“Cindy Lou who?” I heard myself ask, the pit of my stomach instantly sensing doom.
A few moments later, Terry buzzed again. “Hey, Tony, did you hear me? You in there? Your wife is on the line.”
Tony bolted toward his desk. “I’ll take it,” he told Terry over the live intercom. He looked at me and put his fingers to his lips.
This was not what I’d signed on for when I started becoming involved with Tony DiCarlo. To say that the news hit me like a cannonball, would not be much of an understatement. In a split second, my lust for—as well as my trust in—Tony had been torpedoed.
He motioned with his hand for me to stay seated on the couch and not to leave his office. Then he patted himself down, searching for a cigarette. When he came up empty, he signaled for me to check the pockets of his blazer, which upon entering his office he’d tossed on one arm of the couch—just prior to continuing to fondle my bosom. I located a pack of True (True—hah! Oh, the irony of it) and underhanded it to him.
Tony lit up and in my presence proceeded to carry on a brief conversation with his wife, as though I were merely one of his male co-workers, or anyone else whose nipples hadn’t just grown hard under his touch. I became increasingly humiliated sitting across the room and listening to him discuss grocery shopping, weekend plans, and their daughter Rebecca’s soccer practice.
Soccer practice! Daughter!
All of this was news to me. Tony had no family photos on his desk, and obviously had neglected to mention the existence of a wife and child or I would never have been in my current predicament, no matter how fuckable he was. I would have drooled from the safety of my desk, and accepted that my erotic fantasies of him, though entertaining, would never be fulfilled. Being a homewrecker lacks allure for me.
I began to pace the room. Tony continued to chat amiably with the missus as his eyes followed my motions. I decided I wasn’t going to leave his office until he wrapped up the phone call. He had some serious ’splainin’ to do. After the longest seven and a half minutes of my life, he hung up. I thought he might get up from his chair and we’d sit on the couch together while he came clean, but he remained barricaded behind his desk, as if for protection from any lethal volleys I might lob across the room.
“I don’t imagine that was your ex-wife,” I said, seething.
He shook his head. “Cindy Lou and I are having some problems right now—”
“And what the hell am I to you? Some afternoon delight? What exactly have we been doing these past several weeks?!”
He looked more nervous than sorry, as if he thought I might slug him. It crossed my mind, but unlike Izzy, I’ve never hit a man in my life and, no matter how pissed off I was, would probably end up more injured than he would. “Alice…I…listen—”
I waited impatiently for Tony to provide me with an explanation, confession, whatever. The intercom buzzed again.
“Tony? Have you seen Alice? She’s not at her desk and there’s a rather frantic woman on the phone for her.”
Shit, what if something’s up with Gram? Tony be damned, I’ve got to take the call.
“I know you guys came back from lunch at the same time, so I thought you might know where she got to. I already checked the ladies’ room…” Terry continued over the intercom.
I headed for the door and motioned to Tony not to let on where I was.
“If I see her, I’ll let her know, Terry,” he responded into the speaker. “Maybe you should try her again at her desk.”
I dashed back to my station just as Terry buzzed me. My heart was pounding. “You’ve got a call for me?” I asked her breathlessly.
“Yeah, let me connect you.”
I picked up the receiver, fearing the worst.
“Alice?” Izzy was sobbing on the other end of the line.
“Izzy, what’s wrong?”
“Dominick didn’t come home last night.” Her speech came in stunted sobs. “I think it’s over.”
“Where do you think he might have gone?” I asked sympathetically.
“I don’t knowwww,” she wailed into the phone. “And. Just. When. I. Thought. Things. Were. Getting. Better. Between. Us.” Her voice was choking with so much emotion she could barely get the words out.
“Where are you now?” I asked gently.
“At work,” she sniffled. “But I can’t concentrate. All day I kept thinking he’d call me, and I had to go in to work because I just started this day shift job at Wilkinson Owens and I can’t afford to lose it. But I just can’t function right now,” she continued, through a flood of tears.
That newly minted asshole Tony DiCarlo would have to wait to be reamed out by me. Claire Hunt, still having her hair highlighted, could also bide her time. My best girlfriend came before billable hours. Izzy’s new temp job was only two avenues east of ARMPIT. “Tell you what, I’ll meet you in the lobby of your building in ten minutes,” I told her. “Can you hang on a little longer?”
“Uh-huh,” she said pathetically, her voice small and tired, like that of a little girl.
I grabbed my overcoat and purse and breezed past Terry’s reception desk. “I’ve got an emergency,” I told her. “If Ms. Hunt returns before I get back, please convey that for me; and if she gives you one of her sourpuss looks, tell her not to worry, I won’t claim it on my time sheet.” I sped out the door and hurried across town.
Izzy looked like she’d been weeping for hours. We looked for a quiet place to talk and settled on the dark, empty bar area of a local restaurant. I bought her a draft beer and offered her my shoulder to cry on.
“Do you think Dominick is having an affair?” she asked me.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, honey. I doubt it. I think, when all is said and done, he adores you.”
“Maybe it’s my fault,” Izzy said, unable to control her tears. “I’m not home that much—between working my ass off and auditioning, and our Musketeers meetings. When I took a graveyard shift job a while back, I thought it would be great because it was better money and I’d still have my days free for auditions…but it meant that I was leaving Dominick alone most nights a week. What kind of marriage are people supposed to have when you live like that?” By now she really was crying into her beer. “So maybe he just went and found someone else to—someone else to—” She was having trouble articulating her deepest fear. “And if he did…after I rip his limbs off, I’m gonna go after the little slut, whoever she is.” Despite her tears, Izzy defiantly slammed her beer stein on the bar. I edged away to avoid the inevitable splash.
I felt even dirtier than I had earlier that afternoon. Ashamed. I could picture Cindy Lou DiCarlo in similar pain…and in her case, I’d been the “little slut.” I wanted to take a shower, to cleanse the slime from my body, but how could I scrub my conscience?
I put my arm around Izzy. “I’m sure Dominick isn’t cheating on you,” I said softly, hoping I was speaking the truth. “Maybe there was some good reason that you haven’t heard from him today—that he didn’t come home last night.” My words sounded hollow, even to me.
“You mean, like if he was in an accident or something?” Izzy briefly perked up, the possibility of his lying inert on the road infinitely preferable to his lying all-too-ert in some chick’s arms. “If he spent the night in a hospital, so help me God, I’ll kill him!”
I felt at a loss, not knowing what other words to offer her beyond the vague reassurance of her husband’s fidelity.
“My fucking acting career is ruining my marriage,” Izzy moaned. “I center my life around it. Decide which survival jobs to take based on the amount of time I have to work on my craft. But what else can I do? It’s the only thing I love—besides Dominick…and my friends, of course—and it’s the only thing I’m really good at and really enjoy…” She cracked a smile and made herself chuckle. “Except sex.” I was glad she hadn’t lost her sense of humor. “I’m just not good at having both, I guess. So am I supposed to quit acting to save my marriage?”
�
�I think even if you did do that, after a while you’d realize you’re only fifty percent fulfilled,” I said. “Besides, we’re doing something about it—you and Dorian and I—to take more control of our careers; to create a sure thing for ourselves instead of taking all these potshots in the dark.”
Izzy polished off her beer. “Well, if last night was the big wake-up call, it looks like Dominick already made my decision for me.” She looked into the bottom of her glass. “I wonder if he’s ever coming home.”
I reached across the gap between our barstools and hugged her. I didn’t know what else to say. A cell phone rang. The lone man at the opposite end of the bar reached for his pocket as Izzy and I went for our purses. It was hers.
Izzy’s face registered deep concern. “Where the fuck are you?” she said anxiously into the phone. She listened for a few moments. “They don’t have telephones in Pennsylvania? Why Pennsylvania?” She nodded, apparently trying to piece together information. “Are you okay?…When do you think you’ll be home?…Uh-hunh…Okay…I’ll see you then.” She closed the phone and stuck it back in her purse.
“What happened to him?” I asked her.
She sighed. “Last night he went off on his motorcycle with a bunch of other biker friends and for some reason they decided to go to this roadhouse in rural Pennsylvania and his friend Gary had too much to drink, so they were trying to talk him out of getting back on his bike and they didn’t want to leave him there. Then Gary got belligerent, at least I think that’s what Dominick was telling me, and when Dominick tried to grab his keys, Gary socked him, and got on his bike and sped off, so the rest of the guys didn’t know whether to stay there with Dominick to see if he needed first aid or to chase after Gary to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid, and when they all caught up to Gary, he was out on the trestle, or whatever they call it, of one of those arch-shaped bridges and he was drunk off his ass and saying he was going to jump. The guys spent hours trying to talk him out of it, then another bunch of hours trying to sober him up enough so he could ride back into the city, and according to Dominick, they just a few minutes ago got to somewhere where his cell could get a signal.”
I reached out to touch her arm. “See, I knew it would be okay. And he wasn’t cheating on you. Aren’t you relieved?”
“I’m telling you something,” she said, getting up off her stool, her hands fluttering in an I’m-at-my-wits’-end gesture. “No signal, he claims,” she muttered. “We’re switching cell plans to that company with the TV commercials where the guy can get a signal from a fucking manhole!”
A phone rang again, and the man at the far end of the bar, Izzy, and I repeated the plunge into either pocket or pocketbook. This time, it was mine. Dorian was on the line. “Alice, can you get away from work and come straight home? Your grandmother’s acting kind of funny.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can,” I said, and hung up. “Dorian just called from my place,” I told Izzy. I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar and gave her a quick hug. “I’m glad Dominick is okay; look, I’ve gotta run.”
“Is everything all right? You look really pale.”
“It’s my grandmother,” I told her, my voice shaking. “I’ll call you later. Love you!”
There was no time to submit to the vagaries of mass transit. Just outside the bar, I grabbed a cab and rushed home.
“She was in the middle of showing me a buck and wing, and then suddenly she became, like, deathly white,” a panicky Dorian said as I walked in the door. “So I got her into the chair and then called you right away.” Gram was sitting at the dining table, the color drained from her skin, her mouth drooping slightly.
“Oh, shit,” I muttered, trying to stay levelheaded. “Oh, God.”
Oh, God, please let her be okay. I found out I’d been a bad girl today…but I didn’t know…please don’t punish me by doing anything to Gram.
“Gram?” I pulled up the chair next to hers and looked into her eyes. They were rheumy and she seemed to have difficulty focusing them. “Gram,” I said a bit louder, “it’s Alice. Can you hear me?” She nodded mutely. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I want to get into bed,” she said, her voice very small. “S’nothing. I’m just…I just felt tired all of a sudden is all.”
I debated with myself as to whether or not it was a good idea to move her. I asked her if she’d gotten dizzy, if she could remember how her current state had begun. She said she couldn’t. Dorian stood by, his face a picture of concern and helplessness.
“Just get me into bed,” Gram said.
“Dorian, I’m going to need your help on this one,” I told him. I pulled Gram’s chair away from the table. “Here,” I said, gently slipping an arm around her waist. “I’ll help you stand, and Dorian’s going to come around on the other side and we’ll get you to bed, okay?”
She still seemed disoriented. “Yes. Thanks.”
It was too difficult, too logistically awkward for Dorian to aid me in getting Gram out of the dining chair. I finally managed to get her to her feet, and we took a single step as Dorian came over to her left side.
Then…
Oh, God, no.
Gram went limp in my arms.
“Dorian! Call 911 for an ambulance!” I barked. “I’ve got her.” She felt like a leaden sack of bones in my arms and I struggled under her weight. I didn’t know whether Gram had simply fainted or whether it was much worse, and I wasn’t exactly a competent diagnostician. “Everything’s going to be all right,” I soothed in Gram’s ear, my lack of confidence in my own words utter and complete. I hadn’t a clue that she could hear me.
“Alice, if I die,” she said, in a voice so feeble, so soft I could barely hear her, “I want you to scatter my ashes all over the theater district.”
“You’re not going to die, Gram,” I said, my eyes closed, praying that I spoke the truth.
“Don’t forget to hit Times Square.”
“Shhh,” I whispered to her.
“And Shubert Alley.”
As we waited for EMS to arrive, I realized that I’d developed a sense of eerie tranquillity, in contrast to Dorian’s agitation. In fact, the more his anxiety increased with each passing minute, the calmer I seemed to become. When the paramedics arrived with the gurney and placed an oxygen mask over Gram’s face, I was surprised to discover that I had the presence of mind to relate with clarity her medical history and the cocktail of prescription medications she swallowed daily.
She was conscious, thank God. I thanked Dorian profusely and suggested that he might as well go home; I’d call him when I had a better idea of what was going on. I insisted on riding with Gram in the ambulance to the hospital. “Don’t worry,” I whispered to her as I clutched her hand. “I’m right here. I love you. I won’t let anything else bad happen to you.”
Like I could prevent it. If only. But I wanted to believe it was true.
I thought I heard a telephone. I did hear a telephone. Mine. I could have sworn I’d turned it off. I reached into my purse, retrieved the phone, and answered it.
“Alice?”
“Ms. Hunt, how did you get this number?” Deliberately, I’d never given it to her.
“I called Rafe’s cell. You know he was a bit annoyed to get my call; he was in his dressing room preparing to go onstage for a matinee. I told him it was an emergency and I needed to know if you had a cell phone, so he gave me the number. Alice, you just left work this afternoon—”
“Ms. Hunt, I’m terribly sorry, but I had a series of crises myself and—”
“Alice, we’ve got a real emergency here. The florist we selected for Regina’s wedding—not the one that’s doing her bouquet, but the one that’s doing the centerpieces—well, they’re giving me a song and dance about the price on the camellias, and I know you’re the one who has been negotiating with them. So I need you to do me a favor. Call them and—”
“Ms. Hunt, this isn’t a good time right now—”
She barrele
d ahead as though I hadn’t spoken. “—and tell them in no uncertain terms that the original price quote for the camellias stands, I don’t care if they’ve had droughts in Holland or strikes in Argentina, or whatever in whichever country they get them from, but they made a deal and we’d be delighted to take our business elsewhere. Then call the florist who’s doing the bouquets for Regina and her bridesmaids—”
“Ms. Hunt. This is not a good time for me to make those telephone calls.”
“Alice, I am your boss and this is an emergency!”
“No, Ms. Hunt. This is an emergency. Your daughter is getting married five months from now. I am currently sitting in the back of an ambulance holding my grandmother’s hand and praying to God that she makes it to the hospital in time.”
There was a silence on the line. I should have just pressed “end” and snapped the phone shut.
“Will you be in the office tomorrow?” Ms. Hunt asked, her tone considerably altered, though not quite sympathetic.
I looked at Gram, her breathing now regular and even. “I hope so,” I told her. If I did, it would mean that Gram was going to be okay. Although I detested the thought of looking at Tony DiCarlo ever again and was certain that both Ms. Hunt and Ramona Marlboro must have attended the same employee management seminars, under the circumstances, never before had I so looked forward to coming in to ARMPIT.
Gram remained in the hospital for seventy-two hours while the doctors ran a battery of tests, eventually determining that she had suffered a mild stroke. I wanted to stay with her until she was released, no matter how long it took, but the doctors wouldn’t let me sleep there, at first while she was in the intensive care unit, and later in her semiprivate room. So I took an unpaid leave to spend the full visiting hours sessions at her bedside.
I brought her home to our apartment, armed with a bunch of prescriptions and the directive to monitor her activities as closely as I could and remain watchful as to even the slightest change in her behavior. I hated needing to leave her alone to go off to work, but what choice did we have? The rent had to be paid. Even if I’d been able to stay home with her, I wasn’t a trained nurse. And Gram emphatically refused the assistance of a home health care attendant. It was a lose-lose situation.
Temporary Insanity Page 17
