We Could Be Beautiful (30 page)

“Yes please,” he said. I picked up the violin case, and Max put his small hand in mine, which surprised me and sent an embarrassed rush of blood to my face. It also made me very happy. I was mother material.

When Stan saw Max, he said, “Hi Max!” He looked so excited.

“Hi Stan.” Max barely looked up.

“Hello, Max,” William said.

“Max, today I played our new song all the way through!”

“You certainly did.” William clapped Stan on the back. “Great job today, Stan.”

“Thanks William!”

“So,” I said to Stan, “you’re walking home by yourself?”

“Yes, Mrs. West. I walk everywhere by myself,” he said proudly, his chest out.

William raised his eyebrows twice. “Be careful.”

“I will. Don’t worry, I never talk to strangers, and I always stay on my route.”

“Good,” I said.

Stan threw his case over his shoulder. “I’m going to go now. Bye Max. See you in Music!”

Max pulled at the white strings of his hoodie. “Bye.”

“Ready, young man?” William put a hand on Max’s shoulder and Max flinched. Then he walked into the room, his head hung, and joylessly took his violin out of its case.

“Bad mood today,” I whispered to William.

“Maybe girl troubles,” he whispered back. “Enjoy your massage, darling.”

•

Without my asking, Dan told me that since the party, he and Ellen had decided to stop seeing each other, officially. “It’s very hard to be friends with someone you’ve been romantically involved with and just stay friends, you know?”

I watched his toes curl as he pressed his fists into my back. “Yeah,” I said.

“Did it bother you that I brought her to the party?”

“No,” I said. “Why would it bother me?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure why I’m asking.” Did Dan sound nervous? He changed the subject. “I meant to bring you a peach from the farmers’ market, but I left it in Brooklyn.”

I thought of Mae Simon, who still hadn’t written me back, and said, “I need to go to Brooklyn.” Maybe I’d run into her there. She probably went to farmers’ markets. She probably sat in cafés with her laptop, drinking the same drip coffee for hours, which is what I imagined everyone in Brooklyn did all the time.

“Please let me know when you do. I’ll show you around,” Dan said. “You and William.”

“Great.”

I drifted off. And then I was brought back to full consciousness when I heard yelling. It sounded like William was yelling at Max in the next room. It was muffled at first, and then I heard a distinct “This is unacceptable!” Dan stopped working, unsure of what to do. “Do you want me to go check?” he said.

“No, I’ll go.”

Dan faced the wall. I grabbed my robe and went to the music room, opened the door. Max was crying hard, his face pink and wet, and William was standing in front of him, hands on his waist. “Hi,” he said to me. And then to Max, “Stop crying now, please.” He put his hands on Max’s shoulders and Max flinched. “Max, please stop.”

“What’s going on?” I said, moving closer.

“Nothing. Max is just feeling a bit lazy today. Aren’t you, Max?”

Max buried his face in his hands.

“It’s nothing to worry about. You’re fine, aren’t you, Max?”

Max said nothing.

“I’m only being hard on you because I want you to do well, Max,” William said. “Because I care.”

“That’s right, honey. William cares about you a lot,” I said.

“You don’t even like kids,” Max said. “That’s what you said.”

“When?” William said. “When did I say that?”

“Last time.” Max wiped his face with his sleeve.

“That is a lie, Max. Little boys shouldn’t lie.”

“I’m not,” Max said, looking at me. He was looking for help. But I honestly didn’t know if I believed him or not. Max was a troubled kid—that was obvious. From what I had gathered about his mother, who was clearly unhinged, Max stood no chance. I also hadn’t forgotten about the Disney show, how Tony the bully had said exactly what Max was claiming William had said, down to the words
I don’t like kids.
This seemed like a too-big coincidence.

And though he shouldn’t have yelled, I understood why William was frustrated. William loved the violin, and he wanted Max to love it, too, but Max hated the violin. This was a frustrating place to be.

I had to make a choice, and I chose William. I put my arm around his solid body and said, “You must be confused, Max. William loves kids.”

27

“W
e’re a month out, Cat, and I have bad news.” Marty pulled his pink handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Also, my God, can you please get an elevator? I despise these stairs.”

“It is Marty,” Lucia announced, too late. She was taking an English class now (Maya’s suggestion), where she was learning the importance of enunciating (though she could not enunciate the word
enunciating
correctly) and taking every opportunity to practice.

Marty gave her a look. “Yes, it’s Marty.”

“Thanks, Lucia,” I said.

“You are welcome.” She swatted her rag at a fly on the counter and killed it. Then she picked up its dead body with her fingers and flicked it into the sink.

“My God,” Marty said.

“No good,” Lucia said, and walked away.

“That’s right, Cat. No good. Problems. We have problems.”

“What? Tell me. You’re scaring me.” I put my hands on my stomach. I felt nauseous. I was sure he was about to tell me the reception space had flooded. Maybe I’d been going to church too much; the idea of a great flood had been implanted in my mind.

“The photographer canceled.”

“Can’t we get another one?”

“I have two backups. Take me to your computer.”

I pointed to it on the dining room table. The Neiman Marcus Web site was on the screen. I’d found a strapless teal Chloé dress I was very excited about.

“Good. And I need some water. It is too hot here. No one should be in this city today. What a nightmare. I’m dripping, look at me!”

It was true, Marty was dripping. “Sparkling or regular?”

“Sparkling, thank you,” he said, and sat with a high-pitched sigh. “This is a hideous dress.”

“Really?”

“Cat. You, in teal? Come on.”

I grabbed a Pellegrino and two glasses and filled them at the table. Marty downed all of his and covered his mouth with his handkerchief when he burped. “Sorry, that was disgusting.”

Yes, it was. And I looked good in teal.

“Okay. So here”—he turned the screen my way—“is the work of a very nice person, but her work might be too cheesy for you. And here”—he opened a second page, typed in a name—“is the work of a woman who is a total bitch, but her work is very avant-garde artsy-fartsy, which might be more you.”

Their names matched their personalities. The first one’s name was Trudy Beetle. And yes, her work was cheesy. The second one was Miranda Ply. She had lots of black-and-white and interesting angles. Her work seemed to capture the mood of each couple more accurately. It was almost unsettling. As I clicked through, I thought a few of the couples even looked melancholy. Happy, maybe, but also melancholy. In one picture the bride was crying, and I honestly couldn’t tell whether those were tears of joy or tears of regret.

“Let’s do the first one.”

“Really? I’m surprised. But okay, I can see it. I already know Miss Trudy is available on the date because I called her this morning. That’s how good I am.”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll call to confirm.” He dialed, held the phone a good inch from his sweaty face, leaned back in the chair. “Sure, I love holding. Who doesn’t love to be on hold?” After Marty rolled his eyes, they settled on the tapestry and moved from one panel to the next—one, two, three, one, two, three—like he was reading. “Why’d she give up?” he said.

“What do you mean?” I turned to look at the woman in the last panel, her body curled at the foot of the mountain.

“Girlfriend gave up and went to sleep.”

“Maybe she was tired.” I didn’t know why I was coming to her defense. It was true she had given up.

Trudy Beetle, or her assistant, took Marty off hold. “I need to book October seventeenth,” he said. “Stockton.”

Five seconds later he hung up. “Done. Crisis averted.”

“Good.”

“Now, other logistics.” Marty took a folder out of his Marc Jacobs murse on which he had written
Stockton
in his very precise penmanship. I thought it was kind of interesting that Marty was a person who could call himself a perfectionist and still be overweight. Maybe everyone thought they were a perfectionist. He opened the folder, scanned the list inside. “Brunch. Where is brunch?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about Lupa?”

“Last time I went there, they were out of seltzer.”

“But it’s très. I’ll make sure they have your seltzer, don’t worry.”

“Fine, let’s do it.”

“Done.” He fingered his way down the list. “I got the plates you wanted. I texted you that.”

“Good.”

“We still need to figure out hair and makeup. I’ll make appointments.”

“Okay.”

“What’s the deal with the bachelorette party?”

“I don’t know. Caroline’s working on it.”

“Good. I want to be invited.”

“I’ll let her know.” I laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Party favors. What are we giving people? You said no chocolate. What are you thinking? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I was thinking olive oil?”

“No. We aren’t in Tuscany, Cat.”

“Fine. What do you think?”

“Something artsy. Little sculptures of you and William. If they could also be salt and pepper shakers, that would make them useful. I’ll look into it.”

“Great.”

“What’s the deal with the honeymoon? Has William booked that?”

The honeymoon was the one part of the wedding William insisted he do himself. “I have no idea. It’s a surprise.”

“Any clues yet?”

“I have no idea. I’m hoping it’s a beach.”

“Tulum is very hot right now.” As he continued down the list, he hummed a tune that went
ta-da, ta-da, ta-da.
“Done with this, got that. Okay, this is it for now.” He put the paper back in the folder and the folder back in his murse and sat back in the chair with his hands clasped behind his head and said, “Aaah, thank God for air conditioning. I’m never leaving.”

“We met with the priest.”

“Tell me.” He wiped something out of one eye. His lashes looked great. It occurred to me then that he probably got them dyed.

“It was interesting.”

“How was the Catholic stuff?”

“Yeah. I mean, I guess it’s kind of nice to have these traditions.”

“You are a bad liar, Cat.”

“I’m serious,” I said, in an overly serious way. “But wait—you think I’m a bad liar?”

“Yes, you should never lie again. You’re terrible at it.”

28

Catherine!!

Thank you so much for writing!! Sorry it took me so long to respond. I never check Facebook!! I’m so happy to hear from you. ☺ I can’t believe you’re writing me and I would love to meet!! Are you free to come over on the 7th? We can make peanut butter bunnies!!

X X X

Mae

Dear Mae,

I would love to come over. Give me an address and a time please. I look forward to discussing things with you.

CW

Groovy. How about 3 p.m.? My address is 79 S. Portland in Fort Greene. Ring the lower doorbell because the upper one doesn’t work anymore. Can’t wait!! ☺

X X X

Mae

That works.

CW

29

I
asked Evelyn to bring Mom to the dining room early so I could ask her about Mae Simon again. She was well coiffed and even gave me a smile, or the beginning of one, when she saw me. Evelyn was having the worst day of her life, as usual. They walked toward me, arm in arm, Mom taking careful steps and Evelyn a languid blob of frenzied tropical patterns.

“Hello, Catherine,” Evelyn said.

“Hello, Catherine,” Mom repeated.

Evelyn helped Mom into the chair.

“What are we doing
here
?”

“Lunch,” Evelyn said. She pushed Mom closer to the table.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then don’t eat,” Evelyn said. To me she said, “Text me if you need me,” and shuffled away.

“How are you today, Mom?”

“Hot.”

“Really? I think it’s kind of chilly in here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Mom, do you remember Mae Simon?”

“Your nanny.”

“She was a student?”

“Yes.”

“At NYU?”

“No.”

“Where?”

Mom opened her mouth and waited a very long time and then closed her mouth.

“I’m going to go visit her.”

When the words came out of my mouth, the whole thing seemed more real, and I wondered if this was a bad idea. Maybe Mae Simon was a crazy person. Who wrote letters to four-year-olds? Her use of two exclamation marks irked me. I thought people should commit to either one or three. Two was just a hyperactive version of one and a lacking version of three. I didn’t want to tell anyone about my plans to see Mae Simon except for Mom, who wouldn’t remember them anyway. I think that’s why I went there that day—just to tell someone.

“Good,” she said. “She will make you peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter bunnies?”

A glint of recognition in Mom’s eyes, or maybe I was imagining that. “Yes,” she said.

This was consoling. If Mae had made me peanut butter bunnies, whatever those were, she must be a nice person.

Caroline appeared, ungroomed, looking like a person who might be on her way to the methadone clinic. She sank into her chair with a small “Hi.” She was drowning in Bob’s huge Nantucket sweatshirt. She had not showered. Her pearly white scalp was visible between oily ropes of hair.