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He shakes his head. Pitiful.
“Just so you know, I am very good at decisions. What are you deciding about?” she whispers.
“Nothing. Just something I have to figure out.”
“But what is it?”
“You know, it’s still interrupting me even if you’re whispering.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He feels bad. This kid’s mom is leaving her. “I’ve been asked to show my work in a gallery.”
“Oh. And you don’t know whether you want to?”
“Right. And I’m not sure I have enough paintings.”
“How many do you have?”
“Fritzie.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“And are the people scary?”
“What? What people?”
“The ones who asked you. Are they scary? Like, if you don’t have enough paintings are they going to be all, ‘Grrr! Patrick! DO SOME MORE PAINTINGS! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?’” She makes her hands into monster claws. He stares at her.
“No. No, probably not that.”
“Okay,” she says. “Then what are they going to do to you?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he paces around and looks in a cabinet at some paintings he’d stored away. Some oils that he remembers liking. Portraits.
“There’s just one thing I want to tell you, and then I will be very, very quiet for the whole rest of the day,” she says, whispering again.
“What?”
“When I was in the basement about an hour ago, I saw that my mom had packed her suitcase. I think she’s going to go soon.”
He looks over at her, and she gazes steadily back at him. There’s nothing in her face, except perhaps just a little trembling of her lip. Just a little, and then she looks down at her painting and does a wide swipe of black across the front of it.
God, he is so in over his head. Maybe he should go over to her and give her a hug, but that would be awkward when he’s never hugged her before, and maybe she would be freaked out by a man hugging her, especially one with scars all over his arms and face.
“Okay,” he says, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds gruff. “Well. It’ll be all right. Don’t you think so?”
“Probably,” she says cheerfully. “Also, Patrick, why aren’t you married to Marnie?”
“You said you had only one thing to tell me.”
“But I just thought of this one, too.”
He sighs.
“Don’t you want to get married to her?”
“Look, it’s complicated,” he says. “We’re just not ready yet. Okay? Now stop asking questions.”
“You should get married.”
“There are things you don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Fritzie, your limit of questions is up.”
“Okay, Patrick. But I hope you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
An hour later he calls Philip Pierpont and says that he’ll do the gallery show. Because, as he has just figured out, there are going to be worse things than needing to be stuck in his studio painting and painting and painting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MARNIE
September 5 is the first day of school, and the lady who runs the office of the Brooklyn Kind School, Maybelle, is the picture of red-cheeked, delighted frazzlement. “The chaos will settle down in a few days,” she says and comes from behind the counter to scoop two first graders into her ample arms at one time, while she’s yelling out a cell phone number to a woman in the doorway. A bald, smiling school bus driver ducks in to say good morning and how glad he is that he’s back because that foot surgery threatened to derail him. It’s been a heckuva summer, he says. But here he is, wanting her to admire his limp.
“Yonatan, how the heck are you? You know how the first day of school goes,” she says to him. “Come back and limp for me tomorrow. I’ll have time for true admiration then.” Then she turns back to me, giving Fritzie a wink as she hands her a name tag and a hall pass. The door to the office keeps opening and closing, with people running in waving pieces of paper and shouting hellos. Somebody drops off a plate of brownies for Maybelle, and Fritzie licks her lips and looks at me longingly, so Maybelle gives her one.
“Now who’s filling out the health and emergency forms?” says Maybelle, and Tessa steps forward. Her face is smudged this morning with eyeliner gone awry, and her masses of curly hair are shoved up into a messy cloth scrunchie. Really, if you ask me, she looks sort of sexily disheveled, like somebody who just fell out of bed after staying up all night having sex. She’s lugging along a carpetbag that she keeps adjusting over her shoulder and tottering along on boots that seem just a tad too high to be safely manageable. She’s only coming along with us because I made her.
“Okay,” Maybelle says to her, “you sit over here, hon, while I go over these and make sure we’ve got all the information we need. And let’s see, Fritzie is assigned to be in Karen and Josie’s class. And that is . . . yep, room 115. Just down the hall here, on the right. Almost at the end.” She stops to smile at Fritzie. “Oh, pumpkin, you are in for such a good year! Karen and Josie know all the best jokes.” Then she taps her temple and says to me, “By the way, if you need anything, I’m your go-to. By the end of the day today, I’m going to know where everybody is supposed to be, what their full name is, where their parents work, and the cell phone numbers of every single babysitter and grandparent. You’ll see.”
I look over Tessa’s shoulder at the forms, where I learn that Fritzie’s real name is Frances Elizabeth Farrell, and that Tessa Farrell is really Tessa Johanna Farrell, and that she will be residing in Rome, Italy, for the school year. Patrick is listed as the father and the main emergency contact.
And then, just before she’s handing the papers over to Maybelle, I see Fritzie poke her mother, and Tessa grabs them back and with Fritzie standing over her, she crosses off the name Frances Elizabeth Farrell and writes in the name Fritzie Peach Delaney.
“Thank you,” says Fritzie in an urgent whisper. “You said. I’m Patrick’s now.”
Tessa turns and looks at her, bites her lip. Then she says in a low voice, “All right. I’ll go along with Peach. But legally you are not Fritzie Delaney.”
Fritzie shrugs, and Tessa purses her lips and writes Patrick’s last name on the form.
I want to say, Wait, what? What exact kind of thing is being perpetrated here?
Fritzie Peach Delaney? Are they kidding with this? I don’t know which part jolts me the most—that Fritzie is choosing her own name, and it’s a fruit, or that Tessa is now handing her over to Patrick symbolically. Taking his name. Of course, she is his child. She should have his last name. Probably. Maybe.
Tessa slides the paperwork across the desk to Maybelle, who looks it over and then tilts her head and says to me, “Marnie, are you Fritzie’s stepmother then?”
And so then it has to be discussed that I am not really the stepmother, because Patrick and I didn’t get married yet. And Fritzie pipes up that she asked Patrick about it, and he said we’re not ready yet.
akes his head. Pitiful.
“Just so you know, I am very good at decisions. What are you deciding about?” she whispers.
“Nothing. Just something I have to figure out.”
“But what is it?”
“You know, it’s still interrupting me even if you’re whispering.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He feels bad. This kid’s mom is leaving her. “I’ve been asked to show my work in a gallery.”
“Oh. And you don’t know whether you want to?”
“Right. And I’m not sure I have enough paintings.”
“How many do you have?”
“Fritzie.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“And are the people scary?”
“What? What people?”
“The ones who asked you. Are they scary? Like, if you don’t have enough paintings are they going to be all, ‘Grrr! Patrick! DO SOME MORE PAINTINGS! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?’” She makes her hands into monster claws. He stares at her.
“No. No, probably not that.”
“Okay,” she says. “Then what are they going to do to you?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he paces around and looks in a cabinet at some paintings he’d stored away. Some oils that he remembers liking. Portraits.
“There’s just one thing I want to tell you, and then I will be very, very quiet for the whole rest of the day,” she says, whispering again.
“What?”
“When I was in the basement about an hour ago, I saw that my mom had packed her suitcase. I think she’s going to go soon.”
He looks over at her, and she gazes steadily back at him. There’s nothing in her face, except perhaps just a little trembling of her lip. Just a little, and then she looks down at her painting and does a wide swipe of black across the front of it.
God, he is so in over his head. Maybe he should go over to her and give her a hug, but that would be awkward when he’s never hugged her before, and maybe she would be freaked out by a man hugging her, especially one with scars all over his arms and face.
“Okay,” he says, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds gruff. “Well. It’ll be all right. Don’t you think so?”
“Probably,” she says cheerfully. “Also, Patrick, why aren’t you married to Marnie?”
“You said you had only one thing to tell me.”
“But I just thought of this one, too.”
He sighs.
“Don’t you want to get married to her?”
“Look, it’s complicated,” he says. “We’re just not ready yet. Okay? Now stop asking questions.”
“You should get married.”
“There are things you don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Fritzie, your limit of questions is up.”
“Okay, Patrick. But I hope you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
An hour later he calls Philip Pierpont and says that he’ll do the gallery show. Because, as he has just figured out, there are going to be worse things than needing to be stuck in his studio painting and painting and painting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MARNIE
September 5 is the first day of school, and the lady who runs the office of the Brooklyn Kind School, Maybelle, is the picture of red-cheeked, delighted frazzlement. “The chaos will settle down in a few days,” she says and comes from behind the counter to scoop two first graders into her ample arms at one time, while she’s yelling out a cell phone number to a woman in the doorway. A bald, smiling school bus driver ducks in to say good morning and how glad he is that he’s back because that foot surgery threatened to derail him. It’s been a heckuva summer, he says. But here he is, wanting her to admire his limp.
“Yonatan, how the heck are you? You know how the first day of school goes,” she says to him. “Come back and limp for me tomorrow. I’ll have time for true admiration then.” Then she turns back to me, giving Fritzie a wink as she hands her a name tag and a hall pass. The door to the office keeps opening and closing, with people running in waving pieces of paper and shouting hellos. Somebody drops off a plate of brownies for Maybelle, and Fritzie licks her lips and looks at me longingly, so Maybelle gives her one.
“Now who’s filling out the health and emergency forms?” says Maybelle, and Tessa steps forward. Her face is smudged this morning with eyeliner gone awry, and her masses of curly hair are shoved up into a messy cloth scrunchie. Really, if you ask me, she looks sort of sexily disheveled, like somebody who just fell out of bed after staying up all night having sex. She’s lugging along a carpetbag that she keeps adjusting over her shoulder and tottering along on boots that seem just a tad too high to be safely manageable. She’s only coming along with us because I made her.
“Okay,” Maybelle says to her, “you sit over here, hon, while I go over these and make sure we’ve got all the information we need. And let’s see, Fritzie is assigned to be in Karen and Josie’s class. And that is . . . yep, room 115. Just down the hall here, on the right. Almost at the end.” She stops to smile at Fritzie. “Oh, pumpkin, you are in for such a good year! Karen and Josie know all the best jokes.” Then she taps her temple and says to me, “By the way, if you need anything, I’m your go-to. By the end of the day today, I’m going to know where everybody is supposed to be, what their full name is, where their parents work, and the cell phone numbers of every single babysitter and grandparent. You’ll see.”
I look over Tessa’s shoulder at the forms, where I learn that Fritzie’s real name is Frances Elizabeth Farrell, and that Tessa Farrell is really Tessa Johanna Farrell, and that she will be residing in Rome, Italy, for the school year. Patrick is listed as the father and the main emergency contact.
And then, just before she’s handing the papers over to Maybelle, I see Fritzie poke her mother, and Tessa grabs them back and with Fritzie standing over her, she crosses off the name Frances Elizabeth Farrell and writes in the name Fritzie Peach Delaney.
“Thank you,” says Fritzie in an urgent whisper. “You said. I’m Patrick’s now.”
Tessa turns and looks at her, bites her lip. Then she says in a low voice, “All right. I’ll go along with Peach. But legally you are not Fritzie Delaney.”
Fritzie shrugs, and Tessa purses her lips and writes Patrick’s last name on the form.
I want to say, Wait, what? What exact kind of thing is being perpetrated here?
Fritzie Peach Delaney? Are they kidding with this? I don’t know which part jolts me the most—that Fritzie is choosing her own name, and it’s a fruit, or that Tessa is now handing her over to Patrick symbolically. Taking his name. Of course, she is his child. She should have his last name. Probably. Maybe.
Tessa slides the paperwork across the desk to Maybelle, who looks it over and then tilts her head and says to me, “Marnie, are you Fritzie’s stepmother then?”
And so then it has to be discussed that I am not really the stepmother, because Patrick and I didn’t get married yet. And Fritzie pipes up that she asked Patrick about it, and he said we’re not ready yet.
