Cease to Blush

by Billie Livingston

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she says, and half crawls, half runs to the bathroom. As she throws up into the bowl, her stepfather’s voice echoes in her head, Those who don’t trust generally can’t be trusted.

  Johnny stands in the doorway, frowning. “Are you on the Pill?”

  Celia glances to him then heaves into the toilet again.

  When she’s done, he helps her to the sink. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Twenty minutes later, he has her belongings jammed into the suitcase as she sits numbly on the bed. Tossing her dark wig on her lap, he whispers, “Go out the back. I’ll send a cab around.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “Plans have changed.”

  She stands on the edge of the parking lot out back, wig on, suitcase in hand, nose throbbing. A cab rolls up and she gets in, lays her head back for the trip.

  “Did he hit her?”

  Annie tucked her chin under like I was a bit nuts and ambled over with my water. “No. But he was good and damn mad. She coulda cost him the nomination, carrying on with him and a fella with Johnny’s reputation.”

  “Did Johnny hit her?”

  She sat down with her own drink across. “Why do you think anybody hit her?”

  “She had a nose job and I thought maybe it got broken.”

  She shrugged and sipped. “It got broken but it was accidentally. I wasn’t there. It wasn’t all bloody or anything, it just hurt and it was a little wonky. There was a lotta hoopla and mayhem and people got shoved around that night and I think she got knocked off balance.”

  “The night Bobby was killed? She wasn’t wearing a polka-dot dress, was she?”

  Annie gave me another of her big-action eye rolls. “That polka-dot-dress thing was a whole lotta crap. Her and whose army? Every girl I knew around then had a polka-dot dress.”

  “But she was in the Ambassador the night he got shot.”

  “I told you. She was booked at the Grove, which was in the Ambassador so … ipso facto. Everyone wants to make a big conspiracy. That little Arab had the gun in his hand. And ah, Rosie Greer—who was Bobby’s bodyguard, him and Rafer Whatsits—they had to wrestle it out of his hand. Musta been fifty people in that kitchen saw it for themselves. Anyway, it was a whole lot of threats from people who had their own agenda and I never got my head around it.”

  “What was? Whose threats?”

  “Those FBI people. They were chasing after the girl like she was public enemy number one because they wanted to put Johnny away. Nothing to do with her. And it just so happened she was there at the hotel too. Me too. I stuck my nose in that ballroom but I don’t like those big crazy crowds like that. And then afterwards, all the screaming and crying and carrying on—Cops holding people and confiscating their cameras to see who had pictures of what and, of course, that leads to more speculation and conspiracy and The Girl in the Polka-Dot Dress. Big deal, she had polka dots; that’s got nothing to do with anything. She even thought she might have seen that little guy in the Embassy Room there, that Sirhan Whatsit, chatted with him. Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. What’s the difference, she didn’t kill him. Wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “A lot of people say Sirhan Sirhan couldn’t have shot him because his gun was never pointed at the back of Bobby’s head.”

  “A lot of people are idiots.”

  “So Johnny must’ve been pissed off at her being there.”

  “Don’t think he knew. If you’re seeing more than one guy you don’t go shooting off at the mouth.”

  I took the heart out of my purse and set it on the table.

  “Huh. Look at that.” She picked it up. “Yeah, this is the gift he gave her,” she sneered. “Moulded as she pleases … he could be a real pretentious jackass sometimes. Shakespeare this and classic that. Maybe he should’ve tried calling in some favours instead of giving her this dopey little pissant thing and letting them chase her into the ground like … Some guys try to make you feel bad about what you do with your life, you know. They like the showy clothes and the nice figure and maybe they even instigate some risqué stuff with you, but then they’re real sons-a-bitches about it. They want you to be a virgin when they say so. They don’t like you having control of your own self. And they like sayin’ how the other guy’s bad, not them. Just like that stepfather of hers. She finally turned to him at the end, all that carrying on he did for her to come home and so she finally went. She didn’t want to testify and they were trying to get her to wear a bug to catch Johnny and she ran away back to Scarsdale. I drove her there myself. He was the same selfish prick as ever. Her mother was passed on by then and he figured he’d take up with Celia. But she didn’t want him. And what do you think the crazy bastard did?”

  By the time she arrives at LAX, she’s determined to talk to him one last time. He can’t think what he thinks. She walks dazed into the airport. Ticket counters before her, she turns around to the pay phones. Looks away. Hauling her suitcase, she sits on a bench.

  She checks her watch. The red-eye for New York won’t board for two hours.

  A minute later, a locker door closes on her suitcase and she tosses the key in her purse, heavy now with Bobby’s red-and-gold heart, then rushes for the taxi stand.

  On the second floor of the Ambassador, the ballroom is jammed with close to two thousand people. Kennedy supporters wear buttons on their dresses and lapels blaring ALL THE WAY WITH RFK, carry signs that read, Bobby Is Groovy and We Love You, Bobby. Hundreds of banners, balloons and posters decorate the room. California is Bobby’s and the place is a torrent of jubilation.

  Drink in hand, Celia stands off to the side with her head down, dreading the sight of a familiar face. “Stupid. Should have just headed down to the Factory later.” She smoothes her wig and hides her face behind the glass of wine.

  Close to midnight, cheers erupt as Bobby comes in. Wearing his blue pinstriped suit, he looks princely, Celia thinks. Ethel climbs up onstage with him in her orange-and-white minidress and white stockings. The papers say she’s pregnant again.

  In the lobby, Annie asks at the front desk for Celia Dare’s room. “What do you mean she checked out?” Sighing, she looks around the lobby. “Christ, it’s a morgue in here.”

  “Everyone’s upstairs at the Kennedy celebration,” the clerk grins.

  “Did he win California?”

  “You can probably catch his victory speech. He’s in the Embassy Room.”

  Annie heads up the stairs.

  In the ballroom, Bobby steps to the microphone and thanks everyone from Ethel to Freckles. The room cheers and blares.

  “Think he might be president?” This from a young dark man beside Celia. A couple inches shorter, he runs a drunk gaze over her figure.

  “Maybe,” she answers, looks away.

  Applause rages around the room with shouts of “Bobby Power” and “Kennedy Power.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” the little guy asks.

  “I’m fine.” He looks Mediterranean or something, cute, eyes so dark you can’t see where iris and pupil meet. They mesmerize her a moment.

  Annie walks into the throng and shoves her way through, looking for her roommate.

  “And despite,” Bobby tells them, his voice turning serious, “the violence, the disenchantment with our society, the divisions whether it’s between blacks and whites, between the poor and the more affluent, or between age groups, or over the war in Vietnam—we can start to work together again. We are a great country—”

  “We should get closer,” the man tells Celia. “Want to?”

  Her eyes move to the flop of hair on Bobby’s forehead. He brushes it aside.

  “So, my thanks to all of you, and it’s on to Chicago and let’s win there.” Bobby gives the peace sign, and grins as he leaves the platform.

  We want Bobby! We want Bobby!

  “Come on,” her new pal says, tugging her wrist. “Maybe we can shake his hand.”

  She follows hi
m through the mob. Ethel is slow coming off the stage and Rosie Greer steps in to help. Celia trots to keep up, setting her glass down along the way. Soon they’re out of the ballroom and walking through a kitchen corridor. “Where are we going?” she yells over the din.

  Bobby is just ahead, talking to a couple busboys. Ethel is back in the crowd somewhere.

  If Celia could just tell him that it wasn’t what he thought, she could let it go. A few feet away, she stops beside a security guard who concentrates on Bobby and the busboys.

  She looks around the pantry: the serving trays, concrete and stainless steel. Can’t talk to him here. The guy who befriended her has disappeared into the mix. She turns to go.

  “Kennedy, you sonuvabitch.”

  Her head spins.

  The boy-faced guy has a revolver in his hand now, a sickly smile on his face as his arm stretches out. Pops sound. Shrieks and scuffles.

  Rosie Greer and Rafer Johnson catch him in a stranglehold, slam him down onto the steam table. He continues to fire. All around: screams, people ducking and falling.

  “Bobby!” Celia scrambles toward him. The security guard’s arm flies out, knocks her back as he takes out his own gun. Celia comes up off the floor, cupping her nose. She checks her fingers for blood as shots crack around her, looks up just as Bobby’s hands jump to his head. He drops a few feet away, limbs spread, blood pooling.

  The security guard holsters his gun. A busboy cradles Bobby’s head in his hands.

  Frantic cries echo off walls, a reporter turns on his tape recorder. “Senator Kennedy has been shot. Is that possible? It is possible, ladies and gentlemen. It is possible …”

  Staggering to her feet, she rushes for the door. Somewhere in the distance she hears her name. Negotiating the stairs down the back of the hotel. A Youth for Kennedy girl is standing on the stairwell, smoking a cigarette. “He shot him,” Celia whimpers as she gropes the banister.

  “What? Who did you shoot?” the young woman asks, a confused look on her face.

  “Senator Kennedy,” Celia says, trying to keep from falling. “He shot Senator Kennedy.” Sobs stab through her.

  Out back she runs through the short tunnel to the parking lot.

  She spins at the parked cars, the glare of lights on chrome and glass. “Celia,” echoes behind her. She turns. A man’s voice. Agent Richards. “Hold on, let me help you.”

  “Celia?” from the other direction. A woman’s figure hunched against the hood of a car.

  Her head swivels from Richards to the woman.

  “Celia!” The woman stands, throws down her cigarette.

  “Annie?” Celia rushes toward her. “Annie! He shot him.”

  “What? Who the hell is that?” She looks past Celia’s shoulder to the agent rushing toward them. “Come on. This is me here, get in.”

  The two jump into Annie’s rental, Celia staring back to her pursuer, who stops as the ignition turns. Annie throws the car into gear and Richards jogs back toward the hotel.

  “What are you doing here?” Celia watches out the rear window as they speed away.

  “Looking for you, stupid. I left messages and you didn’t call back. Are you supposed to testify against someone?”

  “What?”

  “Two guys showed up asking questions. They asked about you and Johnny. How long you knew Bobby. If you’d been in Florida, here, there. I think someone’s bugging us.”

  “Oh god. What’s happening?”

  “I ran into Lawford last week, gassed out of his tree. He said he knew a guy used to work with the PI who tapped Monroe’s phone. He had four clients he was taping her for—She was bugging herself, for chrissake. Lawford kept saying, The walls have ears … You wanna call Johnny?”

  “No! I think he’s been doing it.” She nods to herself. “I do. Him and them and … How did you know where to find me?”

  “They said you’d checked out, so I looked in on the convention. It was such a goddamn free-for-all, I went outside to get my head together.”

  “I thought you had to go out of town.”

  “I did. I was dancing in Pittsburgh and then those jokers showed up and I fucked off.” She glances in the rearview, flips on the radio.

  Live audio is now broadcasting from the Ambassador. Hollow cries behind a reporter’s voice. “… rumours of a conspiracy already circulate. I have with me here a Youth for Kennedy Committee member from Pasadena. Can you repeat for our listeners the story you just told me?”

  “Well,” she begins, “I was standing out back on the steps when this girl came running down saying, ‘We shot him, we shot him,’ and I said, ‘Who did you shoot?’ and she said, ‘Senator Kennedy.’”

  “I said, He,” Celia yells at the dial.

  “Can you describe the woman you saw?” asks the reporter.

  “Caucasian, maybe twenty-four or twenty-five, slim, and she wore a white dress with black polka dots … dark hair, bouffant style and she had a funny nose.”

  Annie reaches over. Turning Celia’s face, she whispers, “Nice one.”

  She pushes Annie’s hand off. “That security guard. I think he shot him, it was him.”

  Annie sticks her eyes to the road. “What do you wanna do? Get that damn wig off.”

  Celia pulls pins from her head and stops. “There’s blood on my arm. On my dress … I don’t know if it’s his or mine. Oh god.” She touches her nose and winces.

  “I think we should drive to Phoenix and get a flight from there.”

  “Why Phoenix?” Celia demands.

  She shifts gears and turns onto the freeway. “We can go to Salt Lake City and camp with the Mormons if you want. I just think we should get the hell out of Dodge, that’s all.”

  Celia licks her finger and touches the dried blood. “My mother used to say that, get out of Dodge. I think I’m pregnant.” Tears start and she faces the passenger window.

  “Sweet Jesus. How pregnant?”

  She wipes at her eyes.

  Annie watches the headlights in the road. “You think they know anything about your parents? Do they know your real name?”

  “They called me Audrey. They know I worked at The 92 and about Teddy. I never told anyone my real last name. I can’t. I just …”

  Gravel crunches as the car rolls into the tree-lined Scarsdale driveway. Letting the screen door slam, Stewart walks across the shadow-dappled porch to the edge of the steps. He waves.

  Celia waves a stiff hand back.

  “Be it ever so humble,” Annie says as she parks the car. “Nice digs.”

  A pair of Annie’s pedal pushers drooping off her hips, Celia gets out.

  Stewart takes her shoulders. “You’re home.” He tilts her chin up. Her nose is bent and there’s bruising around her eyes.

  “I tripped,” she says.

  “We’ll have to have that looked at.” Stepping back, he appraises her with, “You look like an orphan.”

  “They look better on Annie.”

  He turns to Annie and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you. You girls fly into Syracuse?”

  “Montreal, actually.” Annie tells him.

  “Well, let’s get your luggage,” Stewart suggests.

  Celia folds arms round her purse. “I left my bag in L.A. Change of plans.”

  Stewart nods. “Are you hungry? You’ll be joining us, won’t you, Annie?”

  Celia turns pleading eyes on her.

  “Sure. That’d be nice. Thanks.”

  The smell and sight of the house rip through her, a comforting nightmare: the musk of the Persian rug, the piano keys, the record player—cocktail parties, performing for friends and neighbours. She glances up the stairs, some small part expecting her mother to descend, a look of disapproval on her face.

  Dinner conversation is awkward, the three of them in the long stretch of backyard, Stewart asking about the nightclubs and theatres. “I took Audrey to the El Morocco for her sixteenth birthday,” he says, shuffles in his seat and then asks what Sinatra’s
really like. “They say he’s got mob ties. Did he introduce you to any gangsters?”

  Annie shoves a hunk of steak into her mouth and chews, staring up at the brawny old apple tree.

  After dinner Celia walks her out to the car. “Can’t you just stay the night?”

  “If we both hang around here, we won’t know what’s going on. Next person who asks I’ll say you’re on vacation.” She puts her arms around Celia. “We’ll get through this. I’ll call you.” She gets into the car. “From a phone booth.”

  In the kitchen, Stewart fills the sink.

  Celia stands limp beside the cleared table. “Can I help with the dishes?”

  “How about we do it like old times: I wash, you dry.”

  She picks up a plate and wipes it.

  “Lots of your old clothes upstairs, but if those don’t fit, I’ll take you shopping tomorrow. I was thinking we should get you in to see Mort Mason. Remember him? He’s in private practise now. Does facelifts and nose jobs for all the New York socialites.”

  “I can’t go to the hospital,” she blurts.

  He nods calmly. “That’s why I thought of Mort. He could come over and have a look. I took the liberty of calling him when you were outside.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “Only if you want.” He shoves his hands deep into the sudsy water. “I know you’re in some sort of trouble … I’m glad you’re home.”

  In the morning, she comes into the kitchen where Stewart is having coffee and a scone.

  He grabs her a cup, pours some coffee. “Rough morning,” he sighs and sets it down in front of her. He watches her take a gulp before he nudges the morning paper over. A NATION GRIEVES.

  He puts a hand on her shaking shoulder then moves his chair closer and lets her fall against him.

  When she can speak, she starts to babble in six directions. As her story ebbs, he asks, “So these fellows who came to see Annie in Pittsburgh—they were not FBI?”

  “She thinks CIA.”

  “This story about the CIA and the mob has been floating around for a while. Did your friend Johnny ever tell you he was involved with government?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe they’re worried—they don’t know what you know.”