Fate and Ms. Fortune

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “Damn right. That was unforgivable.”

  “Tough. I still think we did the right thing. Anyway, what did she say when you told her?”

  “That she’s fine and to leave her the hell alone.”

  “Yeah right. Like she’d ever let us ignore her. That would be a story for Daybreak.”

  “Actually, the late-breaking story is she wants to fly to Phoenix.”

  “For what? She hates the heat.”

  “Oh right. I didn’t get to tell you her other big secret.”

  “Save it for later. I have to go get Max at hockey practice and pick up dinner.”

  “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t try to tell you about Marvin Teitlebaum.”

  “Who?”

  “The man Mom was engaged to until he got cold feet and married some Asian girl. Now she wants to hunt him down in Phoenix and ask him if had any regrets.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “Yes, because that’s what I do in my spare time. I dream up stories to try to fool you.”

  “Wait…What did you say the guy’s name was?”

  “Marvin Teitlebaum.”

  “Really? That’s strange. A few weeks ago I did a favor for a new client, Alan Teitlebaum. He asked me to set up the estate plan for his father in Phoenix…and I think his name was Marvin.”

  “Interesting…By any chance was Alan half Asian?”

  “No, but come to think of it, I met his sister. She came up to the office to sign some papers, and she was one of those. Korean, Filipino. I don’t know. Something.”

  “Wow. Hard to believe you’re not a UN ambassador.”

  “Funny…You think it’s the same guy? Wait. Maybe his name was Alan Teitleberg…”

  “Tell you what, chief. How about I get right on it and do a thorough investigation?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’m telling Mom you cursed.”

  Two minutes later, the gypsy mother herself checked in. Seems she hadn’t enjoyed her day with Aileen because breast reduction and tummy tuck aside, the woman hadn’t changed a bit from her self-absorbed days when she drove to the annual block party, just to show off her new car.

  And what good was it having money to eat in nice restaurants if your idea of a decent meal was one of those ferkakteh “shooshi” places where they served nothing but squid and seaweed (and no cake and coffee)! Oh, and would I mind if Sierrapaigemather stayed at our apartment tonight because the poor kid would rather sleep on the floor than go home.

  Did she just say OUR apartment? No, she couldn’t bring her home. It wasn’t Noah’s Ark, where runaways lined up two by two. “By the way, whose phone are you using?”

  “Hers. We’re in a cab on the way back to Brooklyn.”

  Then while I was on the phone, Ken left a voice mail. I seemed like a very nice person, but he hoped he hadn’t given me the wrong impression when he held my hand. Obviously his life was too crazy to get involved right now. As for the funeral, it was at Riverside Memorial at two and could I please look for the navy suit that just came back from the cleaner’s and pick out a shirt and tie I thought looked good with it? “And don’t forget dress shoes, even though I can only wear one.”

  Was it too soon to ask for a raise?

  I swear I was home maybe five minutes when my work cell and my beeper went off at the same time. My cue to hightail it back to the studio. So like a firefighter who had been trained to slide down the pole, I headed out the door after stuffing a bag with clean clothes, two apples, and a bag of Fritos. What I wouldn’t have given for some delicious “shooshi.”

  “Yo yo homie Joe.” My mother laughed as she and Sierra got out of a taxi. “Now where are you going?

  “Hold the cab.” I flew down the stoop. “I have to go back to the studio. Gretchen’s nose must be shiny. Did you just say yo yo homie Joe?”

  “Isn’t that the cutest expression? It means…”

  “I know what it means…See you guys later. Don’t touch my ice cream.”

  “You want to go back with her?” my mom asked Sierra.

  “What the fuck?” She shrugged.

  “No. Uh uh.” I slipped past them into the cab. “We’ll manage without you…The Century Building in Columbus Circle.”

  “How kin I go nowhere, ma’am?” The driver sobbed. “I sad for the pope. He with God now…I go to my church for Mass…”

  “My condolences, sir…Really. He was the best pope ever…But could you maybe drop me off first?”

  “Why can’t we go with you?” my mother whined. “I bet they could use some extra help.”

  “Would you stop? I have to get to work. Gretchen will literally go on the air the second I finish her makeup.”

  “Iz she thi news lady?” The driver blinked. “Que lindo!”

  “Yes. Yes. That’s her. Do you like her?”

  “Si. My daughter. She watch her every morning. She going to be big TV star one day, too.”

  Lucky for me, Gretchen called. Yes, I was on my way as soon as I could convince the cabbie to take me back to midtown…Unless, wait a minute, would she be willing to march in the Puerto Rican day parade as a favor to my friend, Juan Carlos?

  “Hell no,” she yelled.

  “She’d love to,” I told him.

  “Okay.” He clapped. “We go.”

  “We go too.” My mother and Sierra pushed their way into the cab.

  “Oh my God.” I shoved over. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “You’ll see.” She slammed the door. “You’ll be glad we’re there.”

  “Plus, it’s a free country,” Sierra said. “We can go whereever we want. Right, Sheil?”

  I really need to find out the penalty for murder in New York. I ate my apple.

  “Don’t eat with your eyes closed,” my mother said. “You could choke.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Toots?” she asked, as if I’d come home from school with a puss.

  “Nothing. I’m great. Couldn’t be better…did you two spend the whole day together?”

  “Yes, and Sierrapaigemather couldn’t believe how awful Aileen behaved. Ordering this one around and that one around. P.S. She gained all her weight back. What did you call her, dear?”

  “A fugly crap weasel.” She burped.

  “All these new words I never knew…it’s marvelous.”

  “Maybe you’d like to hear some of my favorites…Did you call Daddy today?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Don’t you want to know if he’s eating? If he’s taking his blood pressure medication?”

  “If he’s hungry, he’ll eat. If he doesn’t want to get sick, he’ll take his pills…What about you? Did you speak to that poor fellow who needs a laugh?”

  “Actually, we met.”

  “And?”

  “And there were all these odd coincidences. Like he started out Penn State and maybe went to Lohikan…and Rachel met him once before…but I don’t know. He wasn’t very nice.”

  “But you’ll see him again because maybe he’s one of those who needs time to warm up?”

  “I just said I didn’t like him. But yes, I’m seeing him tomorrow. We’re going to a funeral.”

  “A funeral? What kind of date is that?”

  “It’s not a date. I’m doing him a favor.”

  “I never go to funerals,” Sierra blurted. “They’re a total crock.”

  “You’re kidding,” I replied. “What if there’s a death in the family?”

  “It’s not like the dead guy takes attendance.”

  “Exactly. A funeral is to comfort the living, not the dead.”

  “I’m sure Sierrapaigemather has her reasons,” my mother chimed in.

  “Like she does for making people call her Sierrapaigemather? What is the deal with that?”

  “I think it’s because her dad and grandmother died when she was so young,” my mother whispered. “Now every time you say her name, you honor their memor
ies.”

  “Mom,” I whispered back. “She’s not in the next room. She can hear you.”

  But from the way Sierra peered out the window without uttering a nasty retort, perhaps Detective Mom had found the key that unlocked this girl’s troubled psyche. The what-the-fuck bravado was simply the deadbolt she’d installed as a kid to prevent any more sorrow and disappointment from breaking and entering her heart.

  And if it was also true that she insisted on being called Sierrapaigemather as a way to keep alive the memories of two loved ones, I had to admit it was one of the sweetest things ever.

  As the cab whizzed past street lights dotting the night sky, I studied my own pained reflection in the window and wondered how so much unhappiness and misfortune could inhabit my tiny world. Could I name even one person who thought life was good?

  Within the confines of this car alone sat four burdened souls. A grieving man who feared for his future without the spiritual guidance of Pope John Paul II. A resentful wife who questioned why it was incumbent upon her to make a marriage work if her partner lacked interest. A young woman who came from wealth but was emotionally impoverished. And me, a thirty-three-year-old divorcee whose view of love had been tainted by high levels of broken promises.

  And what of the men I knew? My father could look at a globe and point to the tiniest country in the Western Hemisphere. But when it came to finding his way back to his wife’s heart, he was hopelessly lost.

  David was squandering his life in a men’s penitentiary, unable to see the irony of devoting his day to hacking the prison’s computer system so he could still gamble on line.

  My brother was also imprisoned, but at the hands of his ungrateful, they-have-more-than-us family. Every year he worked his ass off to provide for them, yet lived in fear that should he for any reason step down, Patti would take the kids and dump him for the first runner-up.

  And now there was Ken, Mr. I-Once-Had-It-All. A cynical, sad man who had essentially admitted that after investing heavily in relationships, he had given up believing in the return of a bull market. Love was a cursed commodity.

  My WFs were faring no better. In spite of her frequent consults with psychics, Rachel was so exhausted from juggling between the single mommy trap and the lawyer-partner trap, even she had lost hope that her load would ever lighten.

  Julia had all the trappings of happiness; beauty, wealth, and fame, but gave about as much thought to her relationships as she did the purchase of a new pair of boots. She chose what looked good, but if they made her miserable after one wearing, off they went to the donate pile.

  And finally, there was Gretchen, the grande dame of misery. No matter that she earned the gross national product of a small country. A happy girl did not have to befriend the twins Zoloft and Zinfandel, or prey on married men to assuage her fear that with the crops of young, beautiful TV journalists being delivered fresh to the networks each year, her sell-by date had expired.

  So in spite of health, wealth, and the chance to live better than ninety-nine percent of the world, the people in my immediate circle were miserable. And from the likes of the tragic stories we broadcast every day, we were hardly alone. Most everyone, it seemed, felt not only deprived in some way, but incredibly gypped about something.

  We expected a perfect marriage. A bigger paycheck. A better body. A newer car. A nicer home. A second home. The smartest kids. The right college. Championship teams. Prosperity. And anything they sold at Best Buy.

  Where was I going with this? Oh yes. Maybe the problem wasn’t so much that we had such high expectations, because we were born hardwired to dream. It was that we all felt entitled to whatever was on our wish list.

  Unfortunately, when we put up our lives as collateral for happiness, there was often a small hitch. The harder we pushed, the farther we got from the finish line.

  I would love to tell you that these were my insights, except that they belonged to a priest and a rabbi who recently appeared on the show to discuss the universal teachings of the pope. Although up until now, I had given no more thought to their words than I had the next guest, who was a leading expert in the fight against unscrupulous car dealers.

  But taking stock of my struggles, and that of everyone around me, it hit me hard. True happiness would not come from praying for that which had eluded us, but being thankful for that which was already in our midst.

  I had family, friends, good health, talent, a job, a nice place to live, food to eat and nobody trying to kill me because Jon Stewart was my idol. I think they called this belief system Zen Judaism. Think of misfortune as a blessing. Or else what would you talk about?

  “Oh. By the way.” My mother nudged me. “I’ve decided to fly to Phoenix on Friday. All you gotta do is show me how to get one of those cheapy air fares from the computer.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Can I go with you?” Sierra asked.

  “Sure,” my mom said. “Do you know how to do that Internet business?”

  “Duh.” She yawned.

  “You are not going to Phoenix,” I said. “Either of you.”

  “You’re not the boss of me.” Sierra glared.

  “Actually, I am…That’s why tomorrow after the show, I want you to go over to Chanel and invest in the best set of brushes Simon can buy. Then get yourself some nice black pants and tops, maybe a good pair of shoes because you’ll be on your feet a lot, then show up at five A.M. every day ready to learn whatever I can teach you.”

  “Maybe after I come back from Phoenix.”

  “You tell her.” My mother patted her hand. “And just so you know, you’re not the boss of me either.”

  “I am as long as you live under my roof. You want to go to Phoenix on some wild-goose chase, then first you have to talk to Daddy and explain yourself…believe me, I’ve just figured out the key to happiness and I’m doing this for your own good…Hello?” I picked up my cell. “No, I haven’t heard from Kevin. He’s your…coanchor…Well, have Simon call his house and his cell. Maybe try his driver…Gretchen, I’m sure he’s on the way in…What do you mean he left a note?”

  Chapter 13

  I’M JEWISH, but what little I’d retained about my heritage from my years attending Hebrew school could fit on a Post-it note. And ever since my parents stopped going to their temple because they didn’t care for the new rabbi, it was as if I too had become an occasional Jew.

  I still lit the menorah on Hanukkah, attended Passover Seders, and fasted on Yom Kippur. But put to the test, could I actually explain the significance of these holidays? Frankly, it all boiled down to this: They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat.

  And yet, I had always appreciated the Jewish laws pertaining to death, for our rituals are not only humane but smart. We quickly bury our dead in a simple pine box. We gather at the mourner’s home for a week to share their grief. And together we recite the kaddish, the beautiful mourner’s prayer that reminds the living to live, and not to die with the loved one who was buried.

  And though it normally made no sense to compare religious practices with work rituals, I did notice a similarity when crisis struck. Petty tiffs were put on hold. Union nitpickers stopped threatening to report minor infractions. Producers, writers, and crew, fueled by adrenaline, worked without a break. And somehow the anchors maintained their buoyancy, managing not only to look good but to sound good, even when there was little new to say.

  But never had I experienced the flawless synchronization of religion and reporting as when the pope died, and these two monoliths, the Vatican and the press, did what they did best. Carry on with tradition. In fact, there was so much beauty in the pageantry and prayers, the profound loss was felt by people of all faiths.

  That’s why I was never more proud to be a part of this news team, though my efforts had no bearing on the success of the broadcasts. In fact, my even being there went largely unnoticed, except, interestingly enough, by Gretchen.

  Each time I powdered her face, she would clasp my hand
and thank me for being there. I suspected, however, that her gratitude had more to do with the fact that I had opted not to humiliate her when I found her naked and on all fours yelling, “Giddyup little doggy.”

  But mostly she was clinging to me because she was in shock, as was the entire network, that Kevin O’Shea was missing in action.

  Not that there wasn’t a bullpen full of weekend anchors available to fill the void. Yet none who could erase his boyish glee, like that of a young pitcher who was getting his first shot in the big leagues, and it was in the ninth inning of the last game of the World Series.

  Unfortunately, their overanxious zeal was unbefitting this somber time, leaving Simon in the untenable position of having to walk to the mound to calm the rookie relievers while simultaneously screaming at producers to go find his fucking ace.

  Rumors were thrown like curveballs. He was headed to Vatican City. He was passed out at a bar. And my favorite, he was getting hair extensions and couldn’t leave until the glue dried.

  Meanwhile, Simon instructed Gretchen to tell viewers that Kevin was en route to Rome, which prompted calls from his counterparts at Today and Good Morning America. “Rome my ass!” they teased. “You’ve got three guys on assignment there now. Where is he really?”

  With suspicions up, Simon had to inform Kevin’s wife, Anne, who was generally clueless. Sure enough, she suggested that Simon call the gym. Sometimes he lost track of time in the sauna.

  What neither Simon nor Anne knew, nor I until that day, was that there was no gym. Only a hotel down on Thirty-fourth and Lex where he and Gretchen apparently “worked out.”

  Gretchen, mindful that her mic was hot, scribbled a message during a commercial break:

  AFFINA DUMONT HOTEL. ASK FOR ANTONIO. ROOM UNDER DR. GLEN SMITH.

  I covered her mic and whispered. “What did his note say?”

  HE’S FREAKED OUT THAT YOU KNOW.

  “Fortune! Off the set. We’re trying to check Gretchen’s lighting and you’re blocking her.”