Dorothy on the Rocks (21 page)

“What would have happened if Ed hadn't been there? You are so lucky.”

“I know, Sandy.”

We start down the stairs. When we get out front, Sandy sits down on the stoop and puts on her Rollerblades.

“Beautiful day,” she says.

“Absolutely,” I agree. Sandy and Ed go east toward Central Park and I head west.

“Oh, by the way,” Sandy says, turning back for a moment. “Dick and I are going away—spur of the moment. Four days in the Caribbean. Do you think you could take care of Ed? I know it's short notice but since, you know . . .” She trails off, not saying the obvious.

The obvious being “since he saved your life”—as in, since he saved my life I am now an indentured servant to his owners. I feel manipulated, but who am I to squawk? He did come through for me in a big way.

“Of course, no problem,” I say. I look down at Ed. “My pleasure.”

And Ed takes this moment, as if on cue, to run over and lick my knees.

“Sweet,” I say.

I get a paper at the corner deli on my way to the park. Goodie is buzzing along beside me.

“Well that's done, now we have to concentrate on Jack,” he twitters.

“Goodie, I don't think Jack is going to be back,” I say, sorry the unintentional rhyme makes the statement sound comical, because there is nothing comical about it. I know Jack is gone for good this time. Why would he come back to a lying sourpuss like me?

“I think he deserves an apology, and then you never know. Sugar attracts more flies than . . .”

“Don't finish that phrase, please, I'm all chicken-souped out this morning. I don't want to hear one more aphorism.”

“Well, then fine, I'll be on my way. I won't worry about you anymore. A fairy godmother knows where he isn't wanted, even if he is needed, but you'll see, oh yes, dear, you'll see,” Goodie says as he flies off into the morning.

“Is this a curse? Are you putting a curse on me?” I yell after him. Fairy godmothers (aka god-queens in Goodie's case) can turn on a dime. One minute they're all in pink chiffon, waving magic wands, and the next they're wearing deep purple and riding brooms.

“Maggie, is that you?” a voice behind says.

I turn too quickly. I'm still very jumpy.

“It's me, Bob, I didn't mean to scare you. I thought it was you. I've been following you since you turned into the park. You walk fast. Are you power-walking? It's the best exercise isn't it? You remember Piper, don't you?”

Piper is, of course, the teacup poodle yapping at my feet. He's so tiny and yet so noisy.

“Of course I do.” I kneel and pet his head. “How are those kidney stones, little fellow, all cleared up? They don't seem to have affected your enthusiasm.”

Piper is dancing up and down and up and down, yapping a blue streak.

“Oh, he's fine and dandy,” Bob says. Fine and dandy. There's that silly phrase that came to me in my time of need and gave me comfort. I told Jack I would be fine and dandy. And I am, aren't I? I'm fine and dandy, just like Piper.

“Mind if I walk with you a while, Bob? We haven't had a chance to catch up. What's going on with you, my friend?”

Bob coos in appreciation of the attention. I suspect a lot of
people dismiss Bob quickly, anxious to get away from his perpetual good cheer and, like me, seek their daily comfort in more cynical places. But today I am in need of cheer and Bob is what the doctor ordered, in a small dose, of course, and to be taken only until the symptoms subside.

“Well, I got a job as company manager for a tour of
42nd Street.
It's going to Japan. I'm so excited. The cast is first-rate. And I love the Japanese culture. And I'm very into sushi. What are you doing? Anything coming up?”

“I have a club date at Don't Tell Mama.”

“Oh my goodness. I just saw Mary Ballou at Rainbow and Stars. You know I was the assistant stage manager when she did
Sunset Boulevard
on Broadway. What a magnificent voice!”

Bob chirps on about Mary Ballou and the tour and a new low-carb diet he's on. We get to Seventy-second Street and he and Piper have to take off.

“I have rehearsal at nine o'clock. It was great to see you, Maggie. You're the best. You have me on your mailing list, don't you? I'll be there, if I can. I'd love to hear you again. It's been a while. And you look great, never better. Life is good, isn't it? What a glorious day! Enjoy.”

And off he goes. Thank God, because, truthfully, a girl can take only so much good cheer, no matter what the doctor says.

I sit on a bench by the river and open the paper. I glance through the national news, read page six, and then turn to the sports page. The Yankees are in second place in the American League. Boston is in first, but that won't last. I look out over the river and take a deep breath. Life is good, I concede, like Bob says, and on any given day those of us still standing are lucky as hell even if it doesn't feel like it.

W
HEN
I
GET BACK
to my apartment I go the kitchen and open the cupboard over the sink where I know a bottle of red wine is standing at the ready. Ready for me. It's good for you—four out of five doctors say so. I pour a glass. I'll sip it. To take the edge off. I sit by my window and sip it for an hour. The bottle is empty and the edge has melted and gone runny and sentimental.

I pick up the phone and dial Texas Joe's number. A woman's voice answers. His new wife. “Hello,” she says with a warm southern twang. She sounds nice. I wonder why she is home and not in her office filling someone's cavity or executing a painful root canal.

“Grandma? Is that you, dear?” I ask innocently.

“Oh, I'm sorry you must have the wrong number,” she seems to hesitate but says it very nicely.

“Really? I'm calling long distance. Damn is this . . .” I recite the number and reverse the last two digits. Honest mistake.

“No this is . . .” and she gives me her number.

“Thank you so much. I'm sorry to inconvenience you.”

“No problem,” she says almost like asking a question and hangs up before I have a chance to continue my charade. Well, that's kind of rude. Yes, she was helpful, but isn't it rude to hang up before formal goodbyes have been exchanged? That's so like Joe to get himself a woman with minimal manners, not like me, the absolute definition of politeness.

I look through my Rolodex and find Joe's cell phone number. The phone rings and she answers again. She answers Joe's personal phone. Has she done away with him? Killed him for his money? Why the fuck is she answering his phone?

“Mr. DePugh?” I ask in my best-disguised phone voice.

“I'm sorry, Mr. DePugh isn't available at the moment. May I take a message?”

“No thank you. I'll try him later,” I say in an officious tone and hang up. There, I showed her, I guess.

Three minutes later my phone rings. It's Joe.

“What do you want?” he asks, irritation dripping off the words. How dare he? How dare he be irritated at me! He's the one who went off and got hitched and left me alone.

“What do you mean?” I ask right back with as much irritation.

“You called the house and then you called my cell and you pretended to be someone else. We have caller ID for crap's sake, Maggie. Look, I don't want to be angry, but you can't do this. My wife doesn't care if you call me. She knows all about you. Just leave your name and I'll call you back. Don't complicate it or make it dramatic. I don't have any secrets from Ruth. It's okay if you call me.”

“Really? Did you tell her about the time we made love in the hot tub at Disney World? Remember? I was wearing my Minnie Mouse ears and nothing else. And you said you would never love anyone the way you loved me? Did you tell her that?”

“Maggie, we're leaving for the airport. We're going to Hawaii for ten days. I can't talk right now.”

“Fuck you, Joe.”

“Are you drunk? Is that what's going on? Are you drunk and feeling down? I understand, but there is nothing I can do for you, kid.”

“Don't you fucking call me kid. Don't you ever do that again. And don't you ever call me again.”

“You called me.” Joe's voice is louder.

“Well I won't ever again,” I shout back. “Oh and I've been seeing Goodie. You do remember your brother Goodie, don't you?”

“What do you mean, you've been seeing him?”

“Well, he's smaller now, about eight inches high. He tells me he's living in the Barbie department at Toys R Us. He's got the cutest outfits.”

“Maggie, you're worrying me. Goodie is dead. A long time now.”

“I know he is d-e-a-d. But he's come back. He's my fairy god-queen or whatever. He was assigned to my case. He's helping me.”

“Helping you do what?”

“Get by . . . in this little old life of mine. I'm going to sing again. I've got a club date. Goodie's helping me. Remember when we used to sing. We sang all the Beatles.”

“Maggie, you are drunk, aren't you?”

“No,” I lie. “I'm just . . . just lonely.”

There is a long pause. I hear Joe take a couple of deep breaths. I feel my face tighten up into an angry fist. Then very quietly Joe says, “I've got to go. I'm sorry, Maggie, and I'm sure Goodie would help you if he could. He loved you. And I love you but things changed. I am sorry I can't be there for you right now, but it was inevitable.”

“Oh really? Well so is this.” And I slam down the phone. Done. Over. Shit.

I stagger into my bedroom and open the top dresser drawer. Under the jewelry tray are stashed four oversized Valentines from Joe, along with an empty matchbook. It's from Flamingo Vic's Tex*Mex*Tropical Restaurant, Deep Ellum, Texas. Joe left it at my apartment after our first night together. He flew back to Houston the next day and I didn't see him for another week. He left the
matchbook beside the bed. It was like a talisman until I saw him again. So here it is, stashed in the dresser with the Valentines and a pair of rhinestone earrings Joe gave me for Christmas the first year we were together.

I sit and finger the matchbook. I open and close it and hold it against my face. I breathe deeply and take the empty matchbook into the kitchen and place it in the sink along with the four oversized Valentines, then I deactivate the smoke alarm in my apartment, which goes off at the least provocation. Ceremoniously I light a match to the whole mess and stand and watch it burn. The Valentines curl up, the matchbook turns black. I run water over it and stuff the charred remains into a plastic bag and put them in the trash can. I keep the rhinestone earrings. A girl has to have something to show for the pain. Chapter closed.

Two hours later I wake with a start. It's five in the afternoon and I have one of those dull wine headaches. God, this day started out much better than it ended up. It seems like a month ago that I saw Bob Strong and heard his message of cheer. Life is good. Ugh. My stomach is growling like a Bengal tiger. I pick up the phone and dial information. I wish there was an eight hundred number like 1-800-BRING FOOD. Nothing specific, whatever is in the oven that night. I'm not a picky eater, but I am impatient. I get the number for the Chinese place up the street. I've gotten the number a hundred times but I always forget to write it down. I punch it in and order. Instant gratification. A half hour later I'm eating House of Noodles sesame chicken. It's so good I can't help but moan. Wait until I tell Goodie what a son of a bitch his brother is. And, of course, Joe wouldn't believe Goodie was back. He has no, none, nada imagination. He's a
civil fucking engineer. Well, I'll show him. I'm going to clean up my act. I'm going to be a big star and then Joe will be sorry he left me. Sorry he stayed in humdrum old Houston. I'll show that son of a bitch. I stuff the last of the chicken in my mouth and then slink off to bed.

The next morning I get up and get rid of all the liquor in my apartment, including my last three bottles of Rolling Rock. I take my pack of cigarettes and crush them up and flush them down the toilet. If I'm going to burn some bridges I might as well burn them all. Fresh start. I put on my power-walking togs and head to Central Park. It's nine in the morning and the sun is shining. I fear no evil. I set a good pace. I swing my arms and keep my head high. Life is good, life is good, life is good. This is where I came in yesterday morning, before the red wine sucked my brain out. I have a terrible headache but I concentrate on not thinking about it and just breathing. I run/walk by Bethesda Fountain and stop in front of the
Angel of the Waters
and say a silent prayer.

“Please purify me like you purify the waters. Let me be washed clean so I can start fresh.” The Angel's face is radiant in the morning sun and for a moment it seems she inclines it slightly in my direction. I bow my head and take a deep, long breath and then run/walk home. I'm meeting Dee-Honey and the cast at noon. We're going up to Stamford to do
Pinocchio,
in which I once again
play the Blue Fairy who turns our diminutive hero into a “real boy.” Never an easy task considering the little fellow is played by Eddie who is sixty-five years old, or rather sixty-five years young as the saying now goes—but young or old Eddie's still sixty-five. I pop three aspirin and drink a big glass of water.

The children's theater is fast becoming full-time employment, which is just as well. Summer is always slow in the commercial voice-over business. I haven't heard a word from my agent lately. I also haven't heard from Jack. Even my fairy god-queen has deserted me.

“Goodie,” I say out loud in case he's lurking about and listening. “Look, I'm sorry. I have been having a hard time, as you know, but I'm cleaning up my act and I would love to see your little face.”

No answer, no flutter of wings, no sprinkle of fairy dust. Oh well, guess I'm on my own. At noon the station wagon is waiting on the corner of Ninety-sixth Street. “Don't anybody give me a cigarette today, even if I beg,” I announce to my fellow actors as I climb into the backseat of the station wagon. “I've quit smoking as of early this morning so don't give me one no matter what. Okay?”