Suite Scarlett

by Johnson, Maureen

  She took the flashlight and assumed Scarlett’s place, bending low to peer at Spencer in the dark little space under the stage.

  “Has anyone ever told you how well-articulated your knees are, Spencer?” she asked. “I know several dance teachers who would love to get their hands on them.”

  Scarlett decided to avoid the stairs, as they had a pungent odor, so she wound her way down the two stories through the parking area. She didn’t notice that she was being followed until she was almost at the street.

  “Hey,” Eric said, jogging up behind her. Even in the shadows of the parking garage, the greenish bruise that ran along his cheekbone was still perfectly clear.

  Just standing across from him—it was different now. It was the most painful, messed up, exciting, and disturbing place in the entire world. It was an insult to some part of her, the part in the past that had been so happy.

  “How’s the…?” She pointed to the mark.

  “It’s fine,” he said, running his hand along the bruise. “Accidents, you know? Luckily, Spence and I wear white makeup. Can’t even see it.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  No. This wasn’t awkward at all.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I thought we should. Sorry to chase you…I just wanted to do it in private.”

  “Talk about what?” she asked, warily.

  He took a long, deep breath.

  “You saw Sarah come out of my apartment,” he said.

  So Coco McBigGlasses had a name.

  “Sarah was my girlfriend from home,” he said. “When you saw me, I had just broken up with her.”

  “You had a girlfriend?” Scarlett managed to ask. “Even when we…”

  She waved her hand to signify the kissing, all the moments spread out over the course of a week. That’s what happened when you had no definition. Your life was reduced to floppy hand gestures.

  “This isn’t easy for me to admit,” he said. “I just want you to know the whole story. Do you want to hear it?”

  It was a very good question. He sat down on the cement barrier, and invited her to do the same. She stood.

  “In my town,” he said, “a lot of people settle down right out of high school. Something about that always scared me, that people got stuck doing that one thing for the rest of their lives, in that one town. I wanted to move to New York. I wanted to meet lots of people. Once I moved, I realized I couldn’t go back to that. Sarah’s great, but she was ready to…well, not get married right away, but stay together forever. That wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “So why didn’t you break up with her before?” Scarlett asked. “Before me?”

  “I knew I wanted to do it,” he said. “But we’ve…we had been dating for two years. I couldn’t break up with her over the phone, or in a note. I had to do it in person. I owed it to her. Believe it or not, I was trying to be decent.”

  “Decent?” she repeated.

  “It made sense to me at the time,” he said. “I was going to do it when I went home to visit, after the show closed. Which is a while from now. So I kissed you. I thought if I didn’t make a move, you’d meet someone else.”

  Ordinarily, that would have had Scarlett in hysterics, but she wasn’t in a laughing mood. The familiar pang was kicking in. Eric wrapped his hands around the back of his head and gave a long, sad sigh.

  “I thought I knew what I was doing until Sarah surprised me the other night. She drove all the way up from North Carolina. I had no idea she was coming. She just showed up at my door at one in the morning, exhausted. When you saw me the next day, we had just started the talk. It went kind of badly.”

  It made Scarlett queasy to think that he had had a girlfriend all along—a tiny, tan, perky girlfriend—a girl who had been around for two years. But he had wanted to do the right thing. He had gone about it a little clumsily, but the effort was there. And he had broken up with her under emotional duress. The mouse of hope was chewing its way through the baseboard of “you don’t stand a chance.”

  “Don’t think I don’t realize how this all makes me sound,” he said, his voice getting soft and drawly again. “And I don’t blame Spencer for what he did. He’s your brother. I would have wanted to do the same thing. I swear I was trying to do right by everyone, but I hurt two people in the process. A punch in the face is understandable. And I like to think the bruise makes me look more rugged.”

  He laughed a little and poked the bruise hard with his finger.

  “So,” Scarlett said, “doesn’t that make things okay between us now? I mean, if you’re broken up?”

  Eric got up and started to pace, digging his hands deep in his pockets.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, Scarlett,” he said. “I’ve been so overwhelmed since I moved here. I start NYU in a few weeks. When school starts, I’m going to be busy all the time, meeting lots of people. It might just be the same thing all over again. I hurt Sarah. What if I hurt you? I like you too much to get this wrong.”

  “I don’t understand,” Scarlett said.

  “Me, neither. That’s the problem.”

  They were both so wrapped up in Eric’s confusion that neither of them noticed that someone had walked up behind them.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said.

  Scarlett knew she knew the voice, but the wires in her head didn’t send the information quickly enough, and she didn’t care enough to turn away from Eric and look.

  “The garage is closed,” Eric said, not looking over either. “Sorry.”

  “I really need to speak to whoever is in charge.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Scarlett caught the glint of very short, very silver hair.

  COMBUSTION

  Having met her old friends “Tara” and “Paul” by the entrance, Donna Spendler didn’t need much more confirmation that she was in the right place. She strode inside the garage and up the ramp, with Scarlett and Eric trailing a few paces behind.

  “That’s the woman from the audition,” Eric said quietly. “Why is she here, and why does she look so mad?”

  “You really don’t want to know,” Scarlett said, hurrying to catch up.

  Donna stopped short when she saw Mrs. Amberson leaning against the outside wall, smoking and issuing orders about the placement of the stage.

  “I’m starting to think we need to come about five feet forward,” she said. “That way we can have an even flow of energy around the space. Circular motion, like we’re creating a whirlpool of drama.”

  “Amy?” Donna said. “It’s been a long time. I love your facelift. I’ve heard you can get great deals on them overseas.”

  This was enough to get the attention of at least half the Hamlet crew. Mrs. Amberson didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Hello, Donna,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t realize you could come out in daylight.”

  Pleasantries thus exchanged, the two settled into an uncomfortable, grimacing silence. Spencer rolled out from under the stage, where he had been attaching a brace for one of the unicycle ramps.

  “What a small world,” Donna said, giving him a nod of greeting.

  “It certainly is,” Mrs. Amberson replied.

  Everyone was aware of what was going on now, and all focus was on Donna and Mrs. Amberson.

  “Why don’t we go get a coffee?” Donna said. “We need to talk.”

  Mrs. Amberson didn’t stop smiling, but her eyes had gone hard and fixed. She squared off in that superhero stance that Scarlett had first seen her in.

  “I’m afraid we’re a little busy right now,” she said. “Maybe some other time. Tell you what. I’ll call you.”

  She meant those last two words to sting, for whatever reason.

  “I have some unfortunate news,” Donna said. “In a few hours, this will all be shut down. I came down here to tell you that you should get your things out while you can.”

  “What are you talking about?” Trevor said, stepping forward.

  “Peddle it elsewhere, dear f
riend,” Mrs. Amberson said, puffing slowly on her cigarette. “We have full permission from the owner.”

  “The owner didn’t look into the zoning laws carefully enough. You can’t perform here. It violates several city ordinances.”

  “People have before,” Trevor said insistently. “We’re the third show in this place.”

  “They would have been booted out if the shows had made the radar at the right places.”

  “No,” Trevor said. “No. The city can’t kick us out twice.”

  Mrs. Amberson dropped her cigarette, jabbed it out with her toe, and stepped forward to where Donna was standing. She looked quite menacing.

  “If you want to pick a fight, pick it with me,” she said. “I’ll settle this with you in private. Leave them out of it. They didn’t do anything.”

  “This isn’t me,” Donna replied. “There’s nothing I can do about this. You should have been more careful. A lot more careful. But we should talk, Amy. Give me a call when you’re finished up here. You already have my number.”

  With that, she was gone, her shoes clacking in the echoey garage.

  “What just happened?” Trevor asked. “Is this for real?”

  Mrs. Amberson grappled for another cigarette.

  “Listen,” she said, fumbling with her lighter. “I think we’re going to have to get creative. In twenty-four hours, we have a crowd of reviewers, agents, and other creative types coming to see you do Hamlet in this fantastic new production. And they will see a show.”

  Silence from the group. Just the echoes of their shuffles, and the shriek of an ambulance stuck in traffic out on the street. Mrs. Amberson’s spell, which had held the cast in its thrall for weeks, was visibly weakening. Half the cast looked angry. Half looked down.

  “There is nowhere,” Trevor said. “Maybe we can find somewhere in a few weeks, but by then…”

  “What about the rehearsal space?” someone asked.

  “Another group already moved in there,” Eric said.

  Scarlett turned to see how Spencer was, but he had rolled back under the stage to block it all out.

  “I found a place for you before,” Mrs. Amberson said. “It’s just a matter of…”

  “We blocked this space,” Trevor said, his voice rising with emotion. “We advertised for this space. We don’t have the time or the money to move it now. We have lights coming, props…”

  The reality of the situation settled on the group. Scarlett saw them all sagging. Stephanie started to cry softly. For the first time since Scarlett had known her, Mrs. Amberson looked a bit cornered. She turned and walked lightly to the other side of the garage, out of sight. Scarlett followed her. She was leaning against a concrete bumper letting the cigarette burn away between her fingers.

  “It’s possible that I didn’t think this through,” she said.

  Coming from Mrs. Amberson, this was the equivalent of a grand confession of blame.

  “They have to do the show tomorrow,” she said. “Some of those people I got to come are very hard to pin down. It’s in their best interest to do this show. But I don’t think they feel like listening to me right now, do you?”

  Mrs. Amberson smiled, but it wasn’t a toothpaste commercial smile. It was a wry, soft one.

  “What do I know?” she said, almost to herself. “I seem to have really done it this time.”

  “Maybe she was lying,” Scarlett said.

  “Oh, I don’t think she was. I think she was being deadly serious. No, I think this is really Waterloo, O’Hara. And it’s my fault.”

  Scarlett wasn’t about to say, “No, it isn’t.” Because it was her fault. Sort of. Maybe not about the zoning issue, but bringing Donna into it.

  “What do we do?” Scarlett asked.

  “Well, I think I’ve done enough, don’t you?” Mrs. Amberson opened and shut her cigarette case a few times. “I think the best thing would be for me to go back to the hotel and get my things together.”

  “You’re leaving?” Scarlett couldn’t keep her voice under control. “You’re leaving now?”

  “Every actress should know when to make a good exit. And I think you’ll be better off.”

  She thought this over for just a moment, gave Scarlett one last smile, and walked off, down the ramp, away from the broken remains of the show.

  ACT IV

  In 1931, at the height of Prohibition, Lily “Honey” Vauxhall and Murray “Jinx” Rule produced a homemade gin so high in quality that it was even deemed fit to serve in the prestigious 21 Club.

  Honey and Jinx produced their wares out of two adjoining rooms in the elegant Hopewell Hotel on the Upper East Side. Guests were scarce during the Great Depression, and high-quality gin even more so. The hotel’s owner, Charlie Martin, never openly professed any knowledge of the goings-on. He did, however, install a “laundry chute” leading from a room called the Diamond Suite down to the basement. Laundry chutes are not typically installed in guest rooms—or, even more strangely, only one guest room, with no openings on any other floor. Nor can it be explained why the chute was outfitted with a pulley mechanism, much like the kind you would use to lower bottles of gin down to waiting hands many floors below.

  Martin could hardly be blamed for going along with the scheme. It was a simple move of survival, and, some would say, a public service.

  Operations came to an end in 1933, putting Honey and Jinx out of business and returning the Hopewell Hotel to law-abiding status. The quiet little hotel has never again been host to any “Jinx,” high or otherwise…

  —“A ROOM WITH A BREW” FROM ILLEGAL NEW YORK

  DESPERATE TIMES

  “Well,” Spencer said later that day, having returned from schlepping all of Mrs. Amberson’s bags to The St. Regis in a cab, “what now? You have no job. I have no job. Wanna play Jenga?”

  Scarlett didn’t reply. She was flat-out on her bed, staring at the yellowing ceiling. Spencer was on the floor next to her, doing the same.

  “Oh, right,” Spencer continued into the silence. “We don’t have Jenga. Wanna just keep pulling out your dresser drawers until it falls apart? Same thing!”

  “I can’t believe this,” Scarlett said.

  “I know. Everyone has Jenga.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “Maybe because all of our stuff falls apart when you touch it. Like Jenga.”

  Scarlett rolled to the side of the bed.

  “If you say Jenga again, I’m going to tell Mom and Dad about that time you said you were going away for the weekend to learn about opera singing, but you really went to that party in the Green Mountains to try to hit on that girl, Anika. Didn’t you end up sleeping in a car all weekend because she wouldn’t let you in?”

  Spencer had been through this many times, but was prepared to oblige.

  “Her boyfriend wouldn’t let me in. Big difference.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Scarlett said. “He threw you into the lake. Was the water cold?”

  “I seem to remember it was a bit on the brisk side. It was January. In Vermont. I guess I was just lucky that the layer of ice was so thin.”

  “That is lucky.”

  “Yeah. I remember feeling lucky when I swam out and walked a quarter of a mile through the dark woods to the house, soaking wet.”

  “They let you in then, right?” Scarlett asked.

  “Only because I would have frozen to death if they hadn’t. Anika told me to go in one of the bathrooms and take off my clothes, and that she’d put them in the dryer. She said she’d bring something for me to put on in the meantime. I must have gone nuts from the cold, because I can’t believe I made such a classic mistake.”

  “She didn’t bring you any clothes?” Scarlett prompted.

  “Surprisingly…no. At least, not mine, or anything like mine. Someone finally brought me these girly pajamas—pink ones, with kisses all over them. They came up to my knee and I couldn’t get the top on, but it was something. It kind of sucked going home in them.”


  “I love those pajamas,” Scarlett said.

  “Well, I always like to get you something when I go away. But want to know the best part? That girl who gave me the pajamas? Or gave you the pajamas?”

  “I know, I know. She asked you out that Monday when you got back to school.”

  This story was one of their favorites during times of stress. It had entertained them both during several long nights at the hospital. It always provided a few moments of comfort. They let it linger for a moment in the stifling air.

  “You know what?” Spencer said dryly. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Amberson and that woman knew each other. What do you think?”

  Before Scarlett was squarely shoved into the position of having to reveal all or lie her face off again, the door opened and Lola came in.

  “I have some bad news,” she said.

  “What?” Spencer replied. “Not today. Not when everything’s been going so well.”

  Lola, of course, had no idea of the trauma of the morning. She stepped over Spencer to sit on the bed.

  “We’re empty,” she said.

  “Empty?” Spencer sat up on that one. “I thought we had those three guys coming in from Tokyo?”

  “They canceled earlier this morning. That travel agency doesn’t like us anymore. I think that guy in the Sterling Suite three weeks ago complained about the toilet.”

  “At least I don’t have to deal with that today,” Spencer mumbled. “Not that I don’t love doing that job.”

  Lola slumped onto her bed. More than anyone else, she had been trying to keep things going. She had folded the toilet paper and researched the towels and gone without sleep. It looked like she took this as a personal failure.

  “It’s not your fault, Lo,” Spencer said. “And it’ll be okay. Some idiot will find us and check in. Someone always does.”

  Lola shook her head.

  “This is bad, Spencer,” she said. “Really bad. I’m not sure if we’ve ever been completely empty before.”