The Chocolate Money

by Ashley Prentice Norton

  “And I really don’t give a fuck what her bikini line looks like. Plus, the last time she took off almost half of an eyebrow, and I can’t have people working for me looking like that.”

  “Yes, Miss Tabitha.” Lily looks down at me again. I know she loves me no matter what, but I’m afraid one day she’ll go and find people to work for who don’t use swearwords.

  Lily picks up the pitcher and fills Babs’s glass. No matter how many times I have seen Lily do this, I’m still in awe of how precise it is. How beautiful.

  I decide that I’ll concoct a special drink just for Frances and me. It’ll have a lot of alcohol. We don’t want to look sober or detached. At least I don’t. I’m not entirely sure about Frances. She still orders chocolate milk when we go out to eat with our mothers. When it arrives, Babs always looks at me. Does an eye roll that says Can you believe we are with these stupid fucking people?

  Jasper finishes Babs’s cheeks and reaches into his makeup case for a pot of blue eye shadow. The blue is the color of cotton candy, gaudy but sweet and edible. Not a Babs color at all. Looks like something Stacey would wear.

  Jasper smudges a heavy layer of the Stacey blue on Babs’s eyelids and then dusts each one with silver sparkles. When he’s done, Babs looks like she has been iced with cupcake frosting. I wonder if, later on in the evening, Mack will suck on these delicious-looking eyelids until his lips and teeth turn blue.

  I want to casually ask Babs if Mack is coming to the party; she hasn’t mentioned him once and I am worried this means something. But I don’t dare. Babs knows I am rarely if ever casual about anything. She has emphatically told me that I’m to have nothing to do with him. If she senses I’m too interested in him, she might take away my dance number. Send me to my room so I will miss the whole party.

  Babs opens her eyes. Leans into the mirror and checks out Jasper’s work.

  “Jesus Christ, Jasper! You nailed it. If I weren’t the fucking hostess of this itty-bitty boat bash, I might just head over to Randy’s and see if they would hire me for the twelve-to-eight shift.

  “Think of the possibilities. I could pour coffee and take down orders on those little pads. Who eats in the middle of the night anyway? I just adore those gold-tin ashtrays they have. I’ve always wondered if they throw them away or wash them for reuse.”

  Randy’s is the all-night diner on North Avenue, right across the street from Chicago Day. A lot of moms have breakfast there after dropping their kids off. I’m not quite sure how Babs knows so much about it.

  Tally laughs.

  “It would be so interesting, Babsy. I know a lot of hookers go there after work.”

  Tally calls Babs Babsy because she thinks it is a good nickname. But Babs isn’t the kind of person you make up names for.

  “Hookers are not interesting, Tally. Drag queens, yes. That’s art. Hookers are just women who fuck men for cash. Where’s the story in that?”

  Diminished, Tally pinches the neck of her cigarette with her thumb and forefinger, lifts it up to her mouth. She can’t even get smoking right.

  “Well, Babsy,” Tally begins tentatively, trying to regain her footing. Babs would probably be more inclined to take Tally seriously if Tally leaned forward and kicked the back of Frances’s neck.

  “I wasn’t necessarily thinking about what they did, but they would surely be interesting people to talk to.”

  Babs just says,

  “You go to Randy’s dressed like a hooker and see what happens.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Frances and I are as heavily made up as the grownups. Sparkly eyes and gooey lips. Just off-kilter. Just like Babs. Our hair is teased high on top of our heads, and Babs has Jasper smudge gray eye shadow under our eyes so we look tired.

  Stacey finally arrives with two bottles of Coppertone and rubs the lotion into Frances’s and my skin. She gets all the spots. On the soles of our feet and between our fingers. As if we are really just children going to the beach.

  Frances and I are in the kitchen, surrounded by the catering crew. We each have a plate of brunch cruise food: pineapple, watermelon, strawberries, and mango. Slices of bacon. We eat carefully so we do not smear our lipstick. When we are through, I’m going to get our party drinks made. It is almost seven o’clock. People will be arriving soon.

  I go to the living room. Frances follows closely behind. In addition to the waiters, there are now several photographers wearing Polaroid cameras and leis with real hibiscus around their necks. There are tan women wearing grass skirts and bikini tops. Undulating their hips. Peter Duchin plays “Escape (the Piña Colada Song),” with the din of ukuleles in the background. There are at least six ukulele players wandering through the aparthouse strumming “Tiny Bubbles.” I wonder where Babs found all these people.

  I walk over to a young male waiter. Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. I know he won’t question whatever I order. At his age he has no paternal instincts. Does not know that twelve-year-olds are not supposed to drink booze. I take a few moments to come up with something unique. I remember that Mack always drinks scotch. A good place to start.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I would like two scotches, no ice, with a splash of lime juice and ringed with sugar.”

  Frances isn’t expecting this. For once, she challenges me.

  “Bettina, that is disgusting. I’m not going to drink that.”

  “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  “Coming right up, pretty lady,” the waiter says, totally in character. “Enjoying the cruise?”

  I follow him to the bar. It’s right next to the railing of our “ship.” I feel the breeze coming off the lake. It’s a good feeling, like we are moving, going somewhere. I just know Mack is going to show up. Even Mags wouldn’t miss this. The thing about Babs’s parties is that you don’t have to like her to enjoy them.

  The waiter puts the drinks in large tumblers, stirs them slightly. Hands them to us. Then he slaps me on the fanny. Disturbing. I don’t want anyone grabbing me. Unless it’s Mack.

  Frances is unable to drink more than a few sips.

  “Bettina,” she says in a stupid whiny voice, “this is gross. I want some pineapple juice.”

  “Just drink it,” I say impatiently. “It will make you feel good.”

  “No,” Frances says insistently.

  “Okay, then I will just drink yours.” Now I wonder what the whole point of Frances is. She’s a party pooper all the way.

  I line the cups up on a side table. We sit in adjacent deck chairs. I sip my drink slowly. I have Frances’s there should I need it.

  The guests start to arrive. The mood shifts. The staff’s no longer practicing. They’re in full swing. People splash their hands in the swimming pool. Accept leis from the cruise director, a skinny woman in a blue linen dress who greets them in the aparthouse foyer.

  More and more people board the SS Babs. All the guests look like they’re really into it. The costumes are excellent: floor-length muumuus, cheap swimsuits, fanny packs and new white sneakers.

  My scotch and lime juice doesn’t taste as bad as it might have. I finish half a cup. My brain is now gently loosened in my head. It seems to just be floating there, untethered from anxiety and fear. I want to shout, Babs! I get it! I am not a stupid drunk like most people!

  Babs is in the middle of the crowd. She’s wearing a white bathing suit with a plunging neckline and a captain’s hat. Navy blue fishnets and matching stilettos. She’s smiling, talks to everyone. Welcomes them onboard.

  I leave Frances and her pineapple juice. Get up to do the task Babs has given me. After being fondled by the waiter, I’m afraid to start with a man. I approach an unattractive woman who is dressed in a floor-length muumuu, not quite long enough to hide her open-toe sandals. The polish on her toes is chipped. How can anyone go to a party and not properly groom her feet? This evening is not a come-as-you-are, wasn’t a surprise. She had plenty of time to book a pedicure.

  She clutches a white vinyl purse that
is way too big for evening. Is the purse part of her costume? It looks like something you could buy at Woolworth’s. Or does she use it in real life? Given the toe situation, I doubt she has gone all-out and bought a new purse for the party. She definitely needs a few stiff ones.

  I reach in the pocket of my robe. Rip the top page off my Rx pad. “Shoot yourself up with sunrise surprise.” Seems pretty funny to me.

  I hand it to her and she reaches into her white purse for glasses. The look on her face tells me immediately that she’s of the camp bothered by the mannequins floating in the pool. She holds the paper between her fingers like it is a used piece of toilet paper. She can’t bring herself to hand it back to me. She’s looking for a place to throw it away.

  I want to ask for it back, since I think it’s a good one, but I don’t. I start to walk away but she grabs me by the shoulder.

  “Your mother should be ashamed of herself. You shouldn’t be here giving out things like, like this.” She holds the paper up to my face. As if I’ve not read it, do not understand what it means.

  “Babs has crossed a line. Yes, she has . . .” The woman shakes her head. Walks away from me. Women like this really make me mad. As outraged as she claims to be, she won’t confront Babs. She won’t call the next day to follow up. She will go through the buffet line. Grab some cinnamon buns, scrambled eggs with melted American cheese. Maybe even dance a few rounds. She might complain about it to her husband in the car, then leave it at that. She’ll still show up at the next party. Well, aloha to her.

  I try not to let her get to me, but unlike Babs, I don’t like pissing people off. I continue to circulate through the crowd but don’t hand out anything else.

  The scotch starts to hit me a bit harder. The guests begin to blur together. Only one couple stands out. He wears a faded T-shirt that says FIJI, broken-in blue jeans, and white Converse sneakers splattered with paint; she has on a blue wrap dress with white anchors on it and blue pumps with short heels. She has opted for nautical, he for Caribbean cool. They skipped the naughty part of the dress code. Who are these people?

  They walk over to me. The man is tall but bends over carefully and takes me gently by the shoulders. Nothing threatening. There is something familiar about him, but I can’t figure out what.

  “Bettina,” the man says. It’s a statement, not a question. His pretty partner (wife?) smiles kindly. I don’t know what to say. They’re in no rush to join the party with the other adults. They want conversation. With me. I wait.

  “You are beautiful, like your mother.”

  I want to say, I’m not. We look nothing alike. But I like the comparison too much. The compliment.

  He takes in my costume. Continues. “You’re a sport to go along with all this.” As if I had a choice. Are these new friends of Babs I don’t know about?

  The man is handsome, but not at all like Mack. He has blond curly hair that is on the long side. His eyes are also different. They are not blue but brown, like mine. His energy is charged but diffuse. Enough of him to go around. The woman with him is more contained. She’ll make careful choices about whom she talks to, won’t use swearwords. Not sanctimonious, just ladylike.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I’m impressed you can walk in those shoes,” the woman says. “I am always terrified of falling over.” More than fear keeps her from these cheap high heels. She’s just being polite.

  “I practiced a lot before tonight.” I don’t want her to think I normally wear shoes like this. Part of me, however, knows that they are not paying attention to me because of my face or costume. They are intrigued, curious. What is it?

  He removes his hands from my shoulders. Takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He is still staring at me. This is beginning to get awkward.

  He senses my discomfort.

  “I’m sorry, Bettina. I’ve heard so much about you I forgot to introduce myself. I’m your cousin Lucas. And this is my wife, Poppy.”

  I knew they were coming, but I was so busy thinking about Mack I forgot. What has Babs told him about me? It could be anything. Since Lucas isn’t on Babs’s men-to-fuck list, there’s no risk of scaring him away. She can tell him everything about life in the aparthouse. Kid included.

  I want to ask them what they know, but the party is too loud. This would be a sit-down-on-the-couch conversation. I’m tempted to at least show them my room. Tell Lucas how much I love his paintings.

  “Where’s Babs? We’ve been upstairs to change but haven’t officially checked in,” Lucas says affably.

  So Lucas is more like Mack than I thought. A few kind words and he’s ready to move on. I’m just an interesting pause before they lose themselves in the party. No matter what I say or look like, Babs is always the one they want. I point vaguely to the middle of the crowd.

  Ten o’clock. It’s dark outside, but the aparthouse is lit up by tiki lamps. Mack still hasn’t come. If you didn’t know Babs, you would think she didn’t care. But I watch her from my deck chair where I’ve retreated to drink more scotch. Can tell by the slight tremor of her right hand when she smokes that she’s furious. I sit by myself and just watch. Frances has gone to Stacey’s room to watch TV.

  I want to go to Babs. Tell her what a great party this is. She catches me looking at her and strides across the room to me.

  “Bettina,” she says, “you’re on. I know how much work you’ve put into your routine. It’ll be a huge smash. You’re my daughter, after all. Great pins, especially in those heels.”

  I sit up. My dance number! Mack isn’t there, but at last I can do something to make Babs feel better. Except the scotch I’ve been nursing suddenly turns on me. When I stand up, my head spins. I have the urge to throw up. But I can handle it. I go up to my room to get the Chorus Line cassette. Stop at the bathroom for a tinkle, hoping to flush some of the scotch out of me. I want to douse my face in cold water but can’t risk smearing my makeup. I just look in the mirror and think, I can do this. I have practiced so much.

  I take my place at the top of the spiral staircase. The same one where I cut off part of my hair. But this is a do-over. It will have a happy ending.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Babs says, “as captain of this cruise ship, I have the privilege of presenting you with some entertainment from one of our crew members. My daughter, Bettina.”

  Everyone stops talking. They all clap distractedly until they see me at the top of the stairs. Then their energy collects and hits me full force. I’m no longer on the fringe of the evening, a mere party helper, but inside the party itself.

  “Hit it, Bettina!” Babs shouts, smiling up at me and punching her right hand in the air.

  I clutch the railing. The queasy feeling hasn’t passed. I wait a beat, as Babs has taught me to do, before cueing the music to begin. Then I lift my head, look out at the audience. The music starts. I’m off.

  Dance: ten; looks: three.

  And I’m still on unemployment . . .

  I shimmy my hips and take off my robe. Show off my bikini. The matching high heels.

  Dancing for my own enjoyment.

  That ain’t it, kid! That ain’t it, kid!

  I point my fingers in the air. Try to hit every beat as I lip-synch. Still feeling unsteady. People are laughing. I worry they think I’m a bad dancer. I continue anyway.

  Dance: ten, looks: three,

  Is like to die!

  Left the theater and

  Called the doctor

  For my appointment to buy . . .

  I am moving much more slowly now. I stop worrying about the dancing part. I just have to get to the bottom of the stairs. Babs hates quitters. The guests are all still laughing.

  Tits and ass.

  Bought myself a fancy pair.

  Tightened up the derrière.

  Did the nose with it.

  All that goes with it . . .

  I have five more steps to go. Five more steps. I look at my feet instead of the people. I can’t really hear the music
anymore. It’s just a large ball of sound rolling around in the air. I wish I had a slugger’s bat to hit it away from me. I’m almost at the bottom. Have almost finished. But I don’t make it. Instead, I trip and fall. Not just a little fall either. My head hits the edge of the bottom stair and my legs go flying over it. I feel a giant thud, then something breaking open. A wetness.

  The music keeps going but I just lie there on the marble floor. White bikini and blue high heels askew. I’m spread out every which way, as if I’ve hit a rock while skiing. There’s a searing pain in my head that’s so bad I almost can’t feel it. My cheeks burn. I know everyone’s still standing there, watching me. I can’t let them see me cry. I want to lie there until everyone goes home. They can step on me. I don’t care. Then I will sneak back up to my room. Avoid Babs. Replay the nightmare and wonder how I could’ve come up with such an idiotic plan. If I’d just followed Frances’s lead, I wouldn’t be in this mess. She is probably still watching TV in Stacey’s room, drinking her pineapple juice. Eating green Jell-O with orange Life Savers floating inside it.

  I feel a hand on my back; it strokes me gently, then takes my right arm to pull me up. I can’t see anything at first because my face is covered in blood. It pours out of my forehead and blurs my vision. Babs, I say to myself. For once, she feels bad for me. Is going to tell me it’s not a big deal, not a fiasco after all. I did my best.

  I’m looking at the floor and see her blue stilettos next to mine. Then something weird happens. I see the hands touching me, holding me up, and realize they’re not hers. I look up and I see him. Mack.

  He grips my arm with a gentle pressure. Makes sure I don’t slip in the blood and fall again. He pushes my hair off my face. I can’t really see him clearly, but I take in that he has not bothered to dress up, is wearing one of his plain white button-downs. It smells like all his other ones and makes me cry. I lean into him. Put my face above where his heart is, sobbing. If Mack had come earlier, Babs probably would’ve forgotten all about my dance number. None of this would have happened. But he’s here now. Has finally come to my rescue.