“Yes, on the cough syrup commercials.” He smiles. “Wow, that’s right.”
“I don’t think they’re still running, are they? I mean they didn’t renew the cycle. Have you seen it recently?” I ask. My interest is piqued because sometimes commercials go off the network, but a smaller market picks it up, and it can be running somewhere and you don’t know it and nobody tells and you aren’t getting paid.
“Well, maybe not for a while. But you are definitely Nurse Mom.”
“I am indeed.”
“You must have made a fortune.”
“No, not really. I did all right for while, paid off my credit cards, but now I’m back to the same old grind, picking up nickels and dimes off the sidewalk. The commercial business is a harsh mistress.”
He laughs at this. I think he’s trying to ingratiate himself. Maybe he’s hoping for some sample cough syrup.
“I’m Sam,” he says, flashing a smile.
“Mags.”
“Want to dance?”
“Right here in the bar?” My left eyebrow arches up to my hairline.
“Sure.” Sam puts his arm around my waist and helps me off the barstool. I need help because in a short time I have ingested several beers and four scotches on a relatively empty stomach.
I put my head on his shoulder as he maneuvers me slowly through the box step. Sam is wearing English Leather. It’s about the only aftershave I recognize, that and Old Spice, which my older brother always wore until his second wife introduced him to Ralph Lauren Eau de Toilette for men. Sam’s shoulder is comfortable. I close my eyes but open them quickly, as I’m drunk enough that my head spins when they’re shut. Shit, I haven’t had any scotch since the park incident. I haven’t wanted to chance it. Just beer. But now here I am again—in the arms of a strange man with my head spinning. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. My tired and true mantra kicks in.
“Are you all right?” Sam asks.
“Fine, but I think I better get going.”
“Come on. Have one for the road. Then I’ll see you home.”
“No, I just live a few blocks from here.”
“Then you have to have a nightcap before you go.”
The smell of English Leather mixed with all the scotch sloshing around in my belly seduces me into the haze of bygone days when I was on the homecoming court in high school and dating Denny Spangler and all was right with the world.
“All right, one more for the road.” I drop my head back onto Sam’s shoulder and momentarily drift off as we sway to the music.
I come to abruptly when Sam shakes me.
“Mags?”
“What?”
“I think you passed out for a minute or two.”
“Possibly,” I say in my thick, throaty, late-night voice. “I got to go.”
“I’ll walk you,” Sam offers.
“No, I’m fine.” I grab my bag and head as directly to the door as I can. “See you,” I say.
“Right,” says Sam.
“And thanks for the drink, buckaroo,” I toss over my shoulder as I make my exit. God, I’m good at exits.
11
When I wake up the next morning, my head is pounding and I feel like I have cat hair growing on my tongue. I try to focus. I’m pretty sure it’s Friday, and I think it’s still June, and I’m in my own bed. All right. That’s good for starters. I switch on the radio next to my bed. I dial to 1010 WINS. Their slogan is, “You give us twenty-two minutes and we’ll give you the world.” Seems so easy. Right now it’s Lisa, with traffic and weather on the 10s. The midtown tunnel is jammed, the FDR Drive is slow, and the George Washington Bridge is backed up due to a two-car collision on the lower level, but the skies are blue and the temperature is seventy-eight with only 20 percent humidity. And it’s 10:50 a.m.
I get up and head for the bathroom. My left knee throbs. It is scraped and bruised. I look in the mirror. My eyes are red and puffy and my wrist hurts. There are more scrapes on the palms of my hands. I must have fallen. I light a cigarette and put on water for coffee. I sit and smoke, looking out the window. My apartment is in the back of the building so I look out on a little courtyard. Old Mrs. Vianey, who lives in 3E, is sitting on a bench reading the paper.
I remember being at the Dublin House and then I left, I guess. I don’t remember getting home. The kettle whistles. I pour the water through the drip coffee cone. My mind locks for a minute. It’s not the first time I have stood and tried to reconstruct what happened the night before. Usually it comes back to me. I’m sure it will. I must have fallen on my way home, no big deal. I put my coffee on the edge of the sink and turn on the shower. I get in. I keep the cigarette in my hand and hold it outside the shower curtain. I cock my head back and let the hot water hit my face full blast. I take a couple of deep breaths, then poke my head out of the shower curtain and take a drag on the cigarette. I repeat this a few times, and then drop the cigarette butt in the sink. I get the coffee and place it on the soap dish in the shower stall. I turn around and the shower caresses my back, I cradle the coffee cup in my hands, sipping slowly, then I place it back in the soap dish and drop down to my knees and let the water pour over me.
I wonder how “old Mrs. Vianey” got to be old. How did she make it through? She must have been young once and then not—I don’t know if I’m going to survive this middle passage. Maybe I should ask her. Maybe I should sit in the courtyard with her and let her tell me how to negotiate this part of my life, because right now I don’t have a clue. And Brian’s right—I have lost my sense of humor. Nothing is funny. I feel scared and alone most of the time, and strangely comfortable in the discomfort. Will I ever learn to be myself and feel safe? No funny hats, no gingham pinafores or pigtail wigs, no script? Is it too late to learn? I close my eyes and press the palms of my hands together. “Help me,” I pray into that void between regret and resolve as the hot water washes over my body. “Please help me.”
I eventually get up off my knees, wash my hair and shave my legs. Starting today I’m going to take better care of myself. I’ll take my vitamins and I’ll eat broccoli and I’ll vacuum my apartment and I’ll clean Bixby’s litter box and I’ll go over all my songs for my club date and I’ll pay my bills and . . . I won’t drink. Not even a beer.
Life is good, I remind myself as I dry off. I make another cup of coffee and pull Bixby up on my lap and hug him to my chest.
“You’re a good kitty. You’re my good kitty.” Bixby curls up in my arms and purrs. The phone rings. It’s Dee-Honey.
“Hi, honey.” Her standard greeting leaps from the phone. “I’m going to change the pickup time to three o’clock instead of two. Gloria has an audition, and you know I always try to accommodate that. It just means we’ll get there a little later.”
“Pickup time?” I ask.
“Maggie, we’re going to up to the Cape to do Cinderella. You’re playing Tilliebelle. I’m sure I gave you the dates.”
“Oh yeah, sure. I’m just waking up. Don’t listen to me.” I find my bag and look through it for my day planner. My God, I’m living in some kind of perpetual purgatory, I think as I rifle through my things.
“So we’re set. It’s three instead of two,” Dee says.
“I’ll see you then,” I say. “The usual corner?”
“Yes, Ninety-sixth Street on the northwest corner. Are you all right, dear?”
“It was a late night and I overslept this morning. Some caffeine and a winning lottery ticket and I’ll be fine.”
“You and me both. See you at three.” Dee-Honey indulges me with a quick laugh and then rings off. Sure enough I see that Friday and Saturday are blocked off in my day planner with Cinderella written across them in bold letters.
Also in my bag I find an orange, two apples, and a pineapple. What the hell? I must have gotten them on my way home last night. But did I pay for them? I check for my wallet. It’s there with a few nickels and dimes and a couple of singles and my emergenc
y twenty stuffed under my driver’s license. It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve helped myself to fruit from the outdoor bins of the numerous Korean delis along the street. But I had never brought home a pineapple. That’s like big game. That’s like fishing for trout all your life and then one day harpooning a whale.
Oh well, I peel the orange and slice up some apple. Then I feed Bixby and get out my overnight bag. It’s almost one o’clock.
By pickup time I’m bright eyed and bushy tailed. When I get to Ninety-sixth Street, Dee-Honey is already there. The back of the van is crammed with suitcases, and the cast is milling around on the sidewalk with coffees and sodas. Dee and Helen Sanders are discussing sinus remedies.
At this moment Gloria arrives at a trot.
“Sorry, I’m late. Thanks for waiting.”
“How’d it go?” Helen Sanders asks, nibbling on some carrot sticks.
“Gosh, I think they really liked me, but who knows.”
“Well you’ve hit the nail on the head there,” Helen says. “Who the hell knows?”
Dee-Honey honks the horn and we take our positions in the van. Randall holds the front door for Pauline.
“Your carriage awaits, Madame,” he says as Pauline scoots in next to Dee and Randall assumes his place next to Pauline.
“I’m riding shotgun, kids, so fear no evil,” he says as we take off toward the Westside Highway.
I’m sitting between Helen and Gloria in the backseat. Glo plays Cinderella because she insisted that she get to play at least one ingénue in the Little Britches repertoire even though she is five foot nine and has to sing all of Cindy’s songs an octave lower than written. Dee-Honey agreed to her request and sewed a ruffle on the bottom of Cinderella’s ball gown. Ron, Mr. Prince Charming, is wedged in with the suitcases in the far back. He falls asleep almost immediately. Helen gets out a crossword puzzle and Gloria puts on her earphones and cues up her iPod. I stare straight ahead. It’s a six-hour drive to the Cape. If I had a gun, I’d shoot myself.
We stop for gas near Providence, Rhode Island. Everyone gets out for a bathroom break and some food. Gloria pulls me aside.
“I’ve got to talk to you. My agent thinks I should move to LA. He says I could really do well out there. They have an office there. What do you think?”
“Glo, I don’t know. Would you like to live in LA? Do you have friends out there?”
“Not really. It’s just that my agent thinks I’m more of an LA type than a New York type.”
“Well, think about it. You don’t have to decide right now, do you?”
“The lease is coming up on my apartment so . . .”
“Then do it. Give it a shot. You’re young. You’re tall. You’ve got an agent who’s helping you. You go, girl.”
Gloria hugs me. “Thanks. I knew you’d know what I should do.”
People always think you give good advice when you give them the advice they want to hear, and besides it’s easy to be decisive when you’re dealing with other people’s lives.
I go the ladies’ room and then get a fish sandwich, a small fries, and a Diet Coke at McDonald’s. I also buy a 3 Musketeers bar and a bag of peanut M&M’s.
I switch places with Pauline. Randall takes over the driving and Dee-Honey rides shotgun.
We get to the Cape about nine o’clock. We check into the motel and then all head out to Spanky’s Fish Net for lobster dinner. Randall orders a pitcher of beer. He hands me a glass. I consider declining it for a moment, but, instead, I toast my fellow actors and drain the glass. It’s only beer. It’s only one beer, for heaven’s sakes. Besides, it’s not the beer that gets me in trouble, it’s the scotch.
The next morning we assemble in the parking lot. It’s eight a.m. Dee-Honey comes rushing out.
“Oh my goodness. Frank just called. There has been a mix-up and the sponsors think we are doing Rumpelstiltskin. I’m sure I gave them the right schedule. Rumpel is next week. Oh, dear, Frank said the woman in charge kept asking him where the spinning wheel was.”
We all look at each other and for one moment try to calculate if we could actually do Rumpel with this cast. I know Randall has played the king and I’ve played the princess, of course. Ron has done the prince, and it doesn’t really matter because if you’ve done one prince you’ve done them all. But no one has played Rumpelstiltskin. I guess Gloria could pull it off if she had to—although she’d have to walk on her knees. But then there is a matter of the costumes and, of course, that damn spinning wheel.
“Well, they’ll just have wait until next week for Mr. Stiltskin. Besides Cinderella is so much more fun. Don’t you think?” Dee says getting into the car. “But maybe we could do a little preview for them at the end of the show. Randall, you could sing the king’s patter song and, Maggie, you could recite a section from the tower scene,” she suggests.
“Dee, the kids are eight years old. They’re not going to care all that much,” Randall says.
“Oh, all right, honey. I guess it will work out,” Dee says. I catch Randall’s eye, mouth a big thank-you, and off we go.
Frank is standing by the stage door finishing a cigarette. “Can you believe it?” he says. “If one more person asks about that damn spinning wheel I’m going to shove Cinderella’s glass slipper up somebody’s—”
“Hi, honey,” Dee chirps.
“Ass,” Frank mumbles under his breath and takes a drag on his cigarette.
The Cape Playhouse is reputed to be the oldest summer theater in America. It was built in the 1920s when Broadway actors fled the hot city for the cooler New England summers. The walls in the backstage area and dressing rooms are full of production pictures featuring Henry Fonda, Bette Davis, Tallulah Bankhead, and many more.
I stick my head in one of the dressing rooms. Gloria is wiping off the mirror.
“Anyone claim this other seat, yet?”
“It’s all yours,” Glo says. “I don’t know what is on this mirror. It looks like someone blew their nose on it.”
“Ugh,” I say unpacking my makeup kit. “I’m going to run downstairs and see if the coffee is ready. Do you want a cup?”
“Please, black with two sugars.”
The staff at the Cape Playhouse always provides a fresh pot of coffee and an assortment of sticky buns and donuts in the green-room. Eddie Houser, who plays Ashes the cat, is sitting at the table eating a powdered donut. He drove up with Frank in the truck.
“Hey, Eddie, how are you? How was your trip up?”
“Well, Frank drives like a maniac, but aside from that it was fine.”
“But I thought you liked that. Living dangerously.”
“Oh, I do, Mags, indeed I do.” Eddie bites into another donut as Pauline enters in full costume.
“Eddie, dear, do you have any false eyelashes I can borrow? I must have left mine in Yonkers last week. I don’t know what to do. I’ve looked all through my things and they’re just gone, gone, gone,” she says. “Oh, are these pecan rolls? They look delicious.”
Pauline takes one and wraps it in a napkin. “Yummy, yum. I’ll save this for later.”
“I double lash for Ashes, Pauline, I really can’t spare them for you. Just use a lot of mascara. Besides, the fairy godmother is not a beauty queen.”
Pauline purses her lips and takes a deep breath. “I’m not intending to be a beauty queen, but I do think it’s important that the children see my eyes when I’m working my wonderful magic for our dear Cinderella, but if you think it’s more important that Ashes, the cat, has his lashes, that is fine, but mind you—and I’m sure you don’t know this or care—cats don’t have eyelashes, so that’s how silly you look, and I’ve wanted to tell you that for years but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but the truth is, dear, you look perfectly ridiculous in that costume—and you always have.”
“Pauline, for goodness sakes,” I say, trying to ease the situation. “Maybe Gloria has an extra pair.”
“No, I’ll go on without them. Maybe Eddie’s rig
ht, no need to pretend I’m pretty. There is nothing wrong with the children seeing a homely fairy godmother.”
“Pauline, you look beautiful with or without your lashes, doesn’t she, Eddie?”
Pauline doesn’t wait for a reply. She sweeps out of the greenroom in a huff.
“Eddie, how could you?”
“Really, Mags, how couldn’t I? She’ll get over it.” Eddie refills his coffee cup and heads upstairs to the dressing rooms.
Frank sticks his head in the greenroom. “Half hour to show time.”
Geez, I haven’t even started my makeup. Fortunately I’m not on until the third scene. Gloria is already backstage doing her vocal warm-ups. She really does take this so seriously.
I throw on my costume and start to paint my face. I put on a light pancake base and then draw on arched eyebrows. I make rosebud lips and place a beauty mark on my chin. I pull on my wig cap and then the bright red wig that screams “comedy.” I make it to the stage as the show is starting. I find my hoopskirt positioned on the floor next to Frank’s booth. I step into it and tie it around my waist while holding the skirt of my costume under my arms. I can’t believe hoopskirts were actually once worn in everyday life. But back then they weren’t riding subways or elevators. Dee-Honey is at my side. She is playing the ugly stepmother.
“Remember, honey, you help Frank with the throne right after Ashes enters with the pumpkin.”
“Yes, Dee, I remember.”
The great thing about a theater company like this is you get to do everything. Nobody’s a star. I just wish Helen would remember and, speak of the devil, here she comes. She plays Gladiola, the other ugly stepsister, and no one can flounce a hoopskirt like Helen. The last time we did Cinderella she almost knocked me into the orchestra pit when she exited the ballroom scene.
Randall Kent rushes up to Dee with his arms extended. “I can’t get these damn cuffs buttoned.”
“All right, honey, relax.”
“I told you the last time I did this show that this costume needed major repairs. The pants are practically falling apart.”
“I’ll look at it between shows. There dear—all buttoned.” Dee finishes with the cuffs as the second scene starts. He rushes onstage.
Dorothy on the Rocks Page 12
