“You have me scared,” I said.
“That’s the game plan. Scare the crap out of you now so nothing they toss at you tomorrow will seem that surprising.”
“Do you think he’ll really throw questions like that at me?”
“Are you kidding me?” Rita said. “Jose Julia is the reigning king of the sleazy question. There are only two reasons he wants you on his show: one, your missing daughter, and the fact that she might have been murdered by her married doctor lover, and two, to get you and your ex-lover into a mud-throwing contest about who did what. If he could get away with it, he’d probably ask you if you went down on the guy. As it is, he’ll do his best to imply that.”
“Oh, great,” I said quietly.
“Now, don’t you go getting scared on me,” Rita said. “You didn’t do too badly, considering the shit we just threw at you. The thing to remember is: your fifteen minutes of fame will only last ten minutes, and as long as you follow the strategy we’re working out, you’ll get your side of the story across just fine.
“Ready to start again?”
We went through the entire mock interview one more time, refining my answers, working out counterpunches and possible curveball questions, with Ben now taking charge on issues like my body language, my posture, my bad habit (as he pointed out) of gnawing on my lip when I was anxious.
“Under no circumstances can you do that during the interview,” he said. “You’ll end up looking apprehensive, which will make many people wonder if you have something to hide. Always look Judson straight in the eye. Never avoid his gaze—meet it. And with Jose, be as pleasant and relaxed as possible—even when he starts giving you a hard time. Because he will give you a hard time. That’s what he’s paid to do.”
At six-thirty Rita glanced at her watch and said, “Time flies when you’re having fun. We’ve got to dash, otherwise Her Royal Highness will be pissed with me for getting you to her place late. Her Royal Highness expects her minions to make certain her guests arrive on time.”
“We’ll pick this up again at ten tomorrow,” Ben said. “And we’ll do two more practice sessions before the taping at five. Do you want me to meet you at the hotel around nine forty-five a.m.?”
“I think I can make it over here myself,” I said, with a small smile.
“Hey, she’s from Maine,” Rita said, “so she’s probably packing a compass . . .”
In the taxi on the way uptown Rita said, “So, Her Royal Highness told me you’re her oldest friend.”
“Thirty-six years and counting.”
“That’s pretty damn impressive. Then again, she is about as loyal as they come.”
“Even if she is ‘Her Royal Highness’?”
“Oh, she knows we call her that. She even encourages it.”
“I bet she does.”
“The thing about Margy is, professionally, she always cracks the whip and terrifies everybody, while personally, she is a total softie . . . but you know that already.”
“All too well. Can I ask you a direct question?”
“About her health?”
“You guessed it.”
I could see her hesitating, chewing her lip in the same anxious way I did.
“She’s been pretty adamant that we say nothing . . .”
“She can’t leave the apartment now, can she?”
She nodded.
“How badly has the cancer come back?” I asked.
“Badly.”
“How badly?”
She turned away and stared out the window.
“I really shouldn’t . . .”
“She’s my best friend and I promise I won’t say anything.”
“Believe me, she’s acting like it’s just business as usual, but she knows . . .”
“Knows what?”
“Six months maximum.”
I shut my eyes and said nothing for a while. Then, “Did she tell you this herself?”
Rita nodded.
“She entrusted the secret to me. The thing is, everybody knows—because the few times she’s come into the office, it’s been so obvious how ill she is. And we’re a small operation, so we’ve all been back and forth to her apartment with files and clippings for her, as she has completely refused to stop working.”
“It’s everything she has.”
“When you see her tonight, you’re going to freak a bit. But you have to try not to show it. She refuses to publicly acknowledge what’s going on—even though you can see that, privately, she’s terrified. Who wouldn’t be? If it was me, I don’t think I could deal with it the way she’s handling it.”
You don’t know that, I felt like telling her. Because none of us know how we’ll act if we’re faced with the diagnosis that, within six months, maybe a year, we will no longer exist.
When we pulled up in front of Margy’s building on East 72nd Street, Rita squeezed my arm and said, “You’re going to do fine tomorrow, really.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.”
As I rode upstairs in the elevator, I kept telling myself: Act natural . . . pretend everything is normal . . . do not flinch.
I hesitated for a moment outside her door, taking a deep, steadying breath before ringing the bell. From inside I could hear her voice shout, “It’s open.”
The strength of her voice reassured me—it sounded like the old Margy. But as soon as I opened the door, it was hard to fight my shock.
My friend sat on a sofa near the door—a small, shrunken woman, slightly hunched over as if she were suffering curvature of the spine, her cheeks emaciated, most of her hair gone, her eyes and skin tinged with a jaundiced yellow coloring. A canister of oxygen was standing alongside one of those portable hospital stands. Suspended from this was a bag of medicinal liquid, the tube of which ended up attached by a needle to a vein in one of her hands.
But in the midst of taking all this in—making sense of the way the cancer had completely decimated my friend—I caught sight of a dirty ashtray on the side table near the sofa. A smoldering cigarette was lying there, awaiting the next puff. Margy saw me do a double take at the sight of this smoking object. And said, “If you say a fucking word about the cigarettes, I’m throwing you out.”
“All right, then. I won’t say a fucking word.”
A grim little smile from Margy.
“Okay, we’re off to a good start. But if you come over here and give me a great big consoling hug, I am going to get annoyed. So no touchy-feely stuff tonight. Just go get me a vodka and find something for yourself while you’re at it.”
I went into the little galley kitchen and located the vodka by the fridge.
“Rocks?” I shouted from the kitchen.
“Who the hell drinks warm vodka?”
When I came back with the two drinks, Margy had the oxygen mask over her face and was noticeably wheezing as she ingested that pure air. Then she reached over, turned off the canister valve, and picked up her cigarette.
“Now I can smoke again.”
I handed her the vodka. She drew down a small lungful of smoke. She didn’t exactly exhale it. Rather, it seemed to leak out of her mouth, almost like someone drooling smoke.
“Go on,” she said, pushing her pack of Marlboro Lights toward me. “I know you want one.”
I fished out a cigarette and picked up the table lighter and lit up. “A great guilty pleasure, eh?” she said, reading my mind. “And you’re not your usual positive self, hon.”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I said, sipping the vodka.
“About tomorrow, you mean?”
“Not just that.”
She wheezed and coughed and dampened down the wheezing with a slug of vodka, followed by a long draught of fresh oxygen. When she finally pulled the mask away, she saw my horrified expression and said, “Surely Rita told you the ground rules: no shows of concern, no displays of dismay . . .”
“She said nothing.”
“Don’t shit a bullshitter. She’s a great kid, Rit
a—a fantastic kid—but she’s taking all this far too hard. Anyway, before we get all tragic and lachrymose—hell of a word, lachrymose—know this: I’m not talking about it. And by ‘it’ I mean IT. I’m keeping it off the agenda until we get through with tomorrow. Even after that, there’ll be nothing much to say about it anyway, because there’s not much to say. We clear about that?”
I nodded.
“Good. On to other things. I’ve ordered in sushi tonight, because I figured you don’t get much in the way of Japanese food in that rube state you come from. You got anything against raw fish?”
“Bizarrely, even a backwoods country girl like me has eaten sushi.”
“I tell you, the progress we’ve made in this country . . .”
She took another sip of vodka. Then said, “Okay, next bit of business. See that file on the table over there,” she said, pointing to a bulging yellow envelope on the dining table near the kitchen. “That’s your clippings file. It’s got everything that’s been written on you in the past two weeks—most of which you’ve probably not seen, since you’ve mentioned to me that, for some strange reason, you’ve wisely turned off the media and the Internet recently.”
“That’s the truth. But I’ve obviously been missing a lot.”
“Oh, this whole story has gone beyond stupid. Chuck Cann has gotten at least four more columns out of it, and every right-wing pundit in the country—from Coulter to Brooks to Kristol—has taken his or her turn bashing you and also pointing out that you represent everything that was immoral and hedonistic about the sixties. There have also been pieces chastising you for refusing to say you’re sorry, analyzing whether our generation refuses to accept responsibility for our actions, and, amazingly, even one or two articles supporting you . . . but they’re in left-wing small-beer publications like The Nation and Mother Jones, which are basically speaking to the converted. Anyway, I’d like you to read through them all . . .”
“I don’t need to. I pretty much already know what they say. And I don’t need to read about my sins anymore.”
“Have it your way. I just want you to be completely up on everything that’s been written about you, in case Julia or Judson dredges up some quote—”
“I’ve decided how to handle it.”
“Tell me.”
“They are entitled to write whatever they want about me. And though I might not agree with what they write, I accept it. But my conscience is clear about the legality of my actions.”
She thought about this for a moment.
“Not bad, but this is trash television, not the Constitutional Convention of 1787, and if you start coming on like Thomas Jefferson, it won’t fly. So here’s what I suggest . . .”
We ran through the entire mock interview again—refining it, targeting potential weaknesses, brushing up my retorts and responses. The food arrived. We made small talk over the sushi. Without saying anything, we both deliberately decided to avoid the big stuff—Margy simply asking me once whether I felt better after the weekend in Maine, and wondering out loud if Dan might just have a sudden change of heart and return home.
“He’s ‘in love,’” I said. “Why would he run back to someone who hasn’t just betrayed him, but has also made him a subject of derision at the country club?”
“He can’t have done his local image much good by running off with your best friend.”
“On the contrary, it shows he can pull a babe, and that he’s being desired by two women. That will do wonders for his ego.”
“You know, I always thought Dan was one of those rare men who didn’t have much of an ego.”
“He’s a surgeon—of course he has an ego. The thing is, he always kept it under wraps. Until now, when I finally gave him the excuse to use it against me.”
“You’re beating yourself up again.”
“So what else is new?”
We finished the sushi—washed down with more vodka—then ran through one or two more points about the interview. Around nine that evening, Margy began to fade—whatever energy she still had left suddenly deserting her.
“I think I have to get into bed,” she said, leaning her head against a hand and suddenly looking even more shrunken than earlier.
“Let me help you,” I said.
“No fucking way. Allow me to hold on to just a sliver of my dignity. But before you go, just remember two things when you’re taping the show tomorrow. The first is: you are the victim here, but you have to walk a fine line between acting put-upon and being indignant. The second is: that other thing is still in the works and looks like it’s going to come through.”
“You mean it’s not certain?”
“There have been a few last-minute hitches,” she said, and explained them. “We’ll know for certain tomorrow.”
“And if it doesn’t come through?”
“We’ll just have to hope that the Court of Public Opinion sides with you.”
As I was leaving, I tried to give Margy a hug. But she put up her hand like a cop stopping traffic and said, “You hug me, I’m going to do something stupid like get emotional. And I can’t get emotional right now.”
In the cab back to the hotel I found myself trying to imagine life without Margy; tried to think what it would be like to wake up some morning in the very near future, knowing she was no longer at the end of a phone line; knowing that that part of my life was over. Is that what getting older really means—the people you care about disappearing one by one until it becomes your turn to leave the scene?
The tears I thought would follow the meeting with Margy didn’t come—though I knew they would eventually arrive later. As the cab sped crosstown, I hugged myself, trying to keep a deep chill at bay. The tiredness that had lifted during those three days by the sea suddenly returned—accompanied by the sort of stupefaction that often accompanies a confrontation with life’s less bearable realities. When we reached the hotel, I went straight to my room and was asleep within minutes. I woke sometime just before dawn. I opened the curtains and peered out at the gradual emergence of light over Manhattan—a small pinprick in the darkness that eventually lengthened and widened, before parting like a curtain to expose the new day . . . a day that I dreaded facing.
I was back at Margy’s office at ten for a final two-hour rehearsal. Rita and Ben pronounced themselves reasonably pleased with my progress, but still reminded me to keep my answers short and simple, and always to maintain crucial eye contact, no matter how distasteful the line of questioning became.
At noon they told me to get lost for a couple of hours—and I did just that, killing time in the Metropolitan Museum, looking at Old Masters and Egyptological remnants, and the subdued ethereal delicacy of French Impressionists, and trying somehow to keep my mind off things to come.
At two-thirty I grabbed a taxi back to the hotel. I returned to the room and changed into the simple black suit that Margy had told me to pack last week. I resisted the desire for a cigarette and took the elevator down to the lobby. Rita was already waiting for me.
“There’s a surprise waiting for you in the car,” she warned me. “Don’t freak.”
I got into the Lincoln Town Car and found Margy there. She was dressed up in one of her best business suits. It hung loosely on her diminished frame. She had also applied a little too much makeup to compensate for the ashen tone of her skin.
“Are you out of your mind?” I said.
“Completely—and yeah, my oncologist read me the riot act. But to hell with that putz. I wasn’t going to miss this for anything. We got some good news this morning.”
“About . . . ?”
“That’s right. It’s on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hey, I’m just going on what the Jose Julia people told me. But they said it was a slam dunk.”
Rita climbed into the front seat next to the driver and we headed off westward.
“Do you really think you can be away from the oxygen for a couple of hours?” I asked Margy.
“We’ve got the canister in the trunk,” Rita said.
“But hey, if I keel over in the studio, Judson-the-Schmuck can do the laying-on-of-hands bullshit and revive me, and then go on the road as a faith healer.”
“You’re a piece of work,” Rita said, laughing.
“Too fucking true,” Margy said in reply.
We took the Lincoln Tunnel and popped up again in the nowhere-land of New Jersey. The studios of The Jose Julia Show were located in an industrial park on the outskirts of Secaucus.
“This must be the place where God decided to give the world an asshole,” Margy said as we pulled up to the stage door. “Rita, hon, if I start to go under here, you’ve got to promise me you’ll get me back across the river before I expire. There’s no way I’m dying in Jersey.”
A hyperenergetic woman with a clipboard was waiting for us inside the stage door.
“You must be Hannah!” she said, pumping my hand. “Jackie Newton! Production coordinator for Jose!”
She also pumped the hand of Rita (“You must be the publicist!”) and looked a little nervously at Margy, who was leaning on the arm of the chauffeur . . . the canister of oxygen under his other arm.
“I’m her mother,” Margy said.
I was whisked off to makeup, where a large woman in spandex pants took over.
“You nervous?” she asked me as she started applying foundation to my face.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Hey, it’s always a little nerve-racking doing TV. But honestly, Jose’s a doll. A total doll. Now, you strike me as someone who doesn’t use a lot of eyeliner or mascara . . .”
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