Dorothy on the Rocks (32 page)

“Sex is just biology,” Goodie whispers in my ear. “It makes you stupid—that along with the scotch on an empty stomach. Now find your other glass slipper and let's get out of here.” And for once I couldn't agree more.

“Well, then, fellas, I'm going to get going.” I see my sandal sticking out of the magical copse. “I have some appointments this afternoon.” I reach down, retrieve my sandal, and put it on my foot. And then put that foot in front of my other foot and keep walking. I get to the dog run where I find Mr. Ed panting mad.

“How dare you go off and leave me with this mangy pack of dogs!” he barks at me as I fasten his leash onto his collar.

“Sorry, little guy, just momentary insanity, God help me!” Then Ed and I hightail it out of the park with Goodie buzzing along beside us. We get to Central Park West and I stop to catch my breath. What the hell was that about? How did I end up half naked in broad daylight with Todd, the sex maniac, working his mojo on me? Thank goodness for NYPD's coitus interruptus or rather cop-us interruptus. What is a grown woman with two brain cells to rub together doing having sex in the park with a strange man wearing pancake makeup? I feel like I just dodged a bullet—again. I need something to eat. My head is pounding, and my eye is starting to throb.

“You need some protein,” Goodie says. “Meat and potatoes. A good old-fashioned meal.”

“I don't remember when I ate last.”

“Get a good meal. You'll feel better. I've got to scoot. I'm due at a christening across town.”

“Goodie, you knew about Jack, didn't you?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I got the message to call his friend, you already knew Jack was dead, didn't you?”

“I had a feeling.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“A sense of change in the air. A flicker of light that flashes then disappears. A slight disturbance in the atmosphere. It's happening all the time, Maggie, you know that, and sometimes it happens close to home. Get something to eat, and not just pretzels. I'll check with you later.” And off he goes.

A slight disturbance in the atmosphere? Not so slight when you're standing nearby. I wonder how Jack's dad is doing. He must be devastated. And his mother, I wonder if she will fly back from Las Vegas for the service. Jack mentioned her only once when he told me she ran off with a saxophone player and that his dad was suicidal. Geez, it's always the mother.

When I get back to the apartment I call information in Queens and ask for a listing for Eremus.

“E-r-e-m-u-s,” I spell for the operator.

“I have a Donald Eremus or a John on Forty-third Road.”

“John, I think.”

She gives me the number.

“Can you give me that address?”

“142-53 Forty-third Road.”

“Thanks,” I say jotting it down on the back of a take-out menu from the House of Noodles. Luckily there aren't hundreds of Eremuses listed in Queens. I'm sure the name was John. It's got to be. And it makes me feel better, like having his address will somehow keep him safe. I strip off my clothes and jump in the shower. I let the hot water wash away the feel of Todd's hands on my body. Grief is a powerful aphrodisiac and can drive a person to some very unexpected places. Geez, what was I thinking? But I tell myself I'm not going to feel guilty about this Todd thing.
I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. Poor Sandy. Poor me. Poor all of us, out there looking for love in all the wrong places. I don't think Jack was a wrong place, just a wrong time. Chemistry is a funny thing. The elements don't have to be compatible in order to create heat—after all, it takes a lot of friction to make fire.

I scrub myself with a loofah sponge and lavender soap. Should I go to the funeral? What would be the point? I can mourn for Jack in my own way; besides, I was just a detour in his journey, a coffee break along the short road he traveled. A big sob wells up in my throat, I heave a heavy sigh, and the tears start to pour out.

It's almost one o'clock when I get out of the shower. I open my refrigerator and look for something to fill my belly. There is a half-eaten container of Cozy's rice pudding. I get a spoon and settle down on the couch. I eat one tiny bite at a time and let the pudding warm in my mouth before I swallow it down. It's comforting and sweet and milky. A few years ago I became a rice pudding connoisseur. Wherever I went I ordered it, and graded the restaurant by the quality of its pudding. After a few years of investigation I discovered that the best rice pudding in the continental United States is served five blocks from my apartment at the New Wave Diner on Broadway. It's very smooth. They serve it warm and top it with Reddi-wip. It's as close to heaven as you can get for $2.95.

I tried to turn Jack on to rice pudding, but he was a Häagen-Dazs man and had no desire to switch. Another heavy sigh escapes my lungs, followed by more tears, more grief, and more tiny bites of pudding. I finish what's left in the container. I have three hours before the funeral. I don't know what to do. I find my pack of Marlboros from last night and light one. I get a beer out of the refrigerator. Then I remember I was supposed to call Spider.
I find where he jotted down his number. I dial. The phone rings three times.

“Hello,” he answers.

“Spider? It's Maggie.”

“How're you doing?”

“Not great. You told me to call. I didn't want you to worry.”

“Thanks. What's going on? Did you get some sleep?”

“A little,” I say. “I've already been through a day and a half and it's only one o'clock.”

“I see,” Spider says.

“Jack's funeral is today at four. I can't decide whether to go or not. I'm not very familiar with Queens. I wouldn't even know how to get there.”

“The subway goes to Queens. Or take a cab.”

“I didn't think of that.”

“Look, I've got to run. I'm working an early shift. Maggie, try not to drink. That will only make everything worse.”

“I'm gonna try.”

“Good. It won't bring Jack back and it won't make you feel better.”

“I had some rice pudding. That sort of helped.” I don't tell Spider about the earlier part of my day. Or the beer I just took out of my refrigerator.

“Good,” Spider says. “Lay off the scotch and stick to rice pudding. That's an excellent plan. Call me tomorrow.”

“Sure, okay.” We hang up. There's something comforting about Spider wanting me to call him tomorrow. I bet he figures that if I say I'll call him, I won't get drunk and kill myself, and, who knows, maybe he's right. And maybe tomorrow I won't get drunk, but today all bets are already off so I finish the beer.

“I'll think about it tomorrow,” I say aloud in my best Scarlett O'Hara imitation. “Because tomorrow is another day.”

The phone rings and I pick it up. It's Patty.

“Where have you been?” she blurts out. “I've been worried about you. I had a dream that you were in a boat and it started to sink. Isn't that crazy? Anyway, I wanted to make sure you weren't treading water somewhere, waiting for me to rescue you.” Then she laughs. And I laugh too. And then I cry. Big loud sobs right into the phone.

“Maggie, what's wrong?” she asks.

“You know that young guy I was seeing?” I say.

“Yeah, sure.”

“He's dead.”

“What?” Patty asks incredulously.

“Dead,” I say. “Died of an aneurysm three days ago. I was at a monastery in the mountains, and when I got back there was a message from a friend of his asking me to call him, and when I did, he told me Jack was dead. The funeral is today at four in Queens. I don't know whether or not to go. Oh, my God, Patty, I don't know what to do.”

“I'm on my way,” she says without a moment's hesitation. “I'll be there in half an hour and we'll figure it out. Go in the bathroom and rinse your face with warm water and then sit on the couch and wait for me. Don't think about anything until I get there. All right?”

“All right,” I say in a very small, very fragile voice. “Thanks, Patty.”

But she is already off the phone and out the door. Help is on the way. I go to the bathroom, like Patty told me, and wash my face with warm water, get another beer out of the fridge, and then I sit
on the couch and wait. I think about nothing. I take one breath after another, between sips of beer, like I learned at the retreat. Less than half an hour later my buzzer rings. I get up and talk into the intercom.

“It's Patty,” she says back. I buzz her in the building and then open my front door. Mr. Ed runs out into the hall and looks through the stair railing with his tail wagging. I hear Patty making her way up the four flights of stairs.

“Mags, honey,” she calls.

“I'm here,” I say looking over the railing. And there she is, my dear friend Patty. She is carrying some pink tulips wrapped in paper.

“I'm so sorry, my friend,” she says, handing me the flowers. A new round of tears pops out of my eyes.

Patty puts her arms around me and rocks me gently. “I knew you were in need of help in some way. I just knew it,” she says. “I was so worried.”

We go into the apartment. I hunt under the sink for something to put the flowers in. “Let me do that,” Patty says. I sit down on the couch and let her fuss with the flowers. “I'm going to put some water on for tea.” Then she comes over and sits next to me.

“Tell me about it,” Patty says, taking my hand. “Tell me everything.”

And the words come pouring out. I tell her how Jack came into my life and how he changed it and how wonderful he was and how unfair I was to him and how I sent him away and how he came back and how I sent him away again because I was so afraid of how good it felt and couldn't let myself trust it and how I left him a message when I was in West Virginia asking for his forgiveness and telling him I loved him and then the call from
Bob about Jack being dead and then finding out Jack was seeing his old girlfriend again and that's who he was with when he died and how I've been drinking and smoking again after I tried to quit and how I ended up in the underbrush with Todd in the park having sex and how disgusting that was and that the funeral is at four o'clock and I have no idea how to get to Queens or even if I should go because I don't know anyone and I don't want to see the girlfriend but I do wonder how Jack's dad is doing because Jack told me he was suicidal when his wife left so I can imagine what he is feeling now and I'm curious if Jack's mother will show up for the funeral with her saxophone-playing boyfriend from Las Vegas. It all comes pouring out, nonstop, in one breath.

Then the teakettle whistles and Patty gets up to pour the water. “Let's let it steep,” she says, sitting back down. “And let's figure out how we're going to get to Queens.”

“You'll go with me?” I ask, dabbing my eyes.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss this for the world. It's sounds better than the last season of
Dynasty
. I'm going to call my cousin. She lives in Queens and will be able to tell us exactly how to get to the funeral home. You go change into something appropriate, and I'll get the directions.”

I go in the bedroom and look through my closet. I have only one black dress without sequins, and even that seems dressy for a four o'clock funeral, so I put on a pair of black slacks, a pair of strap sandals, and beige silk jacket. Simple yet sophisticated. My eyes are blotchy and my skin looks like I'm about to break out in chicken pox, and the scotch and beer are forming thunderclouds in my head. I need aspirin.

“I have to put on some makeup,” I say to Patty on my way to the bathroom.

“Well, hurry. Angie says to take the number 7 train to Wood-side Avenue and get a taxi from there. It's not too far, but it's too far to walk. It's almost three. We need to hustle.”

I do a quick makeover, but it doesn't help. I'll keep my sunglasses on, which I have to do anyway because of my scratched cornea. I'm sure I won't be the only person there with puffy eyes. I pop three aspirin, put a pack of breath mints in my pocket, and figure I'm good to go.

Patty and I take the train to Times Square and then transfer to the number 7. We make it to the Woodside stop by five to four. We hail a cab and get to Green Lawns Funeral Home ten minutes later. The service is starting as we walk in. Folding chairs and flower arrangements line the walls, and in the front of the room is the casket and it's open. It never crossed my mind that the coffin would be open. I can see Jack's head resting on a pillow, his hands folded on his midsection. I'm about thirty feet away, which is more than close enough. I freeze. Patty grabs my hand and leads me to the back row where there are two empty chairs.

The officiating minister is offering a prayer for Jack and for Jack's family and friends. Then there is sound from the back of the room like someone dropping a bag of coins. Everyone turns around to see a tall woman with jet-black hair, on her knees, trying to gather the nickels and dimes and lipsticks and keys and put them back in her handbag. A fellow wearing a sharkskin suit and cowboy boots is helping her. They are both deeply tanned. The minister pauses in the middle of the prayer to wait for the woman and her helper.

“I think that's the mother and her boyfriend from Las Vegas,” I whisper to Patty.

“Oh, I'm sure of it,” she whispers back.

Mama Rose finally manages to get everything back in her bag, and she and the lounge lizard make their way to the second row of seats. Someone moves over and motions for them to sit down. Mama keeps her head down, not once looking at the coffin; the boyfriend puts his arm around her shoulders and whispers in her ear. Then I notice the man in the front row aisle seat. I can just see his profile. He never once turns around to see the woman who entered in a commotion. His eyes remain fixed on the young man in the coffin. It's Jack's father—the same profile, same broad shoulders, same curly brown hair but with flecks of gray. When he senses that Mama is settled, he nods to the minister to continue.