At one o’clock the entertainment arrived in the person of a tall, feathery woman who went by the professional name Chickie Noodle the Clown. At first Michael thought she might be a little too long in the tooth for a kid’s party, but she turned out to be a trouper, with more than enough energy and patience to deal with twenty little kids. In addition to the balloon-twisting, face-painting, and something called the Merry Madcap Olympics, there was also the obligatory pinata. The kids got to select which one they wanted, a choice that came down to a shark pinata and a butterfly pinata. The kids chose the butterfly.
Two questions instantly arose in Michael’s mind. One, what kind of clown buys a pinata in the shape of a shark? And two, perhaps more importantly, what kind of kids wanted to pick up a plastic bat and beat the crap out of a butterfly?
Suburban kids, that’s who. They should have stayed in Queens where it was safe.
At two-thirty the pony clopped onto the scene, and there was near pandemonium as Chickie Noodle was left spinning in the dust, holding a stack of cardboard cone hats. One by one the kids got to ride an indifferent Shetland named Lulu around the perimeter of the backyard. Michael had to admit that the act was pretty good. The owner of the horse, the guy who led the animal, was a short, kindly looking cowpoke in his sixties, replete with droopy white mustache, bow legs, and a ten gallon Stetson. He looked like a Shetland-sized Sam Elliott.
At three-thirty it was time for presents. And man were there presents. Michael considered that he and Abby would be buying reciprocal gifts for every child at the party during the next year or so, a suburban kid pro quo.
Midway through the consumer love fest, Abby picked up a pair of small square boxes, read the card. “These are from Uncle Tommy.”
The girls ran over to Tommy, arms extended. Tommy knelt down for a pair of big kisses and bigger hugs. It was his turn to blush. Despite two brief marriages, he had no children of his own. He was godfather to both Charlotte and Emily, a position he took with the solemnity of an English archbishop.
The girls zipped back to the table. When they got the wrapping paper off the small boxes, and Michael saw the logo on the sides, he did a double take. The second glance was unnecessary. He’d know that logo anywhere.
“Yaaaay!” the twins cried in unison. Michael knew that his daughters hadn’t the slightest idea what was inside the boxes, but that didn’t matter to them. The boxes had been wrapped in shiny paper, the boxes were for them, and the pile of birthday swag was growing exponentially.
Michael looked at Tommy. “You bought them iPods?”
“What’s wrong with iPods?”
“Jesus, Tommy. They’re four.”
“What are you saying, four year olds don’t listen to music? I listened to music when I was four.”
“Four year olds don’t download music,” Michael said. “Why didn’t you just get them cellphones?”
“That’s next year.” He sipped his wine, winked. “Four is too young for cellphones. What kind of parent are you?”
Michael laughed, but it occurred to him that his daughters weren’t all that far off from cellphones and laptops and cars and dating. He barely survived them going to preschool. How was he going to handle the teen years? He threw a quick glance at Charlotte and Emily, who were tearing into a new pair of presents.
They were still little girls.
Thank God.
By four o’clock the party was winding down. More accurately, the parents were winding down. The kids were still jacked sky-high on cookies, chocolate cake, Kool Aid, and ice cream.
As Tommy prepared to leave, he caught Michael’s eye. The two men gathered at the back of the yard.
“How’s the girl?” Tommy asked, lowering his voice.
Michael thought about Falynn Harris, the quiet girl with the sad angel’s face. She was the star witness – no, the only witness – in his next homicide trial. “She hasn’t spoken a word yet.”
“The trial starts Monday?”
“Monday.”
Tommy nodded, taking it in. “Anything you need.”
“Thanks, Tommy.”
“Don’t forget Rupert White’s party tomorrow. You’re coming, right?”
Michael instinctively glanced at Abby, who was cleaning the frosting off a neighborhood boy’s face, neck, and arms. The kid looked like a chubby pink fresco. “I have to clear it with command and control.”
Tommy shook his head. “Marriage.”
On the way out, Michael saw Tommy stop and talk to Rita Ludlow, a thirtyish divorcee from the end of the block. Tall, auburn-haired, shapely, she had probably populated the daydreams of every man under ninety in Eden Falls at one time or another.
Not surprisingly, after just a few seconds of chatter, she handed Tommy her phone number. Tommy turned, winked at Michael, swaggered off.
Sometimes Michael Roman hated his best friend.
Because the invitations said noon to four, when they heard the car doors slam out front, it could only mean one thing. Abby’s brother Wallace was making his regal entrance. He was not just fashionably late. He was fashionista late. Which was all the more ironic, considering his past.
Angel-hair thin, freckled and balding, Wallace Reed was the kid in high school who ironed his book covers, the kid who would have played triangle in the school band if he hadn’t gotten smoked in the audition and ended up playing second triangle.
Today he was chairman of WBR Aerospace, pulling down something north of eight figures a year, living in a McMansion in Westchester, and summering in one of those sea-foam green Gatsby places in Sagaponack featured in Hamptons Magazine.
Still, despite his card-carrying status in Nerds Anonymous, Wallace had romanced an astonishing array of beautiful women. Amazing what a few million dollars can do for your image.
This day his belle du jour didn’t look a day over twenty-four. She wore a Roberto Cavalli halter dress and a pair of burgundy ballet flats. This according to Abby. Michael wouldn’t know a ballet flat from a flat tire.
“Now here’s a woman who knows how to dress for cake and Kool Aid,” Abby said, sotto voce.
“Be nice.”
“I’m going with Whitney,” Abby whispered.
“I’ll take Madison.” It was a running five-dollar bet they had.
“There’s my favorite sister,” Wallace said. It was the standard line. Abby was his only sister. He kissed her on the cheek.
Wallace wore a bright plum Polo, razor-creased beige chinos and green duck boots. Barney gone LL Bean. He gestured to the girl. “This is Madison.”
Michael could not look at his wife. He just couldn’t. The twins came running over, sensing fresh chum.
“And these must be the girls of the hour,” Madison said, getting down to the twins’ level. The girls did their shy act, fingers to lips. They hadn’t figured out the woman’s gift-potential yet.
“Yes, this is Charlotte and Emily,” Abby said.
Madison smiled, stood, patted the girls on their heads, like they were schnauzers. “How adorable. Just like the Bronte sisters.”
Abby shot a desperate glance at Michael.
“Right,” Michael said. “The Bronte sisters.”
Here was a party-pause longer than the one where Rock Hudson came out of the closet.
“The authors?” Madison said, blinking, incredulous. “The British authors?”
“Of course,” Abby said. “They wrote…”
The second longest pause.
“Wuthering Heights? Jane Eyre?”
“Yes,” Abby said. “I simply adored those books growing up. So did Michael.”
Michael nodded. And nodded. He felt like a bobble-head doll in the back window of a car with busted shocks.
The girls circled the four adults. Michael could almost hear the theme from Jaws. Presents from Uncle Wallace were like the Oscars. Best picture was always last.
