The Way Life Should Be (5 page)

When it’s quiet like this, I can pick up the faint mildewy smell that is somehow disguised by workaday clatter. And it’s dark—I haven’t turned on the overhead halogen spots that dot the basement hallway like an orderly lineup of stars, fostering the illusion that all of us down here don’t spend our days like moles.

Entering my office, I shake out my soggy umbrella and prop it against the wall. Rain fell as I left my apartment this morning, the kind of thin, relentless spray that makes you look twice when you’re checking out the window—perhaps it’s only mist?—until you look down at the street and see the peppered puddles, hear the
shussh
of taxis. Rainy days remind me of Nonna, and I am guiltily aware that lately I have been out of touch.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I’ll go out and see her.

I haven’t spoken to Lindsay lately, either. In the past couple of weeks, since I got back from Boston, we’ve only talked on the phone twice. She knows I’ve been swamped with planning the gala. “Call me when you have time; I’ll be here,” she said. The truth is, I’ve been kind of avoiding her. Ever since our conversation about MaineCatch I’ve been reluctant to talk about him, maybe afraid to jinx it, maybe not wanting to invite her opinion.
I haven’t even told her about our rendezvous in Boston.

Well, when this event is over, we’ll go out to dinner, and I’ll tell her everything.

I turn on the overhead light and my desk lamp and touch my keyboard to wake up the computer. Then I check the answering machine. There’s a barely intelligible message from Frank, the fire-eater—something about how he hasn’t spoken to the juggler, his second cousin, in three years, and doesn’t want to be anywhere near him at the gig. Frank says he won’t show up unless I can guarantee he won’t have to, as he intones dramatically, “set eyes on that fuck for as long as I live.”

I play the message twice to get the gist of it, then try to think for a moment. I had a feeling this guy Frank was going to be a problem. The first time I spoke with him he sounded a bit unstable—the demands, the flash of his pride. Perhaps I should have spent more time trying to find someone else. But really, what kind of person is attracted to fire-eating in the first place? Maybe the personality is a prerequisite for the job.

I call the number he left on the message. “Frank the fire-eater,” his recorded voice barks. “State your need.” I tell the machine I had not been aware that the juggler was Frank’s cousin, but I’ll do what I can to keep them apart; they’re scheduled to perform at staggered intervals, so it shouldn’t be a problem. “I look forward to seeing you tonight,” I say. “You’re going to be the highlight of the show.”

There’s a vast checklist to go over. Five hundred different things could go wrong today, and any one of them would be a mess. As I go online to confirm flower delivery at twelve thirty and catering at four, I see that I have two messages from MaineCatch, each a haiku:

The big day is here

Circus guys are everywhere

But where’s the sailboat?

Who else writes haiku

It’s pretty unique I guess

You won’t forget me!

Okay, they are really dumb. But they make me smile. Suddenly I understand how a mother can love a child who is, objectively, ugly. The impulse is not logical. It is driven by something more powerful than reason.

Since Boston, I have been in an altered state. I replay scenes from our brief time together in my mind. Like a forensic pathologist reconstructing a face from a disintegrating skull, I have extrapolated enough from our few hours together to construct a real relationship. I am like those women in wartime who become pen pals with random servicemen and end up falling head over heels with the slant of a pen, the fantasy of a soul mate, the glamorous thrill of the unknown.

At five o’clock
I am overseeing the placement of tables in the main gallery, seating chart in hand. My dress for tonight—a floor-length black sheath, appropriate but unassuming, hangs on the back of my office door in a dry-cleaning bag, along with pearls and pumps. Mary Quince and most of the others have gone home to get ready, but I’m here for the duration.

When the tables are set up, I walk around the room distributing centerpieces. These centerpieces, twenty different topiaries, miniature ivy sculpted onto two-foot-tall wire forms, represent hours of planning. Each one is an astonishingly accurate repro
duction of one or two of Zoë Devereux’s fantastical figures from the paintings that hang on the walls around the gallery.

The performers begin to trickle in around six. Marcus and Milo, the floor acrobats, arrive first. Ten minutes later, Domingo, the juggler, shows up. “Just so you know,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual, “your cousin Frank is performing tonight.”

“What?” he says sharply in a nasal lilt. “Here?”

I nod, unsure of how much to reveal. Does Domingo know that Frank hates his guts?

“Never told me,” he says. “Motherfucker.”

Apparently he knows. “Look, you won’t be performing together,” I tell him. “You’re scheduled to go on at different times, so you don’t even have to see each other if you don’t want to.”

As I’m talking to Domingo, Mary Quince arrives, bangled and baubled and swathed in a musky scent. She exclaims, “Off now! Get beautiful and get back here soon. Are we under control?”

Looking around, I do a last-minute check: topiaries, table settings, Tanqueray Ten. The musicians are setting up near one of the bars. All the performers are here except the fire-eater. Where is he?

Relax. Deep breath.

“All set,” I inform Mary Quince, and skitter off to change.

CHAPTER 5

From my office I hear the blare of trumpets. My watch says 7:18
P.M., twelve minutes before the gala officially starts, and I’m in my bra and Spanx, trying to fasten my necklace. The clasp secured, I throw on my dress, yanking the zipper up and tugging the hem down as I race through the hall. On my way up the stairs, I frantically apply lipstick, like a bank robber trying to change identity mid-escape. When I reach the main gallery, the horns are quiet and the band has segued into precisely the whimsical, vaguely sinister music I requested.

White-haired ladies in sequins and hunched gentlemen in tuxes are tottering to their seats—old old money tends to come early and leave early. In another hour the younger set will begin to arrive. Marrieds-with-children inevitably underestimate how long it will take to get out the door, and twentysomethings don’t really care; they come with their friends and could be anywhere. They’ll go to a club afterward anyway.

With a practiced eye, I survey the scene. The magician and juggler are already at work, having started early so patrons would feel they were entering an ongoing act. In a far corner of the room, Domingo, the juggler, balances a paintbrush on his nose while keeping aloft a spinning array of paint tubes, either as an homage to the artist or a nice coincidence. A few feet
away, a jester-magician performs a pantomime number with a dove. Her exaggerated clown emotions—happy! sad! puzzled! confused!—are freaking people out a little. One man practically falls backward over a chair in response to her wink.

As the evening unfolds, the guests greet each other and point to the performers, enjoying the spectacle. The juggler juggles champagne flutes; the magician pulls a black rabbit out of a top hat. A waiter glides by with a tray of sliver-thin crepes filled with duck and green onion, and I pop one in my mouth. It melts on my tongue. The music is festive without being obtrusive. The tables are elegant. I glance over at Mary Quince and catch her eye. She gives me a covert thumbs-up.

Mary Quince doesn’t give thumbs-ups.

My shoulders drop with relief. It appears that I have pulled it off.

Suddenly, I’m aware of a small commotion at the entrance. Turning toward the raised voices, I see security guards with their hands up, pushing someone back. And then I see him: a curly-haired man dressed in black tights and a red-and-black-striped shirt, gesticulating wildly. With a start I realize that he must be the fire-eater.

As I hurry closer, I hear him insisting, “Let me through!”

“What is happening here?” I ask calmly.

“Do you know this man?” asks one of the guards.

“Are you Frank?”

The fire-eater sighs dramatically. “Obviously, I am Frank,” he retorts.

I look at my watch. “You’re an hour late.” The guards eye him suspiciously. “This is one of the performers. He’s supposed to go on in five minutes.”

Grudgingly, the security guards step aside. One says, “Let us know if there’s a problem.”

Frank follows me toward the dressing room, muttering under his breath. As we reach the corridor leading out of the main gallery, he stops abruptly and looks back. I follow his gaze. He is watching Domingo, the juggler, now executing an intricate maneuver involving ice-cream scoops and somehow, impossibly, what appear to be balls of real ice cream.

Before I can say anything, the fire-eater strides out into the room. Weaving between tables, he unzips the bag on his shoulder and reaches inside. I have a horrible, momentary vision of a machine gun, then remember that Frank was patted down at the front door like everybody else. No, it’s not a gun—instead, it appears to be a long stick with a slightly bulbous end. Holding the stick aloft in one hand, he fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a lighter.

I sense that something unpleasant is about to happen, yet I don’t want to make a scene. Things have been going so well. The room is full of exquisitely dressed people sipping cocktails and nibbling on canapés. No one seems to be paying attention to Frank as he makes his purposeful way through the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mary Quince talking to Mr. and Mrs. Charles Byemore, her head tilted back in a laugh, the Kenneth Jay Lane pearls around her neck, as large as jawbreakers, gleaming in the candlelight.

Closing in on Domingo, Frank ignites the end of the stick with the lighter. It bursts into flame, a glowing orange corona. People standing nearby murmur an appreciative “Ooh!”

Domingo, wisely, has stopped juggling. He is cradling six ice-cream scoops in his hands, balancing the ice-cream balls (cleverly constructed out of Styrofoam, I see now) in a pyramid on top.

“This man is a liar and a thief,” Frank declares, holding the flame aloft like a torch.

“
You
are the liar,” Domingo hisses. Sensing his tactical dis
advantage, he sidles over to his black prop suitcase, keeping an eye on Frank, and kicks it open. He drops the Styrofoam balls and plastic scoops into the suitcase, then kicks the suitcase shut. Domingo stands defiantly, his arms folded in front of him like a Turkish dancer.

A small crowd gathers. They still think this could be part of the act.

Frank points the flame toward Domingo for a long moment. Lifting the stick and tilting his head back, he opens his mouth, like a reticulated python, and slides the stick down his throat. Then, slowly, he pulls the stick out of his mouth and blows a stream of fire into the topiary on the nearest table. The ivy smolders briefly before the entire centerpiece bursts into flames.

For a beautiful moment the guests are willing to believe the flaming topiary is part of the show. Only when the dry moss inside the wire frame begins to emit a dense, dark smoke is it clear that something is dreadfully wrong.

“You fool!” cries Domingo, clutching his head with his hands.

A thin black cloud rises, drawn toward the air vents above, and a lump of burning topiary falls onto the table. People on the other side of the room stop what they’re doing and turn to look. In the background, a haunting Edith Piaf song serves as an unintentionally appropriate score for the unfolding drama.

The stream of smoke rising above our heads now resembles a malevolent wraith. Suddenly, from the flaming centerpiece comes a loud pop, a sound like gunfire. Shrieking guests dive under tables; the music stops. In the ensuing pandemonium, Frank steps back and slips the wand in his pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him weaving through the crowd, sinuous as a ferret, until he disappears.

Without thinking, I yank the tablecloth from a nearby table—china, wineglasses, and the topiary crashing to the floor—and
throw it over the burning table to contain the flames. But the fire, unabated, eats through the fabric, searing a hole in the cloth and releasing even more noxious fumes and smoke. A security guard runs toward me brandishing a fire extinguisher and pulls the pin, spraying foam in every direction.

Within seconds, the fire is out. A loud bleeping noise starts up, and a recorded voice booms over the loudspeaker: “PLEASE EVACUATE THE BUILDING. PLEASE E-VAC-U-ATE THE BUILDING.”

I hear the wail of sirens, far away and coming closer.

Many, many sirens.

Guests leave in the Christmas-light brightness of the train of fire engines lined up outside. The head of museum security asks to see the supplemental fire-insurance policy.

My stomach lurches.

Any event planner knows that if an entertainment involves a live flame, you take out a supplemental fire-insurance policy. As soon as the museum official opens his mouth, I realize that I completely forgot to do it.

I forgot.

I thought I had planned for any contingency—I made sure we were covered for injury to the acrobats; I devised a backup plan should the catering fall through; I ordered a hundred burgundy umbrellas with the Huntsworth logo in the event of rain. But I did not take out fire insurance.

The head of security raises his eyebrows and looks at me for a long moment. “That’s a real problem,” he says, and in that moment I know that my career as an event planner is over.

Despite a sleeping pill,
I drift miserably in and out of lurid dreams all night. Circus figures loom toward me; a topiary springs to life with writhing figures. The sound of a fire alarm winds through
my dreams. Gradually I realize that the high-pitched noise is coming from outside my head.