Dorothy on the Rocks (34 page)

“Irene said the cherry pie was homemade and she was right. It's delicious.” Patty says. “Here have a bite. Get ice cream with it. It's heaven.” I take a big bite of the pie.

“Feel better?” Patty asks.

“Yeah. Shall we head back to the big city?” I say finishing off my second scotch. But the scotch hasn't done its job. The spot in the middle of my heart is still aching, my head is still pounding, and I feel stone cold sober.

“You betcha, I'm right behind you. Just let me pay the check. My treat,” Patty says, getting her things together and heading for the cash register.

“I'll leave the tip,” I say. I look around and spot Irene standing at another booth, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. I pull out a ten-dollar bill and put it under the saltshaker. Irene's going to need a little extra for Band-Aids by the time this shift is over. Patty and I catch the number 7 back to Manhattan.

“Thanks for coming with me,” I tell Patty when we part company at Forty-second Street. “I wouldn't have made it without you.”

“Anytime,” Patty says. She gives me a quick hug and then catches a downtown train. I get an uptown train and head home. I notice the clock in the station. It's seven thirty but it feels like midnight. When I get home I get my last beer out of the fridge and decide that this is it. I'll drink this and then I'll call Spider and tell him that I'm quitting this time for sure, because it doesn't seem to be working anymore. I wish it did, I really wish it did, because I could use some help right now. I could use a ticket to paradise. Then somewhere between the beer and my call to Spider I remember my cell phone. I haven't seen it since my trip to West Virginia. I used it to call Jack and then I went up to the monastery and didn't take it there. I look through my bag and then the backpack I took to West Virginia and realize I'm drunker than I think because I have trouble with the zippers. I concentrate and finally get the front one open and sure enough there is my cell phone and as per usual the battery is dead. I get out the charger and plug it in. Then I sit and drink the beer. I'm exhausted and drift off to sleep. Sometime during the night I wake up. I go to the bathroom and then go to the fridge for another beer but there are none left. Damn. Then I notice the cell phone. I unplug the charger and open the phone. The voice mail message flashes. I press 1 and send and put the phone to my ear. It's from Jack. He did call me back. He called my cell because he had the number on his phone. “Hey, Maggie Mae, got your message. Don't be sorry. Life is just a river of dreams. Like your friend Billy Joel says. So take it easy. I'll talk to you soon.” I play the message again. I can't believe it. It's Jack's voice. I take a breath and try to take another and then another. He called me on the day I got back from West Virginia and my trusty little cell phone was jammed in the bottom of the pocket of my backpack and I went to the monastery never once
thinking to check it and then Jack died that Sunday. I lie down on my bed and hold the phone close to my ear and play the message again and again, so it's like Jack is lying close to me, whispering it in my ear, over and over. I eventually fall asleep, but not until the battery on the phone has gone dead again.

Sunday morning I meet Dee-Honey and the rest of the gang at our usual spot. We're headed up to Connecticut to do
Pied Piper
, the show du jour. I'm not in a great mood. I've spent the last few days sleeping and eating, listening to Billy Joel, and watching Alfred Hitchcock movies. And not drinking. Or smoking. And talking to Spider every few hours. I even went to a few of those meetings he keeps mentioning. But so far I prefer staying in my apartment and watching movies.

Today nobody in the Little Britches tribe is in a particularly good mood. At least not until we have coffee and some carbs and get on the road and realize we have no choice, so why not enjoy it? That's the way it usually works. It's like the Stockholm syndrome—happy prisoners. Then we arrive at the theater and the smell of the greasepaint quickens the pulse, and our actors' blood begins to churn because, after all, there is an audience waiting and a wig to be brushed and eyelashes to glue on and a show to be done.

We don't always get it up, but mostly we do because we're actors and we act.

“All aboard,” Dee-Honey chirps in her happy morning voice.
I slide in next to Sam Stoner in the backseat. Sam plays the Piper and a damn fine Piper he is. He has a wonderful tenor voice and he looks great in tights and when he's not on the road with a national tour, he works for Dee. I'd say Sam is close to sixty, but I can't be sure and I don't dare ask. Never ask an actor his or her age, especially her, because you could get hurt . . . badly.

We get to the theater. I don't smell the greasepaint and my pulse doesn't quicken, so it's going to be one of those times when I'm going to have to slug my way through it. “Can we go over the duet?” Sam asks, startling me out of my joyless reverie.

“Sure,” I say.

“Good. I'll find Arnold,” Sam says. Arnold is the composer and accompanist. For some shows the music is on tape and for others we have the luxury of a live piano player. Arnold has written the score for most of the shows in Dee's repertoire. He's a curmudgeon with a genius for melody. He lives by himself in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Hell's Kitchen; his baby grand piano swallows up the whole living room in one bite. At Christmas time he has a holiday party. We all gather around the piano (there is no place else to gather), holding song sheets with the dirty lyrics Arnold has devised for the traditional carols. It's amazing what the Herald Angels sing.

Sam comes back with Arnold in tow. The piano is in the orchestra pit in front of the stage. Arnold runs his fingers up and down the keys with a few arpeggios to warm up. Sam and I stand center stage and do a couple of la-la-las to wake up the old voice box. Then we begin our duet, which is entitled “Rats, Rats, Rats.” It's a lovely song, although you wouldn't know it by the title. It's has a nice two-part chorus that Sam and I do with the rest of the cast singing “rats, rats, rats” in counterpoint.

“Go back to the bridge,” Arnold says as we finish. “You were off the tempo. Don't slow down so much.”

“I need more coffee,” I say.

“I need more money,” Sam says. Then we sing through the bridge again and Arnold finishes with a flourish.

“I love it,” he says. “You're great.”

“No, you're great,” I say.

“I know,” Arnold says. “I'm always great. Now where are the donuts?”

“Your voice sounds wonderful, Mags,” Sam says.

“Thanks, I really haven't been singing much.”

“Well, you should be. You don't want to lose it. It's important for a singer to sing.”

“A lot's been going on. And everybody's dying lately,” I say without thinking. It slips out.

“I know,” Sam says sadly. “Everybody's always dying.” Then I remember Sam's lover died about four years ago. Shit. How could I forget?

“I'm sorry, Sam,” I say.

“People die, so it's important to live while you can.”

“Is it? Even if you can't feel anything?”

“Don't worry about feeling; live and sing, Maggie, sing. Dig deep. Wake up. Praise the Lord and pass the potatoes,” Sam says throwing his arms around me. “Shall we dance?” he asks and then we waltz across the stage like Anna and the King of Siam.

“Half hour,” Frank calls from the wings.

“Let's do a show,” Sam says, hugging me tight. “Live, Maggie. It's the best revenge.”

“If you insist,” I say, hugging him back. “I'll try.”

“And sing,” he says as we head to the dressing room. “Sing your heart out.”

The show goes pretty well except the parade of rats gets bogged down when they make their exit across the stage. Fifteen brown felt rats on roller skates are pulled from stage left to stage right as the Piper lures them out of Hamlin town. Today the second to the lead rat falls over and the rest follow so rather than rolled across they are dragged the whole width of the stage. Poor creatures. No choice but to follow.

I play Fastidia, the mayor's wife, and have to stand center stage and watch the whole scene unfold. The last two rats slide off the apron of the stage so Frank has to jerk hard until they bounce back up and shimmy-shake their way offstage. I can't look at Randall Kent, who is playing the mayor, because if I do I'll start to laugh and I won't be able to stop and then the children in the audience will never know what becomes of the poor citizens of Hamlin town because all the actors will be laughing uncontrollably and unable to deliver the rest of the lines. Finally the last of the rats are pulled offstage and we maneuver our way to the end of the play.

When I get back to New York I have a message from Sidney at Don't Tell Mama. I dial the number.

“Maggie, thanks for calling back. Could you help me out this Friday night? I have the eight p.m. slot open, and I know we'll have hotel people and some regulars. It should be a full house, so we'll both make some money. Tina Rush came down with bronchitis. Could you do it for me? It will be like a dress rehearsal for your show on the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth. I'll throw in an extra fifty bucks.”

“I don't know. I'm not sure I'll be ready.”

“Get back on the horse, Maggie. It's time.”

“All right, I guess, but I'll have to check with my accompanist.”

“Great. This is great. Our Friday customers are steady and I'd hate not to have a show. And you know, doll, you're the best.”

I love it when Sidney calls me “doll.” It makes me feel like I'm headlining at the Copacabana show with Tony Bennett.

“Can I get some rehearsal time?” I ask, getting back to business.

“Sure. How about one to four Thursday afternoon?”

“I'll check with Thomas and get back to you.”

I look through the papers on my desk for Thomas's phone number. I know I jotted it down somewhere or else it's in my appointment book. I really have to remember to put numbers in my Rolodex instead of leaving them on scraps of paper. I look through another stack. I don't find Thomas's phone number, but I do see an address written on a take-out menu from House of Noodles. It's Jack's address, and his father's. Then I find Thomas's number and leave a message. This is good. It will be like a dress rehearsal and sooner than I thought. Like jumping into the ocean in March rather than July. I take Ed for a quick walk down the block and back. Then I feed Ed and Bixby and make a grilled cheese sandwich for myself and sit at the window and eat.

I fiddle with the scrap of paper that has Jack's address on it. An odd thought pops in my head. I wonder what Jack's dad is doing right this very minute. Is he all right? I picture him sitting across from me at the monastery. It's so odd to think that was Jack's father, the man with one leg. Small world? Flat-out minute. I look at the clock. It's past six. I grab my bag.

“I'll be back soon,” I say to Ed as I close the door.

I take the number 1 train to Forty-second Street and switch to the number 7. It's the same way Patty and I went to the funeral home. I study the map on the train and find the nearest stop to
the address on the slip of paper I'm holding in my hand, 142-53 Forty-third Road. When I get off I ask a young man in a suit if he knows what direction Forty-third Road is. He points north.

“It's about three blocks and then make a right, I think.”

“Thanks.” I walk north and then turn and start looking at numbers. The fellow who directed me was right and I find myself on Jack's street in no time. The houses are nice, with well-kept lawns. I pass 138, then 140, and then 142-53, the address on the scrap of paper I'm clutching in my hand. The house has a garage and a small front porch and window boxes on the second story.

It's almost seven o'clock and still light. The summer evening is warm but not hot. It's that kind of intoxicating night air when the sun is about to set and the sky is a calliope of color. I stand still and study the house. It's newly painted, but the lawn could use some attention. Rows of impatiens are planted around the house like a daisy chain necklace. The front porch is devoid of furniture and the blinds are drawn on the downstairs windows.

It doesn't appear anyone is home. Where is John? I wonder. Is he in the kitchen eating a frozen dinner, or is he out with some well-meaning friends, or is he sitting serenely in meditation with his mind bent toward Nirvana? I wish I could see him, talk to him. Ask him how he lost his leg. Ask him how he is coping with Jack's death. Ask him if he is all right or if he is suicidal like when his wife left him and Jack moved back home to help dispel his pain. I let out a gasp at the thought. Oh God, I think, is he hanging from a rafter in the attic? Has he already played his cards and cashed in his chips?

A car turns into the driveway and stops. I don't move. John gets out on the driver's side and slams the door shut. I watch from my place behind a tree across the street. He opens the trunk of
the car and lifts out a bag of what I imagine are groceries. He is not more than thirty feet from me. He goes to the front door of the house. He puts a key in the lock and opens it and disappears inside. I still don't move. He comes back outside, hesitates, and then looks in my direction. He sees me. At least I think he does. His head moves to the side like he's wondering who I am and why I'm watching him, yet maybe he doesn't see me at all and merely cocks his head to the side as a reflex, a response to a slight pain in his neck, a cramped muscle, a movement that has nothing to do with me. I don't move a muscle. He opens his mailbox and gets out letters, a magazine, and then disappears back into the house. I take a breath.

I feel foolish, standing across the street, spying. What am I watching for? An SOS flashed on the venetian blinds? A distress flag waved from the roof? John is alive and well and buying groceries and getting the mail. I can stop worrying. He's fine.