Plan C (26 page)

“Did you shave your legs,” I say to Kitty, going back to the Helmut point. “It always means you’ll have sex.”

“But I
wanted
to have sex…” says Kitty. “Problem was I don’t remember much about it...”

“Let me guess,” I say. “The morning after, you found yourself casing the joint while having a ‘where did I leave my panties?’ moment.” I go into my best Kitty imitation. “I was drunk, in a
huge
fog, I don’t remember a thing…”

“Exactly!” says Kitty. “How did you know?”

“Was it really
huge
?” asks Bebe.

“Like I said,” says Kitty. “I don’t remember much.”

“Lucky for us,” I say, rearranging my dignity and then getting serious. “Listen girlfriend, Helmut is a phony. He’s got some major red flags going on. Your problem is you want to roll around naked in them.”

“I know what Helmut and I have,” says Kitty. “And Paris will be perfect! The sex will be to die for. I’ll be under his naked magnificence at the George V hotel. Smell his masculine scent bathing my breasts as I run my hands down his hairy back! Hear his moans of pleasure in my ears. I’m getting wet just thinking about him!”

“T.M.I,” says Bebe, blocking her ears.

“You know, Kitty,” I say, “Your vagina should be arrested!”

“My vagina?” says Kitty. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey,” I say, “maybe my vagina should be on probation for the occasional straying thought, but I’m not the one having an affair.”

“Look, the world sucks, but you’ve got to have sex,” says Kitty leaning on a large contemporary painting that’s not half bad.

“Yes. So what’s wrong with sex with your husband, Clive?”

“Lots!” says Kitty. “But there’s only one problem with Helmut.”

“Only one…” says Bebe.

“Yes. He won’t take me to dinner,” says Kitty. “He says it’s so hot between the two of us that if we go to a restaurant we’ll be completely transparent to everybody around us.”

“That is such a crock of shit way to say he’s ashamed of being seen with you in public,” I say. “He’s just using you for exposure. Of his art. Are you older than him? Maybe he really doesn’t want an older woman after all.”

“Libby, that’s a little drastic,” says Bebe.

“Look,” I say. “I’ve heard of men kicking and screaming all the way to the altar, but kicking and screaming all the way to a dinner table? Gimme a break.”

“Okay, that’s enough, girls,” says Bebe, walking to the window. “And Libby, you can’t leave an outgoing message that says, ‘Mommy’s in Paris, call back later,’ because it’s not nice.”

“Why not? My kids are grown,” I say. “It’s not like I’m Sylvia Plath. ‘Mommy will be back after she goes to clean the oven.’”

“Now that’s funny,” says Kitty.

“Cleaning the oven isn’t funny?” asks Bebe. “It’s way worse than doing windows.”

“Getting back to reality and Paris…” I say. “What’s the point of saving money anymore? For what? The world is falling apart. The banks are even broker than I am. So why not cash in young,
merci beaucoup
.”

“I think they call that a ‘hardship withdrawal,’” says Bebe.

“I call it my bucket list. And I’m starting to live it. Remember that movie? Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman? The list of things to do before you die? Living in Paris is numero uno. I mean, numero ‘un.’”

“Why do you want out so bad?” says Bebe.

“I don’t want out. I want
in,
” I say. “Into a life that matters. I want to live a life instead of just making a living. I told you before I don’t want to just be content…”

“You mean resigned,” says Kitty.

“What’s the worst that can happen if I take this risk and go?” I ask. “We have to accept uncertainty as a part of life anyway, right?”

“I don’t agree,” says Bebe. “It’s safer to put our dreams on hold.”

“Bull,” says Kitty. “While you’re waiting and working, life is passing you by.”

“Bebe, you’ve just started a new life raising a child,” I say. “I’ve finished raising mine. I’m tired. You and me - we’re emotionally twenty years apart on this. You took a risk to adopt Tamara and look at how fabulously that risk paid off. Now you have a daughter. It doesn’t matter what risk you take, as long as you take one. And maybe the best time is when things are bad. Follow your passion. Who knows…maybe I’ll end up rich.”

“You’re right, Libby. Maybe we should all live like we’re dying every day,” says Bebe.

“That’s pretty much sums up how I feel every morning anyway,” says Kitty.

“That’s why I need to rediscover myself,” I say. “Libby got lost along the way.” Kitty smiles up at me with a certain pride in her smile, like she’s getting a kick out of hearing the ole Libby shine through again.

Unlike Kitty, I’m not looking for a new man to make me a star. I’m looking for a new me. I stand up and gaze out the window. “I’m moving on. I’m going to Paris,” I say, and then twirling back around. “Who was it who said ‘I love a society where it’s an acceptable occupation to sit in a café and drink all day?’”

“I don’t know, but if he’s buying, I’m in,” says Kitty.

I sit down and rock back on the Aeron office chair, a contented smile coming over my face, looking to my left and right at the girls. I love my friends - Bebe the peacemaker and Kitty the hell-raiser – two completely different women who get me from completely different angles.

“Well, I won’t be drinking anytime soon,” says Bebe, lowering her head. “If Tamara smells any alcohol on my breath she freaks out and pushes the glass away from me.”

“I bet it has to do with her birth mother,” I say.

“Was her mother an alcoholic?” asks Kitty.

“No, I think some man in her life may have been. Maybe the mother’s boyfriend,” says Bebe.

“What about Bernie?” asks Kitty. “He’s a lush.”

“Funny you say that,” says Bebe. “Last week I went to pour a glass of cranberry juice from the plastic container on the fridge door and it smelled weird. It tasted even weirder. Bernie had spiked it with vodka!”

“The entire container?” asks Kitty.

“Yes!” says Bebe. “Explains why Tamara was acting so loopy all day long. She was drunk!”

“Oh my God, that’s child abuse!” says Kitty.

“Yes,” says Bebe. “And she keeps saying ‘Daddy don’t touch Mommy’ even when he’s being affectionate toward me.”

“Her crack whore mother definitely had a bad-news boyfriend somewhere along the line,” says Kitty. “But wait, aren’t you dumping Bernie?”

“Yes. As soon as possible. I just have to, for everybody’s sake,” says Bebe. “And then I can focus on my new daughter, who by the way has picked up a new habit. She thinks that we have to do everything on TV because the TV voice said, ‘Call this number on your screen now.’”

“It’s just the language barrier and the cultural difference,” I say.

“It’s just horrible,” says Bebe. “Sometimes I have to wait for her translator to just fill in what I can’t figure out.”

“How often does the translator come to help?” I ask.

“Three days a week,” says Bebe. “I have a list of things to ask her. I find myself counting the moments until she arrives.”

“Honey, fire the translator. All kids translate into nightmares!” says Kitty. “What else do you need to know.”

“Kitty! I say. “I mean Kat!”

“Whenever I reprimand Tamara she says, ‘I don’t think mommy likes me very much.’ But I have to keep setting boundaries,” says Bebe. “Submission and acceptance.”

“Sounds like last night with Helmut!” says Kitty with a sly smile. “I think? I just remember he was intense and irrational. Like his art.”

In a way I’m glad she can’t remember the sex with Helmut, because I can’t help but think of Clive. And he certainly doesn’t deserve this. Kitty’s making what could amount to the biggest mistake of her life, but then why aren’t I telling her? It’s like I’m escorting my friend into the lion’s den and then letting go of her hand.

Maybe that’s because I know there’s no convincing Kitty. She’ll have to live and learn, and I’ll have to be there to hear about it later. And then I’ll just have to bite my tongue and hold back from saying ‘I told you so’ because I’ll know that I didn’t.

“Helmut is just one of those friendly – um, what do you call them?” says Kitty.

“Friends with benefits?” says Bebe.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “Well if he’s a friend with benefits he’d best come with a dental plan.”

Bebe clears her throat. “Do you two
mind
? We’re not talking about Kitty and Helmut’s sexcapades,” she says. “This is serious. Raising a child is hard. Nobody warned me. I don’t know what I’m going to do during all these parental crises with the two of you gallivanting off to Paris…”

“C’mon, you’ll be fine,” I say. “I raised two teenagers with no help at all.”

“Yeah, well you knew what to do. No wonder my daughter adores you. You’re all she asks for.”

“Just go with your instincts, Bebe,” I say. “Your maternal side will kick in. And besides, remember, life is better when it’s tough, right?”

The two of them look at me like I’ve got a third head.

“I mean, c’mon. Remember in
The Third Man?
Orson Wells says, ‘In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias, they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo…”

“Yes! The Renaissance…” says Kitty.

“Leonardo diCaprio!” says Bebe.

“You mean Leonardo deVinci,” Kitty corrects her.

“And in Switzerland,” I say, “They had brotherly love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they produce?”

“The cuckoo clock,” says Kitty.

“Oh, I love Switzerland,” says Bebe. “The skiing!” She sinks back in her chair. “I have a lot to consider these days. Like who will care for Tamara if anything happens to me.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” snaps Kitty. “But just say that it does, I’m not going to be stuck with some kid.”

“Make a will if it makes you feel better,” I say. “It’s important to a parent to know things are in order.”

“Okay, you’re right, Libby,” says Bebe, lighting up.

“You’re doing fine, Bebe, really,” I say. “You’ve come so far…”

“And I’m expanding my horizons,” says Bebe. “Did I tell you that I joined a book club?” she says. “I’m reading a book a week.”

“Do they have pictures?” says Kitty.

“Look at that,” I say, nudging Kitty. “You’re doing new things and you’ll be a great mom while we’re gone.” The doorbell rings. “Perfect timing. And, besides, do you think I’d leave you without a solution?” I say, jumping from the chair.

“Is that her?” says Kitty, rising toward the door buzzer.

“Her who?” asks Bebe.

“Right on time,” I say.

“Her who?” asks Bebe.

“And Bebe, you’re going to love her!”

And then she’s there at the top of the staircase. “Yvette!” I say, giving her a double cheek kiss and helping her to remove her coat and scarf. She gives Kitty a hearty hand shake and then she’s in front of Bebe.

“You’re Yvette, from the shelter?” says Bebe. “Libby has told me so much about you.”

“Yes, and you must be Bebe,” says Yvette.

“Yvette usually deals with American women,” I say, “but I figured that the language of prostitute mother is universal.”

Yvette takes both of Bebe’s hands in hers. “Libby tells me you’re having a rough time with little Tamara ….”

This may be my good deed for the day, but a slipcover on Grandma’s sofa can’t wash away the stains, and in this case, that’s Tamara’s memory of her life
before
her new mommy, Bebe. And there’s something else. Tamara’s distant past may be have been full
of poverty and abuse. The strap marks on her left butt cheek are the evidence. I had silently observed them when I was undressing her one evening for her bath.

But her recent past had been all about straight-A report cards and success. Tamara had been the beautiful blonde
star
of the orphanage. Now everything she’d face would be a struggle – a new language, new social skills, the culture shock of America children with their American habits, and the list goes on.

It’s a long road to connecting mother and daughter, America and Kazakhstan, but in the end, I knew Bebe would be a much better human being for trying to save a child’s life. This was, after all, a very big deal - even bigger than that famous Neiman Marcus fantasy gift catalogue at Christmas: the one where you can buy then the “his” and “hers” Super G18 Beechcraft planes or twin submarines.

“Ouch,” says Kitty, banging her thumb with the hammer intended for the nail in the wooden art crate. “Why am I scrambling to put together all this work for all these glorified conventioneers? Goddamn it! I should be skiing, in Gstaad, with a gorgeous rich, unencumbered husband. Do you know I spent my morning schlepping to fucking Maspeth – that’s right, Maspeth – the outermost reaches of beautiful Queen! To pedal art like some beaten-down Bible Salesman. This is crazy!”

“That’s it!” says Bebe, “I’ll go to Gstaad. Just Tamara and me on a ski trip.”

“See?” says Kitty. “Do you even
know
where Gstaad is?”

“It’s in the mountains,” says Bebe.

“Forget it,” says Kitty. “Let’s go, you and me, Libby. While these two try to save little Orphan Annie, can we save an olive from a martini? We can talk about what it’s like
to be in the snowy Swiss Alps, where muscled blonde love gods look into our eyes and tell us they want to make…”

“Cuckoo clocks,” I say. “I can’t go anywhere tonight. I have to save a child, too. You know it’s my reading night for the children’s literacy group. And Yvette’s here, so they’re already one body short.”

“Honey,” says Kitty. “Let’s at least have a glass of wine first. It’s not like you’re going to be reading ‘War and Peace’ to five-year-olds.”

“Dr. Seuss,” I say.

“Exactly, Green Eggs and Ham, Sam I am – it makes you sound plastered
already
. The kids will never know the difference.”

“Kitty c’mon.”

“Don’t give me that look,” says Kitty. “I’m not going with you. Are you crazy? There’ll be kids there! You know I don’t do kids.”

*

The cramped room of tiny bookshelves, desks, chairs and little cubbies bears a lingering odor that’s just screaming for an open window. After several attempts at identifying the smell I come up with a subtle combination of musty socks and stale peanut butter sandwiches. Kitty smells it differently. “Dirty diaper pails.”