pictured Professor Leedy, settling back in his worn leather chair, surrounded by richly hued mahogany furniture, plush Oriental rugs, and an eclectic array of classical busts and collected artifacts from his travels throughout the world. He would be reserved but warmhearted, pleasantly rumpled but mentally disciplined. He would listen carefully, speak infrequently, but counsel wisely. He would drink bourbon and wear tweed.
“Colin, I can tell you,” he began unprompted, “is a real talent. Have you read his poetry?” He asked, sounding as if he truly hoped I had.
“Well, no—I didn’t realize he wrote poetry.” I was blushing.
“Oh, you must read it, Lena. Though I’m sure Colin would be incensed if he knew I’d shown it to you! He’s still a young man trying to preserve his tough outer shell, after all.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s my job to chip away at that very shell.” I wasn’t sure where my words were coming from, if you must know.
“I suppose it is, my dear.” He paused, raising one eyebrow I felt sure. “I think you’ll find it to be a rewarding task should you be persistent.”
Was Professor Leedy testing me? Could the wise, aged professor be sniffing out a potential match for his prized protégé? It was a ridiculous thought, but… I panicked—how does one appeal to an octogenarian Milton scholar? What would an octogenarian Milton scholar look for? Intelligence, yes—I could string a sentence together, perhaps toss in a literary reference or two, sure. Problem was that I never found myself to be less coherent and more ditzy than when I was trying to project an erudite image. And, let’s be honest here, I was not in the daily habit of deconstructing classic literature—it just wasn’t how my life was organized at the moment.
“So, it’s done—I will send you my volume. I really think that it will help you get to the heart of, well, his heart.” He chuckled lightly.
There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? The next call, however, would not be as easy. There really was no way to prepare for this one. I cleared my throat and tried to detach myself from the bizarre nature of the task at hand. This is my job. This is my job. This is my job.
Libby Bates answered the phone herself. She sounded refined, elegant, educated. And tall. Definitely tall.
“Hi there.” Hi there?
I looked down at my notes—yes, I had notes.
“This is Lena Sharpe. I’m an associate producer at the television show Face to Face and I’m calling about the profile of your son, Colin, that we’re doing.” I started to understand how a telemarketer must feel: And, if you have a moment, I’d like to discuss your long-distance telephone service.
“Oh yes, of course. Could you just hold on for one second?…Teresa, would you mind watching the stove for me for a moment. I’ll need to take this call. Thank you.”
I was a call she “needed to take”! I wondered what she was cooking. I was glad that she didn’t expect Teresa to take care of everything.
“Yes, I’m so sorry. We’re having some people over tonight, so it’s a bit chaotic here.” She said this in a way that seemed to convey that she didn’t mind the chaos so very much.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I can certainly call back at a better time.”
“Oh no, don’t be silly. I’m glad you called. I’m just so proud of Colin—I realize of course that that’s not a shock, coming from his mother after all.” She laughed. She did seem proud, but not in a boastful, “my child’s talent is a reflection of my own” or “isn’t it now obvious what a fabulous job I have done raising my child” way. Just genuine excitement and goodwill. Touching really.
“I was just calling to see if you might be willing to do a short interview for the piece—”
“I’m so sorry, Lena. One second.” And then, “Teresa, would you mind letting Emmylou in—she’s scratching at the door.” Emmylou! Colin’s Emmylou?! Yes, I was this excited over a dog.
“I know!” Libby Bates exclaimed suddenly. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Teresa, Emmylou or me.
“Why don’t you come over tonight for the party and we can talk about it there?” She was pleased with her solution. I was speechless.
“Oh, well, of course,” I stammered and then, worried that I seemed rude, I tried to be more emphatic. “Of course, I’d love to.”
“Fantastic. We’re at one-eighteen East Ninety-second. You should come by around eight or so. It’s just a silly casual thing for the Central Park Children’s Zoo.”
“This is so kind of you, Mrs. Bates.”
“My pleasure, darling. Really. See you soon!”
I hung up the phone—confused, nervous and excited. This was not in my notes.
chapter 5
I flung open my closet and glanced at the clock. I had exactly four and a half hours to reinvent myself as the perfect daughter-in-law designate. I knew what I needed to do.
“I need your help.”
“Honey-bunny, what is it?” Jake said, sounding as if he’d just woken up. Or maybe he was drunk?
“I need you to come with me to Colin’s mom’s house tonight.”
“Lena, sweetheart. Tell me you’re not still fixated on this one, please.”
“It’s not a fixation,” I said, irritated by the description. “It’s a…it’s, I don’t have time to explain what it is. It’s my job. Can you come with me or not?”
“Well…”
“Just—can you come? Say yes.”
“I was planning on alphabetizing my CDs.”
“Nice try, but we both know they’re already alphabetized.”
“Not by genre.”
I said nothing.
“Seriously, I’m sorry, Lena—I have to watch Crumbcake tonight. She had some tests at the vet today and she’s wearing one of those lovely doggie cones around her neck. It’s a pathetic sight, really.”
Crumbcake was Miranda’s dog. Correction, “Gateau” was her dog; Crumbcake was what Jake had rechristened her. She was bony and loud, with a bracing bark that could sound both whiny and critical. In other words, she was Miranda.
“Bring her with you.” I knew then that I was, legitimately and officially, panicked.
“But she hates you, Lena.”
“True.” He had a point.
“Plus, Miranda will find out and then I’ll have to deal.”
I imagined Crumbcake and Miranda having a furious and intense discussion of her trauma.
“I know, I’ll ask Super Si to watch her,” I said. Si was my super and on more occasions than I care to remember, I had called on him to chase cockroaches around my apartment, fish a necklace out of the drain, and perform various forms of spackling triage on my crumbling walls. I call him Super Si because he’s a super and because, well, he’s super. I tried to explain this to him once, but it didn’t translate, like so many thoughts I had, when said out loud.
“God, Jake—for fuck’s sake, get over here.”
“Is there really a need to swear and use the Lord’s name in vain? I think one or the other would suffice.”
“Jake—it’s so not the time.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry—I’ll vespa right over.” For the record, Jake did not have a Vespa, but he felt that he really should have one. No, he had a used ten-speed.