Weep No More My Lady (4 page)

Fifteen minutes later, they were settled in the sleek silver limousine. Alvirah settled back against the brocaded upholstery with a gusty sigh. “Now,
that
feels good,” she announced.

Elizabeth studied the other woman's hands. They were the hands of a working person, thick-knuckled and callused. The brightly colored fingernails were short and stubby, even though the manicure looked expensive. Her curiosity about Alvirah Meehan was a welcome respite from thinking about Leila. Instinctively she liked the woman—there was something remarkably candid and appealing about her—but who
was
she? What was bringing her to the Spa?

“I still can't get used to it,” Alvirah continued happily. “I mean, one minute, I'm sitting in my living room soaking my feet. Let me tell you, cleaning five different houses a week is no joke, and the Friday one was the killer—six kids and they're all slobs and the mother's worse. Then we hit the lottery. We had all the winning numbers. Willy and I couldn't believe it. ‘Willy,' I said, ‘we're rich.' And he yelled, ‘You bet we are!' You must have read about it last month? Forty million dollars, and a minute before, we didn't have two quarters to rub together.”

“You won
forty million
dollars in the lottery?”

“I'm surprised you didn't see it. We're the biggest single winners in the history of the New York State lottery. How about that?”

“I think it's wonderful,” Elizabeth said sincerely.

“Well, I knew what I wanted to do right away, and that was to get to Cypress Point Spa. I've been reading about it for ten years now. I used to
dream about how it would be to spend time there and hobnob with the celebrities. Usually you have to wait months for a reservation, but I got one just like that!” She snapped her fingers.

Because Min undoubtedly recognized the publicity value of Alvirah Meehan's telling the world about her lifelong ambition to go to the Spa, Elizabeth thought. Min never missed a trick.

They were on the Coastal Highway. “I thought this was supposed to be a beautiful drive,” Alvirah said. “It don't look so hot to me.”

“A little farther on it becomes breathtaking,” Elizabeth murmured.

Alvirah Meehan straightened up in the seat and turned to Elizabeth, studying her intently. “By the way, I've been talking so much I missed your name.”

“Elizabeth Lange.”

Large brown eyes, already magnified by thick-rimmed glasses, widened perceptibly. “I know who you are. You're Leila LaSalle's sister. She was my favorite actress in the whole world. I know all about Leila and you. I think the story of the two of you coming to New York when you were just a little girl is so beautiful. Two nights before she died, I saw a preview of her last play. Oh, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to upset you. . . .”

“It's all right. I just have a terrible headache. Maybe if I just rest a bit . . .”

Elizabeth turned her head toward the window and dabbed at her eyes. To understand Leila, you had to have lived that childhood, that trip to New York, the fear and the disappointments. . . . And you had to know that however good it sounded in
People
magazine, it wasn't a beautiful story at all. . . .

It was a fourteen-hour bus ride from Lexington to New York. Elizabeth slept curled up in her seat, her head on Leila's lap. She was a little scared, and it made her sad to think of Mama coming home to find them gone, but she knew Matt would say,” Have a drink, honey” and pull Mama into the bedroom, and in a little while they'd be laughing and squealing and the springs of the bed would creak and groan. . . .

Leila told her which states they were going through: Maryland, Delaware, New Jersey. Then the fields were replaced with ugly tanks and the road got more and more crowded. At the Lincoln Tunnel, the bus kept stopping and starting. Elizabeth's stomach began to feel
kind of funny. Leila noticed. “Good God, Sparrow, don't get sick now. It's just another few minutes.”

She couldn't wait to get off the bus. She just wanted to smell cool, clean air. But the air was heavy, and it was so hot—hotter even than at home. Elizabeth felt fretful and tired. She was about to complain, but then she saw how tired Leila looked.

They had just left the platform when a man came over to Leila. He was thin, and his dark hair was curly but started pretty far back. He had long sideburns and small brown eyes that got squinty when he smiled. “I'm Lon Pedsell,” he said. “Are you the model the Arbitron Agency from Maryland sent?”

Of course Leila wasn't the model, but Elizabeth could tell she didn't want to just say no. “There wasn't anyone else my age on this bus” was the way she answered him.

“And obviously you are a model.”

“I'm an actress.”

The man brightened up as though Leila had given him a present. “This is a break for me, and I hope for you. If you can use a modeling job, you'd be perfect. The pay is one hundred dollars for the sitting.”

Leila put down her bags and squeezed Elizabeth's shoulder. It was her way of saying,” Let me do the talking.”

“I can tell that you're agreeable,” Lon Pedsell said. “Come on. I've got my car outside.”

*   *   *

Elizabeth was surprised at his studio. When Leila talked about New York, she'd thought that every place Leila worked would be beautiful. But Lon Pedsell took them to a dirty street about six blocks from the bus terminal. Lots of people were sitting on stoops, and garbage was spilled all over the sidewalk. “I have to apologize for my temporary situation,” he said. “I lost the lease on my place across town, and the new one is still being equipped.”

The apartment he brought them to was on the fourth floor and as messy as Mama's house. Lon was breathing hard because he insisted on carrying the two big suitcases. “Why don't I get a Coke for your sister, and she can watch television while you pose?” he said to Leila.

Elizabeth could tell that Leila just wasn't sure what to do. “What kind of model am I supposed to be?” she asked.

“It's for a new swimsuit line. Actually, I'm doing the test shots for the agency. The girl they choose will do a whole series of ads. You're pretty lucky you ran into me today. I have a hunch you're just the type they have in mind.”

He brought them into the kitchen. It was a tiny, dingy room with a small television set on a ledge over the sink. He poured a Coke for Elizabeth and wine for Leila and himself “I'll have a Coke,” Leila said.

“Suit yourself.” He turned on the television set. “Now, Elizabeth, I'm going to close the door so I can concentrate. You just stay here and keep yourself amused.”

Elizabeth watched three programs. Sometimes she could hear Leila saying in a loud voice,” I don't like that idea,” but she didn't sound scared, just kind of worried. After a while she came out. “I'm finished, Sparrow. Let's get our bags.” Then she turned to Lon. “Do you know where we can get a furnished room?”

“Would you like to stay here?”

“No. Just give me my hundred dollars.”

“If you'll sign this release . . .”

When Leila signed, he smiled over at Elizabeth. “You must be proud of your big sister. She's on her way to becoming a famous model.”

Leila handed him the paper.” Give me the hundred dollars.”

“Oh, the agency will pay you. Here's their card. Just go over in the morning and they'll issue a check.”

“But you said—”

“Leila, you really are going to have to learn the business. Photographers don't pay models. The agency pays when it gets the release.”

He didn't offer to help them carry down their bags.

A hamburger and milk shake at a restaurant called Chock Full o'Nuts made both of them feel better. Leila had bought a street map of New York City and a newspaper. She began to read the real estate section. “Here's an apartment that sounds about right: ‘Penthouse; fourteen rooms, spectacular view, wraparound terrace.' Someday, Sparrow. I promise.”

They found an ad for an apartment to share. Leila looked at the
street map. “It doesn't look too bad,” she said. “Ninety-fifth Street and West End Avenue isn't that far, and we can get a bus.”

The apartment turned out to be okay, but the woman's nice smile disappeared when she learned that Elizabeth was part of the deal. “No kids,” she said flatly.

It was the same everywhere they went. Finally, at seven o'clock, Leila asked a cabdriver if he knew of any cheap but decent place to stay where she could bring Elizabeth. He suggested a rooming house in Greenwich Village.

*   *   *

The next morning they went to the model agency on Madison Avenue to collect Leila's money. The door of the agency was locked, and a sign read, “PUT YOUR COMPOSITE IN THE MAILBOX.” The mailbox had a half-dozen manila envelopes in it already. Leila pressed her finger on the bell. A voice came over the intercom. “Do you have an appointment?”

“We're here to pick up my money,” Leila said.

She and the woman began to argue. Finally the woman shouted, “Get lost.” Leila pressed the bell again and didn't stop until someone yanked the door open. Elizabeth shrank back. The woman had heavy dark hair all done up in braids on her head. Her eyes were coal black, and her whole face was terribly angry. The woman wasn't young, but she was beautiful. Her white silk suit made Elizabeth realize that the blue shorts she was wearing were faded and the dye on her polo shirt had run around the pocket. She had thought Leila looked so pretty when they started out, but next to this woman Leila seemed overdressed and shabby.

“Listen,” the woman said, “if you want to leave your picture you can. You try barging in here again and I'll have you arrested.”

Leila thrust out the paper in her hand.” You owe me one hundred dollars and I'm not leaving without it.”

The woman took the paper, read it and began to laugh so hard she had to lean against the door. “You really are dumb! Those jokers pull that stuff on all you hicks. Where'd he pick you up? In the bus terminal? Did you end up in the sack with him?”

“No, I did not.” Leila grabbed the paper, tore it up and ground the pieces under her heel. “Come on, Sparrow. That guy made a fool
of me, but we don't have to give this bitch a good laugh about it.”

Elizabeth could see that Leila was so upset she was about to cry and didn't want the woman to see it. She shook Leila's arm offer shoulder and stood in front of the woman. “I think you're mean,” she said. “That man acted nice, and if he made my sister work for nothing you should feel sorry about it, not make fun of us.” She spun around and tugged Leila's hands. “Let's go.”

They started for the elevator, and the woman called after them, “Come on back, you two.” They ignored her. Then she yelled, “I said come back!”

Two minutes later they were in her private office.

“You've got possibilities,” the woman told Leila. “But those clothes . . . You don't know a thing about makeup; you'll need a good haircut; you'll need composites. Did you pose in the raw for that creep?”

“Yes.”

“Terrific. If you're any good, I'll submit you for an Ivory Soap commercial, and right then is when your picture will show up in a girlie magazine. He didn't take any movies of you, did he?”

“No. At least, I don't think so.”

“That's something. From now on, I do the booking for you.” They left in a daze. Leila had a list of appointments at a beauty salon for the next day. Then she would meet the woman from the model agency at the photographer's. “Call me Min,” the woman had said. “And don't worry about clothes. I'll bring everything you need.”

Elizabeth was so happy her feet could hardly touch the ground, but Leila was very quiet. They walked down Madison Avenue. Well-dressed people hurried by; the sun was shining brightly; hot dog carts and pretzel stands seemed to be on every corner; buses and cars honked at each other; nearly everyone ignored the red lights and sauntered through the heavy traffic. Elizabeth had a wonderful sense of being home. “I like it here,” she said.

“So do I, Sparrow. And you saved the day for me. I swear, I don't know who's taking care of who. And Min is good people. But, Sparrow, there's something I've found out from that stinking father of mine, and from Mama's lousy boyfriends, and now from that bastard
yesterday.

“Sparrow—I'm never going to trust a man again.”

ELIZABETH OPENED HER EYES. THE CAR WAS SLIDING noiselessly past Pebble Beach Lodge, along the treelined road where glimpses of estate homes could be seen through hedges of bougainvillea and azaleas. It slowed down as it rounded a bend and the tree that gave Cypress Point Spa its name came into view.

Disoriented for a moment, she brushed the hair back from her forehead and looked around. Alvirah Meehan was beside her, a blissful smile on her face. “You must be worn out, poor thing,” Alvirah said. “You've been asleep practically since we left the airport.” She shook her head as she gazed out the window. “Now, this is really something!” The car passed through the ornate iron gates and wound its way up toward the main house, a rambling three-story ivory stucco mansion with pale blue shutters. Several swimming pools were dotted through the grounds near the clusters of bungalows. At the north end of the property there was a patio, with umbrella tables scattered around both sides of the Olympic-size pool. Identical adobe buildings were on either side of the pool. “These are the men's and women's spas,” Elizabeth explained.