The Perfect Couple(13)
“Can I please use the ladies’ room?” Abby asks.
“Excuse me?” Nick says. He’s pretty sure she’s using the bathroom break to wiggle out of answering the question—but then he remembers Helena. “Oh, yes. Certainly.”
Saturday, October 22, 2016
CELESTE
Blair Parrish, the head herpetologist at the Bronx Zoo’s World of Reptiles, is a hypochondriac. She’s “sick” more often than can reasonably be believed. She calls in sick on a Saturday—by far the zoo’s busiest day—and Celeste assigns Donner from the Aquatic Bird House to cover Blair’s ten o’clock snake talk. Donner complains about it (he’s an expert on Magellanic penguins and literally nothing else), so Celeste assigns Karsang from the Himalayan Highlands to cover Blair’s one o’clock snake talk and then she, Celeste, covers the three o’clock snake talk even though handling snakes is her least favorite task at the zoo. Celeste’s specialty is primates, but as the assistant zoo director—the youngest in the entire country—it’s her job to keep the peace, maintain routine, and lead by example as a team player.
Celeste is experienced enough to know that the three o’clock talk in any area of the zoo can be a mixed bag. Ten o’clock talks are routinely the best; the kids are still fresh, the parents or caregivers bright-eyed and optimistic. One o’clock talks are nearly always a catastrophe; that’s the only way Celeste can describe it to Merritt via their work phones without using profanity. At one o’clock the kids are either impatient for lunch or they’ve just eaten and they are high on sugar and often have sticky hands and faces. Three o’clock talks can go either way. It’s usually made up of older children, as younger kids have gone home for their naps by then, and, in general, the older kids are, the better their behavior. However, the three o’clock talk is often populated by people who simply couldn’t get their acts together early enough in the day to make the ten o’clock or the one o’clock.
Celeste enters the World of Reptiles at ten minutes to three. She isn’t crazy about the smell of the place; it has a musty, lizardy stink that she knows will cling to her hair and clothes, and more than likely, she’ll offend people on the bus ride home. As the assistant zoo director, Celeste wears regular business clothes instead of a uniform, but for this talk, she buttons an army-green zoo-issued shirt over her black turtleneck and houndstooth pencil skirt, and because she feels weird wearing her good work shoes (suede kitten heels from Nine West that Merritt helped her pick out) into the World of Reptiles, she switches them out for her running shoes, which she keeps in her work locker for the commute. She looks ridiculous, she realizes, but the kids are coming to see the snakes, not her.
There’s already one couple waiting for the snake talk to begin. Genus: European, Celeste thinks. Species: Swedish? Norwegian? Their natural habitat includes fjords and midnight sun, steam saunas, and lingonberry bushes. They’re both tall and hearty and have bushy, straw-colored hair. The man has a prodigious beard; the woman wears rimless spectacles. They both wear Birkenstocks over thick woolen socks. The woman pulls a piece of jerky out of a fanny pack and hands it to the man, and Celeste thinks about reprimanding them. There’s no eating in the World of Reptiles, and outside food and drink are forbidden throughout the zoo—but it’s the last talk of the day and Celeste doesn’t want to be a Debbie Downer.
A few minutes before three o’clock a man and woman walk in with a little girl. She’s about seven, Celeste guesses (she has become proficient at pegging children’s ages, often down to the month). The little girl has Shirley Temple curls, the kind you want to pull straight just for the sheer joy of watching them bounce back. The couple are giving off static and Celeste gathers from the set of the woman’s jaw and from the angry whispers that are flying over the little girl’s head that they’re arguing. As Celeste reaches into the first tank to retrieve Molly the milk snake, she eavesdrops. The woman wants the man to meet “Laney and Casper” for dinner at Root and Bone tonight, but the man reminds her that he has promised to have dinner at his parents’ apartment because his parents are leaving for Barbados on Monday and will then be in London through the holidays so he can’t cancel or postpone.
The woman—her hair very blond with tinges of silver but intentional silver, not aged silver, which makes her look like she belongs in a science-fiction movie—says, “You act like a minion around your parents. It’s pathetic to watch.”
The little girl turns her face up. “Who’s a minion, Mommy?”
Science-fiction Mother snaps, “I wasn’t addressing you, Miranda. I’m trying to conduct an adult conversation with Benji.”
Benji catches Celeste’s eye and smiles apologetically. “This nice woman is going to teach us about snakes, Miranda,” he says.
Miranda’s eyes widen. The mother huffs and Celeste smiles indulgently as if to convey that she knows how tedious trips to the zoo can be. The things parents do for their children! The fighting couple are expensively dressed, lots of suede and cashmere, a nice watch on the man, ballet flats on the woman, and she carries some kind of designer bag. (Merritt would be able to identify not only the designer but also the year; she feels about bags the way that most men feel about Corvettes.) Genus: Manhattan, Celeste thinks. Species: Upper East Side. Their natural habitat includes doormen and cabs, private school and Bergdorf’s.