Later that night, as I sift through the huge mound of my things, throwing most of them away because I am too tired to put them back, I discover that Babs has left behind one important thing. Her cigarettes.
I take one of them in my left hand, put it to my mouth. Light it. The inhale is disgusting. The nicotine hits my bloodstream so fast my head reels and I clutch the post of my bed. I take it from my mouth. Come up with another idea. I can’t help but be angry at myself for having caused the whole room-thrash.
I stretch my right leg out. Bend over and look for a good spot. My wrist is off-limits. Babs has given me too many how-tos on death to do otherwise. If you are going to slice your wrists, make sure you know what you are doing. There is nothing more pathetic than ending up in the hospital because you didn’t do your homework.
Babs is pro-suicide. Has no patience for depressed people. If you can’t get out of bed, just bag it altogether. No patience for the very old either. Too many of them linger. Pooping in diapers, sporting ugly bruises and nasty brown spots on their papery skin.
If she sees a burn mark on my wrist, she will think it is a childish attempt to off myself. So I push the lit cigarette into the flesh just above my right anklebone. No blood. Just a round, red tattoo. Babs will never be able to strip me of this.
It hurts, but not really.
6. The Hangover-Brunch Cruise Party
April 1980
APRIL OF THAT YEAR, the affair is still going on, but there’s something different about it. Mack comes to the aparthouse less often. Babs is alternately restless and bored. When she’s had enough, she decides to throw a party.
Babs’s parties are a big deal. Everyone wants to get invited. There’s always a theme and you have to dress accordingly. The key is getting all the details right. Even more important than who you invite.
Babs calls this one the Hangover-Brunch Cruise Party. Since Babs doesn’t drink, she’s never hung over. But she isn’t against other people drinking. She says most people she knows are completely boring unless they drink. Sober, they are too worried about what other people think. Are not fearless, like she is. I’m not fearless either. Babs is excited for the day I start drinking for real. The way Babs thinks about drinking is kind of hard to explain, but I get it. Babs has rules for herself, and rules for everyone else.
Babs would never be caught dead taking a cruise. They are middle-class tacky. Brunch is a whole other level of disgusting. Breakfast and lunch at the same time. Going back as often as you want for more, wielding tongs at those steaming serve-yourself stations. Waiting for a “chef” wearing a paper hat and rubber gloves to hack off slices of ham from a communal slab. The whole thing is on par with rats feeding in the dumpster at the IHOP.
But all this is fodder for a damn good time. Hangovers before a party, a cruise without a boat, brunch before bed. An alternative universe where Babs is in charge.
Babs is always in charge of my universe, of course, but in the months that lead up to the party, things are much easier for me. I get to help Babs get ready for the party. School is just something I do between our work.
Each invitation to the Hangover-Brunch Cruise Party is an intricate package. Babs and I assemble all three hundred of them ourselves.
Most nights we are up past two. I don’t mind missing out on sleep. I’m good at gluing and organizing. Can keep going while Babs takes smoke breaks.
The first component is the actual invitation, which Babs has printed up on round cardboard coasters. The coasters are ringed with sketches of orange lifesavers that say SS Babs. The details of the event are printed inside the ring of the lifesavers:
Go Overboard with Me
At a Hangover-Brunch Cruise
100 East Lake Shore Drive
7:00 P.M.
Saturday, May 17
Dress: Naughty Nautical
The second item we include is a clear Lucite cube filled with a viscous blue liquid. It transforms into crashing waves if you shake it. We glue to the top of each cube a little plastic cruise ship and tiny plastic people lying facedown, as if they have fallen into the sea. Then we add to the package a shot glass for each invitee, with DRINK UP, THROW UP, SHOW UP printed on it in the same font as the invite. Finally, minibottles of rum, scotch, and vodka. A pouch of Hawaiian Punch mix and one of Tang as mixers. Drinks of choice for tacky people?
The RSVP cards are touristy it’s-better-in-the-Bahamas-type postcards, stamped and addressed to Babs. There are three reply options:
———Will rally
———Still passed out, have to pass
———Party pooper
I’m not sure who’s going to check the party-pooper one. But Babs sends some invites to people she knows won’t get the joke, won’t come. She wants them to admit that they can’t handle parties like hers. I look at the guest list and see that Mr. and Mrs. McCormack H. Morse III is on there. I wonder which box Mack and Mags will check.
We put all the items that make up the invitations in mini–leather suitcases. Babs writes each invitee’s name and address on a small rectangular piece of heavy cream stock. Babs has beautiful handwriting.
I get to slide the pieces of paper into orange leather luggage tags from Hermès, each of which has SS BABS printed on it. Babs always gives a practical souvenir of her parties, something people can actually use after the party’s over. I like to think that years from now, if anything happens to Babs and I want to track down people who knew her and might remember me, I can just go to airport baggage carousels and look for these tags.
When we are done, Babs’s chauffeur, Franklin, and I spend several days driving around Chicago and the suburbs hand-delivering them. Each morning, Babs charts the route we are to go by placing numbered stickers on a street map and corresponding stickers on the cases. This is way more important than school. Babs doesn’t even bother sending Wendolyn a note to explain where I am.
Babs says Franklin and I have to drop the invitations off because the post office would crush them, but I know it’s more than that. Babs bought herself a new car for Christmas. For it to be admired properly, everyone has to see it. It is a toffee-colored stretch limo. Full bar, TV, and lights that run down each side of the interior of the car, like a landing strip. You can dim them or put them on full strength, depending on your mood. There is a phone with buttons that light up when you dial. Babs cranks Lionel Richie or Kool and the Gang when she rides around in the stretcher, as she calls it. Sometimes she doesn’t even go anywhere in particular, just cruises. I have seen cars like this only on TV. It makes me feel like Babs is a movie star.
The license plate on the stretcher just says BABS. Riding in it makes me feel like I’m part of Babs in a way that nothing else does. It has her smell: the sweet toasted mixture of Duchess Golden Lights and Georgette Klinger perfume. When the car is idling, I feel like it is Babs breathing.
When Franklin and I get to a stop, I run around back, find the case, and give it to the doorman. If we are in the suburbs, I take it to the front door of the house. Then it’s usually a housekeeper who comes to the door, but sometimes there’s a mom in a sweaty tennis outfit or scruffy gardening clogs. She’ll generally say, “Thank you, Bettina,” which surprises me, since I don’t know any of them. Then I realize the woman must recognize me from our Christmas Card.
If Babs’s parties were run-of-the-mill, if people just got invited over for food and drinks in normal clothes, these women might consider inviting Babs and me to their houses for dinner. Let me play with their kids. As it stands, they treat Babs’s parties like going to the circus. You take in the show, enjoy yourself. Don’t wonder what happens to the monkey in the stupid outfit once you leave.
Babs does invite a few out-of-towners. She wraps their cases in layers of orange-and-white-striped tissue. Places each in a large cardboard box. We get those RSVPs back, and most say yes. Even her cousin Lucas from New York is coming, with his wife, Poppy. They are going to take the train here and then leave the next day, since Lucas
has a gallery opening to go to. Cécile and her husband, Luc, say no. Babs says it’s because they can’t pay for the plane ticket from France. Typical.
The night of the Hangover-Brunch Cruise Party, the aparthouse doesn’t look like a place people live in. Babs is always big on decorations, but for this party, she makes structural changes. The huge pane of glass is removed from the living room, leaving just a slim balcony and air where the window used to be. Lake Shore Drive is blocked off, and helicopters with huge hooks carry the glass panes down to the beach. They are then wrapped up and lifted to some warehouse. It takes two days and the kids are all talking about it at school.
When I am older, I tell stories about this party, and people never believe this part.
“But you lived there,” they say.
“It wasn’t permanent,” I reply.
“What if it had rained?” they wonder.
“I don’t know. It didn’t,” I answer. They still can’t get over it. Sounds crazy, not fun.
An hour before the guests arrive, everything is perfect. The aparthouse looks just like a cruise ship. All the furniture’s gone from the first floor, replaced with boat-y, cruise-y things. There are rows of deck chairs with orange-and-white-striped towels folded on them. Their canvas backs billow with the breeze blowing off the lake. There is large aboveground pool filled with aqua-blue water, with two ladders to get in.
Babs is disappointed with the pool. She says it looks more Wisconsin-backyard than Love Boat, but I’m still impressed. I climb up one of the ladders. Three female mannequins float facedown in the water, wearing only bras and underwear. The kind women wear in Playboy. See-through in the back; silk bows or intricate lace in the front. Babs doesn’t wear things like this. Says men who get off on this kind of lingerie have to work to maintain erections or tend to prematurely ejaculate. I wonder if she bought them herself or sent Stacey to Victoria’s Secret.
The mannequins’ synthetic hair and plastic limbs give them away. They aren’t real people. But the effect is still creepy. I get off the ladder. That night, I hear some people saying the pool is just in bad taste. Especially since Babs’s parents drowned. I feel embarrassed for Babs. But why did they come? Why not just check the Pooper option on the invitation? Stay home. Everyone knows Babs always does things like this.
Waiters and waitresses dressed up like the crew of a cruise ship are already hard at work. They walk around with brown plastic trays and order pads. Getting the mood right before anyone arrives. They balance piña coladas and daiquiris, concoctions with fruit and straws in them.
Babs absolutely hates straws. They are for lazy people who can’t be bothered to lift glasses to their lips. For fat people who need to get in as many calories as fast as possible. Perfect for the party. But whenever we go to a restaurant, Babs makes me take the straw out of my glass. Put it off to the side. I feel bad because the discarded straw always leaves a wet spot on the tablecloth that seems sloppier and more offensive than the straw itself. Reminds me of the wet stick oozing from a deflated condom I once found out on the back terrace of the aparthouse after a party.
I do it anyway. Babs says you can always tell how a person has been raised by what he or she does with a straw.
I appreciate what the waiters are doing. I am in what Babs refers to as my actress period. I make up elaborate routines to the albums of Broadway shows Babs has seen in New York City. She gave me a pink boom box for Christmas. One of the best gifts ever. I spend hours in my room, practicing. Babs likes the music I choose. Songs with swearwords in them. Ballads sung by men about love affairs gone wrong.
A week before the Hangover-Brunch Cruise Party, Babs rewards my efforts.
“Bettina,” she says, “why don’t you do one of your little numbers at the party for my friends? You work so hard on them. I just know they must be amusing.”
“I would love to, Babs.” Trying to sound professional, not excited.
My current repertoire is from A Chorus Line. I especially like a song I call “Tits and Ass.” It’s about a woman with a body that no one likes. She can’t get famous until she buys new parts for it. I’ve memorized all of the words. When I lip-synch, it really looks like me singing.
When I practice, I think about Mack watching me. Imagine that he will clap louder than anyone else. Get me a drink of water when I’m done. Let me sit on his lap while Babs talks to her other guests. I’ll impress him in a way I failed to when we were together on Babs’s bed.
The night of the party, Babs and I get ready with Tally and her daughter, Frances. Tally’s real name is Natalie. She started calling herself Tally after the divorce, thinking people would take her for a different person. She and Babs go on fun outings together. Take exotic trips. Their favorite thing to do is a game called speed shopping. They agree on an amount of money—say, ten thousand dollars—and go to stores like Gucci. See who can spend it faster. The only rules are that you cannot use a personal shopper and have to buy things that you will use. No returns allowed.
Tally has another vocation apart from these activities, which is a first for a Babs friend. Tally writes the Diary of an Heiress series: a Rolodex heiress who travels the world, works low-paying jobs just for fun, and sleeps with men she meets along the way. Tally’s written five of them so far. They piss Babs off. She claims Tally has no talent and does nothing but poach Babs’s experiences. But more than a small part of her likes to see herself in print, so she lets it go.
Babs’s bathroom is as much a room as her bedroom or the kitchen. It has plush peach wall-to-wall. A peach marble bathtub. Matching pedestal sink. There’s also a brown suede sofa covered with peach-tasseled silk pillows. You can’t sit on it when you’re wet, but it looks cool.
Tally is sitting on the sofa, smoking. She wears a white silk robe trimmed with fur. Matching mules. Babs is stationed at her vanity getting hair and makeup done by the boys, Geoff and Jasper. Her robe is not belted. We all have a good view of her sheer skin-colored lingerie. It does nothing to hide her nipples and pubic hair. She always gets ready like this, so it’s not shocking. Babs has no private parts.
Frances and I are sitting Indian-style at our mothers’ feet. I love Frances. I don’t have to explain Babs to her. She doesn’t talk a lot and is always willing to try out my ideas.
Geoff has pulled Babs’s blond hair up in a messy twist. Strands are falling about her face. Bobby pins are jabbed in at odd angles. Now, she is moving on to makeup. Babs has her eyes closed, her face open to Jasper.
“Jas,” she says, “the idea is to make me look hung over but still up for a good fuck. Disheveled, but not dirty. Think about last night’s makeup, a short press in the pillows, and a gooey app of gloss as touchup. Also, we are on a cruise, so turn up the tacky.”
Jasper laughs and applies foundation. He picks up some rouge from Babs’s second drawer and smears it across one cheek like a gash.
Frances and I are also wearing robes. But they are part of our costumes, ordered especially for the party. Blue and white stripes, and short, falling just over our fannies. On the back, they say SSBABS,CREW. Underneath, we wear white bikinis that have blue sequin Bs on the triangles where boobs are supposed to go. We get to wear blue high heels, and we have jobs to do.
Frances’s pocket is stuffed with Alka-Seltzer and aspirin packets. She’s supposed to give them out as people arrive. I have two Rx pads with the names of drinks on them, ones that Babs has invented: hula happiness; decadence on deck. I’m supposed to hand one to anyone who looks sober or not completely into it.
We also get to have our makeup done, but only after Tally and Babs are finished.
Just then Lily comes in carrying a silver tray. I can always tell when she’s coming. Her pantyhose rub together at her thighs when she walks and make a swishing sound.
“Here you are, Miss Tabitha,” Lily says.
On the tray is a large crystal pitcher of ice water. The ice is not in cubes, like regular ice, but in disks that have arched holes, like sand dollars.
The water can pass right through them. Sliver-thin rounds of oranges, limes, and lemons float on top. A delicate wineglass flanks the pitcher. The glass is wide and deep like a pregnant tulip might be, frosted with cold. A bunch of frozen purple grapes huddle in a silver bread basket, and a pair of silver scissors is tucked inside to cut them off their stems. Three squares of dark chocolate the size of butter pats sit smack in the middle of a Bernardaud dinner plate. Babs’s pre-party dinner. Always the same.
“Thank you, Lily,” Babs says, her eyes still closed.
“Lily,” Tally says, eyeing the tray, “I would love a glass of white wine, please. Two ice cubes. Some potato chips. With Dijon mustard and a side of cayenne pepper. And a Mint Milano cookie.”
Tally’s just making this order up as she goes along. Wants to look like she’s as specific about food as Babs is. But even I know you don’t put ice cubes in wine.
Lily takes her seriously and says in a respectful voice, “Yes, Mrs. O’Mara.”
She looks at me and Frances sitting on the floor. I see her wondering about our shoes. I don’t feel as excited anymore. When Lily looks worried, I start to get worried too. It’s as if she can see something coming that I can’t.
“Miss Tabitha,” she says, “should I get the girls something to eat?”
“In the kitchen, Lily,” Babs says. “I will send them down when they are finished. Just make sure they don’t get in the way of the caterers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where is Stacey?”
“I believe she is getting ready.”
“Ready? For what?”
“For the party. She told me she would be just a minute.”
“Tell her to get her ass up here. I need her to rub the girls down with coconut oil. She is probably going at it with her home waxing kit again. She seems to think that we’re really going on a cruise and that she’ll be sitting by the pool tanning her armpits. I’m all for authenticity, but not on my dime.
The Chocolate Money Page 5
