Momzillas (12 page)

Twenty-one

After kissing Violet's forehead as she lay sleeping, I tiptoed out, waving to Amber, and made my way down to meet Tate Hayes. It was four
P.M.
exactly when I saw him standing by the double doors of the Morgan in a loden green jacket over a white oxford shirt and jeans.

“Hannah,” he said, drawing out the two syllables as if my name were the first word of a poem.

“Hi, Profess—Tate.” I looked down, blushing. I still thought of him as my professor. How strange that now we would maybe become friends. But never equals, as he was too vaunted a persona in my life to be a mere peer.

“Shall we?” he asked.

We strolled the marble halls of the enchanted former home of J. Pierpont Morgan on Thirty-sixth Street and Madison Avenue. Even after watching movies that stylishly captured turn-of-the-century architecture, I could not believe that people had actually lived in the city's center in such lavish, all-enveloping velvety surroundings. Beyond the extensive collection of prints which we were there to see, the museum had preserved Morgan's library of rare tomes and a study so ornate and astonishing, you can't imagine how anyone could ever get work done: I, for one, would have been too distracted by the rich brocade curtains, the intricately carved furniture, and the oils that hung on the hand-stenciled walls.

We walked through much of the space, accompanied by the sound of my black flats practically tiptoeing on the marble floor. When we reached a small oil-on-copper, we paused to look at it. I remembered Professor Hayes always loved oil-on-copper, and he got up very close, as if to penetrate the frame's glass with his piercing gaze.

“See this enameling here,” he said, gesturing. “Look at this fruit in the lower right corner.” He put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me closer to look at the work; the subject was Adam and Eve. “The paint just sits on the copper, none seeping in as it would into a panel's fiber or canvas's pores. It's as close as we can be to the paint, this creamy, sensuous paint, with a vibrancy you really don't see on other surfaces. He delivers us Eden itself in these strokes,” he said, as I studied the work in my own incredible private lesson.

He described the leaves as sighing and weighty with verdant glistening streaks of paint, and earth's first man and woman were supple with silken tones, as their fleshy bodies drew our eyes to their milky skin and up to Eve's buttery cascading hair.

Next we spied a landscape by Hendrik Avercamp, a glacial expanse of frozen canal, with skating revelers flying through the chilled air on stilled water. “This gray, gauzy filter,” he said, gesturing to the smoky surface of the work, “doesn't dazzle with roaring lions or arch-backed nudes; it's a really muted, delicate reality, with all the classes melded—look at the rich man's carriage, here.” He pointed. “Everyone is united by that harsh chill of winter, with the whole hierarchy frozen in that pond.”

Tate Hayes was a true historian, guiding me through the tangled politics of the time. “The Dutch have written their history into the art,” he said, showing me painting after painting that echoed the flux of the seventeenth century. “Political and religious metamorphoses were brushed into permanence.” Just as when I was a student, I exhaled slowly, my skin tingling with an excitement that wasn't a sexual turn-on but a brain make-out. Some music can evoke that feeling in me, but then I'm a passive listener. Now, I actively felt myself learning, lapping up his words like a hungry, hardened sponge thirsting for information—especially delivered in such a poetic way. After two years of goo-goo-ga-ga with my beloved daughter, I realized, in an emotional tidal wave of hearing his words, that I desperately thirsted for this outing. To remember who I was, and to reawaken that latent passion for art that had been dormant until now.

When we were done looking at the newly installed collection, we sat in the sunlit tearoom. I actually secretly don't like tea but drank it anyway, dissolving spoon after spoon of honey in the cup like a kid in a candy store, which I was. We talked about his wife and two boys (Leonardo and Marcello—his wife was Milanese and taught Italian at NYU) and how he sometimes missed San Francisco.

“There's more texture here, more grit, more energy,” he said of our new home. “And of course, more art, and not just giant museums but hidden jewel boxes, private collections. We were at a cocktail party last week on Fifth Avenue and the etchings just in the hallway to the kitchen were simply staggering. There was literally a Dürer in the powder room! All these people were hobnobbing and sampling the caviar, and I absconded to the ceaseless hallways to study their works; I barely ate a bite, but I felt replete.”

Art was enough to sustain Tate, but I needed more. Thinking of sustenance, I looked at my watch and realized I had to leave to make Violet's dinner—it was a Cinderella exit, full of flustered good-byes and gathering of things. But no glass slipper was left in my flurried wake—only the hope that maybe he would call and invite me to look at art with him again soon.

Twenty-two

Thanks to Maggie and Bee, the Milford Prescott Music School, also known as Juilliard for two-year-olds, found a place at the last minute for Violet and me in their Mommy and Me series. Lila was overjoyed when I happily reported our acceptance to her. For our class, there were two choices: Parent/Child or Caregiver/Child. Since I was already calling in a huge favor, I didn't actually express my true desire to be in the nanny class; the mom scene kind of gave me the creeps and I would have probably felt much more comfortable with the nannies. I opened my letter from the director of admissions and found the school handbook with dress code, school rules, and instructions that should I change my mind, I must notify the office as there was always an “extensive waiting list,” which I guess I had cut, thanks to a hefty donation by Bee's family foundation. Luckily, we got in the Caregiver class, which I was thrilled about. Apparently most moms preferred to be with other moms—choosing to avoid “aliens,” legal or nay.

But I just wanted to relax; nannies didn't ask about height and head circumference percentiles. I also signed up Violet for ballet class since Rudolf Nureyev was her babysitter when Amber couldn't make it—as I unpacked boxes during the first three weeks, I plopped her in front of old, squeaky VHS tapes of
Swan Lake
and
Sleeping Beauty
, which kept her rapt for two straight hours. I was told by the Manhattan Academy of Ballet Studies that her uniform would be a pink leotard, pink tights, and pink ballet slippers, and her hair must be pulled back into a bun. A bun? Violet had never even had a haircut—she sported a baby mullet, her blond wisps barely able to make a ponytail without the assistance of added clips, let alone a bun. But hey, I guess in the big leagues you gotta sport the real ballerina 'do.

I had three weeks until Labor Day, which marked the reentry of New York's elite into town: the gates opened and every Benz and Beemer cruised back into town from the Hamptons, loaded up with sandy summer gear as children shopped for back-to-school threads.

Bee and her clan had been shuttling back and forth but now were plopping for the final few weeks “out east” at the beach. Really “the beach” was all stilettos and oversized sunglasses and shopping in Southampton, not exactly flip-flops and sandy toes. It was club-chaises instead of towels by the waves, with dips in gleaming pools instead of the murky ocean.

For Bee's posse's last gathering before scattering to the places where they summer (yes, they used
summer
as a verb), we all gathered at the annual ladies' luncheon to support NACHO; Lara went to Millbrook then Martha's Vineyard, Maggie to East Hampton, and Hallie to Ewan's Peak, her family's private island off the coast of Maine where, Bee said, they hosted white-tie parties. I was picturing powdered ladies with Edith Wharton–style outfits and men in tails holding lobster mallets. I'd take burgers and dogs and jeans and a T-shirt any day over that supposedly glam stuff. I mean, the day I host a white-tie bash in my home is the day Hallie says Julia Charlotte did something dumbass, i.e., never.

For their August jaunt, Lila and Watts would be in England, and while all the women were itching to escape I was looking forward to quiet calm before the autumn storm, without Lila's pop-bys and Bee's sometimes stifling presence. I didn't know why, and maybe I was being paranoid, but I was starting to get the feeling Bee didn't like me. I hadn't done a thing wrong, I couldn't have been nicer. I just had this strange sense she was only semi-nice to me as an order from her mother by way of Lila.

Before the NACHO benefit, I spent the morning with Violet walking to Times Square to buy Broadway show tickets from the tourist-glutted booth in the middle, stopping at Toys “R” Us for a ride on the indoor Ferris wheel. Violet's face was as bright as the blazing LCD displays lighting up the store; she was simply in awe of all the activity. It was a nice feeling to really see her relish her new city, and it even gave me an excited buzz. I don't know what prompted me to go on a ticket-buying odyssey, but Josh and I loved plays so much and I think they triggered romantic memories of our trips to New York. I wanted to relive it the old way and remind myself how excited I used to get about the idea of living here. We strolled back uptown along the park and I had two hours before the famous luncheon. I didn't want to show up and displease Lila again with the wrong outfit, so to make every effort to make her proud, I walked with Violet to Bergdorf's, which was having a huge summer sale. Three dresses into my mini fashion show for Violet, I tried a plain, chic black crepe dress with buttons down the side that was part Audrey Hepburn, part 1940s, and entirely adorable. I felt good. My hair was pulled into a tight bun and I wore my A-plus shoes Josh and I had bought in London at Emma Hope. I read Violet her stories before her afternoon snooze, when Amber arrived to read
Us Weekly
and hang 'til I was done with the benefit.

The red tent covered part of Lexington Avenue as a bevy of paparazzi snapped various bold-faced names in New York society who were coming out pre–summer exodus to fight childhood obesity.

I watched them each pause for the camera, doing the movie star hand-on-hip thing and then fake-converse with each other as the fotogs snapped “candids.” It was weird—fashion-wise I seemed very out of sync with the Upper East Side moms; I always thought New Yorkers wore black all the time, but no: salmon cashmere twin sets, turquoise dresses, and a butter yellow suit were all fluttering by in a pastel parade. I guess we'd hung out more downtown before moving; now, ensconced among the blond barrage of pastel-wearers, I felt like the Sicilian widow my mother had compared me to.

“You're always in black!” Bee observed as she approached me, wearing a tight lime green dress. “I mean, isn't it like eighty degrees? You must be
broiling
!” Great, was I like sweating buckets or something?

“Oh, yeah, I'm Wednesday Addams, remember?”

She didn't smile. “Maggs!” said Bee, happy to see her chum.

Maggie came up and kissed both of us on both cheeks. Whoa. I knew New York was closer to Europe than California but the two-kiss thing threw me off. Plus she had never kissed me before. Maybe it was the upscale enviro versus the playground. Plus, everyone was playing the fancy role of grande dame philanthropist.

I saw Lila walk in and see me, then look away. I decided to go up to her and say hello.

“Oh, Hannah, hi!” She pretended she was just seeing me. “Nice to see you, dear.” She then had a pert brunette approach her in a hat with a huge bird on it and they air-kissed hello while I made my way back to the “kids'” table, where I was sitting with Maggie and Bee.

“So, girls, are we soooo excited for vacation?” Maggie asked, beaming. “We're all packed, I can't wait!”

“Ugh,
thrilled
!” gushed Bee. “I've been dying to get out of this pit. Oh…” she said, catching herself. “Sorry, Hannah.”

There was suddenly an embarrassed awkward silence. Their pity over my being trapped in Gotham had quieted their excitement and I felt like the scholarship kid everyone felt sorry for.

“Well, we basically only just got here, so I don't care!” I said breezily. Crickets.

“Hiii, yummy mummies!” Hallie said, putting a jeweled hand through her red hair. “Sorry I'm late! Julia Charlotte was just reading all by herself and I couldn't leave! I swear, that child's memory is just unparalleled! She's a certifiable genius.” Naturally, Hallie burst right into her interminable momologue about Julia Charlotte. It was a funny coincidence to me that Julia Charlotte's initials were JC, because her mom clearly thought she was the second coming.

“…And then, she said, ‘Mommy, more foie gras, please!' I mean, can you
believe it
? Even her taste buds are mature. Julia Charlotte is
such
an adventurous eater.” Hallie was prattling on about JC reciting prime numbers in Mandarin when Lara arrived with an enormous flower-covered hat.

“Hi gals, I had to pick up my hat, and they were jammed at Plaza Florists!” There was a full fresh-flower arrangement atop her platinum head. Between my dark brown hair and my black dress, I felt like I was adrift in a sea of corn silk and bright flowers.

I heard a woman come on the microphone as we all settled at our tables, each place beautifully set with fine crystal, china, sterling silver, and calligraphed place cards. I'd thought, gee, if they'd just not hired the posh calligrapher and handwritten the names, they could have given even more money to fighting childhood obesity. Surveying the stick-thin crowd, I had a feeling this was a cause close to their hearts—God forbid one of these “yummy mummies” had a great big fat kid at home.

“Ladies, thank you for coming today,” an older woman in a white suit said, welcoming the group of a hundred. “I'd like to begin by thanking our wonderful, devoted cochairs who have done sooo much for this gravely important cause: Mrs. Burke Tiverton the third, Mrs. Hyram Balsap the seventh, Mrs. Westminster Covington Junior, and our junior chair, Mrs. Parker Elliott.” Golf-claps to reward their “efforts,” which I suspected were just “meetings” that included tea sandwiches and photographers while the charity staffers labored in the background. Another woman got up to the podium as guests began to push their frisée salads around their gilded china plates. “Trans fats. Oils. Chemicals,” she said sternly. “Childhood obesity is a dark, terrible, tragic, horrifying curse that is eating away at our nation.”

No pun intended
, I thought.

“And it's an epidemic of drastic and dire proportions,” she continued, shaken to the core by this rampant, plaguing blight of fatness. “We don't even know what's in our children's lunches! I mean, let's face it, ladies, none of us here even makes our kids' lunch in the first place, but still!” Giggles from the crowd. She continued, discussing the virulent rash of giant roly-poly blob-like kids and I just started to tune out, missing Josh desperately and wondering if Tate Hayes would phone again.