“Well, then I suppose it’s her word against mine. You can choose which story you want to believe,” Sara said, not intending to sound quite so na-na-na-na-na.
“Dana, if we went to that fucking cooking school last summer for no reason, I’m gonna kill you!” Patrick was so menacing that Sara thought he was perfectly capable of making good on his threat.
“Don’t worry, Patrick,” Dana assured her fuming spouse. “Pamela knows exactly what she’s doing. She and Justine are like this,” she said, crossing her index and middle fingers and shaking them in his face. She then turned to Sara. “Pamela’s known April much longer than you have and is practically a member of our family. She’ll take over from here, and it will all work out. You’ll see,” she said high-handedly, regaining control of her emotions and resuming her haughty stance.
“I’m sure she’ll be there for you the same way she was when April was hospitalized.” Sara didn’t mean to be sarcastic, but the Winters’ refusal to face reality infuriated her.
“She didn’t come because she knew there was nothing seriously wrong with April. She knew her well enough to know it was just anemia,” Dana said defensively.
“Open your eyes! Your daughter is dangerously underweight! She has anorexia and bulimia. She could collapse again at any moment,” Sara spoke as strongly as she felt she possibly could without causing Patrick to become violent.
“I’ve had it with your pseudopsychiatric diagnostics! You don’t know what the hell your talking about!” Patrick shouted.
“What more do you need? Look at the physical evidence! She’s five feet seven inches tall and weighs eighty-three pounds!” Sara exploded.
“She’s always been built like a model,” Dana argued.
Sara was so frustrated that she pulled out all the stops. “Maybe this image will mean something to you. Last night the janitor called to tell me there was a trail of ants coming out of her locker. We opened it up this morning and found piles of chewed food hidden among her notebooks and gym shoes. How would you explain that?”
“Another invasion of privacy!” Patrick declared assertively.
“Call it what you will, but it’s my duty to make sure The School is clean and vermin-free. April’s health problems are life-threatening and a liability to The School! I’ll say it for the last time: GET HELP! For April and yourselves!” she took a deep breath and stood up to signal the end of the meeting.
“You’ll be hearing from our lawyer,” Patrick warned as he stormed out, his wife hustling to follow. She half expected Dana to turn her head and stick out her tongue.
After they were gone, Sara collapsed; she was emotionally depleted. But the worst was surely behind her, since April’s situation was probably the most complicated of all the students in the eighth-grade class. It was just unfortunate that the Winters had been her first meeting—she would have preferred to have had a chance to get her feet wet before diving into the deep, frigid waters of the Winters’ emotional abyss. She hadn’t quite anticipated their level of resistance and animosity, but as she critiqued her performance, she decided that she had handled it as well as she possibly could have.
Brandi stuck her head in the door. “Are you okay? That sounded really unpleasant.”
“I’m okay. Glad to have that meeting behind me.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, no. I just realized that if they follow my advice, they’ll be here next year. I don’t know if I could survive another go-round with them.”
Helen was enjoying the novelty of puttering in the kitchen, especially since the evening represented such a significant familial milestone—the “meet the parents” dinner with Zoe’s first boyfriend was not a trivial event for any of the Dragers. Ever since Zoe had gotten involved with Max, she had been much easier to live with, her mood swings occurring with less frequency and much more predictably. Other than her outburst after their visit to The Very Brainy Girls’ School, she was more serene than Helen could remember her being in years.
When at last the brisket was in the oven, the noodle pudding assembled, and the carrots and sweet potatoes pureed, Helen sat down to return a few calls and e-mails. First she called Margaret to schedule the admissions meeting Sara had requested. She made the appointment for the following week, early in the morning so that Michael could join them before going to work, and told Margaret she would let her know if Zoe would be attending—Sara had left this choice up to them, and Helen was unsure whether it was better to include Zoe or not. She and Michael would decide closer to the time. Next she returned Denise’s e-mail with a phone call.
“I agree with you on the inappropriateness of both the Marx donation and Toppler’s,” Helen said.
“Good. I think that since we’ve included his lube job we can say no to the offshore nonsense without offending him. The day at the races I was less sure about. It could go for quite a lot of money,” Denise explained with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
“The gambling aspect is dicey. I think we should avoid it. Plus, I’m a little squeamish these days about anything having to do with horses, thanks to our dearly departed,” Helen explained.
“Which brings us to the last item on my agenda: the Rothschild dinner. Since I sent you the e-mail, she’s called me several times to confirm it.”
“Oh?” Helen was surprised. Somehow she thought that after Pamela’s humiliating dismissal, she would have kept her distance from everyone connected to The School. “What did she say?”
“She gave me a long harangue about the importance of fulfilling one’s obligations and refused to accept my offer to let her off the hook.”
“So you agreed to keep the dinner in the auction?” Helen asked.
“I told her I had to clear it with my committee. What do you think?”
“I’m concerned that if we include it, no one will bid on it. Let’s be frank: the people who spent a lot of money on the dinner in the past did it to kiss ass with the head of School. Why would anyone want it now?”
“For the food?” Denise responded.
“They could go to Le Bon Take Out and feed themselves for a fraction of the cost.”
“Just kidding. So what do I tell her?”
“Oh, let’s just leave it in the auction. There’re still enough of her fans around. Someone will bid on it. It’s been such a good moneymaker for us in the past, I hate to lose it.”
“Okeydokey. By the way, what time do you expect Marissa for dinner? She’s reading to the blind at four and then has her Junior Junior League meeting until six thirty.”
“She can come whenever she’s finished,” Helen answered. She certainly didn’t want to rain on Marissa’s do-gooder parade.
Having completed her calls, Helen logged on to the computer to check her e-mail, expecting some information from an editor about a deadline, and another message from a curator about an upcoming symposium she had been invited to attend. She was puzzled when she opened her in-box and saw that there was a message from [email protected]. She hadn’t recalled giving him her e-mail address.
Helen,
I took the liberty of tracking down your e-mail address through Josh Kirov. I’m not sure why, but he seemed surprised that I didn’t already have it.
I wanted to let you know that Catherine found your red garnet earrings in a glass bowl in our living room. She recognized them as a pair Zoe wore to her party last month and assumed they had been here since then. I recognized them as the pair you were wearing when you were here, but didn’t say so. I’m afraid she may have told Zoe she found the earrings and I thought I should warn you of that possibility. They are safely in my desk drawer and awaiting instructions. I could messenger them to you, or, as would be my preference, give them to you in person.
The time we spent together last week was splendid. Just seeing you gives me enormous pleasure, touching you gives me even more. So much so that I’m willing to be with you in whatever way works for you.
Just let me know what you want to do.
Phillip
> Oh, my God, how could I have been so damn careless. I’m an idiot, she chastised herself. Her recollection of the recklessness that led to the removal of the earrings was mortifying. Was I actually so transported that I removed my earrings? These are the same earrings that I reluctantly let Zoe wear, only after issuing a stern warning to not remove them under any circumstances. And now I broke the rule that I had insisted my daughter follow only weeks before. How could I have been such a hypocrite?
She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there or how many times she read the note, but before she had a chance to respond, she heard a key in the door and, without thought, pressed delete, and the message disappeared.
“Hi, sweetie!” she greeted Zoe brightly.
“Hi, Mom! Ummm. It smells yum. What can I do to help? Should I set the table?”
“That would be great. How was your day?”
“Excellent. We got our math midterm back. I got a ninety-two. Oh, and I got an A minus on my history paper.”
“That’s great! Have you gotten the science midterm back yet?”
“Yeah. That’s not such good news. I got a B minus.”
“That’s not so bad,” Helen said supportively, following Sara’s advice to let up on Zoe.
“It would be if I went to The Very Brainy Girls’ School. I might have jumped off the George Washington Bridge.”
“You’ve got a point,” Helen laughed.
Zoe set the table with more care than Helen had ever seen her use, carefully aligning the silver and artfully folding the linen napkins so that each place setting was a perfect replica of all the others.
“Mom, do I look better in profile or face-to-face?”
“You’re beautiful in every way. Especially inside.” Helen parodied a folksy singsong style. “Why?”
“I’m trying to decide if I should I sit next to Max or across from him,” Zoe debated earnestly.
Helen did an internal eye roll and then, recognizing that from her daughter’s perspective this was a serious concern, recommended that she sit across from him. “That way, we can put Max on Daddy’s left and you on Daddy’s right, which will create a good conversation triangle.”
Michael arrived home with a large bouquet of flowers and a Linzer torte he had picked up at one of their favorite bakeries. While Zoe was in her room dressing for the party, Michael helped Helen in the kitchen. As she was standing over the sink washing the salad greens, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
“Hmmm, that’s nice,” she said softly. “What’s up?” They had been married long enough for her to know that his gesture was loaded with more than affection, and sure enough, she was right; it was a calculated prelude to his presentation of Vince Gargano’s proposition.
“You’re not seriously considering it. Are you?”
“Not really,” he said, and then added, “but it would put us in good standing there.”
“What are you talking about? Until Zoe’s admitted, we have no standing there! I don’t think it’s right for us to be spending money at The Bucolic Campus School auction. It feels like we’re trying to buy our way in. Besides, we have an obligation to support The School’s auction this year.”
“What good is that going to do us?” he asked.
“Michael! I can’t believe you said that,” she said sharply.
“At least I’m being honest. Where is your sudden burst of moral superiority coming from?”
“Don’t talk to me about morality,” she snapped defensively. “It’s one thing for you and me to be in cahoots against the system. But this is something else altogether. This feels like you’re pulling one over on me, and I don’t like it!”
“That’s not fair. All along it’s been you who’s pushed this relationship with Gargano. Now that he’s proposing we cement the bond, you’re accusing me of ‘pulling one over on you’?” Michael was incensed.
“If you had been honest about your real motive right off the bat, I wouldn’t have reacted this way. Admit it, Michael. This is about fulfilling one of your deepest childhood fantasies. You’ve dreamed of going to basketball camp your whole life.” The opportunity for moral grandstanding was irresistible.
“What’s up with you two?” Zoe interrupted, bursting into the room. “My friends are going to be here any minute.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” Helen snarled through clenched teeth.
Knowing the importance the success of the evening had for Zoe, the Dragers demonstrated their social dexterity by temporarily burying the hatchet and putting on their best we’re-one-big-happy-family faces. When the doorman buzzed to announce the arrival of the first guest, Zoe instructed, “Pleeeeaaase, guys. Don’t do or say anything to embarrass me.”
“Do we ever embarrass you?” Michael asked with genuine concern.
But Helen teased, “So we shouldn’t pull out the photo albums and show Max your naked baby pictures?”
“Mo-o-m,” Zoe laughed.
Max arrived with an exquisite little box of chocolates for Helen and a kiss on the cheek for Zoe. As Michael warmly shook his hand and led him into the living room, Zoe followed Helen to the kitchen and whispered, “Isn’t he adorable?”
“Very,” whispered Helen as she opened a bottle of sparkling cider for the kids and wine for the adults.
Julian’s arrival was, as usual, marked with a burst of fanfare as he shed multiple layers of outerwear, revealing an elaborately embroidered kimono beneath. While wildly gesticulating and delivering kisses and hugs all around, he complimented Helen on her haircut, which both Michael and Zoe had failed to notice.
“Maximilian, how goes it?” Julian sat down and began to tell an animated story about his cab ride, amusing Zoe and Michael with his exaggerated tale of narrowly averted dangers.
Meanwhile, Helen was conversing with Max. “Is Maximilian your real name?”
“Fortunately not. I’m just Max,” he said shyly.
“It’s a wonderful name. Max Liebermann is one of my favorite painters,” Helen said warmly, working hard to help him relax.
“Really? That’s such a coincidence. My grandmother studied painting with him in the forties. She used to tell stories about him when my mother was a little girl. That’s how she decided to name me Max,” he told her, relaxing as they conversed. “Zoe told me you’re an art historian. You have some beautiful photographs,” he said, looking around the room. “Is that one by Frantisek Styrsky?”
Helen was impressed by a fourteen-year-old that could identify the work of an obscure Czech photographer.
“It is. Have you studied photographic history?”
“Not at all. But we lived in the Czech Republic until I was seven, and my parents are both Czech. I think we once had a book about Styrsky, and I remember seeing pictures that looked like that.”
Michael had now turned an ear to their conversation. “I didn’t know you were Czech. That’s really interesting. We went to Prague a few years ago. We loved it, didn’t we, Helen?”
“It’s a beautiful city,” she answered.
“Do you follow the Eastern European basketball players?” Michael asked, eagerly engaging Max.
“Totally! I root for the Sacramento Kings ’cause they’ve got Divac, Stojakovic, and Turgalu. They’re awesome players.” Max lit up as he and Michael talked about this ethnic pocket of basketball that Helen had no idea even existed.
She excused herself to greet Marissa, who had arrived lugging a canvas tote filled with spiral-bound books. She pulled one out and handed it to Helen.
“A gift for the hostess. It’s hot off the press. Your own copy of the Centenary Edition of the Junior League Cookbook.”
“Thank you so much.” Helen accepted it graciously and, thumbing through, came upon a recipe donated by Justine Frampton, member, New York Chapter, for, of all things, pissaladiere!
“I know several people who would love to have this recipe,” she told Marissa, and then announced, “Dinner is on. Please, everyone, come
to the table. Zoe will show you where to sit.”
“Did anyone watch the Golden Globes last night? Tally Easton was wearing the tackiest off-the-shoulder number.” Julian launched into an imitation of Joan Rivers on the red carpet and had everyone in stitches.
“My mom said Tally Easton’s son is going to go to The School next year,” Marissa said in her Miss-Know-it-all manner.
“Is that true, Mom?” Zoe asked.
“That’s what I’m hearing,” Helen replied.
“Too bad none of us will be there next year to dally with Tally,” Julian quipped. “Tally ho,” he added with a giggle.
“I got her autograph at the mayor’s Christmas party,” Marissa bragged. “She was there the night we performed.”
“Really? Zoe, you didn’t tell us she was there,” Michael said.
“I forgot about it. She’s not high on my list of hot celebrities,” Zoe said, looking to Max for his opinion.
“Me, neither,” Max concurred.
“She’s a god-awful dresser. That night she was wearing some sort of double-breasted fur jacket. Very bad idea for anyone under five five. Fur adds at least ten pounds,” Julian continued his riff.
The guests all complimented the meal and ate heartily, accepting Helen’s offer of seconds and, in some cases, thirds. Marissa unabashedly ate more than anyone, which, given the compulsive portion control she was subjected to when she ate at home, was not a surprise. Even though she loved her mother’s brisket, Zoe ate like a bird, self-conscious about seeming a glutton in Max’s presence. Despite the fact that it offended every feminist bone in Helen’s body, she related to Zoe’s girlish impulse and guessed she would find her picking at leftovers after the guests departed.
Julian was back to nattering about who wore what, when Max interrupted.
“Julian, you should be a designer. Have you thought about going to the Fashion Center High School?”
“And become a garmento? Over my dad’s dead body. He’d rather see me become a nurse than go into the rag trade. I would love to, but it’s not gonna happen,” he lamented dramatically.
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