Spin Doctor (6 page)

“I don't need a reading. I know why I have deep sorrows.” Alice then grew curious. “How much does it cost?”

“Twenty dollars. And for a full reading and a chart, three hundred. Cash. After I go to my church and meditate on your life.”

Naomi drew Alice aside. “Those ‘churches' are really Gypsy hangouts where they boast to each other how they took advantage of some
gaje
that day. Trust me: don't do it.”

I caught Mala Sonia giving the two of them the evil eye.

“I can spring for the twenty bucks,” Alice told the Gypsy. “Beyond that is out of my price range I'm afraid.”

“Sar laci and'ekh vadra,”
Mala Sonia muttered to herself. “Like crabs in a bucket.”

The worm was on the hook. Mala Sonia was a pro who knew how to turn that meager tidbit into a mighty fine dinner. She led Alice away from Naomi and sat her down at the long table. “I know your grandmother just died,” she began.

“Well, you're the super's wife, so of course you do,” Alice countered suspiciously. “You'd better not predict that I'll be served with an eviction notice—because my name is on the lease, so everything's legal.”

The super's wife ignored the threat. “Is that a Dana Buchman blouse you're wearing?”

Alice gave Mala Sonia an incredulous look, stunned that the pulchritudinous Gypsy woman currently sporting a skintight horizontally striped tank top and orange terry-cloth shorts above tanned legs and Fredericks of Hollywood–style mules might possess an intimate familiarity with a midtown, mid-priced, middle-of-the-road designer who's not exactly a household name. Actually, I suspect that Mala Sonia spends the
money she makes giving “psychic readings” on terrific clothes: we just never see her in them. Or else she's gained her knowledge of Fashion Avenue from spending so much time in this depressingly downscale laundry room peopled with relatively upmarket tenants.

“I can read you like a book,” Mala Sonia intoned, as though she were reciting from the Gypsy's Manual, basic readings chapter. “Your grandmother is very unhappy now.”

Alice's eyes immediately began to well with tears. That's how those Gypsy “readers” do it. They tap into something pretty general and allow the mark to relate it to something deeply personal. When the mark has displayed his or her vulnerability—
pow!

“She wants you to be happy; to find a man to love you. And there is one who you used to love who will come back into your life and you must decide what to do about it. He is very close to you now, but this time there is someone who stands between you.”

Alice shivered just perceptibly enough for her reaction to register with students of human behavior—like myself and Mala Sonia. “Well, first of all, this blouse is a cheap knockoff—although it
is
a lot like Dana Buchman's designs. But if you can really read me like a book, tell me the guy's name!” Alice challenged skeptically.

Amy entered the room, carrying her son Isaac in a Snuggly. “Oh, there you are, Mrs. Badescu. I'm looking for Stevo. You remember me? I'm Amy Baum. My husband Eric and I just moved in last week? And there's still something wrong with the showerhead in the master bathroom. So can you tell Stevo to get up to our apartment right away?” She pressed a bill into Mala Sonia's palm. It found its way into the Gypsy's pocket with the speed of a sleight of hand trick. “Apartment 4K,” Amy reminded her. I'm Baum, but it's under my husband's last name:
Witherspoon.” She dashed out the door. “I'll expect Stevo before two. Isaac has to go down for his nap then and we need absolute quiet in the apartment except for Baby Bach.”

“Witherspoon?” Alice said incredulously. “Eric Witherspoon?”

“You asked me his name,” Mala Sonia said. “That's him!”

Alice looked totally stunned. “Eric Witherspoon lives here now? And that's his wife?” Mala Sonia nodded. “I dated him last year; we even lived together for a few months at his garden apartment in Park Slope! I moved out of my grandmother's apartment to be with him and then he ended up dumping me like raw sewage.”

“
Kon del tut o nai shai dela tut wi o vast:
he who gives you a finger will also give you the whole hand.”

Alice looked at Mala Sonia. “Apparently.”

“Eric needed a second bedroom when they had the baby, so they moved into Manhattan,” Mala Sonia said.

“My God. And she has a baby already.” Alice started counting the months on her fingers. “No way that kid could have been conceived
after
they got married. That sonofabitch works pretty damn fast. I wonder what it feels like for him to move into the same building where an ex-girlfriend lives. I wonder if he ever told Amy about me.”

“I know you do,” replied Mala Sonia. “And he did. But she was too busy thinking about other things just now to even consider that his ex might be you. Are you sure you don't want that full reading?”

“I want a drink.”

“At eight-thirty
A.M
.?” I said. “You might want to reconsider such self-destructive behavior.”

“Not this morning,” Alice replied, and began to drag her laundry cart out the door. “I'll be back in an hour when there's a vacant washer. Totally pickled. That way I can be hung over before it's too late in the day to drink a pot of coffee in order to get over it.”

“If you really want a drink, why don't you come to Sappho tonight?” Claude suggested.

“Sappho? Isn't that the nightclub in the meat packing district where straight women get to act like they're gay?” Naomi nodded. “I've never been there,” Alice said, mulling over the invitation. “I've always been kind of curious about it, though. Do
you
two go there often?” I could see that she was wondering why two lesbians would frequent a club where women
pretended
to be lesbians.

“We're there every night,” Naomi said. “We own it.”

“Why don't you come tonight too, Susan,” Claude urged. “And each of you—bring a girlfriend, if you want to. Actually, tonight would be a great night to come down. We're having a Weimar Nacht. You know, we're pretending it's Berlin in 1931 and everyone gets to act like Lili Marlene.”

“As long as you don't also have people dressing up in brown shirts, I think I can handle it,” Alice said. “But I've got a performance at eight. How late are you there?”

Naomi gave a little snort. “It's a
nightclub,
Alice. We don't roll up the sidewalks at midnight. By the time Claude and I usually get out of there, most people are just getting ready to
start
their day! In fact, we often come to our therapy sessions with Susan directly from the club.”

“Well then, I just might check it out tonight,” Alice said. “As
long as you also promise me that if I tie on a few too many over this Eric Witherspoon news you'll pour me discreetly into a taxi and never mention the incident again.”

“Girl Scouts' honor,” said Claude, crossing her heart.

“I think that oath only applies to promising not to burn the toasted marshmallows,” Naomi quipped.

Claude shot her a look. “A lot you know. That's the Campfire Girls you're thinking of.”

These days Claude and Naomi could turn anything into a full-fledged blow-up. I knew that much of the tension between them was really related to the deeper issue of the adoption, but my God, could they bicker!

Naomi shrugged in disgust. “Girl Scouts, Campfire Girls,
whatever.
Funny how it's totally okay when they throw a bunch of little girls together like that and then the same people go wacko when some of those little girls begin to like each other more than they're ‘supposed to,' whatever
that
means.”

Claude looked uncomfortably from Alice and Mala Sonia to me and then back to Naomi. “Maybe we should save this for our next session, baby.”

ME

Eli phoned at six
P.M
. to say that he needed to work late again—something about inking—and Ian was sleeping over at a friend's house, so I accepted Claude and Naomi's invitation to head down to Sappho. I ran into Alice, who was there with her pregnant friend Isabel Martinucci. Izzy was very anxious—once she learned that I was a therapist—that I not judge her harshly for hanging out in a bar while she was expecting a baby. “Don't worry, I don't do that,” I assured her.

“Good, because we judge ourselves harshly enough!” a tipsy Alice said, raising her martini glass.

It was hard to converse above the music. Although Sappho is a very sophisticated night spot—and I did enjoy its atmosphere of elegant decadence with just a whiff of danger—I think I may be too old for this kind of thing. I was never much of a partier, actually, even in my youth.

From the sidelines I watched the women dancing with one another as awkwardly as junior high school kids, or tentatively making out on couches or plushy banquettes, unsure of what—or where—to touch, getting off on acting “wicked.” Tonight, in keeping with the Weimar theme, many of the women were dressed like Dietrich, in black tie and tails, often paired with hot pants instead of trousers, and accessorized with fishnet hosiery, high black heels, and rakishly worn fedoras. Alice and Izzy, since they were both professional actresses, really got into the idea of being costumed. Alice had taken her ensemble to the theatre and changed clothes in the dressing room after her
Grandma Finnegan's Wake
performance.

“I feel like shit,” Izzy announced suddenly.

“Let's find the ladies' room then,” I suggested.

“No, not that kind of shit. I'm not going to puke or anything. This is only Diet Coke,” she said, raising her glass. Izzy suddenly burst into tears.

Alice put her arm over her friend's shoulder and began to comfort her. “Do you want to get up? Move around a bit? Let's take a walk. How's that sound?”

Izzy shook her head. “I…feel so…unloved,” she sobbed. “Sorry,” she immediately added, fishing for a tissue in her evening purse. “My hormones are going insane.” She assumed an expression of forced cheer. “Don't mind me! I'm okay!”

“Hey, you want to dance?” Alice asked her.

Izzy nodded. “Yeah. That's like a moving hug. And I really need a hug. Damn! I used to act this way when I was
drunk!
”

“Well, you have a different ‘excuse' now,” I said. “The hormones. It's okay. I seem to remember being pretty wacko both times I was pregnant too.”

“How old are your kids?” Izzy asked.

“Eleven and sixteen. And as temperamentally different as two kids could possibly be. One is an angel and the other…isn't.”

“I hope this is a girl,” Izzy said, patting her belly. “They're much easier.”

“It's a myth!” I snorted, wondering what the hell Molly was up to tonight. She said she was going to the movies with a girlfriend this evening, having promised on all she held sacred (so I had my doubts) that she'd do her homework first. At her age, most of her classmates go out on weekday evenings as long as they observe a curfew, so it's bootless for me to try to force her to stay at home. I did remind Molly that it was a school night, but I'm pretty confident, from experience, that my words carried all the weight of a mayfly.

Alice devoured the maraschino cherry in her cocktail, followed by several valiant though unsuccessful attempts to tie the stem into a knot with her tongue. Izzy slurped down the remainder of her diet soda, then the two of them negotiated their way to the crowded dance floor. The music was a sultry though occasionally strident German torch song that managed to simultaneously relax me and make me nervous. I leaned against the ruby-colored banquette and sipped my vodka tonic, closing my eyes—with one hand on my purse, of course—letting the tune get under my skin. A few moments later I returned my focus to the dance floor, wondering why I'd accepted Claude and Naomi's invitation. It had nothing to do with socializing in the same venue as some of my clients. In many instances, avoiding those situations is impractical.
My laundry room clients are women I've grown fond of; we frequently run into one another in the building, chatting informally when we do. To maintain appropriate boundaries, the only actual rule I enforce is that the dirty linen aired during the sessions in the basement stays in the basement.

My ambivalence tonight came from something else entirely. I just wasn't in a dancing mood and felt guilty that I wasn't enjoying my complimentary drink.

I watched Alice and Izzy doing the junior high hug-and-sway. Izzy suddenly burst into tears again on Alice's shoulder. Without missing a beat, Alice removed the white pocket square from her tuxedo jacket and dried her friend's eyes. It was a touching, unguarded moment that suddenly made me realize that I have no girlfriends whose shoulders I can cry on. In fact, I have no friends who I feel as close and connected to as I do with some of my clients. I've heard colleagues voice similar complaints: their personal life suffers while their professional one thrives, but misery having company doesn't make it any less depressing.

A tall, ponytailed blonde in the de rigueur black fedora caught my eye. She was holding her much shorter partner so tenderly; and though their dancing wasn't going to win them any Fred and Ginger (or Ginger and Mary Ann) awards, the two of them looked like they were more than just good friends. Particularly after I saw them kiss. I felt like such a voyeur, but for some reason, they mesmerized me. Perhaps it was because I was certain there was something familiar about the way the shorter woman moved, always listing ever so slightly to port, because her left leg was just a fraction shorter than her right.

When the couple turned, and her slouchy fedora slipped back on her head, I caught a good look at the blonde's partner's face. I knocked over my drink, and practically vaulted the low black granite cocktail table trying to reach them.

“Molly! What the hell are you doing here?!”

She abruptly stopped dancing and looked just as shocked to see
me.
“I could ask you the same thing, Mom.”

I steered her into the corner where we'd have some semblance of privacy and plopped her onto the cushy banquette. Her friend hovered guiltily about two feet away. “Don't sass me, young lady,” I heard myself say, sounding like my own mother. “Don't make me list your transgressions in front of your friend. I'm assuming this is the same Lauren you told me you were going to the movies with tonight.”

Molly started to laugh. In the past few years she's perfected the teenage snort. Its very tone and delivery mocks mothers. “Yeah, right. Lauren.”

“Molly, first of all—no, second of all—even though you've only got four days left until summer vacation, this is a school night.
First
of all, you're underage—in a bar—how the hell did they let you in here in the first place? And what the heck is so funny about Lauren? You haven't fazed me or freaked me out by French kissing with a girl, you know. The piercing on your…you know…was infinitely more outrageous.”

“Then I'm losing my touch.”

“I do, however, want an explanation. And an apology for lying to me. It's one thing to say you're going to the movies on a school night. You promised to do your homework first, and I gave you the respect of taking you at your word. But a nightclub? This isn't acceptable, Molly. And I have a feeling it wouldn't be acceptable to Lauren's mother either.”

“Lauren,”
Molly scoffed again, as though I was an idiot. “We are so lucky it's so dark in here,” she added, in a tone I can only describe as adolescent self-satisfaction. Are there any other mothers out there whose skin crawls at teenagers' overuse of
the word “so”? There's another affectation that seems designed to annoy parents.

Molly took me by one hand and her tall blond partner by the other and dragged us all off the dance floor and into the narrow hallway that led to the bathrooms. She finally halted in an alcove housing those cumbersome chrome-plated dinosaurs otherwise known as pay phones where the light was at least bright enough to see the numbered buttons.

“Okay,” I told my daughter, “talk.”

Acting as though I had greatly incommoded them, Molly turned to her friend with a shrug. “I guess we better come clean,” she said, removing the blonde's hat.

Now that her friend's face was no longer shaded, I wasn't sure which of Molly's lies I should be more pissed off about.

“Ma, meet Laurence.”

“Laurence.” I let the word sit on my tongue for a couple of moments, tasting it. It took every ounce of my willpower to refrain from reaming out my daughter in front of her friend. “Laurence. Do you have a last name, Laurence?” He mumbled something, genuinely embarrassed.

“Jacobs. Laurence Jacobs,” Molly translated sullenly.

“My mother was a real Olivier freak,” Laurence said sheepishly.

He's lucky she didn't name him Heathcliff. “So,
Laurence-not-Lauren,
does your mother know you're out this late?” Eek, I was suddenly channeling another mother again: someone from the Eisenhower era who wore aprons and sensible heels every day instead of faded Levi's and clogs.

“Yeah, I guess. She doesn't care, though. She and my dad aren't home anyway.”

“And how do you know my daughter, since she's never bothered to mention your name before?”

“Mom,” Molly wailed, “stop giving him the third degree. We're not kids!”

“I'm afraid that the State of New York would quibble with you on that point.”

Laurence opened his mouth to reply but received a shot in the ribs from my delicate daughter, who decided to speak for him.