The Home For Wayward Ladies (37 page)

“Let’s hope that parasite bothers to show up at all,” Nicholas says. “The parking lot’s a swamp. If God can’t control His bladder, that local critic will have to paddle here.” He picks up a towel that he’d placed down on the windowsill. His arms flex as he wrings it into the sink. “I’ve learned not to speak for the rest of you saps, but I didn’t get my eyebrows done for this punim to not be in the paper.”  

“Yeah, Ginny- what’s the fucking deal?” Eli asks. “How about you use that voodoo magic to send us some blue skies?”

“You Ladies have it all wrong,” Robin interjects. “This rain is not Ginny’s curse; it’s her blessing.”

“Hurricane winds and a flash flood?” Eli replies. “If that’s her blessing, I’m glad I never had the chance to cross her when she was on the rag.”

“You’ll bite your tongue,” Robin commands.

“Yes, Eli, please,” I say, “didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s in poor taste to speak ill of the dead?”

“Oh, no, Hunter,” Robin responds. “Eli hit the nail on the head: Ginny was a bitch from hell, may she forever rot in peace. I only take offense to his having mentioned her reproductive cycle. Nobody should have to picture that former bag of dust bleeding from her party parts.”

Eli helps himself to the bottle of scotch so I grab us two glasses. He pours while I ask, “Robin, darling- how in heaven’s name can you call this storm a blessing?” 

“Because I know better. After all, I have lived long enough to appreciate history without becoming it myself. The way the story goes, Miss Ginny had all the odds against her when she built this place. It was the end of the war. When the men came home, they expected Rosie the Riveter to hang up her coveralls and quietly re-tie her apron strings. Needless to say, Miss Ginny wasn’t taking off her pants for any man. During the construction, the foreman treated her like she was just a wealthy pair of legs. He was stupid to ignore her rabid snarl as he purposefully drove the project thousands of dollars over-budget. Mind you, money was of no object to our gal. What made her blood boil was that, with the opening date fast approaching, the foreman’s team was nowhere near done. While the stage crew built the set for the first performance, there wasn’t a roof above their heads.”

“Well, Miss Ginny never let anyone have the last laugh. She certainly wasn’t going to let that foreman be the first one. So, what did she do? She had invitations printed for a black-tie affair to follow the first show. The guest of honor? Why, none other than the foreman’s wife. After the highfalutin wives of the town council got word that they’d been shown up by a nobody, the foreman had his team working from dusk to dawn.”

“Ginny said, ’My Pocono Show Barn is going to open on time— come hell or high water.’ Little did she know that she’d get a bit of both. The storm clouds gathered just as the foreman’s team got the last shingle nailed down. The night of her big gala, a tremendous rain tore through the region. The parking lot had yet to be paved; they’d run out of time. Well, as soon as it got wet, it turned straight to mud. Ginny thought that was befitting for her guest of honor so she insisted that the show would go on. And it did. By the end of the performance, Ginny was beside herself to see that fat foreman squeezed into a rented tuxedo, sinking in the sludge as he carried his ermined wife out to the car. It took him and his team twenty minutes in the muck to get his Oldsmobile’s tires free.”

“That hardly sounds like an enjoyable evening at the theater,” I say. 

“No one noticed,” Robin laughs. “Ginny got everyone so shit-faced before the show that half of them weren’t facing the stage. The point is: that rain proved to one and all that this building would weather many storms. She had constructed a fortress for people like us to call home. Ever since, it’s been a blessing to have rain on opening night. The more the merrier.”

A knock at the door brings us back to the now. “Is everyone decent?” Mandy calls after she’s already barged halfway in. “I hope everyone had a nice séance, but it’s five minutes to places, gentlemen.”

“Five minutes?!” Robin screams. “And here I am with you assholes chattering about nonsense like a monkey in a tree. Mandy, I’m sorry but I can’t possibly be ready in that amount of time. Eli, Hunter, I love you and I promise we won’t suck. Now get the fuck out and let us do our show.”

“It’s probably best that Eli and I find our seats anyway,” I reply. “I know you’ll both be sensational. Toi, toi.”

Eli adds, “We’ll catch you skids after the show,” and blows kisses as Nicholas closes the door.

In the auditorium, a gentle murmur reverberates off the sparse crowd. The people that braved the rain, I am told, had no choice in the matter. They’re prisoners of the retirement village down the lane. Most of the old folks don’t know where they are, let alone the reason why they’ve been soaked to the bone. 

I do spot a few familiar faces- the Vallenzino boys of course, and then there’s Robin’s masseur. “Look, Eli,” I say pointing. “Isn’t that the lady we met at the diner? The one with all that hair. What was her name?” 

“Lorna,” he replies. “I hope that after all these years, this show helps her remember that the theater can change lives.” His mirth, however, is short lived when he spies another face worthy of mention. “And would you look at what else the cat dragged in.” 

I follow the tip of his finger but my view is obstructed by the fossil of a volunteer usher who stands directly in my way. The lights begin to dim. I cannot quite make out the person’s face, but that doesn’t matter; his silhouette is unmistakable. Even after being matted by the rain, that silly trademark pompadour gives Danny Olsen away.

43

NICHOLAS

If you ask a blaspheming Jew like me (which you didn’t, but you should have) stage managers are worthy of canonization- especially the ones you intend to be related to. St. Mandy has done me a real solid and tacked up cheat sheets for me everywhere. She’s detailed my existence for the next two hours down to the decimal. The flow chart even has it highlighted in yellow when I’ve got time to pee. If this is how she runs a theater, I can’t wait to see the effort she’ll put into coordinating my wedding.

For now, however, being married into the shiksa Olsen’s is but a faraway dream. That dream is where I’d rather be when I hear Mandy call “places.” The cast gathers in the wings. I try not to look on them with contempt. With the exception of Robin, I don’t owe them a thing. But if my recent tribulations with my Ladies have taught me anything, it’s that, in our country, you’re innocent until proven guilty. For Hunter and Eli, I want to do good.

“Here’s the way it happens, folks,” Mandy says. “I’m turning on the spotlight and then going out to stand in it to make the curtain speech. When I come backstage after, I want to see a thumbs-up and a smile from each of you. That’s how I know that you’re okay for me to start the show. House lights will cut to half and then they go full black. You take your places for the opening tableau, I hit play on the click-track, and you sing your little ditty while I change into my bear suit. Does everyone understand?”

Vicki, the old pro, is the only one of us who can’t be the bothered to listen. Instead, she’s too busy lifting her tits up in her bra. The rest of us nod toward Mandy politely.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Mandy adds, “the sheriff stopped by a while ago.” For that, Vicki stops fondling herself. Unlike her cleavage, her attention is now undivided. “Someone got into a car accident down the road. Everyone is fine, but the driver hit a deer. The poor thing ran off with the car’s side mirror lodged inside her skull. The cops are on the prowl so they can put her down. The deer, that is… not the driver. If you hear gunshots- keep acting. And, uh- have a great show!”

For all the wonderful things Mandy is, tactful she ain’t. After she turns on the spotlight, she takes the stage. Robin and I rush to Carolyn’s aid. I can practically smell the estrogen in her tears. “That… poor… deer,” she cries.

“Oh, please,” Vicki says. “What you mean to say is ‘that poor car.’ Pull yourself together, preggers. We got a critic out front. I’m not letting you blubber me into a bad review.”

Not knowing what else to do, Carolyn begins practicing her Lamaze. Robin takes the role of coach, telling her to “Breathe. That’s right, honey. Don’t push- just breathe.” Her unsettling dance on the shore of Lake Pandemonium works my nerves into a lather. I need to walk away from her to keep my cool.

“Hey, Vix,” I say.

“Hey, what?” she replies.

“You’ve been around the block. What do you think that critic will have to say?”

“In terms of my talent, me and him have agreed to disagree. But the way I see it is this: we’re the only theater running in these parts - it’s because of me he’s got something to complain about at all.”

I hear Mandy conclude her speech with a line about unwrapping their cellophane candies that makes the audience titter for no goddamn reason at all. “Well, Vix,” I say, “whaddaya say we go give him something to complain about?”

She laughs as she slaps her hand in mine. “Speak for yourself, kid. This time, he’s gonna fucking love me.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

She shrugs. “Then I’ll call the cops and tell ‘em I found that deer. ‘He’s the bald one in the third row, officer. If you don’t shoot him, the suffering will never end.’” 

When she comes offstage, Mandy scans to see our thumbs are pointed skyward. Carolyn’s the last to comply. The four of us huddle near the curtain’s edge to watch the house lights fade. Before I can change my mind, we’re on.

Standing frozen in the opening tableau gives me a chance to count the crowd. We’re hardly at capacity, so it doesn’t take me long. We’ve got twenty-six old folks who may not survive the show, two restless Vallenzinos who would rather be anywhere else, the bald critic with his notepad who looks like he already hates what he sees, and Eli and Hunter who can’t stop beaming with pride. That brings us to thirty-one. Plus Danny, which makes thirty-two.

Wait, what? But it couldn’t be. But, then again, of course it could. But, no, it really couldn’t. And yet it is.

My stomach nearly falls out of my asshole when I look again to see he’s really here. Danny Olsen, the love of my life, is in attendance. And unannounced, no less. I don’t know if I’d prefer to kill him or kiss him. Either way, the sight of him smiling back at me makes me wish that, before the show, I had declined Robin’s last heavy pour. However, if it weren’t for liquid courage, I’m unsure that I’d have any courage at all.

To stop my knees from knocking, I look for an empty seat in the back row. I imagine it is filled by my old teacher, Ms. Constance Bauer. Her kind face lends me inner peace toward which I send her memory all my love. Without her, this would not be my life. Her encouragement remains the reason I am whole.

Things seem to be off to a good start. Vicki’s opening solo is masked by hoots and hollers that her goomba husband leads. When the rest of us come in, Robin even finds his own vocal line. We have achieved what Eli had considered un-achievable: perfect harmony. When Mandy comes on dressed as a bear, the modest crowd erupts in laughter twice their size.  

Everything that comes after is a constant costume change for me. I don’t have time to second-guess myself when I’m stripping off one outfit and putting on another. Whenever time allows, Mandy’s by my side, tightening a pre-tied tie around my neck and shoving me back onstage. Whenever she’s not, I can rely on Robin. That man is the saltiest angel I have ever known and so much of what I aspire to be. His is a world of pats on the back and tumblers full of booze. He makes the inevitability of losing one’s looks seem glamorous, that age is not something worth struggling against, but that which only the deserved earn. By the end of the first act, I feel several years older. I proudly think I’ve earned it.

The last section before intermission is my favorite. It features some primo storytelling by my Lady, Hunter. It’s a medley of familiar tunes he’s set in Central Park:

Lights come up on Robin sitting center on a bench. He plays a lonely old man who is wearing a fedora and throwing crumbs to the pigeons at his feet. All the while, he whistles “Manhattan” to which he remembers the tune but not the words. 

Then I appear. I’m wearing the same costume as him only it still looks fresh on me. He keeps whistling so I sing to him the words his mind has long forgot. “
I’ll take Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island too. It’s lovely going through the zoo…
”