Dorothy on the Rocks (36 page)

A computer sits on the desk and on the wall behind it is a U2 poster. Car magazines are stacked next to the computer. An empty can of Coke and a half-eaten bag of potato chips are on the nightstand. There is a bulletin board on the closet door with slips of paper—what looks like a work schedule and a Gold's Gym schedule—and in the middle, tacked up with a red thumbtack, is a picture of me. It's the publicity shot I sent out about my gig at Don't
Tell Mama. I wonder if Jack had been planning to come, or had he tacked it up as reminder to stay away from me? I wonder if I had been with him instead of Sheryl when he was stricken if I could have saved him because I am an older woman. I would have known to cradle his head in my lap and call 911 and stroke his brow and hush his fears and ease his pain. I would have kept him alive until the ambulance arrived with the paramedics and the doctors and the surgeons. I would have saved his life. I would have tried.

“Do you take it black?” I hear John ask behind me. I turn. He is standing in the room with two mugs of coffee. “I can go down and get you some milk if you need it.”

“No, black is fine,” I say, reaching for a mug.

“Good,” he says, looking around the room. “I haven't moved a thing. I can't. Not yet. Jack said you were a dynamite pool player.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He said you beat him fair and square.”

“Well, he was pretty good himself.”

“State champion his junior and senior years in high school,” John says with pride. He walks over to the bookcase and picks up a gold trophy and hands it to me.

“Wow,” I say. “I think he might have been hustling me while I was hustling him.”

“I taught him to play when he was a kid,” John says. “There was a poolroom on Continental Avenue, Joey's House of Pool; it's not there anymore. Every Saturday afternoon we would go to Joey's. And sometimes during the week I would pick him up from school and we would go shoot a few games.”

I hand the trophy back to John. He studies it for a minute and places it back on the bookcase.

“I was recovering from an injury,” he says. His hand subconsciously
touches the side of his leg. “So I couldn't play ball with Jack, but I could still play pool. He was good. He was a natural.”

The air in the room is so still. Neither of us speaks for several minutes; we just sip our coffee.

“I guess I'd better get going,” I say finally.

“I'm glad you came by this evening, Maggie,” John says. It's the first time he has said my name. I wasn't sure he knew it.

“I'm glad too.” We get up and make our way downstairs. I take my cup to the kitchen and rinse it out in the sink.

“Let me drive you back to the city,” John offers.

“No, I'm fine. I don't mind taking the subway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “I'll be home in no time.”

“Maybe I'll come hear you sing,” he says to me at the front door. “I saw the postcard on Jack's bulletin board. That's how I knew who you were; you were the face on the card.”

“Sure, please do come,” I say, wondering if I should mention the show this Friday.

“Music soothes the . . .” His voice trails off.

“Soul?” I say.

John nods slowly, his eyes fixed in some middle space of seeing and not seeing.

“Thank you for dinner.” I reach my hand out and John takes it in his. I can't look at his face as I leave because I know if I do, I will dissolve into tears.

“Goodnight, John,” I say quickly. Our eyes meet for a second, and then I turn and walk down the sidewalk and to the end of Forty-third Road and back to the subway station. I stand on the tracks and wait for the number 7 train to take me home to Manhattan.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I sit across from George, my therapist, a cup of black coffee cradled in my hands. No more milk for me. I want it straight and strong. George is staring at the floor, waiting for me to have a revelation. There is none coming. We've been sitting like this for about twenty minutes.

“Life goes on,” I say finally.

“Yes,” George agrees. He looks at me, then smiles, and we lapse back into silence.

“I'm not smoking or drinking,” I say a few minutes later.

“That's good, I guess,” George says.

“I feel numb. I have no desire for anything. Flat,” I say. “I feel flat.”

“That's understandable.”

“I went out to Queens last night. To see Jack's house, and his father was there and he invited me in for dinner.”

“Really?” George moves forward in his chair. “And how was that?”

“It was surreal. I had never been to Jack's house, and there I am in the house he lived in and in his bedroom and talking to his father.”

“What's his father like?”

“His father is grief-stricken.”

“I see.”

We sit for another twenty minutes or so. George glances at his watch and makes a move. I take a deep breath and get up to leave. When I get on the street I realize I'm shaking, and I feel a sensation of being unsafe, unsafe in the world, and mortal, very mortal.

I have to meet with Thomas in a half hour and go over the songs for Friday night. I stop at a pay phone and dial Charles's
number at the gallery. My cell phone is, of course, nowhere to be found. Tosh answers.

“Is Charles there? It's Maggie.”

“Hang on a sec, hon, he's just finishing with a client.”

“Maggie, darling. What's up? I've been worried. I called and left a message on your cell. I haven't heard from you. You're not still angry about the video thing. Chad's a sweetheart and so talented. You'll like him when you really get to know him.”

“It's been a tough time. The young guy I was seeing, remember?”

“Sure. The one that had you thinking about babies.”

“That's right. Well he died. Suddenly.”

“Oh my God. Maggie, my love, I'm so sorry. What can I do?” Charles asks. “Are you all right?”

“It was a few days ago. I'm okay. You know.”

“Yes,” Charles says. “I do know.”

“I'm singing Friday at Don't Tell Mama,” I say. “Sidney asked me to help him out. He needed a show. He's got the hotel crowd on weekends. Do you think you can be there? It would mean a lot to me.”

“Be there? I wouldn't miss it. I'll be in the front row,” Charles says. “Oh, I have an appointment. I have to run. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Just for you to be there Friday.”

“You can count on it. Love you,” Charles says.

“I love you too,” I say.

I meet with Thomas and we work out a running order for the songs and go over the arrangements and practice a couple of the numbers.

“Nothing fancy,” I say. “Let's keep it simple. I hope I can sing for an hour. I feel like it's been years since I've done this.”

“You sound fine,” Thomas says. “Just don't push. Think of it as a dress rehearsal.”

“Goodie always said to sing from the heart and everything else would fall into place.”

“He was right,” Thomas says. “Do you want me to wear a tux or a jacket?”

“Anything you like except sequins. I'll be wearing the sequins.”

“Gotcha. How about a black shirt and jacket?” he asks.

“Sounds good,” I say, getting my things together. “I'll see you at the club on Thursday for rehearsal.”

The next three days fly by. I vocalize and take Mr. Ed for walks in the park and cuddle with Bixby. I drink lots of black coffee and suck on cinnamon sticks, which someone recommended for cigarette withdrawal. I let the phone machine take any messages. My agent calls with some auditions for the following week. I call her back to confirm and invite her to the show Friday night.

“Thanks, Mags, but I'll be at the beach for the weekend. Maybe next time,” she says. I call Patty and tell her about the gig. I also call Bob Strong.

“Wow,” he says. “I can't wait. See you then.”

I call Spider and leave the information on his machine. “And I haven't had a drink today,” I say as if it's a joke, and yet I know it's not a joke. I know it's dead serious. And I've been leaving that message on Spider's machine every day for over a week now. Then I sit and look at the phone for a while. I screw myself into a tight little fist. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Should I call John Eremus? I feel a blush run up my neck. He said he might come to hear me sing; maybe he would like to come Friday. I look around in my desk drawer for the piece of paper I jotted his number down on. I finally find the House of Noodles menu. I have got to
organize my life, I think once more as I dial the number. I take a breath and try to relax. After five rings the machine picks up. “Leave a message at the beep,” John's voice says.

“It's Maggie. Turns out I'll be singing this Friday night at Don't Tell Mama. It's on Forty-sixth Street at eight o'clock. It's short notice. I'm filling in for someone. Just wanted to let you know,” I say and hang up the phone like it's a hot potato. There, I did it.

The rehearsal on Thursday goes pretty well. My voice holds out, and Thomas and I are finding our own music shorthand with each other. I debate with myself over wearing the sequins. Is it too much without Goodie to balance it out? Oh, hell, why not? I have an electric blue dress that looks pretty damn good on me, especially now that I've lost about five pounds. The “grief” diet. It works every time.

The show is at eight p.m. so I get to the club around seven. I get a cup of coffee for Sidney and one for myself at Amy's Bread Shop on the corner. The bar is hopping when I enter. Several well-tanned guys with spiked hair are hanging on the barstools, flirting with Jim, who is behind the bar wearing very shorts pants and a muscle shirt. There are some couples at the tables and a few are leaning on the piano, singing a medley of Elton John hits. I go in the back to Sidney's office. I tap on the door.

“Come in,” he says.

“Brought you a coffee,” I say.

“You're a doll,” Sidney says, getting up from his desk. I hand him the coffee and he toasts me with the cardboard cup. “To a great show.”

“Thanks.”

“I really appreciate you helping me out on this one,” he says. “It's going to be packed.”

“Terrific,” I say. I can feel the dread rising in my throat—that terrible dread known as stage fright which erases all rational memory and leaves you with only the horrid fear that you will be standing on the stage stark naked with nothing to say.

I make my way to the dressing room and deposit my makeup kit on the counter and hang up the garment bag that contains the pretty sequined dress that will magically transform me into a dynamic, confident performer. I check my watch. I have an hour before the show. I walk outside to get some fresh air and exorcise the dread. I sit on the steps of the stoop next to the club entrance.

I look down the block and see someone walking toward me. I'm looking west into the sunset and the figure is silhouetted in the beams. It's familiar, very familiar, and suddenly out of the sunset steps Goodie, full-sized, wearing his long white raincoat and his yellow high-top Converse sneakers. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

“You'll be great, Maggie.”

“Goodie, you're a real boy again!” I put my arms around him and hold on tight. “How is it possible?”

He smiles at me. “Anything's possible, you know that, don't you?” he says, smiling his hundred-watt smile.

“Maybe,” I say.

“You'll be wonderful, Maggie,” he whispers in my ear. “And take care of that precious cargo,” he says, patting my belly.

“What precious cargo?” I say.

Goodie smiles and takes my hand and places it on my stomach, right below my waist. He covers my hand with his and looks me in the eyes. “Happy ending. Like in the fairy tales.”

He kisses my cheek and then the light shifts and he's gone. Poof.

“Maggie,” someone says behind me. It's Thomas. “Ready to rock and roll?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, then look back down the street. People are coming and going along the sidewalk, rushing, bustling through the evening. But there is no Goodie, full- or pint-sized—at least not that I can see.

“Goodbye, Goodie,” I whisper. “Don't stay away too long.”

Thomas and I go into the club and begin our preshow preparations. Billy the lighting guy comes in carrying flowers.

“These are for you,” he says, handing them to me. “Someone delivered them this afternoon. They were downstairs.”

“Thanks.” I open the card.
Sorry I can't be there. I have to work. Break a leg—Spider. P.S. Call me tomorrow.
I can't believe he came by and brought me flowers. It was some kind of miracle meeting Spider in the park the night of the attack. Maybe miracles happen all the time and the trick is to recognize them. I will call Spider tomorrow. I
will
call him and tell him I've had one more day without a drink.

I
T TURNS OUT
Sidney wasn't exaggerating about a full house. It's packed. He has really hooked into the hotel trade. They bring in extra chairs. As promised, Charles and Chad are sitting in the front, and Patty and Jim are to the left of them. Bob Strong is in the back, leaning against the service bar. Thomas starts the introduction to the first song. The audience quiets down. My hands are shaking, but it's more from excitement than fear. At least that's what I tell myself. Then the lights come up on me in my blue sequined dress and I sing and sing and sing. Thomas is great. We find a groove by the third song. The audience is great too. Everything is absolutely great.

For the next to last song of the set we do one we worked on yesterday, “River of Dreams.” For Jack. Thomas plays the introduction, and as I start to sing I notice a man standing at the back of the room. The lights from the bar highlight the side of his face. I recognize him as much by his stillness as by his face. It's John Eremus. I miss my entrance to the song. I look at Thomas. He plays through the introduction again. I come in this time and sing it from my heart. By the end, half the audience is crying. Charles is weeping like a baby and reaches out for Chad's hand. Patty dabs at her eyes with a tissue, then hands it to Jim. Thomas begins the last song. It's up-tempo. The Bee Gees “Stayin' Alive.” It's an arrangement Goodie loved and I have a flashy tambourine solo in it. Some of the audience sings along for the last chorus. Thomas and I bow and leave the stage. I'm shaking all over. I did it. We did it. I hug Thomas.