“I need help,” Eric informed her.
“Doing what, dear?” Margot asked as she looked down at the boy.
“Peeing,” Eric said as if the situation was obvious and Margot stupid.
“Ah,” Margot replied thoughtfully, “and exactly what would that entail?”
“I can’t get it started,” Eric said and Margot felt a cold, wet sweat start to creep across her body.
“And, and how, how am I supposed to, ah facilitate that?” Margot stuttered.
“You mean you don’t know how to do it either?” Eric asked, his voice rising into panic.
“Well, I ah, well, I usually sit there and it just happens,” Margot said worried that the boy has some strange urinary tract condition that no one had thought to mention.
“But before that. I can’t do the part before that!” he wailed.
Margot racked her brains trying to think what came before peeing in the act of peeing. And then: Aimee to the rescue.
“He probably can’t get his pants undone,” Aimee intervened and Eric nodded. “Come, I’ll help you.”
“You’re a natural, Aims,” Brooke said as Aimee helped Eric undo his button.
Mission accomplished, bladders emptied, the boys filed out of the ladies’ room. Margot felt a deep sense of triumph. Everyone peed. Everyone washed. She had successfully maneuvered her nephews in and out of a bathroom in a toy store; although without the help of two other women, the whole event would have been a disaster.
“All right now,” Aimee said when they regained the glittery, pulsating floor of the store. “You have fifteen minutes to pick out a toy. If you haven’t picked out a toy in fifteen minutes, a toy will be picked out for you, understand?”
“And there’s a $100 total limit on whatever you pick out,” Margot added.
“On your mark,” Brooke said, “get set, go.” “I’ll take the little one,” Aimee shouted as the children suddenly scattered in different directions.
“I got the middle,” said Margot as she ran off after Harry.
In a time frame that reasonably resembled fifteen minutes, all the children had picked out their toys and Margot was on her way to the register, ready to drop about $350. Eric, the youngest, had managed to exceed his hundred-dollar limit but the other children had not yet noticed. The extra fifty bucks was well worth the fact that they were now on their way out of the store.
“This would break me of shopping,” Margot declared to Brooke as she signed her credit card slip.
“What are you planning to do with them tonight?” Aimee asked.
“Ballet,” Margot said.
“Are you crazy?” Brooke almost shouted.
“No. Why? You don’t think they’ll like it?”
“Well, maybe their mother has better control of them,” Aimee said.
“Well, actually, I’m sending her to a masseuse and facial while I take the boys to the, oh Christ, you’re right,” Margot said, “I’m dead.”
“I’ll come with you,” Aimee offered and then she looked at Brooke.
“Yeah, why not. I’ll come too.”
Adele was asleep when they arrived. With the help of her friends, Margot got her nephews washed, brushed, and changed for dinner.
“How does she do this all by herself?” Margot whispered before she woke Adele to inform her that a car would arrive within the hour to take her, alone, across town for an evening at a spa and salon.
“Really?” Adele asked as tears came to her eyes.
“Really,” Margot said. “And then tomorrow we’ll look through my closet and see what fits you.”
“God bless you, Allie,” Adele said. “How were the boys?”
“Perfect,” Margot said, “as soon as I got two additional adults to come help me, everything was under control.”
While Adele went off to rediscover herself and her body, Margot directed her party of nephews and girlfriends down the elevator. She led them into an Italian restaurant that was within walking distance. It was a place she often went for a quick, simple meal. The waiters made much of the boys and suggested dishes they had never heard of. In the end, after several sour faces, plain pasta with butter was specially prepared for Harry and Amos. Eric, the youngest, was excited when Brooke read “Squid Ink Linguini” on the menu and insisted on ordering it, even after Brooke informed him it was like thick, black spaghetti. When it arrived, Eric ate all of it and declared it the most delicious meal he had ever chewed. At the ballet, Harry and Amos quickly fell asleep, but Eric, thrilled with the dancing and an opportunity to see girls in their underwear, sat wide-eyed and at the edge of his seat.
“That was really cool. Thank you very much, Auntie Margot,” he sighed contentedly as he fought sleep in the cab ride back to Margot’s house. “And thank you also, Auntie Margot’s friends.”
“Ok,” Aimee whispered over Eric’s sleeping head, “I’m in love. I could do this. It was hard but really, I could do it every day. I can’t wait to do it every day. How about you, Brooke?”
“I had fun,” Brooke said wistfully. “If I’d played my cards differently with Bill I would have had at least two kids, I think, maybe three. I suppose I could do it alone, but it’s just too hard to do alone, even with lots of money. Well, it’s not going to happen for me, so I’m not going to worry about it.”
“I had a great day,” Margot whispered to her friends. “I’m glad that we did it but I’m glad that it’s over, and I would not do it again for a million dollars. Tomorrow I’m going to work, a place where no one asks for my help in the potty. And on Saturday, I’m getting a facial, a massage, and a manicure, and I’m having my legs waxed. Then I’m going shopping. For me, whatever I might have missed, the occasional visiting nephew more than makes up for it.”
Margot, Aimee, and Brooke rode on in silence until Margot said a very quiet “Thanks for your help.” Brooke and Aimee smiled back, glad of the company and the adventure.
Arriving at Margot’s apartment, they realized the sleeping children were far too large and heavy to be carried by women in high heels. Grumbling and growling, the boys awoke and made their way into Margot’s elevator. They tumbled into the apartment, where a fairy princess who looked vaguely familiar greeted them warmly.
The sleepy boys could not be bothered to notice that their mother had, temporarily, regained the sheen of the head cheerleader/prom queen she had once been. Adele wiped down the boys’ faces with a wet cloth, handed a toothbrush to the elder boys and actually moved the brush over and across the teeth of the youngest. Margot, Aimee, and Brooke were amazed to see little Adele actually lift each one of the sleeping boys and carry them from the bathroom to the couch, where she stripped them of their slacks and shirts and shoved them into pajamas. Then she assembled their lank bodies on the couch for sleeping.
“Oh, hi Mommy,” one of them murmured before falling back to sleep.
“How were they?” Adele asked.
“Sweet as pie,” said Brooke, and Adele beamed.
“It’s all over so quickly,” Adele said, and Margot, assuming Adele meant the pleasure of her afternoon alone, responded, “Well, Adele, you come back anytime you want.”
Adele meant that her beautiful boys were growing up too fast, but she didn’t want to hurt poor, lonely, barren Aunt Allie’s feelings, especially since she had been so kind to her and her children. So instead Adele just smiled at her sister-in-law.
“Thank you, Allie. I just might do that,” Adele said.
11. Pumps
EARLY THAT MORNING, BROOKE stopped by her parents’ house to pick up the dress Bill Simpson bought her to wear to the Muscular Dystrophy ball. It was a hideous ivory-lace concoction with a high neck and a low back. Lately all the dresses had been ivory or blush or white.
“I think he wants to marry you,” Brooke’s mother said as she regarded the ugly dress on the hanger.
“He wants someone to be a bride,” Brooke said. “I’m not sure it’s me.”
“How do you know it�
�s not you?” Brooke’s mother asked.
“Well mother, I was naked in bed with him last night and I rubbed and I danced and I sucked but nothing came up. Aren’t you glad you asked,” Brooke said.
“You girls put too much emphasis on S-E-X,” her mother told her. “He probably drank too much.”
“It’s possible,” admitted Brooke. Although sex with Bill, drunk or sober, used to be an amazing thing. He was long, thick, passionate, and perfectly matched for her body. In the past few years, though, an occasional problem with premature ejaculation had morphed slowly from disinterest to impotence. Their passion had fallen away like the continental shelf—Atlantic, not Pacific. Like the beach that lay in the backyard of her parents’ estate in Florida, Brooke had luxuriated in the warm ocean of sex with Bill for quite a distance. Then, suddenly it was over, and she was out to sea.
And yet he still loved her. He called her almost every day. He still sent ugly dresses for her to wear to charity balls.
“Maybe he has a blockage in his plumbing,” her mother suggested. “Daddy went to a cracker-jack urologist and…”
“If I hear a single detail of Daddy’s urological issues I will fall on the floor and blood will spurt from my ears,” Brooke warned.
“Well then, I’ll just give you the doctor’s name and phone number. I’ll even print it with my left hand so you can’t recognize my handwriting. This way you can pretend you got the information from someone else if you like.”
Her mother flipped open her address book searching for that last urologist who had done such good work for them.
“So you think Viagra is an appropriate gift for the man who has everything?” Brooke asked her mother.
“Beats another cashmere sweater,” her mum answered casually.
While her mother scribbled down the doctor’s name, Brooke took the dress out of the bag and spread it out over the couch.
“Well, you should at least try it on,” her mother said, handing her the slip of paper. Brooke stared at the doctor’s phone number, wondering how she would broach the subject of diminished sex drive to Bill without insulting him.
Brooke followed her mother up the stairs and into her private bedroom. Brooke had never thought it odd that her parents had separate bedrooms. She had always considered it an issue of decorating. Her mother’s bedroom, with the floral peach wallpaper in the same pattern as the floral peach bedspread would certainly cause her father to drop his masculinity at the door. Her father’s bedroom was brown with lots of leather. On Christmas mornings or when they were sick in the middle of the night, Brooke and her sister went there first, knowing that they would probably find both mom and dad asleep underneath his brown plaid comforter. And yet her mother felt she needed this separate bedroom to make her own for the days and nights that his presence in her house and life was just too overbearing.
Brooke closed the door in case one of the maids wandered by. Then she flipped the dress off the hanger and slid it over her head. Brooke’s lucky genes gave her an ultra-fashionable body without even trying. She was as long, thin, and straight as a girl could be without actually being a boy. Bill’s latest purchase flowed down and settled in on her body, making her look even more flat chested while showing off her well-muscled back. Brooke did a half-hearted twirl around her mother’s flowered bedroom then plunked down on the bench at the end of the bed.
“At least he always includes a gift receipt,” Brooke’s mother drawled from her comfy spot on the bed pillows. And then, “Your darling boyfriend has no taste at all.”
Brooke’s mother’s impish little giggle began to swell into a big fat, unladylike laugh. The laugh grew louder and Brooke noticed that her mother had started to cry.
“Poor Eleanor,” Brooke’s mother whimpered.
“Poor Eleanor? I thought you didn’t like Bill’s mom.”
“I don’t. What I actually meant, darling, when I said ‘poor Eleanor’ is that I’m fucking furious that her perfect son has ruined my daughter’s life.”
With that, Brooke’s mother downed her G&T, slipped off the bed and sashayed down to the library for a refill from her husband’s bar.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she began when Brooke entered the room. “It’s none of my business how you ruin your life.”
“Mummy,” Brooke began, but her mother refused to turn around and look at her. Her mother was suddenly entranced by the light as it refracted across the cuts in her glass, so Brooke strode across the large room until she was standing right in front of her mother, blocking the sunlight as it came through the window. Her mother tried to continue to avoid Brooke’s gaze by taking a long, deep sip of her fresh drink.
“Look here, Mother,” Brooke said with some force and authority, “Bill Simpson did not ruin my life. The tattoos did.”
Gin and tonic squirted through her mother’s nose.
“I love you, Brooke,” she laughed. “God, how I love you. And I always wanted the very, very best for you. I’m so sorry your life is shit.”
Brooke stood there for a while, her jaw dropped and her eyes blinking. Her mother looked like a cat caught peeing on the good rug.
“My life isn’t shit,” Brooke finally said.
“Well, I didn’t really mean shit. You know, dear, I shouldn’t touch gin. It makes me too honest. I mean, not honest, but well, you know what I mean,” her mother slammed and then backpedaled and slammed again. “It’s just that I’m so sorry so many things didn’t work out for you. The painting thing and the marriage thing. You’re so alone. I’m just so sad that you have nothing to show for your life.”
“I’m very happy, Mother.”
“Don’t try to fool me, Brooke,” her mother said gently. “Why won’t you take Granny’s apartment on Fifth? You live in that horrible one-bedroom thing you call an apartment. You don’t even have cable!”
“Cable!” Brooke exclaimed. “Mummy, I don’t even have a TV. And when did you become so, so…American.”
It was an odd choice of adjectives. Brooke’s mother reacted to it by jutting her head forward and throwing her hands up in the air. The woman could trace her ancestors back to the Mayflower. Any more American and she would be native.
“Maybe ‘American’ is not the right word,” Brooke conceded. “When did you become so acquisitive?”
Again, the hands shot into the air, this time indicating the three-acre mansion filled with more crystal than the White House.
“Not exactly what I mean either,” Brooke agreed. “Aren’t you the woman who told me ‘Prozac is for women who can’t afford to travel’? I’m not saying I got everything I wanted. Sure, my life would have been different if I had married Bill the first time he asked me. We would have kids by now, and I would need the space and so I’d probably move back into Fifth Avenue. I wish my paintings were getting written up in journals and magazines. I wish people were watching me, so I could feel like I was creating for an audience. I’m sorry I don’t have children. I’m sorry I’m not famous, but all the rest is pretty fucking good. My life is a great time. It hurts me, Mother, that you insist on mourning the loss of things I never really wanted.”
“Do I?”
“Oh yeah. So I didn’t marry Bill in my twenties. It was the right choice for me. I just wasn’t ready for monogamy.”
“Darling, I’m not talking about monogamy,” said Brooke’s mother. “I’m talking about marriage. A pledge of love and support from a man. I’m not a particularly monogamous girl either, dear.”
“Mummy, I don’t need that kind of support. I have a trust fund. I love to paint.”
“But don’t you want this?” Brooke’s mother made an expansive gesture with her glass, indicating all that was under the roof of her own house.
“Are you kidding? I want this at least once a month, which is why I come to visit you so often. And when you die it will be very nice if you and daddy leave me the greater percentage of it since you think my life is such shit without it. Until then, none of it will fit into my comfo
rtable little single-girl apartment. Until then, I travel and play and fuck and eat and paint and play and work just a little and have a really good time. So quit crying for me.” “Are you happy?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Brooke’s mom killed another gin and tonic. The honest answer was no. She would be terribly unhappy with Brooke’s life. It had been a long time since she had really loved her husband and yet could not imagine divorcing him. She loved her house and her children and her position. She lived in dread that one of his flings might turn his head away from the security of their détente and cause him to seek a divorce. Although much of the old money was hers, she believed all would crumble if he left her; that in spite of her own substantial address book, without her husband she would be alone in the wide world. She could not imagine where her daughter found the strength to face life without a formal contract with a man.
She stood on the good rug and regarded her daughter. The sting of “Your life is shit, dear” was starting to dissipate, and Brooke looked peaceful.
“Everything’s fine with me, Mummy,” Brooke said.
Brooke’s mother was certain Brooke was lying in an attempt to keep her from worrying too much. Bill is probably having an affair, she thought. All the signs are there. Well, if Brooke can’t talk about it yet, I shouldn’t push her. Then she found a decent smile that she could bring to the surface of her face. Once it was in place, she gave it to Brooke.
“Well then, for goodness sake, let’s return that horrible dress to whatever matronly shop Bill found it and go into the city and find something decent for you to wear.”
“He does have the worst taste, doesn’t he?”
Bill’s bad taste had a price tag of over $5,000. Cash in hand, Brooke and her mother had themselves chauffeured into the city. Brooke directed the driver to drop them on a corner in a fashionable shopping district full of darling boutiques. They started up the street fondling fabrics and being fawned on by stylishly malnourished men and women working for a small percentage of sales.
Tuesday Erotica Club Page 10
