Plan C

by Lois Cahall

  Clive comes up behind me and whispers, “Oh, Christ Almighty. It’s just a giant knob.”

  “Excuse me. I’m getting a refill,” I say, jiggling my champagne glass, “With Clive.”

  “You should try the Penis Noir,” says Helmut. I ignore him.

  “I can’t take another second of this fucking wanker,” says Clive, right behind me. “Blimey!”

  “Clive, what does blimey mean anyway?”

  “Blimey? Even in England nobody uses it anymore. It’s short for God blind me, apparently. Gosh. Holy Moly. Fuck me. That sort of thing…”

  “Oh,” I say, heading to the bar but when I turn to Clive, he’s turned to a guest who’s just tapped him on the shoulder. “Be back straight away, Libby.”

  I lean on the white cloth atop a makeshift bar and let loose a round of pent-up giggles. Suddenly Kitty is behind me, hissing into my ear. “Knock it off. I can see right through you!”

  “You see through me?”

  “Get serious,” says Kitty, dragging me into a small alcove. “I need you to be a cheerleader right now. That’s what friends are for.”

  “Sis boom fucking bah!”

  “You’re being obnoxious, Libby.”

  “I’m obnoxious?”

  “Helmut’s worth to these clients could pay off Madoff’s debt! Don’t you understand?” says Kitty, “This is my Renaissance.”

  “You mean midlife crisis.”

  Kitty moves to her desk where she snatches a business card and hands it to me. “Call this number,” she says. “Tell ‘em Kitty sent you.”

  I study the raised ink on the white card. “American Museum of Natural History?”

  “I found you a fifth job,” says Kitty.

  “Am I on five jobs now? I can’t keep track.”

  “It’s only one day a week. Event planning for the head of security.”

  “But what about Talbots?” I say, a childish grin crossing my face as I peer out at Helmut.

  “What’s that smirk for?” she says. “Stop making fun of him. “Unlike Clive, Helmut’s not a dud, he’s a stud.”

  “Clive is not a dud,” I say.

  “What do you know?”

  “I know that Clive’s British. And if ‘The Tudors’ on Showtime is accurate, he could have you beheaded.”

  “Clive’s no King – he’s just a royal pain in the ass,” says Kitty. “And besides, they only beheaded you after they were done with you. Clive’s not done with me. Unfortunately. There’s a lot of duty booty left in our marriage,” says Kitty.

  “What’s gotten into you, Kitty Kat? Is your Venus in Saturn? Or is your vagina on Helmut’s face?”

  “I don’t have time for this. I have to get back out there,” she says craning her neck over my shoulder. “Some corporate types just walked in. Hope those swinging dicks can afford some swinging dicks.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Cavemen really were hung,” I muse, passing the glass case of wax figures –one sans loin cloth, with full frontal exposure, the other donning a mastodon skin. And then I panic. The very words that the museum security guard just told me all but two minutes ago have seeped from my brain: “Payroll is past the primates, through Northern American Indians, past Amphibians and Reptiles…” And then….and then? Shit. I forget what’s then. That’s what I get for taking on three jobs in seven days with no sleep.

  “Okay,” I whisper, gathering myself. “This must be it.” The grey, metal door swings open into a vast and dark space. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and then I spy two male archaeologists in the corner tucked next to a sea turtle display where they’re unloading wooden crates stamped “China.” Clearly I’m in the wrong place. The archaeologist who looks like Crocodile Dundee glances up. My uncertainly must be transparent. “Sorry,” he says, “But this is reptiles, mate.”

  But I ignore him because my eyes have already landed on the other guy – the hot Indiana Jones guy with the sandy blond hair and the thigh muscles bulging beneath his jeans. Suddenly I’m squirming like an Alaskan sockeye caught in a net. He stops what he’s doing and rolls up his shirt sleeves, displaying more muscles. Tanned ones. Placing his hands on his hips, he makes it clear he doesn’t appreciate the interruption. He stares at me staring at him.

  “Oh, um,” I say, in a mouse-sized voice, “Can you tell me if Payroll is near Human Resources?” My eyes go fluttery. Competition for the salamander he’s just unloaded.

  “Payroll - over near roadkill,” he says.

  “Roadkill?”

  “The wall with the hanging rodents,” he explains. “You know, raccoon skins, squirrels, skunks.”

  “Oh, I get it. Roadkill,” I say, looking like an idiot. But the look on his face tells me he finds me slightly more charismatic than annoying.

  “I saw you yesterday eating lunch,” he says, with a thick Aussie accent, and flashing a killer movie star grin.

  “Are you sure?” I say coyly, playing the dumb blonde from a centerfold.

  “Employees cafeteria,” he says. “Salad bar. Balsamic dressing. I needed a fork. It was hot. Very hot.”

  “Oh, I…”

  “Here,” he says. “The new brochure on salamanders,” he winks. “Maybe we can discuss them over coffee sometime.”

  “Oh thank you. But my boyfriend…”

  “Saddest two words in the English language: ‘My boyfriend.’”

  I laugh. “Well, I do, um…have a boyfriend.”

  “Well, I do, um….have a girlfriend,” he says.

  I keep staring at him, the brochure hanging loosely between my fingers. I’m more consumed with seeing his chest muscles beneath his denim snapped shirt with just a hint of his chest hair peeping out. Is this Russell Crowe’s double from the “Gladiator?” I practically slap myself back to reality before spitting out: “I mean, I have a boyfriend who’s really a fiancé.”

  “Oh, well,” he counters, “And I have a girlfriend who’s really a wife.” We both laugh. “And I’m kidding,” he says. “I’m not married.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I say, completely forgetting that Payroll is waiting for the paperwork in my hand. In the other direction.

  “Sure I can’t get your number?” he asks.

  I spin back around feeling very girly-girl. “Noooo.”

  “Look, uh…”

  “It’s Libby.”

  “Right, Libby, about that cup of coffee?” He pats down his chest and searches his pockets, “Problem is I don’t own a damn Blackberry, a cell phone, or even a piece of paper.”

  “Are you Amish?”

  “No, Australian.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But that was very funny,” he says pointing at me like with a revolver and holding the pose.

  He’s got rugged rogue written all over him, and I’m liking it. Far cry from my sweet Jewish fiancée at home. But listen, Hugh Jackman, I’m thinking, it’s been a blast, but I have to get to work. Or do I?

  “What about the Frick?” he asks.

  “The museum? What about it?” I ask with a hint of flirt and hearing the sexual innuendo but turning to walk the other way.

  “Never been,” he says.

  “It’s wonderful, but I can’t go. I really have to work. Thank you again,” I say turning back around and now moving faster.

  “Thank you for what?” he hollers. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Thinking how to respond, I bang into the door, almost breaking my nose in the process. But not before tripping over…

  “That crate,” he calls, “Mind yourself!”

  But it’s too late. I’ve just flown over a box marked “Gecko” display.

  “You alright, Miss? Ah, Libby?” he says, scurrying toward me.

  “Fine, fine, don’t mind me,” I say. And then I’m on my feet and flying out the door like an eighth grader on the last day of a science final.

  In the elevator I glance at the brochure and learn something about that Amphibian wing. Apparently the salamanders enga
ge in vigorous sexual dance routines before mating. And usually in groups! Oh, my. Was my Indiana Jones suggesting something? The elevator dings, and a group of school children enter followed by their spinsterish old teacher holding up a guide sign that says “field trip.” Feeling very R rated, I cautiously place the brochure under my clipboard of papers.

  As the elevator door closes, my mind shifts gears to a Christina Aguilera song “Still Dirty,” I smirk as if somebody’s just whispered a joke in my ear. “I gotta let the naughty in me free. There’s a woman inside all of us, who never quite seems to get enough. Tryin’ to play by all the rules is rough, cause sooner or later something’s gotta erupt us cause I still got the nasty in me. Still got that dirty degree.” If that school teacher could read my mind, she’d wash it out with a bar of soap. As the door opens to my floor, I exit, humming the second verse: “Why is a woman’s sexuality, always under so much scrutiny…”

  *

  Finger inside his nose, Jean-Christophe kicks my seat. He’s on my left side and Jean-Baptiste is on my right as I proudly place a piping hot tray of homemade lasagna on the trivet in the center of the table. To the side, a decorative platter of basil sprigs dripping with olive oil, olives and mozzarella. Next to it, a piping hot homemade garlic bread, and finally, a bowl of broccoli – not because it goes with the dinner, but because it’s the only thing the boys will eat - no salt, no butter, and al dente, as specified.

  “Looks yummy, Mom. Can I serve?” says Madeline, anxious to dig in.

  Jean-Baptiste stops his fidgeting just long enough to insert his pinky finger into the casserole dish, then quickly retrieves it. “Ow! That’s hot,” he says, narrowing his eyes. Oh God, here comes the tsunami.

  “What’s that?” Jean-Baptiste, sucks on his burnt finger. “It looks gross,” he says, as though I’ve just served him dead animal guts baked in the dessert sun.

  “Homemade lasagna with meatballs,” says Madeline slicing portions for everybody.

  “Well, I don’t like it,” says Jean-Baptiste settling back down in his chair and folding his arms. “And I never had that kind of pasta,” he says, examining it as Madeline spatulas a scoop onto his plate.

  I bet you haven’t had this kind of pasta at your house, I think, because it’s not something that comes from a can. “I want the kind my mommy makes,” he whines.

  Jean-Christophe looks to his brother, signaling him to pick up his fork and knife. They bang their utensils on the table in unison.

  “Oh well…” I say, quietly, fantasizing about garnishing their pasta with Ambien. The twins add humming to the already annoying pounding, and suddenly I feel like I’ve just stepped into “Beowulf” at the Mead Hall scene.

  Me, I don’t use the guilt trip on these kids. And I don’t tell them I’ve taken five jobs to help put this meal on the table. Instead, I just do what any sensible American woman would do. I sit down, exhale, and take a sip of my wine, which turns into several steady gulps. And then a refill.

  I can’t help but think back to… the museum, earlier when I was headed to the mail room, bypassing the lunch room where various school groups of kids on field trips were opening their lunchboxes – unless they were the kids from Spence and Dalton, who came equipped with their mother’s debit cards. On one table I noticed a group of little boys eating whatever their mothers had thrown together. One had some five day old sandwich meat slapped carelessly between slices of bargain brand white bread – and he was the luckiest. His companion had a half eaten Twinkie and a bag of store-brand chips. Filler food with no nutrition.

  I asked a colleague who ran Special Events, “What would it take to buy these kids some fresh fruit, grilled sandwiches, and those fancy cupcakes from the cafeteria?” She smiled at me, squeezed my hand and said, “Tell the lunchroom staff you’re Mr. Boone’s assistant. That ought to do it.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised that such power existed.

  And I did.

  As I put down my wine glass, I turn to Ben, smiling. “Did you know that you learn something new every day?” I say. “take Salamanders…”

  “The lizard?” asks Madeline.

  “Yes, they’re amphibians actually, and they get very….” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Horny,” says Madeline.

  “How do you know this?” I ask.

  “Studied them in Earth Science,” she says.

  ‘And salamanders have big…”

  “Orgies,” says Madeline, mouthing the word so the twins miss it. “And you thought I wasn’t paying attention in sixth grade.”

  “But that’s only on date night, honey,” says Ben to me. “The rest of the time they have boring married sex.”

  “My mommy says that sex is a bad word,” says Jean-Christophe.

  “It’s not a bad word. Honestly,” I say, stabbing at a meatball. It’s just a word that isn’t in your mommy’s vocabulary.

  “So, you’re going to China, Ben?” says Madeline, changing the subject. “When? Mom was telling me. That’s so cool!”

  And then the Marines land at my dinner table. Jean-Baptiste brings up war figurines from beneath his seat and unleashes very verbal blow-em-up sound effects – apparently Spiderman is battling a brown plastic creature with three heads. But when the creature loses the fight, Jean-Baptiste launches Spiderman into midair, knocking over Ben’s wine glass. Its contents flood the French linen tablecloth with forever-staining burgundy. Not that Ben can see it. He’s colorblind.

  “Boys, that’s enough,” he says with such little authority that it’s pointless. Now Jean-Christophe’s reaches toward the table center to retrieve Spiderman. Madeline tries not to laugh, busying herself with the mozzarella and tomato salad.

  Jean-Christophe leaps from his seat and scampers across the table. “What is it you want?” his father asks. “Just ask politely…” But it’s too late, Jean-Christophe has knocked over the wine bottle, and now the bread basket is completely saturated. Quickly, Jean-Christophe grabs the last piece of dry bread, tears off a piece of the warm dough, and chomps it with his mouth open. Pieces fall from his lips to the tablecloth.

  Madeline is completely amused. I’ve seen this fascinated expression on her face a thousand times when we’ve attended an afternoon matinee. That mischievous sneer she gets whenever the lead character turns out to be some sort of psycho - like Regan” in “The Exorcist,” or Rebecca DeMornay, the evil nanny in “The Hand That Rocks the Cradle.” Or Judi Dench’s twisted lesbian antics in “Notes on a Scandal.”

  “Let’s chew with our mouths closed,” says Ben to the boys. But his lazy approach to teaching them manners is about as useless an exhausted woman pushing for twelve hours in labor only to find out they’ll perform a Caesarian anyway.

  When Jean-Christophe jumps from his seat and says ‘you’re it!’ to his brother, I finally put a hand out and intervene. “Jean-Christophe, can you please return to your seat.”

  “I don’t have to. You’re not my mother,” he says.

  I go back to taking cloth napkins to sopping up the wine. Madeline offers hers as contribution, then my gritted teeth finally part. But I stop myself from commenting that it seems the boys do everything but eat at the table.

  “Okay, boys,” says Ben, “You win. Do you want us to make you something else?”

  “Something else?” I say, stunned. “Something else?”

  “Well, maybe if they liked what’s for dinner they might eat…”

  “What am I running? A restaurant? Are you crazy, Ben?”

  Jean-Christophe calls out, “My mommy’s friend says if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

  “You’re mommy’s friend is right,” I say, knowing the word “friend” signifies another one of her Match.com men. “So I’m expecting silence from you.”

  “Okay,” says Ben, “Let’s all relax and eat our dinners.”

  But Jean-Christophe looks straight at me and goes into Satan mode, squinting his eyes and saying, “If you make me eat i
t…”

  “I know,” I respond lazily, “you’re gonna call the police and have me arrested.” I roll my eyes and reach to refill my wine glass but of course the bottle is empty.

  Now Damien-like, Jean-Christophe morphs into some deep-sea creature coming up for air, inhaling and exhaling his chest, before picking up his fork, setting up a piece of broccoli - not salted, not buttered, but just al dente the way he likes it - on the end of the fork. With one precision move he catapults it clear across the room. The broccoli flies through the air in what feels like slow motion to me. That’s because I know where it’s headed: toward Kitty’s twelve thousand dollar Karl Klingbiel oil painting, the one Kitty asked us to house for her temporarily while she’s renovating her gallery. And then splat!

  “Jean-Christophe!” says Ben, only a bit more sternly than usual. “That wasn’t very nice. You know better…”

  Now I’ve reached my boiling point. My patience has worn thin, and far worse, my wine glass is empty! Why is that all those fairy tales depict us as stepmothers as evil old hags who lock their step-children in the attic? That’s the only problem with New York. A scarcity of attics. It seems in real life a stepmother’s only recourse is keeping their mouths shut – and therefore harboring resentment in her stomach. You watch. In twenty years they’ll do a study about all the stepmothers who have ulcers or stomach cancer from being forced to suppress their feelings. Maybe I should start compiling the statistics for the article now…

  “Daddy says if I’m good he’s going to buy me a new cell phone,” announces Jean-Christophe.

  “Really? That’s great,” I say. “Maybe you can use it to call your mother and tell her it’s time to come pick you up.”

  Chapter Twelve

  It took Bebe two years after her separation from Henry to venture out of the house. Ordinarily she sat staring blankly at QVC or pacing floors like a widow whose ship Captain husband was lost at sea. I had convinced Bebe to volunteer at the women’s shelter, but the more time she spent around little girls the more depressed she got over how hard the system seemed to work against her adopting a baby.