Tales From A Broad (5 page)

Frank never even tried it. He nibbled a club sandwich, drank beer and worked hard at not offending my father when he beamed and shouted, ‘Would you look at this! All this meat here!'

Nothing changes old Frank. At this table in Singapore, laden with amazing and exotic foods, he sticks to the familiar and keeps it real simple. I, on the other hand, can't help myself. I'm reaching and plucking and passing and drinking and scarfing and happy, happy, happy.

When nothing is left of the feast but bones, we start talking again. My neck is stiff from peering down for so long. I look Sebastian in the eye, finally understanding him, wipe my mouth and say, ‘That was the best meal I've ever had.'

Frank pours another glass of wine and pushes his plate out in front of him. The snow pea remains.

The bill is handed to Frank. I find that strange. The waiter should ask, or place it in the middle of the table. Sebastian doesn't look at it. I take a gander. Whoa, $1,400.I see a brief smile pass between Sebastian and Sylvia. Frank tosses his card onto the table and doesn't show a single sign of shock or dismay. I look at him with a dumbfounded expression, but he just stays steadfast and cool. That's Frank.

We've been had but I surmise that I'm to remain insouciant. So, when we rise from the table I hug the Goks and tell them that I'd love to see them again soon. Of course, of course, we all agree. What a nice evening we all had. They stay with us while we wait for a taxi, despite our insistence that they don't need to. As we're sliding into the cab, Sebastian says, ‘By the way, Mr Liao and his lawyers have, um, invited me to lunch to share some of my experiences in the old job. I think they have some questions about the raid you are planning on his record company. I'll be wanting to keep the car, of course, and anything else you can think of that might make me not remember certain things.'

My stomach drops. I squeeze Frank's hand. If only Sebastian had found this sort of gumption when he was working for Frank. Now, Frank is getting blackmailed. Frank smiles and shakes his head. He closes the cab door and we go home to pay the babysitter.

Okay, I know it's only going to be three months but these are the three months that are supposed to change my life. I need some structure. Right now, I'm just sort of pacing, head full of steam, no good place to blow it off. Not having an itinerary to my day is like not changing my underwear. I feel pretty icky. Right, make a list. There are three things I need to do … well, maybe four or five: I need an exercise regime to get me upbeat, I need to get work done so I don't get fired, I need to be a good mom because … I haven't been and I need to be, I need to have fun because I want to be more cheerful, I need to open up the goddamned stack of books on things to do in Singapore and do some of them because I will have fun, dammit, and grow more cheerful from the experience. The end result, I just know, will be a serene but lighthearted completeness that will last for the rest of my life.

First, to gird me for the long, hot days of my friend-empty, plan-bereft, daycare-free, long vacation of sorts, I need to get on with some exercise. It's always been part of my life. I've known since I was 14 that if I don't do something vigorous, I am doomed to be full of unnamed dread and anxiety. Sure, sure, running can be a bitch and, yes, I know they make this stuff called Prozac now so I could stay clean and dry while also remaining relatively sane. But I happen to love a good run almost as much as sex. Like sex, there are often times I don't think I'm interested until I'm into it. Unlike sex, I do have to get out of bed and into the elements.

I hate leaving bed. Every morning at reveille I come up with excuses to my inner drill sergeant: ‘Ummmm, you know how it is, Sarg, Frank needs a cuddle.'

‘Tie up your shoes, soldier!'

‘Frank, do something, dammit!' If Frank were to grab me and pull me back under the covers, I'd settle for a dishonourable discharge, but he is fast asleep, hugging a pillow. Frank loves sleeping so much, he even yawns in his sleep because he's dreaming about going to sleep.

Post-exercise, I'm singing, ‘I am so glad I did that!' Of course, about five minutes later, something unfortunate will happen to me, because I have a black cloud for a pet. I might close the car door on the end of my raincoat and not be able to open it again because the keys have fallen into the lining in the very corner that is on the other side of the locked door. I might do it again the next week. This is a typical start to a normal day in Franland.

But it'd all be worse if I didn't run.

Exercise is the highest priority. I wouldn't leave my kids alone in the house to go out for a run … but I
would
strap them to my ankles and get a better workout. The only time I didn't exercise was during both pregnancies. My body made a good argument when it wouldn't fit into the shorts.

Now in Singapore, a full week has gone by and I haven't done anything about finding my exercise routine. It is beyond my ken, running in this heat. The air is so thick, the sun so broiling, the locals are guided by one survival code:
go to the mall
. This way they can enjoy someone else's air-conditioning and get their exercise by finding just the perfect place to eat. I can't blame them. If you lived in a steam room, would you want to go out and play?

The pool doesn't open until Frank leaves for work. I dismiss the idea of doing laps while the kids bob up and down in their floaty things. I mean, they'd invariably blow over into someone else's lane (unless I tethered them to the railing … nah, couldn't … could I?). They'd also get pretty fried and by the second minute of my workout they'd just be screaming and crying and taking turns at having to go to the bathroom.

I have to find a regular babysitter. I look everywhere for Pearl's card-shaped piece of paper and finally find it, a tight little laundered ball in my shorts pocket, the writing obliterated. I step out with the kids to get a newspaper and see if there are any leads. We sit on the steps to the shops. I buy Sadie a breakfast ice-cream cone that almost immediately collapses into a muddy river flowing between her thumb and forefinger. Huxley is happy with his cookie. Only, I didn't bring him a cookie. Either he stole it off a shelf in the store or it's been waiting for him in the folds of his stroller since America.

The problem with finding help in Singapore is that it's pretty much a live-in-maid-only world – expats, locals, people in public housing, even maids have maids. Because having a maid is as commonplace and cheap as owning a coffee maker, there just isn't much call for part-time work.

We go back home and I write up a notice. I shove it in my bag, gather up the kids again and go to stick it on the grocery store bulletin board.

A voice behind me says, ‘I can,
lah
. Few hours a day. No problem.'

‘Pearl, I was just thinking about you. I was just going to put up a –'

‘No need, no need,
lah
. Can can.' She unwads a sheet of paper. It looks like my notice. ‘Few hours a day,
lah
, some evenings,
lah
. Where Jane and Michael?'

‘Sadie and Huxley, actually,' I correct her. ‘I have to tell you, though, you know I was taken aback when we came home the other night to find a stranger's kid on our sofa.'

‘Don't worry. I don't charge extra. First playdate is free.'

‘My kids don't have playdates at night, and anyway, they tend to have less fun with their friends while they sleep.'

‘Next time, you pay dollar more.'

‘Please, just don't bring other kids into the house.'

‘Why you so like that? Okay, okay, Jane and Michael go to Anastasia's house.'

‘Sadie and Huxley! No, you babysit my kids alone. That's it.' And, remembering some lesson from responsible parenting, I ask for references.

‘Oh, I don't believe in references.'

What the heck, I don't mess with people's beliefs. ‘You know, we're only here –'

‘For three months' time,' she interrupts.

‘Yeah. Can you –'

‘Can can.'

‘– start today?' I decide to finish the sentence even though she is already pushing the kids back to the apartment.

Once inside, I head to my bedroom, calling out behind me, ‘If you're all okay, I'll just get into my bathing suit.' No response. The kids are glued to Pearl, watching as she pulls things out of her bag, amazed at what she can fit in such a modest compartment. When I leave, Pearl is giving the kids something yummy on a spoon.

At the pool, I find myself intensely moved – almost doubting reality – by the change in my circumstances. A week ago, I was using my coat sleeve for a tissue and I didn't care. It was more absorbent than paper anyway. A week ago, I was stomping my feet while waiting for the train. I was standing on the corner of Fifth and 57th in the company of 900 other people waiting to cross at the lights. I was sizing up a large and determined group on the opposite side who wanted to switch turf. It didn't seem possible to accomplish this in the few seconds allowed, without stampeding each other to death. My team, the Heading Downtowners, looked ready and well trained, but I could see the Travelling Uptowners had some talent too, a few peddlers wheeling pretzel carts for instance. Damn, why didn't we think of that, guys? Those things'll just flatten you. All we had going for us were some suits, heavy briefcases and high heels. The walk sign came on and we were off … I survived to tell the tale, obviously.

I dip my toe into the water and watch the palm trees bristle dreamily, gracefully, in the barely there breeze. The few occupied chaises hold content, coconut-scented people reading books or magazines, sipping odd drinks, like Calypsos soda, Grass Jelly Tea, Pocara Sweat. No one is swimming. Not even a soul in the baby pool. I put on my goggles and slide in. The water has magically found some way to both refresh and soothe. I feel the sun pressing big, heavy hands on my back and shoulders, undoing knots, unleashing joy, turning me brown.

The last time I really had a power swim was at the municipal pool on 50th and First. The heater had been busted all day, but no one told me. I jumped in. It was frigid. I couldn't think straight. I was demented, and determined to get my workout in. I swam my 50 lengths, losing all feeling in my face, arms and legs. They didn't allow hair dryers at this place – but they did allow homeless people to bathe and wash out their belongings. It was pretty dismal, really. The showers, a line of rusty faucets along one green mossy wall, also served as a spacious drawing room for several sorry bag ladies who could often be found entertaining invisible guests. I generally got out of the pool, into warm clothing and took the bus to my apartment. But, this one fateful night, the bus didn't come, the temperature was below freezing, my hat was somewhere at home or left in last night's bar or on a subway, anywhere but with me. As I waited, my hair froze into a winter wonderland of dreadlocks. Hairsicles clinked against each other, lashing at my face and neck. Unable to have rational thoughts, I wound up walking 30 blocks home, fell in the door stiffly and said, ‘Cccooolld. I had a sssspott of bad luck, Frank.' As I sipped my Baileys in coffee and Frank took a break from chastising me, I said, ‘It'd be worse if I hadn't exercised.' We laughed.

Pulling arms, breathing harder, I kick and turn, shoulders crashing, breaking the silence, strengthening, toning, challenging my triceps, my pecs. My legs force me through the water as my hands grab an invisible rope, pulling me from one end of the pool to the other faster than I've ever swum before. And, once in rhythm, I figure out my response to a letter, write a pitch for a proposal and invent a recipe for chilli shrimp.

Man, that was an hour well spent. I hoist myself up next to a woman who is standing at the edge of the pool tucking her short curls into a swimming cap. She is smiling and talking to herself, as if she's offering herself encouragement. I nod noncommittally and look for my towel and cover-up. I feel guilty about being away from the kids. The woman shouts enthusiastically, ‘Hi Fran!' How do I know her? I don't know her.

She goes on, ‘Ya looked good in there. Forty-seven seconds a lap.' She grins, showing nice white teeth and two deep dimples.

‘Thanks. It felt good. Too bad I'm only here for a little while.'

‘Well, three months for now … who knows later? Okay, gotta do it.' And with that, she jumps in, still smiling, and strokes away.

I find the kids flying kites on the lawn. Somehow I wind up paying for the kites, the sweets and the second hour, which we are all of one minute and 40 seconds into. Plus, I am asked for an advance against Pearl's services later that day (I have asked her to come back so I can get some work done).

But first we are going to meet the baby-pool crowd. I take the kids back to the apartment to change them into their swimsuits and we're back at the pool in no time flat. The group is larger than I'd seen before, not all blonde this time. Still not a single Asian. Perhaps they're at home teaching their kids something more useful.