eBookDigital Original (Digital Original)
Available on Compatible NOOK devices, the free NOOK App and in My Digital Library.
Related collections and offers
Overview
Although The Playgroup is about four extraordinary kids, it’s also about the dazzling potential in all three-year-olds. As every parent knows, only a gossamer wall stands between our hopes and fears for our children.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504015295 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Distribution |
| Publication date: | 06/23/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 201 |
| File size: | 309 KB |
About the Author
Weber earned a toque blanche at the French Culinary Institute and ran a catering business, Between Books She Cooks, for a decade. She plays chess, badly, and drinks Irish whiskey.
Nancy Weber’s diverse body of fiction includes The Playgroup, a psychological suspense novel with a medical twist; the slipstream novel Brokenhearted; the metafiction novella Ad Parnassum; the young adult mini-series Two Turtledoves; and eight romances written under her pseudonym, Jennifer Rose. Her nonfiction book TheLife Swap, published in the seventies, recounts her experience exchanging lives—trading habits and jobs and even lovers—with a stranger. Weber has written for the stage as well, adapting the lyrics for the American version of composer Alexander Zhurbin’s Seagull: The Musical.
Weber earned a toque blanche at the French Culinary Institute and ran a catering business, Between Books She Cooks, for a decade. She plays chess, badly, and drinks Irish whiskey.
Read an Excerpt
The Playgroup
A Novel
By Nancy Weber
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1982 Nancy WeberAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1529-5
CHAPTER 1
April
1.
Afterward you think: If only.
Stupid; too late; your child is gone; but your mind has to tick its wretched guilty tocks.
If only I hadn't brought Daisy to New York. If only we'd stayed away from Central Park. If only I hadn't let her drag me to the playground, the one just north of the zoo, nice fenced-in oval playground where everything is painted red and blue.
Terrific paint job. Two red seesaws, two blue ones, blue handles on the red ones, red handles on the blue.
Don't panic if that's where you take your kids to play. The swings are safe again. You can drink the water.
If only I'd snatched her out of the sandbox when I saw what was happening. If we'd run away to some cave.
Useless, indulgent thinking. As though we could spiral back through time to safety.
We were never safe. If we'd stayed in Vermont I might have kept the world at bay for a while, but that wouldn't have changed Daisy's nature.
She was three and a half when I lost her.
Maybe you have a three-year-old, or you remember one, or you have a terrible two and everyone keeps saying, Wait until three. The darling age. They tell you how much they love you. They're small enough to ride on your shoulders, big enough to wear official running shoes and race you down the street. They print their names, draw faces with saucers for ears, help you scramble the eggs, sometimes put their puzzles away, consent to have "Sesame Street" turned soft if you explain that you're hungover, sing songs about pumpkins and blackbirds, tell knock knock jokes, sort of.
"Knock knock."
"Who's there?"
"Daisy."
"Daisy who?"
"Daisy crazy lazy fazy!"
And so gorgeous. Physically simply gorgeous. People would stop us on the street and say how much we looked alike, but all they were seeing were the twin bowl haircuts from Frank Your Barber in Tindy, Vermont. Her skin had the pale plump newness that no grown woman, however lucky or artful, can hope to see in the mirror. Bright little blushy clown cheeks. Eyes that were absolute blue, inky at the centers, set off by absolute whites. Berry-stained summer lips all year round. Her hair was the silvery pale sort of blond that seems to be lit from within. My hair is paper-bag brown.
A typical three. No, really, she was a typical three, aside from being a different order of creature from anyone else who ever lived on the planet. She had a cat, Thomas, which she claimed to love but Mommy had to feed it. She liked books about trains and monkeys. She thought clomping around in my shoes was perfect fun. She wanted hamburgers and French fries and ketchup and Coke whenever we ate out. And: Why is the sky blue? And: What is poo-poo made of? And: Where is Wednesday?
The imaginary friends were typical too. That's what the pediatrician in Tindy told me. Even three-year-olds with fathers and brothers and sisters have to invent their own casts of characters. A way of being in control, he said.
Iceman came first. I bought Daisy a yellow plastic pushbutton telephone she flipped for at Woolworth's (typical exalted three-year-old taste), and suddenly Iceman existed. Mommy, I have to call Iceman and ask him to come for dinner. Iceman wants to talk to you, Mommy. Iceman was sick but he's feeling better now. Mommy, I can't finish my milk because Iceman says it tastes funny.
I liked him most of the time. He felt kind. Now and then when Daisy handed me the play telephone and ordered me to talk to him, I worked up such a babble that she danced with impatience and grabbed the receiver. Once I bothered to brush my hair when she said he was coming for dinner. His minor details changed from day to day but never his resounding maleness. And his favorite color was blue.
I liked Iceman. I didn't like the idea of Iceman. It seemed such a lonely business, making up friends. It seemed like a plea for a life with more interesting facts. I didn't want my girl to need to dwell in the mists.
A few weeks after Iceman first happened, my cousin Larry called. He was leaving New York for six months, maybe forever; he was off to try out at the London bureau of one of the television networks. We could have his apartment on East Sixty-sixth Street, rent free, until he knew if the job was going to jell. I didn't need free rent, but I've always needed invitations. For sure I needed one just then. Outside there was mud, inside there was Iceman. I thought about tall buildings. Maybe New York would fill Daisy's mind with stone reality.
I closed up our house of exile. On a Monday morning in April we drove south to the city, Mommy Jill and her little Daisy and Thomas the big orange cat.
2.
I have always been uneasy in Central Park. Trees and grass are wrong in New York City. Green is wrong. Round is wrong. Open is wrong. New York is about straight lines and right angles, about glass and steel and cement and a hundred shades of gray. Buildings are safe. The grid is good. The park is the dark heart of things, tendrils snaking out at you, holes waiting to swallow you.
Unreasonable fears, unreasonable courage, Jack once said of me.
I was twenty-nine when Daisy was born. I'd thought that the birth of a child would put an end to the fears. I would look unafraid for a child and therefore would become unafraid.
Some fears went away. Pregnancy gave me new faith in my body — no more waking, sweating, in the middle of the night, diagnosing terminal diseases. Other fears swelled to encompass Daisy. I sometimes dreamed that the trees in Central Park were waiting for us both.
We drove to New York on a Monday morning in April. Monday afternoon we walked west on East Sixty-sixth Street, toward the dreaded trees. One glimpse of green and my joy in the city vanished. I tightened my grip on Daisy's hand. My throat swelled. My legs longed to run away.
I told my legs to keep going straight ahead. I thought, Daisy needs to know other tots. (Did I freely think that thought? Or did the brats make me think it? Lokomo, Lokomo, fly me away. Drop me in the deepest sea.) I thought, She needs a place to run and shout. She had lived her whole life in Tindy, in the ramble of a house my parents had left behind. Now her home was a small two-bedroom apartment. There were no other children in the building. My cousin Larry had talked about a playground two blocks away where East Sixty-sixth crossed Fifth Avenue and Central Park began.
"Look, honey." I drew deep breaths to quell nausea. I pointed to the grand old apartment houses of Park Avenue, rising massively just ahead. "Aren't those beautiful buildings? So straight and tall? Golly, what a day this is. I swear it smells better than Vermont. Look at that poodle, Daisy. Its legs. Do you believe it? Someone shaved it — isn't that silly and terrific? You don't know how happy I am to be in New York with you. I used to live here before you were born, for years and years, downtown in Greenwich Village — I'll show it to you someday — and, God, how I wanted you. Don't horns sound better than crickets?"
"Horns sound much better than crickets," Daisy said, but she grabbed hold of my thigh as we stopped for the light and traffic roared by us.
Here, I knew, was what the sensible mother would fear: the crazy cabbies who jumped red lights, the whistle-blowing bikers who ignored the lights altogether. I scooped Daisy up. "I love my girl," I said, the magic message to cure bad moments.
"I love my mom."
I drank in the sustaining words. I kissed one clown cheek, then the other. I marveled at her eyes, as though I'd never before quite gauged their intensity. I took fresh pleasure in the silvery hair.
"I love my mom," Daisy said again, "and I love Thomas, and I love Iceman, and I love my mice."
The mice were the latest invention. I sighed. It was too soon for New York to have done the work I wanted it to do, but I'd had my hopes.
"Here's Iceman." Daisy reached into one pocket of her red-hooded sweat shirt. "And here are my mice. Say hi to them, Mom. You can pat the mice, but don't pat Iceman. Iceman's not for patting today. He's my daddy. My pretend daddy," she amended, as she saw my lips compress.
I shifted her. "Hi, mice." I patted air. "Hello, Iceman. Okay, honey, we've got the light." I set her down on her feet and took her hand again. "See how the sign says WALK? W-A-L-K? Isn't that terrific? We always wait for the WALK sign in New York. This is Park Avenue. Daisy, look. Look."
We were on the esplanade, halfway across the avenue. My knees trembled for beauty. Twenty blocks of soaring buildings carried the eye to the urban ultimate — the glinting old gold heft of the Helmsley Building and the sheer icy loft of the Pan Am Building behind it.
"Look, my Daisy."
"How do you spell Park Avenue?"
I bit back disappointment. I spelled Park Avenue.
"And p is for pineapple," Daisy said, as the WALK sign changed to a blinking red DON'T WALK and I hurried her across the other half of the avenue. "And p is for porcupine, and p is for penis."
"That's right," I said swiftly. "And p is for playground. We're almost there. Are you going to slide first, or swing?"
"Iceman has a penis," Daisy persisted. "And you have a vagina, and I have a vagina."
I was sure we'd caught the attention of a brittle blond toting miniature shopping bags — an aqua-and-white bag from Tiffany's, a dull gold foil bag from Godiva. Once Jack sent me a hundred bittersweet chocolate hearts from Godiva.
"How do you spell Iceman?" Daisy asked.
"What, baby? I-C-E-M-A-N." Funny, I thought, that she had memorized whole books, rhyming books especially, could do a startling imitation of a person reading aloud; yet she asked to have the same words spelled again and again. Were they all like that at three? She needed to know other tots (came the tricky thought again), and I needed to know other mothers. Central Park would be good.
"Because it's Iceman's birthday, you see," Daisy said. "It's his birthday all day. Sing 'Happy Birthday' to him, Mom."
We were at Madison Avenue. I stared at the pale leather shoes in the window at Charles Jourdan — strappy pistachio sandals, spiky two-tone slingbacks. For three years I'd worn sneakers and moccasins and boots, ugly boots to keep the snow and mud at bay. I wondered if my feet could still walk in Charles Jourdan shoes. Once upon a corn, I would have wanted every pair in that silly window.
"Sing 'Happy Birthday' to him, Mom."
I felt crabbiness surge. "We've got the light. Let's go."
Halfway across Madison Avenue, Daisy yanked her hand free.
"Daisy!" I grabbed her. "Don't you ever do that again! You hold my hand when we're crossing streets, do you understand?"
"I was holding Iceman's hand." Daisy kicked at the pavement.
"You hold my hand."
"Iceman's my daddy, and it is too his birthday."
"Dammit," I exploded, "he's only —" I couldn't finish the cruel sentence. Any second my girl would weep. A gray-haired nanny wheeling a high-wheeled English baby carriage gave me a look a child-abuser would merit.
"Girlfriend," I crooned, hoisting Daisy again. I stroked the brilliant hair. "I'm sorry I got so angry. It's very important to be careful crossing streets. Cars come fast in New York."
"I hate New York."
My body felt weighted. "Please don't hate New York. Please, baby. There are so many terrific things here. Look straight ahead. Trees." Swallowing a hysterical giggle, I began to proclaim the virtues of the dreaded park.
Daisy listened. She tested. "Can Iceman be there?"
What was the point in fighting? She would only cling to him the harder. She needed time. "Sure," I said.
"Because I can make him a cake in the sandbox. The kids will help."
I smiled at "kids" from the three-year-old mouth. "That's a lovely idea."
We crossed Fifth Avenue to the park side. The trees were bosomy furies waiting to lull me to sleep. Who would look after Daisy? I detoured by the frieze of infantry soldiers — anything to buy seconds — but Daisy didn't want to hear about doughboys. She didn't want a pretzel from the vendor with the red-and-white umbrella. She could hear children shouting and she wanted to play.
My feet dragged. The trees of Vermont had never troubled me, not even the dense stands of pine that choked off every strand of sunlight. It wasn't rational to dread these trees. What wasn't rational mustn't be.
"Come on, Mom." Tugging. So happy; expectant.
"Daisy —"
"I like New York, and I'll be very careful crossing streets because it's very important. Can we go to the playground now? The kids are waiting." She started running.
I ran after her, and there we were. If only, if only, if only ...
A girl about Daisy's age, with startling coppery hair, waved from the sandbox.
Daisy waved back. "That's Stephanie." She looked excited.
"You know her?" I asked incredulously.
Daisy nodded.
My mind sifted and sorted. There were always New Yorkers coming up to Vermont, summer people and ski people, but I was sure I would have remembered the little girl's conspicuous hair.
Daisy pointed to a dark-haired boy in railroad stripe overalls who was scooping sand with a big blue shovel. "That's Nick. James is coming later."
I laughed. Daisy was playing a new version of the name game, that was all. Today I'm Donald Duck and you're Minnie Mouse. Mama monkey, do you have a banana for baby monkey? This chair is Boop and that one is Beep. I'm going to call Clink-Clonk on the phone and invite her to come over with her mom and dad. She lives on Blue Street, right near Iceman, isn't that funny?
Then, clear as anything, I heard a real and actual woman's voice yodel, "Stephaneeee!" The copper-haired girl climbed out of the sandbox, ran over to the benches set back against the fence, had an exchange with a woman who shared her vivid coloring, and came back to the sand.
My temples started to beat out the overture to a major headache. I wanted to claw at the air, pull the skin of the world tight again. Daisy patted my leg — a mother's pat, a pat to say that everything would be okay. Christ, how we lie with our pats. I stood frozen as Daisy raced over to the sandbox, her pale hair flying. The coppery girl greeted her. The dark-haired boy handed her his shovel. Daisy sat down to dig.
I pressed fingers to the back of my neck, where the tension lay coiled like an evil snake. Three-year-olds don't share their toys with strangers except at their parents' urging and often not even then. I knew that for a fact, like gravity.
I looked at the bench. The coppery mother was sitting with a dark-haired woman who clearly belonged to the boy in railroad stripes. They were staring intently at the sandbox, staring at me. No anxiety in their stares, though. These mothers didn't have headaches.
Because New York kids were different? More precocious than other kids? I'd read that theory. So the other mothers saw no wrongness in this coziness among small strangers?
The kids were building together now. Mounding and patting sand. I watched the sand take form. The headache reached to my toes. The kids were making a cake.
A little girl pedaled her tricycle over to the sandbox. The boy in railroad stripes flung a handful of sand her way. The little girl yelled, "Nah, nah, nah." She pedaled back to her mother.
"Nick!" called the dark-haired woman on the bench. "Nick! We don't throw sand."
"Nick," I whimpered. I begged the bad dream to end. Stephanie and Nick, my girl had said, and James was coming later.
There was still time. The trees hadn't started moving. I could snatch Daisy up and carry her away. We would find a cave somewhere. In the tallest grayest building of all.
But my girl looked so happy. Relaxed, connected, utterly at home.
The kids joined hands and started singing.
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday, dear Iceman
Happy birthday to you
I stood on the brink for a moment. I have always known, I thought.
I walked over to the bench and sat down with the other mothers.
3.
The Playgroup will meet Monday through Thursday from 10:30 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., with mothers-in-charge as follows:
Monday — Heidi Kahn
Tuesday — Elizabeth Gray
Wednesday — Jackie Geritano
Thursday — Jill Everts
May
Dear Ken:
It was good talking to you last night. Your mother and I both thought you sounded very happy indeed. We keep reading that bicoastalism is the great new sport and wish you would embrace it — but we're glad the work is going so well and that there's "a woman." Do we ever get to know more about her? You breathe maddening new life into the word "discretion."
All right — enough pater patter. Here is the formulation I worked out for the epidemiology department here.
Given: A male, let us call him Tom, has been sexually hyperactive for 25 years, to the tune of an average of 25 new partners a year, in a city with a population of 7,000,000.
Given: Each of Tom's partners, and each of Tom's partners' partners, has a lifetime average of 5 new sexual partners.
Given: Tom is a carrier of a sexually transmitted virus which is silent in adult males and females but manifests in the offspring of carrier women.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Playgroup by Nancy Weber. Copyright © 1982 Nancy Weber. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.