by Denise Dietz
“She’s lovely,” Delly whispered, as Jon sat and the curtains opened.
FDR, Salamander, Barnum and Rattlesnake posed at their instruments. Salamander issued forth a drum roll. The stage darkened. One muted spotlight covered Samantha’s entrance.
She wore her favorite burnt orange, a skin-tight dress that sparkled with hundreds of marmalade sequins. Both side seams of the long skirt had been slit to the waist, revealing abbreviated panties that molded her hips and buttocks. Strapless, the gown strained to conceal Samantha’s breasts, and the audience gasped when she raised her arms to embrace the spotlight.
Delly admired her sister’s face, framed by carefully tousled palomino hair. Lipstick glistened and black kohl emphasized the amber glints in Sami’s eyes.
Signaling her musicians, she sang her mother’s haunting ballad about the photographer and his dream vision. A moment of silence followed her last note. Then the audience erupted, rising and applauding. Pat Python sobbed audibly.
Samantha took several bows, and Delly saw that her sister had lost fifteen, maybe twenty more pounds. How could she have done that so quickly? Diet pills? Diet soda? Cocaine? What had she said? Just for the record, toot’s not so bad.
At the end of her performance, Samantha received another standing ovation, sang three encores, and the comedian who had yet to appear was already history.
“ ‘I awoke one morning and found myself famous,’ ” Delly said to Jon. “Byron. Anissa quoted that line after Drew’s movie-of-the-week.”
Samantha had reserved a hotel suite for her victory celebration.
She knew she’d be a hit, thought Delly. Scared? Vulnerable? Not even close.
Capturing Rex Smith, silencing the guests, Samantha joined the handsome singer in a duet from The Pirates of Penzance. The room didn’t have a piano or drums, but Barnum and Rattlesnake provided background music.
“More!” the guests screamed.
Someone shouted, “Play it again, Sam!”
She did, a solo this time.
Mort Sahl and Jerry Lewis traded quips. Buzzy Beeson, on the wagon, performed an old Vaudeville routine. A poker-faced Samantha played straight lady, feeding him lines.
Barnum and Rattlesnake took a break, first flicking the room’s radio switch to an all-music station. Guests pushed furniture up against the wall.
Caterers arrived with champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
A soap fan asked Delly for her autograph. Jon winked and slipped away. After scribbling her name, Delly searched the hallway and saw him embracing Samantha, next to the elevators.
Delly gulped down her champagne, turned back into the suite, and bumped into Rattlesnake, who asked her to dance. He gyrated his sweaty body against hers, and his smell made her sick to her stomach. She tried to settle the queasy feeling with more champagne. Then she watched Jon dance with Sami, afraid to take her eyes off them, afraid the orange dress would disappear, afraid the marquee outside the hotel would suddenly read: ELOPED WITH JON.
Unlike a telegram, she couldn’t paste a marquee inside a scrapbook.
This is Vegas, she thought. She could marry Jon tonight.
She saw him clasp his hands about Samantha’s waist, shifting her from one of his hips to the other in a classic jitterbug move. Sami’s spiked heels flew off and her breasts finally escaped the gown’s bodice. Laughing, she tucked them back inside, then gave Jon a kiss while flashbulbs exploded and cameras clicked.
Outside the restroom, Delly heard voices behind the closed door.
“Isn’t Samantha Gold beautiful? I’m getting my hair colored and cut like hers.”
“It wouldn’t help. You have no breasts.”
“I can fix that, too. Isn’t her boyfriend cute?”
“The tall guy who looks like that old movie star, Tyrone what’s his face?”
“Yeah. Some girls have all the luck.”
Tears salted Delly’s champagne. As the gossipy women exited the restroom, a hand grasped her arm and propelled her inside.
Maryl shut the door and locked it. Then she said, “You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”
“What are you doing here?” Delly placed her empty champagne glass on the sink’s marbled surface. “I thought you planned to go to bed early.”
“Jonah wants to sign Samantha, so I decided to tag along. Why the tears? Come on, Delly, ‘fess up. My brother Drew says I’m a good listener.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re perfection.”
“Ouch. What an awful compliment. Forgive me, Delly, but are you jealous over your sister’s successful debut?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. Not her success.”
“What then?”
“I guess it can be summed up in two sentences. My father called me Smarty-Pants. He called my sister Princess Pretty.”
“Oh, I see. You’d rather be pretty than smart.”
“I want to be both.”
“Who doesn’t? Look, Delly, you can purchase beauty at any hair salon or cosmetics counter, but you can’t buy smart.”
“Have you ever heard that song about the ugly duckling, Maryl?”
“Sure. The other birds told him to get out of town.”
“I’ll bet you were a swan from day one.”
“Nope. I was an ugly duckling. Too tall.”
“I was too short.”
“I was too skinny.”
“I was too fat.”
“I wore braces.”
“So did I.”
“And glasses.” Maryl smiled. “Aren’t you going to say you wore glasses?”
“No. You win. Who turned you into Cinderella?”
“A photographer named Bryan Edwards, but he wasn’t my Prince Charming. I really hate that fairytale. Want to know why? I’ll tell you why. Cinderella never took control of her life. You might say she won the lottery but never bothered to invest in a ticket. You see, Delly, that damn fairy godmother gave Cinderella a Bob Mackie gown, Rosebud cosmetics, René Lalique slippers, and a Rolls Royce coach, but Cindy had nothing to do with it. She didn’t rise from the ashes and say, ‘I’m gonna change my life. Wash my face and clothes, tidy my hair, hitch a ride to the ball, and charm the bejesus out of Prince Charming. Afterwards, I’ll start a cleaning service, hire some chimney sweeps, rake in the bucks, buy back my father’s chateau, and send my wicked stepmother packing.’ ”
“Are you saying it’s okay to be an ugly duckling if you have character?”
“Very good. For the record, Cinderella and I have a lot in common. My magic wand was a camera and Prince Charming turned out to be a talk show host. I never took control. Things just happened.”
“Shit happens.”
“No, Delly, dreams happen. That’s why the story of Cinderella has survived over the years.”
“Maryl, I don’t get your point and I know you have one.”
“I caught you on Broadway in Duck Pond Sonata and I’ve watched you on Morning Star. You’re terrific, Delly. You make me laugh and cry. Still, I sense a certain uncertainty. As if you’re saying take me as I am or not at all.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. You play crazies very well. But you should try to grow, stretch, expand that marvelous talent. Find a new part. Experiment.”
“Boy oh boy, it’s easy to give advice when you’re rich and famous.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry. I appreciate your concern, Maryl, really. Nobody ever talks to me like you just did. Jon says to quit Morning Star. Anissa tells me to stay. I’m scared to rise from the ashes and start my own cleaning service. What if I fail?”
“What if you don’t?”
There was a loud pounding on the bathroom door and somebody shouted, “Hey, did you fall in?”
Someone else said, “I’m gonna pee my pants.”
Maryl unlocked the door. “Sorry, ladies, we were swapping swan stories.”
As Delly exited, she heard one of the women say, “I’ll bet swan’s another word for cocaine.”
Delly hugged Maryl good night. Then she returned to the perimeter of the improvised dance floor.
“There you are,” said Jon. “Samantha wants you.”
Samantha wants you. Delly feels left out. Fetch. Roll over. Sit up and beg—
Forget it! She wouldn’t beg Jon to marry her.
He led her to the front of the room. “Remember,” he said. “It’s like climbing back up again.”
“What do you mean?”
“The horse.”
“What horse?”
Samantha’s arms twisted around Delly’s shoulders like a snake. “Presenting the Gold sisters,” she said into the microphone. “For your entertainment we’ll sing a medley from South Pacific.”
“No!” Delly shook her head, the motion causing dizziness. But Sami’s long fingernails dug into her bare shoulder and the brief fainting spell went away. She couldn’t remember all the words to “Some Enchanted Evening,” but Sami covered her memory loss.
“Play it again, Sam!” Pat Python screamed.
“Pray it again, Bootsie,” slurred Buzzy Beeson, whose wagon had apparently tipped over.
Red hot anger replaced Delly’s awkward embarrassment.
Bad, bad Pandora Poe, she thought, meaner than a swan-cocaine-junkie, bad-est kid on the whole damn strip.
Strip poker!
Grinning wickedly, she lowered her strap, raised her skirt, and began to bump and grind.
Salamander beat out a drum roll on the coffee table.
“Take it off, take it all off,” Buzzy Beeson chanted.
Samantha captured Delly’s arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She tugged her arm free. “Sing my doodahs, bitch.”
“Stop it, Delly. Jonny, stop her.”
“Why?” he said, drunk as a skunk. “She’s on top of the damn horse.”
The guests clapped in a mesmerizing rhythm. Lord, thought Delly, she had to take something off. What? Her bra? No. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Securing her hem beneath her chin, tugging at her pantyhose, she heard a few coins pelt the floor. Suddenly, she remembered Maryl’s words about how you could buy pretty but not smart.
Smarty-Pants was not for sale!
Dropping her skirt, Delly held up her hands and waited for silence. “The Gold sisters are played out,” she said loud and clear. Then she turned her face toward Samantha. “Pack up and leave my house or I’ll kick your butt all the way back to Bayside. And if you think I’m kidding, I’ll start by sending your Mexican rat to the pound.”
* * * * *
“Tonight I opened mouth, inserted foot,” Maryl said, snuggling closer to Jonah and kicking their bed covers free.
“So what else is new?” Jonah’s voice conveyed his smile.
“I told Delly Diamond she needed to stretch, expand, but I think I was talking about myself.”
“You’re expanding.” Jonah patted her belly.
“I’m serious, honey. I felt drawn to Delly. In a way she reminds me of me. The ugly duckling syndrome.”
“Knock it off, Maryl. You’re beautiful.”
“Not really. The camera makes me beautiful. You make me feel beautiful. Darling, if I was an ugly stepsister, rather than Cinderella, would you love me?”
“No.” He raised himself up on one elbow. “But not because of ugly or pretty. I wouldn’t love Cinderella, either. Do you understand?”
“I guess.”
“Look, sweetheart, if you were an ugly stepsister, you wouldn’t be Maryl. If you were Cinderella, you wouldn’t be Maryl. In both cases, you’d have different personas. I fell in love with Marilyn Monroe Bradley Florentino, not some fairytale image.” He placed her hand on top of the bulge between his thighs. “Do you know how much I love you?”
“Yes. Me too, you. One more question. You’ve seen Delly when I play the tapes from Drew’s show. Are you saying she wouldn’t be adored if she weren’t so vulnerable?”
“That’s an awful example. Delly’s playing a role.”
“No, Jonah. She’s exactly the same off-screen.”
“Maybe vulnerability is one of her assets.”
“Maybe. But I had this stupid urge to grab her shoulders, shake her hard, and tell her to grow up. At the same time, I wanted to cuddle her. Does that make any sense?”
“Absolutely. Maryl, you said you were talking about yourself when you told Delly she needed to stretch. What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do. I wish . . .”
“Wish what?”
“I wish I could create something memorable. I never told you this, Jonah, but I once played a stand-up comic—before we got pregnant. It was amateur night at one of those comedy clubs and I was so scared I almost fainted.”
“Poor baby.”
“Poor nothing. I made the audience laugh.”
“Then why’d you quit?”
“Because I was pretending to be a woman named Miss Wiggy, just like I pretend to be this model named—”
“Maryl, what do you want?”
“I want to negotiate world peace or write a best-seller or solve a murder.”
“Solve a murder?”
“Use my wits to achieve success . . . my brain power. I told Delly you couldn’t buy smart.”
“Sure you can. Would you like to be affiliated with the talk show? Secure guest stars? You could become more involved with my clothing line, maybe even schedule fashion shows.”
“Thanks, Prince Charming, but that was Cinderella’s disadvantage—or her dilemma. Your generous offer is simply another magic wand.”
“Are you unhappy, darling?”
“No. That’s the problem. I’ve found my Prince Charming and passively accepted happily ever after.”
“Why do you consider happy passive?”
“Never mind. Pregnant babble. Speaking of magic wands, I can feel yours growing.”
Straddling Jonah’s body, she began to spasm, proving that happy wasn’t passive after all.
“To hell with Cinderella,” she gasped, “and fuck Prince Charming!”
* * * * *
Back in their room, Jon fumbled with the tiny buttons on Delly’s dress.
“Forget strip poker,” he said. “It takes too long. Let’s play Farmer in the Dell.”
“Leave me alone. You’re drunk and I’m mad.”
“Why are you mad?”
“The horse bit.”
“I was trying to prove a point.”
“Really! I suppose you believe that if you throw someone into deep water, they’ll swim.”
“Well, that’s true. Isn’t it?”
“No. They doggie paddle and look ridiculous.”
“You didn’t look ridiculous.”
“I did at first.”
“But you overcame the odds, honey. This is Vegas and you beat the odds. You had that crowd in the palm of your hand.”
“I had them in the crotch of my panties. In any case, that’s not the only reason I’m mad.”
“C’mon, honey, let’s play Farmer.”
Farmer in the Dell, improvised when Jon had created the farmer-Virginia scene for Duck Pond, was a variation of their dialogue game and the signal for a sexual romp. Delly scowled. “Play your dumb games with Samantha.”
“I can’t play Farmer in the Sami. That makes no sense.” He took off his clothes and stretched out on top of the bed. “Okay, we’ll lick stamps and envelopes.”
“Stop it! No more games!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I saw you and Sami.”
“What did you say?”
“I saw you together, in the hallway.”
“From the hallway? But I locked the guest room door.” He tried to sit up. “You’re right, I’m drunk. Can’t think straight. At first I didn’t want to, I swear. But Samantha called it therapeutic and you were at Pendergraft’s house and I wa
s so frustrated. I know that’s not a good excuse, and I hated myself, and I’m sorry you found out because it’s over and done with. Christ, you saw. Why didn’t you say something before now?”
“You slept with my sister? You made love to Sami?”
Jon sat up and shook his head. “What are we talking about? You said you saw Sami and me. What did you see?”
“Tonight I watched you hug and kiss in the hallway, next to an elevator. Then you danced and kissed again.”
Jon’s head buzzed while sour champagne traveled up his throat. “Jesus, I’m so stupid.”
“The old house. Sleeping bags and snakes. Bugs and bats.”
Jon swallowed. “There was a house. Sami really did want me to check it out.”
“You made love, right?”
“No, Delly, we fucked. There’s a big difference. I make love with you, only you.”
“I feel sick.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“Anyone but Samantha!”
Jon watched with horrified fascination as Delly shivered. Her body altered its shape, shrinking, and her dress seemed too large for her childish frame.
“Panda feels sick. Panda can’t breathe.”
Alarmed, sobering rapidly, Jon staggered to his feet. “Easy, baby,” he said. “Take one breath at a time.” Lifting her, he sat on the edge of the bed. She straddled his lap, sucking her thumb. “Don’t,” he pleaded. He slapped her hand away, caught part of her face, and her thumb popped out.
“You bastard,” she yelped, flailing out at him. Losing her balance, she slid from his lap to the floor.
“I’m sorry.” Jon knelt beside her. “I didn’t mean to hit so hard. Damn it, you were sucking your thumb!”
Delly crept up onto the bed, curled into a tight ball and said, “You don’t hit Panda when she sucks your—”
“It’s me, Sami, hi.” The door opened. “I couldn’t help eavesdropping. Is my sister drunk, Jonny? Or is that a scene from her stupid soap?”
“Go away!” Jon shouted.
“Sure. If you come with me.”
“Are you insane? Get out of here!”
“I’m high, Jonny. Beeson shared his toot and I need to get laid. Delly doesn’t deserve a lover like you. Do you know what she did after I married Jules? She stole my prom dress.”
