Best to Laugh: A Novel

by Lorna Landvik

  “No. I’m not exactly sure what it is.”

  “Sketch comedy, except you make it up on the spot.”

  “Yikes.”

  “It’s not much different from ad-libbing during your monologue, only you get to play different characters. It’s fun.”

  So is sitting here talking with you.

  “What else has been going on?” asked Mike. “Are you still at the record company?”

  “No, I’m at the Rogue Mansion now.”

  Mike stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it.

  “Sorry, I thought you said you were at the Rogue Mansion.”

  “I did. I’m temping there.”

  “They have temp Rascalettes?”

  “I’m not a Rascalette, although if you think about it, they are sort of temporary. I mean, they get a new one every month.”

  “Doesn’t matter, they live forever. Take the July 1969 Rascalette—she will always have that title.”

  I cocked my head. “Sounds like you have a passing familiarity with Rogue magazine.”

  “Are you kidding? Jim Dooley’s older brother had a stash of them under his bed, and the day we found them was the day I understood the existence of God.”

  We wound up talking for another hour, and although most of the conversation was focused on comedy, I did manage to learn that his favorite old band was the Kinks and his favorite new band the Clash, that we both much preferred The Andy Griffith Show to Mayberry RFD and that he liked The Munsters over The Addams Family.

  “Whoa,” I said. “And I was beginning to respect your taste.”

  “You’ve got to admit Herman Munster was a lot funnier than Gomez Addams.”

  “But the music,” I said and when I began to hum the theme song, Mike joined me, both of us snapping our fingers at the appropriate cues.

  Even though I only had to cross Sunset Boulevard to catch the bus that dropped me off right in front of my house, I accepted Mike’s offer to give me a ride home, but this time I didn’t make the mistake of inviting him up for homemade baked goods, which just happened to be chocolate chip cookies.

  “I’ll try to see your act again soon,” he said. “You’re doing all the open-mikes, right?”

  “Pretty much. The Comedy Store, the Improv, and the Natural Fudge. I was doing Pickles but I didn’t like the—”

  “Smell,” said Mike. “I know, I used to perform there, too. Anyway, I think your days of open-mike nights might be coming to a close. You’re ready to move up.”

  “From your lips to the Comedy gods’ ears.”

  34

  “ZO, HOW IS SHOWBIZ TREATING YOU?”

  “You tell me. You’re the soothsayer.”

  “That is true,” said Madame Pepper with an acidic smile. “And that is why I am foretelling that you will be picking up the check.”

  We were sitting in one of the dark booths at C.C. Brown’s, treating ourselves after having seen the movie The China Syndrome.

  “For all we know, planet might explode tomorrow,” Madame Pepper had said glumly as we left the theater. “Might as well eat ice cream.”

  When our aproned waitress served our hot fudge sundaes, we dug our spoons into them, pushing aside thoughts of melting nuclear reactors and annihilation.

  Even though the movie’s subject matter was disturbing, we had enjoyed the drama and craftsmanship of the actors and happily discussed whether the movie’s stars, Jane Fonda and Michael Douglas, were worthy successors to their fathers, and we both agreed they were.

  “It’s much easier for children of movie stars to get into the business,” Madame Pepper had said as we walked down Hollywood Boulevard toward the ice cream shop. “But for those children, I think the shadow of doubt is always there: ‘Could I have done this on my own?’”

  Now as she wiped a trail of hot fudge off her chin, Madame Pepper said, “And as to your comedy career I will tell you: yes, you will be successful as you want to be.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “You do not have much faith in my clairvoyance, do you, Candy?”

  I folded the napkin on my lap and folded it again.

  “I . . . if I had faith in anyone’s clairvoyance, it would be yours, Madame Pepper.”

  She snorted a laugh.

  “You know, very important people pay me a lot of money to help them.”

  “I know! And they send Rolls Royces to pick you up and take you to fancy Beverly Hills boutiques! But when you say ‘helping’—isn’t that sometimes just another word for ‘making stuff up’?”

  Holding her spoon, Madame Pepper’s hand stilled in midair.

  “I don’t make stuff up.”

  “Oh, come on. How does a person go from dressing movie actors in costumes to reading their fortunes, anyway?”

  My voice was playful, but I wanted—had wanted for a long time—to hear her answer.

  “It was an evolution,” she said, stressing every word, “from recognizing I had the gift to realizing I could help people with it.”

  “The gift? Then tell me this, why don’t people with the gift ever help people who really need it? Like, say, did you know something was going to happen at Three Mile Island? And if you did, why didn’t you do anything about it; and if you didn’t, why not? Does the gift have an on-off switch?”

  The heavy valance of her eyebrows lowered, and I braced myself for a not-very-pleasant response.

  “That is reasonable question,” she said, surprising me. “Why can’t those of us with the gift predict major events, disasters, catastrophes? Well, of course, some try to show off, and that is why we are so often discredited. Most of us can only work in a smaller framework; we need to be in the presence of those we are helping—”

  “—to ‘sense their vibrations.’”

  “Yes,” said Madame Pepper simply. “There are those of us whose gifts are large enough, big enough to see outside the framework, but fear keeps the general public from recognizing their sight.”

  I shrugged and helped myself to more ice cream. She mimicked my shrug and attacked a puff of whipped cream clinging to the parfait glass.

  “Zo,” she said after a time, “you have worn your dress yet?”

  “No. For some reason, I haven’t been invited to any of those fancy parties or award shows you foretold.”

  She smiled. “You will.”

  I had modeled the black sleeveless dress for her as soon as I got home the day I’d met her in Giorgio’s, and she had sat on her horsehair sofa, applauding.

  “It fits you perfectly,” she said. “And those little sprinkles of sequins—not too much and not too little—beautiful.”

  “Thank you. Cynthia helped me find it.” I felt the rise of tears in my eyes. “I still can’t believe you bought it for me.”

  “Bah,” said Madame Pepper, waving her hand. “Like I told you, it’s my client who pays. And she is richer than a king, so why not make use of her benevolence?”

  Now as the waitress lay the check on the table, Madame Pepper was quick to pick it up, and quicker to hand it to me.

  “Time for you to pay bill, so we can ditch this place.”

  “How is it,” I said, with a laugh, “that you say slang words like ditch and still drop your articles every now and then?”

  Madame Pepper looked more offended than when I had questioned her psychic abilities.

  “Articles? I have dropped articles?” She made a big production of looking to her left, to her right, on the floor.

  I sat back in the dark wooden booth and smirked. “Articles, like a or the.

  “Oh . . . articles like a or the. Tell me Candy, do you speak another language beside English?”

  The internal embarrassment vents suddenly turned on, blowing hot air onto my cheeks.

  “Well, I took three years of French in high school, but—”

  “I speak four languages, Candy. Romanian, German, Russian, and English. And all well enough to have a conversation on any topic with a Romanian, a German, a Russian, and En
glishman—or an American. In Romanian, of course, I speak like a poet. In the others, I am slightly more pedestrian and will drop occasional articles.”

  I stared at my fudge-smeared dish, the vents turned up to high.

  “Sorry. I’m an idiot.”

  “That I would not dispute,” said Madame Pepper.

  I GOT HOME TO FIND AN ELECTRIC BILL, the latest issue of Cosmopolitan (Charlotte subscribed to it and I was happy to read it), and my grandmother’s weekly letter in my mail box. The headlines on the magazine’s cover—Lose Weight While Pleasing Your Man! or Don’t Ticket Him in Your Erogenous Zones!—were tame compared to the words my grandma wrote. I placed a long-distance call and when she picked up, I said, “I just got your letter.”

  My grandmother giggled for a good ten seconds, and I had the odd sensation that I was on the phone with a thirteen-year-old.

  “Pretty exciting, huh?” she said.

  “I’ll say. I would like a few more details, though.”

  “Well,” she said, drawing two musical syllables out of a plain one-syllable word. “We were on our way to the Pannekoeken Huis after church—”

  “After church? You don’t go to church.”

  “Maybe not regularly,” she said, a little huff to her voice. “But certainly on holidays. Anyhow, Sven sings in his church choir, so I’ve started attending services. He’s got the loveliest voice, Candy—a bass!—which I can pick out even when the whole choir’s singing!” There was more of her girlish laugh. “In any case, we were on the way to the restaurant, when he just blurted out, ‘Let’s get married’ as easily as he might have said, ‘I’m in the mood for some French toast!’ And I said, ‘Okay!’”

  I couldn’t help but be delighted by the delight in her voice.

  “So when’s the big day?”

  “Sometime this summer, we hope. And Candy, I want you to come home and be my maid of honor.”

  “Maid of honor?”

  “I plan to ask Charlotte and Patti as well. I want all my granddaughters to be my maids of honor.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, as if we had eavesdroppers on the line. “But between us, know that you’re my number one.”

  Sweet inspiration rose on a rush of love.

  “Then I’m giving you an early present. You and Sven are going to Tahiti.”

  “What?”

  Before she could continue her protest, I explained that the game show rule only specified that any trip won had to be taken within a year, and that I could transfer the prize to someone else, and didn’t she remember that I had offered to take her as my guest anyway, and she had said, oh no, Tahiti is for lovers and didn’t that describe an engaged couple . . . ?

  And then I said, “Come on, Grandma, I really want to do this . . .”

  I breathed in a huge column of air and after a moment of silence, my grandmother unleashed a low string of giggles.

  “Tahiti,” she said finally. “Oh, kid.”

  35

  OCCASIONALLY, I had to make a certain delivery that millions of American men would have paid cash—and lots of it—to make for me. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to tap that market, and so it was I alone who had to enter Donald Doffel’s bedroom.

  Never lingering, I always felt slightly creepy and mildly panicked as I race-walked across the expanse of thick carpet, trying not to look up at the mirrored ceiling. Flanking his round bed draped with its fur throw were two nightstands, and it was on the nearest nightstand I was instructed to place my delivery of a half-dozen VHS tapes. Deirdre always called to tell me when to make these deliveries, apparently knowledgeable of the room’s vacancy.

  But even the most efficient secretary makes mistakes.

  “May I ask what your intention is?” came a voice, the unmistakable, gravelly voice of the Titan of Titillation, the Sultan of Salaciousness, the Master Rogue himself, Donald Doffel.

  Had I not already put down the stack of cassettes, I know I would have dropped them; as it was I nearly jumped, and losing my balance I stumbled sideways, right onto the fur pelt on the round bed.

  “Mr. Doffel!” I said, scrambling off the bed, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” Mortification propelled me toward the door and escape. “But Deirdre told me—”

  “—well, Watson, methinks if she knows Deirdre, she’s not some reprobate off the street who’s come into the inner sanctum uninvited.”

  “Oh no, sir. I work here—up in the video room—and I was just delivering your tapes.”

  I was near the door, so close to making my getaway, when with a rustle of his robe, he put his arm out. Obeying the silk-draped semaphore, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “I’m sorry, but if you could see your face.” Mr. Doffel shook his head and chuckled. “I haven’t seen anyone look so scared in here since Shirley Oxendale’s first visit.”

  He allowed himself a little sigh of laughter before nodding toward the French windows.

  “Come, sit on the balcony with me, Candy.”

  Another shock. “You know my name?”

  “I know all my employees’ names, even the temps. Especially the temps who do such good work. And speaking of names, please call me Doff. Only my tax attorney calls me ‘Mr. Doffel,’ and I don’t like to be reminded of him.”

  I felt as if I’d entered an alternative reality even more mind-bending than the alternative reality that the Rogue Mansion inherently was.

  On the balcony that overlooked a garden in which the topiary was shaped like female forms, he gestured for me to sit on a wrought-iron chair and he sat at another, a small table between us.

  “Shirley Oxendale was October Rascalette 1969,” he said. “That’s another thing I remember, every single Rascalette who has appeared in the magazine, and the order of their appearances. In any case, Shirley was an Indiana farm girl who knew all about crop rotation and conservation tillage, but she didn’t know a thing about the little world I’d created here at the Rogue Mansion. Consequently, her first look at my boudoir was one that made an impression.”

  I tried to smile but there was no moisture in my mouth and my upper lip snagged on my teeth.

  “You look as if you’d rather be anywhere else than here,” Doff said, not unkindly.

  “No, it’s just that . . .” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence because I would, in fact, rather be anywhere else.

  “I’ve got a refrigerator full of sodas,” he said, with a nod, “or I can call and have something hot sent up—some tea or coffee?”

  “Uh, no thanks.” Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I added, “But thanks anyway!”

  Shifting in his chair, Doff sat back and folded his hands on his chest.

  “Then I won’t keep you long, Candy. I just wanted to say I appreciate the work you’ve done on the video covers. Your synopses are very well written, and occasionally quite humorous.”

  I felt the burn of a blush. There were times, when describing a Rascalette at some function or on a television show, I’d let loose a double entendre or a bit of sarcasm.

  “I’m sorry if—”

  “—sorry? I just complimented you. ‘Raelynn Otis, March Rascalette 1972, on Dinah’s Place! demonstrates how she keeps in shape jumping rope. Ratings, among other things, bounce.’”

  My blush deepened.

  “A tad juvenile,” said Doff, “but juvenility certainly has its place, especially here. And your movie synopses! I loved what you wrote about The Sin of Harold Diddlebock.”

  “Thanks. Mostly I just embellish stuff from the movie guides, but when there’s time, I like to watch the movie myself and throw in the occasional critique.”

  “It’s the occasional critique that I enjoy. ‘In his cast, Preston Sturges has created a magic kingdom, from Harold Lloyd, the movie’s king, to its duke, Jimmy Conlin, and its earl, Franklin Pangborn.’”

  “Wow. You do have a good memory.”

  “It’s photographic.” He lifted his entwined hands off his chest and, placing them behind his neck, leaned back into them. �
��And I agree completely with what you wrote about Preston Sturges and Harold Lloyd. Geniuses, both of them.”

  “I’m glad I got to watch the movie. I’d never heard of it, or them.”

  “A sad commentary. Sometimes the world doesn’t embrace what it so obviously should.”

  “Can I . . . can I ask you where you get these movies?”

  “I don’t know, can you?”

  So the man was a grammarian, too.

  “May I, Mr. Doffel,” I drawled, “may I inquire as to the methods by which you obtain these motion pictures?”

  The Regent of Raunch smiled.

  “You may. From the personal libraries of my friends in the movie industry. Not only can I get a copy of just about any old movie, I screen yet-to-be-released movies here nearly every night. Me! A kid from Wichita Falls who’d skip school to sneak into twenty-five-cent movies he couldn’t afford!”

  His smile was wide and true, and I glimpsed the wonderstruck teenager in the tanned and wrinkled face.

  “Now tell me, Candy, a girl of your abilities surely has bigger desires than office temping. What are—”

  A phone on a stand behind him rang and Doff turned to pick it up. After a short conversation consisting of two yeses, a no, and one “Tell him we don’t endorse that sort of behavior,” he hung up, brushed the lap of his robe as if he had spilled on it, and rose, offering me his hand.

  Feeling a little silly, I took it, standing up myself.

  “Candy, I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation. You were about to tell me where your interests lie?”

  We passed through the French doors and into the bedroom.

  “I’m doing stand-up comedy.”

  “Stand-up comedy? Seriously?”

  “Seriously meaning ‘Am I concentrating my efforts on it?’ or Seriously meaning ‘Surely you jest’?”

  “The former. Seriously.”

  We both smiled at our word play.

  “You’ve chosen somewhat an atypical field for a young woman.”

  Well, not everyone can be a Rascalette, I thought.

  “Nevertheless, good for you,” said Doff. “According to Mark Twain, ‘The human race has only one really effective weapon and that is laughter.’”