Bringing Home the Birkin

by Michael Tonello

  Best,

  Grace

  Grace will forever be the master of the understatement. Her “convenient location” was on the Upper East Side, across the street from Carl Schurz Park. One of the most desirable locations in the city. I was surprised at the generosity of her offer, although knowing what I did, I shouldn’t have been. Grace had told me about some of her charity work, which included cooking huge gourmet dinners every Friday night for a homeless shelter. That kind of thing impressed me, since it was an investment chiefly of time, not money. She was clearly a “real” person, despite her considerable wealth.

  From: BirkinBoy1@yahoo.com

  To: GraceoftheGarden@yahoo.com

  Grace-

  of course i will accept, if you are certain you don’t mind! that sounds great. so now i will even see your apt before i ever see you, haha. make sure you don’t leave any photo albums out, i might not be able to control myself. let me know if you need anything from me.

  mt

  Juan and I were hot and sweaty from the humid August weather, as well as weary from our flight, when we reached the door of Grace’s Manhattan apartment later that week. (We had exchanged apologies and called a truce, although I had a sneaking suspicion the discussion wasn’t totally over, just delayed.) I fumbled at the lock with keys that the doorman had handed me in the lobby. Grace was on the top floor of a huge old brick apartment building that had the added charm of a rooftop garden, but right now all that loveliness was lost on us. We wanted showers, and pajamas, and a nice rest; nothing more, nothing less. When I finally got the door open, a blast of cold air hit both of us. Juan and I looked at each other, both slightly taken off guard by how air-conditioned the place was. It couldn’t have been more than sixty-five degrees in there, which made it almost thirty degrees cooler than outside. At the moment, though, it felt great, and we gratefully shuffled in, dropping our burdensome luggage as the door swung shut behind us.

  The entranceway was dominated by a ten-foot-long mahogany table, filled with dozens of framed photographs. In the very center of that table I saw a note on heavy cream paper, and I recognized Grace’s elegant script. (She sent me “hard copy” Christmas and birthday cards every year now.)

  Michael and Juan~

  Welcome! I hope your trip was not too strenuous. A few last minute tidbits of information for you:

  I have a car service that you can use if you so desire, please feel free, they are very good, the number is (212) 555-5555.

  I am a “regular” at Elaine’s, which is right around the corner. If you are wishing to dine there (and I highly recommend you do), you should make the reservation under my name, as it can be difficult to get in.

  I have a selection of wine in the living room—you will see the cabinet. Please help yourself to whatever you want. The same goes for anything you can “scrounge up” in the kitchen.

  Keep the temperature of the apartment at what suits you, I know I keep it cooler than most, but please turn each of the room thermostats back down to sixty-three before you go.

  Most important, I hope you have a great time in the city, and make yourselves at home. My housekeeper will be in after your departure, so do not trouble yourselves overmuch with any of those details.

  Best,

  Grace

  p.s. Michael, I think our relationship being strictly through email has been what has made it special, and I see no reason to “sully” it now. So as per our longstanding tradition of visual anonymity, I have removed all photographs in the apartment that contain me, save one. It is a group shot—which resides somewhere on this table. If your curiosity is too much for you, well, happy hunting!

  Loved that. And I loved the apartment too. Dark, narrow-boarded wood floors, lacey drapes on the floor-to-ceiling windows to let in plenty of light, many oil paintings, and a host of antiques. Some of the paintings were Grace’s, as she also dabbled in art (she had an adorable little studio right in the apartment, replete with easel and skylights). The dining room was my favorite, though, with its domed stained-glass ceiling. The colored light it created dappled across the sideboard and its large collection of mismatched sterling silver and plain white china. The kitchen had state-of-the-art everything, with white walls and copper pots that were obviously there for use, not show. Grace had actually taken some classes at the Divina Cucina in Florence and Ritz Escoffier School in Paris, so she was all about cooking. (I saw the institutional-sized pots she must use for her charity work.) William Yeoward crystal filled a glass-fronted cabinet in the living room, and the choices in her “wine closet” ranged from a $15 Chilean wine to a $200 French Bordeaux. A second case displayed her two hundred–plus rabbit collectibles, housing both a dime-store ceramic Thumper and a bejeweled blue bunny presumably worth thousands. Juan was suitably taken aback by the breadth of this collection, but I knew about her “rabbit habit” going in, since Grace had confided in me all about her (late) pet rabbit Pate and her general affinity for things with bright shiny noses and powder-puff tails. Pate had been her constant companion for years, and stayed at the Ritz Paris with her so many times that the concierge had become semi-attached and insisted on handling his feedings personally. Later that week I saw the closet that had housed Pate, with his tiny bed as yet unremoved.

  The overall impression I got from my initial tour is that Grace liked what she liked, and it didn’t really matter much to her what the price tag said. She did have her high-end indulgences, of course, which ranged from her beloved Hermès scarves to the Rigaud Cyprès candles scattered throughout the place. When I peeked in her gigantic walk-in closet, I saw stacks and stacks of orange scarf boxes reminding me of Ellen Yeats. However, Grace was “all scarves all the time,” which made her stockpile neater, if not any less grandiose.

  Juan and I spent the stereotypical week in New York City and enjoyed every second of it. We dined at Elaine’s under Grace’s name, and got VIP treatment there as a result. (The food wasn’t anything extraordinary, but the clientele was pure New York literary scene, which made it fun.) We saw The Lion King, Cabaret, and Eugene O’Neill’s A Long Day’s Journey into Night. This last was my choice, as it was starring Vanessa Redgrave, whom I knew from an assignment back in my hair and makeup days. She had taken a liking to me, and we had spent an afternoon shopping and lunching together on Newbury Street. She was unbelievably kind and down-to-earth, unlike many of the other celebrities I had met through TEAM. This was eight or so years ago, and since then I had sent her “backstage” notes at several productions, which were always answered by a handwritten thank-you note. This time I decided to send her some flowers as well, something that could go on her dressing room table. My generosity may have been partially inspired by Grace’s—leafing through the Playbill a few nights prior, at The Lion King, Juan had spotted her name on the patrons page for a Shakespeare production. It seemed her philanthropic interests were all over the place.

  We had a notable week in another way, as well. For some reason, we saw celebrities everywhere we ate. I mean, yes, we were dining at places like Daniel and Gramercy Tavern, but still, in one week, we had vacation “cameos” from Kevin Bacon, Liam Neeson, Ellen Barkin, Macaulay Culkin, Tony Bennett, Ethan Hawke, and Michael Imperioli (Chris from The Sopranos). Bizarre, right? However, even more bizarre for me was not going to Hermès while I was in New York. I had decided that I didn’t want to reopen any sort of argument with Juan, so I never even suggested it. Although it was hard not to mention that we owed this whole stay in this stylish Upper East Side apartment to my job, I managed to keep my mouth shut. With Grace, however, I couldn’t resist belaboring one particular point, and I left her a note of her own:

  Grace~

  Loved the place, absolutely great, we had an unbelievable week. (Elaine’s was yummy!) Thank you so much. I will be in touch, of course.

  ~Michael (and Juan)

  PS I’m not sure if I picked you out from your pictures, but I did manage to hide one of me somewhere in the apartment. Cheers!

 
; I hadn’t really, but she didn’t know that. I wonder how many scarf boxes she would go through before she called it a day.

  35

  A Birkin for Mom

  The rest of the summer and early fall were uneventful, marked by only a handful of trips and even more reliance on my shoppers. I was trying to stick closer to home. Juan and I had reached a truce, cemented by the addition of a playmate for Dali. Gala (named after Salvador’s wife) was another Bengal kitty, and watching the two of them frolic was a highlight of the days I was working from home.

  It was on such a day in November that my phone rang, startling the ever-timid Dali off of his perch near my laptop, and causing Gala to glare imperiously, furious she had been awakened from her nap. I ignored them both. The caller ID said Mom.

  “Hey, Mom, how are ya?”

  “Oh, I’m all right. I’m sort of down right now.”

  That was unusual; my mother was as stable as they come.

  “Really, why? Something wrong?”

  “Well, my back has been giving me a lot of trouble lately, and now I can’t even golf like I have been. I’m down to a couple times a week, and even then it’s bad. Your poor father has had to take care of all the shipping and everything, I’m afraid bending and carrying those bulky boxes is a little much for me most days.”

  “Dad doesn’t have to do it. I can take care of everything here—don’t even worry about it.”

  “No, no, Michael, don’t be silly; he actually enjoys it. I’m just cranky, I think, and frustrated. They’ve given me muscle relaxers, and I’ve been using a heating pad, and none of it seems to help. And Thanksgiving is next week, and you know, it’s hard not feeling good around the holidays.”

  “Oh, I know, there’s nothing worse than back pain, too. I’m sure you just need to rest. I’m not sure if you should be golfing at all.” I mean, duh, Mom. But I knew how much she loved to golf. You might as well tell her not to read, which is how she spent the other half of most days.

  “Well, I might stop for a while,” she said, startling me.

  “Good, you should.” I didn’t allow her to hear my surprise at her easy surrender.

  We chatted about this and that, and by the time I got off the phone, I wasn’t really thinking about my mom’s back trouble so much as about a couple of incoming calls I had missed on my BlackBerry while we were talking, and brand-new e-mails I needed to deal with. Lately, working out of my apartment meant I was always working.

  The phone rang on a similar morning a couple of weeks later. Same startled Dali and pissed-off Gala. Same caller ID.

  “Hey, Mom. How are you? Feeling any better?”

  “Hi Mike, it’s Dad.” That was odd; my dad wasn’t generally in charge of phone calls.

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, your mother’s back—you know it’s been bothering her. And one day it’s her shoulders, next day it’s her hips. We don’t know what the hell to think. We went in and had some X-rays done over the last couple weeks. You know, a series of them, and…”

  “And what? What? Did they find something?” Oh no.

  “Well, they say there are cloudy spots. Cloudy areas, they said. They need to do more tests. But what the hell is that, cloudy areas? What do you think of that, Michael? What does that mean?” His voice pleaded, as though I could tell him it was nothing to worry about, happened all the time, those cloudy areas. And, of course, the truth was that I knew not one single thing about any of it.

  “Well, I’m not sure, Dad. I would wait to make any kind of guess; the doctors will know more after the tests. Might be nothing.” Might it be? I didn’t know.

  “Well, yeah, maybe it’s nothing. A pinched nerve or infection or something like that.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. I let him.

  “Yeah, who knows? Take it easy. Just take care of her, don’t let her do too much. How is she taking the news? Is she okay?”

  “Oh, you know her, Michael. She didn’t even want to say anything to you guys. But I thought you and Dottie should know. Don’t say anything about me telling you, for right now. I don’t want her thinking I’m worried.” They were sort of cute, the two of them, always protecting each other from, well, each other. Like my mother wouldn’t be able to tell my father was worried after the fifty-odd years they had been married. Funny.

  “Okay, no problem, Dad. I’m sure it is nothing, really. Take care, okay?”

  I immediately called Dottie, my sister. She lived right near them, with her husband, Eddie, and daughter, Riane (the light of my mother’s life). If anyone knew what was up, it was Dottie. After our greeting and idle talk, I asked about Mom, which we both knew was why I had called.

  “Michael, she looks very tired, not good at all. I don’t know what that test means, we need to wait and see. But I’m making her go in for a complete physical next week, regardless. We need to get to the bottom of this.” Dottie tended to worry at times, but I was grateful she was leaving no stone unturned. She continued on.

  “I think maybe you should come home for Christmas. You know, it would give her a lift to see you, Michael. She missed seeing you this August.” She was right. I had felt bad about canceling my annual summer trip, anyway. I could make it up to her now.

  “You’re right, I’ll look into plane tickets today.”

  This was not the best news I’d ever heard, not only because I was sick with worry that my mother was ill, but also because Juan and I were planning a Christmas trip to Thailand, and now I had to tell him it was a no-go. This was completely needless worry on my part, as Juan didn’t even mention the trip when I called him two minutes later to procure his blessing on the change of yuletide venue. When I brought up Thailand, he acted like I was nuts for even thinking twice about it. (“It’s your mom, Mikey, of course we will go.”) One less thing to worry about, thank God.

  Finding transcontinental flights right before Christmas was always a treat, and I spent the better part of the afternoon looking for tickets. I finally found two seats, but they were on two different planes, and one of them had a lengthy layover at JFK. I decided to book Juan on the more direct flight and put myself on the New York one. In a moment of inspiration, I booked my connecting flight to Miami for the following day, which would give me a night in the big city. I could do my Christmas shopping there, and see one of my old friends, Geoffrey, in the process. He knew my mother pretty well, and, for some reason, that seemed important right then.

  Two weeks later, I was on a flight to New York, more miserable than I could ever remember feeling. The test results had come in, and my mother had cancer. Lung cancer, to be exact, even though she had given up smoking fifty years earlier. Her family history of cancer likely had more to do with it than anything. The cancer was moving fast, and the oncologist had not been too optimistic about her prognosis, although he tried to avoid saying so outright. And, as my family kept telling one another, there was always hope, and she was in the best hands, and we were sure something could be done. At least that’s what we said. What we thought, at least in my case, was a different matter altogether. I was terrified. And I still didn’t know what to get her for Christmas. On the plane, as I was blinking back tears, it occurred to me—so obvious it was strange I hadn’t thought of it before—that I would get her a Birkin. After all, she had shipped hundreds, and it was only her due.

  Geoffrey was waiting at the terminal, not our normal MO for my sporadic visits, but he somehow knew I would need him to be at the airport this time. He was right. He greeted me with a big hug, and I almost started crying right there. I was losing it. He saw I was a little, um, fragile, and took charge. He carried my bag, got us a cab to his apartment, canceled the reservation he had made at Le Bernardin, settled me into the living room with a glass of red wine, and cooked me a comfort meal of chicken and mashed potatoes. He listened to me ramble, continuously refilled my wineglass, and made sure I ate at least enough to keep me going. I dropped into bed with the heavy exhaustion I had been feeling since m
y mother got sick. It was more leaden than the normal kind of tired I was used to, more numbing and almost physically heavy. And no matter how long I slept, when I woke up, I felt the exact same amount of tired. This time was no different, and that morning I got ready for the least energetic bout of Christmas shopping I could have imagined.

  I did feel somewhat better as I shopped. Christmas in New York is inescapable in its cheer, and I love buying presents anyway. So I forgot about my misery for a while and allowed myself to enjoy the skaters in Rockefeller Center, and the windows at Saks Fifth Avenue. Before I knew it, I was laden with shopping bags, and it was time for my last stop. Hermès. Always my most important stop, but today, much more important than ever before. I was getting my mother’s Christmas present. That trumped everything else I’d ever bought there.

  I walked in, and for some reason, the cheer went out of me. I didn’t know why, exactly; it wasn’t anything against their holiday decorating, which was fairly festive, albeit in a typically understated way. Maybe it was that being in an Hermès store was so normal for me, and I remembered how not normal was the reason I was here today. I still had to work my Birkin magic, though, so I shrugged off my gloom the best I could. I found an Incurable Romantic salesman, and did the usual song and dance, though without my usual flair. The whole time I felt like a robot—I couldn’t really flirt back with my salesman or talk about my mom’s wish list, like I usually did. I was numb, and all I wanted was to get the hell out of there. Nonetheless, I amassed my usual pile of merchandise, mumbling something about Christmas gifts, and finally popped the question.