Fate and Ms. Fortune

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “Now you know why I put insect repellent on that little pisher’s face.”

  “Wait. What? You knew what you were doing?”

  “Naturally.” She laughed. “She was buggin’ the hell out of me.”

  “Oh my God, Mother. You’re insane. That alone could get me fired.”

  “Don’t worry, darling. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Why? Did you also poison her Evian bottle?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I stopped that nice Mr. O’Shea in the hall and asked if he’d heard the rumor that Ms. Sommers was leaving…because of the affair and all.”

  “No. Please don’t tell me you really did that…Wait. How did you know?”

  “You mean it’s true?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Well, gals like her aren’t hard to figure out. They’re always shtupping the boss.”

  “She’s not shtupping the boss, Mom. She’s shtupping Kevin O’Shea.”

  “No! But you said they hate each other.”

  “It’s all a big front so no one suspects anything. He’s married with two kids.”

  “Oh. Well that’s not good. He’ll probably think you told me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m your mother. How should he know you tell me nuh-thing! But look at the bright side, darling. If they get caught with their ding-a-lings a-linging, that doesn’t look good for a family show. They’ll both get fired.”

  “Mom, you don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? That will never happen…Unless…if word did leak out, then the other networks would jump all over the story. No, but that would only make our ratings go through the roof, but then later, viewers would be pissed at them and the ratings would tank and then, you’re right, one of them would have to be reassigned.”

  “Sheila Holtz.” She honked the horn twice. “At your service.”

  Chapter 5

  AS YOU KNOW, I recently dove off the comedy cliff. Though I’d secretly thought about taking the plunge for years, if not for friends blindfolding me and bringing me to the Gotham Comedy Club on open-mic night a few months back, I might never have set foot on stage.

  So go figure that the adrenaline rush from performing would become my drug of choice, and that in spite of the worry that puking would become my opening bit, I had been pursuing stand-up with a vengeance.

  Now every free moment was devoted to writing bits, studying the masters, and rehearsing in front of foreign tourists, especially after discovering that they laugh at everything and always ask to take my picture. “You Ellen DeGeneres?” “Yes.” I give them a high five. “Yes, I am.”

  But I sure do pick ’em, right? Exciting jobs with the worst possible hours. Out of the house by 4:45. Then some nights it’s midnight before I get my shot on stage, so do the math. Twenty-four hours in a day minus three hours to sleep equals no life whatsoever.

  Saturdays are better. Clocks are set for seven A.M., allowing me to make it to Manhattan by eight-thirty, and be standing in front of my beauty school students by nine. Twelve young artists who aspire to have my job, no matter how honest I am about the pressure and the hours.

  I share this so you understand that I never rush away a Sunday. It’s my one day to wake up at leisure, take on the Times crossword puzzle, and actually eat breakfast not over a sink.

  Which is why when I awoke to slippers shuffling, a tea kettle whistling, and fingernails tapping on the counter, I threw a sneaker at my bedroom door.

  It was seven-twenty on the Sunday morning that followed the Saturday night roller coaster ride I took with some lady named Sheila Holtz. Not the Sheila Holtz I grew up with who dusted light bulbs, scrubbed tiles with toothbrushes, and baked cupcakes inside ice cream cones.

  That Sheila Holtz would be home in Fair Lawn, New Jersey, yelling at the Merrill Lynch broker for missing a golden opportunity in tech stocks. Not pacing in her daughter’s looks-like-a-burglary apartment, wondering if the mail in the microwave was incoming or outgoing.

  “Mom, didn’t you get the memo?” I yelled. “We sleep late on Sundays.”

  “So sorry.” She was all smiles. “Did I wake you?”

  “Yes.” I opened one eye and noticed she was already showered and dressed. “Oh good. Are you leaving?”

  “For bagels. Plain or poppy?”

  “Oh my God,” I groaned. “It’s my only day to sleep, remember?”

  “I’m sorry.” She started to close my door. “Just tell me where you keep a spare key so I don’t have to wake you when I get back.”

  “Shit!” I stubbed my toe. “I told you this was a bad idea.”

  “Not for me! I woke up feeling alive and excited. I’m going to—”

  “—be on the front page of tomorrow’s New York Post. ‘Fair Lawn Homemaker Suffocated in Park Slope. Daughter Pleads Guilty with an Explanation.’”

  I rifled through a kitchen drawer in the dark before realizing the counters were spotless, the floor was mopped, the garbage was emptied, and through some unexplained miracle, I now owned a broom.

  “You feel like you won a contest, right?” She beamed. “I told you I could be a big help.”

  “You don’t get it.” I collapsed in a chair. “I don’t want a maid. I want my mother.”

  “And here I am! I just can’t be the one who stays in an unhappy marriage while the rest of the world is out there enjoying themselves. I want to try yoga. Oh and that new one…Plotzey?”

  “Pilates.” I laughed. “So wait? That’s the reason you’re leaving Daddy? So you can learn how to turn your body into a pretzel?”

  “I am leaving your father because he only cares about three things—his farshtunken maps, food in the fridge, and toilet paper in the bathroom.”

  “And what about your obsessions, like cleaning? You haven’t even unpacked yet, but already my apartment is spotless.”

  “No. Just the kitchen. Incidentally, you’re out of SOS.”

  “I’m not out of it. I don’t buy it. You know why? Because I never scour. You know why? Because I never cook. You know why? Because it’s Brooklyn and we have free delivery.”

  “I was just trying to help. I know how busy you are.”

  “Which is why I don’t give a damn about cleaning. Life is messy. I decorate accordingly.”

  “No need to yell. I am trying to make this a positive experience.”

  “Oh good. Positive experiences are my favorites. They remind me of all the times a guy broke my heart, and you’d say, ‘But darling. It’s part of life. Think of it as a positive experience.’”

  “And was I right?”

  “Not yet…oh my God…Did you line up all my shoes by the door?”

  “Better I should trip and break my neck?”

  “It’s no use,” I cried. “Here’s a key. Make your bagel run. Just don’t come crying to me when you see what they charge for lox.”

  “I wasn’t always like this you know. Crazy with the cleaning and the organizing…I used to be the belle of the ball who loved parties and staying out late…used to drive my folks crazy.”

  “You?”

  “Yes me. Everyone said it just wasn’t the same if Sheila Marcus wasn’t there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. And I’ll also have you know I wasn’t a virgin when I married your father.”

  “Okay. Stop. You are not going to turn every conversation into ‘true confession.’ Unless you’d like to hear about the time Ricky Wexler took me to Radburn Park…”

  “I just want to find the old Sheila again, dear. The one who woke up every day looking for fun and adventure.”

  “Well then you’ve come to the right place.”

  “I have?”

  “No, but just because I don’t have time to play doesn’t mean you can’t knock yourself out. Go. Check out the bookstores and boutiques. Oh and there’s a great deli at the corner of Union and Seventh Avenue…Daddy would love their tuna.”

  “Then he’ll have to buy it hi
mself. I’m not going home. Now if this is too much of an imposition for you, just say the word and I’ll find a nice hotel somewhere.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But I promise I won’t be in your way.”

  “This is a recording…You won’t even know I’m here…Except for my cigarette smoke, my opinions, my need to rearrange the furniture…God, I am so screwed.” I brushed past her. “I’m jumping in the shower. If I try to fall back asleep now, the nightmares will keep me up…”

  “I think you should call him.”

  “Who? Daddy?”

  “Don’t you dare. No. That man who lost his best friend and had the skiing accident.”

  “Forget it. I’m sure he’s a nice guy, but if I want one who is clinically depressed, I’ll hang out at a pharmacy.”

  “I’m serious. I have a feeling about him.”

  “Me too. A bad one…He’s an emotional cripple, and we know how that movie ends.”

  “Well, I think you should take a chance. I’ve been reading some good books about fate.”

  “Oh please. Last time fate showed up, I married a guy whose idea of fun was dropping thousands at a casino while the rest of our money was being siphoned by an offshore bookie.”

  “That wasn’t fate. That was stupidity.”

  “Same thing, especially if you think the reason I did my comedy act last night was so some guy in the audience would notice me and say, hey, that girl would be great for my brother.”

  “So damn stubborn like your father…I’m saying who the hell knows why people come into our lives. Maybe there’s a reason. You should be more open-minded like me.”

  “Open-minded? Aren’t you the one who threatened to sue Penn State when I got a black roommate? What happened? Did you read The Five People You Meet in Bloomingdale’s?”

  “No smarty pants, I’m reading a wonderful book by His Holiness, the Dalai Lama. I brought it to show you.”

  “Here we go…extra allowance for doing book reports.”

  “And another one called The Miracle of Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh. You should try his meditations. They help with self-awareness.”

  “I swear if you light a joint, I’m calling the FBI or whoever handles alien abductions.”

  “I once smoked marijuana.” She giggled. “It made me hungry.”

  “I cannot believe I’m having this conversation.”

  “I told you I could be a lot of fun.” She chucked my shoulder.

  “A barrel of laughs…So wait. Now all of a sudden you believe in things like destiny?”

  “I don’t know what I believe. But my mother, pooh pooh, may she rest in peace, always said, ‘Sheila, if fate comes all the way to knock at your door, the least you can do is open it.’”

  Not only are Sundays my day to sleep in, it’s the one time I try to stay off the phone so that my brain has time to reboot. But that morning, as word of the insurgent wife and mother spread, family and friends ignored my “don’t call” policy.

  It was as though Tinker Bell was flying through the tri-state area sprinkling pixie dust intros: “Robyn Fortune has all the latest details from Park Slope. Robyn, what can you tell us?” “Thanks Tinker Bell…Well, it seems that love does not conquer all…”

  At least my brother apologized when he called my cell at eight o’clock wanting to ask if it was true that our mother was at my place, and to make sure I was trying to talk some sense into her. But it was his second call an hour later that was more pressing.

  Seems he had taken it upon himself to be chief mediator, only to discover that negotiations might be more challenging than he thought. After talking to our dad, it was clear that neither party was interested in coming to the kitchen table. And as there was no deadline for talks to resume, the impasse could go on indefinitely.

  “What are you going to do?” Phillip asked.

  “Me? Why is this suddenly my problem?”

  “Because possession is nine-tenths of the law. Mom is now residing with you.”

  “Whoa, white boy. She is not residing. She’s crashing until she finds her own pad.”

  “She actually said that? That she wants her own place?”

  “Basically. Seems Daddy refuses to make any changes, so there’s nothing to reconcile.”

  “That’s awful, Rob. You gotta do something. Make her understand it’s not a good idea.”

  “I’m trying, but she’s pretty adamant. She said she’s been thinking about this for years.”

  “Is she crying her eyes out?”

  “Actually, she’s out shopping for bagels and a yoga mat.”

  Bingo! The tough-talking lawyer son wimped out. I had a better relationship with our parents, therefore this was under my jurisdiction. Oh, and to make sure that Mom didn’t start talking about moving in with him and Patti because he’d gain a mother and lose a wife.

  Apparently, family and friends concurred. As long as my mother was staying with me, she would be fine.

  “Give her a week. She’ll be on the Jersey Turnpike headed home.”

  “Take her passport. She mentioned something about wanting to see Sri Lanka.”

  “If she divorces Harvey, she can say it’s for health reasons. She was sick of him.”

  Even Uncle Lou, my father’s brother, called from Boynton Beach to ask if the story was true, and did that mean they weren’t coming to visit him next month. How he had heard anything at all baffled me as he had Florida hearing: every third word, and only if it was very, very loud.

  Uncle Lou: My new hearing aid is state-of-the-art. Cost me four thousand dollars.

  Harvey: Really? What kind is it?

  Uncle Lou: Twelve-thirty.

  Mystery solved. My Aunt Marilyn, my mother’s sister, the Matt Drudge of Weekauken, had called both sides of the family. “Sheila finally walked out on him. Had it up to her eyeballs with his meshuggas. Serves him right. He practically forgot she was alive.”

  Ironically, the one person I didn’t hear from was dear old Dad. I tried reaching him by the only means possible, a one-line phone in the house, but according to the operator, it was off the hook. “Not fair,” I whined. The whole world is keeping tabs on one another through cell phones and the Internet. Why should he get to be unreachable?

  Meanwhile, my mother was out shpatziring, the Yiddish term for blowing an entire day cavorting the neighborhood while accomplishing nothing. But at least it gave me a short reprieve.

  Then, just as I started to tackle my beloved Times crossword puzzle, in walked my mother holding a bag of groceries, fresh flowers, a new pair of sneakers, and a blue yoga mat. The very one I returned after discovering it was a shorter version of my old Slip ’N Slide.

  “I just love it here.” She hugged me. “Prospect Park, the little shops, the bakeries…”

  “That’s great, Mom…Looks like you found everything you needed.”

  “Because everyone is so friendly. In fact, I met this nice young man…I think he was one of those homosexuals because he looked too thin to have a wife who feeds him. Anyway, he said he could come over later because he’s very knowledgeable about computers…”

  “Wait. You gave out my address? What if he was Mr. Stranger Danger?”

  “Trust me. He was a faigelah, not a criminal…he had on a nice, clean shirt.”

  “Good, because you never hear about serial killers who shop at the Gap. He didn’t happen to mention anything about being an altar boy?”

  “We didn’t talk religion, darling. He was getting something in the computer store and said he could help me set mine up.”

  “Are you serious? You bought a computer? What’s wrong with mine?”

  “I don’t know. My friend Estelle said that’s how you catch one of them nasty viruses.”

  “Estelle…Estelle…Isn’t she the one who dries her underpants in the microwave? Trust me, the computer gets the virus, not the user. Besides, where the hell would I put it?”

  “Not to worry, darling. I happened to notice your li
ving room was down to a couch and an end table, so when I passed the flea market and saw this man selling beautiful antiques, I said to myself, Sheila, so what if they’re reproductions? Better than having an empty room. Later today he’s delivering a roll-top desk. No need to thank me.”

  Thank her? Thirty-three years of experience dealing with my mother had taught me one thing. Logic meant nothing once she made up her mind. Besides, who had time to argue? Round two of the phone calls had begun.

  My dad finally checked in and threatened that if I was going to harbor the wifely fugitive, I was an accessory to the crime and should no longer expect financial aid from him. “And tell your mother, same for her. If she’s such a big shot, let’s see her do this all on her own.”

  Later we’d review the concept of community property, but for now I had to convince him my mother didn’t really want a divorce, just a chance to be heard. And that maybe if he paid more attention to her, she’d leave him alone about his map collecting.

  “What’s wrong with having a nice, quiet hobby?” he bellowed. “Better than playing mah-jongg every week. ‘Ooh. Harvey! I won twenty dollars,’” he mimicked.

  By now my cell was ringing nonstop. Fortunately, I was hearing back from my two best friends. Unfortunately, they weren’t friends with each other, so I had to repeat the story. The good news was that they were so different from each other, I would likely get two opinions of the same problem, like doctors who specialized.

  Rachel Waldman was my big sister at Alpha Epsilon Phi, and like a wise, older sibling, knew her stuff when it came to matters of the heart. It also didn’t hurt that she frequented famous psychics, thereby increasing the odds that not only was her advice spot on, but divined.

  Trouble was, Rachel had three-year-old twins and was not as readily available to rescue me now that she was (a) putting in fourteen-hour days on the partner track at Hellman and Gray LP, (b) fighting with her ex over custody, and (c) trying to hire a new nanny, as the last one was caught at the playground having sexual relations with another nanny.