I feel another hand on my arm. It yanks me away from Mack and toward the kitchen. Babs. She must be mad because Mack got to me first. Wants to claim her rights as a mother. Comfort me. Mack follows us through the swinging door. We’re still walking when Lucas and Poppy run in behind us.
Three other grownups are in the kitchen, but in this moment, it is just us: Babs and me. There is a pause. And then. And then. Babs draws her right hand back, swings it forward, and smacks me, hard. Across the face. I almost fall again, but she holds me upright with her left arm. Smacks me again. This stings but is more alive and precise than the sloppy blood pouring from my forehead. If the smacking didn’t hurt, it would feel good. Each one contains more force than Babs has ever directed at my body. Both times her hand hits my cheek, the contact makes us one person. I can feel her energy and her hatred. Her effort also feels like love.
Babs lets go of me. “Bad move, babe. You fuck up and fall. You bleed all over Mack’s shirt. You blew it.”
She’s right. I have nothing to say.
Lucas steps in. “Jesus Christ, Babs. She’s only a kid. What’s the matter with you?”
“She’s my fucking kid, Lucas. I can do what I want.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Fine,” Babs says, looking at Poppy. “Take her with you to New York, cuz. I don’t really care. See for yourself how much fun a twelve-year-old girl can be.”
Mack is still standing there, in on it. Unlike Lucas, he says nothing, and I can feel him pulling away. Probably thinks this has turned into a family argument. Doesn’t want to intrude.
“Babs, quit with the drama. No one is going anywhere. Just watch it,” Lucas says.
“Drama? Watch it? I’ll show you drama.”
Is Babs going to smack Lucas? Throw something at him? Whatever she has in mind, Lucas backs off. He takes Poppy’s hand.
“Look, it’s over. No one fell off the ship. Let’s go dance to the Duch and pour pink champagne over people.”
Babs pauses. Then says, “Sounds fab.” Babs has Mack and Lucas. A swinging party and a hot outfit. Not worth wasting time on me. She moves on.
“Bettina, go find Lily and have her clean you up. Put some regular clothes on. Party over.” She walks to the living room. Lucas and Poppy follow behind her. Case closed. Lucas is Babs’s cousin. A Ballentyne, after all.
Mack hangs back.
My blood is all over the front of his shirt. My red handprints smear his pants. Traces of it on his wrists. There must even be spots on his watch. I have his attention; I’ve made an impression. He is completely disheveled and looks spent from all the excitement.
Mack comes closer to me. Leans in and kisses my forehead. He gets some of my blood on his lips and wipes it away with his hand. It just keeps coming.
“Feel better, Bettina,” he says. I think he might take my hand and walk me up to my bathroom. But no. He is still just there for the party.
Lily puts me in the bath, holds a washcloth to my head to stop the bleeding. Wipes my face clear of all traces of makeup. She dresses me in jeans and a T-shirt. Suitable attire for a kid to wear to the hospital to get stitches.
When we leave, it is close to eleven. The party has slowed down a bit. No longer frenzied, but mellow. Babs and Mack are talking intensely in the corner. Leaning into each other. If people were not there, Mack would be at the point of kissing her. Or maybe not. Maybe it is the other kind of talking. Supremely private but signals that things have come to an end. I don’t know.
Lily and I spend almost all night in the ER. I get fifteen stitches in my head. The nurse gives me a small pink stuffed elephant with a red bow. An odd receipt.
When we get home, it is almost four in the morning. The party’s over. Cleaned up except for the missing windowpane. But not everyone’s gone. By the front door, two white canvas high-tops. Lucas’s. He and Poppy must be asleep in the guest room. I kick the shoes and they fly in opposite directions, no longer a pair.
Next to them, Mack’s penny loafers, with the S VDB pennies, and his blue blazer. I walk over to Mack’s pile of things and stick the pink stuffed elephant in his pocket. I mean to say Thank you and Don’t forget me. Wonder what he’ll do with it when he gets home.
The next night, Babs takes me out to dinner. No Stacey. Just the two of us. She orders me the shrimp cocktail and filet mignon. We barely talk. Babs says nothing about my stitches. She eats her entire salade niçoise and even one bread roll. Lets me get the bananas Fougères for dessert. No mention of my getting fat. Not one word.
7. Breakup
June 1980
TWO WEEKS GO by after the party and no Mack. I still don’t know what they were talking about when I left to get my stitches but decide it couldn’t have gone well, even if he spent the night. Babs told me once that just because someone wants to fuck you, it doesn’t mean he wants to be in a relationship with you, or even that he likes you. You shouldn’t read too much into these things. So I’m not sure Babs really misses him or is that surprised. But people can’t just leave Babs whenever they want. Only she gets to decide when they go away.
One night before dinner, Babs and I are in the kitchen pulling out her parents’ pale blue linen placemats. Babs claims there’s so much good stuff and Lily doesn’t rotate enough. We hear the elevator. Babs just keeps on stacking cloths for the table.
Then we hear him.
“Babs?” he says, footsteps coming our way. “Are you here?” Mack.
Babs is wearing an aqua-green silk robe. Her hair is wet and she has no makeup on. At first she says nothing, waits for him to come in. Then:
“Yes. Jesus, Mack, if I knew you were coming, I would’ve put a face on. It’s been kind of a clean-out day around here.” She leans in to kiss him but he turns his head so her mouth lands on his cheek.
“What the fuck, Mack? Why such a goddamn prude? We’ve kissed in front of the kid before, remember?”
He looks at me, his smile more like a wince. “Hey, Bettina,” he says, only now registering that I’m there, looking on.
“So where the fuck have you been? Are you here for dinner?”
“Let’s take this into the living room.”
“Oh, there is a this. No. This can stay right in the kitchen. I want Bettina to see how a man acts after he gets the lights fucked out of him and then decides he’s going to take a breather.”
“You know I don’t want just a breather. We did this already. It’s over.”
“So why the fuck are you here?”
“I came to get my cuff links. I wore them here about a month ago, and I can’t find them at Tea House anywhere. I must have left them.”
Babs starts to laugh. “You’re telling me you’re doing a drive-by for your cuff links? Bullshit. I would have sent them, you know. But they’re not here, babe. Delilah would have found them when she cleaned my room.”
“Babs, Mags gave them to me for our anniversary. Maybe I could have a look? Under the bed, perhaps?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
He reaches for her hand but she snatches it away. Then she actually puts her arm around my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.
“Bettina and I are very busy. If I find them, I’ll call.”
Mack starts to say something, but stops himself. He does not have the vocabulary for this kind of situation. He leaves the aparthouse empty-handed. Babs doesn’t give out goody bags.
We are seated for dinner, food served. Babs goes back to Mack’s visit.
“He says it’s over. I don’t do over. Enough, maybe, but over makes it sound like a bad movie. I just know he got an ultimatum from Magsy and was afraid that if things didn’t cool down between us, she would kick him out of Tea House. This is just bullshit. She would never dirty her hands with a divorce, and she knows Mack will pull this shit again. Three minutes of missionary just isn’t going to do it for him.”
“So,” I say, “you think he will come back?”
“I’m sure of it.” She reaches into the pocket of he
r bathrobe and pulls out three gold nuggets in the shape of knots. Dumps them in her ashtray. Keeps smoking.
I want to stick my hand in there, grab them. But I just watch as she covers them with ash.
“The question is, will I take him back? I’m not big on playing the do-over card.”
I want to stick up for him, tell Babs Mack is worth waiting for, but I keep my mouth shut. I might make her mad if she thinks I’m not completely on her side. I just stare at those gold knots and wonder if I can rescue them when we are finished with dinner.
“On one hand, it would be stupid to deprive my centerfold of his talents, but on the other, I can’t have him thinking I’m that easy.” She takes another drag of her Duchess Golden Light, then grinds it into one of the cuff links.
“I give it two weeks before he comes back. Plenty of time to figure out what to do.”
“Sounds good, Babs,” I say. As soon as she stands up, I will collect those cuff links, sleep with them under my pillow, like a prayer. She lights another cigarette.
I start to feel desperate, wanting dinner to end. She said he’ll be back at the aparthouse in two weeks and I just know she will take him back. No need to discuss other possibilities. But the cuff links. It is painful to watch them sitting there, buried underneath a heap of butts. As if she has been searing Mack’s wrists.
Finally, she pushes her chair back. I start to relax but then see that she’s taking the ashtray with her. I get up and follow her toward the powder room. She turns and sees me.
“Normally, my girl, I like to potty alone, but you are onto something. This is different.” She takes my hand, balances the ashtray in the other hand. We go inside.
“Mack fucked up. Sure, he will come back, but in the meantime, I’m not a safe-deposit box. But big picture: If a man ever takes a hiatus on you, never give all his toys back. Don’t get sentimental and stash them somewhere. Throw them away. He will know. Not the specifics maybe, but he will be able to tell. That in the end, you have won.”
The last word is barely out of her mouth when she dumps the contents of the ashtray into the toilet. The cuff links sink and I hear them hit the porcelain like tiny pebbles. The cigarettes float on top, like fallen leaves on a lake. Babs grabs the silver handle and flushes.
I wonder if she’s right. It seems to me that you should save sacrificial gestures like this for when things are really over.
Three weeks later, Babs finds me in the playroom. Says, “Field trip. I want to show you where I grew up, Bettina.”
Babs and I settle ourselves into her red convertible Jag. Set off with a picnic basket packed by Lily the night before. She tells me we are going to stop by Tea House, then go to the Grass Woods cemetery and have a picnic on Eudy and Mont’s graves. I don’t think this through. Forget that Mags and Mack live at Tea House and probably don’t want a Babs drive-by. And normal people don’t have a picnic in a cemetery. But I’m so happy to spend the day with Babs, I just go with it.
I am wearing a pretty if slightly babyish sundress that Babs bought me the day before. Pink and white checks. Brand-new white sandals. Babs has on white shorts, a Lilly Pulitzer print top, and a pair of lime-green Jack Rogers. Her legs are tan and toned. You can see a line in her outer thigh as she works the gears. Her toes are painted a whisper pink. Matches her shirt. Her blond hair is down and pushed off her face with enormous Jackie O. sunglasses. The whole effect is completely Grass Woods. As if the town is a club with a strict dress code. It’s unlike Babs to dress to please people. She must have a plan.
She plays the latest Stevie Wonder and balances a cigarette deftly between her lips. We go up Lake Shore Drive to Sheridan Road. I watch the progression of houses. Small, modest. Then they begin to swell. The lawns get bigger and bigger the farther we are from the city. Like they finally have room to stretch out and breathe.
Babs has put a six-pack of ginger ale on the floor by my feet. She tells me I can drink as much as I want. I haven’t had lunch yet and am hungry rather than thirsty, but I drink at least three cans. I keep looking at Babs to see if this is some kind of trick, but she does not flinch when I crack one open. She even smiles.
We pass Evanston, Kenilworth, Lake Forest. Finally, we arrive at Grass Woods. No cars in the parking lot of the train station. None of the men are going anywhere. All of them at home where they’re supposed to be.
Babs follows a few long winding roads. Stops at a house with an enormous gate. It is open and Babs pulls in, crunching the driveway as we go. It is a magnificent house. Salmon-colored with black shutters. The house is big and solid. Looks like it could stand up to her. Babs would not be able to remove the windows, turn it into a cruise ship, dance about it in a white bathing suit. Tea House is on steady ground, immutable.
Babs parks the Jag right inside the gate. Gets out and drops her cigarette onto the gravel driveway, still burning. A calling card. I’m fairly certain Mags does not smoke.
Babs puts her hands on her hips and leans against the car, confident and still, like she is in some kind of ad. She lights another cigarette and takes in her surroundings. Beside us is a sort of guardhouse. There is one car nearby. A brown station wagon. Babs told me once that Mack drives a green Austin Mini. He must not be home. Thank God.
She runs her hand over the hood of the station wagon, says, “I bet she picks him up and drops him off at the station in this ratty old thing.” She laughs with a snort.
I don’t need to ask who she is talking about. Babs is single-minded in her interest in people. For now, he always refers to Mack and she to Mags. I have never met Mags. But something tells me I am about to.
I have to go to the bathroom. I’ve been so busy taking it all in that it comes on me in a giant rush.
“Babs,” I say, “I need to pee.”
One problem that will solve another: we’ll have to leave Tea House to find some restaurant where I can go potty, which means we can avoid Mags altogether. Babs just stands there, nods.
“Just go up to the front door and knock,” she says. “I happen to know there are plenty of bathrooms. After all, I grew up here. There’s a powder room in the front hall.”
“I don’t know the people who live here,” I say, even though of course I do.
“Don’t be such a fucking chicken. If you have to go, go!”
“Will you come with me?” I ask, knowing what the answer will be. On second thought, having Babs as escort might not be such a good idea.
“Nope. This is your deal, babe,” she says, like I have brought this on myself. Which I guess I have.
I try not to panic. I consider my options. I can pee right where we are standing. No. I can approach the house more closely and pee somewhere on the lawn; no one will see, then I can get back in the car and we can drive away.
Babs waits.
I begin my walk toward the house. My stomach lurches as I go. I know Babs is watching me, the way you’re supposed to with young children. Then she’s gone. I see her get in the car, back out on the crunchy gravel, drive away. I now have two problems. But I have to go so bad I am afraid I will wet myself if I don’t get to the house soon. I start to run.
All of a sudden I see her. Mack’s wife, Mags. She emerges from a side door of Tea House. She is wearing khaki pants, a pink-and-blue Liberty print shirt, and gardening clogs. She is so beautiful and looks so nice, I want to cry. Like the affair is my fault. Her dark hair is pulled up in a loose chignon, and her eyes are a clear blue. Like a lake that has no swimmers. She has a visor on, and her face is unmarred by the sun, but her arms are tan. She holds her hand up to break the sun’s glare.
“Can I help you?” I know Mags sees me for what I’m not. A run-of-the-mill twelve-year-old girl in a pink-and-white sundress. A friend of her son, Hailer, perhaps.
“Um, I just need to go to the bathroom really badly.” I forget to say please. That’s how bad I need to go.
How did you get here? I know she wants to ask but doesn’t. She’s a good mother. Can see how bad I need t
o get to the toilet.
She takes me inside the house. There is a powder room just off the front hall, as Babs said there would be. The toilet is a rose pink. I sit down. Make myself comfortable. Release my breath as a strong steady stream of pee hits the bowl. I finish. Wipe myself, pull up my underwear, and go to wash my hands. There are monogrammed linen hand towels carefully folded on the sink. MMM. Margaux and McCormack Morse. Problem. I do not want to mess them up, but don’t want to look like I didn’t wash my hands.
I run water from the tap. Pick up a bar of rose glycerin soap from a white porcelain dish on the sink and scrub my hands with it. When I am finished, I dig my index finger into the soap and drag it across. It leaves a long scratch. Mags will be able to tell I have used it. I have manners. I am conscientious about hygiene. I wipe my hands on my dress, leaving wet streaks.
The front hall of Tea House is messy with shoes and coats in a way that the aparthouse never is. I spot a blue sweater. Cotton roll-neck, about my size. It’s folded carefully on a frayed antique bench. Directly underneath there is a pair of children’s Topsiders. A red, blue, and yellow plaid cap. Hailer’s? I want to pick up the cap, take it with me back to the aparthouse. Maybe go to sleep wearing it.
Mags is standing outside the front door. I try to be as nice as possible. Hope to get out of there without causing any problems.
“Thank you for letting me use the bathroom. I really appreciate it.”
“Feel better?” Mags asks. I want to say Not really, but I don’t. I won’t get a tour of Tea House after all. I have a use-the-bathroom-only ticket.
The Chocolate Money Page 7
