Trying to Float (6 page)

THE THEATER

I HAD IMAGINED
that by the end of elementary school, my career in musical theater would have been much further along than it was. The problem was clear: Pippi had conspired to give her children the roles (such as the Pea in
The Princess and the Pea
or Thomas in
Thomas the Tank Engine
) that would otherwise have gone to those who, owing to their talent and years of hard work, deserved it—meaning me.

I was complaining to my mother about this when she reminded me of the musicals staged by our local synagogue—the year before, I had played Nancy in
Oliver,
one of their productions. That year, they were doing
Fiddler on the Roof,
Mom's favorite. On Passover, my mother and her family gathered before the television to watch
Fiddler
. During the songs, they would get up to sing and dance around the room, pretending they were leaving the shtetl.

The next day, I walked with Mom to the synagogue. The
director of the musicals, Schmuel, was good enough to meet with us. When Schmuel was not casting, directing, and acting in musicals, he taught Hebrew and made sure there were enough brownies after the bar mitzvahs.

“Of course,” he assured me, “you'll be in
Fiddler
. You were my Nancy last year. Besides the main parts—Golde, Tevye, and their three daughters—there are three more daughters, so you will definitely get something.”

“Six daughters?” I responded. “I only remember three.”

“The others got left out of the movie, but I'm bringing them back.”

“And which one would I be?”

“Well there's Tzeitel, Hodel, Chava . . . ” Schmuel gazed up at the ceiling and stroked his beard. “And . . . well . . . Prancer, Dancer, and Blixen,” he finished quickly. “Maybe you'll be Blixen.”

—

With my acting career back on track, I could not have been happier. Returning to the hotel that afternoon, I decided to share my good mood with my friends the Crafties. But they were having a very serious discussion, and when I tried to butt in, I was told to come back in a few minutes. They were, Uber-Crafty explained, trying to work out the details of how to murder someone on the second floor. This was of minor concern to me.

With the Crafties preoccupied, I rolled my good mood across the lobby to the office of Mr. Stanley Bard.

“Mr. Bard. I am sorry to bother you . . .”

“No bother at all. You were born here, grew up here, you are like a daughter to me. A beloved resident of the Chelsea. Your father, on the other hand . . . ”

“I have some news,” I blurted.

Stanley, who was always on the edge of agitation, began to shake.

“Does it have to do with the Crafties? I heard they're going to murder someone.”

“They are,” I assured him.

“Me?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Who, then?”

“The guy with a lot of muscles.”

“The one with the platform shoes?” Mr. Bard guessed.

“No, the big bald guy.”

Mr. Bard was now stoic.

“No one should murder anyone in this hotel without talking to me first. Remind your friends out there that I'm still the owner of this hotel and someone who cares about all the tenants, even if they are behind on their rent and not one of them is paying what similar hotels, like the Plaza or Carlyle, get for their rooms.

“Did you know the green satin ceiling and green shag
carpet in your apartment was put there by Angie Bowie to complement her pale skin, red hair, and green eyes? What a beauty she was. Between you and me, there was a certain way she looked at me . . .”

“My mom told me ours is the apartment above that one.”

“And Marilyn Monroe lived with Arthur Miller just down the hall from you.”

“I thought they were on the tenth floor? Anyway, I have some good news.”

“They moved around. And now all I have are deadbeats—they complain all the time about the mice. Do you see any mice? I've never seen one. Lies!”

“Mr. Bard, I have good news about my career.”

“Did I tell you that Jackie Kennedy used to visit?”

“I don't think so.”

“In this office . . . and other places, Jerry's home, but I shouldn't say.”

“Mr. Jerry at the front desk?”

“Is there any other? Yes! Jerry Weinstein, my best friend, that conniving S.O.B.—boy, those were the days! Who knows what he has taken from the register?”

Stacks of yellowing papers surrounded him.

“Nicolaia, you said you had something to tell me?”

“Very good news, Mr. Bard. Do you know Blixen?'

“Of course! My grandmother's were the thinnest in the neighborhood.”

“Two thin, Jewish grandmothers? Unusual.”

“
No,
not my grandmothers. The blintzes! They were the thinnest crêpes in the neighborhood; she used to cook them on the back of the pan, a little cottage cheese and cherry jam . . . ”

“Mr. Bard, I am talking about Tevye's daughter Blixen.”

“Blixen, the reindeer?! Who's playing Tevye?”

“Maybe Schmuel—he was my husband, Bill Sikes, in
Oliver
. He reminds me of you.”

“People have always said I would make a great Tevye. I think Jerry said it. Years ago when we were . . . Wait a minute, where is that good for nothing Jerry?”

He stared off to the side, driving recklessly into his memory.

I stepped quietly out of his office. As I closed the door, I looked back at Mr. Bard—the Tevye of the Chelsea Hotel, an eccentric yet lovable bundle of anxiety.

In the end, the Hebrew School cast a boy named Saul to play Tevye. He had a high voice and long blond hair. I was chosen as Golde, his wife, which meant that for the first time in any production of
Fiddler,
Tevye had less facial hair than the woman he married. Golde was a good role; she had many songs and wasn't killed by pogroms. My cousin Tillie was Blixen.

REBECCA

WHEN OUR TEACHER,
Rebecca, young and attractive, walked into our fifth-grade class, there was only one thought in the room: “Fancy.” Black dress, pumps, fine stockings—all stylish and expensive in that obviously not-obvious way that refined people have.

Here was someone who appreciated the gravity of the superficial (her haircut and nails alone took a day at the salon). She would have no interest in homework or lectures.

It took only a couple days to realize how wrong we were.

When two boys were caught talking during one of her lectures, she told them to stop or they would have “to sit in the hallway.” When they continued, Rebecca, dragging two chairs behind her, led them outside.

The next day the chairs remained in the hallway.

And the next, and the next, until it became apparent that when Rebecca had told them that they would have to sit in
the hallway, she meant that they would be spending the rest of the year there.

When their parents complained, pointing out that they were “good boys,” Rebecca gestured toward the other classrooms in the hall.

“Surely,” Rebecca replied, “such good boys will be welcome in someone else's class. But not here.”

End of discussion.

Rebecca's no-talking-in-class rule was the first of many.

After I received a failing grade on an art project (a portrait of my grandmother), my baffled mother studied the difference between it and my earlier “A” drawings. With some inspection it became clear to my mother that Rebecca wanted all drawings to have their backgrounds completely filled in. Having detected a speck or two of white from the paper below the drawing of my grandmother, Rebecca scrawled a red “F” across Grandma's face.

“There is no right way to express yourself,” my mother comforted me. “But you also need to learn to give teachers what they want—especially Rebecca.”

Compared to the punishing way that kids often treated each other, Rebecca's insistence that we fill in the white spaces behind Grandma's head seemed a light sentence.

As kids were expelled and others, weakening under the weight of Rebecca's rules, switched teachers or schools, the number of kids in her class shrank. None of this seemed to bother Rebecca.

For those of us who held out, though miserable, we sensed that we were learning in a way that we never had before. And that was because Rebecca didn't care if we liked her. For her, there was only one thought: getting the most important ideas of literature, science, and current events into our undeveloped brains as deeply and quickly as possible.

Every day, she was there in the classroom, waiting solemnly, dressed head-to-toe in black, ready to cut out bad ideas and replace them with healthy material, a fashionable surgeon.

In addition to the assignments required by the school, Rebecca insisted that each of us complete a long writing project. We could do almost anything, but it had to focus on a single subject.

As we wrote, she would offer comments, making sure that by the time the project was complete, it was as close to perfect as our little minds could get it. As a gift, she had all of our writings printed and bound, with an engraved cover.

Rebecca was not the most popular teacher in the school. Other teachers, burdened by the kids they had to take in from Rebecca's class, disliked Rebecca; administrators, sensing her disapproval, avoided her. And Rebecca, aware of this, ignored everyone.

If there was one person who was as friendless as I was at school, it was Rebecca.

Fifth grade brought new responsibilities, one of which was the privilege of spending lunch outside the school grounds. This seemingly innocuous activity was the most exciting part
of the day, a foray into the real world. We had forty-five minutes to pick up food from a nearby deli and return to class. The only limitations were that we could not go beyond a three-block radius and we couldn't go out without someone else—a “buddy.”

On the first day, I wandered over to two girls who were getting ready to leave for lunch.

“Excuse me, would it be okay if I came out with you guys? I don't have a buddy.”

The first girl turned to her friend and frowned. “What did
it
say?”

The other girl shrugged.

“
It
can't come with us.”

With that, they walked away.

This might explain why when Rebecca asked if there was anyone who wanted to spend their lunch hour helping her clean the classroom (unsurprisingly, she was also fixated upon keeping an immaculate work space), I alone raised my hand. Not that I had a better option. Lunchtime meant sitting alone in the cafeteria or taking my lunch to some corner of the school where I wouldn't be seen.

Cleaning up Rebecca's classroom turned into a regular job. I would spend fifteen to twenty minutes putting things away and sweeping, and then sit down at a desk and eat my lunch. Not a word was exchanged with Rebecca. But she seemed to tolerate having me there, and I liked the idea of having a place to go.

Not once during that year did anyone else join Rebecca for
lunch, nor did she ever leave the classroom. Rebecca seemed unbothered by the fact that the only one in the school who wanted to hang out with her was me.

One day, Rebecca informed me that she would not be in class the next couple days. I worried that she had been fired.

A day or two later, I met my mother in a coffee shop after school. She slid a picture across the table. It was a photograph of President Obama in the White House. He was in deep conversation with someone with whom he was obviously friendly. Rebecca.

WINTER VALLEY

ONCE A YEAR
my elementary school treated its fifth-grade students to two or three days in the countryside. Kids could hike or swim in a lake or just wander around. In the evening, everyone gathered wood and built fires. The place we went was Winter Valley. Everyone looked forward to it, especially me.

Unpopular kids tell themselves that if they have a chance to get out of school and be with kids in a different setting, it will be easier to make friends. Winter Valley was perfect for this: there were plenty of group activities, and the kids slept together in log cabins.

My class trip to Winter Valley was scheduled for February. Though I didn't much like the cold, I was thrilled. It was all I could think about. I read about the trees and animals that I would see, how to build a fire and make friendship bracelets. I had been collecting magazines on “country living” for years, hoping that one day my parents would move us to a woodsy place.

—

I had asked my parents to come on the trip as the chaperones, but that was never going to happen. My father, though still young, gave the convincing appearance of having been around for a couple of centuries, and on the rare occasion that he left his armchair, could be found at the nearest café. My mother had also refused. Her idea of traveling was to places like Tashkent or Bamako, not Winter Valley with a group of kids.

My mom packed me a bag full of my favorite clothing, all of which could have doubled as maternity wear. As I boarded the bus, full of expectation and clothed in T.J.Maxx's finest, my parents waved good-bye to me from the street.

On the bus sat my classmates, a couple teachers from the school, and Doris's mom, our chaperone.

As soon as we left the parking lot, the kids started singing “I Kissed a Girl” by Katy Perry. As I joined them, something came out of my mouth along with the notes and words.

As an infant, I had suffered from motion sickness. For this reason, when Mom and I traveled, she would make a point of avoiding buses, boats, and long car rides. So careful was she that I'd forgotten that I even had the problem.

What this meant was that in addition to my voice that morning I was able to contribute to the song the masticated contents of my last meal. I spent the rest of the trip with my head in a plastic bag.

—

As soon as we arrived at Winter Valley, I raced off in search of a bathroom.

When I returned to the bus, my classmates were gone. I waited, but the gentlemen who I had assumed had been assigned to carry my bags to the cabin did not appear. Full of the camping spirit, I took hold of my new pink Hannah Montana bag and, with the assistance of a previously unknown strength, rolled it up the hill to Chief True Eagle Cabin, my assigned residence.

Inside, I was greeted by Doris's mom. She walked me to the one unoccupied bed at the very back of the room. It was the only single bed in a room full of bunks.

Where, I wondered, were the reading chairs, duvets, and hand-painted wallpapers that I'd seen in the country living magazines?

There were only gray walls, metal bunk beds, and a muddied beige carpet. Doris's mom sensed my disappointment.

“For your information,” she lectured, “Chief True Eagle was not interested in trivial things.”

“Could you find me a chief who was?”

“Here is your bed,” replied Doris's mom, and then she turned to leave.

I interrupted her departure.

“Excuse me. Do you smell something?”

Doris's mom sniffed. An expression of disgust flooded her face.

After the deafening sound of a certain bathroom appliance, one of my classmates emerged from a door not two feet from my bed. I realized then why my bed had remained unoccupied.

Did I mention that it was snowing? It was the type of snowfall dense enough to make snowmen or throw snowballs. This snow overwhelmed the cabins, trees, and everything beyond until nothing was visible.

Snow like this hadn't been seen at Winter Valley for over a decade. So amazing was it that the staff of the camp, after a dinnertime discussion with the parents and teachers, decided that the next day we would all go snowshoeing on a nearby mountain. Everyone was excited.

—

At exactly eight o'clock the next morning, we gathered at the edge of the camp. The sky was clear.

Together, we moved toward the mountain, and as we climbed, the counselors gave us a history of the area. Trees and animals and birds were discussed. I felt connected to our group, marching in the same direction, toward the same adventure.

After an hour or two of walking, we reached the point at which we could go no farther. The snow was too deep.

The people I knew in New York were not exactly the snowshoeing sort and I was at a loss as to what to do. On top of this, I was clumsy.

I drifted behind.

When the distance between me and the group was so great that I could no longer see them, I became nervous. Before I could call out, I began to fall forward.

My head screwed into the snow. The cold shocked me. After a minute or two, a horned animal, possibly a unicorn, galloped toward me. I was in a tapestry—ladies and knights floating in the distance as the beast made its way to my side.

Suddenly I was being hoisted from the snow, the steamy breath of the unicorn warming my face. My eyes began to clear.

It was Doris's mom.

Witnessing my fall, she had come snowshoeing down the hill. Not all that good in snowshoes herself, she jerked back and forth, waving her poles in the air above her head.

But I was not in a position to say anything unkind about Doris's mom. She was more fretful about her child than most of the parents at school, but she was one of the few willing to come with us to Winter Valley and the only parent willing to face the mountain beside us.

Having lifted me out of the snow, Doris's mom turned to lead us back up the hill, but upon taking her first step, she lurched up and over her own snowshoes. As soon as she hit the snow, she began to somersault. There was no one below to stop her tumbling, so I watched as she, a groaning, growing orb of whiteness, disappeared down the hill.

Where she ended up, I do not know. But it took an hour for the instructors to find her.

By the time I returned to the camp, everyone was convinced that I was responsible for whatever had happened to Doris's mom. There was even a rumor that I'd pushed her. For the remaining days at Winter Valley, no one spoke to me; I was not included in group activities; and at the meals, I sat alone.

Just before we returned to New York, word came back to us that Doris's mom was alive and conscious but had broken a number of bones and would be in the hospital for a couple weeks. I could not have felt worse about this.

Despite my efforts to move forward, to find friends, to be appreciated in some way, I was back at that pool party, the baby throwing me off balance, the look on the faces of the others. My life was folding back on itself.

—

In school the following Monday, it was clear that my place was fixed: I would, for the rest of my life, be known as the least popular kid in the elementary school. Before Winter Valley, I had comforted myself with the thought that there was time for things to change. Now it was too close to graduation. Doris's mom was still in the hospital, and she was not getting out any time soon. In fact, the doctors were now saying that she would need another operation.

One morning, my mother sent me to school with a nicely wrapped package for Doris's mother. When I handed it to Doris, I assured her that her mom was going to love the
gift, though I had not bothered to ask my mother what was inside.

Because I'd delivered the gift on the very day that Doris's mom was scheduled for her second operation, Doris was able to unwrap it for her as soon as she awoke. So after a day of having titanium rods inserted into her arm, Doris's mom opened her eyes to a wicker basket filled with hand creams, each with a cheery message from my mother.

“Having trouble with your cuticles? Try this.”

When my father, never wanting to upset my mother, had told her the Winter Valley story, he poured a little too much fabric softener into it, so that she had entirely the wrong idea about what had happened to Doris's mom.

The unexpected, but welcome, effect of this was that I was given a brief rest from people disliking me, as teachers, parents, and even some students came to believe that my unfortunate personality was less my doing than the weedy outgrowth of a deranged couple.