Julia's Child (9781101559741) (10 page)

Too late, I realize that I'm still wearing flip-flops, not the stiletto heels that Marta made me buy.

Hopefully the cameraman will be kind.

Then I'm somehow standing right next to Lizzie Hefflespeck, and she's poking me in the arm. Repeatedly. I'm being poked in the arm on national television.

“Mama?”

The poking doesn't stop.

“Mama! Your radio is on. And Wylie wants to get out of his crib.”

With a gasp, I sat up in bed and whirled to face the clock. It was a quarter to seven, so my alarm had only just begun broadcasting the morning news. I was sweaty. But Jasper stood calmly next to the bed, already dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt. He stopped poking my arm.

“Mama, up now!” Wylie hollered from the other room.

“Thank you, Jasper,” I gasped.

Next to me, Luke rolled over. “
Arfnargh
,” he said.

“Dada!” Wylie hollered from the crib. He had ears like a bat but apparently only one volume setting. “Where Mama go?”

“Coming, Wylie!” I croaked, hoping my heart would soon return to a more normal rate. I heaved my legs over the side of the bed. “Luke, sweetie, please get up. I've got to get ready for my . . .” The panic of my dream was still fresh, and I almost couldn't finish the sentence. “Interview.”

He opened his eyes and smiled at me. “Ah! Your fifteen minutes of fame!”

“I'm told it will be more like four minutes,” I corrected him. “Can you feed the kids?”

“Certainly, oh famous one.” Luke slipped his legs over the other side of the bed and reached down to pull his pajama pants off the floor. My husband likes to sleep in the nude, which the children find odd.

“Daddy, I see your butt,” Jasper said, predictably.

“Oatmeal!” Luke said, ignoring him. “It is time to make Daddy Bear's steel cut oatmeal for my two little cubs.
Argh!
”

“Pirates say
argh
,” Jasper argued, following Luke out of the bedroom. “Bears only roar.”

“Want it Mama!” Wylie howled when the two of them walked into the boys' room to fetch him from the crib.

“Wylie,” I heard Luke tell him, “Goldilocks has to go straighten up her three-hundred-dollar hairdo. But if you come with me, I'll let you stir the oatmeal.”

The breakfast worked. I heard only one minor argument, over who had more raisins in his bowl, but blissfully I was left alone to shower. Marta had confirmed that hair styling and makeup would be done for me before my appearance. That left plenty of time for me to dress carefully in the cerulean blue V-neck sweater whose purchase Marta had supervised. I'd wanted to go with a simple navy blue sweater, and she'd lobbied for a plunging wrap dress. We compromised on the V-neck, which fit well and wasn't too revealing. But I wished the color were a few shades less brilliant.

I emerged from the bathroom. It was almost eight o'clock, when Luke and Jasper would leave together for school and work. Luke bent over to retrieve a folded paper that had been slipped under our door. I saw him skim the contents then slip it into his pocket.

“What's that?” I asked.

He looked over at me guiltily. “It's nothing. Just a note from the building.”

“Let me see,” I said, stretching out a hand.

“Later,” he said dismissively.

“Luke! What the hell?” I asked.

He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to me. “It's nothing. Really. I didn't want you to get all worried about it before your big appearance.”

“That
bi—
” I bit down on my lip. My nervousness probably had plenty to do with it, but tears pricked my eyes. The letter seemed to suggest that we could be kicked out of a co-op apartment
that we own
because of a bunch of seedless grapes. “I can't
believe
. . . ,” I sputtered.

Luke gave me a sympathetic smile. “That's what they do,” he said, shrugging on his suit jacket. “Last year the Randolphs told me they got a similar letter about umbrellas left to dry in the hallway. Management companies don't bother to ask nicely.”

I swallowed hard, I couldn't help it. I was so insulted and embarrassed. “Have a good day at work,” I managed.

“Cheer up, sweetie. And break a leg. Nice sweater, by the way. Jasper, let's go!” Luke opened the apartment door.

Jasper came tearing out of the boys' bedroom with his Spider-Man backpack. “Bye, Mommy.”

I dove forward to plant a kiss on his head as he ran out the door.

I took the deepest breath I could manage after the door closed on Luke and Jasper. As I tried to think deep, cleansing thoughts, I fought the urge to confront Bonnie.

I carried the ugly letter into the kitchen and laid it on the counter where Bonnie would come across it whenever she was ready. I added a note at the bottom. “Bonnie, this is what we're up against! They're terrible, aren't they? But I'll have to live with them long after you've become a European recording star. Please make sure Jasper and Wylie eat their snacks at our dining room table.”

I turned my back on the letter, but my heart would not stop racing. There were a few minutes left before I had to go, and I needed to calm down. So I went into the living room and knelt down on the rug, careful not to stretch out my skirt. Wylie was busy with his choo-choo bridge. I just wanted to be close to him. Both little round arms held a train engine, and they jockeyed for clearance. “Not your turn! Boom!” He was deep in the game, but I rubbed his back anyway. I swept my hand over his head. His hair still had the soft texture of a baby's.

While I felt that the faces on Wylie's train engines were more than a little bit creepy, he loved them. I sat still on the rug, my new stockings mindfully out of reach of the rolling stock, listening to his monologue. I had no personal recollection of that freedom—of spinning out crazy ideas without any thought to whether others were listening or found them worthy. How magical to be two—and how very different an experience from dolling yourself up for national TV and caring for all the world what others thought of you.

I took a deep, excitement-filled breath. Today would be a good day for Julia's Child. On the good days, it was a bit easier to leave Wylie with the au pair. When things went poorly, none of it seemed worth the sacrifice of those hours with him. But Wylie was the same Wylie whether business was poor or flourishing.

Before I knew it, it was eight forty-five, and the hour for primping and philosophizing was at an end. I told Wylie it was time to wake Bonnie.

“Otay!” he cried, jumping up and running for her little room off the kitchen. Waking Bonnie was a task he thoroughly enjoyed. When she first arrived from Glasgow, three months ago, I wouldn't have dreamed of allowing the children to disturb her. But by now I'd learned that it was the only way to drag her out of bed.

The TV studio was sending a car for me, which was probably already waiting downstairs. I rose carefully from the rug, checked for lint, and headed for the front hall. I took the teetery heels I'd bought the day before out of their box and slid them on. I checked my look in the mirror by the door. I forced my shoulders back and stood up straight. I could do it. I could pull it off.

I looked in the mirror and sucked in my stomach. Here stands the world-famous television personality, sucking in her stomach before the show.

“Mama?” Wylie padded back out to me. “Bonnie no home,” he said simply.

“What, sweetie? Where's Bonnie?”

“I not know,” he said.

“She's . . . not in her room?” As I said the words, I began to steer the stilts I wore on my feet toward the kitchen and Bonnie's door. Wylie had left it open. Bonnie's bed was made, and the schedule for Jasper's after-school soccer practice was on the comforter, right where I'd left it yesterday afternoon.

Bonnie was not home. She had gone to Brooklyn yesterday evening, as was her custom, and apparently had never returned.

I turned on my heel and grabbed the cordless phone off the kitchen counter. I dialed Bonnie's cell phone.

Immediately, I heard: “This is Bonnie's mobile phone,” the Mary Poppins voice drawing out the
i
in “mobile” the long way. The British way.

Mary Poppins had her phone switched off.

“Oh, dear God,” I whispered under my breath.

I ran back to the front hall and dug my own cell phone from the depths of my purse, praying to see the message indicator lit. But the display was dark.

“Happened, Mama?” Wylie looked up at me with big eyes.

“It's . . .” I leaned over and scooped him up. “Nothing happened, Wylie. I'm just not sure where Bonnie is. And I'm supposed to go to work right now.”

“Wylie go with you,” he said simply.

He was still wearing his rocket-ship pj's and a saggy diaper. I kicked off my scary heels and ran with him toward his room. Then I pulled his pj's over his head and replaced them with a T-shirt with a bulldozer on the front.

Wylie, sensing adventure, allowed me to dress him with unprecedented cooperation. He didn't run away or roll around on the rug while I tried to put on his diaper. There was only a minor skirmish over his socks.

“I do it b'elf,” he said.

“I'm sure you could do it by yourself,” I said tactfully. “But I'm just going to help you a little.” I jammed those little sausage feet into the socks and shoes. Then, running to the door, I slipped into the heels once more and opened the apartment door, willing my toddler to follow me.

“I go to work with you,” Wylie said smugly, as the elevator arrived.

“Kid, it's your lucky day.” It was almost nine already. A stretch limousine sat at the curb. The driver, in a suit with gold buttons and a perky hat, stood waiting.

I hesitated. That rig couldn't be for me.

“Miss Bailey?” the driver asked.

“That's us,” I said.

He opened the door of the gleaming black car. “Come on in,” he said cheerily. “The studio wants you right away.”

“Bus!” Wylie said happily. I guess there weren't many limos in his picture books.

I gave him a little push through the door, and the driver closed it after us. The interior was a cool, leather oasis. The driver wasted no time starting the engine. As it hummed to life, he floored the gas pedal.

I grabbed Wylie and belted him in. “Dis is Taxi?” he asked, rubbing his little hands on the expanse of buttery seat on either side of him.

“Sort of,” I answered. “A really nice one.”

Wylie adored taxis, primarily because they didn't have car seats.

I fumbled for my cell phone. I needed to warn Marta that she would have to amuse Wylie during the interview. Then I'd call Luke at his office and brief him on the Bonnie situation. Calling the police felt a bit premature.

But I didn't get to dial a single call, because the small video screen on the partition between us and the driver blinked to life, with live programming from the network that carried
The Scene
.

“Want it Elmo,” Wylie demanded nonchalantly.

“Oh, honey,” I said. “Elmo is only in
our
car.”

He didn't believe me. “Touch buttons,” he said. He strained against the seat belt, one stubby finger outstretched. He couldn't reach the screen. “
Elmo!
”

The limo careered down Central Park West, and I reflexively held my hand in front of Wylie's chest, pinning him into his seat, which only made him angrier.

“Want it!” he yelled.

We'd made it down to Lincoln Center. But now the traffic gods frowned. Ahead of us, taillights from the traffic ahead began to flash more brightly than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.

“Brake lights!” I yelled. The driver slammed on his brakes. I put my hand on Wylie's forehead, to keep him from sliding. He pushed it off.

Then we were stopped completely. I looked anxiously out the front window. A block ahead I saw a mass of people. I realized they were holding up hand-lettered signs.

“It's . . . a protest march?” I said aloud.

“Oh, Lord,” the driver said.

“Want touch it!” Wylie strained for the screen. Since we were currently going zero miles an hour, I let go of him.

I dialed Marta. She picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“I'm stuck in traffic, behind a protest rally.”

“Ay!” she said.

“Marta, I have Wylie with me. I'm really sorry. It's a long story, but Bonnie wasn't home.”

“Not home! Where is that
chica
?”

“If I only knew. I'm trying not to fear for the worst. I have to call Luke now and fill him in. We'll be there as soon as we can.”

“Okay. Don't panic. The prop stylist and I have got your table almost all set up for the segment. All you'll have to do is hair and makeup.”

“Marta, you're the best. I mean it.”

I hung up and called Luke.