really
stick it to them. Got any help for me in that department?”
“You know I really didn’t ‘accept’ this job,” she said, after thinking
it over. “There was never a choice.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
Magnolia cleared her throat. “My boss,” she said. “I mean my ex
boss, Jock Flanagan …” The tears started.
“What is it?” Wally said, without the bluster now.
“He propositioned me, that asshole,” she said. “I rebuffed him.
The corporate editor job was payback. I had to take it—or quit— which I thought meant I’d be breaking my contract, so I stuck it out,
feeling like a horse’s ass.”
“Okay,” Wally said, drawing out the word as if he were enjoying it
as much as a long toke on a good joint. “Now we’re getting somewhere.
To the best of your recollection, what did you tell that sonofabitch?”
“Well, I can’t remember, exactly,” Magnolia said. “That I didn’t
think this was the time for him to make advances—the company was
already in the middle of a scandal. Bebe had just been caught making
sexual overtures to this boy, Nathaniel Fine, who worked as our
intern. The press blasted her. The company was trying to clean up an
enormous mess.”
“I heard about that,” Wally said. “The parents are members of our
club and everyone was talking. Fourteen-karat gold gossip. I felt sorry
for the kid, but it all went away. The Blake woman paid up big. Your
company, too, up the wazoo.”
“Scary paid?” Magnolia said. “Really? I never knew that. How do
you know?”
“I was in a foursome with the kid’s dad.”
“How much did Scary pay?”
“Settled out of court, close to a half million from the publishing
company, and more from the talk show gal. But stick to your story,
darling,” Wally said. “We might be on to something.”
“I told Jock, ‘I like the way things are now.’ “
“Not sure I understand,” Wally said. “What did you mean, ‘I like
the way things are now’?”
“I didn’t want us to be a couple.”
“I like the way things are.” Wally let the phrase roll off his tongue.
” ‘I like the way things are.’ Now we’re hot.”
“I’m not the first woman Jock’s tried to harass at work,” Magnolia
added quietly. “He’s the matinee king. If you could get to Elvira, his
secretary … She keeps his calendar, makes his reservations, pays the
hotel bills… .”
Magnolia heard a knock at the door. “Just a minute,” Wally said as
he took notes. The knocking became a pound. “Coming,” Wally shouted. “Coming.”
Wally got up to open the door as Whitney Fleigelman flew through
it, blond hair flying.
“You fucking creep, Wally,” she said, slapping him in the face.
“Not again! ‘I like the way things are,’ ” she mimicked. “How many
times are you going to use that old line? And you!” She jabbed Mag
nolia with her finger, which had a long nail tip manicured the pink of
a baby’s tush. “You! ‘I like us as a couple,’ ” she whined. “You had your
nerve to call my home. You piece of dreck. And you come to my home
in fuck-me jeans. Get out!” she ordered. “This minute!”
“Whew, Whitney, honey,” Wally said, grabbing his wife by her nar
row shoulders. “Calm down. You heard things wrong. And there’s no
need to insult Magnolia.”
“Magnolia!” she said. “Like I care. And what kind of a bullshit
name is that?”
“It’s her name, Esther Rose!” Wally said. “Oh, excuse me, Whitney, the mother of Morgan and Harper. And what were you doing eavesdropping anyway?” His voice was as loud as Magnolia remem
bered it could be.
“Wally, I’ll fuckin’ listen to anything I want to in my own house,
thank you very much,” Whitney screamed, her face as red as her
slinky sweater dress. Magnolia wondered if Whitney got a dis
count at Tse Cashmere or had just scored at the pre-Christmas sample
sale.
“Magnolia! You’ve never gotten over that tramp, have you, Wally?”
“Get a grip, you crazy bitch,” Wally said. “We have guests. You
know, I shoulda stayed with Magnolia. At least she doesn’t sit on her
fat ass all day.”
“You’re saying my ass is fat?” Magnolia and Whitney asked the question in unison. But neither of the Fleigelmans heard Magnolia.
They were too busy dismembering each other.
Magnolia left the study. “I’ll call you,” Wally yelled as she shut the
door. “I’ve got an idea or two about your case.”
Magnolia went downstairs. Guests were cheering in the media room, and the box of chocolates she’d brought was still sitting on the
table where she’d left them.
“I forgot something,” she said to the intern-turned-waitress, who
just then walked through the foyer en route to the kitchen. Magnolia
opened the box, offered a truffle to the waitress, and took one for her
self. She closed the box, put it under her arm, and left.
C h a p t e r 3 3
Yesterday’s History, Tomorrow’s a
Mystery
“You’re getting a what?” Magnolia asked Abbey as they trolled the Sunday flea market two weeks later.
“Getting a get,” Abbey said. “A Jewish divorce.”
“You’re only half Jewish.”
“My mother’s Jewish—that’s what counts.” She rummaged
through a box of old coins, examined one, and deemed it unfit for her
new collection of chokers and charm bracelets.
“Tommy’s conversion was pretty lightweight—you weren’t even
married by a rabbi.” Magnolia had been the maid of honor at the
wedding, which featured an officiating judge who couldn’t have
passed a breathalyzer test.
“Immaterial,” Abbey said. “If a Jewish woman remarries without
a proper religious divorce, any kids she might have in a second mar
riage are considered illegitimate,” she recited, as if she were being
tested on the answer. “Didn’t you get one with Wally?”
“I refused. If his kids are bastards, I take no responsibility, and he’s
not going to hear it from me—not when he’s been providing such
excellent pro bono work on my behalf.” “How’s that going?” Abbey asked.
“Scary caved some, but Wally’s holding out for more,” Magnolia
said, putting down an art deco bracelet as soon as she saw the price
tag. “Back to you—where’s Tommy with all this?”
“In Australia with his new honey but willing to get it done,”
Abbey said. “He’s flying in tonight, and I don’t want to lose track of
him again.”
“But you certainly aren’t getting any pressure from Cameron, that
crusty old WASP,” Magnolia said. “Are you?” She wasn’t sure if she
even wanted the answer.
Abbey grimaced, which with her delicate features managed to look
enchanting. She struck some people as fragile, but Magnolia knew
she was a waif built of titanium. “You’re spending too much time
with a lawyer—what’s with the third degree?”
“Something’s off,” Magnolia said.
“What may be off is Cameron and me,” Abbey said. “I like him—
he’s smart and makes me laugh and is a god under those flannel shirts
and baggy jeans—”
Magnolia closed her eyes. “Too much information.”
“—but I met someone on my trip to Paris. Someone Juif. “
“Juif ?”
“French and Jewish. Gorgeous in that dark, brooding, existentialist way. He’s been e-mailing, but he’s very traditional and won’t go out
with me until I get a get.”
“Does Frog Man have a name?”
“Daniel Cohen.”
“A name that crosses borders,” Magnolia said, “like the euro.”
“He has piles of those. Grandmère is a Rothschild. They own vineyards.” Abbey was practically bouncing. “So, will you come with me
tomorrow afternoon when I get a get? Rabbi Nucki recommended
that I bring a friend
.”
“As in nooky?”
“As in Nachum. Means ‘wise.’ “
“Sweetie, I’m so sorry, but I may be busy,” Magnolia said. Every where, Magnolia heard doors slamming. She didn’t want to be part of another ending, even if it was the conclusion of a marriage which
never should have been.
“Busy how—cleaning your closets?”
“Don’t mock your unemployed friend,” Magnolia said. “Believe it
or not, I have a job interview Wednesday, and I am devoting myself to
maintenance—highlights, haircut, eyebrow and leg wax, manicure,
and shoe shopping.” Magnolia failed to mention that most of these
events could wait for Tuesday. “But if this means a lot to you, I’ll
reschedule.”
“Let’s flip,” Abbey said.
“Fair enough,” Magnolia said. “Heads, I go.” The brave on the
buffalo nickel seemed to wink at her as he hit the table, face up. “Gogetter reporting for duty,” she said. “Tell me where to be.”
Monday afternoon, address in hand, Magnolia searched a street for a stately cross between the neo-classic courthouse downtown—
the one where Martha Stewart flirted with the press—and Temple
Emanuel. Unless Abbey gave her the wrong information, however, the
high rabbinical court of the land dwelt in a dingy, postwar building eas
ily at home in any Communist-built section of Moscow. Magnolia
checked the wall directory: twelfth floor, the Beth Din of America.
“Welcome,” said a ruddy-faced receptionist, whose desk was
crowded with a computer, an oversized box of tissues, and paper zin
nias arranged in an empty seltzer bottle. She looked no older than
twenty and wore a long, gathered denim skirt; a frilly, high-necked
blouse, and a blond wig. “I’m Malka,” she said as she extended her
childlike hand, which featured a dainty diamond solitaire and a gold
band. Around her wrist was a red string.
“I’m Malka!” Magnolia said, “I’m named for my father’s greataunt.” The only time she’d been called by that name was at her Bat
Mitzvah on a windy November morning twenty-five years ago. Was
she Malka bat Elliot? She couldn’t recall her proper Hebrew name.
“So, we’re like sisters,” the receptionist said. “Are you here for
your get?” “I’m the support team,” Magnolia said. “My friend will be here
any minute now.”
“So, Malka. Sit. Some tea maybe? Soda? Rugelah?”
“No, thanks,” Magnolia said. “I’ll settle in with my book.”