Chapter TEN

WHEN I TOLD James he could meet Dylan two weeks from Saturday, I meant to pick a day so far away that it would never come. But now here it is. Dylan and I are standing at the bottom of the steps at the Bronx Zoo, looking up at the fountain—where I expect James is already waiting. He and I agreed that if the weather was bad, we’d put this off until tomorrow, so I search the blue sky hopefully for clouds. Cumulus, cirrus, stratus. Anything will do. But all I can see is a helicopter.

“You don’t look happy, Mommy,” Dylan says as I bend down to tie his sneaker. Admittedly, it’s not really untied, but if I stop to fuss with the laces on his Nikes, I can put off our meeting James for another thirty seconds.

“Of course I’m happy,” I say, standing up and trying not to sigh. Or at least too deeply. “I’m always happy when you’re around, sweetie.” I ruffle his hair, then pat it down, and do the same to my own.

“Then come on,” he says impatiently. “I want to meet my real daddy.”

And I want to throw up.

I go to take Dylan’s hand, but he races ahead of me and bounds up the steps. At the top, he turns around to grin down at me. “Slowpoke!” he hollers. Once I’m next to him, he dashes toward the fountain. And then comes to a complete halt.

I catch up to him and put my arms around him. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“I’m scared. There are lions here,” he says, tears springing to his eyes. And then he adds more quietly, “And what if my daddy doesn’t like me?”

I hug him close. My first impulse is to grab him and run away. And why not? That’s what James did to us. But this isn’t about James. Dylan deserves to find out about his father. And to feel secure while he’s doing it.

“Who in their right mind wouldn’t like you?” I ask, kissing the top of his head. “In fact, who wouldn’t love you? Just the way I do.”

He looks up at me with trusting eyes, and I feel a lump in my throat. Then I notice James, standing on the other side of the fountain, watching us. I don’t approach him. Maybe it will be like one of those scenes in a movie where he spots us from afar, realizes what a perfect duo we are, and decides just to disappear again.

But no such luck. He’s waiting for us to come over. I take Dylan’s hand in mine. “Honey, that’s James over there,” I say. “Let’s go say hello.”

Dylan hesitates and then follows my gaze. “The man holding the balloon animals?” he asks, his face brightening.

I nod and Dylan lets go of my hand to rush over. James walks toward him, a big smile spreading across his face. He holds out what’s probably meant to be an elephant, made from I don’t know how many blue and green balloons, and Dylan accepts it eagerly.

“Daddy, this is great! Did you make it yourself?” Dylan asks.

Daddy? It took me eleven months, two hundred sleepless nights and two thousand diaper changes to hear the word “Mama” for the first time. All James has to do is make a lousy balloon animal and he’s “Daddy.”

I approach them slowly. James and Dylan are already laughing together and talking and for a moment, I’m the one who feels like an outsider.

James gives me a shy smile. He’s not sure whether to kiss my cheek or shake my hand, and he settles on a little wave, avoiding all bodily contact.

“Can we go to the children’s zoo?” asks Dylan, heady with excitement.

“Sure,” says James, leading the way. We start down the road and Dylan reaches to take James’s hand. I’m walking awkwardly next to them and think of taking Dylan’s other hand. But will that make us look too much like a happy little family? Give Dylan the wrong idea of what he can expect? I don’t have to worry about it for too long, because after just a few minutes, Dylan groans and looks down the endless path in front of us.

“How much more do we have to walk?” he asks, leaning heavily on James’s arm.

“Not far, almost there,” says James, ever the encouraging hiker. “But do you want a ride?”

Dylan, my city-raised son, looks around for a taxi.

“On my shoulders,” James explains. And when a wide-eyed Dylan agrees, James crouches down and says, “Hop on!”

Dylan grabs onto James’s sandy hair like he’s riding a pony and from his perch high above, looks down and gives me a big grin. “How cool is this, Mom!” he says, bouncing along.

“Really cool,” I say, offering a weak smile. I haven’t been able to carry Dylan since he had that growth spurt at four, but I’m glad—should be glad—that he can get a treetop view of the world from James’s shoulders.

At the petting zoo, James puts Dylan down and gives him a quarter to get a bag of animal feed. Dylan confidently holds out a handful of nuggets for a billy goat, but when the horned animal lowers his head to start munching, Dylan lurches back and drops the feed on the ground.

“Let’s try it together,” James says, putting his palm under Dylan’s. “Secret is to keep your hand flat. He wants the feed, not your fingers, so just keep them out of the way.”

With James at his side, Dylan successfully provides lunch for two billy goats and three baby sheep. James has endless fun facts to tell about the animals, and Dylan seems thrilled with his steady stream of stories. I have to admit that even I’m enjoying myself listening to James’s easy banter. After the children’s zoo, Dylan wants to see the penguins, and who could say no? We go to observe them and James makes the usual joke about their looking like maître d’s. Dylan giggles. He seems to have accepted James at face value—a nice man who knows his way around a zoo. I keep hoping Dylan will at least ask James an awkward question or two, but he never does.

We’d agreed to an hour and a half visit for the first meeting, but we’re all having so much fun we let it slide into two. Finally, James walks us back to the parking lot.

“Where are we going next time, Daddy?” Dylan asks, dragging his feet.

James glances at me uncertainly. “Some place great,” he says. And then turning seriously to me he adds, “If it’s okay with Mom.”

I’d like to take my time to answer. In fact I’d like to take about eight years. But I’ve done the right thing. This has been a good afternoon for Dylan and he deserves more.

“Sure, we’ll have more great afternoons,” I say. But I keep the what and where vague. It took all my emotional reserves to deal with today and I’ll have to restock before the next meeting. I hustle Dylan into the backseat and when I buckle him in, he quickly reaches for his Game Boy. I wish Dylan had gone for a book instead of the electronic toy. Maybe that would be proof that I’m a good mother. But apparently his skill with the control button is impressive enough.

“You’ve raised a terrific kid,” James says, after he’s high-fived Dylan and said good-bye. He walks around to the other side of the car with me and opens the door. Then he startles me by taking my hand. “In fact, you’re both terrific,” he says. “Thanks for letting me back into your life.”

I step away from him and slide behind the wheel. Finally, I turn on the ignition. “Back into Dylan’s life, not mine,” I correct him.

“Enough for now,” James says. He waves to both of us and stands watching for a long time as I drive away.

 

“So it doesn’t sound like it was that bad,” Kate says as we push our way through the lobby of the Empire State Building the next day.

“Not so bad. He was good with Dylan. And that’s all that matters,” I say, finally summing up my visit with James. Bradford got the abridged version of the story, but as usual I put Kate through the whole play-by-play. She even nodded encouragingly when I got to the part about which billy goat was cutest. That’s what best friends are for.

“I don’t know if I could have been as mature as you were,” says Kate supportively.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I say, thinking proudly of how I handled the situation with Mimi and the hot tub. “I’m acting so grown up lately that by the end of the week I may be eighty.”

“Don’t worry, I have a new DNA skin cream that can make you look seventy,” says Kate.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty sure I can do that all on my own.” I laugh.

We hit the button on the elevator and breeze up to the twenty-fourth floor and through a door marked metronaps. Most people come to the Empire State Building to stand on the observation deck and take in the city. Kate and I have come to escape from everything and catch a snooze. Some genius decided he could charge people to come here and sleep for twenty minutes in plastic padded cocoons. And I guess he is a genius, because here we are, plunking down our money.

“Tell me again why you want to do this,” I ask Kate.

“Because it’s Tuesday,” she says, looking at me meaningfully. “Used to be my regular day with Owen at The Waldorf-Astoria. Or the Four Seasons. Or the Plaza. We always had great sex and even better rooms. And then we’d take a nap. Have I ever told you about the naps?” She pauses. Yes, she has told me about the naps and I’m convinced that the best part of having an affair is getting to lie down in the afternoon.

“I’m glad you’re not seeing Owen today,” I say. “You’re making the right decision.”

Kate looks dubious. “I don’t know if I am. He’s still the most wonderful man I know. But after the Yankees game I decided we should take a break. He got me so mad that day. We both need time to think things over.”

I worry that while Kate needs time to decide whether Owen’s still a fling or her future, Owen’s just working on how to get the mustard stains out of his shirt.

I take in the strange room filled with rows of sleeping pods. Pods. The whole thing feels very sci-fi. Something out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Though if somebody’s going to snatch my body, I hope they bring back a thinner one. I wouldn’t normally go to a place like this. Still, I’m here for Kate. If Owen can be replaced by a commercial sleeping station, I’m all for it.

I climb into my personal sleep capsule and notice several businessmen dozing nearby. Only in Manhattan could people be convinced that instead of simply putting their heads down on the desk when they’re tired, they need to pay good money to take a nap. And maybe they do. After all, this is the sleep-deprivation capital of the world. Sleeping no more than five hours a night is a badge of honor, and four hours proves you deserve to be mayor. Although you shouldn’t necessarily operate a car.

In the next pod, Kate is fiddling with the lighting controls, and her pod plunges into near darkness. I busy myself adjusting the speakers, which offer a dozen choices of relaxing sounds. I flick between lapping waves, which make me slightly seasick, and the gushing waterfall, which makes me want to go to the bathroom.

“You sleeping?” I ask Kate, trying to keep my voice low.

“No,” she says.

“Me either. And guess what I just thought of?” I say brightly. “You and me. Here. We’re like two peas in a pod.”

“That’s really what you were thinking about?” she asks, probably disturbed that when her best friend lets her mind roam free, this is where it ends up. “I was thinking about Owen. How much I love him. And that I should have been more understanding.”

I practically jump out of my capsule. “Understanding of what?” I ask.

“Shhh,” says a man a few cocoons away. “People are trying to sleep in here.”

What does he think this is, a library? Feels to me more like a pajama party. Where the whole idea is to talk. And talk about boys.

But Kate’s closed her eyes, so I lie rigidly in my shell. How embarrassing to admit that I got eight hours of sleep last night and don’t need a nap. I switch the white-noise speakers past the sounds of wind rustling and rain pattering to the very realistic bees buzzing. What’s relaxing about a bee that’s about to sting you? Good thing I don’t need any sleep, because I’d never get any.

Nobody else in the room can get much sleep either, because Kate’s cell phone starts ringing shrilly. She abruptly sits up and answers it, but with the white noise machine still on in her pod, she doesn’t realize how loudly she’s talking.

“Oh darling, I love you, too!” she says, practically screaming. “No really, it was me. My fault. All my fault. Yes, I know it’s Tuesday. Of course I want to be with you.”

I turn down my speakers so I can listen to every word.

“Owen, of course, yes. Forever.” She turns up the lights over her head, and from the happy look on her face, I guess that three seconds of Owen is better than twenty minutes of dreamy sleep. If Kate was taking a break from Owen, it turned out to be shorter than Britney Spears’ first marriage.

Kate gives me a thumbs-up sign and mouths, “Owen!” As if the whole room doesn’t already know. She points to the door and I gladly abandon my pod to follow her out.

“Darling, wherever you want. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” There’s a brief pause and then she makes a face. “The Plaza again? Didn’t we have better sex at The Carlyle?” She giggles. “Well, yes, your empty warehouse was definitely the best. Or maybe the penthouse on the top of that office tower you’re buying. And I love it that you’re bidding on that former church in Brooklyn. That pew was the most fun!”

The pew? Some details I could live without knowing. Guess when Owen is thinking about location, location, location, real estate’s not the only thing on his mind.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night and realize I’m not being a good friend. Instead of standing by Kate no matter what, I should be dragging her away from Owen. Kate’s not seeing the handwriting on the wall, but I am. Every story ends the same way. Fly down to Tortola? Owen rushes back to his wife. Auction at Sotheby’s? He’s there with his wife. Yankees game where we’re sitting with Billy Crystal? He wants to get out of there, because he’s a married man. Is there a theme here?

Maybe they had make up sex at the Plaza yesterday, but no amount of sex can make up for what Owen’s doing. And as it turns out there wasn’t that much sex anyway. Kate called me at five to say she was back in her office. Owen forgot he had to hightail it over to Cartier to pick up a little anniversary present. For guess who?

I lie staring at the ceiling for half an hour trying to figure out how I can help Kate. Or when I can get the ceiling painted. Maybe I can ask Berni who did her little clouds. As long as I’m wide awake I get out of bed and pad down to the study where several sample wedding invitations are spread across the desk, exactly where they’ve been sitting for three weeks. The standard engraved one is too stuffy. The hand-printed calligraphy is impossible to decipher. I toss them all into the wastebasket. Maybe I can create my own. Even better, make it a project and declare next Wednesday Design a Wedding Invitation Day at Spence. Or maybe that sends the wrong message to eleven-year-old girls, who should be thinking about becoming world leaders, not wives.

Better to focus on someone else’s problems than your own. I put my mind back to solving Kate’s married-man crisis, but I need help with this one. I slip out of the house, and walk through the quiet streets of Hadley Farms over to Berni’s. I know she and the babies will be awake at this hour because it’s feeding time. Then again, it’s always feeding time. I knock softly on the door, and Berni doesn’t seem at all surprised to see me. She’s up, so why wouldn’t the rest of the world be?

“Kate needs our help,” I say, skipping past hello and getting right to the point. “She has an addiction.”

Berni seems unfazed. “Who doesn’t have an addiction? With a client list like I used to have, I’ve seen ’em all. Let’s see, there’s alcohol, cocaine, heroin, Percoset, sex, shopping and chocolate.” She reels off the classics as casually as she would this week’s grocery list. “What’s Kate’s problem?”

“Owen,” I say.

“That’s all?” Berni asks. She sounds disappointed. It’s hard to impress a woman who’s visited so many clients at Betty Ford that the clinic named a bench after her.

While we’ve been talking, Berni has been holding Baby B over her shoulder and patting his back. Now he lets out a contented burp and Berni breaks into a big smile.

“My smart boy. My wonderful boy.” She rubs his back happily. “Wasn’t that the best burp you ever heard?” she asks me.

“Good burp, but not the best burp,” I say critically, as if I’m judging an Olympic competition. High marks for length of emission, but points off for volume. Most new moms think their baby’s every burp qualifies for a gold medal. But aren’t we setting unrealistic expectations if a baby grows up thinking that whenever he burps or poops, the world is going to cheer? Let the kid try either of those things in public when he’s six and see what happens.

“So a substance abuse problem. Kate. Owen. It’s simple,” says Berni, sounding professional as she puts down Baby B. “We need to do an intervention.”

It doesn’t take her more than a couple of minutes to clue me in on what she has in mind. Asking Berni what to do about an addiction is as efficient as asking Anna Wintour where to buy sunglasses. She’s done it a million times and knows exactly how to proceed.

“Let’s head over to Kate right now,” she says. “No time like the pres-ent.”

“What about the babies?” I ask.

“The baby nurse is here. And Aidan. And my mother.” Berni snaps her fingers. “My mother. Erica should come with us. As many people as possible should confront Kate. The whole idea of an intervention is to make the addict realize that everyone in the world sees her problem.”

I’m starting to feel a little bad about turning Kate into the poster girl for addiction. Just because she won’t leave Owen doesn’t mean she’s the new River Phoenix. Still, Berni seems to know what she’s doing. And it’s starting to sound like a party. Maybe I should call ahead to make sure Kate has enough food.

Berni grabs her half-asleep mother, who thought she was here for a visit with her grandchildren but has now been enlisted into the Leave Owen Now army. We get into the car to race over to Kate’s new upstate house and storm the barricades. Or in this case, the white picket fence.

“Surprise is everything,” says Berni, as we get to Kate’s front door and she expertly picks the lock. Something else she learned from one of her clients? But even Berni’s no match for Kate’s alarm system. Loud wails and flashing lights scream into the dawn, along with a deep, masculine recorded voice. “The perimeter has been breached. Police have been called. Leave the premises immediately.” You’d think we were breaking into the National Gallery.

With the alarms and warnings ringing, Kate dashes down the staircase in a panic, and when she sees us, she looks relieved. Why she came down if she thought she was interrupting a crime in progress is beyond me. A bell goes off, and everyone’s first impulse is to run right into the arms of the robber.

“What are you doing here?” Kate asks, turning off the alarm system. And then looking alarmed herself as the three of us circle around her.

“It’s an intervention, dear,” says Erica kindly. “I’m not sure what that means. But you do have a lovely place here. Thank you for having us.”

Kate, who hadn’t intended to have us at all, looks baffled and turns to Berni for help.

“We’re here to make you see the truth,” says Berni.

“I can’t handle the truth,” says Kate flippantly. “I still refuse to believe that butter is bad for you.”

“You have to handle this,” I say adamantly. “We’re here to get you to break up with Owen. He’s bad for you. It’s never going to work. You have to leave him.”

Kate ducks away from our circle and stamps into the living room. “Is that what this is about?” she asks incredulously.

Before we have a chance to answer, three policemen walk through the still open door, hands poised on their pistols.

“Dr. Steele, are you okay? We got a call from the security company.” He eyes us suspiciously. “These people bothering you?”

Kate spins around, looks at us, and then putting her hands on her hips turns histrionically to the policeman. “Yes, yes!” she says. “Definitely bothering me. They’re up to no good.”

“Are you filing a complaint?” asks one of the other cops, pulling out a pad.

“I certainly am,” says Kate, flouncing over to lean against her grand piano. Which in her case, is best used for posing, not playing. I once heard her pound out the “Minute Waltz” when we were kids and it felt like it took an hour.

Berni goes over and puts her arm around the shortest policeman’s shoulder. “Honey, it’s just a domestic dispute,” she says. “We’ll take care of it.” She artfully steers him toward the door and the other two follow without even a backward glance. These guys are less effective than Patrolman Pete. And not nearly as cute. I kind of wish we’d set off the smoke detector. Firemen are always adorable.

“I need a drink,” says Erica, once they’re gone.

“Coffee? Tea? Milk?” asks Kate, happier to play hostess than hostage.

“A nice Chardonnay would be good,” says Erica.

At seven-fifteen in the morning? We could be focusing on the wrong addict here.

Kate comes back with an open bottle of white wine, and in deference to the hour, four juice glasses. She fills each glass to the brim and hands them out. When Kate sits down, we each grab a chair to gather around her.

“We’re here because we love you,” says Berni, kicking off our intervention.

“And because we’re worried about you and want to help,” I add importantly.

“So let’s start with the fact that you’re dating a married man,” says Berni.

“You are?” asks Erica, who up until now hasn’t known the details and is suddenly interested. She sits up, takes a sip of her wine and gives a knowing smile. “Aren’t married men the best? I had one myself. They’re so passionate. So attentive. Shower you with presents.” She settles back into her chair, lost in her own memories.

Berni whips around. “Mom, you?” she asks. “I thought you’d never been with anybody but Daddy.”

“This was before I met your father,” Erica says. “Why would I have told you?”

“Why would you tell me now?” Berni asks.

I clear my throat. “We can discuss this another time,” I suggest. “But thank you for sharing, Erica.”

“It’s been a pleasure. I’m glad you appreciate it,” she says, patting me on the knee. “We can only help dear Kate if we’re honest.”

Kate swigs down her wine and refills her glass.

“All right, I’ll be honest,” says Berni, turning back to Kate and getting straight to the point. “You’re being an idiot. Owen’s a shit. I personally can’t bear the sight of him.”

“You’ve never seen him,” Kate fires back.

“None of your friends get to see him,” I say. “Including you half the time. Owen only gets together with you when it fits into his schedule.”

“Which is fine, because I’m very busy myself,” says Kate.

“Right,” I retort. “Busy waiting in Tortola. Waiting by the phone. Waiting for him to introduce you to Billy Crystal. Waiting in this house for him to come by for a quickie.”

Berni said I had to be confrontational if we’re going to bring Kate to her senses, but I might have gone too far. There’s a palpable silence in the room. Erica rushes in to fill the void.

“Nothing wrong with a quickie,” she says cheerfully. “Some mornings when Doug’s in the mood and I’m not, I tell him just to go ahead anyway. And you know what? Makes us both feel better for the whole day.”

Berni looks thoroughly horrified. “Doug?” she asks.

Erica smiles. “Dear, I loved your father very much. But he’s been gone five years. He would have wanted me happy, don’t you think?”

“No,” says Berni.

“You’re wrong. Sex was very important for both of us. And what I’ve learned is that a quickie today will allow a man to be patient and loving tomorrow.”

We all stare at her. It’s encouraging to know that at sixty-four, she’s still having great sex. I make a mental note to ask her out to lunch next week. Who knew that feisty Erica Davis was the Dr. Ruth of Poughkeepsie?

“Okay,” says Berni, turning back to Kate. “We’ve established that Owen’s a shit. That he’s ruining your life. You spend too much time waiting for him. And my mother’s a slut.”

“You’ve only hit it right on one of those,” says Kate haughtily.

“Which one?” asks Erica, more curious than worried about whether she’s being branded with a big red S. Even a designer one.

Kate uncorks a second bottle of wine and pours us all another round. “I do spend too much time waiting for Owen,” she admits.

“Good start,” says Berni approvingly. She pulls out her pad. “That’ll be number one on the list of three things you hate about Owen. Now tell me two more.”

Kate takes a long time. “I can’t think of any,” she says.

“Sure you can,” I say helpfully. “The sandals.”

“He stopped wearing those the minute I asked,” she says. “He does everything I ask.”

“Except leave his wife,” I say.

“Oh, they never leave,” says Erica, who obviously knows. Because we now know that Erica knows everything. “Is that what you were hoping for?”

“Not at the beginning,” Kate says, squirming in her chair and pouring herself yet another refill. This is more than I’ve seen her drink in the last twenty years. If she wasn’t an addict before, the intervention could turn her into one. “But now that Owen and I are so close, I guess it hurts that we can’t be together all the time.”

“And you’ll never be together all the time,” I say. “I know you’re in love and I’ll even believe that he is, but he’s never leaving. It’s just going to get more and more painful. Worse than waiting for the Birkin bag.”

“Supposed to be arriving next week,” says Kate. She takes a little nip of wine straight from the bottle.

“Promises, promises,” I say.

Suddenly, Kate bursts into tears. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she says. “I never cry.”

“You never drink, either,” I tell her, putting my arm around her comfortingly.

“He’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever been with,” Kate says. “A little of him is better than a lot of most guys. At least I thought it was. I’m still convinced it’s a good theory. But dammit, I hadn’t planned on getting so emotional about him.”

Now we all get emotional. Erica dabs at her eyes with a tissue and even Berni sniffles a little. Hard to bring Kate to this point, but it’s been worth it. Maybe Kate’s hurting a little today, but we’ve saved her years of heartache.

Kate stands up and looks pointedly at each of us to make her important declaration. “I have to give Owen up because he’s never leaving his wife,” she says. “He’s never leaving.”

“Never leaving,” says Berni firmly.

“Never leaving,” I chime in.

“Never leaving,” agrees Erica.

We all rush over to Kate and in a moment we’re all crying and hugging. In the midst of our group embrace, none of us hears the front door fling open.

Owen bursts into our gathering, holding a big bouquet of flowers and a Tumi suitcase. He charges over with a cocky smile on his face.

“I’ve done it,” he says pushing us all aside to give Kate the only hug she really wants. “Thank you for never losing faith in me. I’ve done it, darling. I’ve left my wife.”