by Hope Lyda
“Actually, I’ve been told that I’m the classy dame.” Her frail hand rises to cover her mouth as she laughs. “I love that idea…about the song not yet written. Every display I have ever created always had an element of whimsy. An unknown that was meant to invite the viewer into the scene with their ideas and interpretations. In a way, I have always invited people to offer a bit of their personal, evolving song to accompany the visual. I do love how you think, Mari.”
We both stand and face her creation, mesmerized and transported to a time when elegance was incorporated into a lady’s lifestyle, no matter how rich or poor. I know the event is going to be enjoyed by all the residents, and I cannot wait to tell Rae that I did not use one idea from Beau’s file. In fact, after tonight, I do believe that talk of Beau’s great feats will be no mo’. There is room for only one of our songs…and this chorus is mine.
Tess’ eyes still sparkle as she turns to face me directly for the first time this evening. “Mari, you look beautiful. Didn’t I tell you that dress was made for you? If Rudy Mangione were alive, I’d be sending him a picture of his dress finally on the right person. Gisele insisted that we get a photo together before the night is through.”
“I’d love to.” I twirl once so the dress mimics those on display. “It is an honor to be wearing this, Tess. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Just think how I would feel if one of my evil stepdaughters discovered that I have this collection.” Trouble passes over her face as quickly as a cloud in the breeze. The sun shines brightly on the other side of her unhappy memory. “You have given me happiness by accepting a few items this past year.”
We both tear up some. Then she says, “Are you trying to ruin my freshly applied mascara? Now stop that. I have to go get my dress on so I can show you up.” Gathering her sewing kit items, Tess heads toward her corridor. Before she is too far away, she turns with a look of hope on her face. “Please tell me that a gentleman friend will be here to accompany you tonight. I see you dancing with a special boy in that dress.”
I blush, more from personal disappointment than embarrassment. “No. You know me, Tess…I’m waiting for just the right one to deserve me and this dress.” I say this as a flip fill-in comment, but as I finish the sentence, I know it is exactly how I feel.
“Good girl. When it comes to love, it really is hip to be square. Waiting for the real thing will never go out of fashion.”
Her words give me comfort and hope. It is the real thing I am after. The kind my parents have. I think of them for the first time since my social intervention. I check my watch; there isn’t time to call them. It seems I only think to communicate with my family when it is not convenient to do so. It is convenient for excuses, however.
A loud cymbal clangs and sends thunderous echoes down the hallway. I’m pulled from my guilty thoughts gladly. Running as quickly as my floor-length dress allows, I have a near collision with a man and his runaway cymbal.
“You rang?” I try to lighten the mood as I can see he is feeling foolish.
“Hi. I’m Rick…with the band. We’re here to set up, if that’s okay. Actually, we are not really a band, just guys who love playing jazz. It’s our buddy who has the contact here.” He straightens his jacket, which looks three sizes too big.
Great. They aren’t even a real band. “That would be Rae.”
“No, his name is—”
“Rae is my supervisor and the one who apparently thought a love for jazz was a good enough résumé.” I interrupt him with my attitude. Thankfully he is still flustered from his trip down the hallway, so I have a chance to snap out of my mood. “Over there you’ll see a small stage behind the area marked off as the dance floor. If you need any additional cords or outlets, let me know. I’ll be finishing up some last details here before I go check on the catering staff. I’m Mari.”
Rick nods, shakes my hand, and gives me a thumbs-up. I sense he is about as comfortable with social gatherings as I am. With a cymbal under each arm he makes his way over to the stage. As I finish my work I notice the arrival of the three other members of the band—a pianist, saxophonist, and base guitarist.
In between warm-up songs I am about to request “Moon River,” but as I look their way, Rick is very blatantly pointing me out to the pianist. The pianist happens to be quite cute. His dark curls, brown eyes, and olive skin are just my type. No wonder I was fine with surfer-blond Peyton’s friendly rejection of me.
My face grows warm, this time from embarrassment, and I hurry off to check with the caterers. One more glance at my watch reminds me that it is almost showtime and there is still no Rae to be seen. On my way to the kitchen I spot several eager beaver residents who are dressed and migrating toward the grand room.
“Sorry, folks. I need you all to remain in the commons area or your rooms for another half hour. But I must say, you make for quite a dazzling crowd. If I didn’t know better, I would think this was your prom.” They smile and begin to reminisce about past occasions and events as they reluctantly about-face.
Pretty piano boy crosses my path on his way from the drinking fountain. I want to ask him if he would like a pitcher of water for his band, but when I see his face, I forget the word for water…and pitcher…and that leaves little to work with.
He stands and dabs his tie, which has a few raised droplets on the silk. The watermark is soon obvious. He keeps smearing the water, so now large streaks are evident.
I reach into my matching clutch and remove a handkerchief. “May I?” This sentence requires two words I am able to recall in the presence of cuteness. Now, if my hands will stop shaking, I can help the man.
“Thank you. Good thing they hide me behind the piano, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I would.” I laugh and keep dabbing at his chest. “Whose the leader of this non-band anyway? I’d like to thank him for this. I mean, for hiding you behind the piano.”
“That was a self-imposed sentence. I’m the sort-of leader of the sort-of band. I got the guys together as a favor to Rae.”
I’m shocked by this, though I shouldn’t be. Rae is good at networking with handsome men. Often they are pretty boys (case in point) but are usually much more petite. I stop dabbing at him, and he takes the cloth from me to give it a try.
“Rae?” I squeak out. I quickly try to recall if I have said anything derogatory about her in his presence.
“When she told me about this great night, I was more than happy to make the trip. I’m rather fond of it here.”
“Oh, are you a Phoenix band?” I consider asking him if he knows the Doo-Wops, but I think better of it.
“I’m a Tucson boy who has relocated to Phoenix. For now, anyway.”
“What is it that you do? I mean, when you aren’t a sort-of band leader.”
“Mari!” I hear Lysa calling from the kitchen. She has begged me not to leave her alone with catering-related decisions, and I have clearly abandoned her.
“I’m sorry. I must go. You’re nice. Your band…I mean, it’s nice. Thanks for being here.”
Piano man watches me as I back up down the hall and then finally duck into the kitchen to save Lysa from difficult dilemmas, such as arugala vs. iceberg or spiced red potatoes vs. mashed. After much convincing, I persuade the chef that when you are serving people over the age of seventy, bland is haute cuisine. He looks insulted but instructs his staff to follow this advice.
By the time Lysa and I have finalized all last details, the musician is gone. But Rae is wobbling down the hallway toward me. Her brisk steps on stiletto heels is comical. As she steps out of the hall shadows and into the brightness of fluorescent lights, we are able to take in the dress in its full, glittery glory.
“Uh-oh. She ordered Oprah’s comforter by mistake.” Lysa giggles this into my ear before the unfortunately dressed woman is within earshot.
Rae glances into the grand room on her way toward us. “Are you going to finish decorating?”
This is a perfect Rae kind of comment.
She makes her dislike known without blatantly putting a person down. I’m sure this has saved her from many former-employee lawsuits over the years. There is never enough solid evidence of abuse, only the lingering sock-in-the-gut feeling of disappointing a person over and over.
“Wow. Some dress, Rae. Some dress.” I am as polite as possible. “Your musician is here…what’s his name? Your friend?”
Rae bares her teeth at me. She is braying like a mute mule. Lysa looks at me and then we both smile at her. “Pretty smile…for a pretty dress,” I offer in a tone like Cruella the Gruel Slogger.
Her lips close like a steel trap. “No. I want you to check for lipstick on my teeth.”
She stretches her lips once again; this time Lysa looks away. I nod in the affirmative and Rae smiles pleased as punch. She walks fitfully away from us.
“So just to be clear…a nod can mean ‘yes, your smile is clean.’ Or it can mean ‘yes, in fact you do have maroon smeared across your jagged front teeth.’ Right?”
I bray at her and largely mouth, “Thawt wooold be cawrect.”
My feisty good mood could be inspired by “the boy” or the fact that I sent Rae out into the limelight with purple teeth. But I believe it is a bubbling sense of faith that tonight is going to turn out just as it should.
It’s My Party…
The non-band is a hit in more ways than one. Everybody is dancing, loving the music, and it seems the gathering of young men in ill-fitting tuxes is enough to inspire swooning. Within forty minutes of the program there is actually a gathering of groupies that sways like a cluster of reeds in front of the musicians. I see Haley toss her handkerchief on the stage. Tess later tells me that Haley’s email address is written on it in lipstick.
Family members of current and former residents also join in the fun, taking in the displays and sharing their memories. As a nod to the system, I have placed my suggestion box on the exhibit table with a note encouraging folks to write down a favorite story or incident at Golden Horizons. For once maybe I will receive happy reading material.
Much of my time is spent tending to details and troubleshooting. We run out of seating, so Lysa and I headed to the storage room to round up old folding chairs and benches. Twice, the sparkling cider fountain clogs from the pennies thrown in by people mistaking it for a wishing well. The caterers almost serve Perry the fish platter, which surely would have killed him. The man collects live fish because he cannot dine on them.
The evening is almost over before I have a chance to see Tess in her incredible Versace dress. Spectacular. She is the belle of the ball. The color of her cheeks gives her an adolescent glow. The men keep asking her to dance, and the classy dame keeps accepting. She snaps her fingers to favorite tunes as her partners lead her across the entire length of the room. And though this evening is a mere shadow of her glory days in New York, it is more than enough to give her joy.
Breathless, she saunters over to where Lysa and I stand. “Picture time, my dear, before this old woman faints.”
“Yes. I almost forgot. Shall we?”
My date and I walk over to the backdrop adorned with cutouts of shooting stars. The photographer positions us a bit closer to one another. I usually stand a couple inches taller than Tess, but this wisp of a woman has finished off her look with a pair of knockout heels. “Mother and daughter shots are my favorite,” smiles the photographer’s assistant, a tall, thin woman wearing a black shift with pearls.
Tess peals with delight at this mistake. “She does have my style, doesn’t she?”
“If you don’t mind, I’ve been wanting to dance with Tess all evening.” Walter bows to me first and then to Tess. “Shall we?”
“It’s hard to see my mom dating again,” I say to Lysa.
“Watch out. Crazy quilt cometh. I repeat, crazy quilt cometh,” Lysa whispers out the side of her mouth. I nonchalantly look to the left and am tempted to run to the right. But my pride stops me. I have nothing to run from. I dare her to criticize this evening.
“There’s a shrimp shortage, platter number three.” This is her greeting.
I just smile. I dare you, Rae. I dare you to not like this party.
“We will get right on that.” I keep my composure because if that is the only thing she can find to complain about, I have won.
“It’s incredible, don’t you think?” Lysa leads Rae toward unknown territory…a compliment. I tried this when I was wet behind the ears and naive. It always backfires.
Rae puffs up her chest and looks about the room as if she hadn’t noticed that a smoothly run party was going on around her. But now that we have brought it to her attention, she must take it in to make her judgment. She leaves rash decision making for online purchases only.
“I do think it is going well…”
Nothing she can say will change the fact that she just acknowledged that I, Mari Hamilton, have pulled off the event of the year. I, Mari Hamilton, have…
“Beau saved the day.”
Except that. Sock-to-the-gut feeling returns and pushes out my optimism with a force that throws me against the wall. “What!” I am tempted to grab this larger-than-life-sized Cabbage Patch Doll and shake her. This woman assumes that I used Beau’s notes. I work night and day on this so that people can give her praise, and she turns the appreciation back to my predecessor. No more. I can take this no more.
“Rae, for your information, I did not use one idea from Beau’s file. Not one. All this…” I circle my arms like a child playing whirlybird so she is sure to get my point. “All of this is my doing. Tess did the fantastic display, but all else…mine.” I thump my chest like an alpha male gorilla.
I hear a faint “Go, girl” comment from Lysa, but Rae shifts her weight with displeasure and discomfort. After all of this she still does not take me seriously. She looks at me with disdain and pity. Nothing I do will erase the bright memory of Beau.
“Mari, one thing you have yet to learn about serving people is that it isn’t all about you. Nobody does this work alone.” She shakes her head and walks out onto the dance floor. She grabs the frailest man within reach and forces him to dance with her.
“Don’t go, Mari. This is your night…don’t let her win…” Lysa shouts down the hallway, but I have gathered my skirt and am running before the tears can start. I know it isn’t just this scene. I am used to Rae’s harsh style by now. It is everything. And it is nothing going as planned in my life.
I don’t stop until I am outside in the large courtyard with our own man-made Golden Pond. My favorite spot awaits me, and I plunk down on a bench centered on the foot bridge. I sit for a while as silent sobs rise up and escape into the warm night.
“Give me something, God. I’ll even settle for Sadie’s former theory…one part of my life can stink…but not all. Not all at once. Give me something.” I’m not usually a talk-out-loud kind of drama queen, but I am dressed for the part and nobody is out here…
“Will punch do?” Piano man is out here. He must have come out just in time to hear me. We are both embarrassed.
He hands me one of two crystal glasses. “I’m sorry that I barged in on your personal—”
“Breakdown?” I wave my hand in the air casually. “Don’t worry about that. You’d be hard-pressed to find me when I’m not in the middle of one these days.” My breath shudders as my lungs try to catch up poststorm.
“I was going to say prayer. It sounded like a prayer.”
“Maybe if I did more of that, I would be doing less of this.” I can only imagine how pathetic and puny I look right about now.
“I hear you. I’m sure he did too.” He points up at the sky with his glass.
“You guys are a hit. Rae was smart to request your group. The residents love you.” I inconspicuously wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
“Thanks. It feels good to be here. I love seeing them smile as they recognize each song.” He sits down next to me hesitantly. I nod, giving him permission, and he turns toward me with e
yes that melt my tension, “Can I ask what you really want? That sounded less like a request and more like a plea for mercy.”
I start to speak but remember that he knows Rae. “I can’t say. It’s about a lot of things lately, but a part of it relates to a friend of yours and I wouldn’t feel right.”
“Let me guess…our Queen Rae? If it makes you feel better, we are more acquaintances. I don’t think she exactly cultivates friendships, do you?” We both laugh at this ordinary yet absurd idea. He doesn’t seem to be looking at the door longingly or searching his mind for an excuse to leave. “I’ve got a few more minutes before our break is over. I’m all yours.”
“There might be a riot if they can’t dance. You don’t know how tough this crowd is.”
“Ahh. You see, we thought of that. We have Sinatra spinning on the turntable right now. I figure I have…” he looks at his watch, “at least ten minutes before they join forces and revolt. I personally prefer Sinatra.” He strains his neck toward the faint sounds from inside. We can just make out the song “Fly Me to the Moon.”
“So…would you want to…” He moves his torso in a slow dance rhythm. A grimace follows his smile. He’s changed his mind already.
Don’t change your mind.
I say yes just as he says, “That wasn’t a very smooth invitation for a girl who is having a difficult night. Sorry.”
My acceptance of his bad invitation surprises him. He leaps up and places his glass on the bench. His hand extends to greet mine, and he pulls me toward him with practiced flair.
For the two remaining minutes of the song, we are circling the small space of the bridge together. I’m thankful for all those dance lessons we have had at Golden Horizons over the years. I do not stumble, nor stub my toe on his.
“Do you think tonight is successful? You have probably played at lots of fancy shindigs, but for an anniversary party at a retirement home…how would you rate tonight?” I’m obviously leading the guy into a one-answer corner. He did, after all, witness my personal waterworks display beside a man-made waterway.
