They were going to take my son to the park? Everyone would look at the three of them and think she was his mother. This woman was going to take my breast milk out of the freezer, pour it into a bottle, and feed my son?! I think she had an excellent idea when she suggested leaving.
“Don’t be silly, babe,” Jack said. Babe?! Babe?! I’m kiddo and she’s babe?! “Lucy doesn’t mind if you spend the night, right?” He looked at me for assurance.
“It might be confusing for Adam,” I offered.
“Lucy,” Jack laughed. “He’s five weeks old.” You arrogant, condescending rat fuck.
I laughed along. “I guess you’re right. Natalie, that’s fine. I’m sure Jack has explained our living arrangement to you.”
“I think you are an exceptional woman,” Natalie said. “Not a lot of women would put their child first like this. You know, a lot of mothers are quite self-centered.”
“Fathers too,” I added.
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “Slap on the hand for me for that sexist exclusion.”
“Natalie’s a teacher,” Jack explained.
I liked her. After being called a hairy gorilla and finding out that my sexy Richie Cantor was dead, I liked the sound of her voice telling me I was exceptional.
“Wanna watch the rest of the movie with us?” Natalie asked.
“Is it any good?” I asked.
“Crap,” she answered.
“Natalie, this is a great movie!” Jack said with mock outrage.
“I’ll leave the two of you. I’m going to have a threesome with two hot guys,” I held up my grocery bag. “Ben and Jerry.”
“Oh,” Natalie looked disappointed.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No,” Natalie said unconvincingly. “Mind if I ask what flavor?”
“Chunky Monkey.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Something wrong with Chunky Monkey?” I asked.
“No, I love Chunky Monkey!” she paused. “And I hate this movie.”
“Did you want some ice cream?” I asked incredulously.
Look bitch, if you’re not going to date my husband, I will!
“Would you mind?!”
“Urn, okay, I guess.”
“Are you jumping ship on me, babe?” Jack reached for the remote on the coffee table.
“I am,” she said with the giddy giggle of a schoolgirl. She was far too perky to be Alanis Morissette.
I scooped ice cream for my husband’s new girlfriend into a glass dish we got as a wedding gift fifteen years ago. I imagined the person who bought these for us never in their wildest dreams thought this would be the context in which their gift would be used one day. “Caramel sauce?” I asked Natalie.
“Oh yes, please!”
I sat at the table with her and asked if anyone ever told her she looked like Alanis Morissette. “All the time,” Natalie said. “You know who you remind me of?” I shook my head to prompt her to tell. “Renee Zellweger,” she said. Before I had a moment to thank her, Natalie finished, “in Bridget Jones’ Diary.”
“Oh,” I said, putting down my ice cream spoon. “I just had a baby five weeks ago, Natalie. I’m sure as a single woman you have time for dieting and exercise.”
Natalie clutched her hand to her chest. “I didn’t mean- ”
“Natalie, I’ve had a long day.” At the spa. “I’ve been name-called by some crazy salon bitch, then I found out my college boyfriend died of cancer two months ago. So I really don’t have the energy to deal with your little backhanded comments about my weight.”
She laughed. “You don’t pull punches, that’s for sure, but Lucy, you are completely misreading me. I think Renee Zellweger is beautiful at any weight. Okay, she’s a little heavier in Bridget Jones and you look more like that Renee than her skinnier incarnations, but I think she looked great in that movie.” Either she was sincere or the most adroit phony I’d ever met, but Natalie’s explanation rang true.
“Oh, sorry. It’s just been a long day,” I said. Then hoping she would let me off the hook by switching conversational gears, “So how did you and Jack meet?”
“At his gallery. I was actually on another date. Blind date from hell. Nice guy, but a complete bore. We finished a dreadfully dull lunch, then I suggested we stop in the gallery to pass some time. You know how it goes? You feel as if you’ve got to put two hours on the clock to convince everyone that you gave it a fair shake. Anyway, so we walk in and boom, there he was. We talked for like a half hour and it felt like five minutes. The exact opposite of the date I was on. So Jack asks if Cliff is my boyfriend and I shake my head no. And the rest is kind of history.” Natalie was sweet. It was hard making silent, snide comments because she seemed like such a genuinely decent person. But come on, three weeks together is hardly “history.”
Over the next hour, I got my primer on Natalie. She was originally from Ohio and went to Oberlin College before she moved to New York to teach junior high school. A quick mathematical estimation said Natalie was just under thirty. How was I supposed to compete out there in the world with these little pop-tarts who have time to waste on bad blind dates and consider a three-week relationship a historical, epic event? In grad school, Jack had worked on paintings for longer than three weeks, and ended up hating them. I don’t think Natalie realized that she and Jack had different perspectives on the investment of time.
I wanted to hate this woman sitting in my kitchen, and every time I was right on the brink of loathing, she’d say something that made me laugh, or at least smile. I hated her utter lack of detestability. “So do you think this whole setup is pretty weird?” I asked Natalie.
“At first I thought Jack was full of shit. I mean, who hasn’t heard the married guy telling her that he and his wife have an arrangement, right?” she said.
I haven’t. No married guys have ever hit on me, even when I was single.
“Oh my God, tell me about it,” I rolled my eyes in disgusted solidarity. “Men are such pigs.”
“Jack wasn’t, though. He kept asking if I wanted to talk to you, or get a note or whatnot.”
He what?! He offered to have me sign an infidelity permission slip?
To Whom It May Concern:
I, Lucy Klein, being of questionable mind and body, give my blessing to any woman of consenting age to engage in romantic and/or sexual relations with my estranged husband who just so happens to live with our infant son and me.
“That’s Jack. He’s forthright through and through,” I said.
“Do you mind if I ask what went wrong between you two?” Natalie asked. I actually did. Not just because it was an intensely personal question to ask of someone you just met, but because I didn’t really know the answer. What did go wrong between Jack and me? Other couples survived multiple miscarriages. They made it through relocations that weren’t ideal. At what point did our marriage go from troubled to fated? And if we were both asked that same question, would our answers be the same, or was Jack harboring secret resentments of his own?
“I’m not really sure, Natalie.”
“Oh,” she seemed disappointed.
“Sorry I don’t have any great insights for you.”
“Oh, it’s nor that,” Natalie said. “It’s just that when I asked him, he said the same thing.”
“Dumb and dumber, I guess,” I shrugged. “At least we don’t hate each other, right? That’s got to be of some comfort to you.”
“Oh, no,” said Natalie. “Quite the opposite.”
Chapter 20
“What in good God’s name is that dreadful smell, darling?”
“Mother, surely you knew there would be flowers at the wedding,” I scolded. “Didn’t you take your allergy herbs?”
“Look at this place! There are six thousand flowers. I’ll never survive the evening. Never! How am I supposed to walk Kimmy down this gauntlet of pollen?”
“Anjoli, let’s try to make this Kimmy’s special day. You can have the remaini
ng three hundred sixty-four.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Anjoli turned the wide brim of her hat so quickly, she nearly took out one of the floral assistants who was still hanging orchids from every pew in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. She wore a form-fitting cream silk gown with pearls sewn into the bodice, and had a hat specially made to match. What made the dress so dramatic was the way it clung to Anjoli’s shape until it hit her calves. Then it blossomed into layers of open, overlapping cream silk in varying textures. Were Anjoli outside, her hat brim would’ve cast a shadow over her entire body. I’d seen umbrellas less cumbersome than Anjoli’s fab chapeau. She was the perfect mother of the bride except for one small detail—she wasn’t. Kimmy’s mother had been institutionalized with Alzheimer’s disease for the past twenty-some years, and her father was killed in a car accident a year later.
“How cute does Adam look?” I asked, holding my tuxedoed baby out for everyone to see.
“Can you believe I found a tux in a baby size?” Anjoli asked. “When will Jack arrive? Oh look, Rita and Bern are here. An hour early, how unlike them. Is Jack going to wear the matching cummerbunds I bought for him and Adam? How incredibly precious will that look? Who’s your favorite Grammy?” she leaned in to Adam.
“Mother!”
“What now, darling?”
“Don’t pit yourself against Susan.”
“You’re so right. There really is no competition, is there, my little Indigo child?!” Her what? “Your other grandmother hasn’t even been out to see you yet, much less bought you your very own tuxedo. Maybe Grammy will take you to the Tonys this year.” We watched Rita struggle as she walked. Anjoli continued. “Jesus, poor Rita is going to need an hour to get to her seat at the rate she’s going, poor dear. Oh that reminds me, I want to take Adam to Avenue Q next week. Sam will get us tickets.”
“Avenue Q? Isn’t that a little adult?”
“It’s a puppet show, darling!”
“Mother, don’t the puppets have sex and talk about Internet porn?”
“He’s two weeks old,” she protested.
“Six,” I corrected.
“The point is that he’ll never understand what they’re talking about. He’ll just see the adorable muppets, darling. Trust me, I took you to Tracedero when you were five.”
“Tracedero?”
“The drag ballet,” Anjoli reminded me. Oh yes, how could I forget?
Rita stumbled, and Bernice struggled to assist her. “Mother, I think Rita needs help. Bernice can’t manage on her own.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“Hold Adam, I’m going to see if they need help.”
I handed Adam to Anjoli, who was waving her hands as though the baby were shooting paint. “Not today, darling. What if he vomits on this dress? I have to look perfect walking down the aisle.”
Snapping Adam back into my grasp, I walked away. “Susan would hold him,” I shot.
“Susan doesn’t wear six-thousand-dollar dresses, darling,” was her retort. I heard a cough echo from behind the altar. Surely a nun having a seizure over the price of Anjoli’s attire. “I’m not in competition with Susan. I have my style and she has Sears.”
“Gavalt, this is a death march!” snapped Rita. “Who needs an aisle that goes on for two miles like this? Showy goyim.”
“Why don’t you use your wheelchair?” Bernice asked.
“Because I’m not a cripple!” Rita shouted, creating another echo.
“Have it your way,” Bernice said, scanning the cathedral. “I was at the loveliest funeral here last summah.” Bernice floated into her memory. “Flowers forever, and what a eulogy! It was the best funeral all season.”
“Oy, thumbs up from the Rogah Ebert of death ovah here,” Rita said. “We’re early, aren’t we, mamaleh?” she asked Anjoli. Without waiting for a response, “I told you we were early, Bernice. She insisted it started at four, even though the invitation says foive.”
“Better early than late,” Bernice shrugged.
“Better on time and not sitting around in a church for an awah,” Rita snapped.
As they slipped into a middle pew, I offered to bring my aunts water before I went to help Kimmy get into her dress.
“I’m starving. How ‘bout getting me a few of those Jesus wafers?” Rita asked.
“Rita!” Bernice chided. “Those are special to Catholics. It’s not a snack food.”
“It was a joke! I was being funny. No sense of humor.”
“Not a bad idea, though, Rita,” Anjoli piped in. “It’s one of the few things I miss about being Catholic—taking the Holy Eucharist. They’re so light.”
Holy Communion Snack Chips by Nabisco. Not just for Mass anymore! Now in low carb, so His body won’t go to yours.
“Mother, we need to get Kimmy into her dress,” I reminded her as I went to get water for my aunts. “Two minute warning.”
A nun told me I couldn’t bring food or drinks into the chapel, but when she caught a glimpse of my aunts in their fragile, elderly state, she made an exception.
As soon as my mother and I entered the bridal dressing room, it was clear that something was very wrong with Kimmy. She wrapped her arms around her folded legs and wore a sick expression as a woman did her hair. Kimmy’s makeup was Cover Girl perfect, but her face looked like it could be featured in a special section on anxiety disorders in Psychology Today. “Don’t you look like the most fabulous bride ever?” Anjoli said as she swept in to kiss Kimmy. Other than the look of horror on her face, she really did.
“What’s the matter, Kimmy? “ I asked. Anjoli shot me a look urging me to cease and desist with this line of questioning.
“Kimmy has the wedding day jitters, darling. It’s perfectly normal. In fact, it’s an extremely healthy form of stress release.” Kimmy was silent for the next thirty minutes as her hair was twisted and pinned to the top of her head.
“Kimmy,” I waved my hands in front of her glazed eyes. “What’s going on? Did you take a tranquilizer or something?” I remembered during our teen years, Kimmy could never get to sleep without serious pharmaceutical assistance. A few years later, she couldn’t do much without some sort of chemical regulation.
“No,” she said flatly. I couldn’t read anything into her expressions.
“You look perfect!” her hairdresser said as she pinned the final tendril to the top of Kimmy’s head. She shot up in her white lace bra and panty set and snapped, “I do not look perfect!” This was the sort of high drama you hear about models in gossip magazines. It was so unlike Kimmy to say anything negative, much less rude. This wedding brought out the worst in her. Then I got it.
“Kimmy, you do look perfect. Is the problem your hair, or the wedding?” I asked.
“Lucy, what kind of thing is that to ask ten minutes before Kimmy and I are walking down the aisle?! Give her a little credit, darling. Certainly, Kimmy’s given this marriage a great deal of deliberation, which is why she’s—”
“Lucy’s right, Auntie!” Kimmy collapsed into her chair. “My hair is fine,” she turned to the hairdresser to apologize. “I’m sorry, it’s not you. The hairstyle is lovely. It’s him.” She pointed her finger straight out. Adam? Oh, she meant Geoff. “I’m so sorry, Auntie. I know you spent a lot on the wedding and your dress and everything, but I can’t do this.”
“Why not, darling?!” Anjoli exclaimed.
“Because the thought of being Geoff’s wife makes me want to totally barf,” Kimmy sobbed. Maybe it was just Anjoli clinging to her chest in shock, but it sure looked as though she were shielding it from Kimmy’s threatened sickness. I’ll give Anjoli credit for this. When she’s on your side, she can spin anything so you feel as though everything—no matter how disastrous—is part of some spiritual growth process.
“This is a breakthrough for you, Kimmy!” Anjoli said. “You’ve always been such a people-pleaser. For you to disregard the feelings of your fiancé and disappoint the three hundred guests who came to see a royal
wedding is monumental. Finally, you’re putting your own needs a head of others—and on such a grand scale too. This is worth five years in therapy!”
“You’re not angry?” Kimmy looked up from her lace handkerchief.
“Angry?!” Anjoli waved her hand. “I’ve never been more proud, darling.”
They hugged and Adam’s hands reached up to my mouth. “I hate to interject reality here, but someone’s got to tell Geoff and his three hundred closest friends that he’s being jilted. The wedding was supposed to start ten minutes ago.”
Kimmy looked at Anjoli, who suggested I’d be the perfect person for the job. “Why me?”
“You’re the matron of honor, darling. This is part of your duties.”
“Really? Is there a designated person to announce jiltings?”
Anjoli looked impatiently at me. “It can’t be Kimmy!” she said. “If she goes to the chapel, the organ will start playing and everyone will think she’s there to marry him.”
“Imagine that!” I laughed. “It’s not like they weren’t sent engraved invitations to a wedding.”
“You’re angry with me, Lucy. I can tell,” Kimmy said. “I’m sorry, but he’s such a creep. You don’t want me to marry a creep, do you?”
“I don’t want to be the one to break up with him,” I whined.
“Stop being so selfish!” Anjoli said. “Kimmy needs our help. This is her special day!”
“Mother, you just applauded Kimmy for being selfish! And I’m sorry, is it still your special day if you jilt the groom?!”
“I’m going to climb out the window and I don’t care who tells him!” Kimmy stomped her ivory shoe.
“Kimmy, there’s no window here. You’d have to go into the chapel, throw a rock through the stained glass, and climb out that way.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do!”
My mother shot me a look begging me to deescalate this situation. I just needed my sixty seconds of selfishness before I would concede to being the bearer of bad news. “Kimmy, stop for a second and think about how utterly ridiculous that would be. Just put some clothes on and Anjoli will walk you out the front door. I’ll tell the guests.”
Tales From the Crib Page 13
