Dorothy on the Rocks

by Barbara Suter

  “We were talking one day, and before I knew it we were under the trees next to the dog run, having sex.”

  “In the morning? Oh my gosh—right in the park? Did anyone see you?”

  “The undergrowth is very dense.”

  “Where was Mr. Ed?” I ask.

  “The dogs were in the dog run. I know it’s crazy.”

  “Did it just happen that once?”

  “Oh, no. It’s been months.”

  “For months? In the undergrowth?” I ask, trying not to sound appalled.

  “At first, then we started going to Todd’s apartment. His wife is gone during the day and he works at home.”

  “He’s married too?”

  “Yes. It’s so complicated.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I don’t know. I told him it had to end. That’s when I started rollerblading. I couldn’t go to the dog run anymore. And I thought the vacation would put a spark back in my marriage. Dick doesn’t know, but I think he suspects.”

  “Did it?”

  “Did it what?”

  “Put the spark back?”

  “It was great. Dick was so relaxed, and we were together the whole time. You know our schedules are so opposite. We really are like two ships in the night. It was great to have real time together. Even at the country house we’re so busy doing chores that . . . oh God.” Sandy lets out a cry and slides off the arm onto the sofa and collapses among the cushions.

  “Can I get you some water or something?”

  “I don’t know how I feel. I miss Todd, I ache for him, but I love Dick. Does that make sense?” she says between sobs.

  “Make sense? That’s the plot of just about every romantic comedy ever written.”

  “I better get back,” Sandy says, righting herself on the couch and dabbing at her eyes. “Dick’s waiting for me. We’re going to that new Vietnamese restaurant on Eighty-fourth Street. Have you eaten there?”

  “No, I haven’t, but it must be good because there is always a line out front.”

  “Thanks for listening,” Sandy says sotto voce, as if Dick might be standing outside with his ear pressed against the door.

  “Sure,” I say in a whisper, in case he actually is. “And, Sandy, if you need me to deliver any sort of message, I’d be happy to,” I offer.

  “Thanks. I’ll think about it,” Sandy says.

  “Well, you look great,” I say, back to full voice as I open the door. “I think the Caribbean agrees with you.”

  And when I open the door, Dick is indeed in the hall, leaning against the wall skimming through the current issue of the New Yorker.

  “Hey, Maggie,” he says.

  “Dick,” I say as I nod in greeting. “Sounds like you had a great time. And thank you so much for the beautiful bracelet.”

  “Well, we wanted to bring you back a little bit of paradise,” he says, leaning over and giving me a peck on the cheek.

  “I appreciate it.” And with that the happy yet not-so-happy couple exits down the stairs and out the front door for a lovely meal at the new trendy restaurant down the street. And I go back to not smoking and not drinking, and not thinking about not smoking and not drinking, while quietly obsessing about how I’m not smoking and not drinking, and most definitely going completely insane.

  THAT NIGHT THE OPENING at Charles’s gallery is packed. I get there about nine thirty and have trouble making my way through the crowd. I look for Charles but can’t spot him. The usual folks are crammed in next to a new group, the artist’s friends and fans of the tapestries. They are exquisite. The beads refract the light so the pieces shimmer with motion. The artist is a petite woman with cornflower blue eyes and wispy blonde hair. She is talking with a group about the process of beading. Tedious, I think as I examine one of the pieces. It is completely hand sewn. “Ten thousand beads,” I overhear her say as I pass by. Ten thousand beads hand-sewn in one piece. I look around the room and count about twenty tapestries and then do a quick calculation. Two hundred thousand beads sewn one by one onto the fabric. Wow, that’s impressive. Or is it just compulsive? What is art anyway? One person’s cockeyed view of the world, expressed over and over in slightly different variations, then framed and lit and sold for a price, a really good one if you’re lucky and get the right agent.

  “Mags!” I hear shouted from across the room. It’s Charles. I wave at him above the heads. Waiters are weaving in and out of the crowd with glasses of wine and trays of hors d’oeuvres.

  “Do you have any club soda?” I ask one as he offers me a glass of wine.

  “You’ll have to go to the bar in back. I think there’s some Pellegrino,” the waiter says.

  “I know you. We did a couple of shows together at Maryland Stage a few years ago?” I say.

  “Oh, my God, of course, you look so different. Is it your hair?”

  “Could be. It’s longer and blonder, maybe. I think that’s the summer I was a redhead.”

  “Yeah, you were. But I like this look.”

  “Really? I’ve been thinking about going all the way to pure platinum, but I’m getting old for that,” I say popping a clam puff in my mouth.

  “And aside from your hair, how are you?” the waiter/actor whose name I can’t remember asks.

  “Great. Okay. You know. I see you’re making a buck.”

  “Oh, yeah. Hanging in. And you?”

  “I’m doing some theater. And I’ve got a club date at Don’t Tell Mama.”

  “Did you hear about Marty? He played opposite you in Promises, Promises. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember; he stepped on every laugh line I had. I haven’t seen him since Maryland.”

  “He went out to LA. He’s got his own series. On ABC. It starts this fall.”

  “What? That’s amazing,” I say, my eyes wide in genuine amazement.

  “I know,” he says with nod. “I’ve got to circulate these clam puffs. We’ll talk later. You look great.”

  “Thanks, you look great too.”

  Marty has his own series? Shit. How does a guy like Marty Lancer get his own series? Not only did the guy have the worst timing in the world, he was also tone deaf and couldn’t act his way out of paper bag. God I want a cigarette. Why is it so hard to be happy for other people? Why? Why? Why? Shit, he’s set for life if the show goes into syndication.

  “Good for him,” I say out loud through clenched teeth. “Good for him.”

  “What?” The fellow standing next to me asks, turning toward me.

  “Good stuff, good beads,” I say. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s very seventeenth century. You know tapestries were almost always made by nuns, long hours of sewing in the isolation of a convent. Makes you wonder about the artist doesn’t it? What is she isolating from?”

  “Does she have to be isolating? She is in dialogue with her art, isn’t she?”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “To create is to be in communication with the world. What did Emily Dickinson say? ‘This is my letter to the world that never wrote to me.’ I’m sure there are many interpretations of that line, but I think it means the artist is communicating,” I say, happy to note I still have a brain. “They are leaving a mark regardless or even in spite of the response. So how can one be isolating when one is saying through art, ‘Look at me, here I am, and this is what I have to say’?”

  “Oh, God, I want to make love to you right here.”

  “What? Are you crazy?” I say.

  “I want to put my hands all over you and lick your essence. I want to soak up the poetry of your skin. You’re so beautiful. I need to feel you. I need to be inside you.”

  “Excuse me. But I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “I live right around corner. Please.”

  “Sorry.” I quickly move away and look for Charles. I catch sight of him and head in that direction.

  “Please,” I hear the insane man say behind me. “I’m wil
d for you and I don’t even know your name.”

  “And doesn’t that tell you something,” I say over my shoulder as I make my way toward Charles.

  NOTE TO SELF . . .

  Time to leave the art exhibit when a stranger tells you he wants to “soak up the poetry of your skin.”

  “Maggie, what do you think?” Charles asks. “I love these things and I know they are going to sell.”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “You just got here. We haven’t had a chance to talk.”

  “We’ll have lunch soon. Besides, you have to do your thing. I’ve got an early call in the morning. I’m off to West Virginia for three days with Snow White.”

  “You have got to get back into grown-up theater,” Charles says, kissing me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming down. Oh, I noticed you talking to Chad. What do you think of him?”

  “Chad?” I ask. “You mean the guy in the paisley shirt?”

  “Yes. I’m in love. He’s the best thing that has happened to me in years. I’ve known him for a while, but the other night we suddenly clicked.”

  “What about the guy from Spain?”

  “Too Spanish and too much au naturel body odor—if you know what I mean,” he says with a grimace.

  “Charles,” I say, “Chad, propositioned me. He said he wanted to lick my essence.”

  And at that moment Chad joins us.

  “I really had you going didn’t I?” he says, laughing. “You should have seen her face, Charles, she was appalled. I’ll show it to you.”

  “What do you mean? You’ll show it to him?”

  “Chad is a video artist,” Charles says. “He captures people’s reactions to inappropriate sexual advances in public situations. It’s fascinating stuff. Some of it is hysterical and also very touching. Heartbreaking. You wouldn’t believe how people respond.”

  “And you’d be surprised how many times people say yes,” Chad adds. “It all speaks to the innate loneliness of the human race and how desperate people are to make contact. It’s sort of a blue candid camera—and get the double meaning of blue, huh? Blue like sad and blue like soft porn but not real porn.”

  “Who are you?” I say. “You’re an idiot.”

  “You were ready to say yes weren’t you? I could feel it,” Chad goes on, oblivious to my comment. “You’re really a very attractive woman.”

  “This is unbelievable. How dare you talk to me like that? Charles, will you say something?”

  “Maggie, don’t get so high and mighty. It’s art. You understand that.”

  “Charles, I would appreciate it if you see that my footage gets destroyed,’’ I say with haughty indignation, and the more I talk the more indignant I get. “Do you know I was attacked recently in Central Park and almost got raped? I wonder if that was some video artist looking for reactions from the lonely public. Someone making art. Fuck you, Chad. And fuck you, Charles.” By now I’m shaking all over and my voice is loud and shrill and people are staring.

  “Maggie, calm down,” Charles says, holding me by the shoulders.

  “Take your hands off of me,” I say and spit out each word into Charles’s face. Then I turn and walk out, arm in arm with my righteous indignation. People stand aside and let me pass, and all the while I’m sure the whole tirade is being recorded on Chad’s hidden camera. For “art.” I get outside and continue walking. I walk twenty blocks without breaking stride. If I don’t walk, I’ll smoke. I dig in my purse looking for my cell phone but can’t find it, but I do find change so I head for a pay phone on the next corner and pray that it’s working. By some kindness of the local Verizon god it is. I dial Jack’s number. It rings. My stomach turns over.

  “Jack here,” he says.

  I don’t say anything. My throat constricts.

  “Hello? Hello?” Jack says. I hear music in the background. “Who is this?” he asks and then hangs up.

  I wait. The pay phone rings. I know it is Jack. He dialed the number that showed up on his cell phone. Sometimes public phones block the caller’s number. Not this one because I know it’s Jack. Maybe he thinks it is one of his buddies and they had a bad connection. Or maybe he knows it’s me. I let it ring. I don’t dare answer; I can’t let him know how desperate I am.

  I signal the next cab and head home. It’s almost five full days without cigarettes or alcohol. I don’t think I can make it much longer. I wish I could lock myself in a room for a few weeks. I guess I actually could, because I think that’s exactly how rehab works. Well, I’m not doing that; besides I have to go to West Virginia tomorrow and put on pretty-girl makeup and wrestle with the evil stepmother.

  When I get to my building, Jack is sitting on the front stoop. I pay the cabbie and get out of the taxi. My knees feel weak. Jack walks over and puts his big, warm arms around me. I bury my poor aching head in his chest. We stand like that for quite a while.

  “I’m sorry,” I say finally.

  “Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” Jack says. “Didn’t you see the movie?”

  “You mean Love Story?” I say. “Of course I saw it. I’m surprised you did.”

  “My first girlfriend made me watch it,” he says.

  “I haven’t had a cigarette for years.”

  “Really?” Jack says. “Years?”

  “Well,” I say, “it feels like years.”

  “Is that why you called me?” he asks.

  I don’t answer. The words are stuck in my stupid, nicotine-deprived throat.

  “You did call me, didn’t you?”

  “I called you because . . .”

  “Because?”

  “Because I love you,” I manage to say, and then look Jack right in the eyes and he looks me in the eyes and suddenly we both grin. Grin like two silly kids. I wish Chad were here with his fucking video camera, because this is art. This is something worth seeing. Then we wrap ourselves around each other and take a deep breath.

  We finally make our way up to my apartment and continue holding on to each other long after we are inside.

  We make love slowly, passionately, and then lie on the bed with the window open and let the cool summer breeze play against our skin. Eventually we start to fall asleep.

  “Goodnight,” I whisper to Jack.

  “Goodnight,” he whispers back to me, “and goodnight moon, goodnight socks.”

  “Goodnight bunnies, goodnight light,” I say. Jack hugs me close and we drift off to dreamland.

  I wake up around five to go to the bathroom. As I step out of the bedroom something rushes past my face. I take a quick breath. Then something bangs the windowpane and flutters across the room.

  “Goodie?” I whisper loudly. “Is that you?” No response. I let out a little scream. Jack is quickly by my side.

  “Something is in the room,” I say.

  “Turn on the light,” he says. I reach over and switch on the table lamp. We stand squinting into the room. I see dark marks on the ceiling.

  “Up there,” Jack says, pointing to the bookcase. I look up and there perched on the top shelf is a bird covered in soot and shaking, shaking almost as much as I’m shaking.

  “You scared me,” I say to the bird.

  “Not as much as you scared him,” Jack says, moving closer to the bookcase. The bird flutters across the room, hits the ceiling, and comes to rest on top of the coatrack.

  “Poor thing,” Jack says. “How’d he get in here?”

  “Down the chimney,” I say piecing something together in my mind. “The soot, remember, I told you I had noticed soot in the fireplace. Last week maybe. It must have been this bird. He’s been stuck in the chimney.”

  “Well, we’ve got to get him back outside.”

  “Open the window the whole way. See if he’ll fly out.”

  Jack wrestles to get the window up and I get a piece of newspaper to try to wrangle the bird toward the opening, but birdie is confused. He flies back to the bookshelf.

  “Come on, little fellow. We’r
e trying to help you. Just fly out the window and you’ll be okay,” I say. The bird looks at Jack and Jack looks at me.

  “I think we’re going to have to take him outside,” Jack says. “Maybe we can catch him in a towel.”

  It’s still pitch black out. I look at the clock. It’s now 5:15. Dee-Honey is picking me up at eleven to go up to West Virginia. I’m sure I won’t be getting back to sleep.

  “I’m going to put on water for coffee,” I say. Jack goes in search of a towel and I fill the kettle with water. Birdie doesn’t move.

  “Let’s take him out to the courtyard,” I say, getting out the coffee and filters.

  “Why do you think it’s a boy bird? I mean how can you tell?” Jack says, going toward the bathroom.

  “Oh, I know it’s a boy. A girl bird would have stopped on the third floor and asked for directions. But the boy bird just kept on going, too proud to ask for help.”

  “Or, you could say our intrepid boy bird sensed an adventure and kept exploring. You know if Christopher Columbus had stopped and asked for directions, we’d all be living on a small island in the West Indies.”

  “Well, we are living on a small island,” I say, “and it’s very early in the morning, and boy-birdie just pooped on my carpet.” I grab a paper towel to clean it up. The kettle whistles.

  “Can you imagine being stuck in the chimney. Poor fellow probably didn’t know which way was up or which way was down after a while,” Jack says, towel in hand.

  “Not that one, that’s a bath towel. Get one of the big beach towels,” I say. “There’s an orange one on the bottom shelf.” Then I finish making the coffee.

  “This one?” Jack asks, holding up the bright orange towel with blue shellfish.

  “Yes, now see if you can catch the bird,” I say. Jack springs into action, all the while sweet-talking the bird about the open air and endless blue sky and far-off horizons. Amazingly he is able to wrap boy-birdie loosely in the towel, and boy-birdie seems to know he has found his savior because he doesn’t resist as Jack cuddles him in his hands. I get the coffee and we head out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out the back door that opens onto the courtyard. The sun is peeking up over the rooftops. Jack squats on the ground and opens the towel. The bird looks around, then flaps his wings and tries to fly. He gets airborne for a moment and then crashes down.