by Delia Ephron
“Portfolio?”
“Of the work I’ve done. Modeling.”
“Oh, you want my older sister, Georgia. She’s the fashion editor.”
“Isn’t this Georgia?”
“No, it’s Eve.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“Your father gave me this number. I’m so embarrassed.”
“He sometimes gets mixed up.” I gave her Georgia’s number.
“Bye.” The phone rang again.
“Hello.”
“Yankee Doodle, da-da, da-da, just to ride the ponies …” Now he was wrapping it up, shuffling off to Buffalo on the telephone.
“Dad, take it easy. Are you getting manic?”
“I’m fine. We’re having Virgin Marys. There are more flowers here than you ever saw in your life. I bought fifty dollars’ worth.”
He hung up.
Madeline phoned next. She wasn’t here for the wedding. She had moved to Seattle and was working for Greenpeace.
“Hi, Eve, did it happen yet?”
“No, it’s one hour from now and I’m still not dressed. Georgia just asked if Richard French-kissed me.”
“Why’d she think it was you?”
“Well, why not, it could have been me. Thanks, Maddy.”
“I just mean, why doesn’t she ever think anything’s me? How’d she know about it, anyway?”
“Because Adrienne did this cartoon, don’t ask, I can’t even get into it. Anyway, I really have to get ready. I’ll call after.”
Adrienne came to the wedding too. Adrienne attended every family event with me for moral support. On our way out the door, while I was hunting at the bottom of my big brown bag for my keys, I told Adrienne that Georgia had said I should get an answering machine. “What’s the point? It’s not like I have any dates.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Adrienne, “is why one minute Georgia was going to Paris to get pregnant, and the next she and Richard were through.”
“She explained that to me. She said that sometimes couples try to have babies when they should be breaking up.”
“Alternatives to divorce,” said Adrienne. “Maybe there’s a cartoon in that.”
“Please don’t,” I said. “Please, please don’t.”
My father’s apartment door was wide open. Adrienne and I peeped in as if we were checking out someone’s hotel room that happened to be having maid service when we walked by. I could see bunches of daisies in those generic green-glass flower-shop vases, one on a living room side table and another, identical one in the middle of the coffee table.
“Suppose he’s manic? He was manic on the phone.”
“First of all, he’s been out of Bloomingdale’s since January and he’s fine. Second of all, Claire’s a nurse. She’ll make sure he takes his lithium. He couldn’t have found a more ideal mate.” She gave me a shove, the way they push parachutists out of planes on their first jump.
“Hello, Dad, Claire,” I called.
Claire poked her head through the kitchen doorway and waved. “I’m here, come on in.” Very hearty, as if we were all going on a hayride. “I could use six more hands.”
“I’m afraid we have only four. You remember my friend Adrienne Singer.”
Claire wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Sure do. Pleased to see you, Adrienne. Aren’t I the blushing bride?” She let out a cackle.
The counter, the stove, the top of the refrigerator—every surface was covered with platters of hors d’oeuvres: deviled eggs, stuffed mushrooms, black olives surrounded by green olives surrounded by celery sticks surrounded by carrot sticks. There was a plate of spiraling slices of cheese, American lapped over Swiss lapped over Muenster. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes.
“My God, how many people are coming?”
“Let’s see, there’s you, me, Dad, Lola—that’s my little peanut—Georgia. Have a rumaki.” She picked one up by its toothpick and jabbed it at my mouth, which I opened just in time. I clamped down, she yanked the toothpick out, then did the same to Adrienne. “Water chestnuts and chicken livers, the specialty of the house. Take a platter, would you?” She reached into a bowl of parsley and tossed handfuls on the platters like confetti, slapped the parsley bowl back in the refrigerator, and pulled her apron over her head. She moved fast.
Adrienne and I each took a platter out to the living room. There were champagne glasses, about twenty-five of them, in neat little rows on the card table.
“She’s nice,” whispered Adrienne. “Thin, but nice.”
“I told you she was thin. Did she call my dad Dad?”
“I think so.”
“Dad’s in the bedroom. Wait until you see what I bought him to wear,” Claire chimed in right behind us. She held a platter in each hand. I could see her entire wedding outfit now: beige silk blouse with the tails out, and matching pants. The clothes hung on her like flags in dead calm. Around her neck was about a pound of seashells, which rattled against each other.
“I’ve been up all night getting this place spick-and-span. You don’t get married for the second time every day. I had to charge out for champagne and more Bloody Mary mix for Dad’s little Virgins.” She cackled again. “Raymond would never let me put one foot outside the house on my wedding day, but then he was the most considerate man.”
“Raymond?”
“Lola’s dad, my first, dead of a heart attack four years ago, God rest his soul. Died right in the middle of a press job.”
“I’m sorry.”
“A what?” asked Adrienne.
“He was a dry cleaner. He dropped dead in the middle of pressing a pair of striped silk pants. Not mine, fortunately, or anyone else’s in the family.” We followed her back to the kitchen, where she opened the refrigerator and took out dips: two white, one green, one red. “I’m a real blender person. I love to throw them in and mix them up. Would you open these, honey?” she said to Adrienne, pointing to several varieties of chips in a shopping bag on the floor.
“Hello? Hello there?”
“Lola baby, we’re in here.”
We all looked up, way up. Lola was at least six feet tall. She was also gorgeous. A delicate face, positively chiseled, on a long swan’s neck. Her hair was slicked back. She was wearing an antique lace dress with a dropped waist—1920s, Georgia told me later—that made her look like a frothy white cloud.
I put out my hand. “I’m Eve. This is my friend Adrienne.”
“Friend?” said Lola. “Is that ‘friend’ in a meaningful sense?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” She gave a short wave of her hand, as if to say, Erase.
“Your mother’s been cooking up a storm.”
Lola looked around the kitchen, taking everything in. “As usual,” she said dryly. “Where should I put this?” She gave a jerk to a large leather portfolio she was toting.
“In that closet, baby.” Claire pointed toward the hall.
“I’m going to check on my father. I’ll be right back.”
I found him in the bedroom trying to tie his bow tie. He had two pieces of tissue stuck to his face where he’d nicked himself shaving, and he was wearing a red brocade jacket with black lapels. “I feel like I’m opening on Broadway. How do I look? Pretty dandy?”
“You look great.”
“How you doing, kid?”
“Fine.”
“I feel like a new man. I could dance the lindy. Want to dance the lindy at your old man’s wedding?”
“Sure.” Didn’t he ever notice that the more excited he got, the cooler I got?
I started looking around his room. On the bureau was a framed photo of him and Claire under the marquee of A Chorus Line. He was holding his tickets up as if he’d won the lottery. They looked almost goofy with happiness. “Cost an arm and a leg,” he said, seeing me pick up the picture. “Hey, do you think I should put the wedding in the newspaper? Announce it, the whole megillah?”
I snapped around. “No, a
bsolutely not.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“It’s not exactly appropriate, is it?”
“What about Leonard Lyons? Georgia could give him a call.”
“Leonard Lyons. He writes about celebrities.”
“Well, Georgia’s almost a celebrity. It could read, ‘Her father, who wrote Ghosttown, got married …’”
“Georgia’s not a celebrity. Besides, that’s the New York Post. You want to be classy.”
“You’re right. You’re a smart one, Eve. Georgia’s successful, but you’ve got brains too.” He gave up on the tie. “Can you do this?”
“No, but Georgia probably can.”
“Aw, leave it. It’s a style. She’s nifty, isn’t she?”
“Who?”
“Claire. Who else? You think I’m talking about Audrey Hepburn?”
“Did she pick out that jacket?”
“The socks too.” He lifted his pants to reveal fire-engine-red socks. “Don’t think your mom would go for ’em, but then I’m not marrying her, am I? Let’s get this show on the road.”
Georgia had just arrived, with the judge in tow. “We’d better move quickly,” she said. “The judge is on his lunch hour.”
It was a short ceremony. When the judge said, “For better or for worse,” my father chirped up, “For better.” Everyone laughed, so he butted in when it was Claire’s turn and said it again. Then the whole thing was over and everyone was kissing everyone else. Lola popped the cork on the champagne, and we all clapped as if something extraordinary had happened.
She started pouring and handing out glasses. I gripped Georgia’s arm. Dad can’t drink, suppose he drinks? We stood there transfixed as she gave one to our father. “Don’t you want a Virgin Mary?” I blurted.
“Sure. Why mix drinks?” he answered smoothly, pretending the question was innocuous, and returned his champagne.
“I’ll make it for you.”
“I’ll help,” said Adrienne.
I took the Bloody Mary mix out of the refrigerator, and turned to find that Lola had followed us to the kitchen. She emptied her champagne into the sink and filled the glass with water. As I made my dad’s drink, she lounged against the counter and sipped slowly.
She made me nervous. Like a lizard on a stone, she might jump at any moment. “I’m glad your mom’s a nurse, because my father takes lithium.” I could feel Adrienne’s amazed eyes; still I couldn’t stop blathering. “I mean he’s fine when he takes it, but it’s really important he pop one every day and get checked regularly, otherwise he flips. Also he’s an alcoholic, kind of, I guess,” I added lamely.
Lola smiled. “My mom’s great with pills.”
“Good.”
“You don’t get that thin without help.”
I nodded. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?
“She made a lot of food,” said Adrienne.
“Up all night, a whirling dervish. That’s my precious mom.” Lola slid her body slowly down the counter, wrapped it around the doorway, and was gone.
When we went back into the living room, she was sitting on the couch with Georgia, her portfolio open on the coffee table.
“Here, Dad,” I handed him his drink.
“Thanks.” He raised the glass. “Toast time.”
Claire sat next to him on the arm of his chair. We all waited.
“Well, start already, Mister,” said Claire.
“When I went into the hospit—” His voice cracked. His lips started twitching. “I was having a rough patch.” He paused as if he had made a huge confession, even though there was no one present who didn’t know this. “When my two wonderful, fantastic daughters checked me in, I thought my life was over.” His eyes watered up. “But then I met Claire. She couldn’t keep her hands off me. In the tub. Rub-a-dub-dub.” From tears to obscenity in less than thirty seconds.
Claire winked. “I had to give him a sponge bath.”
“I was tied down,” my father said. Claire whooped and pounded her chair.
“They’re made for each other,” I whispered to Adrienne.
“Hot stuff,” said my dad.
“We get the picture,” said Georgia in her most magaziney voice, the one you did not refuse.
My father raised his Virgin Mary. “L’chaim.” Everyone clinked glasses, reaching across the coffee table and couch, and over and under one another’s arms.
“Okay, my turn.” Claire stood. She mushed her hair around while she thought. “I’ve got to say I miss Raymond today,” she said finally. “I figure he’s up in heaven giving us his blessing, along with your own mother.”
Georgia threw me a look. What disaster had our father invented to claim our mother’s life this time?
“I’m sorry you can’t meet him,” Claire went on. “That man could get stains out of anything. Tomato sauce on a silk shirt, red wine on a wedding dress. Once Louis Armstrong showed up with a tie. It was his favorite tie, white raw silk, and it had a stain the size of a silver dollar.” She leaned forward and whispered as if sharing a big secret. “Soy sauce.”
I looked over at Lola. She showed no expression whatsoever. How many times had she heard this? This was definitely Claire’s John Wayne story. No doubt Lola could have moved her lips in synchronization, except, of course, the story had probably changed. The spot was originally the size of a dime.
“He said to Raymond, ‘I hear you’re magic man.’ Not ‘magic, man.’ But ‘magic-man.’” Claire chuckled some more. This part Lola obviously knew, word for word, line for line, intonation for intonation. “And Raymond said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ He was always modest, wasn’t he, Lola?”
“Yes,” said Lola.
“I’ll drink to that,” said my father. “L’chaim.” Everyone clinked again.
Georgia stood up. “To new beginnings. To your marriage, to my divorce, and to my new job. I’m going to be the articles editor. Wait—” She held up her hand to stop everyone from going ape. “It’s a lateral move, that’s why I’m so happy about it. Nobody, but nobody, goes from fashion to articles. Soon I will know everything.”
“About what?” asked Adrienne.
Georgia did not look her way. “Everything about the magazine, so I can be editor in chief.” She lowered her hand, permitting everyone to clap.
“Georgia, that’s amazing.”
“Well, aren’t you something,” declared Claire.
Hugs and kisses, everyone squeezing around the coffee table to reach her. “Thank you, thank you.” Georgia beamed.
“I want to say something. Hey, here’s my two cents.” My dad was shouting.
“Yes?” Georgia held her hand up again for everyone to quiet down.
“I always knew you were a whiz, because you got my genes.” He wiped away some tears.
Lola was still sitting on the couch, her portfolio balanced on her knees. “Does that mean you won’t be hiring models anymore?”
“Not directly. But I’ll make sure you’re seen.” She said this graciously, queen to subject.
My father and Claire stood in the doorway with their arms around each other and waved as the elevator doors closed. Georgia, Adrienne, Lola, and I rode down together, Lola’s head sticking up above us like the top of a palm tree.
Georgia stooped to see her reflection in the brass plate around the elevator buttons and applied some lipstick. “At least someone in the family is married.”
“What about your mom?” Adrienne poked me.
“Maddy says she and Tom don’t believe in marriage.”
“I thought your mother had passed away,” said Lola.
“Hardly,” I said.
“Wishful thinking on our father’s part,” Georgia added.
We walked out to the street. “I bet Claire takes good care of him. He used to be fun when he was normal. Wouldn’t it be great—”
Georgia interrupted me. “It would.”
“I think they’ll be happy.” I announced this because I hop
ed it was true, but I also wanted to see if Lola would agree. All she did was ask for Georgia’s work number.
Adrienne took off to see Jaws. Unlike me, she adored scary movies. Georgia insisted that I had to buy an answering machine, and pointed me in the direction of an electronics store on Lexington Avenue.
An hour later, having made my purchase, I stopped at a coffee shop. It was an odd time, five o’clock, and the place was nearly empty. Between my saddlebag purse and the cardboard box, I barely fit into the shop, which had a narrow aisle with a counter on one side and four little booths on the other. I collapsed on a stool and stacked the box and the purse next to my napkin. The waitress was at the end of the counter talking to a guy, the only other customer. She had her wallet out and was showing him family pictures.
“Do you think he has a flat head?” she was saying. “All my husband’s family have flat heads, right in the back, right here.” She tapped the back of her head. “Boy, I hope my kid’s head isn’t flat.”
The guy took off his glasses and examined the photo up close. “It’s as round as a globe,” he pronounced.
She smiled, gratified. “You think so? Oh, hold it, I’ll be right back.”
She scooted down my way. The guy smiled at me. He was tall and he slouched on the counter, his chin resting in his hand, his fingers tapping against his cheek. He seemed to have all the time in the world. Even his smile took a while to happen. One front tooth overlapped the other slightly, which made him look even more homespun. This guy didn’t belong in New York. He should be passing the time of day in a general store. On the other hand … Adrienne had just finished reading Looking for Mr. Goodbar, which, like Jaws, was too scary for me, but she told me the plot. This guy was probably crazy, even though he looked nice; there was no way I was going to talk to a strange man. I studied my menu. I had a rule in New York City: If you read, no one bothers you.
“He’s doing an interview with me. Mostly about my mother-in-law, who’s hell on wheels, but I got off the track,” said the waitress.
“Do you have a mother-in-law?” he inquired.
“No,” I said curtly while I read “Grilled cheese sandwich. With tomato. With bacon.”
“So what will you have?” the waitress asked.
“Tea and an English muffin.”
