Clap. Clap.
“Yes, but don’t touch the beard,” Pops said, his hands protecting his face. “I need it for panhandling.”
“Mr. Ross,” Nigel said. “Are you planning to beg for change on the ship, hmm? I thought not. You can grow it back later.”
“But it makes me look like a sea captain,” he groused.
“Off with your beard,” Archie declared. “Four words. Two words. Two words…”
Clap. Clap.
Pops closed his eyes as Archie shaved his face. I’d never seen my father without the beard (at least not that I could remember). Archie clipped his hair until half of it was on the floor. He styled the cut, which I’d describe as conservative cocker, then streaked his gray locks with a black Magic Marker to give him a more regal salt-and-pepper look. Finally, he added a touch of grooming spray to hold the cut.
“You look ten years younger,” Nigel marveled, handing Pops a mirror.
“I do?” Pops said, grinning at the reflection of his popcorn kernel smile. “Yes, I do!”
I was proud. Pops was a new man, bearing little resemblance to the homeless dog minder slash jazz musician he really was.
“Take this with you,” Archie said, handing Pops the black marker. “You can touch up the hair whenever you need to. Fourteen words. Two words…”
“Thanks,” Pops said, clapping twice. “You, Archibald, are a true artist.”
POPS STOOD IN FRONT of the mirror as Mrs. Weidermeyer, the museum’s stooped Eastern European seamstress, pinned his Armani tuxedo sleeve. Mrs. Weidermeyer was all of four feet tall with the posture of a shrimp, which made hem pinning easy for her, since her head automatically faced down.
Nigel had called a few of his publicist friends at the top men’s fashion houses, and a first-class wardrobe magically appeared the next day. Of course, it would all have to go back after the cruise, but for now, Pops was marveling at the sight of himself looking so dapper.
“Ouch!” Pops shouted. “You just stuck me with a pin.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ross, but you need to stop squirming or we’ll never get this done,” Mrs. Weidermeyer said.
“Please, Mrs. Weidermeyer, call me by my Christian name, Sven. And can’t you see that I don’t want our time together to end?” Pops said in a playful voice.
“Sven, don’t, I’m a married woman,” Mrs. Weidermeyer said, waving him away. But the flush in her face said, do, do.
I’d never seen this side of my father. In the years since he lost his cat-minding job on Park Avenue, he had fallen into a state of dishevelment, adopting a grungy homeless look that didn’t foster flirting. Seeing him dressed up like this, all proud and debonair, made me more determined than ever to get that promotion. With a better job, I could give Pops an apartment of his own, new clothes, a full refrigerator, an electric Rascal Powerchair to toot around on when he became old and infirm—a good life, a life where he wouldn’t have to sleep with dogs. For now, he’d have to settle for a wonderful adventure at sea.
After Mrs. Weidermeyer pinned the last pair of pants, we cabbed over to the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa, where Nigel had arranged for the three of us to get manicures, pedicures, and facials. The museum had done a cross promotion with the spa at our last yearly benefit. They had donated hundred-dollar certificates for the gift bags and we had a pile of them left over.
Pops was not pedicure-friendly. Every time the technician rubbed his foot with the pumice sponge stones, he’d yelp and pull out of the water. “That tickles,” he’d say. “Stop, I can’t take it anymore.”
“Contain yourself,” I said to him. “If you can’t, they’ll have to put you to sleep.”
“You’re shittin’ me, right?” he said, splashing his foot out again. “Ouch, how do you ladies stand it?”
“Honey, a girl must suffer for her beauty,” Nigel said. “So what airline are you taking?”
“Lufthansa,” I said. “We have to stop in Frankfurt in both directions.”
“First class all the way, eh, luv?”
“Well, actually, I traded in our first-class seats for two in coach. We’ll use the difference for spending money.”
“Why, that’s brilliant.”
“But I couldn’t get us seats together,” I said to Pops. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“’Course not,” he said. “I plan to sleep on the way over.”
“Don’t forget,” Nigel said, “you have to check the costumes at the special international courier counter. They’ll x-ray the trunk, escort it and you to the gate, and let you watch them load it on the plane.” Even though the dresses were only reproductions, we were transferring them as we would any precious cargo on loan to another museum. They were insured for eighty thousand dollars, too much to trust to a baggage handler’s care.
“Do I get to ride on one of those electric carts?”
“Only if you’re very polite,” Nigel said.
“Aren’t I always?” I said. “Will you arrange for me to watch them move the trunk to the plane we’re catching in Frankfurt, and then pick it up at the gate when we land in Athens?”
“Of course, luv. You’ll follow it every step of the way.”
As our feet were being scrubbed and our fingernails buffed, we role-played Pops speaking to the other cruise passengers. He didn’t want anyone to know his real circumstance. For this trip, Pops would be Sven Ross, concert pianist.
“So, do you enjoy classical music?” Pops inquired. “Maybe you’ve seen me perform with the New York Philharmonic.”
“Don’t mention any specific orchestras people might know,” I suggested. “Here’s an idea. When you’re talking to people, pretend you’re an actor playing a concert pianist and you’re improvising scenes. Just answer their questions the way you think Leonard Bernstein would.”
“Funny you should mention Len. I’m playing a duet with him in Brussels next summer,” Pops said.
“Isn’t he dead?” I asked.
“No,” Pops said. “I had dinner with him last Sunday at the Quilted Giraffe.”
“The Quilted Giraffe has closed
