The Heights Part 9

"Underfer doesn't fly and it's his daughter 's thirty-fifth birthday."

"Okay, it's a little cheesy, but it's a start."

Bruno wasn't fooling himself. "At some point," he told me, "we resign ourselves to the fact that while we may not irrevocably alter the world, we will have at least tried."

He asked why I was smiling.

"Irrevocably alter," I said. "Two of Tim's favorite words."

Suddenly, we had purpose. Contacts needed to be made. Site visits planned. Bruno wanted my dream list of who would be ideal as our first grant recipients. I told him he'd have a list ASAP.

So much to do, so little time was my thinking when Claudia called, wanting to meet later for a drink.

I didn't go straight home that night. I met Claudia at Sample on Smith Street. She had promised interesting news.

"Jill the nanny. You know the one I'm talking about?"

I didn't know Jill. "I'm happily out of the loop, Claudia."

"Jill, the whitest, s.p.u.n.kiest, most impressive nanny ever in the history of nannies. Anna Brody's Jill. Rumored-to-be-receiving-a-six-figure-salary Jill. The same Jill who had been once, most notably, the live-in nanny to billionaire Ronald Perelman's daughter Caleigh and also the nanny to the children of a very famous Hollywood couple with Scientologist affiliations. Jill whom Dan the Bear described as 'the Julie Andrews of nannies.' "

"Okay, Claudia," I said, stirring my drink. "I get the picture."

"Well, guess who had these miniature high-tech video cameras installed all through her eighteen-room house?"

"Anna Brody."

"Yes. Isn't that terrible?"

"Videotaping the nanny? Not if you have reason to believe there's something wrong going on."

Claudia told me what the videotape had revealed. Jill was bright, attentive, creative at free play, that Sophie especially loved Jill's story about the swans. Apparently, Jill was firm when necessary but never cruel, never raised her voice, never shamed, often sang beautifully to Sophie, and was teaching her how to count in French.

"So what's the problem?"

"Anna fired her."

"On what grounds?"

"No one knows. But my theory? Maybe she felt a wee bit threatened. You see, if Jill were to stick around, Sophie would never be happy with Anna."

"That's awful."

"Not for Jill. She got her whole year's salary for just two weeks of babysitting. Not bad work, if you can get it."

I didn't know what parts of this story to believe. I wasn't about to call Anna and ask her myself. The very next day, however, and new to her role as a nannyless mother, Anna Brody called me instead. I was surprised she knew where to reach me. Then I remembered having given her my work number, probably with the thought that she'd never call.

"Is this a good time?" Anna asked.

"Yes, it's a good time."

I can't remember the reason for those first calls: activity suggestions, maybe directions to the Children's Museum, it didn't matter. The conversations were brief and, individually, no big deal. For weeks I'd wanted to be this kind of girlfriend to Anna Brody-her confidante, advice giver, favorite friend-and how unfortunate that when she finally showed an interest, I no longer had the time. Still, it wasn't until the fourth call that day that I might have sounded impatient with her.

"Me again," Anna said. "Is it still a good time?"

"Yes. Well, actually, I'm kind of busy . . ."

In the background, I could hear Sophie crying.

"Well, then," Anna said quickly, "I was just wondering if your boys could come over for a playdate."

"Ask Tim. That's his domain."

"I thought I should ask you first."

"No need. Just give him a call."

"Oh," she said after an odd pause, "I just didn't want you to feel left out."

"Don't worry about me feeling left out." Truthfully, for me, feeling left out was a new and welcome feeling. Then I noticed Bruno standing in my office doorway, looking concerned.

"I have to go," I said to Anna.

I hung up the phone and laughed, but not for funny reasons.

"Kate, I couldn't help overhearing . . ."

"What?"

"Your mention of feeling left out."

"Oh, please," I said. "Don't worry, it's not about work. It's this new mother in our neighborhood. She's a strange one. She wants permission to call my husband to arrange a playdate . . ."

"Maybe she's just sensitive to your situation."

"What situation? That I get to have a career? Is it terrible of me to enjoy working? Because I love coming here. I love dressing up. I even love the parts of my job I'm not supposed to enjoy. The crowded ride on the subway. Even the lack of mission . . ."

"Do you think we suffer from a lack of mission?"

"Well, yes, I did. Up until yesterday I didn't quite know what we're doing here. And even that was okay. I trust you, but I was beginning to doubt Louis. Now that we're about to have actual money to give away, I admit it, I'm giddy! About all that we can do. And that we get to do it together. But mostly, what I'm saying is that for one day my friend Anna should have real people's problems."

I explained about the staff, the eighteen-room house, the rich, handsome husband.

Noticing the clock, I went to the hall closet and slipped on my coat. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, Bruno, because you and I . . ."

"Yes?"

I couldn't help but smile. "We're about to change the world."

TIM.

KATE HAD GONE TO WORK EARLY, THE BOYS WERE GRUMPY, AND I WAS IN A BAD WAY when the dreaded phone call came from my mentor, Dr. Jamison Lamson of St. Bernard's College in Queens.

"Where is it?" he said. Meaning: my dissertation.

I wanted to tell him I'd lost momentum, that my father had thrown a wrench into things and I would be done if Dr. Lamson had been my dad, but I lied and said, "Good, it's going good."

"When, then?"

I gave him my stock line: "No one wants it done more than I do."

"Well, Timothy, I'm standing by."

Later, I was pus.h.i.+ng the boys in the stroller down the Starbucks side of Montague Street when I saw Joni Kirtley and Max Weiss, two of my star former students, enter m.u.f.fins and More. Time for a detour. I whipped the stroller around, checked for traffic, and zipped across the street.

Teddy said, "No, Daddy, I don't wanna go there."

But I was not to be stopped.

Inside, Joni and Max had disappeared up to the mezzanine level. I asked a nice-seeming woman if she'd watch the boys while I ran upstairs to use the bathroom.

Truth be told, I didn't need the bathroom. I needed to see my former students, and more important, I needed them to see me.

Upstairs, maybe ten or twelve of Montague's best and brightest had pushed several tables together, making one giant study area. Backpacks were slung over chairs, textbooks cracked open, laptops powered up.

"Hey, guys," I said, feigning surprise upon seeing them.

The kids were polite, but there was something restrained about their response, something guarded. In order to cut through this weird tension, I introduced myself to the one student I didn't know. "I'm Mr. Welch."

"Yes, I know," the new student said.

Oh, I thought. He's heard of me.

He extended his cold, damp hand for me to shake and said, "I'm Dr. Thorne."

I did my best to hide my reaction, but a jolt shot through my body as if I'd stepped on a live wire and been subjected to a thousand volts. There he was. Dr. Prince Thorne. The youthful, strapping, lightly freckled, redheaded wunderkind who was my replacement.

Rumor had it that when Dr. Millicent Vandeventer first introduced Dr. Prince Thorne to the student body of the Montague Academy, and after reading his lengthy educational pedigree (Yale, Princeton, Harvard), the honors, the accolades, and after holding up the galley for his first novel, ent.i.tled Planet Stasis, she said the following: "I want to be perfectly clear-I got him to commit for one year. Now it's up to you to convince him to stay forever."

On your best day, you think you're irreplaceable. You think no one can do what you do better than you do, especially when you're doing it in the way that only you can. (Diagram that sentence, Dr. Thorne!) But then one day you realize you were wrong.

In those brief moments as I stood before them, it was clear: These students all revered him, and they didn't miss me.

I excused myself by saying, "Sorry, I hear one of my boys calling."

Of course no one was calling. But it got me out of there.

So I was at sea, lost, and in a foul mood when I clacked the large iron knocker at the Ashworth/Brody house. When a frazzled Anna Brody answered the door, she smiled nervously and called out to a crying Sophie, "Honey, they're here!"

From far off, Sophie let fly with a wail like a World War II air-raid warning.

Anna sighed and said, "I'm sorry, it's just been one of those days."

Clearly. Some pudding or jelly had spilled on Anna's cashmere sweater. Her left cheek was bright red, as if it had been pinched. I mentioned we could come back at a better time.

"No," Anna said, "please stay."

Sophie appeared at the bottom of the grand staircase.

Anna knelt down and said, "Come say h.e.l.lo to your new friends."

"Noooo!" Sophie scrunched her face and grabbed her mother's hair and started to pull.

Anna held Sophie's wrist firmly. "She's never been-this-bad," Anna said. "Do not pull my hair. You do not pull hair."

So Sophie started to kick at her mother.

My boys stood in the vestibule, motionless. They were meeting Sophie Brody-Ashworth, and already they were scared.

I had experienced my share of meltdowns, but this was one for the ages: the kind where there was no fixing it, no going back, no making it right.

As her daughter's tantrum showed no signs of letting up, Anna seemed to shut down. She had no idea what to do next.

But when a flailing Sophie smacked her forehead on the banister, I saw an opening. As a maid ran for ice and Anna tried to comfort Sophie, I played one of Kate's games-Boo-boo Be Gone-wherein I badly mimed gathering up her pain, packing it into a pretend s...o...b..ll, and throwing it deep, deep, deep into s.p.a.ce. I even included appropriate sound effects. The result was miraculous. Sophie stopped crying and stared at me. Her tear-stained face broke into a big smile.

Anna said, "Wow, you're good."

The rest of that first playdate remains a blur. While the boys and Sophie played quietly, I shared with Anna some strategies for dealing with a feisty kid. Time got vague, fuzzy-soon it was dark out and we needed to get home.

This much was clear: That day, in Anna's mind, I became the Pica.s.so of parents. Funny, I know. But more important, and I didn't understand this until later, she made me feel like a teacher again.

KATE.

THE HEIGHTS CAFe WAS PACKED FULL WITH PEOPLE I DIDN'T KNOW. ARRIVING LATE, I looked around until I found him sitting in the corner booth, his back toward the other customers. He held a menu but didn't appear to be studying it. He hadn't seen me yet.

I'd come straight from work, stopping at the Starbucks up the street to use their bathroom for a hair/makeup check. Surely I'm not the only one who, when having dinner with an ex-lover, spends an uncommonly long time at the mirror. Part of me found my behavior vain, but a bigger part of me wanted to look my best, as if to say, f.u.c.k you-this is what you missed.

This would be my first encounter with Jeff since he'd changed his last name from Slakowitz to Slade. Years ago, when I last saw him, he was a paralegal working the night s.h.i.+ft at Skadden, Arps. He moved to L.A., changed his name, and in his first audition, was cast in a supporting role on a forgettable show on FOX. It ran half a season, was canceled by Christmas. Discouraged, he wisely considered a career in carpentry, cabinetmaking, that sort of thing. He enrolled in a woodworking course north of Santa Barbara only to reluctantly audition for and land the lead on a new ABC series about a s.e.xy single dad who helps people find love, rediscover love, redefine love, and there is a mystical component: the s.e.xy single dad is an angel.

In truth, I wouldn't know. I don't watch the show.

Now, if Slade was anything like Slakowitz, he wasn't going to ask me about my new job that night. So I was determined to tell him about the Lucy Foundation and how I was getting to use my background as a scenario creator to look ahead and imagine various futures that might occur, all the result of choices made now. What I wouldn't tell him was that on the train ride back to Brooklyn, I had done a bit of scenario creating of my own. What if I had become Mrs. Slakowitz/Slade? One version had me living in a Malibu beach house, my hair bleached, my car a convertible, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s silicone. That one made me laugh. Another version had me divorced already, embittered by his brutish male behavior. A third scenario had me blissfully happy, living in southern Vermont with my carpenter/cabinetmaker hunk of a husband who'd stopped auditioning not because he'd discovered that he wasn't much of an actor but because he didn't need the acclaim of millions, the TV Guide covers, when he had me-I was enough-we were enough-it was enough to wear flannel and homeschool our children and run naked in the snow while we tapped sap from a cl.u.s.ter of maples on our own twenty-two-acre plot of land . . .

This last scenario was more elaborate than the others, which concerned me. If our dreams at night reveal what we're most afraid of, then our daydreams tell us what we'd most like our lives to be.

Still, I convinced myself, it would be good to see this particular ex-lover in the flesh and to crush for all time any lingering regrets, his or mine, regarding what might have been. Eager to finish the job, I scooted across the room toward the corner booth.

"Excuse me?" I said when I got close enough.