With Friends Like These: A Novel (28 page)

From the classroom where I was headed, I heard high-pitched voices. I opened the door, and while I searched for an authority in charge, a small boy ran over to Henry and tugged his jacket.

“Henry!” he said. “Blocks!” It was Dashiel Keaton. Each time I saw that child he had become more impossibly appealing, even if that day he’d been dressed as an accountant. I searched the room for Xander or Jamyang. But the parent I saw was Chloe, a vision in pink, fingering her pearls and sitting against the far wall, riveted to
Clifford the Big Red Dog
as if she were reading the surprise ending of her own biography. Only when I was standing over her did she look up.

“Weren’t you supposed to be in the office?” she asked.

“No,” I answered. “You were.” Last week we’d confirmed the switch by e-mail. On that I’d have bet Henry’s life.

“But it’s my regular day off,” she said with reproach. “I’d never miss this.”

There had been—I tried to be charitable—a miscommunication. It was now a good thirty minutes past the time when Eliot, our boss, would have expected one of us to sail through the office door. It was I who’d take the heat for the unexplained absence; he didn’t care if Chloe and I traded days, as long as her tush or mine was warming the desk chair. Any minute now he’d be bellowing like a lost moose—and who could blame him?—that he had no copywriter to brainstorm with in that morning’s meeting. It would probably be at least eleven by the time I rushed Henry to his sitter, and then I still needed to take the train to the office. Half the day, shot.

There was only one immediate response to this problem—turning off my phone. I’d do some fast talking later. I shrugged and sat down.

“Like the scarf,” Chloe said as a jumper-clad teacher clapped her hands.

“Children, children,” she shouted, “I want each of you to take a chair
at one of the tables. Now.” Every potential student except one scurried into place. Henry remained engrossed in constructing a tower of blocks. The teacher walked to him, bent to his level, and spoke gently. “Now, Henry,” she said, “wouldn’t you like to join the others?” He added two stories to his high-rise. “And wouldn’t you like to take off your jacket?”

“No,” he explained.
I’m busy
was his implication. He took another large block and created what I clearly saw as a bell tower. I imagined him in it, gun in hand, surveying the terrain.

“We all have our jobs, and yours is to join the other children.” The teacher sounded aggressively patient, aware that every parent in the room was curious about how she’d persuade this recalcitrant participant to play by her rules.

My son narrowed his eyes and sized up the woman with a look of deep disdain I hoped he’d never show me. “No,
thanks
,” he said, and returned to his blocks. Could he, I hoped, at least get points for manners?

“Henry.” The woman sucked in her breath and peered down through heavy glasses as if her reputation was at stake, which it was. “This isn’t how Jackson Collegiate boys and girls behave.”

“Okay, fuck it,” Henry said as he crashed the blocks in one furious swoop. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

All the children and adults turned, impressed by what I have tried to stress to Henry is vocabulary reserved exclusively for automobiles. Tom and I did use that word, but only on the rare occasion when we rented a car and tried to negotiate the civil unrest that is city traffic. Circles of perspiration soaked my scratchy white shirt as sweat collected at my hairline. The room went silent—except for Dash, always in awe of Henry, singing, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck a duck.” Chloe gasped before she glowered in my direction. I shrugged back to her and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

But I wasn’t. I was positive she’d agreed to work today.

As Henry threw up his hands, he looked toward the worshipful faces of the other kids. Giggles, some of them coming from the parents, rippled toward my superhero. If a three-year-old can have dignity, Henry did as he followed the teacher. She seated him across from Dash as I noticed
another teacher scribble on a clipboard—
Henry Fisher-Wells revealed his first sociopathic tendencies at age three
, perhaps.

“Now, children,” the head teacher said, “we thought you’d like some snacks.” The scribe walked to a shelf holding trays and transformed herself into a waitress offering graham crackers, grapes, and cubes of cheddar cheese. Most children daintily grabbed one or two of each. Dash wrinkled his nose, looked at Chloe, and took nothing. Henry, whose breakfast had been half a peanut butter sandwich and a juice pack that he drank on the subway, filled two handfuls, dumped them on his plate, and returned for seconds.

The teachers brought glass pitchers of apple juice to each table. “Who’d like to start?” one of them asked. Tom and I had never let Henry try to fill his own glass at home. The teacher, that sadist, turned toward him and asked, “How about you, Henry?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, using a four-letter word he definitely hadn’t learned from me.

“In that case,” she said, “go ahead.”
Be my guest, sucker
. “Class, Henry is going to show you how pouring from a pitcher is done. Let’s … all … watch.”

He lifted the pitcher, which might as well have been a barbell, tilted its spout, and poured perfectly. He looked in my direction. I blew him a kiss, sorry I couldn’t swoop him up in my arms and shout,
Mazel tov
. One mother nearby patted me on the shoulder and another gave me a thumbs-up. Neither was Chloe.

“When you finish your treats, everyone may play.” The moment the teacher uttered the sentence, Henry bolted, knocking several cubes of cheese onto the floor, and returned to the block corner, the bigger boys trailing him. For the next ten minutes he was architect, foreman, and head engineer, barking orders as he supervised the construction of yet another colossus. I hoped it was as clear to the teachers as it was to me that my son was a natural leader, perhaps the next Frank Lloyd Wright.

I was percolating with motherly pride and ambition as I turned toward Chloe to make an effort to talk, but she was chatting up the assistant
teacher. Clearly, we each had our own agendas today, and she didn’t know the half of it. Just as I’d temporarily shut down thinking about the story I’d cook up later for Eliot, I’d managed for a whole hour not to brood about whether I’d be offered the Bespoke spot—the one Mean Maxine and I both referred to as
Chloe’s job
. That’s when I heard a small voice call my name. “Mrs. Fisher-Wells!” it said. “Look!” Dash was wearing a plastic pince-nez on his tiny, upturned nose and carrying a doctor’s bag. “Are you ready for your checkup?”

When Chloe heard his voice, she turned and beamed. I squatted down to Dash’s level. He thumped my chest with a stethoscope, peeped up at me with his dimpled smile, and thumped again. “Just fine,” he announced, and grinned.

“Why, thank you, Dr. Keaton,” I said. He’d missed the lump in my throat and, as I looked at Chloe, the pain in my gut.

  
Chloe

Jamyang was waiting outside Jackson Collegiate when our nightmare ended. The car dropped her and Dash at home and continued into Manhattan for my own two o’clock interview. I threw on a black wool jacket that I’d had Jamyang bring and decided I looked creative enough for an ad agency.

With ninety minutes to kill, I had the driver park a few blocks away from the agency, bought him coffee and a ham sandwich, and went into a bistro to grab a cup of green tea and review my notes. I was ready to order when I noticed four women at the next table toasting one another. Their drinks were pink, which matched their cheeks. It seemed like one of Autumn’s signs. “What are they drinking?” I asked the waitress.

“House specialty, something retro, kind of like lemonade. Pink Ladies,” she said. “Very popular.”

“I’ll try one,” I said. A real drink would relax me. I was studying the printout I’d made of the agency’s account history when the server brought me a darling beverage topped with a maraschino cherry. It tasted
like no other lemonade I’d ever had—though far sweeter than the mojitos in California.

As I sipped, I tried to prime myself for the interview. The headhunter who was Arthur Weiner’s friend had seemed strangely surprised to hear from me when I tracked her down. We’d had a short, halting conversation, but after I faxed a résumé with a polite note, a few days later she set up an appointment at an agency. “The owner was ready to make an offer,” she’d said. “I had to convince him to see you, and he only agreed because your background is exceptionally strong.”

Exceptionally strong
. I felt as if I were listening to chamber music!

I reviewed my notes, again, and checked my watch. Still too early to leave. I ordered a salad and, feeling more mellow than I had in months—thank you, Pink Lady!—decided to go for a second drink. I sipped and nibbled, sipped and nibbled. There was definitely something in that cocktail, something wonderful. I decided to make it my signature drink. I’d never had a signature drink, and the thought made me warm and happy.

I looked over my notes one last time and got up to leave. The room swayed.

I was drunk—let’s call it tipsy—and this was not good, not at all. Ever since an unfortunate pre-Xander frat party, when I woke up in the bed of a guy I’d never seen before in my life, I have judiciously monitored my alcohol intake. Marijuana? Forget it. When anyone passed a joint, I only faked taking a puff. But I heard Autumn’s melodious voice in my head reminding me that everything was going to be fine. By the time the interview started, the effects of the drink surely would have worn off. I shouldn’t get my knickers in a twist! Today Autumn was speaking with a British accent. I bought a box of mints at the drugstore next door and then told the driver to take off.

At Bespoke Communications, I was welcomed by a platinum-haired receptionist. She was arranging a bouquet of carnations. Pink!

“Hi,” I giggled and introduced myself. “Those flowers are gorgeous.” They were ordinary enough, but a compliment never hurts.

“Mr. Jonas is expecting you,” she said. I giggled again. The receptionist walked me down a narrow hallway and led me into a long, dark room.

“Chloe Keaton?”

“Mr. Jonas?” A man spun around in his chair and stood to shake my hand. Winters Jonas was utterly bald! I pictured him in his bathroom, trying to get a smooth shave. It couldn’t be easy, especially on the back of his skull, but I hadn’t noticed any scabs or Band-Aids. “We have on the same jacket!” I said. His was black, too.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “True.”

Was the floor crooked? Probably. This building was the kind of firetrap that in downtown Manhattan passes for charming. I looked up and smiled at Winters Jonas, who smiled back. I felt better than I ever had in my life. Apparently I was getting adept at this job-hunting business!

“So, Chloe, tell me about yourself,” he said.

I knew my lines. “I’m a skilled leader,” I began, trying to embrace my traditional femininity while I advanced my goals. This meant crossing my legs at the ankles and keeping the smiles coming. “I enjoy the respect of my peers. My skills are unsurpassed, but the talent of which I am most proud is my ability to build and mentor a team.”

Did it matter that the only team I’d ever led was for tennis at Miss Porter’s? Mr. Jonas seemed to buy it. “What’s your MO to achieve this?”

“My mojo!” He pinned me with his dark blue eyes, but I wasn’t going to let that throw me. “I roll up my sleeves and lead through my own example of passion, high energy, creativity, and hard work.”

“Chloe, let’s have a look at your portfolio,” he said. We did, chatting at every page, augmented by laughter, a lot of laughter. The interview lasted an hour!

That evening, when I woke from a nap, Xander asked me to report on the appointment. I couldn’t recall a thing. I wasn’t even sure how I’d gotten home.

  
Jules