Milkie didn’t want another child as a client.  Especially one that belonged to that Monstresse.  He was fine with his only child client at the time, 8 year old Lester Grid.  Little carrot- topped Les Grid appeared on many commercials.  His red hair was a great big fat draw to advertisers, a delight to parents, and an oooh-awe thing for other children.  Underneath that mop of maroon peered a freckled face cherub plastered with an overbite, slightly slanted green eyes, and cottony-sounding lisp that hawked things from Rinso to Pepsodent to Wannamaker washing machines. Currently his cute jingles were convincing millions of housewives into buying a certain puffed rice cereal.  And the reason it worked was because  the kid was easy. Obedient, hard-working and eager to please.

    He couldn’t imagine a daughter of Deedree’s being like that. He imagined a little terror of a girl. Just like her mother.

    “Hell no, Deedree,” he said in a voice so coated with cigar phlegm that he sounded like a tuba with tuberculosis.

    Deedree had always found that voice sexy.  It had been so long since she’d heard that voice and…What the hell did he mean hell no?

    Did he really have to explain? Probably.  Which would be required since Deedree had blacked out during most of her own short-lived entertainment career.  Which vividly came to Milkie’s mind as he stood there recalling all her temper tantrums, the refusals to cooperate with television executives and Broadway producers.  The cat fights with co-stars.  The slaps across his face.  

    “You can’t mean to tell me representing that red-headed boy is going to get you anywhere?” Deedree protested with Pimms breath. “He’ll outgrow his cuteness.  Orphans usually do.”

    “He’s not an orphan.”

    “He might as well be.” In a way it was better, Deedree thought.  “It’s better than for the poor boy to think his parents actually want him when its clear they are much more interested in their endless spiritual jaunts to India or snorkeling expeditions off the coast of Galapagos.”

    Milkie couldn’t argue with that.  The Grids had abandoned Les, for lack of a better description. They’d said they be out at Bergdorf’s and wouldn’t be long. But around that same evening, the two year old Lester Grid was discovered loitering in the lobby of the same building where Deedree lived. He’d been left in the temporary and awkward care of one of the doormen.  That was five years ago.  His parents were never arrested.  No one had even pressed charges, and it was unlikely anyone would, given the Grids standing in the Gold Coast community of Manhattan. Yes, back then not only could parents do anything they wanted, but they often did.  

    There was a loud wail from the other end of the line.  

    “Oh God,” Milkie said.

     It was Deedree, wailing at the sight of Windra—on her knees right alongside Suzie—cleaning up the Farina from the wing-back chair. It was a disgusting sight, watching her own daughter stoop to the level of servant.      

     Stars didn’t clean. They shone.

    “Get up from there you idiot!” Deedree screamed at the top of her lungs.  Her voice rang through the bedroom, through Windra, through Suzie. And through Milkie. Each three of those people had heard this shout of selfishness before.  It was toxic.  It cut to the core of one’s own belief in how much a human could hate oneself—and take it out on others during that process.  

     “I’ll be there,” Milkie he said, against his better judgment. “I’ll take the first flight out of Los Angeles.” He hung up before she could say anything.  He grabbed his beat-up brown suitcase and flung it open. Immune to its reek of stale cigar and sweat-soaked clip-on ties, he started packing.  Afterwards, he made  a call to Les’ school, a tiny establishment on the Burbank lot.  “Have him ready for flight by five,” he instructed the tutor.  “Make sure you don’t forget his Lincoln logs.”

    In the next two hours, both man and boy were flying over the United States, heading east.  Milkie shook his head in despair during most of the flight. He couldn’t believe what he’d gone and done. Uprooting Les, without any explanation. And what a good kid, too, for not even asking any questions. “A new assignment,” was all Milkie had offered.  They lunched on the plane ride, Les eating all his vegetables, saying his prayers (some of which were for God to watch over his parents—wherever they were).  Then it was nap time.  Unknown to Milkie, Les only pretended to sleep.  The little boy was worried that he was going to be abandoned yet again.  He was confused too. He thought he’d pleased Milkie by  performing well on the television commercials and in the classroom. He thought Milkie and he were friends. Best friends. Hadn’t Milkie promised they would never have to come to this dark crowded cold city ever again?   Milkie was too wrapped up in his own worries to notice the odd way Les way had leaned into the window of the plane, in order to hide a lone tear that had just begun to roll down his freckled cheek.

    Stop wanting to help out another kid, Milkie. Stop that right this very minute now.  He could always hear some part of him saying how foolish he was to try and help out anyone, much less kids.  This voice was most likely the remnant of an army sergeant reminding him of his inadequacies back on the eve of the Normandy invasion.  Being in World War II hadn’t done much to bolster his view of humanity.  But it had taught him that you have to take stands against injustices.  And if the last six years of taking care of Les had taught him anything it was that a safe haven meant everything to a child.  Their futures were important.  Could he ensure Windra’s? He was crazy to even think he could try.  And yet it was the question that flew with him to New York.

 

     They were let in by Suzie, the maid.  Milkie smiled at the squat, big-chested maid he’d not seen in years.  

    Her reception was not as friendly.  She recognized him instantly.  He was  grayer and fatter and smellier.  She led them them through the maisonnette, noticing man and boy holding hands.  Suzie swallowed any harsh words, while her mind reeled.  How could any self-respecting court let Milkie Evans take care of a kid?  But then again, as stated earlier: anyone was better than the Grids.  

    A minute or two later, Deedree descended the stairs.

    She planted a kiss on Milkie.  She looked down at the little boy.  “So,” she told Les. “You managed to survive the Milkie Way.  I suppose you’re a regular little Jackie Cooper now because of this curdled curmudgeon.”

    “Yes ma’am,” Les said, although he had no idea who Jackie Cooper was.

    She patted the little boys cheek, a little too hard we might add.  Her eyes slid up to Milkie. Drunk eyes. “I expect you to make my daughter into the next Shirley Temple,” Deedree said. And with a waft of her arm, her daughter descended the stairs.  

    Milkie instantly noticed the girls’ last minute, pressed-upon poise, a gait that made his bulbously red nose crinkle.  “She walks like a drunk,” he said in clear earshot of Deedree.

    Deedree, used to his pokes at her drinking, waved off his comment with a fresh snifter of brandy.  “It’s the maid’s fault. She had her in the kitchen mopping. It’s ruined her posture.”

    “Oh?” Milkie said.  “Still hard at work in this mauseoleum, Suze?”

     She scowled at him.

     His moustache curved.  

    “I can’t seem to get rid of her,” Deedree said, while waving Windra forward.

    Suzie’s the only reason your child is alive, he wanted to tell her.  To Suzie, he wanted to thank her for helping with Les, the way she had years ago. It was she who’d first discovered him all alone in hallway, sucking his thumb, lost and confused.  Hoping his gratitude would get across, he threw her a wink.  She frowned, snapped her dish rag.  In this very brief exchange, Suzie longed to tell this sloppy, hairy man that she was glad for his arrival.  Now perhaps Windra had a shot at survival, because of him. But pride kept her contained, in a corner, pretending to eye a dust mote alighting on a tear drop chandelier.

    “I’m not saying the girl doesn’t need work,” Deedree said, as she watched Windra walk up to Les.  “She’s very cooperative.  Willing to be willing in areas of elocution, deportment, with a possibility at poise. Careful Win,” she said as she realized her daughter, towering a good foot taller than Les, had offered him her hand.   

    Les didn’t seem to mind the greeting. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, putting his hand out, as Milkie had instructed him to.

    “You too,” Windra said, shaking his hand firmly but gently.

    “You see? She’s very cooperative.” Deedree raised her empty snifter, as if in a mock toast.  “I imagine she’ll behave with some two-bit director as well as with this child.” Menacingly she lowered her glass. “Make sure he’s more than two bits, Milkie.”  Her drunken laughter rang through the otherwise hushed gallery.  

     Milkie knew he’d arrived to help this kind, polite tall-little girl, just in time.

     Suzie felt the same way. She didn’t want to. But she did.  

     “Win? Why don’t you show Les here some of your toys? Play nice, both of you, while Milkie and I discuss…business.” Her last word was a hiss.

    Windra and Les ascended the stairs.  Once they were in her bedroom, she found her Barbie doll, a-flared with a pink, corseted, tulle dress.  She found Ken too and handed him to Les.  He took the male doll obediently but found himself more interested in the toy piano in the corner.  She noticed his interest.  “Do you play the piano?”

    “I study it, yes.”

    “But do you play it?”

    He shrugged and walked over to the petite instrument. “Hey,” he said, touching the fake ivory.  “This piano only has 30 keys.” He ran his fingers over it anyway.

    “It’s a toy piano.”

    “Toy?” he said, in a meek but astounded voice.

    “Not a real, adult piano.”

    He wanted to tell her that Milkie let him study on a real, adult piano but somehow he thought that would be rude. Although with his whisper-y, soft delivery it was hardly likely she’d take offense to anything he said or did.  He continued holding the Ken, listing it side to side in his hand.  But his heart wasn’t into playing house.  

    It hit Windra immediately, Les’ pain and fear.  So palpable, the moment they were alone.  She gently took the  Ken from him.

    “Are you mad at me?” he asked, folding his hands together.

    She smiled, although inside she ached at the sound of his quavering voice and droopy green eyes.  “No, of course I’m not. I want us to be friends.”

    “Oh okay,” he said, tilting his red head to the side, with slight caution.   

    “Baderp-baderp,” said Windra.

    Les’ eyes grew large. “Baderp?”

    “That’s what I say when I’m nervous,” she said and put down her Barbie right next to Ken, on a long-ago abandoned Dream-house. “When I don’t know what else to say I just go , ‘buderp, buderp.’ But mostly in my head.” She smirked, wriggled her button nose. “But really, I think this is the first time I’ve said it out loud.”

    “But you shouldn’t have to say that,” Les said. “You speak fine. You’ve been so friendly to me, ever since I’ve got here. You let me play with your toys–.”

   “But it’s not the same,” Windra said. “You miss being in your own home, don’t you?”

   “I really don’t have one,” Les said. “I mean Milkie’s place back in California, sure. I like living with him. But the the home I grew up in is on the floor below this one and….well.” He lowered his head, looking down at Ken.  “It isn’t my home anymore..”

    “Your parents are away,” Windra said. Just a statement of fact that she tried to convey with empathy.

    He wanted to smile at her because of the way she’d said that. She was so pretty, so kind.  He picked up Ken, looked at him with envy. Sometimes I wish I could just be a doll and get put away some place.”
    “Some place safe?”

    He struggled with what to say next. Because he’d really told a fib.  He felt safe with Milkie, of course. He just didn’t feel safe feeling safe.  The man had taken him under his wing and gotten him to learn the piano, made sure he got into commercials, despite his painful shyness.  In front of the camera, he could pretend very well. He could even pretend that it didn’t bother him that he had no parents.  But Windra saw that he was still missing something.  His parents, obviously. But maybe something more than that. Something…

    “Buderp-baderp,” he said, finally.

    She smiled. “Yeah, exactly.”

    This time he had no problem smiling back.  “Please play something for me,” she said, while making a grand sweeping motion toward the tiny piano.

    They became friends that afternoon.  He taught Windra how to play Mary Had A Little Lamb.  When he sang he lost all his inhibitions.  His voice was confidant, strong.  The melody that rang through her bedroom that afternoon made her stand up and want to dance.  She grabbed Barbie and Ken and danced with them.  Les enjoyed the effect his music had on her.  Without even thinking he introduced rhythm into the chorus, a de-dum-dum-de-DUM tribal beat, keeping his fingers busy on the lower scales.  Although she didn’t realize it, Windra was sort of….boogieing.

    Then, without warning, Les broke into chorus section of “Rocket Man” by Elton John.   

    Milkie face peered between in the crack of the playroom door, listening. His moustache curved. He turned to see Suzie eyeing him. “See?” he said. “I told you they’d hit if off.”

    “Humph,” Suzie said.  “Nice song.”

    “They make a good pair.”

    “Are you going to marry them off already?”

    “If we can capture that chemistry on camera, we’re be in business.”

    Suzie’s expression turned into something similar as that of the Statue of Liberty.    

    He could feel that look.  “Oh c’mon,” he shot back in a whisper.  “You remember I’m an agent, don’t you? And those kids have something special.”

    “Yes.  And too much abandonment and abuse in their lives.”

    “Not any more. Not with me. Ahem, us, I mean.” He cracked the door wider to see Windra twirling the Ken and Barbie.”  

   “You are one mistake away from hurting those kids and don’t you forget it,” she told him.

    He drew back sharply from the door to keep his voice a safe distance from them. “I’m trying to save them,” he told her. “And I can do it with my job. The more they stay busy, the less time they are here, under that woman’s dark cloud, and so the better chance they have at happiness.”

   “You make happiness sounds so complicated. Look at them,” she said.  

     And he did. Intently.

     “They’re happy now,” she said. “With just simple things. Like music. And each other.”

     But being an agent, Milkie saw more.  He saw an opportunity.  “They can be happier,” he said.  He raced away to the telephone in the foyer and called Getteltot Inc., a toy company based in New York.  

    And then two weeks later it happened. Windra landed her first television commercial.  Thanks to Milkie, she was going to be the new face for Fredricka, the first fluid-filled doll that moved most life-like. With outfits sold separately.   But even better than that,  Fredericka’s counterpart was a jet-black haired, exotic-looking action figure named Fernando, that put Les in the perfect position for the cross-hairs of a coup.  

     Les required little convincing that he would be the right boy to help showcase fun and adventure of Fernando. He knew it would please Milkie and he would get to spend more time with Windra.  He cinched the audition. Milkie asked and got a two-year contract for both kids.  

    Fredericka and Fernando were an astounding hit.  531,128 of them were sold in the United States the following year.  

    Deedree wasn’t satisfied. It was time to move on, she quipped, between sips of vodka tonics. Time for her prime television, time for films that co-starred opposite Charlton Heston in some Warner Bros. historical epic.

    “No more damn commercials,” she ordered, her hot fuming breath shooting through the blue smoke of Milkie’s Havana imported cigars.  He tried to make her understand that these things took time. Proper pacing. Especially where a child was concerned. Children needed school and rest and hobbies. They needed to play.  And not the sort of rehearsed playtime that took place in front of cameras.  

    “Windra will not be a failure, do you hear me?” she screamed from atop the stairs. “I won’t have it!”

    And then down would crash a crystal vase or a Renoir painting.  He almost felt sorry for her. Because it was during these confrontations that he was reminded of the dreams Deedree had once housed.  Long before Windra, she’d embarked on a Broadway musical career.  A dream that never materialized,  because of her drinking.

    It wasn’t all her fault. She might not even be a drunk had it not been for Lanford Thrope.

    Lanford Thrope.  As unscrupulous as Lanford had been on all fronts of business and friendship,  his treatment of Deedree had been worse. When he left, he took the last dregs of her self-respect. That’s how much of a thief that man was.

    But one could only feel sorry for Deedree for so long, especially when she threw those blood-curdling temper tantrums.  And when Deedree turned on Windra—it was deplorable. And almost unavoidable, even with all the tactics that Milkie and Suzie had employed over the years to protect her.  

   So why not just fucking leave?

   Windra wouldn’t do it. She refused to leave her mother. And Lord knows Milkie had asked her so many times over the year.  “You and me and Les could start a new life in Los Angeles. Think of it. Sunshine, ocean, peace.”

    And she did think about it. But thinking was different than feeling. And what she felt for her mother was stronger than a new life.

    But that never stopped Milkie from hoping that some day his Big Dream would come true. He’d pack up with  the kids and whisk them away to Los Angeles. They would start a new life, the three of them. They could be a real family.