Cherries In The Snow (16 page)

‘You're late,' says Ivy.

‘Only fifteen minutes,' says Vicki.

‘We have a conference call at two.'

‘Well, is it two yet?'

‘No.'

‘Then calm the fuck down.'

‘Okay, okay, guys, listen. I have two ideas.'

Holly turns her attention slowly from Ivy to me. ‘Shoot.'

‘It Lives: makeup bolted together like Frankenstein's monster.'

She looks at her nails and says, ‘That could fly for Halloween.'

‘And lipsticks named after people who should have gotten married. Or stayed married. Or come from different generations but should be together. Angelina Brando. Madonna Bowie. Elizabeth Clift. Courtney Stipe. And I think the whole line should be called Ava Sinatra. It's really beautiful, don't you think?'

‘That's kind of gay,' says Holly.

Ivy raises her eyebrows but says nothing. So I do.

‘That's kind of a casual slur.'

‘What? I can say it. I am one. I'm a dago dyke.'

‘Yeah, right,' says Ivy under her breath.

‘See, now there's something!' says Holly. ‘What about a line of Lenny Bruce lipsticks, the words you're not supposed to say: dago, kike, wop, nigger…'

‘Stop!' I yell.

‘This is my company, don't tell me to stop!'

‘Actually, this is
my
company,' hisses Ivy. Holly shuts the fuck up.

I stop by Marley's house wearing a pair of fancy Marc Jacobs shoes that have inexplicably been sent to me at the office. Ivy says it is explicable, that through my meager gift for naming makeup I am becoming something of a minor downtown celebrity. An hour later David Consuela Cohen calls.

‘Did you get the shoes? Aren't they rocking? Do they fit?'

‘They're from you?'

‘Do you know anyone else who represents Marc Jacobs? I hope not.'

‘Thank you so much.'

‘I told you I would hook you up!'

The shoes are summer-grass-green suede with a round toe and high heels. I notice the card in the box saying that Marc loves my work. ‘What work?' says Vicki nastily, and I can't really fault her. Jesus, anyone can become a minor celebrity in New York. You can be a celebrity juicer, like the guy at the health-food store who has lines down the block for his echinacea, kale, and ginger smoothies. You can become a celebrity graffiti artist, like Marley. And I guess, much as it strains the imagination, one can become a celebrity lipstick namer. My ego buoyed, I slip on the shoes and am instantly able to name the red lip palette trio Ivy has laid before me: Marx, Lenin, Stalin.

‘A lipstick called Stalin?' asks Vicki. ‘Don't you think that's a little much?'

‘Lady!' says Holly. ‘This is New York! And this is fashion. Nothing's too much.'

When I get to Marley's house he and Montana have just finished doing a yoga session together. She can't stop looking at my shoes and I can't blame her. With Marley in the kitchen making us some dinner, I ask, ‘Do you want to try on my shoes, Montana?'

‘Why would I want to try on your shoes?' She stares at me.

‘They're pretty?'

She flicks a lick of blond from her rosebud lips.

‘They're okay.'

‘Go on, try them.'

She gingerly places one small white foot and then another in the green high heels. She walks around the living room in circles, click-clacking, clawing her toes tight to keep the shoes on, smiling broadly to herself. Then she comes out of her reverie. She ever so gently takes the shoes off and then ever so violently kicks them into the bathroom.

‘Whoa, those are suede!'

Marley comes back in. ‘What's going on?'

I opt not to tattle, but she tells him herself, almost boastfully. Yes, a boast.

‘Now, Montana,' says Marley, ‘you're behaving badly. I'm going to leave you in the bathroom with the shoes to think about what you've done. We don't condone violence, not even to inanimate objects. You know the rule. You can take it out on Daddy, but that's it.'

He shepherds her into the bathroom and shuts the door. Immediately she wails and wails. After five minutes she's still wailing and I'm starting to get a little nervous. ‘That's kind of harsh, Marley. They're just shoes.'

‘Look through the keyhole.'

I look through the keyhole. Montana is crying and wearing the shoes at the same time, walking around the room in circles, admiring herself in the mirror. Marley grabs the shoes back, and I beg off early. It only seems fair.

At work the next morning we go through the papers and magazines for the latest Grrrl mentions. This is technically Vicki's job, but we all enjoy it and so sit in the conference room, cross-legged on the floor, under Marley's mural. Ivy leans back against the wall and I notice for the first time what a long, swanlike neck her round head rests on. Holly is chewing blue bubblegum, which nicely suits her dark skin. Holly even makes colored bubblegum look elegant. Vicki is prancing about getting excited about her birthday party. The others are going straight from work to help her set up. I think of ways to get out of it. I forgot to feed Sidney Katz, I say. Then, reading page six so as not to have to listen to Vicki prattle, I see that Isaac has just been on a panel at the Four Seasons as part of the
New Yorker
literary festival. My face turns red. I throw the paper at Holly.

‘Motherfucker! He's in town and he didn't tell me.'

‘Why would he tell you? You don't care. You don't care about him, you broke up with him, remember?' says Holly insistently.

But I do care. Just seeing Isaac's name brings up all sorts of strange feelings in me. Bad feelings. ‘Listen, I don't see why I should be tied up. Marley has this other woman. The ultimate other woman.'

This is bullshit. I haven't looked at another man since Marley. Who am I kidding?

‘That's not fair,' says Ivy. ‘He's a good man. You treat that boy right, you hear me?'

With perfect timing, Marley calls and asks what I'm up to tonight. Montana has gone back to L.A. with her mother. And immediately I segue from seething and jealous to calm and excited.

‘Do you want to come to a party with me? It's Vicki's birthday.'

‘Hmmm,' ponders Marley, ‘our debut as a couple.'

‘Yeah. I guess.'

‘Okay.'

‘Okay.' It's true. Our debut. I hadn't thought of that. All our schemes and dreams have been of us alone in a room.

On our way to Vicki's for our coming-out, I stop to pick up some flowers at the florist across the street.

‘Give me ten minutes,' says the fat florist, ‘and I shall create a bouquet for you such as Gianni Versace might have made for a favorite niece!'

I go to the bodega to buy water and when I come back he has made something purple.

‘How nice!' says Vicki when I give her the flowers. She puts them immediately to one side, which annoys me although it's exactly what I'd have done too. Vicki has on pink pajamas with bunny rabbits on them, a shorty with frills at the thigh. She is getting very thin, her round pumpkin head becoming angular. She has those big eyes and artfully applied mascaraed long lashes. She looks like Mia Farrow crossed with something Mia Farrow would want to adopt.

‘Whoopeee!' she says, and ‘Yaaay!'

‘ “It's my party and I'll cry if I want to,” ' she sings, and I wait for her to burst into tears. Her birthday cake has the Wild Thornberrys on it, there is a Powerpuff Girls piñata, and then she puts on a fucking Wiggles CD. The Wiggles are
not okay
; they're from some nonspecific country and they frighten me.

She bashes away at the piñata.

‘Oh, poopie!' she says as the thing bursts. She is worse than ever, using her birthday as a free pass to exercise her psychosis.
The Fox and the Hound
is playing on a screen. None of the other guests seem to notice how weird it all is. They think it's hipster cool instead of hipster demented.

I look through Vicki's bathroom cabinet, as I always do at a new home. Everything is in miniature. The trial sizes you buy at drugstores: little shampoo, little conditioner, little toothpaste.

‘That's rude,' says Marley, ‘don't do that.'

But I can't stop looking, transfixed by a miniature deodorant.

Marley closes the bathroom door.

‘Look at the Hello Kitty toilet cover. I couldn't pee into that. It's like peeing into a cat.'

‘That's disgusting.'

‘That's disgusting.' I nod at the Barbie toothbrush.

‘Remind me what the point of this girl is?'

‘You know, I never stopped to think about it. Perhaps she's good at her job?'

But I really am not sure. ‘I used to be blond, you know. I mean, I am a blonde.'

‘You don't seem like a blonde. You seem like a spiritual brunette.'

‘What do you like?'

‘I don't care. I don't understand men who have types. It's creepy. I like women.'

‘Your baby is blond.'

‘And, God, I wish she wasn't.'

‘Really?'

‘Really. The racist in me. Or the egoist. I want her to look like me.'

‘She does.'

‘No, she doesn't.'

He kisses me.

Suddenly I hear: ‘Sadie and Marley sitting in a tree, kissing!'

‘Oh, hi!' says Vicki, popping her head in, ‘there you are! We're about to play pass the parcel.'

‘This is weird,' Marley whispers in my ear, and it makes me tingle, but Marley could read his tax return in my ear and it would make me tingle.

We pass. ‘Oh, lush!' says Vicki. ‘This cake is a spiritual experience!' That's when I know I have to go.

We spend a week together. We see a bunch of movies and he holds my hand through all of them. He readjusts the hold but never lets go. He has one hand on me while he cooks for me. He gives me a key. I go to work, feed Sidney Katz, play with him, and then head back to Marley's each night. Sometimes he has flowers for me. Other times he is waiting naked at the door, lips puckered. I kiss him happily, but he says, ‘Not enough. More.'

Sometimes we kiss for hours and other times I am barely in the door before he's inside me.

‘I'm good in bed, aren't I?' I ask.

‘You're amazing.'

‘But I don't think I was before. So am I good because of me or because of you?'

‘Because of you! If you slept with other people now, you'd know that for sure.'

‘But I don't want to. Do you want me to?' I am so confused.

‘Maybe you should.'

I am stung. He sees it and pulls my face close to his.

‘No, don't sleep with anyone else.' His eyes are on fire. ‘Don't sleep with anyone else ever again.'

He is breathing heavily. ‘Oh, God, I'm sorry. I try not to get jealous. But sometimes just thinking of you out in the world each day, riding the subway with men looking at you, it makes me want to—'

‘Hey, it's okay. It's okay not to be chill all the time, Marley.'

‘Where I come from … chill, even too chill, is preferable.'

‘There has to be a middle ground.'

‘Yes. Yes.'

‘Where is your family?'

‘The only family I have is Montana and Jolene. The rest could fade into the earth for all I care. The rest don't matter at all. Please don't ask me again.'

‘Okay. Okay.'

He takes a deep breath. ‘Kiss me.'

I kiss him because I love him and lust him and best of all it seems like I am being asked to help, and, even better, that my help hits the spot. He goes into his office to work for a few hours and closes the door. I sit on the other side of it, pressing my cheek against the wood, and I can smell him through it.

The following Monday Montana returns.

All night Marley can barely contain himself, he is so excited about Montana's arrival. ‘My baby is coming! I'm going to see my baby!'

‘That kid misses a lot of school lately. You see her all the time.'

‘I do lately, don't I? How wonderful!' He whistles himself a happy tune. I think it's ‘Bela Lugosi Is Dead' by Bauhaus, rendered in the style of a barbershop quartet.

‘What are you whistling?'

‘The Wiggles.'

‘Ow,' I say, ‘you're hurting my ears.'

‘Sorry' – he hugs me – ‘I'm just so happy. It's been too long.'

‘It's been a week!'

‘Come on, everyone, it's wiggle time!' He sighs. ‘Montana used to love them. Now she likes the White Stripes.'

‘That's kind of a weird.'

‘Well she heard the mix tape you made me and that was her favorite song. So we bought all their albums and now she draws pictures of them. Look.'

He pulls me over to the fridge where new pride of place is a scrawling that does look a bit like Jack White. And she has rendered Meg unlovable. I know then that I have only yet seen the tip of her competitive iceberg.

‘Actually, a friend of mine is interested in publishing them. Child's renderings of their favorite rock stars. My friend's little girl is always drawing pictures of Rod Stewart.'

‘And someone's really going to publish them?'

‘Yep.'

I want to contribute so badly. I go into her art room while he's showering, and I start to draw the Beatles. Seems an easy place to start.

‘Hey, look what I did.'

‘The Beatles.'

‘It's good, right?'

‘Yeah. Is it for me?'

‘It's for the book.'

‘It's a children's book. The cut-off age is eight. Montana just made it.'

‘Yeah, but they wouldn't know. I'll just write Sadie Steinberg, age six, and send it in.'

‘Uh, I don't think so.'

‘I want to be published. I want to be published so badly.' My voice is tiny.

‘You will be.' Marley wants to do some yoga for half an
hour, and he knows I won't join in, so he comes up with a way to entertain me.