The Chocolate Money Read online

  Babs turns her back on me and rinses Andie’s yolky plate. She normally doesn’t do dishes, but it is the weekend, and there is no staff to do it for her. She hates when traces of food linger.

  She starts to laugh. I know this isn’t her good laugh but the laugh that means something bad is going to happen. If I try to laugh along, my voice doesn’t mix with hers; it just bounces back at me. Andie acts like she is in on the joke, goes ahead and laughs too.

  “Go find your fucking shoes, Bettina,” Babs says.

  I hear Babs on the phone when I come back.

  “Geoff, we have a crisis. The kid has done a number on her hair playing home salon and we’ve got the Card tomorrow. There’s not much to work with, but could you possibly give it your best?”

  Babs flexes her toes and I hear the bones crack. She is barefoot, as usual. Her toenails are painted a tangerine orange. She always wears some cool color. She gets pedicures, manicures, and waxing twice as often as normal women. A tiny Asian girl inexplicably named Manuela comes one morning a week and uses tools that are for Babs alone.

  I stand and watch as Babs waits out Geoff’s half of the conversation.

  “Whenever you can,” Babs says. “Love you too. And you have such an incredibly perfect ass. Even better than mine.”

  This is Babs’s way of expressing gratitude. She never says thank you.

  Babs loves fags, as she calls them. She told me once that fags are men who have sex with other men. Each gets a turn to put his penis in the other’s ass, was how she explained it. I had a lot of questions about how this worked. Can they get each other pregnant? And what about all the shit stuck up there? Do they have special tools to remove it beforehand? But Babs wasn’t really in the mood to give more details. She just said, Fags are the best. They actually want you to be beautiful, and left it at that.

  Babs calls Stacey on the intercom, even though her room is just off the kitchen. She drags herself into the kitchen wearing purple terry-cloth shorts and a purple T-shirt with bubble hearts. She has on her Dr. Scholl’s and holds a pink can of Tab. She has brown hair that feathers off her face and huge blue eyes, like a Disney character’s. Her nose is way too big though, so this ruins everything. Her last job was working at Dairy Queen.

  “Yes, Mrs. Ballentyne,” Stacey says, in a nice can-I-help-you voice she never uses with me.

  “Stace, we have a tedious and untimely emergency.”

  “Really?” says Stacey, excited to be part of the drama.

  “Really,” Babs says flatly. She continues. “Bettina clearly cannot be trusted with a moment of unsupervised time without totally fucking up everyone’s day. I know this is your day off, but you’re going to have to take her to Zodiac to see if Geoff can do something about this mess.”

  Zodiac is on Oak Street next to the Esquire movie theater, and it takes up two floors. The outside is all glass and you can see people getting their hair cut when you walk by.

  When we cross Michigan Avenue, Stacey walks very quickly and yanks my arm, like I am a dawdling toddler. Once we have made it to the sidewalk on the other side of traffic, she launches into me.

  “You think your mother would have noticed my split ends,” she whispers harshly in my ear.

  “Do you know my last haircut cost eight dollars? And that was at Sheer Genius, where they shampoo your hair twice!”

  Just before we arrive, Stacey scrunches up her hair with her fingers and pulls it down in front of her face. I know she thinks that if she makes her hair look bad enough, Geoff will insist on doing her too.

  I know that our trip to Zodiac isn’t going to be any fun; it’s just triage at the beauty ER.

  The salon has a black ceiling, black walls, and black leather chairs. The ceiling has clusters of gold stars painted on it, and low-hanging disco balls. The names of the twelve astrological signs lasso the constellations in gold script.

  Geoff is busy cutting an older woman’s hair and he laughs as he works. He is tall with broad shoulders and shaggy blond hair. His assistant Nikki directs us to a couch in the far corner. She tells us it will be a while.

  Stacey grabs a stack of magazines and lights up a Virginia Slims menthol. I just sit there. Wait.

  After two hours with no acknowledgment from Geoff, I get so bored that I finally look in the mirror to the side of the black leather couch and check out my hair. I’m surprised to see it’s not such a disaster. I’m just lopsided. It’s not really that ugly; it just looks kind of weird. If I wore a headband or barrette, no one would notice.

  The light changes in the salon, and as we wait, I can feel the afternoon ending. Stacey’s visibly upset. She pulls out two Tabs from her enormous purse and some Ballentyne chocolate: Gold Coast Chews. She rattles the box, trying to unstick the chocolate caramels from the sides, but this elicits only a few dirty looks. Even I know you don’t eat candy at a hair salon. It’s not a movie theater.

  Stylists are packing up their stations. They put combs away and twist black cords around the necks of blow dryers; they spray their mirrors with Windex and wipe them clear of the day.

  Finally, Geoff looks over at us and nods that he is ready. He checks his fingernails while I climb into the chair, like they’re really interesting. Says nothing to me while I get settled. Maybe I have to start up the conversation myself? But I’ve never talked to a fag one-on-one. I don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to say. Don’t want to offend him.

  He snaps a dirty cape covered with another woman’s hair around my neck. He sprays my head damp with a water bottle. The shampoo woman has gone home.

  “Do you have any suggestions for my hair?” Stacey says, moving in toward him. I had forgotten about her. She never gives up.

  “Brush it,” Geoff says drily.

  Stacey backs off.

  Geoff starts cutting or, more accurately, hacking at my head. I shut my eyes as he works. I wonder why I didn’t just slice up my cheek and spare myself this nightmare.

  Geoff finally stops and turns on the dryer. He does not use a brush to style my hair like he did with everyone else. He just runs the hot air over my scalp in a careless sweeping pattern like he is blowing leaves off a lawn. I open my eyes.

  I try to look pleased, but this is impossible. My hair is almost all gone.

  It’s on the floor, mixed in with the rest of Geoff’s clients’ hair. Maybe if he gave me some extra time, I could sort mine out, take it home, and reattach it somehow.

  Stacey looks up from the next station, where she has been busy ignoring Geoff. Straight out laughs at me. I want to throw a full can of Tab at her head.

  Babs calls Geoff the minute we get home to tell him how brilliant it is. Despite the fact that the salon is now closed, he picks up. He must be waiting for her reaction.

  “Very gamine,” Babs says. “Jean Seberg in A bout de souffle. You’ve outdone yourself, baby.”

  I have no idea who Jean Seberg is, but I don’t want her hair.

  Babs ruffles my hair. Rubs her thumbs over my forehead as she finishes her conversation.

  “Bravo, kiddo,” she says when she hangs up. “The Card is going to be spectacular. Fuck The Turning Point. We’ll think of something else. The cut is just so damn chic!”

  I want to enjoy the compliment, but part of me wonders if I have her attention only because it interests her to see me so thoroughly maimed.

  2. Mack

  November 1979

  AND THEN COMES MACK.

  Babs has dated many men, but Mack is the first one who lasts more than a month. I think this must be because he’s really good-looking, but Babs later explains to me what a fucking genius he is in bed.

  I meet him at the very beginning of their affair. One night, Babs goes out to some charity ball. It’s for a cause she has no interest in: endangered animals or homeless people or something else that won’t result in a building being named after you no matter how much money you give. But she goes anyway, partly for the goody bags. Love a good freebie, she always says. When she g
oes to parties like these, she never takes a date—she likes to keep her options open.

  I am up in my room reading one of the Little House on the Prairie books. It’s a bit childish for me, but I love the way the whole family gets along. They live in a small cabin and buy almost everything they need at one store. I start to think maybe the problem between Babs and me is the aparthouse and that she almost never takes me with her when she goes shopping. Around eleven P.M., I hear the elevator. I wasn’t expecting Babs back so early. Usually when she goes to a party, she hits the discos afterward.

  I decide to go down and see her. I love it when Babs is dressed up. She’s so glamorous I can’t believe she is my mother. I was eating dinner when she left, and I missed my chance to say goodbye. As I walk down the stairs, I hear two people talking: Babs and some man. Their voices are sliding into each other’s, overlapping but not breaking into the other’s.

  “A tour . . . ?” says Babs.

  “Yes [laugh],” says the man.

  “I’m not being a good hostess. I’ll get you a scotch . . .”

  “. . . If I want it. No, thanks . . .”

  “. . . That’s not what you came here for . . .”

  “And?”

  “And?”

  They both laugh.

  “Will you be spending the night, O hapless one? Rehash?”

  “Yes, missed the train to Grass Woods.”

  “Penalty for that. Where’s wifey? Are you being naughty?”

  “She took the car, early. Headache.”

  “Pity.”

  “Maybe not . . .”

  Laugh.

  Laugh.

  Silence.

  When I finally get to the bottom of the staircase, Babs and the man she was talking to are kissing. He has his arms on her back and is running his fingers up and down, even grabbing her tush. His hands make a shushing noise as they travel over the fabric. Babs is wearing a floor-length blue sequined dress. I know it is Bill Blass because she once took me through her closet and taught me how to recognize all the designers. This man’s a few inches taller than Babs and is wearing a tuxedo. When they break away, in the few seconds before anyone says anything, I see the gold studs holding his shirt closed and know his tux is not a rental.

  “Bettina, darling,” Babs says with enthusiasm, “I want you to meet a friend of mine.”

  There’s no awkwardness in her voice about what I have just seen. Babs never gets embarrassed. She’s probably happy I watched her kissing such a good-looking man.

  “This is Mr. Morse,” Babs says. I approach him to shake his hand.

  “Come on, Babby, enough with charm school. It’s Mack,” he says.

  This makes me happy because when grownups tell you to call them by their first names, it feels like they are including you in stuff. Not that he would let me watch him kiss Babs on purpose, but maybe I will get to hang around when they have a nightcap.

  “Nice to meet you, Mack,” I say, glad to put my hand into his warm palm.

  “Mack” feels smooth coming out of my mouth, but then I look at Babs and it dries up, withers. She has not signed off on this transaction.

  “Manners, Mack. Manners. She’s eleven, not forty.”

  I’m not sure if I’m supposed to redo our introduction. But Mack is unfazed. He ignores Babs and winks at me.

  “My son, Hailer, is eleven too. Great age.”

  I don’t see what’s so great about it, but I’m stunned by how easy it is for him to forge ahead without Babs’s approval. No other grownup I have ever met would talk to me if it meant making Babs mad.

  I nod my head. Want to see how far he will go.

  “I have known your mother since before we were eleven. We went to Grass Woods Academy together. And my wife, Mags, and I bought the house your mother grew up in. You should come see it sometime.”

  This whole conversation is getting weird. How can he make out with Babs and then talk about his wife? Maybe it has something to do with his looks. Even though Mack is a grownup, I am still in awe of how handsome he is. Eyes the color of the psychedelic blue popsicles you eat only in the summer, and tousled blondish-brown hair. He is about six-two, but his tallness is not intimidating like Babs’s is. It inspires salutation. If I threw my arms around his neck, I’m sure he wouldn’t push me away. He has probably had a whole lifetime of Getting Away with Things.

  But I’m still surprised he would attempt this defiant behavior with Babs. Especially since he says he has known her so long. I look over at her. She has lit a cigarette and is ashing on the floor. Staring at him, deciding what to do next. She grabs his arm, pulls him to her, and kisses him on the back of the neck.

  “Mack, let the kid go to bed. I know you want that scotch.”

  He turns toward her and laughs.

  “At your beck and call, madam . . .” He smiles at me and follows her into the living room. I watch as they leave.

  Late, late that night, Babs comes into my room. When she wakes me, I think it is to brag about Mack and what a good time they had. Instead she says, “Bullet point: When you try and flirt with one of my beaux, you don’t look precocious, just stupid. Mack’s a gentleman so he will put up with your bullshit. But hands off. Just so you don’t make an ass of yourself. Got it?”

  I start to explain, then leave it at a nod. She is already halfway out the door.

  In theory, I’m supposed to make Babs more attractive, not less so. She has a home life and no ticking bio clock. She had her tubes tied right after she gave birth to me. Her doctor challenged her on this before delivery. Said he felt uncomfortable performing this radical procedure on such a young woman. But the chocolate money won out. Babs donated a million dollars to completely redo the maternity ward, and now her womb is permanently closed for business.

  In late November, Babs and Mack have a fight. When I awake the morning after, I know immediately that something bad has happened. The mood of the aparthouse has shifted. The air has that closed-off, heavy feeling. I search my brain for things I might have said. Any small messes I might have made. This is ultimately a futile activity. If Babs wants to be mad at me, she can always make up a reason.

  At dinner that night, she tells me what happened. It has nothing to do with me. Thank God.

  “Bettina,” Babs says, “etiquette lesson. Mack is hopeless when it comes to gifts. Last night, I am on my hands and knees, waiting for Mack to come from behind and fuck me in the ass. He reaches for some K-Y from his briefcase. If he wants a smooth ride, he has to buy the gel himself. I don’t do supplies. When he is digging around for the K-Y, I see a box wrapped in glossy white paper with a little card stuck on it. First mistake. Never attach cards to big-deal gifts. I see the lavender bow and know he actually went to Guillard. Guillard! Predictable. Fucking crap. I know he is making an effort, so I decide to give him some credit. I say, ‘Someone has been shopping.’”

  I have no idea what K-Y is, but I am certain by the way she keeps repeating Fucking Guillard!, fast and loud, that things did not go as she planned. The gift’s not for her.

  “Mack says, ‘Yes, Mags’s birthday is coming up.’

  “Thank God, I think. Really. No opening the stupid box and faking all of those thank-yous. Time to get back to what we were doing. But talking about the gift kills his erection. I decide to give him a breather and say, ‘I don’t give a fuck who it’s for. I just want to know what it is.’

  “He says, ‘Tahitian pearl necklace.’ But I know he doesn’t have the dough to get anything good. Something that will piss other women off when Mags wears it. I bet the whole damn thing will fit in her fist. This is getting boring so I snap my fingers and say, ‘Enough!’

  “He gets back on the bed. I decide to roll over and wrap my legs around his neck and squeeze tightly. He rubs the jelly on his dick and I glide it into my vagina. My ass is no longer available. Let him try that at home.”

  The next day, Babs goes out and buys herself a pearl necklace with diamonds. She shows it to me the minute she
gets back. The pearls are huge, like bits of gray hail, and the diamonds are like bright rays of a silver sun that would slice your neck if you put them on too quickly.

  She lets me hold the necklace and tells me conspiratorially, “Now, these pearls are what you are supposed to get. A man should stick with a floral arrangement if they’re out of his league.”

  The day after that, I go down for breakfast. Lily, our cook, is there, making me cinnamon oatmeal. Lily is my favorite person in the whole world. I love her even more than Brooke Shields. She is black, grew up in Tennessee, and always calls me “sugar.” Her hair is dark and streaked with gray. She’s heavy and her face isn’t pretty, but if I could choose another mother, Lily would be it. Lily’s worked for our family since Babs was eighteen. She’s the only person who isn’t afraid of Babs. Lily has Jesus.

  I sit down at the empty table. Stacey’s allowed to sleep in since I can get myself dressed and ride the bus to school. Lily walks over to me and says, “Your mother is going to be gone for a few days. She went on a trip with Miss Tally to Paris.”

  Tally has replaced Andie in the friend department. Thank goodness for this. Tally is pretty decent to me. She also has a daughter, Frances. We’re the same age, and she’s nice too.

  Their trip is a surprise to me. Usually Babs talks about her trips way in advance, shows me maps and the restaurants in the Michelin guide she has circled. She told me once that she’s going to take me with her to London. On the Concorde. She hasn’t told me when, but I’m still pretty excited about it.

  “When is she coming back, Lily?” I ask.

  “Probably Friday or Saturday,” she answers as she clears my plate. This is special treatment; Babs always makes me do my own dishes. When she goes on a trip, it is a minivacation for me. Lily and I play kings’ corners and read Ann Landers in the paper. Stacey is also pretty nice to me. She lets me make ashtrays for her out of sparkles, glue, and old Mountain Dew cans. We even watch TV together.