The next day started lazily as thick fog rolled in and seeped onto neighborhood streets, turning the bright purple storefront of a Haight Street store into a milky pink and covering the signs for Cha Cha Cha and the Red Victorian Hotel that Tyler always tried to read through the fog as we passed. As we rode the streetcar to the studio I rehearsed my formal speech for TJ, determined to hit on all the important points as I pleaded Tyler’s case.
In some ways I felt like I was in for the battle of my life, securing a father for my son. But I knew how important it was; I remembered how much I missed having a father. It still hit me at times. A few years ago when I attended a wedding with TJ, the band started playing “Daddy’s Little Girl” and the bride rushed into her father’s arms on the dance floor. I stood alone, watching with a lump in my throat. So corny for everyone to watch as they swayed and talked into each other’s ears, but it took me back to that empty feeling, the nights when I’d stretched out in bed and stared up at the ceiling and imagined my father a prince or at least a wealthy, kind man who would come and whisk me away from the crazy instability that orbited Agate.
I’d shared those fantasies a few times, telling Bree and Jaimie about the scenarios I’d made up of Dad flying us off to a ski resort in the Swiss Alps or a Caribbean island for an exciting vacation. Jaimie was always sympathetic, Bree not so enthused.
“Fatherhood is overrated,” she told me. “My father was around, always home from work at six, regular as a clock. But he’s never taken me skiing or off to any islands. Honestly? I think he finds happiness in garden tools.”
What Bree didn’t understand was that I would have been happy to mow the lawn with my father, thrilled to nip the aphids from his roses. Sometimes it’s not so much what you’re doing as who you’re doing it with.
When we arrived at the studio, it soon became apparent that this was not going to be an easy meeting.
“Where’s Darlene?” I asked the security guard, a man I didn’t recognize, though his nameplate said Kelly. Last name or first name? I wasn’t sure.
He sat back in his chair. “Excuse me? If you’ll tell me Darlene’s last name, I’ll look her up for you.”
I parked Tyler on one of the chairs and bent over the security desk. “Darlene? She’s usually here at the door. I used to work here and we’re friends. Is she on vacation?”
His eyes hardened. “Apparently she’s not here today.”
The man was a wealth of information. “Oh, well.” I pulled the book toward me and started signing in. “Maybe she went back to school. It was something she wanted to do.”
“Hold on there.” He pulled the book away from me, causing a jagged line of ink on the page. “Who are you here to see?”
“TJ Blizzard. We’re old friends.”
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Blizzard?”
I glanced back at Tyler, relieved that he didn’t seem to notice my rising annoyance over this man’s attitude. “He’ll see us. My name is Cassandra Derringer, and this is his son, Tyler. Call inside, if you want.”
“You’re definitely going to need approval from the producers,” he said. “And before we get any further, I need to see your driver’s license.”
It seemed like the ultimate insult for my son to have to wait outside while a rent-a-cop checked his mother’s ID, and all this to get an audience with his father…
Don’t upset Tyler. He’s only five.
I slid my license out of my wallet and snapped it on the desk.
“Go on and have a seat,” the guard ordered.
I moved back toward Tyler but didn’t interrupt him from his Game Boy.
Don’t let him see you sweat. Just get through the crap.
Ten nervous minutes later, the assistant director came through the door, her face tight with stress. “Oh, it’s you, honey.” Concepcion shook her head at me, as if she’d been expecting a two-headed monster. “I didn’t know what was what. What are you doing here?”
“Tyler is here to see his dad.” He didn’t look up from his game, but I put a soft hand on his shoulder. “This new security is ridiculous. Do we need badges or something?”
“Honey, there’s no reason for you to go in. TJ isn’t here, ’cause it’s not a tape day. Nobody’s here. We’re rerunning a ‘best of’ show tonight.”
My spirit sagged with the frustration of a wasted morning, a futile trip. Tyler had no trouble switching gears, heading back to school, but I was the one who needed a lift, a way to ease my disappointment. We decided to stop for lunch under the giant Christmas tree at Neiman Marcus.
While I’d been working on my Christmas windows I’d been careful to stay away from our competitors to ensure that my designs would be fresh and original, but now I thought it was safe to take Tyler to visit the giant tree in the atrium of Neiman Marcus. I vaguely remembered the furor when I was a teen over the demolition of an old turn-of-the-century store to open this one, but the huge glass-domed ceiling of the Rotunda Restaurant had been saved, and over the Christmases that followed it had become one of my favorite spots. Tyler and I lifted our chins and let our eyes rove up along the towering tree covered with enormous gold, blue, and red balls to the glass ceiling above.
“I see the big ship,” he said without looking down. “And a gold sword. And I see some angels in the waves.”
“Angels, really?” I let my eyes rove the exquisite gold and white glass framed by circles of white lights hung on the rotunda balconies.
“And those long curly papers that old-time men used to write on.”
“Scrolls?”
“And look at the end. It’s a head of a lion. Or a ghost.”
“Ooh, I see that. Or a creepy man.”
“Mom, when you were a little kid, did you always come here with your mom and look up at the ceiling over the tree?” he asked out of the blue, the way children let you know what they’re thinking.
“No, honey. When I was little, my mom didn’t celebrate Christmas.”
“Does she like Christmas now?”
“I don’t know.” Agate had burned through so many phases, from latter-day hippiedom to holistic medicine to iron-body fitness to the practice of Wicca. Perhaps she’d spun from white witch to country minister in the years that we’d been apart.
“Maybe she does,” he said. “Maybe she’d be proud of you for being Mrs. Claus.”
I reached across the table and smoothed down a tuft of his hair. “And you for being an elf.”
“Mom…Are you still sorry that you don’t have a dad?”
I let my finger trace a holly pattern on the tablecloth as I thought about that one. “I don’t think about it much anymore. I guess I’ve moved on.”
He nodded. “I’m not sorry about my dad. I just need you.” His coy smile stole my heart until he stuck a long french fry in his mouth.
“But your dad loves you,” I said quickly. “I know he doesn’t spend a lot of time with you, but he’s going to get better. You’ll see.”
Tyler shrugged, his focus on the construction of a ravine in the ketchup heap with the help of french-fry bulldozers. He didn’t seem worried about gaining the acceptance of his father, much to my relief. Better for him to concentrate on building a bridge of fries or a humane mousetrap.
For now, his mom could sweat the big stuff.
8
As luck would have it, after I dropped off Tyler and called Bree to vent, I kept getting her voice mail. Then when I arrived at Rossman’s and stopped in Jaimie’s office, I saw her job-share partner and realized it was Jaimie’s day off. Not that I couldn’t call her at home, but the woman had a three-month-old baby to take care of; did she really want to hear my frustrations with laundry, dishes, and cooing baby bearing down on her?
Really, if I wanted to get myself out of Neverland, it was time I grew up a little. Fortunately, the Mrs. Claus suit made me feel calm and dignified, a lot more grown-up than my usual painter’s pants and cotton henleys.
Santaland was crowded that day,
and I spent a good deal of my time walking through the line of children, giving out lollipops and making conversation to help them pass the time. One family was three generations of women—mother, daughter, and granddaughter—and as I talked with them I realized the grandmother was a dead ringer for Agate. I joked with her that she reminded me of my mother, and she countered that she simply couldn’t be old enough to be the mother of Mrs. Claus.
Watching the older woman hustle her grandchild along, I wondered if my mother was playing grandmother to anyone. Was she still living in the Bay area? Did she have any idea I had a son now?
I felt a twinge of curiosity, especially since Tyler had been asking about her lately. “I wish we had some family,” he said sometimes when I was tucking him in at night.
“You know, you do have family. There’s your dad, and his parents live in Pennsylvania. Would you like to meet them sometime?”
“I guess.” Always a half-hearted response, without the same interest that he showed for Agate. He fantasized that Agate was much kinder than she’d been, and I didn’t have the heart to correct him.
“You should have told me you were going to the studio. I need to stop by and get some paperwork signed by one of the producers,” Bree said when we met for coffee the next morning. Jaimie was also there with Scout napping in his stroller, and though Bree and I argued about holding him she refused to let either of us disturb him while he was sleeping.
“How can a kid nap already at nine o’clock in the morning?” Bree asked, watching as Scout pressed his cheek into the fabric of the stroller.
“It’s easy when he’s up at five,” Jaimie said.
“Up at five.” Bree winced. “Ach! That’s going to be my life if I get this job with AM San Fran. Which is why I need those references signed at the studio. In fact, I’m going to call over there right now.” She flipped open her cell phone.
“Don’t worry, I have to go back,” I said. “TJ wasn’t there. The show was on hiatus and they were showing an old segment.”
“What?” Bree squinched one eye shut over her phone. “They’re not on hiatus. I saw it last night, with the mayor doing a guest appearance.”
I shook my head slowly. “You must be confused…It was probably an old one.”
“No. He was talking about marrying gay couples in San Francisco. I’m sure…” She held up a finger to pause as her call connected. “Yes, this is Bree Noble. Well, hey, Milo, how’s it going? Listen, are you guys on hiatus this week?” She nodded, wincing. “No. Oh, goody. I have something for you…”
My heart dropped heavily in my chest as the truth sank in. TJ had been there yesterday; the entire staff had been there, and they’d lied to me, they’d turned Tyler away.
That hurt. Most of all, I felt stung for him, five years old and turned away at his father’s door.
Jaimie finished tucking a blanket around Scout’s waist, then turned back and touched my arm. “Oh, Cassie, that’s awful. What a despicable man.”
I wrapped my hands around the paper coffee cup, trying to think of the best way out of this one. “They all lied. Well, at least Tyler doesn’t know that. He’ll never have to know.”
“Of course not,” Jaimie said. “But it sounds like TJ is really pushing you away. What are you going to do?”
I collapsed on the bench in her office and slapped my hands over my face. “I’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t I? Tyler would have been so much better off if I’d stayed with TJ. Moving out of his house was the beginning of the end.”
“Oh, come on!” Bree slapped her phone shut, her nostrils flared in preparation for a fight. “Do you actually think you could have tolerated that man one more day? Honestly, staying on as TJ’s dutiful girlfriend would not have been a positive role model for your son.”
“It wasn’t always a bad relationship,” I said.
“Don’t sugarcoat the past, Cassie.” I had always considered Bree to be the bolder of my two friends, but Jaimie could be relentless as a bulldog when she sank her teeth into an issue. “Moving out was the end of a long good-bye that probably started when Tyler was born. You noticed how TJ started pulling away from you when you had the baby.”
“Well, sure,” I said, “but a lot of men do that.” And when it happened, I really didn’t mind. The routine of our lives, the hours on the set in rehearsal and lighting and rewrites seemed old and staid in comparison to the days and nights of my baby, feeding him until he fell asleep in my arms, waking in the night to hear his sweet breath in the bassinet beside me. Scout let out a baby sigh, and I turned to Jaimie. “Haven’t you noticed Matt pulling away since Scout was born?”
She frowned. “Truthfully? I can’t say that I relate. Matt is all over this kid when he gets home from work.”
I straightened the stack of sugar packets on the table. “It’s frustrating. When is TJ going to figure out he has a son, ready and willing to love him?”
“Let’s see…like…never?” Bree scowled at me. “Sorry for the tough love, honey, but TJ obviously is not the paternal type. He is what he is. And if you look back with a modicum of honesty, you’ll remember hating him at times.”
“When you were first on the show?” Jaimie prodded. “Remember how he treated you? How he was sleeping with you and a summer intern?”
“Remember when you wished he would die? When you tried to kill him on the Presidio?”
I laughed. “That sounds ridiculous.”
“But there’s a grain of truth in it,” Bree said.
She was right.
One afternoon a bunch of the crew from the show went running on a hilly trail at the Presidio, and I went along hoping to be part of the crowd. But one of the writers got on me about the condition of my running shoes (dilapidated) and the cost of changing sets for our skits (a union issue). Of course, I expected TJ to defend me, but he jumped in, adding a few nasty slurs about my latest set design. By the time we approached the green rise of the hill, I hated all of them, TJ especially. I challenged him to a race, which he felt obliged to accept, and then I pulled ahead.
“Hey, you’re fast,” he called, loping up beside me.
“Mmm-hmm.” My pulse beat steadily as my legs pounded, but it felt good to push on. As we passed other joggers, I wondered if TJ had ever had his heart checked. He was a little overweight. If I pushed really hard, maybe his heart would pop.
I pushed ahead until the muscles in my legs burned with pain.
“You’re really fast, Carrie,” he gasped from behind me.
“Cassie,” I tossed over my shoulder as the Golden Gate Bridge rose before me. “Cassie…” I muttered as I sprinted over the rise, hoping to hear him drop behind me…
“Okay,” I said, returning to the coffee shop. “I hated him at times.”
“And this is the man you want to father your child?” Bree asked.
I shrugged. “That’s a done deal.”
Jaimie reached out and squeezed one of my hands. “What we’re saying is, cut your losses now. You got Tyler out of him, a real blessing. Why don’t you let it go at that?”
“Take the kid, take the money, and run,” Bree added.
“But a child needs parents. Tyler needs his father.”
Bree put her hands over her ears. “I totally don’t buy that. And if parents are so important, where is your mother? If you really value family, why did you cut her off?”
Jaimie looked sheepish. “That’s a little harsh, Bree.”
“It is, you meany,” I told Bree. “But there’s some truth in it too.”
Jaimie checked her watch. “I gotta go. Scout has an appointment with the pediatrician.”
“I have to get to work.” I stood over Scout and touched his smooth cheek. “But I’m glad we did this. It’s always a pleasure to get chewed out over coffee.”
Bree threw her arms wide for a hug. “Honey, we’re hard on you because we love you.”
“Great. I’d hate to hear what you’d say to me if you didn’t like me.”
/> 9
That day Jaimie was picking Tyler up from school and keeping him until I finished work—a new arrangement we’d worked out so that he didn’t have to spend quite so much time at the store at night. Not that he was ever a problem hanging around in Santaland, but it worried me that our schedule was keeping him away from a home environment for so long. Although he was well behaved, I had to remember, the kid was only five.
I was busy playing Mrs. Claus, trying to negotiate with twin boys, one of whom didn’t want to see Santa, when Fred climbed onto the snow platform in Santaland. “I hate to get caught here,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “If I don’t watch it, Buchman’ll turn me into an elf, but you need to know about this.”
Immediately I thought of Tyler. “What’s going on?”
“We had a short on the second floor. No fire, thank God, but two of the breakers popped. When I reset them, those snowflake lights in the bedding and lingerie departments stayed dark. Seem to be shorted out, and I’m wondering if they caused the circuits to pop.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Those things have to be at least fifteen years old,” I said. I’d been reluctant to hang those old snowflake lights throughout the store, concerned that they weren’t as energy efficient as new lights, but there wasn’t enough money in the budget to replace them. “So now we have two departments with dark decorations?”
He nodded. “Don’t know what you want to do. Your call.”
“Actually, this is one problem that demands a higher authority,” I said, heading toward Santa’s platform.
The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus Page 21
