The Home For Wayward Ladies (22 page)

I trample Hunter’s heels as he stops dead in his tracks. His elbows pull in tight against his frame, fists and ass both clenched. He refuses to walk farther, so I shove him. “Tell me, Mandy,” Hunter says. “Are there any other fatal fauna I need be wary of?”


She scratches the back of her head and then shamelessly smells her finger. (If she and Danny really are from the same gene pool, my guess is that she’s from the shallower end.) “Naw, I don’t think so. You might come across some black bear, but they’re typically pretty docile. Not to say that you should try to pet their cubs. That’s a good way to lose a tibia.”

While Hunter hangs on to every cautionary word, I find myself preoccupied with other creatures that could also be potentially deadly. “Mandy, do you happen to know when we will meet our producer?”

“Mr. Vallenzino will be at the Meet and Greet tomorrow morning.” She stops abruptly and looks around to make sure the trees don’t have ears. “Why do you ask?”

Looking at the boulder to my right and then back at Mandy’s masculine jaw, I realize that I am caught between a rock and a hard face. It is obvious from her nostril’s fearful flare that we will not venture any further until I’ve given reason for seeking counsel with the king. It’s been such a long day that I worry that if I open my mouth, nothing nice is going to come out. What I want to tell her is:
I want to talk to Mr. Vallenzino because his fucking theater is such a piece of shit that it doesn’t look like it can withstand a tap number without crumbling to the ground. No one has bothered to discuss the details of my goddamn contract, which means I still don’t know if he’s going to try to pay me in sheets of candy buttons. Meanwhile, Hunter has been riding the rag about this guy’s existence ever
since he learned how to pronounce his name. And, lest we forget, I was just attacked by a motherfucking hive of motherfucking bees that didn’t want to sting me so much as they wanted to wave “hello.” To date, the Pocono Show Barn can suck my fucking dick.
“We… “ I pause, “we have some paperwork to settle.”

“I’ll mention it to Frank,” Mandy says. “Frank is Mr. Vallenzino’s son. He runs all of his father’s business endeavors.”

“Endeavors?” Hunter asks, bemused. “I didn’t realize he owned other theaters.” He turns to me and grouses, “Maybe those have running water…”

“Other theaters?” Mandy replies, pretending not to trip over the root of a tree as we start back down the path. “Heavens no. From what I understand, Mr. Vallenzino retains a rather impressive portfolio. However, the Pocono Show Barn is his only artistic endeavor. His new wife Vicki has, um, theatrical aspirations. You’ll meet her tomorrow. She’s your star.”

“Which explains why we had no say in casting,” I murmur. 

“Dare I ask if she’s any good?” Hunter says.

Mandy sighs. “I’m not one to talk outside of school, but between you, me, and the trees, while the woman fancies herself a true artiste, she isn’t any more capable of making art than a dog tied to an easel.”

Big surprise. I add that information to the list of reasons to consider buying a gun the first chance we have to visit the local Wal-Mart. The best I can do is hope that Vicki Vallenzino still has her looks. That way, I can convince her to play the vamp. If she looks good up there, she won’t have to carry a tune, only sell it. “We appreciate your candor,” I say. After we step over the downed tree that’s blocking the way, we find ourselves standing in our new backyard. 

Mandy shows off the joint like she’s Vanna White’s evolutionary regression. “Here we are- home sweet home.”

We have been standing still for no longer than a minute when three mosquitoes have already violated my broiling skin. The itch makes me instantly want to slough down to my skeletal form. There’s a little hill that we must amble down to the reach the side of the house. To say that it is overgrown with weeds is tantamount to saying Marin Mazzie’s mouth is merely large.

“Look, Eli,” Hunter says, pointing to a sign in the front lawn, “There’s a beauty parlor right next door. Mandy, you simply must join us on opening night for a mani/pedi combo. Our treat.”

“Actually,” she says, fidgeting with the lock on the house’s side entrance, “that sign is ours. Frank was supposed to take it down before you got here. He must not have gotten around to it yet.”
Yeah, just like our fucking contracts.


“Is owning a beauty salon another one of Vicki Vallenzino’s wanton ambitions come to task?” Hunter asks.

“Not quite,” Mandy replies. “I wouldn’t trust that lady with a curling iron if my hair was already on fire. This house used to be owned by a woman named Tonya Atwood. She got caught drunk driving, so Pennsylvania took away her driver’s license. After that, she couldn’t get herself to work so she converted her house into a beauty salon. That way, if she was still drunk from the night before, her commute was as easy as falling down the stairs. Mr. Vallenzino bought the place from her ex-husband for a steal.”

“I hope they spent that money sending her to rehab,” I say.

“No, marriage counseling and an RV; let’s just hope her husband does most of the driving. Shall I show you to your room?”

With that, I stumble into Hunter, groping him to break my fall. He slaps me away like his petticoat had been rumpled. “I beg pardon,” he says, “but did you say ‘room’— singular?”

“Duh,” Mandy laughs. “You two are going to share.” What’s left of our good spirits dies off in a choke when she waves her finger in a circle that includes both Hunter and I. “Danny told me that you two are an item, so I thought it might be nice to have some personal space for your private time. After all, the Poconos are the land of enchantment.”

Hunter approaches her squarely as if he’s never been so offended in all his days. “I’m afraid you heard Danny incorrectly. I may not know how much eggs cost in China, but I am fairly certain that Eli and I are not an item.”

Mandy fans her face to help clear away the residual signs of her embarrassment. “Are you sure?” she asks.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in all my life,” I reply, swatting away a fly that’s admiring how much I smell like shit.

“If you two won’t share, then we might have a problem,” Mandy says. “Tomorrow morning, when the actors arrive, this house is full. I can split the two of you up, but you’ll have to share a room with someone either way. I mean, if you’re going to have to share, it might as well be with the person you already know, amiright?” We don’t answer so Mandy prods, “Hello?”

If either one of us is going to have a problem sharing a room, it certainly isn’t going to be me. Thankfully, I have a moment to consider my options because Hunter is still too appalled to speak. If he’s stuck in this room with me, maybe I’ll get the chance to remind him of everything we are supposed to be. With Nick out of my way, maybe he’ll even agree. And even if he won’t give in to my desires, at least I’ll get to watch him pre and post-shower traipsing around in a towel. Again- win/win.

When my mind stops spinning from possibility, there is a trail of many Hunters that each look on me like I am the Lucy Ricardo to their collective Ethel Mertz. His eyes are as wide as flapjacks. They insinuate that I got him into this mess so it’s my job to get him out. He should have known better than to let me speak on his behalf. “It’s no problem at all,” I say. “We’re more than happy to share.”

“Great,” Mandy says, opening the door. “You’re the first room on the left right off the kitchen. I’ll let you two get comfortable and I’ll see you tomorrow morning for the Meet & Greet. 9:30 sharp.” I hear her close the door behind us. It doesn’t sound half as loud as the one that just opened.

27

HUNTER

It is with great trepidation that I approach the Wooly Mammoth lurking by the breakfast table that Mandy has so diligently erected at center stage. The behemoth is grazing on grapes that he picks out of fruit salad with his hairy-knuckled hands. I can tell in an instant, “… you must be Mr. Vallenzino.”

I intend for my hello to carry the authority of a subpoena. He doesn’t stop chewing to respond. “I might be. Depends on who’s asking.” Masticated bits of grape spew forth and settle on the plastic tablecloth. Uncertain as to whether my appetite shall ever return, I cover my mouth on his behalf.

Vallenzino is so lumpy that I have no way of telling where a weapon might be concealed. Therefore, I proceed with caution. “I’m Hunter Collier, your show’s choreographer.”

“So, you’re the one I pay to do the dances?” The fruit juice that’s dripping from his fingers works as additional shellac when he runs them through his helmet of white hair. After wiping himself clean on the front of his un-tucked Oxford, his hand is immediately back in the bowl.

“Yes, I am the one that gets paid to do the dances. But, if you can spare a moment, that’s what I would like to discuss. I don’t know if perhaps you have received my numerous voicemails?”

“I don’t do voicemails. My wife Vicki got me a phone that I don’t understand. If you’ve got something to say, Dance Boy, you can say it to my face.”

“Very well. I was wondering if perhaps you’ve had a chance to complete my contract.”

I should have heeded Eli’s advice and not made mention of the dreaded word. Once it’s already past my lips, it’s too late. The craggy skin drooping around the corners of Vallenzino’s mouth grows taut. His olive skin glistens as he waves a similarly unfriendly face toward us with a grunt. It is the spitting image of his own. The greasy specimen with the same sloped shoulders begrudgingly complies.  

“Frank, this our new Dance Boy,” Mr. Vallenzino says. “Dance Boy, I want you to meet my son, Frank.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Frank.” The hand I extend is trembling, not solely from first rehearsal jitters but predominantly from fear that he looks likely to break my fingers. Additionally, my body has been rendered useless by a restless night that was orchestrated by a constant drip from Tonya Atwood’s old rinsing sink tucked into the corner of my room and a barrage of Eli’s frightful snoring. Frank leans forward to greet me. When he does, the gin on his breath makes my nose-hairs singe. 

Mr. Vallenzino continues. “Frank, tell me why it is that Dance Boy here felt the need to interrupt my breakfast to tell me you’re not doing your job? He says he didn’t get his contract.” Vallenzino’s voice drops into a whisper that Marlee Matlin could hear from another coast. “May I remind you, Franklin Vallenzino, that I expect you to be on your best behavior? Or maybe you want me to regret telling that bookie of yours to screw. If you plan to stay a Vallenzino, you’ve got to earn your keep. Don’t be stupid. Take our new friend here someplace quiet and give him the run-down on our version of dollars and sense.” 

Before I can apologize to Mr. Vallenzino for my (necessary) intrusion, he has already brushed me aside. His sights are set on the platter of store-bought cookies that Mandy is arranging. I feel Frank’s forceful hand on the back of my neck as I am escorted away from the gathering crowd. Eli doesn’t see me blink the SOS. For the first time since the day we met, he isn’t looking my way. Rather, he is contentedly mingling with Vicki Vallenzino, laughing too hard at everything she has to say to acknowledge that I’ve been kidnapped by the woman’s step-Neanderthal. 

The dressing room he corners me in resembles the pictures of Guantanamo I saw in the New York Post. After years of being settled below a leaky roof, its walls appear to be melting from their frame. Moldy, rust-covered pipes are exposed. The smell is unbearable, as if a parakeet had diarrhea after eating eggs Benedict left cooking in the sun. Worried that breathing solely through my mouth might parody my captor, I keep it shut and let him do all the talking.

“Listen to me close, Dance Boy.” He closes the door behind me. I assume that’s so no one can hear me scream. “I’m only going to use my words this once, then my hands will do the talking. Papa doesn’t want to hear anything about this theater that’s not a compliment about his wife, Vicki. I run the business just like you run your mouth.” I bite my tongue so hard that my taste buds taste my other taste buds. “Do me a favor and stay out of his hair. He’s got a lot of things to worry about and it’s my job to make sure you’re not one of ‘em. You see, he’s all up in arms because, last year, the critic in the local paper hurt Vicki’s feelings real bad. He said her dancing was as ‘graceful as a potato sack race.’ Mandy told me that you know what you’re doing. Her word is the only reason that you’re here. Capiche?”

I nod. “By opening night, she’ll understand that ‘finesse’ isn’t just a shampoo.”