Tricky Business (9 page)

Fay found this very amusing but had nobody to share the joke with; the other moms seemed to take the Tot-a-Rama instructor seriously. Fay felt out of place in this class, and not just because she was the only mom who drove an eight-year-old Ford Probe as opposed to a new SUV the size of a mobile home. She also believed she was the only single working mom in the group. She was sure she was the only mom who, at night, wore a skimpy costume and served cocktails to groping morons on a casino ship.

So Fay was not crazy about Tot-a-Rama, especially since it cost her money that she didn't always have, and sleep that she desperately needed after long, late nights on the ship. But Estelle loved Tot-a-Rama and got along well with the other babies. Except for Sumo Boy.

Sumo Boy, whose real name was Christopher, was huge for a 19-month-old, weighing in at around 40 pounds, 13 pounds heavier than Estelle. Sumo Boy was very possessive, and right now he was getting on Estelle's nerves, over the beanbags. There were dozens of beanbags, plenty for everybody, but whenever Estelle picked one up, Sumo Boy would yell “MINE!” and grab for it with his chubby hands. Estelle, who was a good sharer, would let go of the bag and pick up another one. Sumo Boy would then drop his current bag, yell “MINE!” again, and grab for the new one.

Fay could see that Estelle was getting tired of sharing and was just about ready to retaliate. Fay kept waiting for Sumo Boy's mother to do something about her son's behavior, but Sumo Mom just smiled, as though this were the cutest thing she'd ever seen.

Fay was not a big fan of Sumo Mom. Once, while the class was developing some cognitive skill or other by playing Marching, Marching Round and Round, Fay had gotten a cell-phone call from her ex-husband, who was pissed off about a letter he got from Fay's lawyer about being behind on his child support. Fay was marching, holding the cell phone to her ear with her right hand, holding Estelle's tiny hand with her left.

“Todd, I can't talk now,” she whispered.

“You want another court fight?” Todd said. “Is that what you want?” Todd loved to fight. He spent considerably more on legal fees than it would cost him simply to send Fay the money he owed, but for him the added expense was worth it.

“No, Todd,” whispered Fay. “I don't want to fight. I just want you to fulfill your—”

“Well, you're going to
get
another court fight,” said Todd, hanging up.

“Shit,” said Fay. She said it quietly, but Sumo Mom, who was marching right in front of her, heard it and turned to give her a glare.

“I'm sorry,” Fay said.

“There's no need for that kind of language here,” said Sumo Mom.

“I know,” said Fay. “I'm very sorry.”

“Little children have big ears,” said Sumo Mom.

Your child also has a big butt,
thought Fay, but she said, “Look, I said I'm sorry. The kids didn't hear anything. I'm just having a personal situation that . . .”

But Sumo Mom, having taken the moral high ground, had turned away and was marching righteously onward. Later, Fay saw her talking to the Tot-a-Rama instructor, who pulled Fay aside after class and gave her a little lecture concerning inappropriate contexts for hostile verbalization.

Fay had exchanged no words with Sumo Mom since that day, but she was getting close now, as she watched Estelle, having had enough, yank her beanbag out of Sumo Boy's grasp.

“MINE!” said Sumo Boy, barging into Estelle, hands out. Estelle opened her mouth, clearly intending to chomp down on one of Sumo Boy's plump arms.

“No!” said Fay, grabbing Estelle and swooping her up. “We don't bite, Estelle. We
never
bite.”

“MINE!” screamed Sumo Boy, as the beanbag, still in Estelle's grasp, soared out of reach.

Sumo Mom was outraged. “She was going to
bite
him!” she informed Fay. “She was going to bite my son!” Around the room, nine mommy heads swiveled their way.

“MINE!” shouted Sumo Boy.

“I'm sorry,” Fay told Sumo Mom. “But your son was taking all her beanbags, and she gets . . .”

“MINE!!” said Sumo Boy, pounding on Fay's leg. “MINE!!” He hit hard, for a baby; Fay's leg hurt. She was also getting a headache.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous a human bite can be?” said Sumo Mom.

“Yes, but she didn't—”

“MINE!!”
(Pound.)
“MINE!!”
(Pound.)
“MINE!!”
(Pound.)

“The human bite is
very
dangerous,” said Sumo Mom. “My husband is a doctor.”

At that moment, Sumo Boy sunk his sharp little teeth into Fay, penetrating her jeans just above her left knee.

“OW!” said Fay, yanking the leg away. Sumo Boy, suddenly unsupported, fell on his face. After an ominously silent two seconds, he emitted a glass-shattering shriek. It was matched in volume by one from Sumo Mom, who fell to her knees and scooped her wailing child into her arms. He looked unhurt to Fay. She, on the other hand, felt as though she'd been stabbed with an ice pick.

“What happened?” said the Tot-a-Rama instructor, scurrying over.

“She tried to bite my son!” said Sumo Mom, pointing at Estelle.

“We can't have biting behavior in Tot-a-Rama,” the instructor told Fay.

“My daughter didn't bite anybody,” said Fay. “In fact—”

“She tried to!” said Sumo Mom. “She was going to bite my son.”

“We cannot allow aggressive behavior that jeopardizes the physical well-being of our participants,” said the instructor.

“But what I'm telling you,” said Fay, “is that she didn't—”

“Human bites are very dangerous,” said Sumo Mom. “My husband is a doctor.”

“Then maybe he could sew your mouth shut,” said Fay.

Sumo Mom was stunned speechless. The instructor was very displeased.

“If you and your daughter cannot interact within the parameters of the Tot-a-Rama paradigm,” she said, “then I'm afraid you will have to discontinue your participation.”

“OK,” said Fay. “You bet. We'll discontinue our participation in your paradigm. Although I sincerely doubt that you have a fucking clue what that word actually means.”

Around the room, nine mommies emitted simultaneous gasps. Fay, holding Estelle, marched to the door, opened it, and marched out. Then, realizing she was barefoot, she reopened the door and reentered the classroom. The mommies, who had already begun buzzing, fell silent as Fay picked up her shoes and Estelle's tiny sneakers, then left again. She heard the buzzing resume as she closed the door; she knew it would continue for days, maybe weeks.

Still barefoot, Fay carried Estelle briskly through the rain across the parking lot to the Probe. She put Estelle into her car seat, made sure she had her juice cup and her little plastic dolls. Then she put on her shoes and slid behind the wheel. Then she put her face in her hands and cried.

“Mommy crying,” said Estelle.

“Mommy's OK, honey,” sniffed Fay.

“Mommy OK,” said Estelle. “Crying.”

“I'm not crying, honey,” said Fay, turning to give Estelle a big, fake smile.

“Snow White,” said Estelle, holding up a little plastic Snow White doll. It was her favorite toy. She knew, even at age two, the basic story: The girl is beautiful, but sleeping. Then the handsome man comes. He kisses her! She wakes up! She's happy! Forever! Or at least until she encounters a little plastic divorce-lawyer doll.

“Snow White,” said Estelle again. “Sleeping. Man kiss.”

“That's right, honey,” said Fay. “The man kisses her.” She fished a tissue out of her purse, blew her nose, then got her cell phone and called her mother.

“Hello?” said her mother.

“Hi, it's me. Can you come over tonight? I'm sorry, but the ship is going out.”

“It's going out? In this hurricane?”

“Yes. I called.”

“Well, tell them you can't go.”

“Mom, I have to go. It's my job.”

“Well, you should get a different job.”

Fay sighed. “Mother, just please tell me if you can come over tonight, OK?”

“OK, I'll come over, so later on I can explain to Estelle that her mother was a crazy person who went out and got herself killed in a hurricane.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

A silence. Fay, from years of experience, knew what her mother would bring up next. And, sure enough:

“I talked to Maggie today.”

Maggie was Fay's younger and, in her mother's view, ragingly perfect sister, with a perfect and highly successful husband who enabled her to care full-time for her three perfect children in a perfect modern house with a foyer that could easily swallow Fay's entire apartment.

“Great,” said Fay. “How is she?”

“She's fine.”

“Great.”

“She's doing very well.”

Another silence.

“As opposed to me,” said Fay.

“I didn't say that,” said her mother.

“No, you never
say
it,” said Fay.

Another silence. Fay broke it:

“Mom, listen, I'm sorry. I'm just tired. I really appreciate you looking after Estelle. I promise this job will end soon.”

“I certainly hope so. That boat is no place to meet a nice man.”

“Mother, I am not trying to find a man, OK?”

“That's for sure.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I have to go.
The Young and the Restless
is starting. Good-bye.”

Her mother hung up. Fay pressed the OFF button on her phone and told herself that she was
not
going to cry for the nineteen-millionth time over the vast unbridgeable chasm between her life and her mother's expectations.

“Snow White,” said Estelle.

“Yes, honey,” said Fay. “That's Snow White.”

“Man kiss,” said Estelle.

“That's right,” said Fay. “The man kisses her.”

Another silence.

“Mommy crying,” said Estelle.

ARNIE AND PHIL WERE IN THE OLD FARTS SENILE Dying Center recreation room, where no recreation had ever taken place. Slumped randomly in chairs around them were a dozen other residents, a few staring into the distance with unfocused eyes, the rest asleep, or—you never knew here—deceased.

Arnie and Phil were watching the big-screen TV, which was tuned to NewsPlex Nine, the top-rated local news show, which specialized in terrorizing its viewers. The NewsPlex Nine consumer-affairs reporter once did a week-long series, with dramatic theme music and a flashy logo, on fatal diseases that could,
theoretically,
be transmitted via salad bars. The reporter did not find any instance of this actually happening, but the series did win two awards for graphics. It was entitled “Death Beneath the Sneeze Shield.”

NewsPlex Nine loved bad weather. At least ten times per hurricane season, the weather guy—no, make that the
StormCenter Nine meteorologist
—would point to some radar blob way the hell out in the Atlantic, next to Africa, and inform the viewers that, while it did not pose any
immediate
threat, he was keeping a close eye on it, because under the right conditions, it could,
theoretically,
strengthen into a monster hellstorm and attack South Florida with winds that could propel a piece of driveway gravel through your walls, into your eyeball, and out the back of your skull.

Needless to say, the members of the NewsPlex Nine team were all over Tropical Storm Hector, which as far as they were concerned was the most exciting thing to happen in South Florida since several weeks earlier, when a German tourist opened his hotel mini-bar refrigerator and discovered what turned out to be the left foot of a missing Norwegian tourist. The meteorologist was already hoarse from speculating about the bad things that Tropical Storm Hector could,
potentially,
do.

“Look at his hair,” said Arnie. “Six hours he's talking, he's waving his arms in front of the radar, his hair is perfect. How the hell do you keep hair holding still like that?”

“How the hell do you keep
hair
?” said Phil.

“I hate this channel,” said Arnie. “A little rain, they act like it's nuclear war.”

“You wanna change the channel, be my guest,” said Phil, gesturing toward the remote control.

“You kidding?” said Arnie. “What am I, Einstein?”

The remote control had 48 buttons. No resident of the Old Farts Senile Dying Center knew how to operate it. They were the Greatest Generation, men and women who had survived the Depression, defeated the Nazis, built America into the greatest nation the world had ever seen. But this damned gizmo had beaten them.