Tonight, they’re stunning in dark tuxedos, their faces clean-shaven and shiny; their dates, breathtaking in long draping gowns, their designers referred to only as Carolina, Vera, Donna, and Oscar. My own strapless gown, blue and adorned with white crystals, was bought off the rack at Bergdorf’s. I swing wildly between my independence and my desire to be preened by Henry. His power and his money and his affection. He pretends not to notice, and I pretend I’m not in over my head here in this world. At the moment, we both find this silent agreement charming.
A reporter from the New York Post circulates, as I’ve invited him but requested that he not make a nuisance of himself. His ticket was a gift, much to the protest of the board of CARE, but in return I’ve asked for a front-page spread in the society pages. I am hoping for above the fold. I’m told that it will depend on Norman Krable’s appearance.
The reporter, whose name I’ve forgotten, has strict instructions: Photograph the event. The guests. The decor. Do not, under any circumstances, photograph me. He laughed at that, mistakenly believing my adamancy derived from a woman’s insecurity and I waved off his protests with a light flick of my hand. He spends the evening quietly snapping photographs, and I can’t be certain, but I feel as though the camera is frequently aimed at me. I skim the shadows, avoid the spotlight, but too often, I catch the reporter’s eye. He seems to be one of these men who wants to rescue a woman, a she-doesn’t-know-she’s-beautiful man, like he could be the one to show me. The whole idea is silly. Skirting the spotlight has become a way of life, and not all that long ago, a necessity. Maybe even still a necessity, but I avoid thinking about it.
Past donors and board members rotate on the podium. I’ve talked my cochair into being the MC. Public speaking is not my thing. The closing speaker is Amanda Natese, a twenty-year-old culinary student who was raised primarily on the money provided by CARE. She is a success story, we hope a harbinger of things to come. We’d like more stories like hers. When Amanda was eighteen she aged out of the system and was handed $4,000, courtesy of CARE. She’s worked nights as a dishwasher and apprentice in various chain restaurants, and recently she enrolled in culinary school. Her speech is met with a standing ovation. The reporter is snapping madly. It doesn’t hurt that Amanda is a stunning six-foot-tall black woman born with a grace the system was unable to take from her. I greet her offstage, in the darkened wing, and give her a hug. Up close she is teary, and I feel the edge seep away. This matters. I repeat it like a mantra, it’s the best I can do.
I seek Henry. In public, I always seek Henry. I can’t help it. He is only moderately tall, but his glossy hair is a beacon.
In a crowd, he is charming, erudite. His comments are thoughtful and he is well versed in current events and politics. His opinions are generally heavily considered and almost never debated. Something about the tone of his voice, floating above the din of the crowd. I find him in a circle, men nodding along with him as he waxes about tax benefits.
A redhead leans toward him, whispering in his ear, and he laughs. When he sees me, he reaches back, pulls me into the circle against his side, between him and the redhead, and she gives me a sly smile. There’s that why. She relocates to his left, continues to lean toward him. She whispers clever commentary out of the side of her mouth, words I can’t make out, bits of gossip I don’t understand. She and Henry know the same people. I absently tend to a wayward strand of lights. Eventually, she wanders away.
Norman Krable shows up late, a blonde on his arm who is not Mrs. Krable, and the crowd buzzes with the slight whiff of scandal. As I catch the Post reporter’s eye, he gives me a small wink. Above the fold, it’s all I’m asking for here. He nods once, the blonde cementing the spot, and I sigh with relief.
The charity has never been featured in the Society section, but my goal this year was to bring it up to the celebrity level. Not for the glitz and the glamour of it, that’s more of a liability than anything to me, but for the fact I am deeply attached to the cause of helping adopted and orphaned children.
Then again, I am one.
“Silly man,” Henry murmurs from behind me. Henry knows Norman and he’s always been fairly vocal about his impatience with adulterers. It’s easy for Henry to chide, as his wife is not yet thirty years old. I remind him of this, as a private joke, and he tells me what he always tells me. I will love you when you’re ninety.
The buzz dies down, and later I hear that Norman’s blonde is lovely to look at but dumb as a stone. Henry almost laughs at this, but not quite, the soft laugh lines around his mouth deepen and he gives a muffled harrumph.