The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  Okay, now I’m creeped out. What else do you know about me? My bra size? The last movie I rented at Blockbuster? I’m sure I don’t need to give you my checking-account number, because you know that, too. I may have cocked my head at this point. I remember that no words were exchanged.

  “As a show of good faith, Ms. Ames, I’ve arranged for your daughters to resume their dance lessons at the Alvin Ailey School. Here’s a letter confirming their enrollment. This is just a taste of the good things you’ll be able to give your children if you help me with my modest request. This is my cell-phone number.” He handed me a card. “If you need anything to make this happen, anything at all, call me. My resources are at your disposal.”

  Without warning, the bodyguard-chauffeur opened the car door, causing me to jump in fright. That was my cue to exit stage right.

  12. A Difference of Opinion

  A million dollars just for steering Moses Epstein-McCall away from a Jewish school. Could this be the miracle rescue I was praying for? But it would be unethical. Nobody would get hurt. I’d be betraying people who trusted me. I could retire. Honor. Bribery. Integrity. Betrayal. This was the conversation between my conscience and me as we rode the bus home from the library. Mom was on one shoulder advising me to do the right thing; Dad was on the other telling me to take the cash. I wondered what Ivana Trump would do.

  Once home, I ran a hot bath, adding bubbles and calming essential oils. With the lights out and two candles burning, I lay still in the tub, meditating, hoping the answer would reveal itself. It didn’t. The water got cold. My fingers got wrinkly. I became bored and I dried off. Then I turned on Dr. Phil and made a deal with the universe. If the theme of today’s show was ethics and morals, I would not take the million dollars. If it was about anything else, I would. Ha! Ha! The show was about women who had no self-respect. A sign from God that I should take the bribe, perhaps?

  Later that evening, Philip interrupted my angst with a bottle of my favorite champagne, Veuve Clicquot.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s my birthday,” he said with a smile.

  “Oh, my God! Happy birthday, Philip. I wish I’d known. I’d have gotten you a card,” I said, as he popped the cork.

  “Oooh, a card, you must really care for me.”

  “I do. I’d have bought you an expensive present, too.” Lie. I couldn’t afford it. But it’s what I would have liked to do for him.

  “Well, since you didn’t get me anything, I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Do something special just for me,” he said, kissing me tenderly on the lips.

  “Mmmm, that can be arranged,” I said.

  We made out like teenagers for a few minutes, but when Philip started to unbutton my skirt, I stopped him. The girls were sleeping in the back. “Let’s have our champagne,” I said, trying to distract him. “Tell me what you did for your birthday.”

  Philip poured us each a glass. “Cheers,” he said as we clinked our glasses and tasted the champagne. “Well, I finished the first draft of my manuscript.”

  “Congratulations. Does this mean you’re ready to talk about the book?”

  He hesitated, then spoke. “It’s still pretty rough. But I’ll tell you a little. Okay,” he began, “I’m writing a novel based on the life of Ariana Nabokov von Geltenburg Chopra Gross, a grande dame of high society who was a German spy during World War Two, and the mistress of Winston Churchill and Adolf Hitler.”

  “Both men at the same time?”

  “Yes. Her story has love, sex, murder, passion, ambition, betrayal, wealth—you can’t make this stuff up.”

  “Wow,” I said. “But what about me?” I asked. “Which character am I?” Not that I’m egocentric or anything, but he did say I’d be in the book.

  “You’re the main character.”

  “Okay, now I’m really confused.”

  “Let me explain,” Philip said. “This book is loosely based on a real person, yes, but it’ll be fictionalized. As I wrote, I pictured Ariana as you. Imagining you as my heroine inspired me to write what I hope will be a bestseller. I got the biggest advance of my career, and two studios are interested in the movie rights.”

  “Shut-uuup!” I said. “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Marry me. I really need to be rescued right now.” I told him about Lilith’s crackpot scheme and Buck McCall’s little bombshell.

  Philip was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “Ivy, I’m a simple guy. I don’t think I could be married to someone who leads such a complicated life.”

  “It didn’t used to be like this.” I sighed. “What do you think I should do?”

  “I don’t know. What’s more important to you? Self-respect or money? Hey, you just gave me an idea for my next book—an exposé of you and your crazy clients. We’ll call it Telling Tales Out of School.”

  “Ha!” I said, throwing a pillow at him. “How about Telling Tales Out of Prison, because that’s where I’ll be when you write the book.”

  “I’ll visit you every month, I promise.” Philip laughed.

  “I’m serious, Philip. I don’t know what to do. That offer Buck McCall made is tempting. And truthfully, I think the secular schools are better than the Jewish ones. I’d be doing Greg and Dee Dee a favor if I swayed them the way Buck wants me to. No one would get hurt.”

  “You’re not actually thinking of taking it, are you?”

  “Of course I’m thinking about it. I don’t get million-dollar offers every day!”

  “Ivy,” Philip said, “look at yourself. Since you started this business, you’ve lied to those admissions directors, that dead psychologist’s son, the press. You capitalized on Cubby’s murder. Now, you’re talking about buying off a trustee so some rich woman’s sniveling brat can get into a chichi school. And you’re considering selling out one of your favorite clients for a million dollars. What’s next?”

  “Oh, like you’ve never lied before,” I said.

  “No, not the way you’re doing it,” Philip said. “It’s becoming second nature to you, and it’s not attractive.”

  “Philip, this is business. It isn’t real life. In the corporate world where I come from, everyone plays fast and loose with ethics. You’re just not used to it because you’re a writer. With school admissions, having a great kid isn’t enough. You need more. Nobody follows the rules—not the schools, not the parents. If I don’t get down in the mud with everyone else, I won’t win . . . for my clients. I won’t win for them.”

  “Ivy, listen to yourself. Is this the kind of role model you want to be for your daughters?”

  “Don’t bring the girls into this. I’m considering this because I’m responsible for them. Their whole lives would change if I do this one favor for Buck McCall.”

  “You mean if you take his bribe. Ivy, if being in this business means you have to become a fraud and a cheat to get what you want, then find something else to do. Lying doesn’t suit you. And it doesn’t suit me, either.”

  “Philip, how can I make you understand? If I play it straight, I fail. These clients gave me their money. They’re depending on me to get their kids into the best schools. I’ve come too far to back off. Please don’t ask me to give it up. That’s a sacrifice I can’t make right now.”

  “So I guess you’d rather give me up instead?” Philip asked.

  “Of course I don’t want to give you up, Philip. I want you and I want my business.” My voice barely broke a whisper.

  Philip looked at me for a minute, then rose. He walked over to the window and stared outside. What was he thinking? A fire truck with its siren blaring raced by. Philip stood motionless for what felt like an eternity. “I can’t be with a person who’s willing to live like that, Ivy, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Then he walked out the door.

  13. No Amount of Money . . .

  Lilith called for an ERB dress rehearsal so she could see the results of my tutoring. As a fo
rmer businessperson, I understood that it was only results that mattered. Unfortunately, I’d be depending on a four-year-old to demonstrate the quality of my work.

  We met in the conference room on Lilith’s converted Boeing 727. It had four bathrooms, each with 24-carat-gold fixtures, a steam shower, and a bidet. There were two bedrooms, a playroom, an office, and a conference room. She and the family were jetting to California to visit her West Coast presses, so the six hours over would give Ransom ample opportunity to demonstrate his mastery of shapes, analogies, mental math, vocabulary, and comprehension. On arrival at some private airport in L.A., I’d be whisked to LAX to catch the red-eye back to New York. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect day.

  Before we got started, I gave Lilith the news that Tipper had uncovered on my behalf. Stratmore Prep had thirty places. This year, fifteen would go to siblings, seven to minorities, and eight to Caucasians. They expected four hundred applications for those eight spots. It would be easier to get into Harvard University than Stratmore Prep this year.

  “I love a fight,” Lilith said. “Don’t I, Mrs. Butterworth? Does Mommy love a good fight? Yes she does, yes she does, Mommy loves a good fight,” she said, kissing her pup’s face while Mrs. Butterworth licked her back enthusiastically.

  “Well, top ERB scores are the first step on the road to victory,” I said. “Ransom, let’s show Mommy how smart you are.”

  Laying out a four-piece frameless puzzle of a telephone, I asked him to put it together and tell me what it would make.

  Ransom moved the pieces around slowly until he had made the telephone perfectly except for its cord and plug.

  “Can you find where the plug goes, Ransom?”

  “The p-p-plug goes in the trash, ’cuz if there’s no plug, Mommy can’t talk on the phone.”

  “Let’s try something besides puzzles,” I suggested quickly. “Ransom, can you tell me how a magazine is like a newspaper?”

  “Parents read ’em at breakfast when they don’t wanna t-t-talk to each other,” he answered, sliding down in his chair.

  Lilith listened with a stony expression on her face.

  “How is a plane like a train?”

  “They take mommies away from their little b-b-boys,” he ventured, now completely under the table.

  I turned to Lilith and praised Ransom the best I could. “It’s impressive that he understands I’m looking for common categories here. Lots of children his age don’t get that.

  “Ransom, I need you to get back into your seat,” I said.

  He didn’t move.

  “Ransom, I can’t hear your answers when you’re under the table, you silly-willy,” I said in my cajoling sing-songy voice.

  He didn’t move.

  “Ransom, if you don’t get in your seat right now, I’ll have to tickle you. I me-ean it.”

  Ransom didn’t move, so I climbed under the table and assumed tickle position with my fingers. That’s all it took. Ransom scrambled up into his chair, giggling. That kid loves to torture me.

  “Let’s try vocabulary,” I suggested. “Ransom, I’m going to show you a picture. You tell me everything you see.” I held up a picture of a woman reading to her son. She was so engrossed in her tale that she didn’t notice that a pot was boiling over on the stove behind her.

  “The mommy’s reading the sock market instead of the book the boy wanted. When she’s not looking, he’s gonna pour hot w-w-water on her head and watch her d-d-die,” he said.

  “His verbal skills are far above age level,” I explained to Lilith. “Most kids only say the words ‘mother’ or ‘child’ or ‘book’ when they see this picture, but Ransom is elaborating beautifully.”

  “Ivy, I’ve seen enough. Marvys, take Ransom to watch a movie.” Lilith waved them out dismissively.

  No, Ransom, please don’t go, I thought. Your mommy scares me. But he and Marvys left as ordered.

  “Ivy, what have you done to my son?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “His answers . . . they were so . . . so wrong.”

  And your point, mother who gave birth to and hired the people who raise this child you ignore?

  “Sometimes, Ransom gives me answers like the ones you just heard. But usually his responses are less”—what’s the right word for it? —“emotionally charged.”

  Lilith shot me a searing look. “Ivy,” she said, “I trusted you with my angel. And today you brought me, I don’t know, who is this child I just saw? What did you do with my son? This is not my baby. My baby is smarter than this . . . this dunce who missed every answer.”

  Oh, I get it, you’re disturbed about his mistakes, not the possibility that he might follow through on his latent desire to murder you. But I held my tongue. She was a client, after all. I decided to ask the question that had been on my mind. “Lilith, is Ransom in speech therapy?”

  “Heavens, no.”

  “Haven’t you noticed his stutter?”

  “Of course I have. What kind of mother do you think I am? But I would never put him in speech therapy. They’d write about it in his nursery-school report. Then Stratmore Prep would reject him.”

  “I think the schools are going to notice that he stutters when he goes for interviews.”

  “You know, Ivy, I don’t remember asking you about his speech. I remember asking you why he got so many questions wrong.”

  “Yes. Right. Well, of course Ransom knows more than you saw today. He was showing off. That’s common with children who don’t spend much time with their parents. I assure you, Ransom will perform in the top five percent when he’s tested. He is one of the smartest children I’ve ever worked with,” I lied.

  “You’d better be right.” Lilith smiled as menacingly as a person with extreme gums can. “If Ransom doesn’t score high enough for Stratmore Prep, I’ll make it my business to get your children kicked out of whatever fancy program they’re in so you can see what it’s like having your babies in a second-rate school.”

  Okay, now she’s threatening the kids. Thaaaat’s it. Not gonna take it. “Lilith,” I said evenly, “if you’re trying to scare me, you’ll have to do better than that. My children are already in a second-rate school and I like it just fine. Help me here, Lilith. How is it possible that you don’t see your son is crying out for attention? Why’d you bother to give birth to Ransom if you can’t pencil him in for ten minutes a day? You give that mutt more love than you give your son, for God’s sake.”

  Oops. Lilith’s face turned bright red. Her eyes bulged and I swear I saw blood vessels popping.

  “MRS. BUTTERWORTH. IS. NOT. A. MUTT. I should fire you for saying that. But I won’t, because it’s too late to replace you. You make sure that Ransom aces his ERB. That’s why I hired you.” With that, she turned and marched out, leaving me alone in her flying conference room wondering why anyone would need four bidets on her private jet. Sadly, the mystery would remain unsolved because next thing I knew, the plane was descending for an unscheduled stop in Minneapolis. There, I was unceremoniously ditched, sent home in a commercial jet that didn’t have even one bidet.

  14. I See Dead People

  As fall progressed, my clients’ children took their admissions tests. The top nursery schools brought in the best testers so kids could be evaluated in a familiar, comfortable environment on a day when they were healthy and in a good mood. The rest of the city’s children had to go to the sterile ERB offices to be seen by whichever psychologist was available on whatever day they could get an appointment. There, little ones were known to become hysterical when asked to go with testers because they thought they’d be getting a shot. Except for Irving, all my kids went to nurseries that gave the ERB on-site.

  Faith called to see how I was holding up after Philip dumped me.

  “I’m hangin’ in. It’s tough. I miss him.”

  “I’m sure. Have you seen him at all?”

  “No, we’re avoiding each other. And Michael barely speaks to me, either. Remind me never to get involved
with anyone who lives in my building.”

  “Well, I have something to cheer you up. Are you busy this afternoon, say about one?”

  “No, why?”

  “One of Steven’s entertainment pals, Les Moonves, gave me two tickets to go to a taping of John Edward’s Crossing Over show.”

  “The guy who talks to dead people?”

  “No, the guy who reunites people in the physical world with those who have crossed over.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen the show. And you think listening to people talk to their dead relatives will cheer me up why?”

  “Hey, just being with me will make you feel better.”

  “You’re right about that,” I conceded. “But you don’t really believe he’s talking to spirits, do you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Faith said. “But if it’s real, maybe you’ll get a message from your mom. And if it’s bogus, we’ll still have fun.”

  “All right, I’m in,” I said. “It’ll be an adventure.”

  Later that day, Faith and I were sitting front-row center (the VIP seats, of course) at a West Side sound stage watching John Edward commune with the other side. First, he did a private reading with a soap-opera star I’d never heard of. Her mother, aunt, and the unborn child she miscarried all came through. She appeared to believe everything they were saying, but she’s a professional, so it could have been a performance.

  Next, John came out to the gallery to do readings. That’s what he calls the studio. My stomach turned somersaults when he looked into the audience. C’mon Mom. C’mon. C’mon. If you’re out there, make yourself known. But he skipped right over me and went for a gay couple in the back who’d lost their adopted teenage son to AIDS. It was so sad. The entire audience was sobbing and honking as they blew their noses.

  After the commercial break, he pointed to the area where Faith and I were sitting. “I think I’m over here,” he said.

  “I see a male figure to the side who recently passed. That would have to be a husband, brother, or friend. He passed on the eighth of the month or in the eighth month, but eight is a significant number to him. Does this make sense to anyone?” John asked.