Play Dates

by Leslie Carroll

  Amid much pomp and a good deal of singing, pre-K, kindergarten, and first grade are graduated. Then it’s time for the second graders to have their place in the sun. On behalf of both second-grade teachers, Mrs. Hennepin approaches the podium and says a few words about the past year. Her speech is intended to be nostalgic and vaguely humorous.

  “Here at Thackeray, precocity among the students is as common as April showers,” she says, “and of course that’s just one of the things that makes our academy such a special place to learn. But sometimes we feel it’s in the best interests of the class if we give the occasional tug on those precocious reins, so the rest of the students have the chance to catch up with our little fast-trackers.”

  “Where’s she going with this?” Mia whispers in my ear.

  “I’m not too sure. She sounds like such a dimwit,” I reply.

  “This year, one of our little speed-demons was Zoë Marsh Franklin.”

  Dennis squeezes my hand. There’s a bit of a commotion at the far end of the row; for a moment, I look toward the disruption. My ex, Scott, is standing in the aisle, pointing to the only empty seat. He’s always late. I was concerned that he might not even make it in time. I watch while people pull their legs in, to better accommodate his swift-as-possible progress to the vacant chair. My mother shoots me a look, which silently asks how I feel about Scott’s arrival. He’s her father, I mouth, then shrug. He’s also a former faculty member. And he’s here alone. Which is interesting. Maybe there is some truth to the rumor Mia heard last month.

  Mrs. Hennepin is continuing her little preamble. “The Marsh girls have always been well known to Thackeray faculty and administrators for insisting on getting their way, and one of this year’s members of the outgoing second-grade class is no exception. At the beginning of the fall term, Zoë ably demonstrated her advanced aptitude to write in cursive, but we felt it was inappropriate to encourage her to use this skill in the classroom when the other students were not yet at her level. Of course,” Mrs. Hennepin adds with a little smirk, “we went to the mat over that. However, ‘all’s well that ends well,’ as Shakespeare said, so this year we decided to pay a little bit of homage to old traditions, and give a prize for exemplary penmanship to one of our second graders. I am very pleased to say that the first recipient of this new award is Zoë Marsh Franklin, whose handiwork can be seen in your commencement programs on the second-grade page.”

  My mouth falls open into a shocked O. My relatives and our significant others take a split second to laugh at my reaction before jumping to their feet. On the stage, Zoë looks totally caught by surprise. Her eyes widen like Orphan Annie’s. Standing to her immediate left, April and May Miller jump up and down and congratulate her as though they’re runners-up in a beauty pageant. Mrs. Hennepin beckons Zoë to the podium and she steps out of the line to accept a blue ribbon from Mr. Kiplinger. I go from imagining Miss America to thinking County Fair. Still, I am so proud of my little girl, despite Mrs. Hennepin’s inelegant swipe at my family.

  To a round of applause, Mrs. Hennepin pins the blue ribbon to Zoë’s new dress. Zoë steps back into line, and then, starting with the A’s, one by one the second graders are called by name to receive their diplomas. After the last child, Chelsea WuDunn, returns to the line, all forty-four soon-to-be third graders take a bow and pose for a wide-angle photo-op. Then the music teacher Mr. Wisdom—yes, that really is his name—raises his baton and they sing, inexplicably, John Denver’s song “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” after which they wait for their applause and return to their reserved rows in the auditorium.

  Finally, after the sixth-grade commencement program draws to a close, the house lights are brought back up and it’s mayhem as all the relatives attempt to reunite with their kids.

  As we head down the aisle to greet Zoë, she’s swamped by a sea of friends who stop her on the way out to get a better look at her blue ribbon. She’s the center of attention and seems overwhelmed. Ordinarily my daughter adores being fussed over, but like me, she hates crowds. They tend to freak her out a bit.

  “Zoë!” When she hears me call her name, she looks up the aisle to see where my voice is coming from. She attempts to extricate herself from her cluster of admirers while I elbow a few adults who seem deaf to the words “excuse me.” We navigate through the crush and meet the rest of our family right outside the auditorium. Out on the landing, the air is cooler and there’s room to breathe.

  “Hey, show us your diploma!” I say to her and she opens the leather folder for all of us to ooh and ahh over. Mia continues to snap photos with her digital camera. “You know what this is, don’t you?” I ask Zoë, removing the sealed envelope.

  She nods. “But I’m too scared to look.”

  “May I?”

  “Okay.” She winces and closes her eyes as I open the envelope containing the name of her third-grade teacher.

  I give Dennis the thumbs-up sign, then turn back to Zoë. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Z. Here, read it for yourself.” I hand her the letter.

  “I got Mr. King!” she announces, jumping up and down. “He’s the good third-grade teacher,” she explains to her grandparents. Suddenly, she becomes distracted, and I follow her gaze. Scott is standing near the wall, hanging back, like he’s waiting for an invitation to join us.

  It’s an awkward moment, which all of us, even Zoë, keenly feel. Forced cheer, under the circumstances, would be even more so. I take Zoë by the hand and step away from the family, bringing her to him.

  “Congratulations, Zo! I’m so proud of my best girl!” he says, kneeling down to give her a big embrace, and I feel a stab of regret over the nuclear family that isn’t. The moment is bittersweet. Scott’s moving on had destroyed that nucleus. Now, I’ve moved on and I’m in a much better place. For me. Certainly a much better place than I’ve ever been since the divorce. Still, that awareness doesn’t soften the pang of sorrow I just felt, not to mention the weird sensations of guilt over being happy with Dennis as I watch my ex-husband hugging our daughter.

  “You’re looking beautiful, Claire,” Scott says, releasing Zoë. He stands up and looks at me, unsure whether to give me a hug or to shake my hand and we end up in a clumsy hybrid of the two that embarrasses both of us.

  “Thanks. Thanks very much.” I feel like I’m speaking underwater. It’s so surreal, talking with my former husband about our daughter while my relatively new boyfriend chats with my family, trying bravely not to appear discomfited by any of this. I realize it will be very strange to introduce the two of them, but ruder not to.

  “Scott,” I say, steering him to the rest of the relations, “this…this is Dennis McIntyre, my boyfriend. Dennis, this is my ex-husband, Scott Franklin.” They shake hands, perfect gentlemen, but don’t seem particularly inclined to converse. Small talk would seem a bit silly, I suppose.

  “Well…I’ll…I’ll be heading back home, now,” Scott says. He gives Zoë another hug and tells her he’ll take her for a special graduation treat at her earliest convenience. She’s very excited about that, and starts talking nonstop about pony rides someplace.

  “I’ll phone you with her schedule,” I tell him.

  “Great.”

  What else is there to say?

  “Wonderful to see you again, Claire,” he says, and heads down the stairs. He looks so alone—lonely really—nearly, though not quite, slinking off.

  I need to turn away, so I walk to the corner of the landing and face the wall. I want to be alone for a minute. How can I be so happy in so many ways today and yet…? If my heart were made of porcelain, it would just have developed a visible crack. I feel compassion for Scott, actually. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mia start to follow me, but it’s Dennis who gently places his hand on her arm and stops her. The fact that he “gets it” makes me love him even more.

  Zoë seems less affected by what just transpired with her father. Or maybe she’s dealing with it differently, I don’t know. She’s busy jumping up and down
and telling my parents what she wants for a graduation present. And she’s over the moon about getting Mr. King for her teacher next year. Mr. Kiplinger was right; the assignment should save me a lot of trips to the headmaster’s office.

  On the way down the stairs, we run into the Silver-Katzes. Ashley will be in Audrey Pennywhistle’s class next year. “We’re so lucky,” Jennifer says. “Miss Pennywhistle has even more energy than the kids. There’s not a minute of wasted time in her classroom!”

  She tells me she’d like to host a jewelry party later in the month. That kind of thing is very “in” these days. Chic moms love to “discover” hot accessories designers and have them do a private trunk show for all their equally chic friends. It’s a very good way to get word-of-mouth out there and costs the designers nothing but a couple of hours of their time and a negotiated give-back to the hostess, usually in the form of a commission on pieces sold or ordered during the party.

  “Sounds terrific,” I tell Jennifer, and looking at Owen, I add, “I’ll discuss it with my business manager.” Her eyes widen as it dawns on her that perhaps I’m not such a charity case after all.

  “Claire, are you sitting down? I’m getting married!” I heard my sister gasp on the other end of the phone line.

  “What?!”

  I bet she was looking at the calendar. “No, April has not come twice this year. It’s still June.” There’s silence from her end. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

  “I—I am! I’m just…oh, my God, Mia, this is wonderful! I’m so happy for you! It is Owen, isn’t it?”

  “Duuuh!”

  “Just checking.” Claire was laughing and crying at the same time.

  “I’m marrying a man who wears suits every day. Can you believe it?” My own voice sounded higher than usual, hysterical, even—but in a good way. I thought of it as the giddy sound of a woman wildly, madly, in love.

  “Have you…have you set a date?”

  “September, if we can swing it that fast.” It takes several months to properly plan a wedding, especially in New York, and September is a popular time of year. “But I don’t think we’ll do it at the Plaza or anywhere like that. Not a big hotel. It’s too impersonal. Someplace different. We met at The Corner Bar, but I don’t think Mom and Dad will go for that!”

  “You’d be surprised. Hey, what about their house? It’s simple, classy, homey—”

  “And it’s their house.”

  “Good point. So, when did this happen? Tell me all about it.” Claire has always been such a romantic. She loves hearing proposal stories. She used to say to me that happy endings are like favorite sweaters. You just want to wrap yourself up in them and curl up like a contented cat.

  “Last night. In the middle of the Hudson River. Looking at the Statue of Liberty, actually. Total schmaltz—but it was wonderful. Just the way it’s supposed to be, right? What little girls fantasize about. Remember, Owen and I had our first date on a cruise around the city? So, he suggested we do it again. And there we were, leaning against the rail and looking at Lady Liberty, and I said something about freedom and he asked me if being free, to me, meant being alone. And I had no idea where he was going with that. I said, ‘No, of course not.’

  “‘So, you don’t look at marriage as giving up your freedom?’ he asked, like he was fishing.

  “And I just looked at him and said, ‘Not if you’re marrying the right person.’ And I swear, right there on the deck of the boat in the middle of the harbor cruise, he got down on one knee and proposed to me!”

  My sister made a funny sound.

  “Claire? Clairey, you’re squealing!”

  “I know. I’m sorry. You know it’s one of my ‘happy noises.’”

  “Believe me, I know. You’ve been making that sound since you were pre-verbal. We’re going ring shopping tomorrow. Can you believe it? It’s so…conventional!”

  “So un-Marsh-like,” Claire agreed.

  “Clairey, I know you know this because you’ve been married, but it’s a first for me, relationship-wise. It’s so cool! The guy, as opposed to a guy, I mean. It’s like the difference between going to—like when you have a stiff neck or muscle spasms or something, and you stop into one of those Asian nail salons to get a ten-minute back-rub. Even a twenty-minute one, let’s say. And it feels good at the time, but really, the effect is so temporary. I mean, you lean forward on one of those chairs—you don’t even lie down—and they massage you through your clothes, so how can they do it properly—or really well? And they never ask if you have any specific medical problems or anything, like the professional massage therapists do when you go to a spa or something and have it done right. You know, at a spa, you get naked and you lie down and they pay attention to your whole body. For an hour. Not just ten minutes. And the massage is just for you—your muscles—your limbs—it’s nothing like some quickie you get in a storefront.”

  Claire was quick on the uptake. “So, all the other guys you’ve dated over the years were the nail salon massages. And Owen is the spa.”

  I was laughing my butt off. “You’d better believe it, sister!”

  I give Dennis Mia’s good news. He’s in the kitchen frying bacon and the apartment smells like a “home.”

  Zoë comes into the room just as she hears her aunt’s name mentioned. “What about MiMi?”

  “She and Owen are getting married!” I tell her. “Isn’t that wonderful?” I watch her process this. She doesn’t share my boundless enthusiasm. Her wheels are spinning elsewhere.

  “Are you and Fireman Dennis going to get married?” she bluntly asks, aware that Dennis is not five feet away from her.

  Things like double weddings, particularly where both brides are sisters, don’t often happen in real life. It’s the stuff of Restoration comedy. Dennis and I exchange glances. “Well…” I begin, completely unsure of how my sentence will end.

  “Well, not as soon as September,” Dennis tells Zoë, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened eventually.”

  How can he sound so matter-of-fact, when my heart has just leaped out of my chest and landed on the counter next to the pancake batter?

  “Would you like that?” he adds, speaking directly to her.

  “Yes,” she says, dragging out the word. “Can we have real maple syrup with the pancakes? The one in the can that looks like a house? I don’t like the kind in the plastic bottle.”

  I wonder at what stage in our lives, or at what age, “really big stuff” becomes “really big stuff.” There’s much more than a generation gap between myself and my seven-year-old daughter. There’s a reaction gap. “I didn’t hear you asking if I’d like that,” I say to the bacon fryer.

  “Any objections?” he asks, kissing my nose. I shake my head. “We’re getting there,” he whispers in my ear. His lips graze my neck. It tickles. “I definitely think we’re getting there.”

  “Careful,” I warn, my voice low enough for Zoë not to hear. “I hate nasty surprises.”

  “Not to worry. I don’t anticipate any. Now, how about fresh-squeezed orange juice? That’s a perfect way to start a Sunday.”

  I look at the two loves of my life, so at peace with things, so at ease around each other, like they’ve been doing it for the past seven and a half years, and not just for the last few months. A year ago, could I have imagined this? I think not.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Laura Sloan over at Barneys tomorrow,” I tell Dennis, deciding it’s time to change the subject. “I’m showing her all three collections, including the kids’ stuff and the Mommy and Me jewelry.”

  “That calls for a celebration,” he says. “What do you say I take you to dinner afterwards?”

  “Me, too?” Zoë asks.

  “Tell you what,” Dennis proposes, “how about I take you out for a celebration today and I’ll take your Mommy out for a post-Barneys dinner tomorrow?”

  “Where will you take me?” Zoë demands.

  “I don’t know…I didn’t reall
y think about that yet. Where would you like to go? I understand you like to play with worms, so how about the natural history museum? Or maybe the planetarium? How does that sound?”

  “My daddy takes me to the planetarium.”

  This is a collective uh-oh. The room falls silent for a few moments.

  “Oh. Well, then maybe that should be your special place that you go to with your daddy,” Dennis says diplomatically. “We’ll think up some other place to go.”

  “It’s okay…I guess you could take me to the planetarium, too,” Zoë replies, as if she’s doing Dennis a favor.

  “Then maybe we’ll do that someday,” he says, giving her all the space she needs for such an excursion to become her own idea, if ever. And if not, that’s okay, too. “I don’t know about you, Zoë, but I have a real craving for something sweet.”

  “We’re having pancakes,” she says helpfully.

  “That’s true. But I was thinking jelly beans. And gummi bears. And red licorice. And caramels.” The way he lets each sweet roll off his tongue, he’s making my mouth water. “I don’t know if you’re interested—maybe you’re not—in coming with me to Dylan’s Candy Bar this afternoon.”

  Zoë lights up like Times Square. “Ooh, yeah! Can we? Mommy, can I go to Dylan’s Candy Bar with Fireman Dennis this afternoon and then you can go out to dinner with him tomorrow?”

  I pretend to consider it. “I think that would be all right.”

  She actually says “Yippee!” and bounces around the breakfast nook as though she’s on her invisible pogo stick.

  “How about calming down a bit, huh? You’re acting like you’re already on a sugar high.” I reach for the phone. “I’ll call Annabel, and see if she can sit tomorrow night. I don’t think she’s headed off to Italy yet.” Annabel plans to spend half the summer on a backpacking tour in Tuscany. She’s been studying Italian at home with an interactive CD-ROM.