The crowd, as she had feared, was assembled for Blintzkrieg: the mating call of the efficient professional had trumpeted from the hills, and many had heeded it. Though Becca tried to convince herself that quantity worked to her advantage, she felt as unique as a small black ant when a number was pinned on her chest. The women wore odd numbers, the men wore even. She was sixty-one. This number suggested to her that she was in the company of at least one hundred and twenty Jewish date-seekers.
In that assumption, Becca was incorrect. There were two women for every man in the room. The total assembled dating population fell just under one hundred. Becca had a high number because she had signed up late.
The Etoile ballroom looked like a polling center on Election Day. Organizers had set up folding tables and chairs by the score to serve as meeting centers. Each individual center was shielded by a double curtain on a single rod. An open curtain would mean a new date was free to enter; a closed curtain meant an introduction was in session.
Women were to remain seated behind the tables in the curtained spaces, with their chairs facing outward; men were to switch places when the whistle blew every seven minutes. Since there were more women than men, there was the possibility of an idle seven minutes, but as the organizers pointed out, it was a chance for the woman to make notes, assess her approach, or refresh her lipstick.
The whistle would sound every seven minutes, at which time conversations were halted and all men were to stand outside of the curtained spaces, turning, at the second whistle, to the next participant. To guard against liability, there was also a single bell on each table, which a woman could ring if she felt uncomfortable for any reason with the man in her tent. The men had promised, in that extraordinary case, to leave their chairs without another word and exit the space at once.
A dating commando in a headset ran around with flapping arms. Once the women were seated, drink servers circulated carrying heavy trays dripping with cocktails. There were only two choices: gin martinis and vodka tonics. Becca picked a vodka tonic, hoping for inspiration. While the men were organized into approach units, Becca looked over her questions.
Who is your favorite character in children’s literature?
What is your position on overnight camp?
Are you more of an Ernie or more of a Bert?
Do you consider bed-making to be an essential life skill?
How would you handle a four-year-old vomiting on a plane?
There were more pages, but she kept the less controversial ones on the top sheet, her ice-breaker page.
After reviewing her talking points, she ran her eyes over the regulations. Each person had a name and e-mail address with the registrar, tracked by dating number. The participants were to keep track of the eye-opening dates by number, and make choices at the end of the session. If two people chose each other, the dating facilitators would distribute to both the essential contact information to follow up. If you were picked by anyone you did not choose, your case was closed. Nobody would be contacted who didn’t express interest in the contacting party. But allowance was made for serendipity: There was a twenty minute open-chat period, in which the participants could make whatever private arrangements they desired, at the end of the session.
In total, the speed dating session went on for an hour. You could meet up to eight potentials in that time, announced the dating facilitator, who had grabbed his clipboard to get things started.
With a whistle, he called the session to order. “Ladies, remain in your seats. Gentlemen,” he said, his voice cracking with laughter, “start your engines!”
Some “vroom!” sounds were met by tittering laughs but Becca kept her eye on her fact sheet.
“Go!”
Number forty-four leapt into Becca’s tent. His eyes widened with approval. Good chemistry on the first shot! He stuck his hand forward, but Becca shook her head no.
“No touching,” she cautioned him.
Short, slight, and excitable, forty-four withdrew his hand to his lap. He stared at her with contact-lensed eyes of swimming blue, his hand shooting up to cover, and then explain, the hair loss that was making progress from the crown of his head toward his eyes, like the spot of an alleged UFO landing.
“Barry Sidwell,” he said, breaking the rule against last names in his eagerness to impress.
Becca nodded without giving her name.
Barry, without thinking to ask about Becca, trumpeted his stats in a hurry. “Multimillionaire software developer,” he crowed. “Drive a Porsche, house in the Hamptons, picked number forty-four myself so you can remember my age. Unassuming and warm, sincere, attractive, divorced. Harvard JD; dropped that life, went for the millions in software, and hit it big. Want to share my heart with a leggy—”
Barry paused to look under the table. Becca crossed her legs and tapped her pen on her notepad.
“Whoo!” he exclaimed. “Leggy! Wait a minute—want to share my life with a leggy, well-educated people person.”
She smiled at him as he caught his breath.
“What do you mean ‘people person,’ Barry?” she asked, leaning toward him.
“You know,” he attempted. “Like, someone comfortable with people.”
“You mean, accessible, like a Teletubby?”
“A what?” His hand flew to cover his head. Was this a bald joke?
Becca slumped in her seat. “Or funny, like a Muppet?”
“A puppet? I’m no puppet,” he retorted. “CEO, CFO, and Can’t Say No! That’s Barry. Total control. Why? You got a thing for puppets?”
Becca eyed him carefully, unsure if he knew the line between humor and idiocy.
“Any kids from the first marriage?”
“Whoa,” said Barry, waving her off with his hands. “Don’t remind me. Selfish little shits. All they do is take.”
Becca dropped her head into the palm of her hand.
“I’m not for you, Barry,” she told him simply. She wrote forty-four on her page and marked an X through it. Becca pointed her thumb toward the curtain.
“Out.”
“Your loss,” he said in a huff, standing to leave. He poked his head back into the curtain, scowling. “I’ll do better than you will, with that attitude.”
Becca breathed deeply, checking her watch to see how much time she had wasted with Barry. She looked at her Fatherhood sheet. Seemed perfectly fair. Her attitude was fine. She was here to buy as much as to sell.
A head poked meekly into her curtain.
“Mind if I sit down?” number sixteen asked her. “I’m a minute early, but I sort of abandoned the last one. Not my style, you know?”
Becca, smiling warmly, nodded at the poor lamb.
“I’m Mark,” he said, keeping within regulations and concealing his last name. He crossed his legs at the ankle, bumped into Becca’s legs under the table, and nearly jumped out of his skin. “Sorry,” he said quickly, pulling his legs under his chair. His face was pale.
“I don’t know how I got mixed up in this, really. My friends put me up to it, I guess. But in the end it was my decision. I hoped I might meet somebody special.”
“I’m Becca,” she said, offering her hand. He shook it limply.
“What do you do, Mark?”
He sighed. “I organize eco-friendly tours. It’s fun, I guess, if you like to travel. But I sort of thought there’d be more travel. I guess you could say I’m like a desk jockey with a lot of hope.”
Becca felt like crying. This guy needed a mother!
She turned to her sheet.
“Do you like to read, Mark?”
“Sure,” he said, brightening. “I have lots of time. I sit and read and look at these pictures of the Galapagos and Costa Rica, you know, and I just think: Wow. What an awesome world.”
Becca nodded. “Okay, Mark. Who’s your favorite character from children’s literature?”
He paused, rubbing his soft cheeks a little as he thought about it.
“Oh yeah,” he said, a light in his eyes. “Ichabod Crane.”
Becca stifled a laugh with her hand. She looked at him in disbelief. “Ichabod Crane? The skinny bald guy in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow?”
He nodded, his eyes wide and sincere.
“Why?”
Mark shrugged his shoulders. “He was always running from something, you know? First out of town, then on the road, from that pumpkin-headed ghost? I guess I feel sort of like that too. I’ve always been running. From jobs, from roots, from respectability. From relationships.”
Becca caught her breath. This guy was no father figure.
“I’m sorry, Mark,” she said, scarcely able to hold back tears for him. “You’re a dear heart, really, I can see that.” She stretched her hand across the table again, and gave his hand an affectionate little rub. “Why don’t you just go home? I don’t think this game is for you.”
“I think you’re right,” he said, standing. His arms swung loosely, like a monkey’s. His shoulders drooped as he turned toward her. “Thanks, Becca. You’re a straight shooter. Good luck,” he said, and trudged through the curtain.
Becca rubbed her temples, breathing deeply. She was on the verge of leaving to go check on poor little eco-friendly Mark when the whistle blew and her curtain flew back once more.
A stocky, muscular man, who looked to be in his late fifties, entered with a firm step. He lowered himself carefully into his seat: Becca had the idea that he might have broken a few chairs that he sat on with less caution. He had powerful arms, with an anchor tattooed on his forearm. He was covered with hair; she could see the hair bristling around his neck, curling against his collar. He wore a hat with the initials U.S.N.A., so she could not verify whether he also remained hairy at the top of his head.
He tipped his hat slightly as he sat down. He had a composed smile, confident and affable, like one might use with a neighbor. She had to admit that he put her at ease, as he carried himself with sincerity.
“Stu Kornheiser,” he spoke, with a coarse kindness. “Served in Korea; picked the right war. Union organizer,” he added, “for the past twenty-four years.”
He described himself with the simplicity typical of fanatics.
Becca paused.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here?” he asked her, grinning.
Becca shrugged, holding her cards. “I don’t know, Stu. Scoping, I guess.”
“Cute,” the navy man said, picking up her joke.
Becca studied him carefully. Would he work? More a grandfather figure than a father figure, but he passed the straight arrow test. He reminded her of dozens of neighbors she had known back in Brooklyn.
“What’s your interest here, Stu?”
“Marriage,” he said, simply. “My cooking is worse than the mess hall. I’m widowed: lost a good one. But I don’t dwell on the past. You look like a nice kid,” he said, his smile friendly.
Becca shrugged. “Tell me about what you do.”
“I’ve organized everybody I can get to,” he said. “A lifelong commitment. I’ve always had it in me to stick it to the big guy, you know?”
Becca nodded. She could listen, even if she didn’t identify.
“Any kids?”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. He looked at his pants. “Some problems in that department. But I work with them all the time. I talk about unions in schools.”
“You do?” she brightened. Maybe Stu was her man.
“They won’t let me up the avenue anymore,” he said. “Made a big stink in Park when I organized the second grade.”
Becca gulped.
“Those Upper East Siders think they’re untouchable,” he said, his voice growing hostile. “You’ve got to break them from within. They have their illegals under lock and key: tough conditions; no benefits—vicious people. The power imbalance is incredible. But their kids, they have no control over. You should see what I had those kids asking for! A choice of juice and entrée at breakfast; or they won’t dress for school. A computer in their room and an hour of unrestricted access; or they won’t do their homework. One elective credit for every foreign language those UN-lovers make them speak!” He had stood and was pacing, gripping his hands into fists as he barked angrily.
Becca, trembling, put her hand over the emergency bell.
“To see those parents quivering in front of the grievance committee!” he recalled, brightening at his triumph. “It was beautiful. Here they were, with their neighbors and their neighbors’ kids on the committee, evaluating every grievance before they could even think about punishment. I’ll break ’em, I know I will. They send guys like me to fight for their freedom, and then they don’t think of the little guy. Well, with Stu Kornheiser against them—”
Becca’s hand slammed against the bell.
For the remainder of the session, she met entering dates with her questions right off the bat. The mortician left right away, declaring that she was a “bag and tag.” The lawyer tried to turn her questions back against her and trap her with an admission, but she rang the bell on him quickly. The neocon governor’s aide lingered, insistent that he could persuade her to boycott Teletubbies on the certainty that the purple, purse-carrying Tinky Winky was gay, but Becca was not interested in the politics of childhood, or the symbolism of learning. As the time wore on, she was not interested in much at all.
Edward felt the sting of Becca’s absence. Her sudden work distractions were not coincidental to his engagement—they were responsive to it, and he felt the reproach of her departure in the hollow, echoing halls of the Stearnses’ apartment. He ached to see her.
For the second time that week he rose from bed when he heard Emily shouting Becca’s name. Becca was an early bird, and Emily naturally had learned to turn to her first in the mornings. Becca was always smiling and awake; she had cool things to see on the computer, she hugged Emily and talked loud and fast and excited, and tickled her and poked her and rolled her around. Edward in the morning was different.
For two days she had dragged her pudgy feet down the hall to the master bedroom, expecting to find Becca, and for two days the bed had been empty. Her cherished morning ritual had been stolen from her, abruptly and without explanation. Feeling uncertain of herself, confused and worried that someone special might leave her again, she became a bit ornery.
Rubbing her sleepy eyes as she clutched her velvety cotton blanket, Emily stood in place and hollered toward the shower. “Becca! I’m awake!”
Pulling a robe over his pajama bottoms, Edward hurried down the hallway. He greeted her with the best smile he could manage, but he was fighting his own sullen face. He woke in a cloud, feeling the pressure of his reclusiveness, feeling a grudge against everything. He was as out of sorts as she was. Both felt Becca’s abandonment keenly, and she had only slept at home for two nights now.