A. Homes - In A Country Of Mothers

As they walked, weaving their way through the west side of Midtown, breathing in the thick fumes of tunnel traffic, they passed places Jody had always wanted to go, places she’d been and meant to come back to: the Film Center Cafe, the Cupcake Cafe, Restaurant Bellevues. She assumed they had something better in mind. She figured they knew where they were going. When they turned into the doorway of a place marked BAR/PIZZA in neon, Jody’s stomach sank. She wished she’d eaten that last bagel on the food table. Production assistants seemed to revel in their lack of taste, their psychotic roommates and below-poverty-level standard of living. Jody made it a point to sit as far way from the florist/fetcher as possible. They ordered pitchers of beer and a pitcher of Coke for the alcoholics, of which there seemed to be quite a few.

“When this one wraps, I’m getting a regular, boring job,” one of the women said.

“If you want to stay in film,” Jody said, “you should write Michael a letter. My job will be open soon.”

“And where will you be going?” the florist/fetcher asked. “Off to direct your first feature, or to spend the summer in Paris?”

Jody didn’t answer right away. There was no way she could tell them about film school, about Claire, about Ellen, Harry, or anything. “I’m going back to Montana,” she finally said. “My father has a ranch there and they always need an extra hand.”

They ordered five pizzas for seven people, bad pizza with cardboard crust, sauce like watered-down blood, and cheese like shoe rubber. In the end Jody was walking down Seventh Avenue with a huge pizza box in her hands.

“Really, you take it,” one of the PAs had said. “After all, you put in the most money.”

Out of guilt, Jody thought.

She passed a homeless man camped out in a small park. “Would you like a pizza?” Jody asked, holding out the box.

“Is it poison?”

“No, I ate some. It’s just not very good, too chewy.” Jody lifted the top so the man could see.

“Has it got tomato sauce on it? That looks like tomato.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a pizza.”

“I can’t take the tomato,” the man said. “Doesn’t agree with my stomach. I like that other kind, though. What do they call it — white pizza. You got any of that?”

Jody shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Well, I guess you could go on and leave it on the bench. I’m expecting company later, maybe they’ll want some.”

Jody put down the pizza and walked away.

“Next time,” he called after her, “get the other kind. It’s healthier.”

S am sat on the edge of the bed in the glow of the television, an old set of heavily padded earphones circling his head. Ever since the playoffs, when night after night they’d found Jake asleep with his head pressed against the wall, the house rule was that Sam couldn’t watch sports at night without the headset. He was also forbidden to carry on discussions with the commentators, although occasionally his feet pounded the floor and Jake would yell “What happened, what happened?” from the kids’ bedroom.

Claire climbed over the bed and sat at the small desk jammed into the corner against the windows. When Adam was born, they’d converted the master bedroom into the boys’ room and taken the little one for themselves. It was ridiculous — a queen-sized bed, a double dresser, a desk, a chair, and two adults crammed into an eleven-by-fourteen box. She looked out the window into the apartment across the street. It was bigger than theirs, nine windows across; there were flowers in some of the windows, and the walls were painted interesting colors, probably by a decorator.

“Remember Karen Armstrong?” Claire said to Sam. He didn’t answer. “They just bought an apartment in the San Remo — they were asking eight-five, but Karen got it for seven-eighty. Her sister Susan’s curating an exhibit at the Whitney that’s traveling to four cities.” Sam didn’t respond. Claire stood in front of the TV, raised her shirt, and flashed her breasts at him. His feet stamped the floor in a brief tantrum, and Claire left the room.

She called her friend Naomi.

“Can’t talk now,” Naomi said. “I’m trying to get the kids to bed.”

“It’s ten o’clock,” Claire said. “Maybe you should get one of those tranquilizer dart guns.”

“Yeah, and send them to the zoo. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Claire hung up. Her life was fine, according to some people perfect. There was a reassuring rhythm and routine to it. But now she wanted something else — something to hook her in, to take her to the next level, to keep her interested.

She made a microwave pizza, put it on a tray along with a bottle of seltzer and two glasses, and carried it into the bedroom. Sam took his half of the pizza, rolled it into a tube, and ate it in less than seven bites, letting crumbs fall all over the floor. Great, Claire thought; all we need is a mouse again — maybe a sewer rat this time.

She lay back on the bed and hooked the elastic band of Sam’s underwear with her toes. She pulled it away from his body and then let it snap back against his skin, again and again, until Sam reached back and grabbed her foot. After five minutes, when nothing else happened, Claire folded her foot underneath her and picked up a book.

Their apartment was definitely too small. At night it shrank, as though someone upstairs held marionette strings attached to the walls and gave a firm yank at eight p.m., drawing the walls closer together. Until now, Claire had thought living in close quarters was good for a family. It taught them how to get along, how to find private space when there was none, and how not to need so much. It was impossible for Jake or any of them to have a secret life, no way to sneak anything in or out. And yet there was a major drawback in knowing everything your kid did. For example, when Jake did nothing, when he lay in his room staring at the ceiling, waiting for his life to begin, it annoyed her no end. And as much as setting them free scared her, she really didn’t want to know so much about them anymore. They were beyond the stage where it was cute. She looked at Sam watching TV and wished the game would end so they could have a serious discussion.

Claire crawled under the covers and thought of how her parents would see things. Her father: Big deal he’s a lawyer, they’re all lawyers. That’s how they get all the money. You should see how they live — not that I’ve ever been there, my other daughter told me. Children running around the house in their underwear. Slobs. Hippies, that’s what they are. Never grew up. They live in that Greenwich Village, like animals. Bohemians. It’s disgusting.

Her sister actually came to visit: “I love Fifth Avenue — are you sure this is really Fifth Avenue? Well, it must be the poor part. And what’s going on in that park, Washington Square? All day today I watched them. People with radios the size of suitcases doing gymnastics, waiting for people to throw money at them. What is that? How can so many people be out there all day long, on a weekday no less? Doesn’t anyone have a job?”

Her mother: “You shouldn’t let the maid call you by your first name. I never did that. You have to keep people in their place. How can you take a month off work every summer? I would think you’d lose your job. Well, I realize you work for yourself, but no one takes August off unless they retire. I don’t know why you always have to do things exactly the opposite of how everyone else does them.”

She thought of her new patient Jody Goodman, who’d just flown out to Los Angeles with her mother, a woman who sounded perfectly wonderful, like a friend. Claire had never talked to anyone about the idea of adoption as replacement. She’d had adopted clients before, but somehow the concept of replacing a lost child had never come up. Maybe that was the best way to do it, mother a stranger. It worked for Claire — a hundred dollars an hour, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. It was a living.