Suspended Disbelief
Sitting at the table with Parker, while Nancy prepared their breakfast, all Rochelle could see was the swirling cowlick in Parker’s thick black hair. She sipped her coffee and stared at her son, her beloved adorable son in his blue pajamas covered in red space ships.
“What’re you looking at, Mommy?”
“You need a haircut.”
“I’ll take him this afternoon, after school.” Nancy set a bowl of cereal in front of Parker and a bowl of fruit salad in front of Rochelle.
“No, I’ll take him.”
“That’s all right, it’s on the way.”
“I’ll take him after breakfast.”
“But he’s got preschool at eight-thirty.”
“So he’ll be late.” Rochelle spooned a kiwi slice into her mouth.
“Yay, a mommy day!”
“Can’t it wait, Rocky? They’re expecting him.” Nancy stepped around to see Rochelle’s face. “You won’t even be showered and dressed until ten o’clock, at least.”
Rochelle separated out a banana slice and ate it. “Delicious fruit salad. May I have some more coffee, please?”
“But —”
Rochelle pushed her half-empty coffee cup toward Nancy, and dug for a grape. Nancy took the mug and returned to the kitchen.
“Why are you taking me, Mommy?”
“Mommies are supposed to take their babies for haircuts.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“I know you’re not, sorry.”
“Nancy always gets me candy afterwards at the place.”
“Candy’s not good for you.”
“She always does.”
“We’ll see.”
“She always takes me to the place.”
“What place?”
“You don’t know. You never took me before.”
“Then you’ll have to show me.”
Two hours later, they were on their way out the door. Nancy watched them go, still as a statue, face taut with anger. Rochelle ignored her, took her son by the hand and left.
Parker was clearly happy for the break in his routine. He ran ahead of her down every block, and waited at every corner. Nancy had him well trained. When Rochelle tried to take his hand to cross the street, he objected. “I don’t do that anymore, I’m old enough to cross myself.” He ran across, hopped onto the curb, and waited. When they got to the barber shop, Parker ran to the door and began to open it.
“Wait,” Rochelle said. “We have another stop to make, first.”
“But I have to get my hair cut.”
“Later. Come with me.”
All the way to the doctor’s office, Parker asked, “Where are we going, Mommy?” and she answered, “You’ll see.” When they arrived, he stood by the door and jutted out his bottom lip in rage. “Why did you bring me here?”
“What’s wrong, darling? It’ll just take a minute.”
“I hate Dr. Rabinowitz. I’m not sick. Why didn’t you tell me? I want to go to school!”
“You can go after this.”
“What about my haircut? And you said you’d take me to the place for candy.”
“After the haircut I’ll take you to the place and get you as much candy as you want.”
“I might want the whole store.”
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“Anything you want. Just come inside and let Dr. Rabinowitz see you for one minute.”
Parker entered the doctor’s office reluctantly, but he entered. Five minutes later, they were back on the street heading to the barber for the haircut he didn’t need, and to his favorite place where he would buy enough candy to make him sick. But Rochelle was satisfied; she had both blood tests now. She had only to wait for the results.
Four days later, Rochelle went to see Jason at his office. With her was her new lawyer, David Halperin, who carried in his briefcase the results of Tad’s and Parker’s blood tests. David was as coldly professional as Jason was warm and friendly. Young and slick and ambitious, David didn’t care about being liked, he only cared about winning; he was the kind of lawyer Jason hated most. This seemed an asset to Rochelle, because to distract him would be to disarm him. And David, likewise, would be unafraid and uncharmable; he would take his sharp knife and slice directly to the heart.
Jason was waiting. His desk was uncharacteristically neat and he was wearing a gray suit. Rochelle knew what that meant; she had been married to him, after all. It meant he was prepared to fight. He came around to greet them with smiles and handshakes. David shook hands cordially and nodded and did not smile. Jason stiffened slightly, released his hand and retreated behind his desk.
David swung his briefcase onto his knees and flicked open the latches. He withdrew the blood tests, closed his briefcase and set it back on the floor. Then he leaned forward and pushed the blood tests across the desk to Jason.
Rochelle recalled lying in bed with Jason when she was pregnant, the warmth of his hand circling her taut belly. He sang a lullaby to their unborn child. She blinked back the start of tears as she watched him now, reading the documents. Then she sobered up. She was here because he had waged battle against her. She was doing what any mother would. She was fighting for her child.
When he finished reading, Jason looked at David, then at Rochelle. His face seemed to shrink and harden as he processed this new information. This simple biological evidence that the woman he had loved and married had deceived him even more than he had realized. This proof that his son was not his son.
He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, and handed the papers back to David.
“What about Parker?” Jason asked David.
“Parker loves you as a father. You can have visitation rights, but clearly there is no entitlement to custody.”
“Does he know?”
David looked at Rochelle. She said, “I don’t see any reason —”
“You tell him.” Jason leaned forward, flattened his hands on his neat desktop and lifted himself halfway up. “You tell him who is father is, or I will.”
Rochelle had not expected this from Jason. “Are you serious?”
“Completely. You cannot perpetuate this lie on our... on your son. He’ll find out eventually. Tell him now. You tell him. Take responsibility, for a change.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Calm down,” David said. “Let’s all collect ourselves.”
“I’m finished.” Jason sat back in his seat. “He’s yours, Rocky. And I mean it, if you don’t tell him, I will.”
“Tell him he can’t do that, David.”
David’s manicured fingers smoothed the top of his slacks. “You just won, Rocky.”
“I said tell him he can’t talk to Parker about this.”
“That’s a different matter,” David said, “and perhaps it would be best for the boy if someone told him the truth right away.”
“No one has the right to tell me how to mother my child.”
“Mother your child?” Jason shook his head and tried to laugh; but instead, he began to cry.
Parker didn’t really know who his father was these days, with all the men who came and went from the new penthouse. His mother had told him they had to move uptown because “uptown was a state of mind.” What had she meant by that?
He sat crosslegged in front of the picture window that overlooked Central Park, wearing a red nylon cape and holding a plastic steering wheel, maneuvering himself through space.
His mother had explained to him that he had many fathers now, which made him a lucky boy. He could tell which one it was by the feel of the hand on his head or shoulder, and by the smell the man brought with him. Mort’s hand was warm and firm, and he smelled of cooking, curries and cookies and sometimes puey fish. Tim’s hand was light and cool, and he smelled of cologne; it was the scent that reached Parker first, before the hand. His mother called Tim her “new friend” but Parker was sure he’d heard that name before. When he asked her, she said Tim was a friend his real daddy (who he never saw anymore and who he missed so much) didn’t like but now that Daddy was gone it was okay to see Tim again. And there was another friend, Tad, whose hand was kind of damp and so hairy that it tickled Parker’s cheek, and he always smelled of beer. He liked Mort best and Tim worst but it had been made clear to him that he had no choice in the matter. Something funny happened when his real father left. It was like the swoosh of a vacuum sucking up his real life.
His mother had explained that she had to “clear the decks,” “root out the betrayers,” “cleanse herself of any poisonous mistrust” in her life. Parker hadn’t known what she was talking about. He turned the wheel slowly, shifting his universe right.
Then Nancy left, crying and hugging Parker like she didn’t want to go. And when he asked his mom why Nancy was leaving, the answer was, “Nancy’s not on our side.” Funny, ’cause Parker had always thought Nancy loved him.
There was another lady now, Annie, and she was nice, but he wasn’t used to her yet. She took him to school and picked him up, fed him, bathed him, clothed him, read him stories, hugged him and all that. But she wasn’t Nancy so he had to get adjusted. That was what his mom had said, “Just give it time, you’ll adjust.”
Rochelle was also trying to adjust to regular life now that the divorce was settled and drifting into the past. It had been hard for her, had challenged her a little too deepdown, had shaken her basic foundation of self-confidence. No one took kindly to the news of Parker’s biological paternity. Mabel had disowned her once again, and even Norman seemed distant now. Leo was a rock, or pretended to be; he had been judged too much to presume to judge others. And Jason, well, he had been so stunned by the revelation that he dropped everything, splat; what he had loved and wanted and fought for suddenly wasn’t his. She had never seen a strong man shift so quickly from euphoric fight to retreat. It was a violent withdrawal, which gave her an initial sense of victory that quickly dissolved into sadness. Now, she felt like a flat tire: empty, squashed, treadless.
And then Charlie called to lower the boom about Mother Love. They had been so close to a contract, actually in negotiation. He said, “You didn’t think I could finesse this one, Rocky honey, did you? Getting you out of this one is not a do-able thing.”
“But I had no choice,” she pleaded. “Don’t they understand that I couldn’t lose my son? He’s my child! The only way would have been to let Jason have him.”
“Rocky, first of all, calm down. Second thing, listen to me, and remember I’m on your side. A little reminder: Jason’s lawyers already found out about whatsisname, the kid’s real father, so you were cooked no matter what. So don’t sweat what you did afterwards. You did what you had to do. The network wasn’t gonna sign either way.”
“They would have if it had been a man.”
“You tellin’ me Donahue wouldn’t get skewered if it turned out he had another woman and kid behind Marlo’s back? Honey, he’d get it, too.” He was right; she had gone too far. She had always managed to bounce back. But like Charlie said, “Not this time, baby. It’s kaput.” He told her to take a vacation, and get back to him when she had another project in mind, which, he said, “you’re gonna.”
But she didn’t feel even a seed of hope. The difference between this and other times of derailment was that she felt finished, whereas in the past she had always had a mischievous eye cast upon the future.
Twice a week, she was visited by Serena, her psychic healer. Serena said, “Visualize your happiness, draw it to you with your own good energies. You have power, here,” she touched her forehead, “and here,” she touched her stomach. Rochelle sat across from Serena on the floor of her study. They had lowered the curtain over the magnificent view, and meditated in shadow.
“Look inward,” Serena said, “to flourish outwardly.”
Rochelle practiced her affirmations every morning. “I am beautiful, full of power. All good things come to me now. I am healthy, wealthy, wise. I am beautiful and young. Only the positive now manifests in my life.” She wanted to throw in something about hexing the no-gooders who had deserted and betrayed her, but Serena said their objective was to create a positive charge in her chakras, and negative thoughtwaves would only weaken her.
Every morning, she meditated and visualized, concentrating on drawing all good forces into the culmination of her perfect existence, and things like that. She had decided to replace Betsy, but instead of firing her and hiring someone new, she used it as a test case for her developing inner powers, and meditated on it, sending out positive thoughtwaves with which to attract the-perfect-assistant-for-her-at-this-moment-in-her-life. For Parker, she visualized health, wealth and happiness, created for him a perfect future with the positive thoughtforms she emitted into the universe.
After lunch, she would dress in one of the skirts she had had shortened to meet the new mini fashions. She liked suit jackets that pinched her waist so her figure looked voluptuous, blossoming, not fat. The higher the heel, the better, for high heels lengthened her legs. And more and more, her color was black, not because it was the color of power, authority or fear, but because black slimmed. She would hit the city streets for appointments in the afternoon: hair, nails, fittings at her favorite designers, tea at the Mayfair, drinks at the Polo Lounge. Then, home to see Parker for dinner. Often, she would eat with him at six: plop herself down at the table next to him and wait while Annie served up dinner. And then, when her date arrived, Mort or Tim or sometimes someone else, she would dress herself up and head out for an eight o’clock dinner at a restaurant. And often, after sex, she’d get so hungry she would have to tiptoe out to the kitchen for a snack. If her lover of the evening was Mort, he would join her. If it was Tim, he would languish in bed and smoke a joint.
She saw Tim only in the city; Mort was the one who blended more naturally into the countryside. Tim was too slickly handsome, groomed for the city. Sexually, he was amazing. She thought he had the best penis in the universe and let him do all kinds of things to her with it. She liked to hold onto it, like a handle, while she fell asleep. He’d lie on his side to accommodate her.
She had resumed payment of his rent — he had moved to an apartment just a few blocks from her new penthouse — and filled his wallet with plastic and paper money. He kept them supplied with cocaine.
Connie left messages inviting Rochelle to attend AA meetings. Rochelle stopped returning the calls.
One wintry Sunday in Amagansett, early in December, Rochelle and Mort relaxed together on the long feather couch, sharing the newspaper. Annie sat on the old comfortable armchair, reading a book. Parker played monster war in the dollhouse castle Rochelle had given him early for the holidays, and Tad sat next to the castle, aiming a flashlight at the monsters that Parker maneuvered. The smell of rugelach baking was sweet and rich. First Mort would roll out the dough — which he liked flaky so used lots of butter — then he’d spread it with his own special apple-honey mixture, and then sprinkle it with poppy seeds. Sometimes he dusted it with crushed walnuts. It was an all-purpose rugelach sure to bring back childhood dreams. Rochelle lay back, her feet on Mort’s lap. He held her toes loosely, wearing an apron dusted with flour, reading the magazine section.
Rochelle’s nose twitched, and she said, suddenly, “We’ll market you!”
“What’s that, honey?” Annie said.
Rochelle looked at Mort. “Gold Rugelach.”
Mort smiled, tilted his balding head back, thought it over. “You mean, start a company?”
“Yes. Mrs. Fields did it with cookies. There’s an untapped market in Jewish desserts. Rugelach in different flavors and sizes. You’ll make your million, you’ll sell the company, and be free to live your music.”
“That’s a mean idea,” Tad said.
“You’ll photograph the rugelach,” Rochelle told Tad. “I’ll fund the company, get it going. You’ll quit your job, Mort, and direct the bakery.”
“What’ll I do?” Parker asked.
“You can be the little boy eating rugelach in the ads. Would you like that, sweetie?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Annie spread her book face-down across her knee. “Oh Lord, we’re gonna have ruggle comin’ outta our ears.”
The next night, in the city, Rochelle rolled over and whispered to Tim, “I’m going to make you a star!”
He seemed interested, curled his body around her, and said, “How?”
“I’m going to introduce you to everyone I know in Hollywood. You have everything it takes. All you need me for is to open the right doors.”
“I need you for more than that.” He smiled.
Yes, oh yes, need me pleaseneedme. She kissed him, her soft lips pressing his taut mouth, forcing it open. He stroked her body like it was the most glorious one on earth. He pressed his fingers under the black lace of her teddy, and with the other hand reached down for the snaps between her legs and undid all three with a quick tug.
They slept until ten. They did one line of coke each, then headed for the kitchen. Annie was sitting at the table with her tea and the morning paper. She had been up since six, as usual, and had already taken Parker to school.
“May we have some breakfast, please?” Rochelle sat at the table. Tim, wearing only jeans, sat next to her.
“What would you like?”
“I’d love a Spanish omelet,” Rochelle said, “but don’t use any butter on mine.”
Annie waited for Tim’s order.
“That sounds good to me, but with butter.”
“Coffee’s on the way.” Annie retreated to the kitchen.
“I’ll have Tad fill out your portfolio,” Rochelle said to Tim. “I’ll do your resume myself, and then we’ll go to L.A. for a week or so. We’ll stay at The Beverly Hills Hotel. I’ll introduce you around, take you out, show you off. I guarantee you’ll have at least one screen test while we’re out there. I can make it happen,” she snapped her fingers, “just like that.”
Late at night, the sweeping view inverted, and what was green became a well of darkness beyond which loomed a canyon of tall boxy shapes and white lights. Sometimes a reddish light sizzled along the edges of the Westside nightscape, a toxic red glow from New Jersey.
Rochelle and Tim sat crosslegged on the parquet floor, facing the huge plate window. They wore handmade caftans that were a gift from Serena: Tim’s was white, Rochelle’s black. They sat side by side, holding hands, looking out. With Parker and Annie long asleep, the quiet was exquisite.
“The city has an aura tonight,” Rochelle said. “That means that somewhere in this city, tonight, a miracle is happening.”
“Yeah, wow,” said Tim. “It’s so red.” He passed her the half-smoked joint.
She drew on it. “This is an aphrodisiac, you know.”
“Tell me about it,” he said, and disengaged his hand from hers. He ran his hand under her caftan and along the inside of her thigh.
She stared out the window, smiling. “Those fabulous lights.”
“Let’s turn this one on,” he said, lightly touching her clitoris.
Rochelle didn’t notice his clichés so much anymore; he was too good a lover, and her mind was too tired from fighting, lookinggood, beingfamous, explaining herself. And between the powder, booze and smoke, an onion skin had formed around her mind; subtleties didn’t penetrate like they used to.
She slid slowly down until she was lying on the floor and raised her arms above her head. Her bronze hair fanned out beneath her. Her eyes were wide open, watching the white ceiling, and she concentrated only on the sensations of this seduction. His job was to thrill her and hers was to let him. He sat up on his knees, pulled off his caftan and tossed it aside. His blond hair stood in crazy tufts. His eyes looked small and dim, glistening, faraway. His body was long and straight and tight, and every inch of it was tan, even his genitals. She paid for him to lie under tanning lights at the health club, and to exercise, to keep his body perfect. That was part of his job and he willingly complied. He lifted up her caftan and pulled it over her shoulders and head. She lay there like a rag doll, letting him, accommodating with only the smallest movements. Then, he lowered himself over her, and as he placed his penis almost inside her, he said, “I love you,” then slid all the way in.
Her hips jerked up in reaction and she struggled to hold herself back. His was the active role, hers the passive. That was the deal, unspoken but understood. She had had it with giving and trying and paying, for nothing; she knew now that she had a special role in the lifeforce of the universe: to be loved, admired, served. There was no need for her to do anything in return. Serena had helped her with this. In the past, she had been so burdened with guilt, driven to do, try, strive, struggle, deserve. No more. Now, finally, she was free.
She lay there as Tim slid himself in and out of her body. She could feel him watching her face. She stared at the ceiling, letting her mind do all the work, feel the sensation, not care about pleasing him. He was used to it. He clamped his lips to one of her breasts and sucked like a baby. Her breasts went red. He rode her more furiously until her vaginal muscles clamped around his penis. Only when he felt her coming did he join her in release.
He brought them wine, cold Riesling from the refrigerator. She liked to watch him move around the living room naked, doused in a silver hue from the citylights. She liked to lie on the floor, uninhibited, in front of her window with her legs spread and oozing. She liked to think that maybe someone was watching, yearning, loving her from afar.
Even after sex, Tim’s penis was thick and erect, suspended straight out in front of him. He sat on the floor and handed Rochelle one of the glasses. “Cheers.”
She flashed him a big smile and clinked his glass.
It was still early, not quite nine, when they finished the wine and went back to the bedroom to dress, leaving their glasses and caftans scattered on the living room floor. Rochelle put on a black silk dress and black pumps. Tim wore a white double-breasted designer suit with baggy pants, and a pair of black and white Italian shoes.
“Hey — let’s walk!” Tim said.
Rochelle looked at him, a finger stuck into the back of her shoe, challenged. Her eyes sparkled. “All right, let’s do it.”
So out they went into the cool autumn night, and instead of taking the usual taxi, they walked the six blocks downtown to the patisserie where they often went for chocolate rum cake and espresso, and to find one of their special friends.
When Annie heard the front door click shut, she lumbered out in her robe and slippers. She always waited up to clean their mess so Parker wouldn’t have to see it when he got up early in the morning. There was a fist in her stomach, pre-disgust at what they might have left. Annie had found all variety of underwear, food, drink and whole vegetables scattered on the floor and furniture. She had found magazines with blood and white fluids streaked conspicuously on upholstery. Once, she found urine dripping down the window. But tonight it was not so bad.
She folded the caftans and fluffed the pillows on the couch. She brought the wine glasses to the kitchen, washed them, dried them and put them away. Then she heated herself a cup of hot milk and sat with it in one of the comfortable leather chairs in the soothingly dark dining room. Usually she took her after-dinner snacks to her room, just in case one of them lurched naked toward the kitchen. But tonight, since they were out, she let herself rest a few minutes.
The clunk of bolts turning in the front door lock woke her abruptly. She opened her eyes and sat up straight as the door swung open and Rochelle’s throaty laugh poured in. She wanted to say Quiet, he’s sleeping, but didn’t; this was Rochelle’s house, she was his mother, her boss.
Annie stood. Rochelle, Tim and two men came in. They were all giddy, excited, overdressed, shiny, arrogant. Annie didn’t like the people Rochelle and Tim brought home together. She thought Rochelle didn’t try to make real friends but settled for these phonies instead. She had heard Rochelle say as much: “I can’t trust anyone; I’m too famous for people to treat me as if I’m real.”
Annie would have liked to treat her real, tell her to grow up and take responsibility for herself, her son, her work, her life. She would have liked to slap Rochelle across the face and tell her to pick up her own mess, stop dreaming, stop telling lies, stop making promises she would never keep.
Rochelle saw Annie standing tentatively in the opening between the dining and living rooms, like she wanted to run back to her room unnoticed.
“Hi, Annie,” Rochelle said.
Tim turned around, and said, “Hey.”
Annie decided to take a grandmotherly stance and greet their friends with civil disinterest. “How are ya?” She did not expect an answer.
One man said, “Good evening.”
And the other one, a small skinny man Annie especially disliked, just pressed his lips together and waited for her to disappear. She knew these two from other late night appearances; she knew what they wanted, who they were and what they sold. If she were Rochelle’s mother she would have kicked these drug dealers out of the house on the spot and told her to pull her act together. But she kept silent; she was Rochelle’s employee, Parker’s nanny, and she understood that the best way she could protect him was to make sure she didn’t get fired. She was beginning to understand what had happened to the last one.
Not only did the cocaine thin Rochelle but it rejuvenated her mind, or so she thought. Now, in the mornings, she meditated for ten minutes, locked her study door, did a line of magicdust and uncapped her pen. She had decided to begin her memoirs, and watched her script flow onto the blank pages like waves, a brilliant surf.