The Gift Bag Chronicles (32 page)

Barb freezes in her tracks. “Is that carbs?” she says, turning back. “Are you giving them
carbs?”
She turns from me to Jonah. “Honey, did you eat carbs? You know our rule about carbs.”

“Carbs, carbs, carbs,” Jonah chants, waving what’s left of his roll.

Barb reaches out, trying to grab the roll. “Honey, give me that.”

“Noooo,” he says, turning away, grabbing my leg.

“Honey, let Mommy have it,” she says, bending down, trying to wrestle the roll from him, which only causes Jonah to squirm harder.

“Uh, I wouldn’t if I were you,” I say, taking a step backward, trying to brace myself as Jonah thrashes against me. “Besides, I think it’s actually whole wheat.”

“Whole wheat? It’s completely
white!”
she says, glaring up at me. “I think I know refined flour when I see it.”

“Honey, I think everyone’s ready to start.”

We both look up. Barry, waving in our direction. Barb stands, fluffs her bangs. “Okay, I’ll deal with this later, but they are not to eat any more carbs. Do I make myself clear?”

Sir, yes, sir.

“Absolutely,” I say, reaching down with my free hand to disentangle Jonah from my leg. Barb sails off, clutching the
OED
and Howard Finnegan, while I turn for the patio. As I push through the door, the cold night air hits us like a slap. Like breathing a glass of ice water after the heat of the room.

“I’m
cold,”
Jonah wails, slowing now, pulling on my arm.

“Yeah, I know,” I say, heading for one of the tables nearest the gas heater. “Look, it’s warmer over here.” I pull out a chair for Jonah and another for myself and practically collapse into it with Sophie still on my shoulder.

“God, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m tired,” I say, looking at them. Small talk with kids has never been my forte, but I have to do something to pass the time until Oscar shows up.

“You said ‘God,’” Jonah says, looking up at me. “You said a swearword.”

“I suppose I did, if I wasn’t using it in a strictly ecumenical sense, which I wasn’t,” I say, with a sigh.

He eyes me suspiciously. “What?”

“Never mind,” I say, turning toward the door. Where is Oscar with the food? “Alex is just babbling to herself.”

“Who’s Alex?” he says.

“I’m Alex,” I say, reaching forward in the chair to extend my hand. “Allow me to introduce myself.”

Jonah looks at my hand, then at me, and back at my hand. Gingerly, he sticks out a hand and takes mine. “Why do you have a boy’s name?”

“Because I have such great rapport with boys. They decided to give me a boy’s name.”

He stares at me. “My name’s Jonah.”

“Like in the Bible.”

“Like in the
fish.”

“Actually, it was a whale, which is technically a mammal.”

His eyes narrow. I’ve got about ten more seconds to keep him distracted with this kind of adult chitchat. “But yes, like a fish,” I say. “A very big fish.”

Sophie wraps her arms around my neck tighter and starts to whimper. God, how do parents do this 24/7? Apparently, they don’t. Or at least Barry and Barb don’t. Suddenly the patio door bangs open, and Oscar bursts through, carrying a huge tray.

“Okay, here we go,” he says, bustling up. “We’ve got turkey and mashed potatoes and green beans. And milk,” he says, handing out the plates and glasses.

“Turkey!”
Jonah says, jumping up and reaching for his plate.

“And for our favorite babysitter, we have a nice glass of sauvignon
blanc,” he says, handing me a glass. “And a candle for atmosphere,” he adds, placing a lighted votive in the middle of the table. “Dinner is served.

“Here,” he says, reaching for Sophie and sinking into another chair, where he starts to feed her. “So, this is fun, right?” he says, gazing around at us. “Like camping. Camping at the club.”

“Camping!”
Jonah says, spearing a piece of turkey.

“Thanks,” I say, cradling the wineglass in my lap. “Thanks for bailing me out. Barry just dumped them on me and bolted.”

“Well, being a single parent is tough,” he says, giving Sophie a sip of milk.

“You know this from experience.”

“My sister,” he says, looking up. “She and her husband split up when her kids were about this age, and yeah, it was tough. I used to spend part of every summer with her, helping out.”

“This was after Hawaii but before the Army?”

“Precisely.”

I sigh and take a sip of wine. I don’t get it. Or rather him. I don’t get
him
. Earlier this afternoon, I had it all figured out. The guy’s a complete asshole. Now I’m confused again. It’s like the sum of the parts doesn’t add up to the whole. On the surface, Oscar can seem like the greatest guy. Smart, funny, cynical, fabulous in bed. Runs a successful business without being a complete obsessive-compulsive about it, unlike most of the men in town. And he’s even good with kids. But then there’s all the rest of it. His penchant for Elsa and her prepubescent ilk. His inability to commit to any woman for longer than three weeks. His refusal even to call me after our one night together. And now —
shit, the Chinese Olympian
— now there’s the Chinese Olympian.

“What’s the matter?”

I look up. Oscar’s staring at me over Sophie’s head. For a second, I wonder, what if this was our life? If we were actually together. All of us. Well, not literally Sophie and Jonah, since they already have parents, such as they are. But a family.

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head, shaking off the idea. “It’s just been a really long day.”

“So Barb’s happy. Her best friend won the tournament. She got her picture taken with Rob Reiner and two Oscar-winning screenwriters, not including her husband,” says Jill.

Allie yawns. “And we only had twenty-five extra gift bags, which the charity was happy to take, so we can all go home happy.”

It’s after midnight, and I’m at one of the empty game tables with Allie and Jill — Maurine left about an hour ago — debriefing ourselves about the evening.

“Hey, did you ever find out who called Howard Finnegan?” Jill asks.

“No, I never got a chance to ask Barry,” I say, shaking my head. “Allie, did you find out who invited him?”

She screws up her face. “Think I got a word with Howard with Barb guarding him all night? Frankly, who cares? He came, problem solved.”

“Okay, then it goes down as one of the modern miracles,” I say.

“Right up there with Lourdes and the dismissal of the Kobe Bryant rape case,” Jill says, rolling her eyes.

“Ladies, is there anything we at the event staff can get you? More wine? Coffee? A ride home?”

We all look up, sleepily. Oscar, in his polo shirt, his jacket over his shoulder.

“No, I’m good,” Jill says, pushing to her feet. “Oscar, another lovely Thanksgiving dinner, thank you,” she says, pressing her hands together over her heart and bowing slightly as she heads past him. “See you guys Monday,” she calls over her shoulder.

“See you then, and thanks,” I say.

“Okay, I’m out of here,” Allie says. “I’m going to early Mass tomorrow.”

I look over at her.

“I’m kidding,” she says, reaching out and squeezing my cheeks in her hand. “I know it’s late, but I’m kidding, Alex.”

“I get it,” I say, or rather mew, since she’s got my face squinched in her hand.

“So, no one needs anything?” Oscar says, nodding in the direction of the kitchen.

“Nah,” Allie says, letting go of my face to grab her bag. “Later, dude, dudette,” she says, ambling out.

“You all right?” Oscar says, turning to me.

“Hey, maybe you know the answer,” I say, ignoring his question and pushing to my feet. “Do you know who called Howard Finnegan? I mean, we didn’t have him down on the list, although Barb insists Barry told us they wanted press, but then suddenly he just showed up.”

“Uh, yeah,” Oscar says, running his hand over his head. “Actually I do.”

“I figured it was Barry,” I say, bending down to retrieve my bag. “A last-minute call to keep Barb happy after he screwed up and forgot to tell us.”

“Actually, it was me.”

I stop and look up. “What do you mean, it was you?”

“I called him.”

It takes a minute for this to sink in. “You called him? Why would you call Howard? Why would you even think to call him?”

“Because I’m the best event producer in town, because I overheard Barb bitching about there being no press, because I have Howard’s cell phone number in my cell phone, because, because, because. Mostly because I figured it was one less headache for you.”

“And because you had no time to check with me? To see what we had arranged about the press?” I can’t believe this. Whatever
is — was — going on between me and Oscar has nothing to do with our jobs. He would never get involved in event publicity, just like I would never go around him and make decisions about what caterer or security company to use.

“Yeah, well, apparently you didn’t arrange it, and don’t worry about thanking me,” he says, raising his hands.

“Hey, I
didn’t
arrange for publicity, because Barry never asked me to arrange it. I can’t believe you took it upon yourself to call
Variety
because you heard Barb bitching. Oscar, if Barry really didn’t want press and suddenly you invited Howard, it could have been a problem.”

“Well, it wasn’t a problem,” he says. “And frankly, it solved a big problem — for you. So like I said, don’t bother thanking me.”

“Notice that I’m not.”

He looks at me and shakes his head. “Okay, I was just trying to help out, but you want to be a bitch, then be a bitch.”

Blood surges to my cheeks. In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never heard Oscar talk like this. Not to me. Not to anyone. Whatever I may have wondered about us out on the patio tonight with the kids is totally gone now. This is a side of Oscar I’ve never seen, and I don’t want to see any more. I grab my bag and turn for the door. “You like doing this?” I say, pausing briefly as I pass him. “You like picking fights with the women you fuck over? Is that how you assuage your guilt?”

“Hey,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my arm. “I never fucked you over. I wouldn’t fuck you over.”

“Well, it feels pretty terrible anyway,” I say, my voice small, my mind spinning. “But I don’t want to think about this anymore,” I say, trying to pull my arm free. “I can’t, right now.”

“Then later,” he says, letting go of my arm. “Think about it later.”

“Yeah, later,” I say, turning for the door, my eyes filling with tears. “Later.”

“You got everything? All the gifts, your mittens, your self-esteem?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling and wiping my nose. I put the phone to my other ear and turn to face out the window at the 737 glinting on the tarmac. The one that just landed from someplace where it’s really winter — Boston, Minneapolis, Chicago maybe—the same one that will be taking me back home. Funny, I’ve lived in L.A. for five years, and I still think of Philadelphia as home. At least at the holidays.

“So you’ll have fun, seeing everyone, especially since you won’t be together at Christmas,” Steven says.

“You can stop trying to make me feel better,” I say, watching as the gate agents, crisp in their navy and white uniforms, unbolt the jetway door. “It’s been three days. Even Christ rose from the dead after three days. I can certainly get over Oscar’s little meltdown after three days.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says. “I still can’t believe he called you a bitch. That bitch.”

I sigh and wipe my nose again. “Well, I probably deserved it at the moment. I was pretty angry.”

“And neither one of you thought to consider that maybe you weren’t really fighting about poor Howard Finnegan but something more personal, more important? I mean, do the words
misdirected anger
mean nothing to you?”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, watching as the arriving passengers — first class, puffed with self-consciousness even if they’re upgrades, and then the coach hordes — stream through the gate. Judging by the scarves and coats bundled under their arms like discarded skins, their pale faces turning instinctively to the sun pouring through the windows, I’m right; refugees from back east. “But it doesn’t matter now,” I say, turning from them, jealous of their arriving when I have my trip still ahead of me. “I just have to get through the
C
party, and then Oscar’s finally out of my life. Out of our lives.

“So tell me what you’re serving at Thanksgiving,” I say, anxious to stop talking about Oscar. I already look a wreck after three days of off-and-on crying, and a five-hour flight isn’t going to help things along.

“Tofu and chateaubriand. I’m going for a vegan/Atkins meal this year. What do you think?”

“I think traditionalists will be disappointed.”

“Traditionalists are always disappointed in a free society. They’re like Republicans or Martha Stewart, only happy when we’re all going along with their plan. So what’s Helen serving?”

“Turkey,” I say. “But the fact that she finally feels up to cooking is what we’re really celebrating.”

“Absolutely. Speaking of traditionalists, Charles is where exactly, since he won’t be with you?”