successful. I donât spend much time reading the directions, because youâre getting fussy and need to eat and have a nap before I leave you with Maria. My hair looks sort of blond in the darkish light of my living room, but in the bathroom, I can clearly see itâs green, and not a good green. Iâm not sure what Iâve done wrong, but itâs too late to do anything about it now. I put on my makeup with one hand, holding on to you with the other. You keep reaching for my mascara wand and then my lipstick. Minnow, you really make me laugh.
At about seven-thirty, I grab your diaper bag and your rabbit, your bottle, and a jar of carrots, and rush up the stairs to leave you with Maria.
I hand her the bag and the bottle and the rabbit. But Iâm slow to let you go. âShe ate twenty minutes ago, and I just changed her diaper.â
âDame la niña,â she says to me, her fingers wagging, and then to you, âCome here, mi gordita .â
Thereâs a part of me that regrets handing you over every time. Maria sees it in my face. âGo have fun, Lisa. Weâll be just fine. Wave bye-bye to your mama.â She takes your little hand and waves it around. You look up into her face. âGood night, Mommy,â she says, and takes you inside.
I make my way carefully down the three flights of stairs, in my high heels, to the street. Iâm wearing a shabby coat over the velvet dress, but a man goes by and gives me a long whistle, and I almost forget my hair is green.
On the corner I hail a taxi. âSixtieth and Second,â I tell the driver. Heâs got cool jazz playing on the radio. I look out the window as we fly across town. New York City has the best people watching in the world. You see couples in love, men in hats, women hurrying with shopping bags, all the different coats, boots, hairstyles, people of every color, age, and shape.
Itâs almost spring again. Only a year ago, I walked the streets of the Upper West Side, excited and nervous, wondering what youâd be like. I can almost see myself walk by. I was another person a year ago. I think of your father and feel deeply sad. I still miss him. It never becomes less. When I catch my reflection in the glass, I note again that Iâve become someone whose resting face falls into a mournful expression.
As if the cabdriver can read my thoughts, he says, âSmile! It canât be that bad.â
This is one you hear a lot as a young woman, Minnow. Why do men think we enjoy being commanded to smile? I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror, but donât give him what he wants.
As we pull up to the theater, I see Jules standing on the red carpet in a long black dress. Sheâs lifting her chin and posing for the cameras. Sheâs as lovely as Grace Kelly. Walking past her, I feel a combination of two things: unbearable pride and uncomfortable envy. She sneaks a look at me over her shoulder and gives me her real smile, the one that says, Can you believe this craziness? I give her one back. The photographers jump to see who I am. I hope I donât have lipstick on my teeth.
But they lose interest quickly. âShe isnât anybody,â I hear one say.
The movie is a complicated thriller involving the Israeli secret police, Russian spies, and the CIA. The plot is so confusing, I lose track of who is who. Jules plays two characters. She is a freedom fighter and a woman in a young lieutenantâs dream. As a soldier, her hair is shorn, her brow furrowed. She appears suddenly in a doorway. Then sheâs running down the hall. As the dream girl, she wears a sheer white gown. Her platinum-blond wig falls over her face. When she tilts her head, the long wig parts like a curtain to reveal red painted lips.
After the screening, I pile into a car with Jules and her publicist to go to the after-party at a nearby hotel. She is whisked away as soon as we arrive. I stand in line to get something to eat at
Joseph Lance Tonlet, Louis Stevens