by Leslie Meier
Geoff and Sidra were both home when Lucy arrived at the brownstone, and Sidra was only too happy to abandon the IKEA bookshelf they were attempting to assemble and take a break to put the flowers in water. “Thanks, Lucy. These are just gorgeous.”
“I can’t get over the flowers,” said Lucy, slipping off her good shoes and adding them to the collection by the door. “There seems to be a huge display on every corner.”
“Well, you certainly chose wisely. I love lilies and hydrangeas.” Sidra was fussing with the blooms, arranging them to suit her style. “Do you want something? Coffee? Tea?”
“A glass of water would be lovely.” Lucy sat down at the bistro table and wiggled her stockinged toes. She usually wore sneakers and wasn’t used to walking long distances in heels.
“How was the funeral?” Sidra placed a tall glass of cold Pellegrino on the table for Lucy.
“Okay. It was sad, of course.” Lucy took a long drink. “If it was supposed to provide closure, I’d have to say it was a big failure. I feel more confused now than ever.”
Sidra put the vase of flowers on the table and took the other bistro chair. “Was Jeremy Blake there?”
“Oh, yes. So was her son, Dante. He tried to speak to Blake, but Blake brushed him off. No love lost there.”
“Blake’s an occasional guest on the show, you know. The makeup girls call him ‘Hands’ because he can’t keep his off them. He even asked one to lunch in a hotel room.”
“A working lunch?” quipped Lucy.
“He promised champagne.”
“Did she go?”
“No. She told him she doesn’t take lunch so she can leave early to get home to her kids. She said that mentioning the kids kind of cooled him down.”
“Why do they have him on the show? I thought he was in real estate.”
“He’s newsworthy, involved in a lot of charities. Lately he’s been doing a lot with the Central Park Conservancy, restoring some of the structures in the park.”
“So he does have a conscience. My friend Sam doesn’t seem to think such a thing possible.”
Sidra smiled ruefully. “He doesn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart. It’s good PR and a big tax deduction for him.”
“You New Yorkers are all so cynical,” observed Lucy.
“And lazy, to boot,” added Geoff, handing Sidra an Allen wrench. “I’ll hold the shelf while you screw.”
“Geoff loves it when I screw,” said Sidra, smiling naughtily as she got up from the table. “Was Dante at the funeral?”
Lucy leapt on the question. “Do you know him?”
“Sure.” Sidra was on her knees, busily twirling the little wrench. “Everybody knows Dante. Just the one name. Like Beyoncé. In fact, he does a great imitation of Beyoncé.”
“Dante does?” Lucy pictured the slim young man in the tailored suit she’d seen at the funeral and tried to imagine him decked out in one of Beyoncé’s minimal, sexy costumes. She failed.
“He sure does. He’s got a terrifically successful act impersonating all the divas. People flock to see him. I think he’s performing at the Ridgway bar.”
“He probably won’t be performing tonight, right after his mother’s funeral. . . .”
“I can find out.” Sidra hopped up and pulled out her phone, quickly reaching the hotel and asking if the show was going on as scheduled. “He’s on at nine and eleven tonight.”
“I don’t suppose you could stay up late and go with me?” asked Lucy. “I’d really like to see him.”
Sidra was reluctant, and gave Geoff a questioning look that seemed to say, “How about it?”
“Don’t look at me,” he protested. “Female impersonators are not my thing.”
Sidra sighed. “I’ve heard he’s fabulous and I’ve never seen him, and I can probably get comped if I say I’m from the TV show.” She shrugged. “Actually, it’s a good idea. I don’t know why we haven’t had him on.”
“Great.” Lucy’s expression grew puzzled and a hand flew to her mouth. “What should I wear?”
* * *
Lucy had heard of the Ridgway bar, with its famous murals picturing Dorothy Parker, Ernest Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald among other twentieth century literati, but she’d never been there. It was tucked away in the exclusive Ridgway Hotel, located on a quiet residential street off Lexington Avenue. Places like the Ridgway always made her feel uncomfortable, as if someone with $1532.67 in her checking account didn’t really belong in such a ritzy place, but the doorman greeted her as if she were indeed a member of the one percent. She figured it was because she was accompanied by Sidra, who had inherited her mother Sue’s unerring taste in clothes, as well as her confidence. It was Sidra who had transformed Lucy’s funeral suit into an evening outfit with the loan of a sparkly sequined top.
Sidra’s attitude upon entering the lounge, where she paused and glanced around as if she were the queen reviewing the troops and not finding them quite up to snuff, got them a desirable table next to the stage. After they were seated and had ordered their herb-infused martinis, Sidra filled Lucy in on Dante’s act.
“You never know who he’s going to be impersonating—that’s part of the attraction,” Sidra said. “I read in New York magazine that he sometimes doesn’t even decide until a few minutes before the show, depending on his mood. Beyoncé is a big favorite, but he does Katy Perry, Marilyn Monroe, Liza Minnelli, all the divas. I wonder who we’ll see tonight.”
“I guess performing is an escape of sorts,” suggested Lucy, who was struggling to understand how Dante could manage to face an audience on the same day he buried his mother.
“You know what they say—the show must go on.” After Sidra bestowed a smile on the waiter who delivered their drinks, she tapped glasses with Lucy. “To life.”
“To life,” repeated Lucy, taking a cautious sip of her drink. She rarely drank anything as strong as a martini and was wishing she’d stuck to her guns and ordered a familiar glass of chardonnay.
The lights dimmed and Judy Garland appeared on stage—at least that’s how it seemed. The handsome young man she’d seen earlier that day at the funeral had somehow transformed himself into the fragile waif with a big voice. The lounge fell silent as the people in the crowded room took a moment to realize that Judy Garland had not risen from the grave, but had instead been recreated by a supremely talented performer. Suddenly, everyone was on their feet, welcoming Dante with a standing ovation.
The set flew by as Dante flawlessly performed Garland’s beloved tunes, one after another, accompanied by a small band. The act sometimes bordered on caricature as he mimicked Garland’s awkward stance and jerky movements, but the audience got the joke and loved every minute, often laughing, and always applauding loudly after each number. Then the mood became somber as the stage was darkened, save for a single glowing lightbulb dangling from a cord. Dante stood beneath it, partly in shadow, and said simply that “this song is for someone special who is now no longer with me.” He then sang, very simply and without affectation, “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” Everyone in the room, audience and servers alike, was riveted and quite a few people had to dab their eyes. Then it was over. The applause was thunderous, but Dante had left the stage without taking a bow. Only that dangling lightbulb remained.
“Wow,” was all Lucy could say, as she struggled with her emotions. What a filthy, rotten shame that Beth couldn’t see her son’s amazing performance in her honor. Now was too late. It was wrong. It wasn’t fair. She wished with all her might that Beth wasn’t dead.
“That was extraordinary,” said Sidra, pulling her out of her thoughts.
“I really want to talk to Dante, but maybe this isn’t the time. . . . ”
“Let’s try,” said Sidra, signaling a nearby waiter. “Could you possibly do me a huge favor?” she asked, pressing a twenty-dollar bill into the waiter’s hand. “I’d so appreciate it if you’d let Dante know that an old friend, Lucy Stone, is here tonight.”
&nbs
p; “It will be my pleasure.” He nodded and disappeared, returning a few moments later and offering to escort them backstage.
Lucy and Sidra followed him, walking down a narrow hallway lined with boxes of liquor and other supplies, eventually reaching a black door with a glittery star hung askew and fastened with masking tape. The waiter knocked, a male voice yelled “Come in,” and they stepped inside a small room where most of the space was taken up by racks of glamorous costumes. In the rear, seated before a mirrored dressing table, they found Dante, sans wig and dressed in tight bike shorts and a T-shirt. He was wiping the makeup off his face, but quickly dried his hands with a towel and stood up.
“That was an absolutely amazing performance,” said Lucy, as he engulfed her in a big hug. “It’s so good to see you.” She stepped back and studied the face she’d known since he was a baby, noticing the dark circles beneath his eyes. “God, this must be awful for you.”
“Pretty bad,” admitted Dante, turning to acknowledge Sidra.
Lucy was quick to offer an introduction. “This is my friend Sidra Dunford. I’m staying with her and her husband in Brooklyn.”
Dante smiled politely and took her hand. “Nice to meet you, Sidra.”
“Same here.” Sidra returned his smile and got right to business. “Actually, I’ve been trying to meet you for some time. I produce Rise and Shine America and I’d love to have you on the show. Not necessarily right away—I know this isn’t a good time—but sometime. Keep it in mind.”
Dante was nodding, clearly interested. “I will,” he promised, taking her card.
“I don’t want to keep you. I know you have to get ready for another set,” said Lucy in an apologetic tone. She suddenly felt as if she was being an intrusive nuisance. “I just wanted to stop by and let you know . . .” She paused, not knowing what to say. Finally, she blurted out, “Oh, gosh, is there any chance we could have a real talk, maybe tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Sure. I’d like that. Brunch tomorrow? I usually treat myself to a big Sunday breakfast at Kasanof’s. Do you know where it is?”
Lucy knew the famous deli. “Great. What time?”
“I usually go around ten, to beat the crowd.”
“I’ll see you then.” Lucy impulsively hugged him. Sidra smiled a good-bye, and they left.
“You know, I think that was a one-time thing, the Judy Garland tribute,” said Sidra, as they exited out the back door. “I bet that costume gets put away forever.”
“Why do you think that? It was a fantastic performance.”
“Yeah, but he’d taken off the wig and costume and was removing the makeup, even though he still has another set. I think he’ll do a different character at eleven.”
“That was really special.” Lucy’s voice broke. “It was for his mom.”
“Yeah.”
* * *
Sunday morning and Lucy was back on the subway, eerily empty of the weekday crowds as the train rattled along carrying her and a handful of others into Manhattan. Kasanof’s Deli was on Third Avenue, in the Upper East Side, a stubborn holdout against encroaching designer boutiques. Lucy could never quite understand the appeal of the place, which was frankly rather grubby and run down. It was known for its sandwiches, especially the pastrami, which was piled four inches high on enormous slabs of rye bread with a slice of sour pickle on the side. Lucy didn’t approve of such excess, especially so early in the day, and ordered black coffee and a toasted everything bagel with butter.
“Buttah?” inquired the chubby, gray-haired waiter, sounding as if he’d never heard of such a thing. “No schmeer?”
“No shcmeer,” repeated Lucy, smiling at the Yiddish word for cream cheese. “Butter.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “Have it your way.”
Lucy settled in at her table by the window, watching the occasional passerby and keeping an eye out for Dante. Dressed in jeans and a Yankees sweatshirt, he arrived just as the waiter delivered her coffee.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, taking the other chair.
“You’re not late—I was early.”
The waiter had stayed at the table, recognizing a regular customer. “The usual?” he asked, and after getting a nod from Dante, he offered his condolences. “We’re all sorry about your mother; she was a real lady.”
“Thanks, Irving.”
“I’ll be back with your coffee in a mo’.”
“Great.” Dante turned to Lucy. “I’ve been coming here for ages. I don’t know what I’d do if it closed. It’s my Sunday morning ritual.”
“You don’t go to church? What would your father say?” Lucy knew it was a provocative question, since his father was the cult leader Gabriel Thomas.
“No way.” Dante shook his head. “I don’t remember anything about my father or the Angel Brigade. I was only a babe in arms when Mom managed to get away. That’s how she always said it, like she’d escaped from a really bad situation. She had nothing but scorn for religion, any religion. She said they were all the same, all about control.” He shrugged. “Far as I know, he’s still terrifying people with fire and brimstone sermons.”
Lucy was thoughtful. “I’m a little surprised he let her go. Didn’t he try to get her back?”
The waiter set down a mug of coffee for Dante and said their orders would be up in a sec.
“I think she must’ve had something on Father Gabe.” Dante added some cream to his coffee and gave it a stir. “I was about eight I think, something like that, when I found a stamped letter addressed to the New York Times. We were packing to move—one of Mom’s many moves—and it was taped to the back of a mirror. I asked her about it and she said it was an insurance policy. She tore it up, said she didn’t need it anymore. That was when she was leaving Tito, the artist. Happiest day of my life.”
“Why was that?”
“He was a filthy pig. We all lived in this squalid loft in Soho. This was before it was fashionable, long before. The streets were full of litter and discarded syringes . . . there was graffiti everywhere. The place was a shambles. Of course Mom had enrolled me in a fancy uptown Montessori school and all the other kids lived in regular apartments with normal moms and dads.” He laughed. “You might not believe this, but I was a very conservative little guy. I kept my toys in a certain way and if they got moved I got really upset. I’d only eat peanut butter and jelly for lunch, no crusts, cut into perfect squares. I guess I had it every day for a decade or more.”
Dante smiled as the waiter delivered his order, a huge platter filled with a mushroom omelet, bacon and sausage, hash browns, and a smaller plate piled with several slices of toasted challah bread. He also had Lucy’s bagel, accompanied with a couple of squares of foil-wrapped butter.
“Gosh, I shouldn’t eat all this,” said Dante, lifting his fork and spearing a sausage.
“You must burn a lot of calories on stage.” Lucy buttered her bagel and took a bite.
“Not enough. I run, too.” Dante was moving on to the fried potatoes.
“So what happened after Tito? Beth married the chiropractor, right?”
“Dr. Colin. I thought he was going to be great. We moved to Riverdale, up in the Bronx, and I went to public school, which I loved. We went everywhere in lines. The desks were in neat rows, and we had spelling tests and multiplication drills. The only problem was the doctor—what a freak. Poor Mom. He had Mom constantly scrubbing and washing. The apartment smelled of Clorox. It was too much even for me, and I was really into being clean and neat. If anything was out of place, if you forgot to take off your shoes, all hell broke loose. He’d go into a tirade.”
“As I recall, that marriage didn’t last too long.”
“No, thank goodness.” Dante cut into his omelet, releasing a stream of melted cheese dotted with mushroom bits. “That was a good time. It was just Mom and me. She got a job in fund-raising at the Bronx Zoo. I used to stop by after school and wander around, looking at the animals and waiting for her to get out at five. Then, when I was o
lder, I got into a performing arts high school. For the first time in my life I finally felt as if I was in the right place, that I belonged.”
Lucy was biting into the second half of her huge bagel, the half she had vowed she would not eat. “And then came Jeremy Blake?”
“He came on the scene when I was in college, upstate. If I’d been around more I could’ve warned her.” He bit into a piece of bacon. “No, that’s not quite fair. I had high hopes for her happiness, at first. It was like a fairy story, you know. The handsome prince, with his high-rise castle on Lexington Avenue.”
“I admit, I was pretty jealous.” Lucy signaled for more coffee. “There I’d be, struggling to pay the mortgage, and she’d call from Paris or some other fabulous place. It was Thailand that really rankled. She was going on about the birds and flowers and I was snowbound with a case of the flu.”
Dante nodded. “I know. Same here. I was in the snowbelt, freezing on my way to class, and she’d send me these postcards of fabulous beaches.”
“What about vacations?” asked Lucy, as the waiter refilled their cups. “Didn’t you get to join her?”
“She’d invite me but I never really took to Jeremy. I went once and I saw the way he treated people. He was obnoxious and overbearing. . . .”
“I saw the way he brushed you off at the service yesterday.”
“That’s how he is.” Dante shrugged. “I don’t think there was ever a real relationship between them. He got a beautiful wife, a social asset, and she got rich. It’s no wonder she slipped into depression.”
“So you think it was suicide?” asked Lucy, in a soft voice.
Dante shook his head. “No way. She’d never do that.” He leveled his hazel eyes on Lucy’s. “About a year ago I tried to get her into treatment and I told her I was afraid of losing her and she promised me—she said I shouldn’t worry, that she’d never do anything crazy, like suicide. That’s what she said and I believed her.” He paused, looking around at the shabby deli, with its worn linoleum floor, the discolored walls, and the framed photos of celebrities and politicians hung every which way, and took a deep breath. “I still believe her.” He smiled, blinking hard. “She wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but she never lied to me. Never.”
