The Gift Bag Chronicles (31 page)

I cross Vineland, head down Moorpark, turn in to the club’s entrance, and pull up to the bored-looking guy in the guardhouse.

“Scrabble,” I say, and am waved through. I drive forward into the parking lot — pretty empty, not a good sign — and pull in to a space. In the dark, I see a few other latecomers straggling toward the door. No one seems in much of a hurry except me. I pass a huge Mercedes and catch a whiff of pot. Scrabble, stoned? That might be interesting. Oh, shit. In all the excitement, I realize I forgot to call Steven back and get the scoop on Oscar and the Chinese Olympian. Oh well, too late now. I’ll just have to reach Steven in the morning.

I yank open the club’s front door, catch a blast of the cool,
stale air, smelling of mildew, antiseptic, and roasting turkey, and head down the hall. Same old plaid carpet and same old black-and-white framed shots lining the walls. Winners of the club’s golf and tennis matches since time began. I round the corner, the turkey smell grows stronger, and catch sight of my student council presidents, or two of them at least, manning the obligatory check-in table.

“Okay, thank you and enjoy the game,” Maurine says, beaming up at a pair of guests, an Oscar-winning screenwriter and his wife. Jill is next to her, going over the list of names.

“How’s it going?” I say, sliding in next to them.

“Great,” Maurine says. “I actually think we have fewer no-shows this year.”

“It’s okay,” Jill says, looking up from the list. “Where’ve you been? A hot date?”

“No,”
I say. “Why? Do I look like I had a hot date?”

“You look a little frazzled, and Oscar said you might be late.”

“Oscar said I might be late?” I say, startled. Why would Oscar be saying anything about my arrival time?

“The meeting with Patrice,” adds Maurine. “He said it might go late.”

“That was hours ago,” I say, totally mystified at Oscar’s sudden interest.

I bend over Jill to scan the list. She’s right, only about half the guests are actually here. Still, if 75 percent of invitees actually sent contributions to the charity along with their regrets, Barry, or rather Barb, should go home happy. “Well, so far so good, although maybe we’ll have a few extra gift bags given these numbers,” I say, looking up. “Where are the bags, by the way?”

“Allie’s got them shoved in some closet somewhere,” Jill says, not looking up. “She’ll move them out here to the table once the game gets going because” — she pauses and looks up — “as we know from experience, some people sneak out after the first
round, and we wouldn’t want them to miss getting their travel Scrabble game, soundtrack CD from Barry’s new movie, and the most up-to-date brochure on the charity, would we?”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

I’m just turning back to the list when I hear a familiar voice. “Well, good to see you finally joined us, Alex.”

I look up. Barb, in tweed trousers, her long blond hair swept up into a ponytail — see, we’re all just having fun tonight! — clutching the
OED
. The abridged version. Still, it’s as bulky as a toaster.

“Hey,” I say, leaning toward her for the requisite air hug, trying to avoid colliding with the dictionary. “Looks like a good turnout this year.”

“Hmm,” she says, reaching past Jill to scan the list. “Could be better. By the way, when is the
Variety
photographer getting here?”

“Variety
photographer?” I say. In all the years we’ve handled the tournament, Barry’s never once asked for any publicity. Like most private Hollywood parties, as the host, he wants industry buzz, a good turnout, but no overt publicity.

“Yes. The
Variety
photographer,” she says, looking up at me, her eyes narrowing. “Barry and I agreed this year we needed to promote the tournament. For the good of the charity.”

“Well, that was never conveyed to us,” I say, racking my brain. I look over at Jill and Maurine, who are both, bless them, shaking their heads.

“Ah, yes it was,” Barb says, looking from me to them and back again. “Barry told me he left that request with your office. Weeks ago.”

Maybe he had. I mean, it’s not unthinkable that Caitlin would have screwed that up. Written down “Call Barry re: party” and left it at that. Still, I would have called him back. I would have followed up even without Caitlin spelling it out in the message. He and I would have had an actual conversation about inviting press.

“Barb, I apologize if that was the case, but in all our conversations, Barry never once mentioned it,” I say, dropping my voice as
I catch sight of a gaggle of latecomers heading down the hall. Before Barb can answer, I hear a familiar voice over my shoulder.

“Hey, Alex, next time a little advance notice would be nice.”

I turn. Howard Finnegan from
Variety
. Okay, this is very strange. Even with Mercury flying around the heavens. “Hey,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand. “Thanks for making it. Especially since we didn’t actually have you down.”

“Thank God, someone invited him,” Barb hisses, reaching past me. “Howard, great to see you,” she says, grabbing him by the arm. “Come on inside. I think there’re several people here you’ll recognize.”

Barb sweeps off with her prize catch.

“Okay, what just happened?” I say, turning to the girls.

“Search me,” Jill says, bent over the list again. “I’m still trying to figure out who’s actually cut checks for the charity and who hasn’t.”

“At least Barb’s happy,” Maurine says with a shrug. “That’s what counts.”

“What the hell is Howard Finnegan doing here?”

We all turn. Allie, barreling out of the banquet hall, her legs moving fast despite her three-inch stilettos. “I mean, I thought we weren’t doing press on this?” she says, pulling up.

“We don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “None of us invited him, but Barb insists Barry told us they wanted press. Now, as if by magic, he’s here. Maybe Barry invited him and forgot to tell us.”

“Those trophy wives are all the same,” Allie says, glancing over her shoulder. “They just want their pictures in the trades.”

“Oh, come on, Barb’s not that bad,” I say. “Not compared to some of them.”

“You watch. She’ll be in Monday’s edition, between two Oscar winners, clutching the
OED
.”

“Well, as long as she’s happy,” I say, catching sight of Barry, with both kids in tow — what are the kids doing here? — being waylaid by Barb and Howard. “Look,” I say, turning back to Allie.
“Stay with Howard and Barb. I’m going to talk to Barry and find out what’s going on.”

Allie and I head into the hall. A few of the guests have already taken their places at the game tables, but most of the crowd is still jammed around the bar. Snippets of conversation float by. The usual pre-award industry chatter, the upcoming holiday releases. Oscar handicapping.

“Hey, Alex, there you are.”

I turn. Barry, heading my way, his daughter, Sophie, in one arm, his other clutching his son, Jonah. “Hey,” he says, bending down, awkwardly, to give me a kiss on my cheek.

“Hey there, I was just looking for you,” I say, reaching up to help hold Sophie upright on his shoulder.

“Aww,”
she squeals, falling backward, grabbing my head and a hunk of my hair.

“Hey, honey, now don’t hurt Daddy’s friends,” Barry says, trying to reel her in. “You remember Alex. She’s one of Daddy’s best friends. And we don’t hurt Daddy’s friends, do we?”

“That’s okay,” I say, trying to disentangle my hair from Sophie’s grip, which I realize is completely sticky.

“Sorry,” Barry says with a grimace. “She just spilled her juice, and Anna isn’t here yet.”

“Anna?” I say, still working on my hair.

“Our nanny. Barb wanted to bring the kids this year. Get them used to the idea of philanthropy. But Anna’s supposed to take them home now, except she’s not here yet.”

“
Daddy
, you said we were going to have turkey,” Jonah says, pulling on Barry’s arm. “When are we having turkey? I’m tired of
waiting.”

“Barry,” I say, still trying to break free from Sophie’s grip. “I wanted to ask you about Howard Finnegan, if you invited —”

“Hey there, Barry.”

We both turn. Rob Reiner and his wife cruise by.

“Hey, great to see you,” Barry says, trying to extricate a hand in order to shake Rob’s.

“Daddy,”
Jonah yowls, hanging on harder.
“You said!”

“Rob, let me catch up with you in a minute,” Barry says, bending over Jonah. “I want to talk to you about a script I’ve got in the pipeline.”

Rob smiles, moves off, and Barry turns back to me. “Hey, Alex, I hate to ask, but can you take the kids? I mean, just until Anna gets here,” he says, passing Sophie over to my shoulder.

Like I have any choice.

“Sure,” I say, reaching out for her.

“Nooooooo,”
Sophie screams, letting go of my hair to flail after her father.

“Honey, go with Alex,” Barry says, bending down to dislodge Jonah’s hand. “Go with Alex and she’ll give you turkey.”

“Nooo!”
Jonah says, backing away from me.

“Daddy has to work now,” Barry says, shooting me a sorry-I-owe-you grimace. “Go with Alex and she’ll take care of you.”

Barry melts into the crowd, leaving me saddled up with the Katzenjammer Kids.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” I chirp, looking from Sophie to Jonah. From the murderous cast of their eyes, they are two volcanoes about to explode. Better move fast if I want to avoid a scene. “Okay, we’re going to the kitchen now. Let’s see what they’ve got for you guys,” I say, grabbing Jonah’s hand and turning for the back of the hall. I push into the crowd, Sophie a squirming deadweight on my shoulder and Jonah, pulling on my other arm, doing his best imitation of a ship’s anchor.

No one even glances in my direction as we lumber past. I’ve never met Anna, but she has my deepest respect and sympathy.

I round the bar. “Looks like you could use some help,” one of the bartenders says, shooting me a smile. I give him a pained smile back. We servants like to stick together.

“Okay, here we are,” I say, pulling up to the kitchen door. With both my hands otherwise occupied, I have no choice but to lower my head and butt open the swinging door.
“Oww!”
Jonah says when the door still manages to whack him on the arm.

“Sorry,” I say, pulling us forward. Inside it’s like an E.R. of food prep, a blaze of light and heat and cooking smells and some half dozen cooks yelling commands in Spanish and Spanglish.
Hoy, chica. You better move your muy poquito ass before I move it for you!
Okay, so perhaps this isn’t the kid-friendly environment I was hoping for. I look around for a place to safely deposit the kids, but every counter is covered with plates, dishes, trays. Sophie starts to squirm against my shoulder, mewling like a cat trying to escape my grip. “Okay, Sophie, we’re going to get you —” I say, but Jonah drowns me out. “I don’t want to eat
here!”
he screams, yanking on my arm. “Where’s Daddy? He’s supposed to eat with me.”

“Hey!”

I whirl around. Or as much as one can whirl when anchored by eighty pounds of squalling flesh. Hot Fat, in a red bandanna and white chef’s jacket, sharpening a huge carving knife, glaring in my direction. What’s
he
doing here? I thought Oscar was using the club’s catering staff.

“Oh, hey,” I say, nodding. “Good to see you again, Hot Fat.”

“Don’t give me none of that ‘Good to see you, Hot Fat,’” he says. “Not when you got kids in my kitchen. I don’t allow no kids in my kitchen.”

Perhaps now is not the best moment to remind him that it’s not, technically, his kitchen. That tonight, if anything, the kitchen belongs to the parents of these two kids.

“Okay, look, we’re not staying,” I say, yanking Jonah out of the path of one of the line cooks racing by with a huge tray of salads. “I just need to get—”

“You need to get them out of here,” he says, advancing toward me. “Last time I saw you, I had goats all over my kitchen. Now
you be dragging kids in here? Uh-uh,” he says, shaking his head. “You and Hot Fat are no good together.”

Could I be on a collision course with one more male today?

“Okay, look, those goats were not my fault,” I sputter, pointlessly, given that, in all the excitement, Sophie has erupted into screams that are only partially drowned out by Jonah’s wailing.

“As John Lithgow once said to Debra Winger, ‘And you’re so good with them.’”

I whip around. Oscar. In a black sport jacket and wool polo shirt. Talk about a rock and a hard place. It takes me about one second to choose the hard place.

“Yeah, I know,” I say over Sophie’s screams. “Barry dumped them on me because the nanny’s not here yet and they’re starving, and obviously” — I pause, nodding in Hot Fat’s direction — “I’m about as welcome as Typhoid Mary in here.”

“Well, Mary, let’s start with these,” Oscar says, grabbing two rolls from a basket on the counter and handing one to Jonah and another to Sophie, who immediately stops screaming and starts to gum the roll. “Thus temporarily sated,” he says, turning back to me. “Take them out to the patio. I got some tables set up under the heaters, but no one’s out there yet.”

“Yeah, but I need to give them something more to eat.”

“Yeah, I’ll bring it,” he says, turning me toward the door. “Go on and I’ll meet you out there in a second.”

Oscar holds the door open as I stagger through, dragging Jonah, who is engrossed in his roll now. “How do you know what they’ll eat?” I say, turning back.

“You think you’re the only one who’s good with kids?” he says. “I’ll figure it out. Go on. I’ll be right there.”

I press back through the crowd, which is beginning to drift toward the game tables. Across the room, I catch sight of Barry deep in conversation with Rob. Apparently he’s forgotten about the kids and me. God only knows where the nanny is.

“Oh, Alex, thank God you’ve got the kids.” I turn. Barb, whizzing by with Howard Finnegan still in tow. “I was just wondering where they’d gone to.”

“Mommeee,”
Sophie squeals, holding out her roll.