Play Dates (24 page)

“This is so adorable, Claire!” June Miller, the mother of Zoë’s friends April and May, is one of the nicer moms. At least she’s pretty normal. I suppose what I mean by that is that she hasn’t treated me any differently from the time when Scott and I were married and financially comfortable, to nowadays. “I love what PLAY DATES

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you’ve done with the decorations. I wish I had the nerve,” she whispers, topping off her eggnog with a generous shot of brandy.

“This isn’t about nerve,” I assure her.

“Oh, you know, everyone spends
so
much money these days on birthday parties, I always feel I need to do the same, just to compete.” Of course, those had been my own sentiments until recently. June looks up when she hears my door open again. I’ve rigged a string of jingle bells from the peephole latch, so each guest’s entrance is announced like the coming of Santa. “And speaking of everyone . . .” She raises her glass toward the doorway. Nina Osborne and Jennifer Silver-Katz have arrived more or less in tandem with their respective progeny in tow. Jennifer gives me an air kiss and in hushed tones assures her older daughter Tennyson (whom we invited because Zoë went to Tennyson’s party last summer—who could forget the Shetland ponies and the screening room?) that this isn’t “weird,” and she should just stuff her ten-year-old opinions and “pretend to have a good time.” When Tennyson balks, Jennifer tells her, “Then think of it this way: You’ll have something to discuss with your therapist on Thursday.”

Ouch. I dread the day when Jennifer decides it’s time to sit the girl down for the serious sex talk.

“I really wondered if you were going to pull it off,” Jennifer says, bypassing the eggnog and going directly for the hard stuff, applying to Scott, who is tending bar.

“I had my doubts, too.” Nina chimes in. She’s a nearly unnatural shade of bronze. It’s the kind of color one acquires through genuine exposure to sunlight at someplace very expensive like St. Tropez or Cabo San Lucas, and then touches up at Completely Bare. “You have a lot of empty space, though, so you can manage the crowd. I’d have my heart in my mouth if it were me. I can’t imagine fifty or sixty people traipsing all over the place, scuffing up my hardwood and soiling my upholstery. But

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I guess you don’t really have to worry about things getting ruined. How lucky! I don’t see much that anyone could damage.”

I smile malevolently. “Oh, I’m sure your son will find a way to make his mark. He’s so resourceful.”

“He gets that from me,” Nina replies with just as much venom. She looks around the living room and peers into the dining gallery where the floor is all set for a picnic, but with paper cloths, pointed hats, loot bags, and colorful, curlicued blowers. “It certainly is quite . . .
retro
,” she says.

“Oh, look!” A mother I have never met, a blonde woman who points to an adorable Asian girl and introduces herself as “Mei-Li’s mom,” is fascinated by one of the party games. “A pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey! I didn’t know they still made those. The last time I saw anything like this was at a house party in the Hamptons where we played a sort of . . . adult . . . version. It was called

‘put the you-know-what in the you-know-where.’ Well, that wasn’t the real name, but we
are
in mixed company. And,” she giggles, “there was no single right answer! Almost everybody went home a winner.” She winks and I feel like I need another shower.

I thought I knew all of Zoë’s friends’ parents. I’m beginning to wonder,
who
are
these people
?

My daughter seems to be having the time of her life. I’m tremendously relieved, and glad that the party is coming off so well. Her classmates were pretty hard on her when they found out her birthday would be celebrated at home and not somewhere more customary—like Disney World. But the kids themselves do appreciate the simpler things when they’re presented to them, and they’re all having fun. Even Scott is behaving in an exemplary fashion. At the moment, he’s got twenty-five of the pint-sized guests playing duck, duck, goose.

I notice a serious-looking little child leaning against my father, who is now seated in an armchair reading a book while all around him, chaos reigns. I go over to speak with the boy in an PLAY DATES

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effort to draw him into the game, but he’s not interested. His name is Bram and he’s got an awkward, owlish quality that makes him seem two decades older. I hear him tell my father that he wrote a poem for Zoë for her birthday too, but he would never want to read it out loud. “You could put
snakes
in my bed and I wouldn’t do it!” he insists. I’m charmed that there’s a little boy who has a crush on her and who apparently feels so deeply that he’s poured his heart out in, I assume, rhyme. Yet, I’ve never met this child before today. He’s here because she had to invite the entire class. For all his seven-year-old angst, Bram evidently isn’t on my daughter’s radar screen. Not like—

“Zoë!” The girl of the hour has dragged Xander Osborne under the mistletoe and is kissing him fully on the lips. Surprisingly, he’s not objecting; not tossing something in her face, not climbing a tree to get away from her. This does not bode well.

But . . . can I admonish her? Them? I was the one who hung the mistletoe and I know perfectly well what the customs are.

“You know what?” Mia says, suddenly sailing over. “Mistletoe gets attached to tree branches by bird poop. It’s a
parasite
, which is as bad as a weed. So, you sure you still want to keep that up?” she adds, referring to the lip lock.

“No way!” Xander says, jumping backwards. He’s wearing a Jeremy Shockey football Giants jersey. If I recall correctly, this is a player who gets his name in the news through his much-publicized altercations, both verbal and physical, with colleagues and coaches.

“Way,” says Mia.

Zoë makes a face. “Yuck!” she exclaims.

Xander wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. I’m not sure what that has to do with Mia’s need to share a stunning tid-bit of scientific knowledge, but I know I’ll never look at mistletoe the same way again.

“I’m very surprised at his behavior,” Nina says, and for once I concur. “He hates girls these days. He was on a play date re-

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cently with Drew Rockefeller and he snapped off the heads of her Barbies. Only the blonde ones, actually.” I rake my hand through my own golden hair, remember Nina’s story about the fate of her former
au pair
, and look at my dark-haired sister, who has been eavesdropping. Mia exhales, relieved. She’s long over Robert Osborne, anyway. At least she certainly acts like it.

This afternoon, she’s been flirting up a storm with Gideon Rathbone, the “veddy British” daddy of Zoë’s ballet classmate, pudgy little rosy-cheeked Chauncey. I’m so busy playing hostess and cruise director that I haven’t had too much of a chance to watch them, so I can’t tell whether he’s suffering her atten-tions with the utmost politeness, being English, or whether he fancies her.

Suddenly, there’s a shriek from the living room. Ashley runs over to her mother, who is busy self-medicating near the bar cart. “He pulled my hair!” she yowls, pointing to Xander. Duck, duck, goose has become something of a melee. I think that’s my cue to serve lunch.

The parents wrangle their respective kids and soon they are sitting on the floor at the designated place settings with a minimum of territorial squirming and fighting over preferred seat-ing assignments. Xander is to Zoë’s right. Ashley is to her left.

At the other end of the room, little Bram, who is so far away because I’d never really heard of him, looks forlornly northward toward the guest of honor. Something in me wants to warn the poor bespectacled boy that it never gets any better, no matter how old you are.

Tulia’s macaroni salad is pronounced “weird” by a few of the kids, but essentially it’s a hit. Apart from Xander acting like a hellion, which I expect he does no matter where or when, the children have really embraced the July-in-Christmas concept and are having a good time. I feel very relieved for Zoë. However, I can sense, as well as see, some of the parents—only the moms, really—wearing their disapproval like a pashmina. I wish PLAY DATES

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I could just walk up to a couple of them and tell them to go screw themselves, but I hate ugly scenes, even though I’ve been caught up in more than a few of them in my lifetime.

Just before it’s time for cake, my father commands center stage. He tells the guests that this is a tradition in our family and there are a couple of exclamations, like, “Oh, yeah, he did that last year, too.” The kids aren’t as impressed. Poem-shmoem.

Some of
them
probably get a birthday pony.

My father clears his throat and holds up his hands for silence, a gesture that may be effective among the literary set, but not with this crowd, particularly since they are embarking on a major sugar high. Finally, we get the room quiet enough to hear one’s thoughts above the din, and Brendan begins.

For My Only Grandchild On Her Seventh Birthday

Now that you are turning seven,

And the world has more to offer,

Treat each yummy bite of heaven

Like a treasure for your coffer.

Let each day be an extra present,
Think of it a brand new toy,

You’ll find each fresh adventure pleasant
Brimming with untrammeled joy.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he says, kissing Zoë on the top of her head. She says thank you and applauds him, which gets the other kids, and then their parents, clapping, too. Later, Zoë will be asking us what some of the words mean, and being a poet’s granddaughter, she’ll regard each definition as a gift. Words, to Zoë, are like Jelly Bellies. You can never have too many.

Finally, it’s time for cake and watermelon. There are gasps of delight from more than two dozen jaded second graders when

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they see the masterpiece that Happy Chef has created. Zoë’s mermaid—like a fishtailed Godiva riding a red-nosed reindeer, is quite a cake. It must have taken Charles several hours to put the whole thing together and decorate it and it’s his gift to us. I turn out the lights, everybody sings, mostly on key, and Zoë closes her eyes for a wish. I find myself tearing up and I clutch my mother’s hand. Zoë extinguishes all seven candles plus one to grow on in a single breath, then opens her eyes and surveys the results. She beams, utterly satisfied, as we cut the cake and enlist the parents to pass out the slices.

The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur. Mia’s Twister game results in much giggling, although there are a few smushed fingers and toes. Pin the Tail on the Donkey is received as a tremendous novelty; and I derive great satisfaction out of hearing the overindulged sons and daughters of the privileged, pushy, and powerful beg their mothers and fathers to have the game at
their
next birthday party. Bewildered little Bram ends up winning that one, garnering a Brooklyn Cyclones baseball autographed by manager Tim Teufel, a former Met who played second base for the World Series Championship team in 1986.

I can tell that the other boys—and all the dads in the room, except for mine—are jealous. Secretly I’m pleased that the lovestruck little bookworm got the biggest treat of the day.

June Miller sidles over to me, a smidge tipsy. “Zoë’s party is delightful,” she whispers, “but—and I’m speaking as a friend—

you really shouldn’t award prizes when the kids win a party game. It’s not nice. See?” She points discreetly to a sore loser named Sheraton Sheridan, a little girl who is none-too-discreetly bawling her head off, having just learned the hard lesson that some things in life aren’t fair.

At least my homespun goody bags are well received. Despite Sheraton’s tearful tantrum, neither she, nor anyone else, is going home empty-handed. The females of all ages pronounce my jewelry designs “fun.” They immediately don their bangles and PLAY DATES

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show off for one another, indulging in the occasional trade. I don’t mind as long as everyone is happy.

At long last, the madding crowd disperses, my family helps with the cleanup, Zoë falls asleep on the couch, and I would give my last nickel for a foot massage.

And then there were two.

“Well, happy birthday, Z.”

“Thank you, Mommy.” Zoë’s got her head in my lap. I’m

stroking her hair, which feels soft as cornsilk.

“You liked your party?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, her voice sleepy. “At first I was afraid it wasn’t going to be fun, but it was. It was
really
fun. I know that Xander was bad, but I still like him.”

“Obviously.” I expect her to respond, but she doesn’t. “I mean, you kissed him under the mistletoe. You didn’t kiss anyone else under the mistletoe.”

“I know. He’s the only one I wanted to give a kiss to.”

“You don’t like Bram? He seems very nice.”

Zoë scrunches up her face. “Yuck!”

Poor Bram.

Chapter 12

Dear Diary:

My hand hurts a little bit, but it’s okay because I had a play date
with Xander today. His nanny came to meet him and me at
school and we went back to his house. His nanny is very nice but
she is very funny-looking, too. She has black hair and when she
took her coat off she was wearing a short-sleeved shirt so I saw
that her arms were really hairy and she has hair over her lips like
a chocolate milk mustache and on the sides of her cheeks near her
ears. It was hard not to look at her a lot. Xander calls her fuzzy
face but her real name is Frida. I told him I thought he was being
mean to her.

Frida gave us sushi for a snack. I think the seaweed is icky
so I just ate the rice off of it with my fingers. Then we went to
play with Xander’s Legos. He has more Legos than I have ever
seen. I said I wanted to build a castle so we made the biggest
one we could but then Xander put his little army men on the
top of it and they have guns and he said they were going to
shoot anybody who tried to come into the castle and if anybody
tried to go outside except the king, the army men would shoot
them, too.