Claire Voyant

by Saralee Rosenberg

  Not for me, thanks. I had done this tour of duty twice in my life, and in both cases the mission was a bust. The first friend accused me of trying to lure her fiancé away for a weekend of rough sex, and the other decided last minute that her mother was right, the guy was a nothing loser, and everyone would forgive and forget as long as she promptly returned all the gifts, except for that beautiful sterling gravy boat from Tiffany’s, which if she was smart she would swear she never received.

  I promised myself that as soon as I returned from Miami, I would explain to Elyce that although I was very happy for her and what’s-his-name, I just wasn’t in a bridal party frame of mind these days.

  But what I was dying to say was, I couldn’t believe people needed years to plan the affair. Jewish funerals were thrown together in less than forty-eight hours, and they had all the same things as a wedding. The rabbi, the chapel, flowers, speeches, limousines, guests…. And just like a funeral, once Elyce married this guy, her life was over.

  Not that I would fret over her future. I had returned to New York on a “Me” mission. Goal #1: Fall in love. Goal #2: Pursue opportunities unique to the East: Broadway, commercials, and most definitely, a visit to Law and Order’s casting office in Chelsea Pier.

  Unfortunately, after reading BackStage diligently, it appeared that the open-call season was over. The only promising tryout I could line up was located a little south of the city. Specifically, South Beach, Florida. And it wasn’t exactly for a speaking part. More like a go-see at this hot modeling agency that specialized in booking asses for the studios.

  You heard me. I was so desperate to break into movies, I was flying to Florida to drop my thong in front of the gay photographer who owned the agency. So that after a few test shots, he could give me his opinion if my aging but still pilates-tight tuchas was the perfect size, shape, and color producers would pay thousands for when their ass-ashamed stars needed an understudy, so to speak.

  I had learned of this incredible “back door” opportunity when my former roommate in L.A., Sydney Sloan, instant-messaged me.

  SYDERELLA (11:56 PM): u should go…butt doubles can make a quick 10 gs

  CLAIREBEAR1(11:57 PM): r u serious that’s how much they’ll pay u?

  SYDERELLA (11:57 PM): i no this grl who made 20G to do a crappy little scene for Dana Donovan.

  CLAIREBEAR1 (11:57 PM): a love scene?

  SYDERELLA (11:58 PM): in the shower/// show her ass

  CLAIREBEAR1 (11:58 PM): wow

  SYDERELLA (11:58 PM): then Dana canned her…said her ass was 2 fat and pale…her fans would no its not hers…EGO bitch.

  CLAIREBEAR1(11:59 PM): did she still get the $?

  SYDERELLA (11:59 PM): hell yes.

  Naturally, my parents thought the very idea of having my ass evaluated was ridiculous. Didn’t I have any pride? (Not for twenty grand I didn’t.) Didn’t I care what the neighbors thought? (Translated: How could they brag I was in a movie if they had to ask everyone to close their eyes?) Didn’t I want to help out Cousin Arnie who ran a drama school for kids? (Sorry, but my most valuable lesson was showing girls how to duct tape their breasts to give the appearance of being perkier.)

  But after reminding my parents that I didn’t need their approval, and that the connections the agency could make for me would be worth the humiliation, they backed down. Even agreed to pay for my airfare, provided I stayed with my grandmother (I call her Grams), and took her around to look at all the new assisted living centers going up in the area. It was a great plan.

  Until I ended up seated next to a heart attack victim on a flight without a single medical professional on board. Only a group of anxious flight attendants who looked much happier passing out headsets than operating high-tech life-saving equipment.

  Meanwhile, all I could think was, I sure hope God hadn’t put me in 8B as punishment for my growing list of transgressions. Yes, I had run out on my creditors, abandoned my agent, been unsympathetic to my parents, and judgmental of Elyce. And yes, I had just ignored a perfectly nice person for no other reason than I was in a pissy mood.

  So as I stood over the grayish-colored man whose name I never bothered to ask, I prayed for a miracle. Please God. Revive this man’s heart. Otherwise I’ll never be able to live with the fact that his last few hours alive were spent with me, Claire Greene, Not Very Nice Girl.

  Chapter 2

  “HIS NAME IS ABRAHAM FABRIKANT,” I BLURTED WHEN THE COPILOT emerged from the cockpit.

  First Officer Freeman hadn’t yet laid eyes on the old man lying face up in the aisle, but he looked sickly in anticipation of the moment. Then, mindful of his oath to stay cool so that passengers didn’t panic, he crossed his arms, indicating his comfort level with the job his coworkers were performing in the forward galley. “I understand this is your grandfather?”

  Jeez. Not again. “No sir. We just met.” I sniffed into a cheap tissue from the lavatory. “She gave me his wallet and I found identification.” I pointed to the perspiring flight attendant who was frantically alternating between administering CPR and shocking the man with the automated external defibrillator. “His driver’s license is expired, but it says he lives in Miami.”

  First Officer Freeman didn’t bother pretending that this little tidbit interested him. “The tower cleared us for an emergency landing in Jacksonville,” he whispered to the crew. “Until then, do the best you can.”

  “It’s too late.” One of the flight attendants clutched the masks and gloves from the emergency Grab-n-Go kit. “There’s no pulse or respiration. He’s blue.”

  “Please don’t give up on him,” I cried. “I once was on ER and there was this scene where the third shock was the one that worked…. He told me his whole family is waiting for him…. It’s…his birthday.”

  “Oh Christ. Second Code Red this month, too.” The copilot looked away. “Well, it’s best we’re removing the body before the passengers get alarmed. Gayle, prepare the cabin for landing.”

  “No. Wait.” I grabbed First Officer Freeman. “Look. I think his foot just moved.”

  “Maybe you should come sit over here.” A flight attendant ushered me away. “Believe me, we’re doing everything humanly possible.”

  “Then why isn’t he responding?” I yelled so that other passengers heard. Maybe if they witnessed the airline’s clear-cut negligence, they would demand an investigation. And the reinstatement of meals. And those really good macadamia nuts they used to pass out.

  “Don’t worry. We can’t stop trying to revive a passenger until we land, even if we know he’s gone,” she sighed. “It’s an FAA regulation.”

  “Oh.” I buckled myself into a vacant seat. So if the old man died, I should presume it had nothing to do with the crew being heartless or incompetent. Simply, his time had come.

  “I sure hope they know what they’re doing,” the man seated next to me said. “If it was a myocardial infarction and not ventricular fibrillation, that little machine can kill you.”

  “Are you a doctor?” I wondered how a knowledgeable medical person could just be sitting here, while a flight attendant more experienced in pouring coffee without spilling was trying to save a person’s life.

  “Nah. My brother sells defibs to casinos and airports. But it wouldn’t matter if I was a doctor. The FAA won’t let anyone other than the crew use them. Liability laws and all that crap.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “Why let a trained medical professional pitch in, when someone who’s got to first read the manual can do the honors?”

  A mother holding her infant son patted his back and leaned over to join the discussion. “I saw this thing on 20/20 or Dateline, or one of those, where you’re supposed to get the victim to cough vigorously, and then take deep breaths so they get oxygen into their lungs.”

  Good thinking! Let’s wake him and ask him to cough! I couldn’t listen to these imbeciles gab, not while Mr. Fabric Softener, or whatever his name was, was teetering between here and the hereafter. I unfaste
ned my seatbelt and returned to the scene.

  When I’d first moved to L.A., I’d done a few walk-ons on General Hospital, and maybe that was about to serve some greater purpose. “Are those paddles in the right position?”

  “Yes, of course,” the exhausted flight attendant snapped.

  “Because you didn’t yell ‘Clear’ very loud. Maybe you’re not doing it right.”

  “Somebody get this lady out of here!”

  “No. Wait. See, I’m like that commercial. I’m not a doctor but I’ve played one on TV. And I remember they had me place one paddle on the right breast between the collarbone and the nipple—”

  “Ma’am, please. You’re interfering,” First Officer Freeman scolded.

  “I’m sorry.” I started to sob. “He was such a nice man. A wonderful person.”

  “It’s always the good ones who go first.” He motioned the sign of the cross.

  The first thing that struck me was that Mr. Fabrikant had been a living, breathing human being for over eighty years, but the instant that his heart stopped, he was just a body. “We’ll have to remove the body through the center exit.” “We’ll have to ship the body back.” So one minute you’re a person, maybe the lone vote that changes the outcome of a Florida election, and the next minute you’re a heavy object that needs to be bubble-wrapped and shipped Federal Express.

  Maybe that’s why I volunteered to get off in Jacksonville and remain with “the body” until family could collect their loved one. I hated thinking that we lost our humanity faster than one could say “will” and “testament.” Besides, it would be nice to somehow sanctify this man’s last day, although I had to admit that I had done nothing to sanctify it when he was still able to line up little pill bottles on his tray table.

  First Officer Freeman thought better of my idea. No way did he want me having the chance to plant the idea in the family’s head that something had gone terribly wrong on board. “Let me assure you that we have trained personnel to handle these matters.” He patted my shoulder as if to demonstrate his airline’s no-fail approach to consolation.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I feel I should be there for the family.”

  “Thinkin’ maybe the old guy’s kids will cut you in on the will, huh?”

  No, I’m thinkin’ all men are idiots, and Mrs. Freeman married their king! “No, of course not,” I replied. “But if that man was my father, I’d want to hear exactly what happened.”

  Not that I knew myself. I hoped his loved ones would be too grief-stricken to press me for specifics, because I hated the idea of lying, on top of my original sin, ignoring. For sure I would make repentance my top priority so that I could face the family and still look in a mirror.

  But no sooner did I exit the plane than I was paged to the Admirals Club to await the arrival of Mr. Fabrikant’s next of kin. And, through no fault of my own, to receive the royal treatment. Apparently word was slow to get to God that His child Claire Greene was a selfish, pitiful member of the human race.

  Once inside the lounge, an attendant brought me coffee and made sure that I felt comfortable seated near a TV. I was quite comfortable, thank you, but would I be violating any rules if I switched the channel from CNN to The View? No, I could do whatever helped me ease my grief. Did that include making out with Ben Affleck’s brother, or whoever that stunning man was sitting alone over by the window?

  How shallow could I get? It mattered not if the stranger with the red power tie was a good kisser. After being dumped by so many men, I didn’t even know if I was a good kisser. I should be agonizing over my thoughtlessness and lack of decency, and what to say to Mr. Fabrikant’s heartbroken family.

  But tribulation would have to wait. For suddenly I was distracted by a young executive in head-to-toe black who was helping herself to bagels and muffins. I don’t mean noshing. This girl was hoarding, dropping several napkin-wrapped items into her darling Dior bag. And, of course, I could relate, having done the very same thing on every movie set on which I’d ever worked.

  Studios were notorious for hiring swank caterers to sate the appetites and whims of a hard-to-please cast and crew. Each day brought a new, delectable feast that was ours for the taking. So you bet that every other pauper and I making scale did our food shopping on those tables, bringing home a week’s worth of dinner and snacks. How else to save up for eight-hundred-dollar pocketbooks that were all the rave until the next issue of Vogue hit the newsstands?

  “Ms. Greene?” the receptionist called out. “You have a phone call.”

  It was an executive from American’s headquarters in Dallas calling to say that she’d been able to reach Mr. Fabrikant’s son, and that he would be en route to Jacksonville within the hour.

  “Did you tell him the truth?” Or did you say your father has taken a turn for the worse? I knew about such calls. It’s what the doctor told my mother the night that my Grandpa Harry died. Later we learned that he was already gone when the call was made, but hospital policy was to break the news in person.

  “Naturally I told him the truth,” the woman replied. “I informed him that his father suffered a heart attack while on board, and that we immediately requested to land.”

  “Yes, but does he know his father is dead?”

  “The gentleman asked if his father survived, and I told him that he passed.”

  That’s what you said? I thought. He passed? What a euphemism. It was one thing to pass gas, or pass a test, or pass the dry cleaner’s on the way to the supermarket. But when a person we loved was taken from our midst, when the beating of his heart succumbed to a Godly force, that loved one had not passed. He had returned his soul to the loving house of our heavenly Creator. Where had I heard this before? Oh yes. My grandfather’s funeral.

  “How was he?” I asked. “After you told him.”

  The woman paused. “Between you and me? He cried like a baby. Then he told me it was very important that his father’s body not be touched or examined until he arrived.”

  Gee, he sounds sweet. “Did you happen to mention that someone from the flight was waiting to meet him here?”

  “Yes. And then he started crying again. He sounded so grateful.”

  Run, Claire. Catch the next flight out before you have to pretend that you formed this incredible bond with Abe Fabrikant. If the son is even slightly intuitive, he’ll know you’re playing “Liar, Liar.”

  “Well, what time can you be here?” My grandmother asked after I explained the little wrinkle in my travel plans. “I told Rose down the hall not to take me to the doctor because you would do it.”

  “I’m sorry, Grams. It’s only eleven o’clock now. I’m sure I’ll be in sometime this afternoon. Call the office and change the appointment for tomorrow.”

  “Ha! I’m never talking to his son-of-a-bitch office gal again. The other day she has the nerve to say to me, Mrs. Moss, your check came back. So I says, yeah, well, so did my arthritis.”

  “Oh no. Not more bounced checks. Mommy’s going to kill you.”

  “What’s the big hoo-ha? One to the doctor, the other to the drugstore. Serves those sons-of-bitches right. They make all us sick customers walk way the hell to the back for medicine, but the idiots who come in to buy cigarettes? They get to pay up front!”

  Hmm. I’d have to give her that one.

  “And those sons-of-bitches at the bank? All a bunch of no-good idiots. They leave the doors wide open so anyone can rob the joint. But the pens? Them they chain to the counter…. So this fella on the plane. The one who died. You knew him?”

  “No, of course not. He just happened to be in the seat next to mine.”

  “But me you know your whole life, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” Twenty dollars says I know where you’re going with this.

  “Now a total stranger is more important than your own grandmother?”

  Vintage Gertie, the country’s top travel agent for guilt trips. “No, Grams. I didn’t say he was more important. I just didn’t
think it was right to leave him here all alone.”

  “Like he’d know the difference? Where did you say he was from?”

  “Miami.”

  “Oh. Miami? Uh-huh. Did he happen to mention his name?”

  “We talked about a lot of things.” I coughed. “The weather. His hobbies. His old neighborhood in Brooklyn.”

  “Where in Brooklyn? Flatbush? Coney Island?”

  “Yeah, Grams. Coney Island.”

  “I wonder if he knew my cousin Estelle. Did you ask him?”

  Absolutely. I said to him, maybe you know my grandmother’s cousin Estelle, a woman she hasn’t seen in twenty years. “No, I didn’t get a chance. I’ll explain everything when I get in.”

  “Well, don’t spend the whole day there. I made your favorite meatloaf.”

  “Oh good.” I’m sure the sugar-free, low-sodium, low-fat, no-cholesterol version is even better than the original recipe, which used to make me puke.

  After an Advil chaser, I started making calls. First one was to Raphael de Miro, the owner of the modeling agency, to inform him of my unexpected delay. I couldn’t tell if he believed my crazy story. But then he told me that something similar had actually happened to a friend of his. And to be careful, because the family of that deceased person accused his friend of poisoning their mother’s wine when she went to the lavatory.

  “Oh my God. That’s terrible,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I really don’t know, darling. It was probably true.”