Play Dates (11 page)

“Claire, how could you?”

“I
had
to. Tulia called to invite me for Thanksgiving, which, as usual, she’s turning into a double celebration. Since it’s
my
birthday, she thought she’d be courteous about it. So she told me you were planning to bring Robert. Not Xander, too, I hope.”

“He’ll be with his mother. They’re going to Thanksgiving dinner at Donna Karan’s.”

I react like this is not a strange thing. For Nina Osborne, it’s probably an annual ritual. The image of soon-to-be-seven-year-old Xander tearing up the place and the designer presenting Nina with an itemized bill for damages at the end of the meal fills me with a bit of sadistic glee.

Oh, God, we’ve got Xander’s birthday party coming up.

Nina’s leased out some plum real estate at Chelsea Piers, host-ing an ice hockey party for more than three dozen second graders. Semi-supervised violence on razor-sharp blades. Perfect.

At least she didn’t rent the Temple of Dendur. I can just picture Xander and friends running amok among the Metropolitan Museum’s Egyptian antiquities.

“Well, this should be an interesting Thanksgiving holiday,” I

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tell Mia. “Maybe Mommy can stitch up some lovely bulletproof vests for all of us.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” she replies. “Nina doesn’t even know about me and Robert.”

“Can you keep it that way? What about Xander? How many six-year-old boys, particularly troublemakers, grasp the concept of discretion?” I check my watch. If I don’t hightail it right this minute, I’ll be late for my tour. “Anyway, it’ll be my birthday, but it might be your funeral if Nina gets a whiff of this. She already detests me. All she needs to learn is that her ex is knocking it off with my older sister. And what happened to his
au pair

Aryan-looking

?”

“Nina had her deported.”

Wow. And why am I somehow not surprised. So, did I see a different Ula or the same one whose days were numbered?

“Mia, I don’t mean this quite how it’s going to sound, so I apologize in advance, but I’m surprised he thought you were his

‘type.’ You’re not even blonde!”

“Maybe that’s why he says I’m so ‘different,’ ” Mia muses. “I guess I’m off the menu.”

“Dead meat, most probably. I’ve got to dash. We’ll pick this up later, if you want to.”

“Good. Because I want to run something else by you.”

“About Thanksgiving?”

“Yes,” Mia says. “And Zoë. Catch you later.” She’s the one who ends the call, leaving me with another shoe dangling. And a busload of tourists waiting for their “Location, Location, Location!”

sightseeing tour.

Dear Diary:

I am going to meet the Powerpuff Girls! MiMi got me on their
float for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. She got a job
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doing the makeup for the star who is going to sing on it, and they
said they needed little girls to ride on the float with her, so MiMi
asked if I could do it and they said yes. The Powerpuff Girls are
my favorite television show. I told everyone in school about it.

Xander and the boys didn’t care. April and May are happy for
me but Ashley is acting funny. Mommy said she might be jealous.

I know a secret, too. MiMi has been going to dinner and movies
with Xander’s daddy. Xander doesn’t know and Mommy and
MiMi made me promise not to tell him. I asked why it was supposed to be a secret and they said it was because Xander’s mom
Nina can be a real meanie. I know this is true because Mommy
said she wasn’t nice to her the day Mommy had to see Mrs. Hennepin. I wish I could sic the Powerpuff Girls on Nina.

MiMi said we’ll have to wake up really early on Thanksgiving morning, like when it’s still dark out. I can’t wait. It’s going
to be one of the funnest best days of my life. Even better than
my birthday, maybe. Then, after the parade we get to go to
Granny Tulia’s and Grandpa Brendan’s house in Sag Harbor
for dinner. I talked to Granny Tulia on the telephone and asked
her if she was going to have orange food and she said yes. We
are going to have Marsh-mallow sweet potatoes, which she always makes special for Thanksgiving. And carrot pennies. And
pumpkin pie.

Xander Osborne’s birthday party is next week and it’s a
hockey skating party. I wish he would have a birthday party like
April and May had over the summer for all the girls from our
first-grade class. W

Beauty and the Beast

e went to see

, which is a

Broadway play. We even got to bring our moms. Then after the
play ended, we got to go back to say hi to the actors and each of
us got a poster that was signed by them. I thought the girl who
played Belle looked prettier on the stage than she did in her regular clothes. She looked older in her blue jeans. And her hair
wasn’t even reddish brown in real life. It was dirty blonde like
April and May’s mom June. If I had dresses like Belle I would

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wear them all the time. Her yellow one is my favorite because yellow is my favorite color.

I’m really, really, really bad at ice skating. I went a couple of
times with Mommy and Daddy to the place with the gold statue
and the big Christmas tree and to the skating rink in Central
Park because it isn’t far from our house and my feet wobble too
much no matter how tight I make my skates. I fall down and I
don’t like it. And it’s too cold. Hockey is too fast and it’s scary
and I don’t want to do it. And I can’t even wear a pretty dress to
the party if I have to play ice hockey. Mommy said I didn’t have
to go to the party but I want to invite Xander when I have a
party for my birthday in December and if I don’t go to his party
he won’t come to mine. And Xander is one of the people I want
most to be at my birthday party.

I have to admit I enjoy being a sightseeing guide. Especially since my Go Native! boss seems to welcome my input on tour ideas. In fact, the movie-themed excursion was my idea; and, so far, “Location, Location, Location!” has been one of their best sellers. Even in the middle of November, my buses are packed with people scrambling to grab the upstairs seats first. To catch a better glimpse of the Dakota and the Empire State Building, they’re willing to sit outdoors for two hours braving some pretty chilly, damp weather.

This morning I had seventeen people from the High Point, North Carolina Jaycees, eager to see where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks finally hooked up in
Sleepless in Seattle
. Last week, a bunch of librarians from Vermont wanted to see where the little bookstore around the corner in
You’ve Got Mail
w

.

as located

This afternoon, I’ve got a gaggle of grandmothers who specifically requested that I show them where the famous “orgasm”

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81

scene from
When Harry Met Sally
took place. Maybe I should rename my tour “Meg Ryan in Manhattan.”

Boy, can those ladies move in their orthopedic shoes. I stand back while they jockey for position on the upper level of the tour bus, swatting at each other with purses and umbrellas like the Ruth Buzzi character on Comedy Central’s
Laugh-In
reruns.

We chug downtown, and when we get to the Empire State Building stop, knowing that they’re Meg Ryan buffs, I begin my description of the landmark with the
Sleepless in Seattle
reference. However, I make the cardinal mistake of underestimating my audience. These ladies know their movies. One of them waves her umbrella to get my attention. “Don’t you ever watch the old pictures? What about the classics? What about
An Affair
to Remember
? All three versions.”

One of her cohorts begins to argue with her. “There weren’t three versions of
An Affair to Remember
, Myrna.”

“Yes, there were, Helen. You don’t know what you’re talking about. The other two were called
Love Affair
, but only the one with Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne was any good. The one that looker, Warren Beatty, made with his wife—that was pure dreck.”

“
Affair to Remember
? What about
King Kong
?” one of them calls out. “The original
and
the remake with Jessica Lange.”

“That remake was dreadful,” another pipes up. “Now,
that
was dreck. That girl couldn’t act her way out of a gorilla’s palm.

Now, Fay Wray . . .
there
was a real actress!”

“Well, I like Lange,” the
King Kong
fan insists, holding her ground. “She was very good in
Frances
. She got robbed at Oscar time.”

“What, robbed? She got one for
Tootsie
,” interrupts her friend.

“
Tootsie
, schmootzie,” Lange’s champion retorts. “That was a consolation prize. Now
Frances
—there was a part to die for.

That girl acted her little heart out in that picture.”

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Leslie Carroll

Can we see where they filmed the soap opera in
Tootsie
, they ask me.

“Well, it’s in the wrong direction from where we’re headed,” I tell them, wondering if it’s even okay to spontaneously deviate from the itinerary. “It’s way over on the West Side. One of our local television stations used it as a studio for several years, but there’s nothing to look at. Not very interesting.” They ponder this and put it to a democratic vote.
When Harry Met Sally
wins, hands down, so off we go to Katz’s Deli on Houston Street.

Snacks at Katz’s are part of my tour. Midway through their complimentary tongue—which the staff thinks is a hoot to give to the “orgasm tourists”—I hear my cell ringing. It’s Nurse Val up at Thackeray. Zoë’s been throwing up ever since lunch and the nurse isn’t sure whether it’s just a tummy bug, or if it’s food poisoning.

“She’s running a fever, too,” Nurse Val says, “and I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to stay here in my office until the school day ends, in case she’s contagious. I gave her some children’s Tylenol, which should begin to reduce her temperature, but she really should go home as soon as possible.”

That’s that. I have to head uptown ASAP. These ladies—my tourists—are all grandmothers. That means they were once mothers. They’ll understand. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got an emergency. My daughter got sick at school and I need to fetch her right away,” I tell them, genuinely apologetic. I know I’ve only been working a few weeks, but I’ve never had to abandon a tour and I’m not at all comfortable with the idea. Still, my poor little girl is retching her guts out. This isn’t a task a mom delegates.

“You mean you’re going to leave us?” one of my charges asks, her voice quivering with disbelief.

“Right after the
orgasm
?” another asks very loudly, her face a study in betrayal.

I stammer another apology and explain that there are only a few more stops on the “Location” tour anyway, and that Frank, our PLAY DATES

83

trusty bus driver will take good care of them and bring them safely back to the Go Native! depot. Given no alternative, they say goodbye. “Your boss will hear about this, young lady,” the Lange fan threatens.

“And don’t expect any tips!” adds the
Tootsie
lady.

How soon they forget. I look at my group of blue hairs and shake my head, wondering where their children are now and whether they even bother to send Christmas cards.

It would have taken me a month to get from the Lower East Side to the Upper West on mass transit, and time being of the essence, I hail a taxi. I ask the cab driver to wait with the meter running while I run inside Thackeray to get Zoë. “I’ve heard that one before,” he grumbles. “Fugeddaboutit, girlie.” I let out a sigh of frustration and a couple of choice curse words, pay the un-sympathetic bastard, lowballing him on
his
tip, and he lurches away from the curb, practically before I’ve set both feet on the pavement.

I race upstairs to the nurse’s office to redeem my daughter.

The poor kid is a pasty shade of green. I acknowledge this when I give her a hug.

“I know. I look like Oobleck,” she whimpers into my neck.

“Yuck.”

“We’re going right home, sweetie,” I assure her. “Did Nurse Val take good care of you?”

Zoë nods and manages a half smile. “And she gave me a lollipop to make my tummy feel better. But I couldn’t finish it.”

She fishes a half-eaten orange lollipop, haphazardly replaced in its cellophane wrapper, from the front pocket of her knapsack.

At Thackeray, when they know they’re going to send a kid home in the middle of the day, the teacher has all their personal belongings brought to the nurse’s office so the child doesn’t have to return to the classroom to gather them up.

“Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you up here, Claire Marsh,” Nurse Val says. Her smile is the same warm crescent of

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red although she’s let her carrot-colored hair go yellow-gray. I give the woman a hug. She’s lost a few inches in height. I remember when she was so much taller than I was, even in my high-school years. She still smells like cinnamon Dentyne, though. “Your Mommy was one of my best customers,” she says, giving Zoë a wink.

“Were you sick a lot, Mommy?” my daughter wants to know.

“Sort of. I discovered I was really allergic to volleyball. And basketball.”

“I seem to recall you were allergic to swimming, too,” Nurse Val chuckles.

“But you love swimming, mom.”

“I love it now. But back then, all the chlorine in the pool made my hair turn green,” I say, helping Zoë on with her shoes.

“But we have to wear bathing caps,” the little pragmatist chirps, wriggling her foot.