Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Her mother closed the door of Lila’s room behind her and leaned against it, Candy and Skinny dropped in a heap like dirty laundry at her feet. Lila looked at her, apprehensive.

  “Just who do you think you are?” Lovely Mummie growled.

  “What do you mean, Mummie?”

  “You humiliated me tonight, before everyone who means anything in this town. And in front of Mr. Wagner, of all people. ‘Oh, yes, Mr. Wagner,’” she mimicked. Stepping closer to Lila, she screamed, “You humiliated me,” and swung her open hand across Lila’s face. Lila fell against the puppets. She was stunned, both by the blow and by the words.

  “Mummie,” she sobbed, “what did I do wrong? I remembered the words when you forgot, Mummie. And I was good, wasn’t I? Mr. Wagner said so.” Lila was confused.

  “Shut up, you little traitor. I didn’t forget my lines. I never do.” Lila saw the spit spray from her mother’s mouth as she yelled. “You deliberately stole my song.” Theresa grabbed a handful of Lila’s hair and pulled her toward her. Lila, sobbing, pleaded with her mother to tell her what she had done wrong.

  “Everyone was laughing at me, you little brat. You couldn’t wait to humiliate me, could you? You must really hate me, to deliberately steal the scene, making me look like a fool.” She was screaming, in a frenzy. “I’ll never be able to get a contract now, because you fucked it up. Wagner would have asked me if it wasn’t for you.”

  Theresa picked up the two dummies and shook them in Lila’s face. “Are you trying to take their place on television? Do you think you can make their money?” Mummie didn’t wait for an answer. “No, you can’t, and you never will. Just remember this, I got the talent. Not you, Lila. Me.” Her mother swung a hand at her face again, but Lila pulled away with a sudden effort.

  Lila shrank back into the corner of the room. Her mother, breathless, paused. Then she brushed her hair out of her face, and her breath came more slowly. She went to the vanity mirror and fussed with her hair, patted down her gown. “I’m going to return to my guests now. I’m going to look those people in the eyes and pretend that my daughter didn’t humiliate me in my own home. You’re to stay in your room until I tell you you can come out. And I want you to think about how you’ve ruined my career tonight.”

  Then Theresa had turned and left the room, a doll in each arm, shutting the door behind her with a crash. Lila had slumped to the floor and let the tears flow. What did I do? What happened?

  She wasn’t sure of anything, except that she would never sing again.

  And since that night, Lila never had. There was something else about that night, though. It was the first time Lila had known it was the Puppet Mistress who had made the mistakes, not her. But still, she was punished. I did it right, Lila had told herself after her sobs subsided. They liked me. They applauded. The audience liked me, not Theresa O’Donnell. Mr. Wagner liked me. And despite her burning cheek, despite her tearing eyes, that had felt very, very good.

  Lila put her hand up to her cheek now. She could still feel her mother’s slap. She’d never sung since then, but now she knew what she wanted. She wanted that audience, and she’d have to get it. The first step was getting some money. The Puppet Mistress was not going to give her any, or help her move forward in her career.

  So after eleven days in the darkness of Robbie’s guest room, here she was at Moody, Shlom, and Stone. Her dead father’s lawyers. Because, even if he was dead, her father could help. He had left her money, and through these lawyers she could get it. Still, Lila was intimidated, and Lila wasn’t intimidated by much. Never having been to a lawyer’s office, she wasn’t prepared for the size or the sumptuous furnishings. Whenever there had been any business about her father’s estate, Mr. Shlom had come to the Puppet Mistress’s house.

  Now Mr. Moody came out to the reception area himself, and seemed genuinely glad to see her. “Lila Kyle. Bart Moody.” He shook her hand. “I’ve met you before, but there’s no way you would remember,” he chuckled. “You were two months old, I think.” He led her into a corner office, decorated like something out of some corny Masterpiece Theatre. She sat on the leather club chair opposite his desk, crossed her legs after hiking up her skirt, and smiled across at her father’s lawyer.

  “You’ll forgive me,” the old man said with a laugh, “but you’ve certainly grown since the last time I saw you.”

  Lila laughed, and faked a rearrangement of her skirt, as if demurely trying to cover too much exposed thigh. It worked. She noticed him looking at her legs. Well, it couldn’t hurt, she thought. “And you haven’t changed a bit,” she giggled.

  He blushed. “I see you’ve inherited Kerry’s Irish Warney. And the combined good looks of him and Theresa.” The lawyer paused, and in that moment remembered himself. He cleared his throat. “But enough of that. What can I do for you?”

  “As I told your secretary yesterday, I wanted to talk about the current state and provisions of my trust fund. The one my father set up for me.”

  “Yes, your father was very specific; although not exactly a prudent man in many things, he made sure you would be provided for.”

  “Yes, Mother told me all about that.” Screw him, talking about her father. Her father had been a fuckin’ star, not a fat-ass lawyer. Well, she’d keep it together. “That brings me to the reason I came to see you. I feel that I can’t be a drain on Mother any longer. I need to be independent, and to devote my energies to acting. I’ve decided that’s what I really want to do. But I understand that I can’t get an income from my trust fund until I’m twenty-one.”

  Mr. Moody, the jerk, shook his head.

  “Well, I thought, maybe, you might be able to make an exception for me, since I am doing exactly what my father wanted for me—and my mother, by the way. So could you, you know, let me have money now?”

  The jerk smiled at her, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was an aren’t-you-pretty-for-a-stupid-girl smile, and Lila wished she could reach across the desk and kick the old bastard in the nuts. “I’m sorry, but the terms of the trust are very specific, and I’m bound by law to adhere to them.” He put on reading glasses and looked down at a file of notes. “I’m afraid that my late partner Bernie Shlom used to handle this, and I’m not quite filled in yet. How old are you now, my dear?” he asked, when he looked up.

  “Eighteen,” she lied. Well, close enough.

  “Ah. Time flies. I hadn’t realized. Well, there is a provision for you to receive income from the trust after your eighteenth birthday.”

  Lila smiled. Thank God. Maybe the old wrinkle bunny wasn’t so bad after all. “Yes? When can it start? Right away?”

  He reached into a side drawer of his desk and took out a yellow legal pad. Looking across the desk at Lila, he said, “I could draft a request form asking that you receive benefits immediately.”

  Lila gave him her sunniest smile, then grabbed the paper and pen from Moody’s hand and scribbled her signature. This was easier than she had thought. “There!” she said. “Could you fill that in and do it?”

  Again he gave her that annoying grin. “Well,” he said, “first we’d have to petition your father’s executor to give you your benefits now.”

  “And who is the executor?” Lila sighed. What bullshit.

  “Well, here,” Moody said, and handed her a paper. Lila looked down at the paper, then up at Bart Moody’s face. She was trembling, but was determined not to lose it. “My mother? Why does she have to give her permission?”

  “It’s a provision of the trust. If you would like to receive income before your twenty-first birthday, your marriage or your mother’s permission is necessary.”

  Lila sank back into the chair, her arms folded across her chest. How could her father have done this to her? Withhold her own money, and give Theresa power over it—and her. Why, he hadn’t even liked Theresa!

  Lila leaned forward, one hand on her hip. “Let’s forget about Theresa for a minute, Mr. Moody. What about getting a loan—like an advance on it, t
hen? Can you do that much for me?”

  The old man shook his head, looking forlorn. “The only one who can help you is your mother,” he said. “I’m afraid we couldn’t touch the fund without her permission.”

  Lila jumped up. “My mother can’t even help herself. Have you seen her in the last ten years? She’s a drunk. A crazy, booze-soaked, washed-up nut case. She’s not going to give me permission for anything. I need that money to get away from her.”

  “Now, Lila, you’re only eighteen. The legal age of inheritance is just three years away. Then you…”

  Lila leaned over Bart Moody’s desk, and stared into his face. “Three years? Do you know what L.A. can do to a woman in three years? I’m new now. I could be hot. I can be someone. I could be dead in three years, for chrissakes. I need the money now.”

  Bart Moody stood up and walked to the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he said, “Then I suggest you have this conversation with the only person who can get that money to you now.” He opened the door. “Good day,” he said.

  She was so angry, so frustrated, that she walked down the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. Now what? What the fuck can I do? It’s not like Westlake gave any career counseling to their students. That would have been ludicrous. Most of the school’s graduates were going to walk into jobs their parents got for them, if they were going to work at all. And even if they had job counseling, how did you counsel someone on how to become a star?

  She had to have money. She needed a good car, manicures, facials, clothes, a decent place to live. Lila reached the parking lot, and stopped. It was going to have to be Aunt Robbie. How long can I stand him? she wondered. How long will I be able to beg money from him? He wasn’t a rich man, and certainly couldn’t afford to keep Lila in clothes.

  Well, she’d have to economize. Right. Facials only once a month. She’d do her own pedicures. Ask for a comp on her haircuts. Get an allowance from Robbie, promise to pay him back, and live within a budget.

  It was that or crawl back to the Puppet Mistress.

  No fucking way!

  13

  “What time is your flight?” Mary Jane had asked Neil to be polite. She couldn’t stand to talk to him, or Molly, or anyone. Sam was gone. Flown to LALA Land. Her life felt unlivable. It wasn’t quite bad enough for suicide, she thought dully. Only bad enough to wish you’d never been born. She hadn’t bathed or changed or cleaned the place since Sam left. Perhaps she’d leave it just as it had been then. Stop the clocks. The whole Miss Havisham bit. Neil was calling from some other century.

  But Neil, with all his hustle and excitement, meant well, so she pretended to be interested. With Sam gone, Neil leaving, and a trip up to her grandmother’s to look forward to, Mary Jane felt like death on toast.

  “Nine A.M., from Kennedy,” Neil had said when she asked. “Will you come see me off?”

  Mary Jane hesitated. She had been afraid of this. It would be the fourth send-off of friends in a year, all going to L.A., all with contracts tucked under their arms. And she’d heard through the grapevine that Bethanie had gone off tucked under Sam’s arm.

  Had he known when he made love to her that he was leaving her? Or had that only come to him afterward? Or had he meant only to say goodbye, then rolled into her arms as a knee-jerk reaction? Had Sam met someone in L.A.? If so, why was he taking Bethanie with him? Did he simply need someone, anyone? Had her initial refusal soured him? Did he love her? Had he ever loved her?

  They were unanswerable questions. Perhaps Sam himself could not have told her. But that didn’t stop her from asking herself, over and over, why. Why? Why?

  Now she had to cope with Neil’s departure. Mary Jane hated airport goodbyes, hated the interminable subway-and-bus ride, the cheapest transportation back to the city. An hour and a half, at least, wasted, when she could be home, lying in bed, eating Entenmann’s chocolate donuts and watching videos. God, she couldn’t disappoint Neil, though. Well, she’d bring some donuts and a book with her. Or maybe splurge and take the Carey bus back to town. “Sure, Neil,” she’d said. “What time are you going to catch the bus?”

  “The good news is: no bus. Hey, the producer’s paying my way by limo. The bad news is the time. Pick up at seven in the morning,” Neil had told her. Mary Jane moaned audibly, then Neil quickly continued, “We’ll have breakfast at the airport after I check in.” She had heard the gratitude in Neil’s voice when she agreed. Aside from his sister, who did he have to see him off? “Thanks, Mary Jane,” he had said just before he hung up.

  But that was yesterday. Commitments look different at ten after six on a Sunday morning. She yearned to get back into bed, to become once again oblivious to everything. To avoid the temptation, Mary Jane sat on the tattered sofa in her living room, sipping a steaming mug of coffee, conscious of the total stillness in the apartment. She’d never felt so tired or so alone.

  Mary Jane hadn’t thought about it till now, but she had been the only handkerchief-waver each of those other three times friends went off to succeed, and she was sure she would be the only one today, too. It couldn’t be she was the only friend that all these people had. That was true of Neil, of course—he was much too angry a loner to have many friends—but the others had been outgoing, popular types on the theater circuit in New York. Maybe other friends hated goodbyes more than she. Or maybe, she realized with a jolt, other people were too lazy, too self-involved, and too goddamn envious to share in their friends’ good fortune. Maybe she, too, was envious, she thought.

  She dressed slowly, forcing the good cheer she didn’t feel. It was Neil’s triumph today, she thought. She wasn’t going to let her feelings about her own career interfere with Neil’s success. Maybe she had driven Sam away. Tears began to fill her eyes. “Oh, Christ!” she told herself, standing up and almost spilling the coffee. “Get on with it.”

  Mary Jane was down at the door in front of her building at seven on the nose. While she waited, she studied herself in the reflection of the glass entrance door, and ran her fingers through her thick, almost black hair. At least her hair was nice. But she had to do something about the gray. The denim wraparound skirt made her hips look even bigger, but Neil had commented once on how much he liked her in it. It made her look exactly like Veronica in the Archie comics, he had said. Veronica had given him his first hard-on. So Veronica was who he was getting today, Mary Jane thought, and tried to smile to herself.

  She also had on a Laura Ashley print shirt, cream-colored with tiny pink rosebuds and a Peter Pan collar that she had found in a thrift shop on Third Avenue uptown. Very Veronica. On one collar tab she wore a small gold circle pin, and a ridiculous charm bracelet on her wrist, both plastic, both from Woolworth’s. Plus, a school cardigan with a letter on it. Penny loafers completed the costume. Now Mary Jane smiled at herself again.

  She had just switched her bag to the crook of her elbow, like schoolbooks, when she saw the dark blue Tel Aviv sedan turn the Corner from Tenth Avenue onto Fifty-fourth Street. Neil was at the open window as the car came to a stop, and yelled out, “Veronica!”

  “Jughead,” she called back, and did a tiny pirouette to give Neil the full effect before she got into the car.

  “You’re crazy, Mary Jane,” Neil said, laughing, as the car pulled away from the curb. “That’s why I love you.”

  “I’m crazy,” Mary Jane said in mock surprise. “You’re the one with the Veronica fetish. I never knew anyone who was in love with a comic-book character before.”

  “What I felt had nothing to do with love,” Neil leered. “I wanted to get her into the back booth at Pop Tate’s and do the horizontal boogaloo.”

  “Other boys jerked off to Playboy. You always had to be different,” she laughed. She turned and eyed Neil from head to toe as they sped downtown along the East River Drive to the Midtown Tunnel. Pink raw-silk shirt, the top three buttons open, white slacks, white Gucci loafers, no socks. On someone else it would look good. “Looks like I’m not the only one who visite
d Wardrobe,” she said. “Let me guess. You’re going to a party costumed as Robert Evans.”

  “Hollywood is a costume party,” Neil said, and laughed. “So what do you think? Will I fit in?”

  “Just a minute,” she said, and began to rummage through her handbag. “You’re missing something.” She extended a small, gaily wrapped gift box. “Bon voyage,” she told him, and handed it over.

  Neil opened the wrappings roughly, then shrieked with laughter as he held up the wide fake gold chain with the huge Capricorn medallion suspended from it.

  “Now you’ll fit in,” Mary Jane said, and secured the garish chain around his neck. She patted the medallion so it nestled against Neil’s exposed skinny chest and sparse chest hairs. “So L.A.”

  “Actually, I think they’re now into the fake cowboy stuff again, mixed with wire-rimmed glasses. But, hey, I’m a traditionalist.” Neil laughed.

  At the terminal, Mary Jane watched from the sidewalk as the driver pulled Neil’s bags from the car trunk. Neil’s usual angry frown was gone, and he had a smile on his too-wide mouth. His ferretlike profile would put Jamie Fair to shame, she thought, but, God, she was going to miss him. “Let me help you,” she offered.

  “Nothing doing,” he said. “Stars never carry their own luggage.” He signaled to a skycap, who was able to check him in and tell him the gate number for his flight. Once inside, Mary Jane let Neil take her arm and lead her across the near-empty waiting area to the coffee shop.

  The waitress poured coffee for them, then took their breakfast order. “And two Bloody Marys, doubles,” Neil added before she walked away.

  “Why, Jughead, what would Pop Tate say? Are you trying to get me drunk?” Mary Jane asked coquettishly.

  Neil leaned across the table and took Mary Jane’s hand. “Come with me, Mary Jane,” he said softly, his voice serious.

  Oh, not this, she thought. Not now. I have no strength to be brave. I used it all up being a good sport. Mary Jane tried to keep her tone light. “Sure, that’s just what Hollywood needs: a fat, ugly broad who can’t get a job, because the beauties can’t get them, either.” The waitress came and placed their drinks in front of them. It was the distraction she needed. “Here’s to you, Neil, and your success.” She clicked her glass against his and took a sip.