Spin Doctor (12 page)

“Molly doesn't even care.”

“She's at the age when she doesn't care about anything related to family or tradition or something that might smack of ‘dorkiness,' which she'll never live down at school, should someone find out she actually spent a day hanging out with her parents and her kid brother.”

“So, basically, you're agreeing with me?”

“Eli. Oy.” I sighed. “It's rare enough to get the whole family together for anything these days.”

The conversation ended with his reluctant acquiescence to accompany us. Ian, a budding caricaturist, sketched everything in sight, Molly grabbed the binoculars and scoped out boys, I scarfed down three hot dogs and a large order of crinkle-cut fries (I love those little forks they give you), and the only place Eli didn't anxiously check his watch every few minutes was in the Atlantic Ocean.

“I really feel like I should be getting back to work,” he said, before it was Cyclone time.

As he headed toward the subway bound for Manhattan, it felt like I had my very own roller coaster dropping and dipping and swerving in my gut. Or maybe it was just the hot dogs.

MERIEL

Meriel laughed, exposing the gap between her top front teeth. “I tell you, it just get worse and worse,” she said. “An-other one bites de dust.” She pointed at the line of washers. “We now down to four machines and Mrs. Amy worry daht I won't get de laundry done for her before it's time to walk Taco Bell. Now almost every day is another row wit' her. Fighting. Fighting. And every day I go home to Brooklyn wit' a pounding headache. I know de fighting is mostly because Mr. Eric never home and she feel overwhelmed. I offered to help wit' Isaac but she look at me layk I never have children. My son William is tirty years old, and he have a baby girl too.” Meriel took her wallet from her apron pocket and withdrew a photo of an adorable child, posed formally against a mottled drape: a department store portrait.

“Daht's Julia,” she beamed. “She four years old now. She going to be in de kids' carnival tomorrow. Always de Sahturday before Labor Day. And den we have de West Indian Day Parade on Monday. Every Labor Day, you know, we pahty till de cows come home. Almost forty years now we do it. Daht's another ting Mrs. Amy fight wit' me over. We have all de preparations daht start weeks before de parade. We have de rehearsals for de dances and the bands and make de costumes. Every night for de past two weeks, we pahty. And Mrs. Amy tell me I come to work too tired. She don't layk it one bit.”

Her face relaxed into a grin. “My late husband Leon used to enjoy de pahties so much. He had de diabetes, you know,” Meriel added, changing the subject on a dime. She shook her head. “Left me for God when our boy William was only tirteen.” A memory made her laugh. “And Leon fight wit' his bosses, too, before Carnival. But he never care. Dey never ahngry for too long.”

“You, know, I don't think you've ever told me what Leon did for a living.”

“He worked for de MTA on the trains. Not a conductor—he drove de train. You know…what do you call daht?”

“A driver?”

Meriel laughed again. “I guess so. Leon always fighting with his bosses. Didn't have to be Carnival time. Because he was very ahktive wit' de union. I used to tell him we have de same temper, he and I. But he was not from Jamaica like me. He was Haitian.”

“So how did you meet him?”

“We met here in de States, at a disco out in Coney Island. I tell you, Mrs. Susan, Leon was such a good dancer. He had all de moves to sweep a convent-educated girl like me off her feet.” Meriel blushed like a schoolgirl. “So when I get married and
take his name and become Meriel Delacour from Meriel Robertson, my family tink I put on airs because Leon's name sound so French. Our son William use de name Robertson, though. He love his Jamaican heritage.”

“Is William going to be playing with one of the bands in the parade?” I asked her.

Meriel shook her head. “No, William don't do de mas bands. He do his own ting. He want to be a chef and open a Jamaican restaurant, but all de time, he ahsk me for de old fahmily recipes I always make for him when he was growing up. I tell him
I
should be de chef and he should just sit bahk and collect all the money from de customers!”

I sighed. “I wish Eli could cook. After almost twenty years, he's mastered cold cereal and the occasional omelet. Is William a good cook?”

Meriel winked. “Not as good as me! No one as good as Mama!” She leaned forward. “I tell you, Mrs. Susan, you come to de parade and see for yourself. Bring your fahmily. William gonna have a tent wit' his Jamaican home cooking, right across de street from de Brooklyn Museum. I'm going to be one of de Sesame Flyers mas dancers. You'll see me in my spangles and spandex.” She hefted her large breasts with her hands and looked down at her round belly. “All daht lycra gonna be workin' overtime on Labor Day, I tell you daht!”

ME

Molly evinced no interest in trekking out to Brooklyn for the West Indian Day parade. She claimed to hate crowds, a new development, considering her penchant for sneaking into nightclubs. I asked her to use the time to review her downloaded college applications so we could talk about what needed to be done when I got home. I have little faith that she'll accomplish the assignment. I'd dropped off Ian earlier at a rehearsal in midtown for a backers' audition of a new musical, an adaptation of the first Harry Potter book. In a clandestine attempt at method acting, he'd made an unholy mess of the bathroom by dying his blond hair black for the occasion and had been working on the role at home by sporting a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles with the lenses removed so that he could better see his script. Eli, opting to work at home rather than down at his studio space, said that the quiet house would give him an opportunity to work on
Gia,
uninterrupted, an odd comment, since I never interrupt him when he's drawing. At least he agreed to pick up Ian after the backers' audition. So maybe he
did
hear me when I expressed my need for his parenting presence.

In the lobby, I ran into Faith, looking very jaunty in a tee-shirt the color of an early September sky with a lilac colored scarf at her throat. “Hey, Faith, that blue looks fabulous on you!” I told her.

“Moving on from indigo,” she said proudly. “This is about seven shades lighter. I still have my security blanket, though,” she chuckled, touching the purple scarf.

“Where are you off to on such a glorious day?” For some reason, I felt like one of those barnyard characters who asks Henny Penny where she's headed.

“I'm going to the park. There's a concert over at the Summerstage this afternoon, but I thought I'd sit on a bench and read a little before it starts.” She patted her Channel 13 canvas tote. “And you? Where is this magical weather taking you today?”

I told her about Meriel's invitation to the West Indian Day parade. Faith gave me a thoughtful look. After a few moments she tentatively asked, “Susan, would you mind terribly if I joined you?”

“No, not at all. That would be terrific. My entire family bailed on me, so it would be wonderful to have a friend to share the experience. I've never been to this parade; have you?”

Faith looked shocked. “Me?” She laughed. “But you're always telling me I should broaden my horizons. I'll be right back—unless you want to come with me. I must get a hat. You should have one too, Susan. We'll be standing in the hot sun for hours.”

Her maternal solicitousness was sweet. “No, thanks, I'll be fine,” I demurred. “You go ahead. I'll wait right here.”

A few minutes later Faith reentered the lobby wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat. Between the chapeau and the scarf knotted at her throat, she looked like she was going to spend the afternoon painting wildflowers in a field in Arles rather than
hanging out on Eastern Parkway immersing herself in the colorful culture of the Caribbean.

It was a glorious September day. Even the subway, which was running on a holiday schedule, seemed obliging. We shared the ride out to Brooklyn with a number of people clearly headed for the same destination, outfitted with pride in their island's official colors, or sporting its flag somewhere on their anatomy in every possible manner, from do-rags and headbands to shawls and shortened versions of pareos, tied at the waist and emphasizing the butt. A number of young women were all kitted out to shake their booty for Barbados—or wherever.

“And yet…if those were American flags, there are those among us who might consider that desecration,” Faith whispered to me. “My ancestors in the DAR among them.”

“But it's the opposite,” I argued, sensing Faith's internal struggle with the issue. “This is
celebration
of the colors, not desecration. I, for one, love it.”

As the train pulled into the Eastern Parkway station, many of our fellow passengers began to make their way toward the subway car doors, bursting forth with a rush of high-voltage energy as soon as they were opened. Faith and I were caught in the crush, shuffling along with perhaps a hundred others toward daylight, the heady aroma of frying fish hitting our nostrils even before we ascended to the street. The sweet sound of steel drums wafted down the subway stairs and filtered into the subterranean passageways, heightening the party mood of the spectators who were all too eager to see the sun once again.

Faith's hand clamped down on my forearm with remarkable strength. With her free hand, she clutched her sun hat to her head. I had a feeling she wished for a third appendage to more properly secure her purse. “Don't lose me,” she whispered desperately.

“Don't worry, I won't. Another dozen steps or so till we get to the sidewalk.” I regarded her tensely set jaw. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she assured me nervously.

“This was your idea, remember.”

“I do. I just feel a bit…overwhelmed…is all. I'll be right as rain once we get outside.”

Once on the sidewalk, gulping some fresh air, Faith did indeed relax. I was surprised at how sparse the crowd seemed to be, since we'd arrived more than a half hour after the parade's scheduled start time. We'd emerged just across the street from the Brooklyn Museum and had little trouble securing a curbside spot just a few yards from the reviewing stand, with a terrific view of the festivities. An elderly gentleman in embroidered guyabera shirt and dapper Panama hat ceded his place to Faith with an elegant flourish. “Dis is my day,” he explained courteously, his voice as tuneful as any melody played on a steel drum, “so you should stahnd here where you can see de best.”

Faith, charmed, flashed the man a dazzling smile. “Where is everyone?” she asked him, looking up an empty Eastern Parkway. “Where's the parade?”

The gentleman's laugh was echoed by a half-dozen spectators around him. “Oh, dey're all on Caribbean time! No one wants to start de pahrade too early because it end just down de street at de Grand Ahrmy Plaza.” He pointed to our right. “Once dey get to the Grand Ahrmy Plaza, it's time to stop de pahrty and go home!”

“So when will everyone walk by?” Faith was accustomed to Yankee punctuality.

“Well, you get all de politicians first and all de local groups, like de hospitals and insurance companies daht have deyr own little float. Once dey all get by,” the man grinned, “dehn de real fun begin!”

“I hope I can hold out that long,” Faith sighed to me.

“You'll be fine,” I assured her. “And anytime you get tired, we'll just start to make our way back home.”

Faith scowled. “Not without seeing Meriel first! I haven't come all this way for nothing.”

So, just as Panama had foretold, the procession of politicians passed: the mayor and the police commissioner, each looking as incongruous as a lobster dinner at a bar mitzvah, marched by, and bailed just past the museum, sneaking inside its grand glass facade when they thought no one was looking. Finally, after we'd been standing in the hot sun for about four hours, the first of the mas bands approached. And what a spectacle it was!

“It was worth the wait, huh!?” I shouted to Faith, trying to be heard above the din. A huge soundtruck was blaring reggae from speakers the size of refrigerators. Hundreds of dancers, clad in fatigues and paint-spattered tee-shirts dirty-danced to a song that had the men and women around us in fits of giggles.

“I'm sorry, I'm not getting it,” Faith said apologetically to the man in the Panama hat. “What is the lyric saying?”

Panama laughed again. “It's in de patois,” he said. “Dey're making it about de sugar plant, you know…‘you cannot go for cane,' but it sound like someting else, yes?”

I thought about it for a couple of moments and figured it out. Faith clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “You cannot go fuck-ing!” she said in a shocked whisper intended for my left ear only. “That's what they're saying! No wonder they're all dancing so…naughtily.”

“Welcome to de West Indies!” said Panama with a grin. “You like?” he asked Faith.

She blushed under her wide-brimmed sun hat. By that time I was wishing I'd taken her advice and worn a hat as well, because the skin exposed by my V-necked tee-shirt had resulted in
a sunburned triangle that was beginning to sting. My reddening arms didn't feel so great either.

The sugarcane rebels made their way toward Grand Army Plaza, and for a few minutes the street was quiet. Then a cheer went up as the Sesame Flyers International approached. They were led by dancers costumed in enormous feathered headdresses. Their voluminous skirts were stabilized by elaborate harnesses on wheels that enabled the wearers to glide along the avenue. The effect was magical. Then a pair of turtle doves twelve feet high, with wings of pink and gold, sailed past us as a human float; how the dancer within it managed all that weight for so many miles in the blazing sun was beyond my comprehension. Some of the headdresses and harnesses resembled Native American tribal costumes, but in blindingly vivid colors: pinks, blues, yellows, and greens in neon shades, and reds and oranges so vibrant you practically needed to squint. It was as close as I was ever going to come to Rio.

And then came hundreds if not thousands of revelers, garbed in scanty costumes that would have made a belly dancer feel overdressed. First, we were entertained by a spectacular sea of dancers in red lycra and golden beads, set dramatically against chocolate-colored skin. Every color of the rainbow was represented by huge blocks of people, the design of the costumes differing for each color. The carmine-clad dancers swept by us, about ninety-five percent of them women. All ages and figure types were represented—with a much healthier attitude toward body image than we white chicks have ever had! Most women I know wouldn't have been caught dead in public in ten times the amount of spandex sported by the Sesame Flyers. And the workmanship that went into the building of all these costumes was extraordinary. It had to have been immensely time-consuming. How long, I wondered, did it take them to add each
ruffle, string of ricrac, or rope of beads to thousands of one-of-a-kind outfits? The bright, feathered headdresses made every woman resemble an exotic bird of paradise, and I found myself envying their fun as much as I delighted in it. The view from the helicopter circling above us must have been remarkable as it filmed the ribbon of revelers, a moving rainbow undulating along the roadway.

The women in yellow and black performed a dance that had found its way to the Caribbean by way of Spain, their butts barely concealed by a cascade of golden ruffles, their fans and lace mantillas their only semblance of modesty. Dancers in purple, green, and gold trailed their lilac-colored scarves about their bodies and performed a number that could have come to Flatbush straight out of the Arabian Nights. Many of the costumes were given personal touches by the wearers, who displayed their native island's flag or colors as wristbands, head scarves, or draped over their fannies, just as we'd seen the spectators do on the subway. “Meriel must be out there someplace,” I shouted to Faith. Neither of us could hear anything above the music. “I think this is her group.”

“How will we ever spot her?” Faith shouted back. “This makes the marching bands at the Macy's Thanksgiving parade look like small potatoes.”

“And more feathers, sequins, and sparkles than the Gay Pride parade,” I added. “Too bad Naomi and Claude didn't join us.”

“You know something? I'm feeling a bit peckish,” Faith said suddenly. “The last thing I ate was a bowl of bran flakes at breakfast. And I think I need to move my legs a bit. Would you like anything?” I shook my head as she scanned the row of food stands behind us and frowned. “It's so dreadfully crowded, I'm not so sure I'll make it through the crush. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, call the National Guard,” she joked.

Faith had been gone for about a third of that time when Meriel came huffing over to the curb, resplendent in indigo spandex and enough gold beads (had they been genuine) to remortgage Manhattan. Although her costume was untainted, her exposed limbs were coated with dried paint in white and bright, primary hues.

“Oh, dese dogs are tired,” she said, enveloping me in a sweaty embrace without losing her grasp of an adorable little girl. “Julia, say hello to Mrs. Susan.”

Meriel's granddaughter, also dressed in blue and gold, with a feathered headdress that must have weighed half as much as she did, shyly hid her head in the shadow of her grandmother's ample hips.

“We been walkin' for miles,” Meriel told me, standing first on one white-booted foot and then the other, shaking the free appendage to release some of the pavement pounding tension. “Julia here has been a very big sport. Am I right?” she asked the child, who seemed to have finally wilted from the heat, the long march, and the perspiration-stained polyester bathing suit.

“Hi, Julia,” I said, extending my hand to her. “I'm Susan. I'm a friend of your grandma's.”

“Nana, I'm thirsty,” said Julia, ignoring me in the way only an exhausted four-year-old can.

“Okay…we get you someting to drink, sweetheart. Your daddy's stahnd is right over dere.” She pointed to the sidewalk in the direction Faith had headed a few minutes earlier. “Susan, you come wit' us. I like you to meet my son William.”

I hesitated, only because I was afraid that if I couldn't locate Faith, she might return to our spot and find me gone, and I didn't want to lose her in the crowd. But I figured she couldn't have gotten too far, given the mob scene behind us. Her giant sun hat and trailing purple scarf would at least give me a landmark to look out for.

“Oh, I can scarcely keep my eyes open,” Meriel complained, though a grin was plastered on her face. “Two in de
A.M
. I was up for de j'ouvay. Of course, being on Caribbean time,” she laughed, “dey didn' start until four!”