Dorothy Parker Drank Here (10 page)

N
orah pulled Aviva's luxurious BMW into an empty spot on Eleventh Avenue, across the street from the building where
Simon Janey Live
was shot. She wanted to get to Connecticut before dark, but this stop was important. Didi needed to know she was onto something. She needed to know there was still hope.

Norah opened her purse and rummaged through it for her ID badge, which was attached to a blue lanyard. She pulled it from the bottom of her bag and slipped it over her head.

“Wait here,” she said to Dorothy Parker as she threw her purse onto the backseat. “I'll just be a few minutes.”

“My dear, you should know by now that I am never in a hurry. Take your time.”

“You want to listen to the radio?”

“Thank you, no. I'd rather just sit quietly and watch New Yorkers bustle about in their frenetic way. It's a music all its own.”

Norah got out of the car and dashed across the street into the office building, where Mr. Mazzera, the stoic security guard she had known since she started working there, stood like a fixture listing slightly to the right, his arms folded, his gaze watchful.

“Hey, Mr. M.,” Norah said, and he nodded, his eyes going right back to the sacred task of watching for threats. It was as if he were born to keep them safe.

Norah took the elevator up to the fourth floor and pushed through the glass door to the reception area of SJL Productions, where the walls were lined with poster-sized photos of Simon interviewing some of the most famous people on earth. There were politicians and generals, rock stars and movie stars, scientists and preachers. Over the years,
Simon Janey Live
had become an institution. Norah took a labored breath against the pressure of responsibility squeezing her lungs. There was too much at stake for her to fail.

“I thought you abandoned us,” said Patti Garland, the husky-voiced receptionist.

Norah quickly turned, wondering how Patti could think such a thing. But the receptionist was smiling, and Norah realized it was meant in good humor. She gave Patti's shoulder a squeeze before passing into the hallway.

She went straight to Didi's office, which was empty. Norah lingered for just a moment to take in the homey scent of her boss's apple spice potpourri. It was hard to imagine a day when the memory of this sweet smell would dissipate into nostalgia. Her eyes watered.

“I think she's with Simon,” said a voice behind her. It was Marco, Didi's young assistant, and Norah had to fight the urge to hug him and murmur that it was all going to be okay.

She walked down the hall toward Simon's office, but paused as she passed the door to the engineering booth. She pushed it open a crack and peered into the dark interior, where Eli and Cynthia—whom she considered friends as well as coworkers—sat in front of a single monitor, their faces glowing with reflected light. They wore headsets and stared straight ahead, their mouths open like children watching Saturday morning cartoons. Only, they were most likely
cutting video for a promotional spot. She closed the door quietly and continued on.

The door to Simon's office was closed, but Norah could see into the room through the small window. He stood in front of his desk, talking to Didi, his neck bent forward and her head tilted back so they could see eye to eye. Simon was remarkably tall—almost six-foot-six—and was sometimes referred to as “hair handsome.” Norah understood. At sixty-eight, a full head of hair compensated for features that fell well short of pretty.

Didi held still, listening to what Simon had to say. Norah felt certain they were discussing the dissolution of the show and what would happen to the staff. Maybe today was the day they would tell everyone to pack their things and go home. Maybe they were trying to find the right words. Simon put his hand on Didi's shoulder and she nodded gravely. Norah felt a sharp stab of grief that cut dangerously close to the wound left by her mother's death. She knocked lightly on the door.

They looked up at her, and Didi said something to Simon before he motioned her into the room.

“Everything okay?” Norah said as she entered.

“I think you know the answer to that, sugar,” Didi said.

Simon rested on the corner of his desk and folded his arms. “I know you tried following a lead to Ted Shriver,” he said.

Norah tried to suppress a smile, but she couldn't tamp down her pride. “That's what I came to talk to you about.”

Didi's posture went erect. “You signed him?”

“No, no,” Norah said, frustrated. She came to offer hopeful news she thought might excite them, but now it felt like she could do nothing but burst the bubble she had accidentally inflated. “I don't know. I think I have a good chance now. I'm on my way to Connecticut to find some hard proof about the plagiarism. I mean, proof that
will exonerate him. And I think I can use it to convince him to go public . . . on the air.”

The room was silent as Simon and Didi considered her news.

“Ted Shriver,” Simon repeated, frowning.

Didi looked at him and nodded. “That would have done it,” she said.

They continued looking grave, and Norah stood there awkwardly for a moment. What had she expected? Confetti? An embrace? Clearly, they weren't convinced she could pull it off. This surprised Norah; she thought they believed in her.

“I can do this,” she said.

Didi put a hand on her arm. “Norah,” she began, and her tone was so compassionate that Norah wanted to scream. She did not need placating.

“You don't understand,” Norah said. “This is real. I'm following a trail that could save the show. It feels solid. It feels . . .” She couldn't think of a way to defend herself that didn't sound defensive and juvenile.

“What's in Connecticut?” Simon asked.

“I'm not sure,” Norah said. “But if it can save the show—”

“Bubbeleh,” Didi said, her voice a little stronger, “I'm not saying you shouldn't go. Just don't get your hopes up. Our baby is taking its dying breaths.”

Norah shook her head. She didn't want to hear it. “The show may live,” she said, and left.

N
orah hoped that once she inched the car out of Manhattan the roads would open up and she would have no trouble reaching the house before nightfall, as Aviva had warned that groping around the dark attic would prove difficult. But the crawl of rush hour traffic was frustrating, and it was six thirty by the time they merged onto the Hutchinson River Parkway. Dorothy Parker lit a cigarette.

“Would you mind?” Norah said, coughing.

“I suppose you want me to open the window,” Mrs. Parker said, studying the car door. “Is this the correct button?”

Norah took a quick glance and her irritation dissolved, as she realized Dorothy Parker probably had little experience with electronic car windows. “Never mind,” she said, and pressed a button overhead, opening the sunroof—a small feat she thought was sure to impress.

Dorothy Parker looked up, shrugged, and went on smoking.

“I thought that would tickle you,” Norah said.

“My dear, there have been open-roofed cars for as long as I can remember. I'd be more impressed if this damned thing had an ashtray.”

“Isn't there
any
technology that knocks you for a loop?”

Dorothy Parker thought for a moment. “I suppose I found that computer net amusing.”

“Internet,”
Norah corrected. “And
amusing
is a tame adjective for technology that's revolutionized the world.”

“I can't see how it would have changed my life very much.”

“There must be
some
modern invention that would have made a difference in your life.”

Mrs. Parker considered it. “I've heard people speak of
cash machines
. I should like to see one of those. God knows there were times I could have used one.”

Norah laughed. “You know they don't actually print money, right?”

“I'm dead, my dear, not stupid. And speaking of cash, you might discern that your purse is a few dollars lighter.”

“You took money from my wallet? Why?”

“A sad-looking fellow approached the car while you were in your office building.”

“But you didn't need to help yourself to my hard-earned—”

“He was needy.”

“I'll bet,” Norah said, and maneuvered into the left lane, hoping to gain at least a few car lengths.

“Don't be a cynic, child.”

Norah stole a quick glance at her passenger. “Did
you
just call
me
a cynic?”

Dorothy Parker took a drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke toward the open sunroof. “I know my reputation,” she said. “And regardless of what they say about me, I was not a cynic.”

“Not even about love?”

“Least of all, my dear. My romantic choices were driven by the stupidity of hope.”

Norah shook her head and replayed the phrase
driven by the
stupidity of hope
. The sentiment came perilously close to her attitude about this mission they were on. She considered that for a few moments before changing the subject back to technology.

“I can't believe there isn't a single advance that excites you.”

“I've had many advances that excited me. Unfortunately, most of them left in the morning with barely a good-bye.”

They were quiet for several minutes as Norah concentrated on driving and Dorothy Parker finished her cigarette. She released the butt through the open sunroof, and found the button to close it. Then she opened it again. She did this several times.

“What are you doing?” Norah asked.

“It occurs to me that mechanical things have become quieter.”

“At last—something that impresses you!”

“Hardly,” Mrs. Parker said. “If
people
changed, I'd be impressed. Gadgets merely mark the inevitable march of progress.”

“I guess that's why your writing still resonates,” Norah said. “You understood exactly what was timeless about the human soul.”

“Oh, I'm useless on matters of the soul. My expertise began and ended with heartbreak. I had a lot of practice at it, you see.”

“Me, too,” Norah said, “but I can't write a poem to save my life.”

“You don't look like a girl who's had her heart broken very often.”

Norah pictured Eric's face the moment before he walked out the door. He looked so hurt, so disappointed, as if there was something he expected her to say. But what
could
she say?

“My boyfriend walked out on me just a couple of months ago. I think that qualifies.”

Mrs. Parker looked at her and paused. “How did it make you feel?” she said.

“When he left? Shitty. Angry. I don't know. He said things that cut right through me.”

“And what did you do?”

“Nothing. What
could
I do? Anyway, I don't play victim. I just pick up and move on.”

Mrs. Parker was quiet for a moment and then said simply, “I see.” The tone of her voice implied that she understood more than Norah was letting on—perhaps more than Norah herself understood.

“What do you see?” Norah asked.

“When this man left, you weren't heartbroken, you were insulted. There's a difference.”

“I think you're splitting hairs.”

“I think you've never been in love.”

Norah tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Of course I've been in love.”

“Fine. What do I know?”

“Okay, maybe I wasn't in love with Eric. That doesn't mean I'm incapable of it.” Her eyes burned as she remembered how his parting words had pierced her. But later, her hurt had turned to anger because she realized he had never understood her. It wasn't that she had
no
feelings but that she had too many.

Norah swallowed against a knot in her throat and did what she always did when pain threatened to overwhelm her—she drove forward. Only, this time she did so literally. The road opened up at last, and she gave the fierce engine a burst of gas and let the speedometer fly.

She was so focused on the road she almost didn't notice the light tapping on her shoulder. “What is it?” she said.

“Slow down.”

“No,” she said, and kept pressing forward. Now that the traffic was clear, she wanted to make good time.

“Slow down,” Mrs. Parker repeated.

“There hasn't been a cop for miles,” Norah said, “and we need the sunlight. I'm not slowing down until we get there.”

“I understand,” said Dorothy Parker, “but I think you just missed the turnoff.”

—

T
he unplanned detour was only a few minutes, but by the time they arrived the sun was low in the sky, and Norah knew that darkness was imminent.

Aviva and Peter's house was set back from the road at the end of a long driveway. The simple exterior—pale gray clapboard with white trim—wasn't particularly inspiring, but once Norah put the key in the door and let them in, she understood the charm of this waterfront country home. It was an open floor plan straight to the back of the house, where large picture windows framed a vista of the dusky blue Long Island Sound stretching across the horizon.

“Lovely,” said Dorothy Parker, walking directly toward the back. “Look, dear. There are chairs and a table facing the water. We should relax with a glass of wine out there before we begin.”

“Not a chance,” Norah said.

“Didn't Aviva say we were free to help ourselves? She mentioned a bottle of Bordeaux.”

“We have less than an hour of sunlight left,” Norah said. “We need to go straight up to that attic. If you want to relax on the deck, it'll have to wait.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Parker. “We'll get right to work. But afterward, I want to see what modern technology has done with a simple gadget that never really needed improving: the corkscrew.”

Norah found a lantern flashlight and gloves, per Aviva's instructions. She put the tote bag strap over her shoulder and carried everything upstairs to the quaintly decorated guest bedroom, which had access to the attic through a panel in the ceiling. She pulled on a rope to let down the ladder.

Norah knew the attic would be dusty, but it was worse than she
had imagined. Everything was coated in a mossy gray layer. There was no charm to the scene—no rocking chairs or antique cribs or precious old steamer trunks. Most of the space was filled with cardboard boxes and oversized paintings—or what she guessed were paintings—wrapped in kraft paper. There was also an old headboard, a television, and several large trash bags. A square window in the far corner let in a dramatic slash of sunlight.

Norah hung the lantern flashlight from a hook in the ceiling and approached the cartons stacked against the far wall.

“We're looking for something marked ‘Manuscripts seventy-nine to eighty-one,'” she said, and ran her gloved hand over a box to brush away the dust, which she could already feel in her throat. The neat block printing read
TAXES/FINANCE 1990s
. The next box read
SCRAP FABRIC
.

“I guess the dust doesn't bother you,” she said to Dorothy Parker.

“Not a bit.”

“Good. You start on that side of the room.” Norah wiped another carton and the dust was so noxious to her lungs that she pulled her shirt over her nose and mouth as she continued working. She had only cleared six more boxes when she realized she had to leave the room for some fresh air.

“Be right back,” she said, descending the ladder. She went into the kitchen to pull off the gloves and splash some water on her face, reminding herself that healthy people didn't choke to death from inhaling dust. She was strong enough to cough up whatever got in her lungs.

Norah cleared her throat and went back up the ladder, only to discover that Dorothy Parker had disappeared.

“Great,” she muttered, angry that she had to do it all herself while Dorothy Parker became one with the dust. Norah cleared box after box, trying to ignore the coating in her throat. She dragged several across the floor so she could get to the ones in back. So far, she didn't
even find anything related to publishing. They were all personal items—photo albums, trophies, vases, books, records, and old files.

The sun was getting lower in the sky, and she could barely read the labels as the lantern cast only a small pool of light. Soon, she'd have to find a flashlight to decipher the words. A couple of dry coughs turned into a full-blown fit that left her dizzy. She didn't want to go downstairs again and waste precious sunlight time, so she continued on, trying to keep her mouth shut tight and breathe only through her nose.

She quickly cleared four more boxes, but it was now too dark to read the writing; it was time to find that flashlight.

There was nothing in the cupboard where she had found the lantern and gloves, but she struck pay dirt under the kitchen sink—a heavy, black Maglite. She pushed the button to turn it on and nothing happened; the batteries were dead. She spent the next fifteen minutes looking for replacements, but came up empty. She wished she had thought to ask Aviva for her phone number.

Norah helped herself to a glass of cold water from the refrigerator dispenser, then went back up the ladder, hoping the dim light of her cell phone would be enough to help her read the labeled boxes. She cleared the dust off a carton, held her phone up to it, and was excited to discover that it said
LITTON PRESS/1976–1978
. At last—she was getting close!

Norah imagined confronting Ted with the smoking gun that exonerated him and convicted Audrey. He would be furious at being forced to tell the truth, but he would do it. Ted would feel it was his duty to go on live TV and explain that he had driven her to it. Norah could envision him sitting across from Simon Janey, holding on to the arms of the chair as the interviewer leaned forward and asked the questions America wanted to hear.

Norah's cell phone emitted a low-battery warning sound. Worse,
the lantern hanging from the ceiling was getting dimmer. There wasn't much time.

She managed to clear the dust from three more boxes, but her cell phone went completely dead. She retrieved the lantern and brought it closer, hoping she had struck gold, because she knew this was her last chance. Unfortunately, the boxes were even older, dating back to 1974.

It was now too dark to search. She went back down the ladder to think, and to run through her options. She could keep looking through the house for more batteries or flashlights. Maybe there was even an extension cord that would enable her to run one of the bedroom lamps into the attic. If all else failed, she could get back in the car and try to find a local drugstore that was open late.

While scrounging around in the kitchen drawers she found a charger that was compatible with her cell phone, so at least there was that.

“I don't know if you can hear me,” she shouted up into the dark attic, “but I'm running out to see if I can buy some batteries. If you have any sense at all, you'll keep looking while I'm gone. The sooner we find that box, the sooner we can leave.”