Julia's Child (9781101559741) (19 page)

But Wylie had spotted another of the sugar beacons—right on my dreadful neighbor Emily's apartment door. “Twickatweet!”

“Yeah! I wonder what Sadie and Bryan are giving out.” My boys jostled each other to stand close to the door. Jasper had recovered from the shock of the witch in 515 and was ready to party.

The door swung open. “Oh!” Emily cooed. “What do we have here? It's Batman! And a—”

“Piwate,” Wylie supplied. As if the meaning of the three-cornered hat and the eye patch might be missed.

“You are fierce!” Emily maneuvered a basket of candy toward the children, tilting it so they could help themselves.

Why do people do it that way? Doesn't it make more sense to simply hand an age-appropriate treat to my child? Preferably a small one?

Wylie readied his arm for a plunge deep into the loot. “Take only one,” I said quickly.

“Go ahead and take two, sugar! This is the night to have fun.”

I let a neighborly smile wax on my face, but inside I was boiling. “Go ahead and take two,” she'd said. But if you eat them in public, I'll have the board write you another nasty letter.

“M&M's! And hey! I got a gummy
brain
.” Jasper was gleeful. He dropped his two treats into his bag.

Then came the fateful moment when the thank-you was due. I said a little prayer, right there on Emily's doormat, that one of them would remember.

Instead, Emily's older child appeared at her hip.

I had to admit that Bryan's costume was stylish. He had green fleece scales from the top of his head all the way down his back. “Nice dinosaur
,
buddy!”

Emily winced.

“Dragon! I'm supposed to be a dragon. Mom! You said it would work.”

I tried backpedaling. “Oh! Of course you're a dragon. Silly me—only dragons have the . . .” I gestured wildly at my own head.

But the damage was done. “Everybody thinks I'm a dinosaur. Next year can we just
buy
a costume like other people?” He slunk off behind her.

“You made that costume?” I peered around Emily to see the dragon's retreat, down to the perfectly spiked tail.

She shrugged. “Fleece is easy. You don't have to finish the edges. The hard part is customer satisfaction.” She tried flashing a grin, but it came off more like a baring of teeth.

Up until that moment I'd been pretty proud of myself just for making it home in time for Halloween. But I'd always admired anyone who could sew. It seemed to require a lot of personality traits that I lacked—artistic flair, a sense of design. The patience of a saint.

Wylie had lost interest in the proceedings and had begun wandering off down the hall, scanning the apartment doors for pumpkin plates, like a bloodhound on the scent. I would have to extricate myself from the little disaster I'd caused. It seemed there was no way to encounter my neighbor and come away unscathed.

I was just starting to apologize when Jasper brushed past Emily and took a few steps into the apartment. I was opening my mouth to call him back when I heard him say, “Bryan, can I look at your tail? It's really cool.”

“Really?”

My heart swelled with gratitude for my sensitive son.

“Yeah. And maybe you should think about breathing some fire or something.”

“Hey, Mom? Can I breathe fire?”

Emily perked up. “I've got an orange silk scarf you could borrow.”

“Cool!”

That was our opening. “Jasper, we have to get moving if you want to do any more trick-or-treating.”

Batman walked out of Emily's apartment, his cape following regally behind. “Thanks for the gummy brains!”

Emily beamed. “Come back anytime, Batman.” At least she liked one of us.

I waved good-bye and then bolted down the hallway after Wylie. A few months ago he'd actually gotten into the elevator without me, and I'd had to run down flights of stairs, peeping into each hallway in turn, until I found him.

“Twickatweet!”

I laughed. He'd stopped to knock on an apartment only a few doors down. But it was our apartment door.

As I trotted toward him, Luke opened the door, treats under his arm.

“Daddy?”

Luke played along. “Oh!” he said with pronounced enthusiasm. “What have we here? What a cute little lion!”

Wylie giggled. “No! Piwate.”

“That's what I said! What a cute little hippo.”

Wylie had never heard a funnier joke. He giggled so hard he almost couldn't answer. “No, Daddy!” he gasped. “Pi-wate!”

“For the little . . . fireman, I have this lovely treat.”

Wylie laughed on, but Jasper peered over the edge of the basket in Luke's hands. Then he straightened up in shock. “No!”

Uh-oh. The basket was full of individually wrapped muffets. I'd used packaging left over from our giveaway on
The Scene
. Personally, I thought they were adorable. And I also thought it was neighborly of me to give out something that kids could eat tomorrow for breakfast.

Jasper did not agree. He grabbed the basket out of Luke's hands and stomped into the apartment.

I followed in hot pursuit, having no earthly idea what Jasper planned to do with the muffets.

The bat cape flared as Jasper fled toward the kitchen. I would have gone pounding after him if Luke had not caught me by the hand.

“Tough night in Gotham?” A smile played around his eyes.

I loved that about Luke. He didn't always succumb to the children's drama. He was always ready to stop a moment and try to find the humor in the situation. “I'd better not find those muffets in the garbage,” I complained.

But Luke simply kissed my hand. Then he released it, to step into the adjacent dining room and fill my glass with red wine.

I followed him to the table and sat down. “I don't know why he freaked out about the muffets. I know he doesn't like to eat them anymore, but I don't see why he should take it personally.” The truth was that I'd assumed I had a couple years left before my boys became so easily embarrassed by their mother.

Luke opened his mouth to reply but then frowned. “Did you hear that?”

We were both silent for a moment. I heard it too—the sound of paper tearing, at very close range. My eyes met Luke's. At the same instant, we both ducked our heads under the dining room table.

Wylie was down there scarfing down M&M's straight from the “fun-size” bag.

“Wylie!” I gasped. “Daddy's making pasta for dinner.”

But Luke just leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. “Melts in your mouth, and not on my rug.”

I'm well aware that my nutritional neuroses are a bit over the top. But it made me feel slightly ill to watch a child eat candy before dinner.

The doorbell rang. “Trick or treat!”

Luke's eyes opened wide with alarm. And a second later, I realized why. Jasper had made off with all our Halloween offerings.

“We can offer them wine. Or maybe a couple of spitty M&M's!” Luke ducked his head under the table again. “No. Eighty-six the M&M's.”

I stood up. My secret stash of healthy treats was about to come in handy. “Coming!” I called.

But Batman was faster. A little black streak flew past me and opened the door.

In the hallway stood a man I didn't recognize and a very young . . . girl? It was hard to tell because the child was disguised head to toe in a startlingly lifelike tree frog costume, complete with bulging red eyes and webbed feet.

“Wow” was all I could say.

“Lannie!” Wylie said. He'd emerged from under the table, with a lollipop in his mouth.

“Wywy!” croaked the tree frog.

The dad grinned. “I'm Thomas.” He held out a hand. “We live on the second floor. Lannie just turned two.”

“Julia.” We shook hands. “I guess the children know each other from the playroom.”

Thomas nodded. “Lannie is on the nanny circuit during the day.”

The little tree frog was now holding a small package of M&M's. And it was then that I realized what Jasper had done. He'd given her one of his own candies from our brief stint of trick-or-treating.

“Lannie, say thank you.”

“Tank you!”

“Nice meeting you, Julia.” And then they were gone.

But two more forms filled our doorway. Under piles of pink princess garb, I could make out the twins from 404. “Trick or treat!”

As quick as you please, Jasper handed each of them a treat, one of which was the gummy brain he'd been so excited about only ten minutes earlier.

“Jasper! You don't have to . . .”

“Thank you!” The twins bounded off. And Batman shut the door. I was fairly certain that those were Jasper's blue eyes looking out from the slits in his mask. But otherwise, I couldn't be sure it was him. My five-year-old saw candy so rarely that he'd never give it away.

In one motion I swept the Batman mask off his face. “Jasper Daniel Bailey. What the heck is going on? Why are you giving away your candy? And where are my muffets?”

The fact that Jasper had mask head—his hair standing straight up like a hedgehog's—only magnified the intensity of his gaze. “We can't
give
the muffets away!”

“Why not?”

“You need to
sell
them. You and Marta.”

“But . . .” So that was the problem? Really? If so, then I could find a way to make him understand that two dozen muffets were barely a drop in the muffet ocean. “Sweetie, these muffets are
extra
. It's really okay.” I got down on my knees and hugged him, breathing him in. He smelled of tear-free shampoo, and also of stretchy nylon.

“Do you think you'll have enough muffets soon? And you won't have to work as much?”

God! Jasper was the sort of kid who could put a dagger straight through your heart. He was genuinely unselfish—not the sort of boy to keep tabs on whose pancake was the biggest or who got to choose the bedtime story. He was a super, easygoing kid, and I was so lucky to have him. “Yes, Jasper. There will be enough muffets soon. And less work. But there's only one Halloween night a year. Let's do some more trick-or-treating before it's too late. And then we're going to eat pasta with Daddy and go to bed.”

“Okay.” He was silent then, hugging me tightly. I wondered if he believed me. “Mama?”

“Yes, Jasper.”

“Can I eat a piece of candy too? I still have one left.”

I looked over my shoulder at Wylie, who had sticky lollipop goop all over his lips and candy wrappers strewn around him. Yet still Jasper asked permission.

“Go ahead, buddy. You enjoy it.” Even if it turned out to be some really dreadful, neon-dyed dental nightmare, I promised myself I wouldn't say a word. “In fact, let's go and get you some more.”

Chapter 16

S
tanding in my office a week later, I sneezed for the five hundredth time.

Over the past few weeks, our tiny office space had come to resemble an overcrowded hay loft. I waited for Marta to heft one bale of hay out of our office door. I kicked another along behind her.

My allergies hadn't prevented me from choosing hay to be the cornerstone of our trade-show display. To make a table, we planned to stretch an old farmhouse door across the tops of the bales. It was pastoral and a little bit funky. Best of all, it was cheap.

After a week and a half of preparation, it was finally time to drag everything to the Javits Center for the show. With our signage under both of my arms, I followed Marta into the bull-pen area of the office suites.

“Have fun at the hoedown, ladies,” Derrick winked at me from behind his desk.

“Aren't you a funny guy,” Marta said over her shoulder, as she coaxed two hay bales toward the stairs.

“Keep those servers humming, Derrick,” I called, maneuvering our signs among the cubicles. “If the trade show pans out, we should get a lot of Web hits.”

He gave me a salute. Behind him, the room was packed with bodies. I had always imagined that the other denizens of Chelsea Sunshine Suites were slackers. I rarely saw them roll into the office before eleven in the morning. But now I knew the truth. They lived and worked in a different time zone than we did. Even though it was past nine in the evening, there were no empty chairs.

I sneezed again, fumbling for yet another tissue. “Hay is for horses.”

“
Chica
, what horses?” Marta asked.

“It's just a saying. When I was growing up, if I said ‘hey!' to my mother, she would respond that hay is for horses.”

Marta chomped her gum. “I don't get it.”

“I guess it isn't that funny.”

“Where
is
your mother anyway?” Marta asked.

“What do you mean? She's driving a golf cart around South Carolina and playing bridge. Same as always.” Gently, I set our pricey foam-backed posters against the stairwell wall.

“They don't visit so often, your parents. I'd think they'd want to be closer—pinch the boys' cheeks, see your business. Help out at your trade show.”

That would be the day. “Well, my mother thinks I've got it made. She actually made a crack that my home is ‘staffed.' ”

“You mean, because of Bonnie?”

“Yes. They visit about once a year. It's tight in our apartment. We wedge them into the boys' room, on an inflatable bed. And then Wylie bunks with us. And my father snores. Or they can pay three hundred bucks a night for a hotel. New York is tough that way.”

Marta was silent, maneuvering a hay bale down half a flight of stairs. Watching her, I remembered that Marta's own mother had left more comfortable quarters in Puerto Rico to share a tiny apartment with her daughter and little Carlos for a year—all so that Marta could start the classes at Zia Maria's and get off welfare. And then, right before I met her, Marta's mom had died.