“Oh.”
“Look, sweetie! Aren’t those the jeans you’ve been looking for?” Helen deftly steered them towards the window of a very trendy shop. “Let’s go in and see if they have your size,” she offered, convinced that her diversionary tactic was no worse than offering a bottle to a crying infant. The desired outcome was the same—silence the child and rescue the mother.
Michael was pacing in front of the television with the phone glued to his ear, shouting, “Did you see that? Did you see that sixty-five-footer at the buzzer? Look, look, they’re doing an instant replay. Whoooo, can you believe it?”
Having just returned from their outing, Zoe was in the kitchen making a sandwich, and Helen was casually leafing through the mail. Two envelopes immediately caught her eye: one from The Bucolic Campus School and one from The Safety School, both addressed to “The Parents of Zoe Drager.” She tore open The Bucolic Campus School’s first, and out fell a form letter with the heading “Notification of Incomplete Application” and, handwritten underneath, “Missing: head of school’s Recommendation.” The envelope from The Safety School contained the same kind of notice.
“That worthless bitch!” she exploded as she threw the letters on to the couch next to Michael, who was still clutching the phone and riveted to the game.
“Vinnie,” he mouthed, and pointed to the receiver. Helen picked up the notice from The Bucolic Campus School and held it in front of Michael’s face. He read it and shrugged, as if to say, “What am I supposed to do about it?” and then went back to yelling into the phone about somebody’s jump shot.
“Zoe, I need to use the phone in your room,” she said with urgency.
“What’s the matter, Mom?” Zoe asked fearfully.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” she said as she closed the bedroom door.
She tried Sara first at home but got no answer. She tried her at The School, and Sara picked up.
“You’re not gonna believe this, but Pamela has failed to do the one simple thing we’ve counted on her to do for us.”
“What’s that?”
“The only thing she HAD to do. If she did nothing else this semester, this was the one thing we needed her to do.”
“WHAT?”
“The head-of-school recommendations!”
“Helen. Calm down. We’ll get them written,” Sara said with a calm that belied her own panic. If Pamela had let these two fall through the cracks, how many others were in the same boat?
“How? How the hell will they get done?” Helen demanded. “It will be impossible to get them done now.” Helen stopped herself before adding, “Now that Pamela is a lame duck.”
“They will get done if I have to write them myself and get Pamela to sign them, okay?”
“I’ve had it with her.”
“How do you think I feel? I have to work with her,” Sara said angrily.
“I’m sorry for dumping on you. I just needed to vent,” Helen said conciliatorily.
“You know I’m always here for you. But I have to tell you, Helen, I’m getting really tired of being on the receiving end of all your anger. Your negativity is starting to rub off on me. I can’t take much more of it,” Sara declared with a vehemence that surprised them both.
There was a momentary silence on both ends.
“I’m sorry,” Helen muttered. “It’s just that I really don’t know where else to turn.”
“I’m sorry, too. But let up a little. Somehow it will all work out,” Sara said. “Listen, I’m tied up all day Monday, but let’s talk Tuesday morning and we’ll figure out a game plan for getting the recommendations done, okay?” she proposed, hoping that by Tuesday she might have something concrete to offer.
“Sounds good. Thanks again. I really appreciate your being there for me. I hope you have a good weekend.”
“You, too,” Sara signed off curtly.
Helen wearily wandered into Zoe’s room, lay down on her bed, and with heavy eyes observed her daughter as she dressed for Catherine’s party. Zoe settled on black velvet jeans and a bell-sleeved peasant blouse, both perfectly suitable to a party at the Cashins’. It was only when Zoe applied her makeup that Helen weighed in with “Not too much. That’s a little too dark. A little lighter, sweetie.”
Last, in a moment of weakness, Helen agreed to let Zoe borrow her garnet chandelier earrings, the antique pair she had inherited from her mother and that were currently all the rage.
“You have to promise me, you will not take them off,” Helen said seriously.
“I promise,” Zoe agreed.
“I mean it,” Helen repeated sternly.
“Dazzling,” Michael said as Zoe emerged from her room. “If I were Max, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight the entire night.”
“You’re so corny, Dad,” Zoe said as she kissed him on the forehead. “So you’ll pick me up at midnight, right?”
“Wrong, Cinderella, we said eleven,” Helen corrected.
“Just testing,” Zoe laughed giddily.
“We should go now, too. We were due at the Doyle Gillises’ twenty minutes ago,” she nudged.
“So we’ll be fashionably late.”
“I can safely guarantee that our lateness will be the only fashionable thing about this dinner party,” she said, stroking the back of Zoe’s smooth hair as they left the house together.
After putting Zoe in a cab, Helen and Michael walked the few blocks to the Doyle-Gillis apartment, where the door was opened by their host, who greeted them with a flaccid handshake and a graceless acceptance of the very good bottle of wine they had brought. Dick was an anesthesiologist with the bedside manner of an undertaker, having attended medical school eons before humanity was introduced into the curriculum. While he busied himself hanging their coats in the closet, they wandered into the kitchen, where Denise was leading Lauren Toppler on a guided tour of her pantry.
“The spices are arranged alphabetically, starting with anise, which is tricky because it’s sometimes called fenugreek, but I chose to . . . Oh, hi.” Denise turned. “Lauren was just asking how it was possible for my kitchen to be so spotless in the middle of preparing for a dinner party, and I was explaining it’s all a function of advanced planning and timing.”
“Denise, your organizational skills are legendary,” Helen said, giving her a light peck on the cheek. But your taste is indescribable because . . . for all intents and purposes, you have none, she thought.
But if she were pushed to define Denise’s style, the word Helen would have chosen would have been utilitarian. There was nothing left to chance when it came to Denise’s appearance: hair kept crew-cut short, clothing generic, and makeup in short supply. Her house was the same: highly functional, zero design, and forget about frivolity.
“You’re the only person I know who has one of these in her kitchen,” Helen said, pointing to the tall gray steel file cabinet in the corner.
Michael, curious about its contents, read the labels on the drawers: “Birthday parties, vacations, auction, community service. Wow, there’s even one just for admissions.”
“That’s the drawer that I’ve been in and out of most these days,” Denise commented wryly. “Can’t wait until that’s over.”
“Ditto,” Helen responded, and then whispered to Michael. “My admissions files are on Excel.”
“Denise runs a tight ship,” Dick added. It was not clear whether he meant it as a compliment.
“Speaking of ships . . . what do you and John think of the auction theme this year, Lauren?”
“Where is John?” Helen asked.
“In the little boys’ room on his cell phone, no doubt,” Lauren answered with a hint of annoyance.
“Do you mind if we sit down for dinner right now? Dick has to go pick up the kids at ten, so time is a little tight.”
Helen looked at her watch. It was only seven thirty. “Sure. Where are the kids tonight?”
“Mark is serving dinner at the homeless shelter, Matthew is sleeping at my
parents’, and Marissa is over at the Winters’, helping April catch up on homework.”
“How’s April doing?”
“Apparently she had a relapse last week. I gather she pulled herself together to take the SAPS, but then she completely collapsed from exhaustion. And to make matters worse, between you and me, Marissa told me her test scores were dreadful. Poor thing. Anemia is difficult to deal with in adolescence. These kids have such lousy diets to begin with, right, Dick?” Dick grunted.
What is with these people? Helen thought in disgust. Denise is a smart woman, and Dick is a doctor, for Christ’s sake. Haven’t they heard of eating disorders?
Only after they were all seated around the dining room table did John Toppler make an appearance. With cell phone headset dangling off one ear, BlackBerry in his breast pocket, and pager attached to his belt, he was wired to the hilt.
“Hey, old man, how’s it going?” he bellowed, slapping Michael on the back. “What’s for dinner? I’m famished,” he added with gusto.
“Cornish hens,” Dick answered just as Denise entered with an enormous dome-covered platter.
“Under glass,” Denise announced as she made a grand gesture of setting the plate on the table and lifting the glass dome.
“Ohhhh . . .” Michael was impressed with the formal presentation. “Huh?” He did a double take when he saw only two small hens huddled in the center of the huge plate.
“Dick, will you do the honors?” Denise asked, handing her husband a long knife.
The guests watched in disbelief as Dick, with the care of a surgeon, proceeded to carve the first miniature bird.
“Who wants a leg?” he asked his guests. Helen didn’t dare look at Michael, for fear she would totally lose it.
“I’ll take one. I’m a dark-meat man,” Toppler answered good- naturedly, not yet having registered that the two Cornish hens represented dinner for six.
“And there’s pasta, too!” Denise announced, much to everyone’s relief, as she returned from the kitchen carrying two small bowls. After Dick placed a minuscule portion of poultry on each person’s plate, he passed to Denise, who added six tortellini, counting as she went, and two branches of broccoli.
Helen wished she had a camera to record the sight of the corpulent John Toppler holding the teeny hen leg between thumb and index finger as he gnawed in search of a morsel of flesh. No one would have believed it otherwise.
On the other side of the table, Michael was taking his time chewing his 1.5 ounces of breast meat while wishing he were drinking the California Zinfandel he had brought instead of the Doyle-Gilleses’ sickly sweet Riesling. Helen was methodically cutting each tortellini into four pieces in order to prolong the meal, while Lauren, who had declined the pasta and poultry altogether, made a meal out of two broccoli stalks by nibbling them floret by floret. When Denise apologized for not being able to offer seconds, Helen kicked Michael under the table when she thought she heard him chuckle.
“Let’s retire to the living room for coffee and dessert,” Denise suggested.
One coffee bean and a thimble of sorbet, Helen thought just as Denise appeared with a plate of six tiny brownies.
Suddenly there was a high-pitched buzz as one of Toppler’s telecommunications devices received an incoming signal. He shoved the microphone in front of his mouth and began yakking loudly.
“The fucking surgeon is blaming the pulmonary guy who’s threatening a malpractice suit against the idiot anesthesiologist who had the gall to . . .” Lauren grabbed her husband’s arm and guided him out of the room as she murmured “sorry” to her hosts.
“Helen, I want to talk to you about the entertainment for the gala. I thought you and I should wear matching gowns, you know, in order to establish our coleadership roles. I have a dress picked out that I think will look great on both of us. That way, we’ll be color-coordinated when we perform our song.”
“What? What song?”
“The parody lyrics I’m working on. I told you about this weeks ago. It’s important for spirit building and getting the sale off to a rollicking start.”
“I don’t sing. Nor do I do twinsies,” Helen replied, certain she wouldn’t be caught dead in a dress selected by Denise.
“What’s this about singing?” John Toppler returned to the room.
“We were just talking about the musical performance that Helen and I are planning for the night of the auction. The idea is to warm up the crowd before the sale begins. If you beg and plead, I’ll give you a sneak preview,” she teased. No one did, but that didn’t stop her.
“Dick, will you be my accompanist?” she asked, leading her begrudging husband towards the piano.
Dick played a short overture to “When I Was a Lad” from HMS Pinafore, and Denise sang:
“WHEN I WAS A MOM
I SERVED A STINT
AS CHAIR OF THE AUCTION
AND WE RAISED A MINT.
I GOT DONATIONS
AND I TOOK SOME BIDS
AND NOW WE HAVE A LIBRARY FOR ALL OUR KIDS.
“And everybody, repeat the last line,” she demanded.
“AND NOW WE HAVE A LIBRARY FOR ALL OUR KIDS.”
“AS CHAIR OF THE AUCTION
I MADE SUCH A SPLASH
THAT THEY ASKED ME TO ORGANIZE
ANOTHER BASH.
THEY ALL GOT BOMBED
AND MADE OUTRAGEOUS BIDS.
THAT’S HOW WE GOT A JUNGLE GYM FOR ALL
OUR KIDS.
“And everybody, repeat the last line,” she commanded again.
“THAT’S HOW WE GOT A JUNGLE GYM FOR ALL
OUR KIDS.”
After three more verses the audience applauded.
“Great song, Denise, but please don’t make Helen sing. She can’t carry a tune with a shovel,” Michael said.
“He’s right, Denise. But the song is fun. You should do it alone,” Helen said kindly.
“No way!” Denise was disappointed. “Dick, will you sing along with me while you play?”
“I’d sooner go into cardiac arrest,” he said lugubriously. Denise let it go.
“John, I was hoping I could get you to come up with a few items for the auction. Your divorce package last year was such a big hit, I thought maybe you could offer another kind of legal service this time, like a will or a real estate closing.”
“How about leading a class action suit? At least there’s some upside potential for me. Last year’s divorce ended up costing me about two hundred billable hours. Boy, that couple really went to war.” Helen tried to remember who the winning bidder was on the divorce last year.
“Well, maybe it’s not a legal service. Think about some of your clients. Who could you ask a favor of?” Denise pressed.
“How about a day at a pharmaceutical factory? I know the people who make Viagra. I could definitely pull that off.”
“Ummm . . . not exactly right for our audience,” Denise delicately rejected his suggestion.
“How about medical services? I have lots of clients in the health care business,” he said, ignoring the fact that his host was an MD.
“We sort of have that base covered. Dick has gotten us laser eye surgery, dermabrasion, and a series of botox treatments.”
“And I’m working on our podiatrist to donate a bunion-removal procedure,” Dick added stiffly. He wasn’t going to lose a game of medical one-upsmanship to some ambulance chaser.
“Think vacations and weekend homes. Those usually generate tons of bidding and make lots of money. Last year I think we got eight thousand for a week at the King’s Tennessee mountain retreat, including a day at Graceland with an Elvis impersonator.” Denise kept trying. “Think out of the box.”
“I’ve got it! I’ve got a client in Jersey. He’s in waste management. He’s got some kind of barocco villa in Palermo. He’s shown me the pictures. Looks pretty heavy-duty. He keeps telling me I should take the family and spend a week there. I’m sure I could get him to give it to us for the auction. He’s
into me for a bundle.”
Denise looked to Helen for guidance. She didn’t want to keep rejecting John’s ideas, but this one sounded a little scary.
“That sounds extraordinary,” Helen said with restraint, leaving Denise unsure what she meant. Thankfully, Toppler’s pager starting vibrating, and he ran out of the room.
“Lauren, do you know this client of John’s?” Helen inquired.
“If it’s who I think it is, I would steer clear,” she said softly while John was in the kitchen screaming about a car accident.
A few minutes later he returned to the conversation, red in the face, and said, “That call just gave me a great idea. Bodywork. I could get a buddy in the repo business to give us some bodywork. Maybe he would throw in a muffler and a lube job, too.”
“That’s an original idea,” Denise responded politely.
“I love it,” said Michael.
“Great,” said Helen.
“We’re happy to donate our apartment, with staff of course, for the Pamela Rothschild Provençal dinner. That’s always a popular item, isn’t it, Denise? What did it go for last year?” Lauren offered, trying to compensate for her husband’s vulgarity.
“Ummm . . . ,” murmured Helen as Denise said, “It sold for about eight thousand last year. That’s so generous of you. Thank you, Lauren.”
“Uh-oh,” Michael whispered to Helen, who responded with a “Shhh.”
At nine thirty on the button, Dick stood up and walked towards the hall closet for his coat. The Dragers took this as a cue and departed with him. As soon as they both said, “Good night, Dick,” and were out on the sidewalk, Michael suggested that they go for a drink and a bite to eat in the time they had to kill before picking up Zoe.
“Good idea. I’m starving,” she said, and took his hand as they walked down the street.
“God, Dick is a snooze,” Michael complained.
“What do you expect? He’s in the business of putting people to sleep.”
Admissions Page 27
