Play Dates (13 page)

) and the phone booth where Richard

s Baby

Dreyfuss called Marsha Mason in the pouring r
The Good-ain in

bye Girl
.

“The Richard Dreyfuss phone booth isn’t there anymore,” I say. Another slice of New York history that has gone the way of the subway token.

“What happened to it?” the Willahatchee music teacher wants to know. He’s already told me that he admires Dreyfuss’s musicianship, not only his guitar

The Goodbye

-playing hobby in

Girl
, but as the title character in
Mr. Holland’

.

s Opus

“No more phone booths. We got rid of them years ago. Too many drug deals, muggings, and public urinations. Sorry, folks, but it’s true.” I realize that this doesn’t paint the prettiest picture of my city, so I add, “But now New York is so much safer thanks to a kick-ass former mayor and a couple of kick-ass former police chiefs.” I conveniently omit the obvious, the breach

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Leslie Carroll

of security that will occupy a corner of our minds for the rest of our lives.

I’d gotten advance permission from Go Native! to take my band on the Roosevelt Island tramway, site of
Spiderman
’s climactic scene between our homespun hero and Willem Dafoe.

This is where my tour will culminate as well. We’ll cross over to Roosevelt Island and back and then Frank will return the good citizens of Willahatchee to the Trina’s Tours office.

Unfortunately, there appears to be some sort of a backlog of cross-river travelers at the Manhattan side of the tram. I try to ascertain what’s up and hear only a couple of speculative comments that the tram was “broken for a while,” but now it’s up and running again. All the folks in front of us actually live on Roosevelt Island and need to get home. Besides, they were here first. I ask my tour if it’s okay with them that we wait a bit.

They’re fine with that, understanding the situation.

A half hour later, we’re all still on line. The tram buckets are larger than the little four-seaters in Disneyland, but compared to a subway car, for example, they don’t carry too many passengers.

“Does anyone need to be anywhere soon?” I ask my tour. Sixty-four heads respond in the negative. After another twenty minutes or so, I’ve sent the first group over to Roosevelt Island and am lining up the balance of my guests for the next Manhattan-side tram. I load them in, then glance at my watch. Uh-oh.

Even if I can catch a cab right this minute, and even if the traffic is moving, it’s a long ride from 59th Street and Second Avenue to 23rd and Twelfth. We would have been fine, had it not been for the tram backup. I would have made it to Chelsea Piers just a few minutes late. I feel desperation coursing through my veins. I can’t afford to be any later to pick up Zoë, or the poor child might be sitting there all alone—in a
best-
case sce-nario. All my options suck. I’m a victim of Murphy’s Law this afternoon, stuck between risking child endangerment and risking my employment.

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95

“Folks!” I shout, getting my tour group’s attention. Well, half of them. The other half just landed on Roosevelt Island and are supposed to return with the next Manhattan-bound bucket.

“Look, I’m really sorry about this, but I have a bit of bad news.

I’m going to have to play the Goodbye Girl myself.” I make a plea for sympathy to the mothers in my audience, and, surprisingly, I get it. The Willahatchee chaperones are soccer moms and they show solidarity.

“You go get your daughter, sweetie.”

“We’ll be all right. It’s not your fault.”

“We’ll tell the others for you, so don’t you worry.”

“It’s the curse of the working mother,” they commiserate.

I’m so grateful, especially after the orgasm grannies’ outright hostility, that I burst into tears. I thank them profusely and assure them that I’ll be watching from my window on Thanksgiving morning, cheering like crazy for the band as they march loudly and proudly down Central Park West with the rest of the Macy’s parade participants.

I arrive at Chelsea Piers to find Zoë hunched over on a bench outside the skating rink, looking like Charlie Brown after a particularly resounding defeat. Behind her, Nina, a man I assume is Robert—neither of them speaking to the other, but exchanging glares of death—and a homely young woman who I guess is the new
au pair
, are packing up Xander’s gifts. They are loading up an industrial dolly. I’ve attended weddings that have brought in less of a haul. And this kid got all this loot just for turning seven.

His own wedding, should any young lady be masochistic enough to marry him, can’t help but be anti-climactic. The chill in the air isn’t just coming off the rink. I absorb Nina’s icy stare and it’s immediately evident why Mia didn’t want to set foot in the place.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say, kicking Zoë’s bench. Behind me, the Osbornes are trying to figure out what to do with the leftover cake, a confectionery replica of Madison Square Garden.

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Leslie Carroll

“Hey.” She’s almost inaudible. “I thought MiMi was coming to get me.”

“MiMi couldn’t make it sweetie. Something came up.”

“Well, you’re late. The party ended at four o’clock.”

I kneel beside the bench so we’re at eye level. “I had to work.

You know that. I got here as fast as I could. So, did you have fun?” She nods. “Did you decide to play hockey after all?” Another nod. A glum face.

“You missed it,” she says, a perfect tear rolling down the side of her nose. “All the moms and dads were here and they were cheering and first they taught us how to play and then we even played a real hockey game and I scored a goal. You missed it.”

Every day, no matter how much I do, I feel in some way like I’m failing this child. The only reason she’d wanted to go to the party was because she has a crush on Xander; she was terrified of the ice hockey theme, but she suited up with the other kids, faced her fears, got on the ice, learned the game, and even scored a goal. And her mommy wasn’t there to see her do it.

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,” I tell her, kissing away the tear that by now has reached her chin. “I’m very, very sorry that I didn’t see you play hockey and score that goal.”

“And Xander was the goalie, too!” she says, breaking into a smile. “I got him good! Oh.” She holds up a slightly smushed paper bag.

“Whatcha got there, Z?”

“A goody bag.” She thrusts it into my hands. I open the sack to discover what the Osbornes consider “goodies” for second graders. In addition to a Knicks key chain and a Toblerone bar, there’s a Yankees cap (just for the record, we Marshes are Mets fans), a parent/child guest pass good for one month’s activities at Chelsea Piers, and a pair of Rangers tickets. Rinkside, or whatever they call them.
The only thing missing is a coupon for a year’s
tuition at Thackeray
. Total value of the goody bag: a few hundred dollars. And the Osbornes did this for over three dozen PLAY DATES

97

kids. Plus the cost of the two-hour bash. Welcome to the world of birthday parties given by wealthy, competitive parents for their overachieving offspring.

I slip the goody bag into my purse and extend my hand to Zoë. “Ready to go?”

She hops off the bench. “I think I like hockey,” she says as we walk toward the bus stop. “You get to beat people up and don’t get in trouble for it.”

Two days later, at 3 P.M., Zoë comes barreling down the stone steps of the Thackeray Academy, carrying her dented Veterans Memorial. Her eyes are puffy and red. Without greeting me first, she grabs my hand and drags me to the nearest trash basket, where she unceremoniously dumps her project. Then she literally kicks the can.

“Zoë, what happened? We worked so hard on that and you did such a good job all by yourself!”

“I got a U,” she replies, all her tears evidently spent.

“Wait a sec. You did the assignment. You handed it in on time.

Why did Mrs. Hennepin say it was Unsatisfactory?”

Her face looks stricken. “I don’t know.”

“Let’s go.” I retrieve Zoë’s project from the garbage can and march her back into the school and straight down the hall to the headmaster’s office.

As I’m about to enter Mr. Kiplinger’s sanctum sanctorum, his secretary, Mrs. Tejada, tells me I can’t get in without an appointment. “Yes, he’s a very busy man, I know,” I say sarcastically.

Mr. Kiplinger is on the phone when Zoë and I step inside his office. He waves us away but I ignore his waggling hand. His cuffs are monogrammed with thread the color of burnt umber.

When he sees that my daughter and I aren’t going anywhere, he motions for us to sit. I wait for him to conclude his call, then skip the pleasantries. I place the memorial on the desk in front of him.

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Leslie Carroll

“Please tell me why Zoë’s special project was given a U,” I calmly demand.

“You know perfectly well that the issue of grades is not my purview, Ms. Marsh. You should be addressing this with her teacher.”

“Fine. Then we’ll get Mrs. Hennepin down here.”

It’s clear that Zoë and I are going to wait until this situation is resolved, so Mr. Kiplinger buzzes Mrs. Tejada and asks her to summon both Mrs. Hennepin and Mr. Mendel. As we wait, I whisper to Zoë that it’s not nice to kick Mr. Kiplinger’s desk, although
I’d
like to kick
Mr. Kiplinger
.

“Well . . . Ms. Marsh. I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again so soon.” Mr. Mendel gives me an insipid handshake. “Hello, Zoë.”

“Hello,” she parrots sullenly.

“We don’t seem too cheery this afternoon.”

“You wouldn’t be if you worked your tail off on your homework, delivered it in a timely fashion, and then got a ‘U’ on it.

Mrs. Hennepin, would you kindly tell me why you judged Zoë’s Veterans Day memorial ‘Unsatisfactory’?”

She fixes me with steely eyes beneath the white elastic hairband. “Ms. Marsh, did you supervise Zoë on this project?”

“Of course I did.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised,” she says.

“And why is that?”

“Well . . . it’s not up to Thackeray standards. It looks like a child did it.”

“A child
did
do it. And she’s in second grade. She’s not a design major at Pratt.”

“There’s no need to become sarcastic. It’s unhelpful,” Mr.

Mendel volunteers helpfully.

“Zoë doesn’t need to be an art college student to deliver a satisfactory project. Lily Pei turned in a plaza with a fully functioning waterfall,” argues Mrs. Hennepin.

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“Lily Pei.
Pei
. As in
I. M.
Pei, perhaps? Don’t tell me there’s a professional architect somewhere in her family who more than supervised her homework?”

“The parents are demanding much higher standards nowadays,” Mr. Kiplinger says. “We’ve had to change with the times since you were a student, Ms. Marsh; and we expect our parents to help their children with their homework in a hands-on way.”

“Hands-on, huh?” I can imagine Lily Pei’s entry in the Regina Hennepin Veterans Memorial Sweepstakes. It’s probably on foam core board with 3-D buildings and little passersby, all done to perfect scale.

“Mentoring, especially for children Zoë’s age, is of vital importance to their development.”

“Mr. Mendel, if my parents helped me as much as Lily Pei’s great-grandfather has, to use your own example, it wouldn’t be considered ‘mentoring.’ It would be called ‘cheating,’ and we’d all be sitting in this office just the same, to discuss the dangers of
that
. I think your judging my daughter’s own handiwork and creativity as ‘Unsatisfactory’ is what’s damaging here. It’s not the grade itself that concerns me—that a U on her second-grade transcript will irrevocably screw up her chances of getting into the Ivy league. What troubles me is, how can a six-year-old little girl possibly live up to the standards you’re now imposing on her?”

“I think you’re mischaracterizing things, Ms. Marsh.”

“I’m inclined to agree with the school psychologist,” Mr.

Kiplinger says, deliberately invoking Mr. Mendel’s credentials.

“Thackeray always prided itself on playing to a child’s strengths, on encouraging their individualism and creativity, as long as they learned the concepts of responsibility, diligence, and attention to detail. What kind of harm does it do to a child’s self-worth to make it quite clear—by giving her a
failing
grade—

that homework fashioned by her own hands is inadequate?

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How are children expected to learn about anything other than cheating and laziness, when their parents are the ones who are doing the homework?”

“You’re very angry, Ms. Marsh. That’s hardly a positive environment in which to raise—”

I slide my chair away from the desk and address Mr.

Mendel. “You let me finish! Mrs. Hennepin, I told Zoë when we worked on her veterans memorial that I’ve already been in second grade. I have an art background. Of course
I
can put together a project that can be compared with Lily Pei’s.

But how are Zoë and Lily supposed to learn how to do it themselves? Even though the result might be imperfect in your eyes?”

I feel like a crusader of sorts. Joan of Arc or Susan B. Anthony.

“How can these children grow as students and as human beings when the school’s policy stomps on their vast imaginations and fragile self-esteem?”

“And what kind of example are
you
setting for Zoë?” Mrs.

Hennepin demands. “You’re very headstrong. You Marsh girls have always tried to buck the rules and mock authority. If you want Zoë to have a positive and fulfilling experience at Thackeray—”

“You know something? We’re going in circles again, here.

That’s all I ever seem to get from you folks. The runaround.

You’re making me dizzy. I fully understand that parents and teachers are expected to be partners in their children’s educa-tions. But I won’t have Zoë raised by committee.”