Gingerbread (11 page)

More score: For all that, in my opinion, Danny had a lot to be bitter about, he accepted everyone in his family for who they were, warts and all, and seemed to love them each individually just the same. I was starting to feel like my older baker brother was a helluva good inspiration, maybe even better than Helen Keller, should I choose to heed his enlightened call.

"Okay, Ceece, now it's your turn. Spill. Tell me about you."

For once I think I felt shy and I kind of rolled my eyes and shrugged and turned the corners of my mouth down. "Dunno!" I said.

"Boyfriend?" Danny asked. "Girlfriend?"

"Well," I said. "I had like a true love in San Francisco. He is an artist and a surfer and a barista, too." As I was talking, my skin was actually tingling from missing He Who Cannot Be Named.

"And?" Danny asked.

"My mother made me not see him anymore and then he dumped me."

Danny eyed me and said, "Something tells me there's more to the story than that."

"Well, I spent the night at his house and then my parents grounded me and then he decided that I was harshing his mellow and he needed some time to, like, do things with other people and do his art blah blah blah."

"Hmm," Danny said. 'Aaron and I had a period like that, right after high school. We broke up for like six

109

110

months because we thought we wanted to see other people, thought we needed to experience more things separately, independently."

"But you worked it out!" I said excitedly. "You decided it's better to be together!"

"We did. But the time apart was good. We did need to work on our own individual identities. We still do."

"Oh," I said. "Right."

"Do you have lots of friends? You don't seem like one of those squealing teenyboppers who travel in packs and like to scream for pop stars in Times Square."

"My best friend is Sugar Pie. She lives in a nursing home. She is a psychic and can read tarot cards."

"Interesting! Do you get along with your mom?" Danny asked.

I hesitated, then said, "We try." I could try to try, I considered.

"Do you have plans for your future? Do you know what you want to do?"

I shook my head. "I don't understand those people who have it all figured out, who know 'I want to go to XYZ College and then I'll be a lawyer' or a weatherperson or whatever. I'll be lucky to get into junior college. Anyway, maybe I just want to be a barista."

"You could do worse," Danny said. "You're great at that, and the most important first steps in figuring out what you want to do, you already have--a good work ethic and loving what you do."

Hmm.

I yawned and looked at my watch. It was past one in the morning, and the streets were still teeming with people

111

and life, laughter and music. I was drained, not just sleepy tired, but emotionally exhausted.

'Are you tired?" Danny asked. "Maybe you want to just crash at our place tonight rather than go back uptown to Daddy's?"

I surprised myself when I said no. It was almost like we had sprinted to the finish line of our sibling learning curve, and now we needed a breather, because we had cheated past years of growing, struggling, fighting, and adoring to get to this one day and night of perfect togetherness. "I'll take a cab back to Frank's," I said.

I looked up at the Empire State Building to the north and the World Trade Center to the south. I had been born at a hospital on the Lower East Side sandwiched between those two monoliths. Pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that is Cyd Charisse started to feel like they were being identified and put in their proper place.

112

Twenty-six

After five days
of me grabbing a slice with Luis at lunch and then working the dinner shift at the Village Idiots, Frank has decided that I am worthy of his time. He has done me the immense favor of clearing his social calendar on Saturday until five o'clock, after which he has to get dressed and leave for the theah-tah. We are going to be father-daughter until the clock strikes five and I am flying solo and Frank is off wining and dining clients and hopefully not impregnating impressionable young dancer-models.

We started with a walk through Central Park. For once the weather was not that sticky and the sun beamed down through the midtown skyscrapers onto the lush greens of the park as we strolled, not walking close like chums, but at a slight distance from each other as, I suppose, wayward dads and their love children are wont to do.

Frank was very proud of himself when we arrived at Strawberry Fields on the West Side.

"See," he said. "This area was dedicated to John Lennon, who lived right over there." He pointed to a haunted-looking old apartment building creeping over the trees in the distance.

"Who's John Lennon?" I asked, and Frank's face fell.

"He was a musician and a songwriter and a revolutionary. People come from all over the world to see this tribute to him." How much do you want to bet he gleaned this information from a commercial? I offered a blank stare back

113

and Frank added, "Ever hear of the Beatles?"

"I think so," I said, but I was humming a song to myself: Yeah yeah yeah. Torturing Frank on the generation gap like this was somewhat amusing.

"Many people thought John Lennon was a hero," Frank said very seriously. "Your brother Danny worshiped him." You could tell Frank was real pleased with himself for knowing about this spot with the oval that proclaimed "Imagine."

"Oh, I remember," I said. "Wasn't he also the guy that was like doped up all the time and having an affair with some other Asian lady that wasn't his wife?"

Frank looked down and then back at me. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?" he asked.

"Nope," I answered, but in a very pleasant way.

We walked in silence for a while. As we approached the middle of the park, Frank said, 'Are you interested in art? We could walk over to the Metropolitan Museum from here."

"I like art," I said. "I especially like artists."

Frank gave me a quizzical look back. We changed directions and started heading back to the East Side. We stopped for crushed lemon ices from a rolling cart vendor, and as we proceeded with our stroll, sour-sweet lemon quenching our thirst, Frank kind of cleared his throat and then said to the open air in general and not directly at me, "So, are you...uh...managing to stay out of trouble?"

I realized that in his way Frank was trying to make sure I was okay and part of me suspected that was probably the best I would ever get out of him. "Yup," I said. "I'm on the pill now."

114

Frank blushed, which was funny considering all the women with spaghetti-strap sundresses and bloodred-painted toenails whom he had been covertly eyeing all afternoon. And even with his East Coast docksiders on his feet and his goofy polo shirt and khaki shorts and his sixty-something self, they had been scoping him back. Blech!

Maybe Frank has produced too many public service announcements as the King of the Advertising World because he said, "Your boyfriend and you...you practice...you be sure to be safe. The pill is not enough."

"I know," I said. It's funny that I would not want to have this conversation with Nancy, but since Frank is a certified dawg, it did not bother me at all. "Condoms are good, too." I gave him a friendly punch in the arm and said, "You remember that, old buddy!"

Frank did laugh. I think he realized that there was just too much awkwardness between us so why not just suspend it entirely?

Frank relaxed and said very bluntly, "This boyfriend of yours. He was the one that got you into trouble?"

"Nope," I answered. "That was the boyfriend before." I could tell Frank was a little relieved that he wasn't going to have to give me a speech about continuing in a relationship with a boy who knocked me up and then stuck me with looking up my secret father to wire me the money to pay for the abortion. "I'm actually not seeing anybody right now. My boyfriend in San Fran broke up with me." Now Frank looked double relieved. Not only did he not have to give me the aforementioned speech, but he also did not have to worry about me fooling around with a current

115

boyfriend. And yet he was the one that threw Luis into my hormonally challenged world! Irony.

Having dispensed with the safe-sex talk, Frank was free to move on to tamer topics. "So, do you have a favorite subject in school?"

"Skipping school is probably my favorite subject. I just cannot get myself interested in anything that goes on there."

"Don't you want to go to college?"

"Eh," I shrugged. I know it's super cool to be one of those hyper-achieving teens who kill themselves on extracurriculars and cram for SATs and write extra credit reports about saving the environment to get higher GPAs, but I am just not one of those people. I may, in fact, be one of those people who will be content just to make great coffee and hang out on foggy broody beaches and not worry too much about the great issues of the world. I don't think that makes me a bad person.

"Your sister," Frank said proudly, "was a stellar student. Went to Harvard, my alma mater. She's now an investment banker with a top Wall Street firm."

"When am I going to meet this sister?" I asked. Rhonda lisBETH was like the dark shadow of my visit so far. Everyone seemed to dance around the issue of her, like she was some kind of monster who couldn't be unleashed upon love children.

"Soon," Frank said, although I don't think he believed that. Clearly, lisBETH was the person who did not want to meet me.

We arrived at the grand steps of the Met where swarms of people were milling about, sitting around and drinking

116

sodas, taking pictures, chilling in the hot summer breeze. "So what'll it be," Frank asked as we walked up the steps. "Egyptian artifacts, Asian pottery, Renaissance paintings, what's your pleasure?"

I said, "I don't like that portraits of ancient kings and queens and velvet tapestry stuff. I dig on more modern kinda art. Not that streaks of paint splashed across a canvas that a four-year-old could do, but like that cube stuff and Picasso-ness and that guy who drew windows and that lady who did the erotic flowers and oh, I especially like that guy who did the intricate mathematical-like black-and-white pictures of like hands and buildings and such."

Frank looked impressed, actually. I have no idea why. "You mean you like Magritte and Georgia O'Keefe and Escher?"

"Yeah!" I exclaimed. "Those guys!" Shrimp used to love dragging me to museums on the days we skipped school together.

"Hmmph," Frank said, pleased.

While we were standing in the admission line, some old white guy wearing golf pants and a shirt with a little alligator came up to us. "Frankie!" the guy exclaimed. "Good to see you, good to see you. What brings you to the Met in the middle of summer when most respectable people are on the Vineyard or in the Hamptons? Heh heh heh." I locked my eyes into place to prevent them from rolling in disgust. I hate snobs.

Frank gestured toward me and said, "I'm showing my nie ..." He looked at me and I bore my eyes straight to the center of his soul, and he continued, "my...my...my

117

goddaughter, showing her a little bit of the city. She's a modern art fan! Quite knowledgeable, too."

Oh, please. I know Frank wanted me to give an innocent and sweet smile to his friend but I didn't. I just stared ahead blankly.

You could tell the old guy was confused and had probably never before seen a goddaughter that looked exactly like her godfather, but if he suspected anything, he didn't let on. The old guy gave me a friendly tap on the shoulder. "Well, enjoy! See ya later, old fellow. Lunch at the club soon?"

Frank said, "Definitely. I'll have Dolores call your girl."

"Excellent, will do," the old guy said, and proceeded back toward his own family.

When he was gone, Frank cleared his throat again and said, "That was the CEO of one of my biggest clients."

I suppose "goddaughter" was the best compromise he could give. I wasn't even mad. I wasn't. That's just Frank, I guess.

He must have mistook my silence for my wanting an explanation because he added, "CEO. That's the Chief Executive Officer. It's the head guy for an important company."

"I know what one is, Frank," I said. "My dad is one."

We both knew I meant Sid-dad, my real dad.

117

118

Twenty-seven

So in the Biological
Father of the Year category, Frank might not be winning any awards anytime soon. He asked if I would like Luis to hang out with me on a Saturday night. Would I! Nancy would have choked on her LifeSavers before allowing a Luis-like hottie to "baby-sit" me for a Saturday evening, but Frank didn't think twice about it.

I was good, though. I said no. Frank didn't expect to be home until very late and he seemed like he almost felt bad about leaving me alone. Danny and Aaron had invited me to par-tay with them in the Village, but they had spent all their evenings of the last week working with me and laughing with me, so I figured they needed a night for just them without Cyd Charisse, third wheel. God only knows where Rhonda lisBETH was, not like I cared anymore.

I knew that the warm and sultry summer air was beckoning Temptation just too strongly, so I said, don't you worry about me, Frank. I don't need Luis to chaperone me. I'm gonna watch this here satellite TV and order me some moo shoo something or other and we'll be just fine. Gingerbread and I will hang out and hit the sack early,
no problemo
. I meant it when I said it, too, and Frank was all, Well, Luis said to call him if you want company, and I said, Right.

So even though TV usually bores me, I got sucked in by this cheesy '80s movie about this dorky pizza delivery boy who mistakenly becomes this gigolo to all these posh

119

women. And the thing about the pizza delivery boy was that he was kinda skinny and scrawny and average-looking, but he was all heart, and somehow, he managed to turn himself into what each of the women's fantasies were.