The Chocolate Money (3 page)

I meet him at the very beginning of their affair. One night, Babs goes out to some charity ball. It’s for a cause she has no interest in: endangered animals or homeless people or something else that won’t result in a building being named after you no matter how much money you give. But she goes anyway, partly for the goody bags.
Love a good freebie,
she always says. When she goes to parties like these, she never takes a date—she
likes to keep her options open.

I am up in my room reading one of the Little House on the Prairie books. It’s a bit childish for me, but I love the way the whole family gets along. They live in a small cabin and buy almost everything they need at one store. I start to think maybe the problem between Babs and me is the aparthouse and that she almost never takes me with her when she goes shopping. Around eleven
P.M.,
I hear the elevator. I wasn’t expecting Babs back so early. Usually when she goes to a party, she hits the discos afterward.

I decide to go down and see her. I love it when Babs is dressed up. She’s so glamorous I can’t believe she is my mother. I was eating dinner when she left, and I missed my chance to say goodbye. As I walk down the stairs, I hear two people talking: Babs and some man. Their voices are sliding into each other’s, overlapping but not breaking into the other’s.

“A tour . . . ?” says Babs.

“Yes [laugh],” says the man.

“I’m not being a good hostess. I’ll get you a scotch . . .”

“. . . If I want it. No, thanks . . .”

“. . . That’s not what you came here for . . .”

“And?”

“And?”

They both laugh.

“Will you be spending the night, O hapless one? Rehash?”

“Yes, missed the train to Grass Woods.”

“Penalty for that. Where’s wifey? Are you being naughty?”

“She took the car, early. Headache.”

“Pity.”

“Maybe not . . .”

Laugh.

Laugh.

Silence.

When I finally get to the bottom of the staircase, Babs and the man she was talking to are kissing. He has his arms on her back and is running his fingers up and down, even grabbing her tush. His hands make a shushing noise as they travel over the fabric. Babs is wearing a floor-length blue sequined dress. I know it is Bill Blass because she once took me through her closet and taught me how to recognize all the designers. This man’s a few inches taller than Babs and is wearing a tuxedo. When they break away, in the few seconds before anyone says anything, I see the gold studs holding his shirt closed and know his tux is not a rental.

“Bettina, darling,” Babs says with enthusiasm, “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

There’s no awkwardness in her voice about what I have just seen. Babs never gets embarrassed. She’s probably happy I watched her kissing such a good-looking man.

“This is Mr. Morse,” Babs says. I approach him to shake his hand.

“Come on, Babby, enough with charm school. It’s Mack,” he says.

This makes me happy because when grownups tell you to call them by their first names, it feels like they are including you in stuff. Not that he would let me watch him kiss Babs on purpose, but maybe I will get to hang around when they have a nightcap.

“Nice to meet you, Mack,” I say, glad to put my hand into his warm palm.

“Mack” feels smooth coming out of my mouth, but then I look at Babs and it dries up, withers. She has not signed off on this transaction.

“Manners, Mack. Manners. She’s eleven, not forty.”

I’m not sure if I’m supposed to redo our introduction. But Mack is unfazed. He ignores Babs and winks at me.

“My son, Hailer, is eleven too. Great age.”

I don’t see what’s so great about it, but I’m stunned by how easy it is for him to forge ahead without Babs’s approval. No other grownup I have ever met would talk to me if it meant making Babs mad.

I nod my head. Want to see how far he will go.

“I have known your mother since before we were eleven. We went to Grass Woods Academy together. And my wife, Mags, and I bought the house your mother grew up in. You should come see it sometime.”

This whole conversation is getting weird. How can he make out with Babs and then talk about his wife? Maybe it has something to do with his looks. Even though Mack is a grownup, I am still in awe of how handsome he is. Eyes the color of the psychedelic blue popsicles you eat only in the summer, and tousled blondish-brown hair. He is about six-two, but his tallness is not intimidating like Babs’s is. It inspires salutation. If I threw my arms around his neck, I’m sure he wouldn’t push me away. He has probably had a whole lifetime of Getting Away with Things.

But I’m still surprised he would attempt this defiant behavior with Babs. Especially since he says he has known her so long. I look over at her. She has lit a cigarette and is ashing on the floor. Staring at him, deciding what to do next. She grabs his arm, pulls him to her, and kisses him on the back of the neck.

“Mack, let the kid go to bed. I know you want that scotch.”

He turns toward her and laughs.

“At your beck and call, madam . . .” He smiles at me and follows her into the living room. I watch as they leave.

Late, late that night, Babs comes into my room. When she wakes me, I think it is to brag about Mack and what a good time they had. Instead she says, “Bullet point: When you try and flirt with one of my beaux, you don’t look precocious, just stupid. Mack’s a gentleman so he will put up with your bullshit. But hands off. Just so you don’t make an ass of yourself. Got it?”

I start to explain, then leave it at a nod. She is already halfway out the door.

In theory, I’m supposed to make Babs more attractive, not less so. She has a home life and no ticking bio clock. She had her tubes tied right after she gave birth to me. Her doctor challenged her on this before delivery. Said he felt uncomfortable performing this radical procedure on such a young woman. But the chocolate money won out. Babs donated a million dollars to completely redo the maternity ward, and now her womb is permanently closed for business.

In late November, Babs and Mack have a fight. When I awake the morning after, I know immediately that something bad has happened. The mood of the aparthouse has shifted. The air has that closed-off, heavy feeling. I search my brain for things I might have said. Any small messes I might have made. This is ultimately a futile activity. If Babs wants to be mad at me, she can always make up a reason.

At dinner that night, she tells me what happened. It has nothing to do with me. Thank God.

“Bettina,” Babs says, “etiquette lesson. Mack is hopeless when it comes to gifts. Last night, I am on my hands and knees, waiting for Mack to come from behind and fuck me in the ass. He reaches for some K-Y from his briefcase. If he wants a smooth ride, he has to buy the gel himself. I don’t do supplies. When he is digging around for the K-Y, I see a box wrapped in glossy white paper with a little card stuck on it. First mistake. Never attach cards to big-deal gifts. I see the lavender bow and know he actually went to Guillard. Guillard! Predictable. Fucking crap. I know he is making an effort, so I decide to give him some credit. I say, ‘Someone has been shopping.’”

I have no idea what K-Y is, but I am certain by the way she keeps repeating
Fucking Guillard!,
fast and loud, that things did not go as she planned. The gift’s not for her.

“Mack says, ‘Yes, Mags’s birthday is coming up.’

“Thank God, I think. Really. No opening the stupid box and faking all of those thank-yous. Time to get back to what we were doing. But talking about the gift kills his erection. I decide to give him a breather and say, ‘I don’t give a fuck who it’s for. I just want to know what it is.’

“He says, ‘Tahitian pearl necklace.’ But I know he doesn’t have the dough to get anything good. Something that will piss other women off when Mags wears it. I bet the whole damn thing will fit in her fist. This is getting boring so I snap my fingers and say, ‘Enough!’

“He gets back on the bed. I decide to roll over and wrap my legs around his neck and squeeze tightly. He rubs the jelly on his dick and I glide it into my vagina. My ass is no longer available. Let him try that at home.”

The next day, Babs goes out and buys herself a pearl necklace with diamonds. She shows it to me the minute she gets back. The pearls are huge, like bits of gray hail, and the diamonds are like bright rays of a silver sun that would slice your neck if you put them on too quickly.

She lets me hold the necklace and tells me conspiratorially, “Now, these pearls are what you are supposed to get. A man should stick with a floral arrangement if they’re out of his league.”

The day after that, I go down for breakfast. Lily, our cook, is there, making me cinnamon oatmeal. Lily is my favorite person in the whole world. I love her even more than Brooke Shields. She is black, grew up in Tennessee, and always calls me “sugar.” Her hair is dark and streaked with gray. She’s heavy and her face isn’t pretty, but if I could choose another mother, Lily would be it. Lily’s worked for our family since Babs was eighteen. She’s the only person who isn’t afraid of Babs. Lily has Jesus.

I sit down at the empty table. Stacey’s allowed to sleep in since I can get myself dressed and ride the bus to school. Lily walks over to me and says, “Your mother is going to be gone for a few days. She went on a trip with Miss Tally to Paris.”

Tally has replaced Andie in the friend department. Thank goodness for this. Tally is pretty decent to me. She also has a daughter, Frances. We’re the same age, and she’s nice too.

Their trip is a surprise to me. Usually Babs talks about her trips way in advance, shows me maps and the restaurants in the Michelin guide she has circled. She told me once that she’s going to take me with her to London. On the Concorde. She hasn’t told me when, but I’m still pretty excited about it.

“When is she coming back, Lily?” I ask.

“Probably Friday or Saturday,” she answers as she clears my plate. This is special treatment; Babs always makes me do my own dishes. When she goes on a trip, it is a minivacation for me. Lily and I play kings’ corners and read Ann Landers in the paper. Stacey is also pretty nice to me. She lets me make ashtrays for her out of sparkles, glue, and old Mountain Dew cans. We even watch TV together.

No matter how much fun I have, I still miss Babs. Eagerly wait for her to come back.

Lily comes into my room that night to tuck me in. As soon as she leaves, I sneak into Babs’s bedroom. I love to touch her things. Pretend I’m her.

Babs is in her peach period. Her room is completely ripe with it. Peach doesn’t make sense as a Babs color. It is too muted. Evokes the offensive notion of fruit. But peach is more sophisticated than orange. It costs more money, and most women don’t think of it when they decorate.

Babs’s bedspread is silk. My fingers glide quickly when I trace patterns into it, usually my name. Her pillows and sheets are from Léron. A single set costs as much as a wedding dress. The linens all have beautiful designs: flora and fauna, ribbons with
Babs
sewn across them. Delilah, our maid, changes and irons them twice a week, but they still smell like Babs. I lie down on her bed and fall asleep almost instantly.

Someone wakes me up later that night. Before I can even orient myself, I am afraid. Instinct.

But this time, it isn’t Babs. It’s Mack. He rubs my head softly. Waits patiently for me to emerge from my sleep. Completely unlike Babs, who always rips me from my dreams whenever she comes to my room for late-night chats. Mack. My first time ever alone with him.

He comes to the aparthouse so often that the doormen just let him up. Without buzzing. I’m surprised I sleep through his arrival. Usually, I know immediately when he comes to see Babs. He focuses her energy. Directs it away from me and pulls it all into himself. Mack nights are the only ones when I’m able to fully relax. As long as Mack’s at the aparthouse, rolling about in her bed, Babs will not seek me out.

My eyes open, blink slowly. Mack touches me gingerly on the shoulder. I sit up. The room is dim, but not completely black. The light from the hallway spills in over the bed, breaking the dark into shapes. Mack leans into me and our noses are so close they almost touch. His breath hits my face. My eyes smart. He must have been out drinking.

Mack’s wearing a khaki trench coat. Carrying a briefcase. Blue suit, white dress shirt. His clothes look crisp and pressed despite the hour. Maybe this is a trick only people with money can do. Mack comes from the “old” kind. Anonymous. Unlike Babs’s, it has no title. Just old, as if it is sitting in an attic somewhere. Dusty but viable.

I look up at him. He’s more handsome than anyone in the movies. He runs his hand through his hair, messing it up a bit. A tic Babs finds annoying.
If he needs to occupy his hands, why not take up smoking, for fuck’s sake?
I like to watch him do it. It’s as if he knows he’s better-looking that anyone has a right to be and is trying to handicap himself. Allow others a shot at the game.

“Baby, where is Babs?” Mack begins.

I already know his voice intimately. I hear him ask Babs to make him drinks, hear the strained chords he sings when he and Babs sleep together. The fact that when he talks to me he now calls her “Babs” and not “your mother” like he did when we first met makes me sad. Now even he knows that Babs is always and only Babs. She never alters herself, even for me. Also, I don’t care much for the nickname “baby.” Coming from him, it is not intimate. Just a lazy word he throws in when he talks to girls he doesn’t owe anything to.

“She hasn’t returned my calls the past couple of days,” he continues. “I was worried.”

I want to tell him that Babs isn’t someone you worry about. Instead I say, “She’s not here.” I’m afraid if I give him too much information up front, he will leave.

“Where is she?” Mack asks.

“She’s mad at you,” I say, hoping this will buy me some more time.

“Why?”

“The other night. When you brought the present.”

“I don’t get it.”

The necklace episode has gone over his head, but I still have his attention.