How to Party With an Infant (26 page)

Henry and I looked at one another and then at this kid. “What?” Henry said.

The boy had rusty blond hair and a shirt with holes in it.

“Why would they do that?” Henry asked.

“I don’t know,” the kid said.

“All right, dude,” Henry said. The kid shoved off.

“Kids are so weird,” I said. “Remember those two the other day?”

“Yeah. They’re such weirdos.” He crinkled his nose and looked out toward the ocean. “We like each other,” he said. “We always have. But now it’s something more. That’s why it was awkward.”

I looked out at the sea, the grays and deep blues, the seagulls diving, then being lifted by the wind.

“I like you?” I said.

“Yeah. You like me.”
He tilted his head down and looked up at me with an expression that was both confident and inquiring.

“Do you want to go to a wedding with me?” I asked.

“I like weddings,” he said.

Ellie had recruited Tommy into her school. He sat on his skateboard and listened to her many rules.

“Are we just pinging off our disasters?” I asked, regretting how dramatic that sounded. But this, potentially, was dramatic stuff. This was children and marriage and lust and love and friendship. In our own spheres this mattered.

“We’re always bouncing off something,” he said. “Let’s go to this wedding. We’ll take it from there. Actually, let’s go to lunch first. Take it from there.”

We walked to our cars, planning to meet at the Tipsy Pig. As Ellie and I were backing up, he knocked on my window. I put it down, and he handed me an orange box wrapped with dark brown ribbon. An Hermès box. I knew that inside I would find a belt.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“It will help keep your pants up.”

We both cringed at the same time.

“That was horrible,” he said.

“So wrong,” I said.

At Nopa he had listened to my story about my belt theft, then gone out and tried to buy me the very same belt. He was listening to me, then later, thinking of me. It was more than Bobby had ever done. There’s such magic in the simple act of attending. I couldn’t wait to open the box. It would be like opening him, opening a memory, opening the thought of his absurd and touching act.

“Thank you,” I said. Thank you so much.

*  *  *

Some days I can’t stand San Francisco. You can never get a cab and it’s cold in the summers. I get irritated by the urine-scented sidewalks, moving the car with Ellie on street-cleaning days, finding parking far away and carrying all the accoutrements of children. The Haight street kids asking for change—I want to tell them to get a job or dip into their trust funds. Then in SoMa the young dudes and girls walking fast, talking into their headsets, the bicyclists, the protest signs—
NO WAR FOR OIL
, always simplistic, and I mean, if there ever was a reason to go to war . . . and then the parades and fun runs, the naked men with withered genitalia, the paint on the homes—green, blue, pink, orange. The pushy moms, pushy kids. It’s like being in the Willy Wonka factory.

Other times, like now, I see sparkling buildings underneath puffs of fairy-tale fog. I see impossible bridges and streets that feel like roller coasters. I see vast parks, sharp cliffs, an endless, cryptic ocean. A place that finally feels like home.

Has my tone changed since I began this questionnaire? I feel a bit mushy, soft-serve versus hard-packed.

How does that make you feel?

It makes me feel like slow-cooking. Something warm and nourishing. Something to share, taste, and inhale, a phenomenon to mark the end of these blues. It makes me feel like I’m ready to take on more than just this cookbook. I’m ready to write a story, and I’m ready to turn the page.

We are looking for housekeeper referrals. Ours is continuously misrepresenting her work. When I asked her about the fireplace mantels, baby changing table, LR, DR, and Kitch, at first she lied and said she did clean them, but then backtracked when she saw my finger pick up dust in all these places. When I asked about the mopping, she claimed to have wiped down all the floors by hand with a wet rag, which I might have believed if she’d gotten the sticky spot in the hallway where my daughter spilled yogurt yesterday. Another lie. Can anyone recommend an honest worker?

—Gina C.

Can anyone recommend a good spoon to gag myself with?

—A.L., West Portal

PERFECT GUESTS

B
efore the wedding that afternoon, Mele has Barrett and Annie over to look at Bobby and Eugenia Avansino’s website. She never said her name aloud before, even in her head, but now she is letting it replace variations on
cheese
. She has a name that guarantees a stylish life—an editor at
Vogue,
a noted tastemaker, or what she is: the founder of Avansino Creamery and the soon-to-be-wife of Bobby Morton. Georgia and Chris drove Ellie out to the wedding this morning, the kindest favor, from both of them, though Mele has a feeling Georgia and Chris like the excuse to take long drives together.

In Mele’s bedroom, Barrett reads the wedding story from their webpage out loud with a neutral, melodic voice.

“It all began with the wedding announcements, which were simple and clean, with a touch of boho style. We introduced our colors: sun-kissed shades of lemon and orange, and our signature flower, the African daisy, which personifies our over-the-top playfulness.”

“Bobby’s playful all right,” Mele says. “While she was picking the signature flower he was playing with my boobs.”

“Shhh!” Annie says. “No bitter Betty, remember? You’re healing. You’re impenetrable.”

And so Mele continues flat-ironing her hair while listening to the engagement story, how he popped the question and a bottle of champagne on the balcony of their hotel in Positano, the silky Tyrrhenian waters and Lattari Mountains their only witnesses. She listens, and it’s okay. In fact, she feels a little bad for Eugenia, who had to work so hard to edit the story. In her adaptation there is no baby, no other woman, no deceitful fiancé. There are just lemon and orange trees, sunsets on the Amalfi Coast, fishing boats and such. Then back to reality—juggling schedules—burgeoning companies, new restaurants, living long distance, delays due to “unexpected success in the workplace,” planning a wedding that would be stunning, stirring, yet understated, and the delightful addition to their family: Ellie.

Mele checks her temperature. It’s a little high, but she’ll survive. If they want to pretend Ellie materialized like a fairy, so be it. Mele is surprisingly even.

“Sorry about the cookbook,” Annie says, though she looks like she’s trying to hold back laughter.

“It’s okay,” Mele says, and it is okay. If she was going to publish a book, it wouldn’t have its seeds in SFMC, and she likes her final product even if the judges did not. She had no way of knowing Courtney, Kate’s best friend, was on the steering committee and read every word. Courtney, whose baby Mele said either resembled John Madden or looked like she was on Klonopin. Probably both. Courtney, whose belt she left on the hot, pissy sidewalk. Courtney, whom she may have called a catty-scanning, festival-ready bee-atch. Courtney did not appreciate her writing.

Mele will stick to fiction.

*  *  *

And now, an hour later, a knock on the door.

“He’s here!” Barrett and Annie say in unison and run to the door.

Mele feels both embarrassed and bolstered by their enthusiasm. They would never run to the door if their husbands were behind it, but this is sport to them. She should have made them some hot dogs.

Mele gets her clutch and ducks into the bathroom to take a last look.

She hears them in the entryway. “Henry, you look so dapper!”

“Wasn’t expecting a cheer squad, ladies,” he says. “I love it.”

She looks in the mirror, and you know? Her reflection is quite nice—there she is, this person she’s been for so long. This person, constant and dynamic. She sees Ellie’s hazel eyes, the light spray of freckles on her cheekbones. It’s not often that they’re apart for an entire day, and seeing pieces of her daughter in this reflection is more sustaining than love from any man or any friend. Her DNA is in Mele, just as Mele’s is in her. They’re apart and always together.

She straightens the Dora-sticker potty chart next to the mirror, checks her teeth, and prepares to walk out to Henry. She laughs to herself at these actions—straightening a sticker chart to walk out to a man who’s accompanying her to Bobby’s wedding. Time not only lessens pain and recolors it; time reveals life’s abundance, its ability to astonish, give, and take away. She turns off the light and walks out to the front door.

“Ready,” she says, looking up and smiling, mouth closed, at Henry, who looks, for the first time, slightly shy. “You look great,” she says. She knew he would, but this is just right. He looks handsome in a suit with an unexpected gray and white aloha shirt beneath. Dapper, with a touch of humor, a subtle nod.

Her friends step away and she feels self-conscious, like they’re her ladies-in-waiting retreating, heads bowed.

“Hi,” he says and kisses her on the cheek, then immediately opens the door, ushering her out.

“Bye, ladies,” he says.

Mele can tell they want more—they have more to say, more to fuss about.

“Good luck!” Barrett says.

“Bye,” she says.

“Text us!” Annie says, and he closes the door. Then he stands facing her, taking in her gold and cream Alice and Olivia dress. It’s fitted on top—a bit like a bustier, then from there flows to the ground. Her hair is down, natural, loose. She knows then that he didn’t expect her friends to be there and didn’t want to chat and banter with the girls. This isn’t a playdate. He is here just for her.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

“I clean up?”

He doesn’t joke back. He smiles, almost sadly, but in that way where wistfulness and optimism are bound so forcefully. At least that’s how she feels as he puts his hand on her lower back and pushes her forward.

*  *  *

Forward to Bobby’s wedding, this union that she and her pregnancy delayed for more than a year; this event that has tormented her for so long. Henry seems to detect her nervousness during the ceremony. He is a presence beside her, a quiet one that she doesn’t need to speak to or entertain. He is just there with her. She uses her skills, pretending to be a social diarist, coldly watching a couple she doesn’t really know at all:

The country estate is elegant, the signature colors well represented on the floral centerpieces, cupcakes, and pedestals upon which violinists sit.

The bride and maid of honor arrive with panache in an MG, one of the bride’s dad’s classic cars. The bride wears a chic and understated gown. Her breasts look amazing and most likely, always will. Her hair is in an intricate updo that no dove has soiled.

Ellie is glorious, walking down the aisle with her basket, and throwing her African daisies. She doesn’t scatter or sprinkle or float the flowers. She really chucks them at the ground like she’s flicking mud off her hand. Mele Bart is so proud.

And then the I dos, the rings, the laughter, the kiss (Mele doesn’t look away), a hip, exit song, and it’s over. Done.

Mele ditches her remote surveillance—“Let’s get a drink,” she says—and decides to fully attend the party.

“That was nice,” Henry says as they walk across the lawn toward the bar.

“Lovely,” she says, and they look at one another and laugh. What else is there to do? To say?

She drinks Veuve and eats crab legs and oysters from a table sculpted of ice. She walks out toward the kids to party with her little Ellie, who is buzzed on chocolates and cake and sparkling apple cider. She watches her run, unleashed, with the other children, who are all being supervised by the provided babysitters on the sprawling lawn. They are like free-range chickens. An older couple sits at the edge of the tent away from the adults, watching the kids, and she wonders if one of them is their grandchild or if they’re just here to avoid socializing. She does that sometimes, excuses herself to check on the children just to watch them play and be in her own thoughts.

“One of yours out there?” the man asks. He’s tall and very thin, his legs crossed at the ankles, revealing fantastic, orange socks.

“Yes,” she says. “Ellie. She’s almost three.”

“Are you a friend of Eugenia?” the woman asks. Her outfit is finely put together—pearl earrings, long green dress, a bold gold necklace—except for an old white scarf she wears around her shoulders. Mele’s grandmother Eleanor was the same way, carefully coiffed in a good-spirited versus fussy way, and always with her a white shawl, in her purse, or on her shoulders, or later, on the back of her wheelchair—it didn’t
matter if it matched. It was a staple, a comfort, like a child’s blanket.

“I’m an old friend of the groom’s,” Mele says, finding warmth in this couple, the way they remind her of her grandparents, both dead, both missed, both loved.

“Ah,” the woman says, biting her lower lip. “I was one of those once.”

Mele laughs out loud, then glances back toward the party to find Henry, who is already looking right at her. It’s a new feeling, this. When she was with Bobby she always scanned the room for him, finally finding him laughing with a pack of guys, or girls, always occupied, never the one looking. She checks to see what Ellie’s doing—jumping in the air with the other kids, clapping bubbles like little seals. Her girl is just fine. Mele says good-bye to the couple and walks toward him.

*  *  *

She and Henry mingle with guests. He outshines Bobby, in her opinion, and he seems to know many of the people there. There are so many guests that she can be anonymous and avoid awkward conversations. She is simply an old friend of the groom. Henry introduces her as “his dear friend, Mele,” which she likes very much.

There is one snag. After the first dance—how boring to watch one couple dance—no one likes this—they are talking to a group of guys, their wives huddled nearby. Ellie walks up to her with one of the hired “child entertainers.”