by Denise Dietz
“What’s amazing?”
“Later, after we eat. Would you care for a drink?”
“White wine, very dry. Why can’t you tell me now?”
“Relax, Maryl, it’s a surprise.”
A waiter who looked like a pregnant penguin led them up a marble balustrade, toward a red-walled dining room. Bryan sat her at a banquette, lightened by white pilasters. “You said you only had an hour, Maryl, so I’ve already ordered.”
“How could you possibly know what I like to eat?”
“Trust me.”
“I don’t trust people who say trust me,” she said. But the quenelles in a rice sauce were delicious, the poularde au champagne exquisite.
“I’ve lived in New York my whole life and never been here before,” she said, wondering if she’d gross Bryan out by loosening her belt a notch.
“La Seine is my favorite restaurant.” Bryan shook a Pall Mall free from his cigarette pack, then began to tell her anecdotes about celebrities he had photographed. Elizabeth Taylor, the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Jonah Wiggins, the talk show host, standing against a montage of spouting whales. The gorgeous Candy Bergen, who had spilled a bottle of Cie perfume down Bryan’s pants.
Instinctively glancing at his lap, Maryl blushed.
After the soufflé dessert dishes had been cleared, Bryan leaned against his padded cushion. “Are you ready for the surprise, Maryl?”
“I don’t have time. I’ll have to taxi back to the office.”
“Not until you look at these.” He spilled the contents from a manila envelope across the table’s surface. “What do you see?”
Maryl studied Bryan’s photos. One showed her sitting behind her desk, swinging her glasses by their frames, her eyes staring dreamily into space. In another, the phone was cradled on her shoulder while she nibbled at the end of a long quill pen. A third picture showed her drinking coffee, the steam creating an almost three-dimensional effect. “I knew you were wasting film,” she said.
“Aren’t these amazing? I took them while I waited for your father. I didn’t even know exactly what I had until I developed the roll.”
“Bryan, I don’t understand.”
“Are you blind?”
“Technically, yes,” she said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
“Study the pictures.”
“You’re a good photographer. You make me look good.”
“No. You make you look good. I had nothing to do with it. I was just testing the camera, setting the light meter.”
“What’s your point?”
“Damn it, Maryl. Focus on the pictures!”
She focused. Was that really her? No way. Bryan had shot a total stranger who resembled Marilyn Monroe Bradley Florentino. Her body appeared slender and secure—a sexy piece of art work. All the uncertain elements of her face came together in a smooth, impeccable mixture. Her mop of auburn hair looked like a lion’s mane. Tilted eyes, upturned nose, full lower lip and pointy chin were all defined by the unbiased lens of Bryan’s camera.
Glancing up at him, then down at the photos again, Maryl realized she hadn’t had a picture taken since her braces were removed. Even her graduation yearbook had been lettered CAMERA SHY. “I wish I looked like this woman,” she said.
“You do.”
“Are you blind? I do not.”
“Maryl, the camera sees things the eyes miss. It’s magic. I don’t know how to explain it better than that, but I’d like to take some more.”
“Some more what?”
“Pictures, you nut. Can you get the afternoon off?”
“I guess. Why?”
“I want to photograph you in Central Park, no artificial lighting, a natural setting. I’d like to shoot a close-up of your face resting on top of the lions outside the New York Public Library. Your hair reminds me of their manes.”
“What for?”
“A composite,” said Bryan, his jade eyes gleaming. “All the important modeling agencies are right here in Manhattan. I’ll peddle the finished product. I don’t want you walking inside one office until they’ve seen my proofs. I’ll be your manager. This isn’t a come-on, Maryl. I’ve been dying to freelance.” He tweaked her nose. “For the record, I think you’re cute even when you’re not in my photos.”
“Cute? I’ve never been called cute in my life. The ducks in Central Park are cute. Chien is cute. Me? Cute?”
“You’re adorable. Please say yes,” he urged. “What have you got to lose?”
Maryl’s mind raced. She remembered her words to Drew: I have this strong feeling that something special will happen soon. And his response: Don’t give me that que serra shit.
Bryan was right. What did she have to lose?
Six months later, Maryl graced the cover of Vogue.
Chapter Nine
The operator had a marvelous Brooklyn brogue.
“Poi-son to poi-son, for Drew Florintina,” she said. “Is this the potty called? Are you by any chance him?”
“Yes, operator. But I’ve got an unlisted num—”
“Hi, big brother.”
“Who’s this? I don’t recognize the voice.”
“It’s Maryl, smartass.”
“I don’t know any Maryl Smartass. You must have reached the wrong potty, Miss Smartass.”
“Knock it off, Drew, or Chien will bite your butt.”
“Oh, that Maryl. Are you by any chance her?”
“Okay, so I promised I’d write. Honest, I never have time. Last week Bryan shot a complete layout of me in a school playground. Monkey bars, swings, a wall filled with graffiti. It was for lingerie. Can you believe that?”
“Sure. Bryan Edwards has a great imagination. Your People cover is hanging on my wall, right next to your Monroe namesake.”
“Isn’t Bryan brilliant? Superimposing Dad’s cartoons of Chien and Streisand dancing on my desk while I crunch a quill pen between my once irregular, now perfect teeth.”
“Jesus, Maryl, you have this thing about your braces.”
“Wrong! I have a thing about spiders, lactose and Alfred Hitchcock birds. Anyway, Bryan thought the cover was ‘cute.’ But that was before I metamorphosed into Maryl Bradley, drudge and slave.”
“Welcome to the club. How are Mom and Dad?”
“Fine. Better than fine. All of a sudden Dad’s in love with Mom. He even sends her flowers. Mom looks ten years younger and giggles all the time. I’m moving out. They don’t need a chaperone. Besides . . .”
“Besides what?”
“Nothing. What the heck are you drinking?”
“Mineral water. I’ve gone Hollywood.”
“Me, too. You should see my wardrobe. And I don’t wear glasses any more. Bryan insisted on contacts. By the way, have you collected any new co-stars?”
“Nope. Caleb collects enough for both of us. If Caleb’s heart ever fails from over-stimulation, they should donate his quick to medical science. Damn, it’s good to hear from you. Call any time, day or night. You can even call collect.”
* * * * *
“Collect for Kris from Alice. That’s Kris with a K.”
“Alice doesn’t live here any more.”
“The call is from Alice, sir.”
“Oh, that’s different. I’ll accept the charges, operator. Hi, Maryl.”
“Drew, I’m borrowing a neighbor’s phone. She’s walking her dog. They installed mine but it’s dead.”
“They installed your dog and it’s dead?”
“No. My phone. It doesn’t like me.”
“Your phone doesn’t like you?”
“No. The neighbor’s dog. I have to talk fast, before they get back.”
“Okay. How are you?”
“Fine. Not so fine. Drew, what’s wrong with me?”
“Well, for one thing you’ve never named your breasts.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Why do you think there’s something wrong?”
“I’m
still a virgin.”
“That’s not wrong, Maryl. It’s smart.”
“If you weren’t my brother, would you F-word me?”
“In a minute. Maybe Bryan’s gay. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”
“He’s not. Honest. I don’t know what to do. I declared my independence, leased an apartment, and bought such a humongous waterbed I have to gulp down Dramamine every night. Next, I invited Bryan to an intimate dinner. He said yes, and there was lust in his heart, Drew, I swear. Things were heating up nicely when a bunch of people knocked on my door. ‘Surprise, happy housewarming,’ they yelled. By morning there were so many empty liquor bottles, I’m sure my neighbors think I’m an alcoholic, and Bryan left sometime during the party. He just . . . chickened out.”
“Maybe Bryan doesn’t want to mix business with pleasure, Maryl. Maybe he doesn’t want to establish a reputation as a photographer who screws his clients.”
“Then I’ll fire him.”
“No, you won’t.”
* * * * *
“I fired Bryan, Drew. Actually, we fired each other.”
“I’m sorry, Maryl. Would you like to come out here for a couple of weeks?”
“I wish I could squeeze myself through the phone wires. Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“Only if you want to tell me.”
“In brief, my platonic love affair with Bryan came to an end three days ago. We decided to use the loft in my new apartment for a fashion layout—winter resort swimsuits. We set up a backdrop of ocean and sunrise, painted no less by Salvador Dali. Bryan imported a bunch of parrots, cockatoos and love birds.”
“I can hear you shuddering, Maryl. I guess Hitchcock is responsible for more than one phobia over feathery critters.”
“Bryan had nearly finished the shoot when one of the parrots lost his cool and flew around the room, bouncing off the backdrop, squawking obscenities. I freaked out, raced into my bedroom. The bird’s wings had touched my body, like a bat, and all I could think about was shedding my swimsuit. Bryan followed me. There I stood, naked and shivering. I ran into his arms and we sank down onto my waterbed. I could hear the crew through the closed door. They were soothing birds, complaining about how the parrot’s beak had slashed our backdrop. Brian kissed me and—”
“Please, Maryl, skip the details.”
“There are no details. All of a sudden, this golden-haired Scarlett O’Hara opens the bedroom door. Have you ever seen anyone try to rise quickly from a waterbed?”
“No, but I can imagine. Was she his wife?”
“Yes. She’d been ‘down South with Mumsie and Fathah.’ Bryan had neglected to mention her. This diminutive, cute Civil War apparition had long flaxen hair and a Rhett or Scarlett Junior hidden beneath her maternity jeans and pantalets.”
“Good-bye love, hello reality.”
“Reality is turning twenty-six, still a virgin, and lighting a special candle for Marilyn Monroe, who would have celebrated age fifty-four. Reality is my brand new manager, who looks like Disney’s Dopey Dwarf, only taller and smarter. Reality is signing an exclusive contract with Rosebud Cosmetics. Reality is . . . reality is . . .”
“Aw, don’t cry.”
“Reality sucks. Three days ago I felt like Cinderella. Now I feel like Sleeping Ugly.”
“Jesus! You’re not into sleeping pills, are you?”
“Of course not. God, you have gone Hollywood.”
“It’s just that Marilyn Monroe killed herself and—”
“No, she didn’t. I’d bet my Rosebud contract that Marilyn Monroe was murdered.”
* * * * *
Maryl blotted her Rosebud lipstick and applied Rosebud mascara. Then she auditioned a smile in the mirror.
I’m putting on makeup for a phone call, she thought. Am I nuts? She dialed, disconnected, dialed again.
“Hello, Drew? Can you hear me? Is this a bad connection?”
“What’s wrong? Why do you sound so strange?”
“For one thing, the smell of Rosebud’s Petal Perfume makes me nauseous. And their new line of nail polish—give me a break! Thorny Red, Thorny Pink, Thorny Orange. Isn’t it a coincidence that Rosebud has become your biggest sponsor? They can call Morning Star a cosmetics opera rather than a soap opera. Damn! I just chipped my pinkie’s thorn.”
“You’re all shook up over nail polish?”
“No. Of course not.” Clutching the receiver tightly, she took a deep breath. “I’m scared to death.”
“Why? Did Dopey Dwarf lock you inside a room filled with parrots?”
“Don’t joke.”
“Sorry. What’s the matter?”
“Dopey Dwarf booked me on the Jonah Wiggins Show.”
“Yes?”
“That’s it. I’m scheduled for an ‘in-depth interview.’ Don’t laugh, you beast. As a model I act unnaturally natural and the cameras click. Even TV commercials are rehearsed and shot a million times. I couldn’t possibly screw up. Stop laughing! Please, Drew, you’ve done talk shows. What do I talk about? My Marilyn Monroe theory? My thing about braces? My thing about birds? I’m scared, Drew, abso-fuckin-lutely scared.”
* * * * *
As Maryl paced the carpeted floor of the studio’s Green Room, she wondered why they called it green when the walls were painted beige.
Tempted to kill Dopey Dwarf, she scratched the rash that had mysteriously cropped up on both wrists. Why had she eaten lunch? The cottage cheese and avocado salad were swirling, undigested, midway between her stomach and throat.
“Doesn’t Mr. Wiggins usually greet his guests before the show?” she asked, turning toward Michelle, her fellow Green Room companion.
Michelle No-Last-Name possessed a flawless complexion, the color of milk chocolate. She wore a short leather skirt, stiletto heels, and a motorcycle jacket.
“I heard Jonah got caught in a traffic jam on his way to the studio. The makeup girl said he was late and cranky.” Michelle hugged her jacket’s shoulder pads. “Lord, lord, I can’t do this. I used to be part of a group and now I’ve gone solo. I can’t sing tonight. You’ve got to tell them, Mary.”
“Maryl.”
“Lord, I’ve lost my voice. Oh, lord . . .” She bolted for the bathroom.
Maryl wondered if there was room for two. Her wrist hives had multiplied. Scratching, she tried not to chew her nails. She had applied the newest Rosebud polish, Thorny Suntan, a color guaranteed to match anything. Against her poxed skin, it looked more like Thorny Sunburn.
“Wear your favorite color,” Drew had suggested, so Maryl had chosen a red satin jumpsuit. Cinched about her tiny waist was a silver belt, linked with a lion’s-head buckle. Gazing at the ceiling-mounted monitor, she saw Jonah Wiggins part the curtains, walk center stage, and salute his audience.
Jonah had once been a minor cog in the wheel of Valerie’s production agency, and Maryl had studied the clippings pasted inside her mother’s scrapbook. Jonah posing with Buzzy Beeson, after a guest appearance on the comedian’s show. Jonah during his short stint as a game show host. He had begun his career as a Country-Western singer, and in the early photos he resembled Our Gang’s Alfalfa, complete with cowlick. Today, all that remained of the Oklahoma country boy was his bachelor status and a slight drawl. If the show’s conversation lagged, and it rarely did, Jonah would sing Ledbelly or Guthrie.
Now, Maryl wanted to place her forked fingers between her teeth and whistle. She’d known Jonah was handsome, but—oh, Drew, I never told you that my real hero in G.W.T.W. wasn’t Rhett Butler. I was hopelessly in lust with Ashley Wilkes. Margaret Mitchell’s Ashley, not, with all due respect, the movie’s Leslie Howard.
If she remembered correctly, and she did, Margaret Mitchell’s Ashley had drowsy gray eyes and his voice was . . . drawling? Yeah, drawling. And resonant. Didn’t resonant mean pulsating? Maryl stroked the soft silk of her jumpsuit. Under a sheer bra, her nipples hardened. She pictured Jonah in a Confederate uniform, tight breeches hugging his lea
n hips, emphasizing the pulsating throb between his legs. Damn! She had edited one too many salacious manuscripts.
She studied the TV monitor again. Forget the Confederate uniform. Sheep had been sheared for Jonah’s charcoal slacks. A sacrificial lizard had donated its skin for Jonah’s boots. Jonah headed his own clothing line. His dress shirts and sports blazers were all stitched with the tiny logo of a spouting whale.
Thick beach-sand hair was styled short, and his eyes were the same color as a koala’s fur. Maryl watched him tease his audience and band leader with a topical monologue. The audience responded by applauding or groaning enthusiastically.
Michelle, introduced after a commercial break, didn’t look nervous. She crooned her new ballad, traded quips with Jonah, and promoted her album. Then, reluctantly, she exited stage left. Maryl hoped her own interview would go as well.
The band leader played a fanfare and the audience went wild.
“Lord, lord,” Maryl whispered, borrowing Michelle’s lament. “It’s Pat Huxley.”
Pat Huxley, affectionately called “Pat Python,” was a small chunky comedienne who burst through the stage curtains as if she could hardly wait to open her glossed mouth and release the venom from her fangs. A Scandinavian actress had once said, “She hux her victims to death.” Thus, the python appellation. Pat’s clothes usually dripped with glitzy spangles or feathers and ruffles, unflattering to her busty, overweight body.
She began her comedy routines with the question: “Do you want to hear a secret?” The audience would scream yes, and Pat would launch her act—sexual insinuations and digs at celebrities, delivered in a breathy, little-girl voice.
Maryl thought Pat’s nickname was a slur to all honest pythons.
This evening La Python wore raspberry pants and over-blouse, decorated with a sequined galaxy. Maryl recognized Capricorn, Aries, and the Gemini twins, before she grew dizzy and the sequins blurred. Pat’s hair was a brassy, henna-hued blonde, her eyes a brassy, henna-hued hazel, and her plucked eyebrows resembled the erratic line on a lie detector’s graph.
