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“I can walk you through it,” I say, and I catch myself reaching for her hand over the table. Her skin is soft and smooth. “Now ladies, if you’ll excuse me…”
I sit Anna in my place and go join Leslie and the other donors on stage.
The whole thing goes off without a hitch. Even Geoffrey revealed himself to be quite outspoken, and I felt of sense of victory in his award because he did not let himself be humiliated by all this old money.
After dinner, Anna begins to fade. She is almost asleep in my arms when Jane comes, asking to hold her.
“Let me take her home,” she says, taking my baby from me.
“Yeah, I’m thinking of heading back,” I say.
“No!” Jane waves her index finger to me. “You stay. Try to have some fun for once.”
I take a deep breath. “You know I hate to be told to have fun, don’t you?”
“Well, I’m saying it anyway!” she sticks her tongue out at me. “Go find Mrs. Ritz. Joyce is having a hard time taking care of her by herself!”
I kiss my baby on the temple and let her go away with her aunt. For me, all that's left to do now is look for my elderly friend and her poor companion.
Mrs. Ritz is now flirting with a gentleman her age, while Joyce plays the third wheel with grace and poise. As I approach, Mrs. Ritz opens her clutch purse and places a pair of hundred-dollar bills in Joyce’s hand.
“This is for the cab,” she caresses Joyce’s cheek. “I’m going home with James here. Have a good night!”
“Good night, Mrs. Ritz,” Joyce and I say in unison.
“Take care of her!” Mrs. Ritz says, a finger pointed at me.
“I will,” I say and wave goodbye.
Mrs. Ritz, at the height of her eighty-three years, leaves the ballroom accompanied by her gentleman friend with the glow of an eighteen-year-old.
Joyce and I are left alone. We look at each other awkwardly. Before she goes into a giggling fit, I decide to intervene.
“What are you thinking of the party so far?” I ask her, for the lack of better things to say.
“It’s… interesting!” she says with a huge smile.
But I just shake my head, “That’s a polite way of saying it’s boring,” I say, “what do you really think?”
Joyce bobs her head around, and finally shrugs when she doesn’t find anything to say. “Parties are parties!” she adds to the conversation anyway, “It’s always fun to get together.”
I shake my head again, “Something tells me this is not what you really think.”
And she takes a deep breath, looking nervous.
“Alright, I’d rather be in a party with louder music and more colorful drinks,” she says, as if letting out a huge secret.
In an exaggerated gesture, I open my arms, as if I'm receiving a miracle from the heavens above. In her obvious go-to response, Joyce laughs, then asks, “What is it?”
“You just admitted to the truth. It’s a miracle!”
She laughs again. I’m amazed how she doesn’t get that I’m attacking her naivety.
“Where do you live again?” I ask.
“Brooklyn,” she says, “I can actually see Staten Island from my window!”
I wince, “That far, huh? Want a ride home to save up that money?”
