The Best Laid Plans

by Lynn Schnurnberger

  About fifty of the former Miss Subways winners are expected here this evening, and although they range in age from their fifties to a now-ninety-year-old who was crowned in 1941, a quick look across the room reveals that the only silver fox in the bunch is a real fur one. In a sea of blondes, brunettes, and redheads and by the dint of soft lighting, Botox, and sheer will, it’s hard to distinguish the septuagenarians from their offspring. The diner is playfully decorated with a drive-in movie theater screen and a choo-choo train that whistles its way around the mezzanine. The walls are filled with framed posters of the former Miss Subways. I give Naomi a nudge and, with Peter and the girls trailing behind us, I push her toward the center of the room. Within seconds, she’s surrounded by a circle of women.

  “Naomi Finklestein, it’s good to see you!” a big-haired blonde gushes. She hugs my mother, then runs her hand down the hips of the scoop-neck cocktail dress the girls picked out for Naomi to wear. “No girdle,” the blonde reports approvingly. “As I live and breathe, you look fabulous!”

  “I hope you should live and breathe—we should all live and breathe for the next one hundred years! Or at least the next fifty!” a redhead jokes.

  With obvious relish, the women banter about their conquests—remembering the smitten fellows who proffered orchids, diamond rings, and the one who sent a proposal hidden inside a three-foot-wide lemon pie. “Can you imagine how much weight the girl who married him must have gained!” The big-haired blonde giggles. Naomi’s laughing, too, and despite my mother’s worrying—over coming or not coming, what she was going to wear, and even how her pelvis might measure up—within moments she’s clearly feeling at ease in this sorority of former beauty queens.

  As I listen to their stories I realize that while none of them became the next Doris Day, Naomi was right. They’re an accomplished group of women, including a supreme court appellate judge, a former FBI agent, a woman who worked with the Red Cross after 9/11, and of course Ellen Hart Strum, the owner of the nostalgia-filled diner. When a svelte brunette who’s a senior dancer with the Nets asks what Naomi’s been up to, I hold my breath. After all, this is the question she’s been dreading. Still without missing a beat, my mother points to me and the girls. “These are my proudest accomplishments.” Naomi beams, and from the easy, infectious smile on her face—the one that for all those years I had so much trouble coaxing from her—I know that she means it.

  Molly guides me over to the wall of posters. “Says here that three decades before Vanessa Williams was crowned Miss America there was an African-American Miss Subways. And look, there’s Grandma! ‘Beautiful Naomi Finklestein has appeared in school plays and plans to pursue a career in modeling. She is also devoted to children and helping make the world a kinder, gentler place,’ ” Molly reads aloud. I always thought that last part was a lot of malarkey. But now it has the ring of truth.

  “Check this out,” says Paige, looking at a photo of the Keehlers, the only pair of twins to reign simultaneously. “This says they were ‘as identical as two cigarettes in a pack.’ Nobody could ever say that about us,” my blond, straight-haired daughter says, pointing to her sister’s curly brown locks.

  “Thank goodness,” Molly teases. “I wouldn’t want to grow up in Manhattan looking like a California surfer girl.”

  “And I wouldn’t want to be a slave to detangler.”

  “And I wouldn’t change either of you for the world,” I say, drawing the girls in for a hug.

  “Okay, Mom,” Paige says, moving a step away from my clutches. “We know, we should ‘celebrate our uniqueness!’ Yikes, you said that so many times when we were growing up I used to think it was like the state motto.”

  “It’s the Newman motto.” Peter laughs as he brings me a Perrier. “Whether it’s about looks or personalities. Or,” he says, with a wink, “career choices.”

  “O-M-G, you guys are so weird,” Paige says. “But now that we’re talking about careers, you never really explained why you and Sienna closed your temporary help agency. Did it go bust?”

  “Not exactly. Let’s just say that it was a learning experience. A chance to get my feet wet. And I’m looking around for something else to sink my teeth into.”

  “Mom, could you use a few more clichés?” Molly, my budding writer, asks.

  “Okay. Whatever. One day we’ll get it out of you,” Paige wheedles. Although I know they never will.

  I take a sip of water and hand it back to Peter. The ice-filled glasses at these parties are always too cold to stand around holding, although Peter’s happy to be of service—just another of about a thousand reasons I can think of these days that I’m grateful for my husband. A waiter wheels out a four-foot-high chocolate fountain and Molly gasps. “That must be the Magic Mountain. I think I saw it once in a Disney movie.” Paige takes her sister’s hand and the two of them walk off trancelike toward the cascading tiers of velvety liquid.

  “Bring me back a strawberry, dripping in chocolate,” Sienna calls after the girls as she joins me and Peter.

  “Oh no, no, no, no, no! I know you’re not on television anymore, but you never know, somebody might let you be a newscaster again. Just in case, you should stay in shape,” coos Tiffany Glass, who’s followed Sienna over to our little group. Tiffany’s wearing one of her trademark body-hugging dresses and she’s arm in arm with the “plus one” that Naomi invited her to bring along to the reunion. The “plus one” I so helpfully introduced Tiffany to—our old Veronica Agency client Gary, the sexist stallion.

  “I just signed a book contract. My figure can go to hell; nobody cares what an author looks like.” Sienna laughs. Tiffany dispatches Gary to get her a drink. Then emotionally she clasps my hand between hers.

  “Tru, thank you again for Gary. I have to tell you, after striking out with Peter and Jeff Whitman I was starting to wonder if I’d ever trap, er, I mean, attract a man again. But Gary calls me his treasure.”

  “He also calls her his cheap date,” Sienna whispers, as Tiffany leaves to go congratulate Naomi. “Gary must still be pinching himself that a woman will sleep with him and he doesn’t have to pay for it.”

  “Tiffany’s not so bad.” Although what I probably mean is that I’m finally secure enough about Peter—and myself—that I don’t see her as a threat. Especially now that Tiffany’s made Peter head of all U.S. operations. And she’s moving to Hong Kong to develop BUBB’s Asian markets.

  The overhead lights blink on and off and a sonorous voice over the loudspeaker summons the former Miss Subways. “It’s tiara time, ladies. Please join us in the backstage area to don your sashes and for hair and makeup touch-ups.” Naomi sweeps past us in her glittery dress and Sienna asks if she needs any help.

  “I’m pretty good with a hot roller,” my best friend volunteers.

  “No, stay here!” I say, pulling Sienna back to my side. “Paige and Molly should go with their grandmother. It’s important for the girls to see how much work it is to be a beauty queen.”

  “So they give up their dreams of becoming Miss America and decide to go to college and become brain surgeons?”

  “Something like that. I pause. And because Bill is going to be here any moment and I want you two to make up.”

  “Whoa,” says Paige, who’s finally come back with those chocolate-covered strawberries. “Good one, Mom. Can’t we stick around and see what happens?” I raise an eyebrow and reluctantly the girls go backstage. Sienna smoothes her hands across the bodice of her ruched dress.

  “I suppose if Bill’s finally decided to apologize, I’ll let him.” Sienna sniffs. “After I make him grovel.”

  “Bill doesn’t exactly know that you’ll be here,” I admit. “He thinks he’s meeting me at the diner for a cup of coffee and to go over the Veronica Agency’s dissolution agreement. You’re both so pigheaded. I figured the only way I could get you two back together was if I ambushed you.”

  Peter laughs. “My wife, the matchmaker.”

  “Your wife the crazy wom
an! Listen, you two. I’m willing to buy wildly expensive perfume, hobble myself in five-inch heels, and freeze my ass off in a backless dress and bare legs at some fancy over-air-conditioned restaurant. But I draw the line at ambushing Bill—or any man—into falling in love with me.”

  “He’s already in love,” Peter says.

  “And you are, too. It’s just that one of you has to be willing to make the first move.” I look up and spot Bill at the entrance to the diner. “Be nice when you see him. Remember the Javan Rhino.”

  “The what?” Peter asks.

  “Tru has some idea that you and Bill are the last two good men left on earth.”

  “Two of the last fifty,” I chirp.

  “Is that better than one in a million?” Peter asks.

  “Meet me in bed in a couple of hours and we’ll do the math,” I say with a wink.

  Minutes later, I’ve explained the situation and literally had to drag Bill across the room. He stands stiffly in front of Sienna and pretends to look past her. “I want to state for the record that I had no idea you were going to be here.”

  “Believe me, I wouldn’t have been here either if I knew you were coming,” Sienna snaps. Her eyes narrow and Bill mimics her High Noon stance.

  “Good. Important to get the dialogue going,” I say perkily. Then, before I can coax another word out of either one of them, a buzz ricochets through the room like a small jolt of electricity. I look around to see what’s causing the commotion.

  “I heard that the blond mom from Gossip Girl might stop by,” a woman in front of me squeals.

  The woman next to her stands up on her tiptoes to get a better look. “No, this woman’s got dark hair. Lots of it.… Oh-my-god, it’s Cher!”

  “Cher? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure it’s Cher,” the woman, who’s now jumping up and down for a premium view, reports. “She’s wearing skintight leather jeans and a bitchin’ leather jacket that has no right to look so good on her!”

  “I thought that after forty we were supposed to stop dressing like our daughters,” a woman next to her nitpicks.

  “Hell, if you look like that you can dress like a kindergartner!” the first woman cries.

  As people repeat the superstar’s name a chant goes through the diner that could be straight out of a socialist rally: “Cher, Cher, Cher, share!” the audience sings. The orchestra plays “I Got You Babe” and people pull out their cellphones to snap photos. Cher smiles and graciously signs a few autographs. She makes her way through the throng and hesitates, before climbing onto a platform at the front of the restaurant. “I nearly didn’t make it up here in these boots!” Cher whoops, tapping the tops of her thigh-high stilettos. “But ladies and gentlemen, tonight isn’t about me. I’m here, like all of you, to celebrate a national treasure. The superlative Miss Subways! So please join me in welcoming them now!” Cher punches her fist in the air and the crowd roars. As she walks toward the edge of the stage to make her exit, a man steps out of the shadows and extends his arm to help her down.

  “Jeff Whitman!” Peter hoots, pulling me in for a hug. “Honey, I have to hand it to you. First you get Bill to show up. Now Naomi’s old boyfriend. With Cher, no less! How in the world did you get them here?”

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  Sienna looks at me skeptically.

  “What, you think I wouldn’t take credit for this if I could? I’m as much in the dark about this as all of you.”

  I’m just starting to push through the crowd toward Jeff Whitman to find out what the heck is going on, when the overhead lights dim—and we’re really in the dark. A spotlight beams on to follow a suave-looking man in top hat and tails onto the stage, and there’s a clamor of plates as the waitstaff—all aspiring actors and actresses—abandon their trays to join the emcee. The audience is stilled as the orchestra leader raises his baton. Then the band starts playing and the singers break into a chorus of The Most Beautiful Girl in the World—adding an “s” after the noun so that none of the women feel excluded. With a follow spot guiding their way, the beauty queens in their tiaras and blue satin sashes swan gracefully around the restaurant. Friends and relatives shout out enthusiastic congratulations.

  Molly, who’s devouring a last bite of chocolate-covered strawberry, comes over to stand next to me. “Look, they’re doing the Miss America wave! You know, where they just turn their wrist back and forth in a single motion so they don’t exert too much pressure on their elbows.”

  “Love the tiaras,” says Paige, clapping. “I wonder if Grandma will lend me hers to wear with her amaazing harem pants.”

  As Naomi sashays by I pat her lightly on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Mom,” I say.

  “Me too,” says a man coming up behind her. Despite the roar of the music and applause and the general din of excitement, I know that my mother heard the clear baritone greeting. And I know that because she ducks down, huddles toward the glamour girl in front of her, and tries to keep walking.

  “Mom, it’s Jeff,” I say as I gently guide her out of line. “Jeff Whitman, the man who fell in love with you when the two of you were just teenagers. The man you arranged to have help me in Hawaii. The man who’s been waiting for five decades to hear your voice again.”

  “I know who it is, damn it! I’m not senile,” my mother snips.

  “That’s the Naomi I remember!” Jeff laughs. “The dulcet vocal tones, the gorgeous face! I’ve been watching you from across the room, my darling. You’re still as beautiful as ever.”

  “And you’re still as charming! How are you doing?” Peter says, patting Jeff on the back.

  “I’m good, I’m good. And everyone, this is Cher,” Jeff says, as if the beauteous Oscar, Grammy, and every other kind of award winner—who’s got her arm draped arm around Jeff’s shoulder—needs introducing.

  “Nice to see you again,” Naomi says politely to Cher.

  “Mom, you know Cher?”

  “Of course, who doesn’t know Cher? I enjoyed that Moonstruck, good work. And I liked how you cast a spell on Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick.”

  Out of an oeuvre that includes dozens of roles as independent, headstrong women, my mother managed to pick the one Cher movie where she uses magic to get what she wants. I guess I come by my superstitions honestly.

  “Thanks. That movie was fun, but I don’t really believe in all that hocus-pocus. We make our own luck,” Cher purrs, casting a lascivious gaze on Jeff and fingering his collar. “And I hear you and Jeff were … childhood friends?”

  “Yes, something like that,” my mother says, evasively.

  Molly leans her head toward mine. “I have to hand it to you, Mom,” she whispers. “Getting Grandma’s old boyfriend and a celebrity to show up at the reunion. Wow!”

  “But I told you, I had nothing to do with it!”

  “Tru’s right. I invited Jeff to come,” Naomi says, straightening her sash. “But now I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry you had to drive from the airport through all that horrible Midtown tunnel traffic. But I’m glad you have another woman friend to keep you company,” Naomi says as if the iconic pop star is just “another woman friend.” And Naomi didn’t have something more in mind than a three-minute hello when she hauled Jeff here from Hawaii.

  “Naomi?” Jeff pleads.

  “The man flew five thousand miles, Mom. The least you can do is say a civil hello.”

  “A civil hello,” Naomi parrots.

  “Mom, turn around.”

  “No,” Naomi barks. She straightens her shoulders and turns around. Then she follows the spotlight through the darkened room as if it’s the North Star to make her way back to the line of Miss Subways.

  “I’m sorry, Jeff. You know how stubborn my mother is,” I apologize.

  “Me too, Jeff. Do you think I laid it on a little too thick?” Cher asks. She turns toward us. “Jeff used to be my manager, back in the day. He’s the one who convinced me to record my comeback record, Believe.
I’d do anything for him! Although I told him all along I didn’t think this was a very good plan. Send a woman a Ferrari and tell her you love her. That’s what always works with me.”

  “Jeff, you have to stop trying to make people jealous!” Peter chuckles.

  “But it worked for you and Tru. Look at how happy the two of you are! I’d like to think I can take just a little credit for your reconciliation.” And I’d like to think I can take just a little credit for world peace. Which I suppose I can since Peter and I have stopped fighting. Though our détente was despite Jeff, not because of him.

  “This isn’t about Grandma being jealous,” Paige says. She cranes her head to spot her grandmother in the pageant line and as the Miss Subways make another circle around the room past us, Paige pulls Naomi out of the procession. For the second time in practically as many minutes.

  “What is it with you people?” Naomi yelps.

  “Sorry, Grandma. Glam-ma. It’s just that this is so romantic.” Paige tries tugging Naomi’s hand toward Jeff’s, but Naomi wiggles free of her clutches.

  “Paige, stop it, everybody stop it! This man is a stranger, I don’t know what I was thinking telling him he could come here! I haven’t seen him in a hundred years. I don’t know anything about him!”

  A Cheshire cat smile crosses Paige’s face, as if she’s the older, wiser family member, instead of Naomi. “But Grandma, you know everything about him. You said that men tell women all we need to know about them in the first hour. It’s just that we women have to listen,” Paige says smugly. “Listen to your heart, Grandma. Don’t be like Newland Archer.”

  “Newland Archer?” I say bumping into Peter and nearly spilling my drink.

  “Don’t be so shocked, Mom, I watch old movies. Newland Archer, from The Age of Innocence? He was in love with Michelle Pfeiffer for his whole life. But when they were old and he had a chance to see her, he didn’t. He was afraid the reality wouldn’t be as good as their memories. Don’t be afraid, Grandma.”