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NO CARROTS, PLEASE
Randall Poston swirled his glass, watching shards of ice melt in a whirlpool of scotch. He snapped off the radio. The living room hushed to the humming level of car tires on wet pavement twelve stories below. Somewhere between "Hey, Jude" and "Piano Man", the little girl fell asleep, a tiny bundle under the covers of his kingsize bed. The Lucite clock from Fortunoff's glowed a red 11:37.
Should he call the child's mother? The thought made his fingers grope for the receiver and lift it to his ear. Moments later, it slid, unused, gently back on the cradle. Kimberly Addison slept peacefully. The griping of her over indulged stomach had subsided, even in his incapable bands. Randall glanced at the bottle of thick pink liquid squatting on the coffee table, recalling the pains which gave her such grief and caused his stumbling rush to the drugstore. A few short hours ago, both Pepto Bismol and a blue-eyed five year old had joined his household.
His fingers curled around the medicine much the way they had curled around the handle of a battered suitcase, shoved at him that morning, along with a frantic medley of words from Nancy Addison.
"... and it will only be a day or two. She's really no trouble. If her grandfather weren't so sick, I'd bring her along ... but, with my mother and her arthritis. And Kimberly ... well, she wouldn't understand her grandfather laid up in bed, and all. Now I know you're quite the bachelor, Randy. Not used to having children underfoot. But, on such short notice, I can't leave her with anyone else, and seeing that you're home all day anyway. As for school, she has to be there by eight forty-five. She absolutely won't eat carrots. Spaghetti though ... "
Randall remembered the instructions. They seemed interminable. Her words buzzed and flitted about the apartment, until, with a kiss atop her daughter's head, the sleek and somewhat befuddled Nancy Addison descended into a cab and he ascended the throne of reluctant parenthood.
Sunday afternoon consisted of one Disney movie, a large buttered popcorn, two ice cream cones, a street vendor's fat pretzel, a questionfilled walk down the ramp at the Guggenheim, topped off by a greasy pizza on West 71st Street. The day blurred and disappeared into an evening rain shower. Kimberly's stomach began rumbling in unison with thunderclaps over the Hudson. Her aches began twelve seconds before his panic.
Calmer now, he sipped at his slightly warm drink, wondering how well he would cope with a five year old woman in Care Bear pajamas. He allowed his thoughts to drift to Nancy Addison, whom heŽd first met in the laundry room nearly a year ago. She admired his oddball collection of tee shirts. He admired her ice-blue eyes and finely sculptured features. From that point, they quickly became friends, meeting almost daily in lobby, laundry room and hallway. Each time, Kimberly hid shyly behind her mother, studying Randall intently. He was always a tongue-tied moment away from asking Nancy Addison to a dinner they never ate. With a shrug, he finished his drink and went to check his house guest one final time. Then he contortioned his lanky frame into the couch. Eventually, he slept.
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"There's no Cheerios."
Randall blinked.
"I said there's no Cheerios."
Randall blinked again and brought the tiny voice into focus. "Hnnnh? her face was two inches from his nose.
"If there's no Cheerios,, you have to make me eggs. Mama always makes me eggs.,
"I hate Cheerios," Randall said. "I hate cereal."
"I'll have eggs then."
"There are no eggs."
"Then what do you eat for breakfast?"
"Coffee."
"Mama won't let me have coffee."
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Twenty minutes later, Kimberly was chewing happily on her second Egg McMuffin while Randall gulped his third coffee. As he contemplated the little brown specks at the bottom of the cup, he heard her mumble through stuffed cheeks, "I can tell time."
"You shouldn't talk with your mouth full."
"But I can tell time. Really."
"That's nice."
"I have to be at school five minutes ago."
Kimberly easily won the race along Second Avenue to Eastside Academy. Birgit Gundersen easily won the staring contest, as Randall stammered through his story, explaining why Mrs. Addison was unable to bring her daughter to school that morning. Ms. Gundersen listened intently, nodded once, spun on her heels and escorted Kimberly to class.
On the way back to the apartment, he bought a box of Cheerios.
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By midmorning, Randall had sharpened thirteen pencils, dulled none of them, reviewed his stack of rejection slips, changed the ribbon in his printer, phoned his agent three times and glanced at the clock every five minutes. Ms. Gundersen emphatically insisted he retrieve Kimberly precisely at noon. The sample chapters and outline were due at his editor's office in less than two weeks. He had yet to write a single word.
Randall's first novel was a moderate success, and he bravely quit his secure position as account executive at the ad agency. So far, he managed to survive on minuscule royalty checks and the sale of a few short stories. Things weren't easy, but he knew he couldn't ever return to commuting on subways and buses, or smiling through the unreasonable demands of haranguing clients. His work secluded him from the terrors of that nine-to-five world, but hadn't been able to protect Randall from the terrors of proxy parenthood.
He walked slowly through his small apartment. It gave the distinct appearance of a recent attack by a Rugrat army. Tiny child clothing exploded from a suitcase at the foot of his bed and lay scattered in wrinkled heaps. A Cabbage Patch doll named Samantha watched him with a frozen pout from a chair by the kitchen door. A spilled box of broken Crayolas crunched underfoot. One small sneaker sat brazenly atop the television. How could he possibly make Schezuan chicken for Christine tonight with a five year old chaperone staring at them?
Randall reached for the phone. "... and suddenly, Chris, this this little girl person is staying here. Sorry, but I'm afraid this means a rain check for dinner. Say, you don't suppose you could watch her ... Chris? Chris?" Static crackle replaced Christine.
"Write," Randall said to the silent Samantha. "You hear me, funny excuse for a doll? I have to write these damn chapters, not play nursemaid to your little blond friend." Samantha didn't even blink.
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Lucius, the round-faced doorman with the nose in everyone's business but his own, listened patiently over the intercom, before suggesting Mrs. Trantini in 607. Randall's knock revealed a heavy-set, frazzled woman who kept house for seven tiny Trantinis and one night-working husband whose eyes made it clear he wasn't at all interested in a temporary Trantini.
At 11:45, Randall bolted through the lobby. Upstairs, a single, not-quite-good sentence was all be had committed to paper. Lucius clucked in sympathy as Randall scurried for the crosstown bus. Ms. Gundersen clucked a warning to have Kimberly at school on time in the morning.
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"You have to play with me this afternoon. Mama said so."
"Don't you have any friends?"
"Mama said I have to stay with you." The serious look on Kimberly's face was underscored by a ring of chocolate encircling her mouth.
"Where'd you get the candy?"
"From my room. I bought it with my 'lowance."
"Your room? How did you get into the apartment?"
"I have a key in my shoe."
"I'd better hold it for you."
She plopped to the floor, pulled off her shoe and offered him the key. Randall was bemused at how small her hand looked next to his. He was electrified at his awesome responsibility for the forty-eight pound imp at his kneecaps, tugging thoughtfully at her lower lip.
"I'm hungry. Mama always makes me lunch after school."
"I bought Cheerios."
"That's a breakfast, you big silly. Mama always gives me a sandwich and a soup and maybe nine or three Oreos."
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Randall chewed cautiously on a Big Mac, while Kimberly chomped through a large bag of fries and beige-colored balls of chicken. He was amazed at the variety and quantity of foodstuffs capable of being ingested by one so small.
"Tonight you're having a decent meal, young lady. I don't think I'm ready for another bout of stomach cramps."
"No carrots. Mama says I never have to eat carrots, ever again, until I'm eighteen."
Randall grinned at her greasy face and adamant stare. An unusual warmth crept around the edges of his mind.
"You know what, Mr. Postman?"
"That's Poston, Kimberly. Not postman."
"Mr. Postman." She said his name again, slowly, distinctly and incorrectly.
"Why not call me Randy?"
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"'Cause Mama says you can't call really old people by their first name."
"But I'm not old."
"Yes, you are. You're older even than Mama."
Randall laughed. "I guess you're right. I am pretty old. Better stick to Mr. Poston."
She reached across the table and took his hand. "You know, Mr. Postman, I think I'm preturbed."
He chuckled his response, "Why do you think you're 'preturbed', Kimberly?"
"I miss Mama."
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The phone rang six times before Nancy Addison's pleasing voice sounded on the line. "Is there anything wrong, Randy. How's Kimberly?"
"No, everything's fine. But she's missing you."
Randall listened in fascination to Kimberly's nonstop narrative of their adventures. He hadn't realized until that moment how much pleasure he'd given his precocious room mate.
Finally, pausing for breath, she listened intently to her mother's voice, blue eyes blinking rapidly. "Yes, Mama. Yes, I'll be good. No, Mama, I won't eat much junk." She handed the phone to Randall. "Mama needs to talk to you again, Mr. Postman." Then, in her child's idea of a whisper, she added, "Don't tell her what we had for lunch."
"I won't," smiled Randall. He watched her grip Samantha in a side headlock and skip happily to the television set. Only then did he return to the phone. "Hello again."
"What did she have for lunch?"
"Sorry, that's our secret."
"Thanks, Randy."
"For what?"
"For letting Kimberly into your life so abruptly. For being nice to her. For taking care of her stomach. For ... For ...
Randall thought he heard a sniffle. "Nancy, look. No sweat. You were in a jam. I mean, what's a neighbor for?"
"You're a good person, Mr. Poston."
"That's Postman, ma'am."
"What?
"Nothing," Randall chuckled, then paused. "Would you mind a direct question?"
"No," said Nancy, a hint of trepidation in her voice.
"It's really none of my business, but... well, where's Kimberly's father?"
"Out of our lives forever," she answered with a snap.
"Hey, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to pry."
"That's okay. You have a right to know."
"Hold it, Nancy. If you don't want to discuss it, I'll understand."
"No, Randy. Besides, it's easier over the phone. Kimberly's father was a drunk with a quick temper and even quicker hands. I haven't seen him in nearly two years, but unfortunately, my daughter remembers every bitter moment."
"I I wish. I mean ..."
"It's past, Randy. I've said it, now let's forget it's been said. And I did learn one thing. When you've lived with a truly bad man, it's easy to spot a truly good one."
There was a long silence. All the words Randall wanted to say caught in his throat.
Finally, Nancy spoke, words tumbling in an awkward flurry, "My father's much better. I'll be back Thursday afternoon. Take care of Kimberly and give her a big kiss for me. Bye."
Randall held the dead phone for many minutes, breathing slowly and swallowing hard.
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For the next two afternoons, Randall and Kimberly painted the town every shade of red imaginable. They visited the Bronx Zoo and the Statue of Liberty. They caught cinders in their eyes atop the Empire State Building, as Randall showed her Queens and New Jersey. They wandered the aisles of F.A.0. Schwarz, where Samantha's brother Oliver was purchased. Kimberly squealed and laughed and slept in his arms on the Lexington Avenue subway. Randall beamed and smiled and held her hand tightly on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry.
They both ate Cheerios for breakfast.
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"Will Mama be here soon, Mr. Postman?"
"Any minute, midget."
"When Mama comes home I have to go live in my own bed again, but can I still come over and play with you, Mr. Postman?"
"Sure you can. Every day after school if you want. How's that sound?"
"Awesome. I'll bring Samantha and Oliver, too."
Randall patted her head and Kimberly went happily back to her cartoons. He returned to his desk and slowly read through the chapters that had so easily slid onto paper during the last two days. It was clearly the best work heŽd ever done. "You're good for me, midget," he whispered.
Randall was putting the finishing touches to his plot outline when the knock sounded.
"Mama!" Kimberly shouted and raced to the door. Nancy Addison stepped into her child's arms, ice blue eyes locked on Randall. Unspoken words danced in the air.
Later, over two cups of coffee, one large glass of milk and a plate heaped with Oreos, Kimberly recounted every detail of the last two days, ending with a formal introduction of Oliver.
"Well," Nancy said, "you two seem to manage pretty well together." She smiled at Randall. "In appreciation of your patience, fortitude and ability as a Manhattan tour guide, how about dinner, say in two hours? Nothing fancy. Spaghetti and a bottle of wine."
"No carrots, please," interrupted Kimberly.
"I agree, midget," added Randall. "I hate carrots, too."
"But Mama, you know what? Mr. Postman doesn't hate Cheerios no more."
Hand-in-hand, mother and daughter left for their apartment, Kimberley crunching Samantha and Oliver under one arm. Randall stood in the open doorway. "I'll bring her things over later, Nancy. See you both at six."
As he began closing the door, Kimberly shouted, "Mr. Postman, wait!" She ran to him, eyes wide and serious, a miniature replica of her mother.
Randall dropped to one knee. "What's the matter, midget? Need another Oreo?"
She wrapped her tiny arms tightly around his neck. He barely heard the words she whispered toward his ear.
"I love you, Mr. Randy." |
