Dorothy Parker Drank Here (12 page)

I
t's me,” Pete said, knocking on the door to Ted's hotel room.

There was no answer. He put his ear to the door and held his breath. At last he heard the soft creak of the mattress and exhaled.

He knocked again. “Don't ignore me.”

“I'm tired.”

“So what? I've been tired since 1992.”

“You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“Another thing we have in common. Open up. I brought Hennessy.”

The door opened and Pete thought his friend did indeed look tired—even worse than he had on their last visit. And he feared that, with each passing day, the tumor grew and Ted's chance of surviving the surgery diminished.

“Jesus,” he said, studying the blue-black crescents under his friend's eyes, “don't you sleep?”

“I'll sleep when I'm dead, which won't be long now.”

Pete handed Ted the liquor store package and a box of cigars. “No excuse for the way this place smells,” he said, walking into the room. “You stockpiling dirty dishes?”

“If it bothers you, leave.”

Pete moved the grimy plates from the table onto the room service cart and wheeled it out the door of the room and into the hallway. He went to the window and opened it. “Wouldn't kill you to let them come in and clean once in a while,” he said.

“If it wouldn't kill me, what's the point?”

Pete went into the bathroom, rinsed out two glasses and brought them back into the room. He opened the cognac right under his face so he could experience it—the sweet gas of fermentation quickly blossoming into the syrupy aroma he loved. He took a deep sniff and then poured the drinks.

“I have a new title for you,” he said, handing Ted a drink.

“Duke? Emperor? Prince of Darkness?”

“For
Louse
, I mean.”

Ted straightened in his seat. “You read it?”

“I did,” Pete said. He couldn't resist withholding praise for at least a few beats, because he knew what was coming.

“What did you think?”

And there it was. Pete smiled. He never knew a writer—from the meekest neurotic to the most blustery curmudgeon—who didn't need his ego stroked.

“I wept from the magnitude of your genius.”

“Fuck you.”

“I'm not entirely kidding. Okay, maybe I didn't weep, but I could have. This book moved me. The cross-purposes of Alston and Macy were excruciating. His emotional paralysis was heartbreaking, but her arc felt so unexpected, so . . . hopeful. I honestly didn't know you had it in you. I loved these characters, Ted. I loved the imagery—that house, the town. Everything. It's your best yet.”

“You'll probably be disappointed in the other two.”

“‘Thank you' would work, too.”

Ted lifted his drink to toast. “Glad you liked it.”

Pete touched his glass to Ted's. “Me, too.”

“You said you had a new title?”

Pete swallowed a sip of cognac and let himself enjoy the warmth creating a path to his middle. He put down his glass. “What do you think of
Bad Husband
?”

Ted sipped his drink and considered it. “A little obvious.”

“And
Louse
isn't?”

“I guess it works.” He closed his eyes to think. “
Bad Husband
. I suppose that could grow on me.”

“This one could go all the way, Ted—National Book Award, Pulitzer . . . who knows?”

“Not with my history. I'm a notorious plagiarist, remember?”

Pete took a deep breath. This was going to get rough. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Not this again. I told you, there's just—”

“Those women came to see me,” Pete said. He held his drink in both hands and leaned forward until his friend looked him in the eye. “I know it was Audrey.”

Ted put his glass down hard. “Bitches,” he muttered.

“It was bound to come out.”

“I'll write a letter to the
Times
denying it. My dying words.”

“No you won't.”

“Don't you get it? I don't give a shit about awards.”

“I think you do. And besides, you can deny it all you want, it won't matter.” He stopped and glanced at Ted, whose focus had wandered. He stared into the distance, his brow tight, like he was trying to figure something out. Pete assumed he was going through his options, looking for a way to suppress the truth.

“Ted,” Pete said, waiting for eye contact. He didn't want to drop the bomb without his friend's full attention.

“Hm?”

“I'm sorry, pal, but we have proof.
Hard
proof.” Peter Salzberg
rose and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. “We found the old manuscripts—the one you turned in and the one Audrey doctored.”

Ted knocked Pete's hand away and stood. He went to the window and looked out. He pounded the wall with his fist.

“I know you're angry,” Pete said, “but listen—”

“Burn them. You hear me? Burn those fucking manuscripts.”

“I can't.”

“Of course you can.”

“I don't even have them.”

“What?”

“Those women producers,” Pete said, “from
Simon Janey
, they—”

“Goddamn it!” Ted pulled at his own hair and turned to face Pete. “You listen. Those little shits are blackmailing me to go on that fucking TV show. And for what? I'm supposed to explain how I drove her to it? You think anyone's going to accept that? She'll be torn to shreds. The vultures will pick at her bones.”

“You think I give a damn if you go on the TV show?”

“What do you want, then?”

“You know damned well.”

Ted threw his hands up.

“Like it or not,” Pete said, “it's going to come out. And when it does, she's going to need you. If you won't have the surgery for yourself, have it for Audrey.”

“Oh, please.”

“I mean it, Ted.”

“You think she's going to hate me one iota less when this comes out? You think
my
shoulder is the one she's going to cry on?”

“She might.”

“You don't know shit.”

“Don't you at least owe it to her to stick around . . . to try to mitigate some of the bad press?”

Ted turned back to the window and put his hand on the glass as
if he were trying to hold on to something in the distance. “I'm not having the surgery.”

“You're an idiot.”

“What else is new?”

“What do you think you're proving? Haven't you punished yourself enough?”

Ted sat down again and picked up his cognac. He took a sip and closed his eyes. “I'm not like you, Pete. I don't have a wife and kid to live for. You have two grandchildren, for God's sake. What do I have on this earth? A glass of cognac? A book award? It's all meaningless.”

Pete tried to imagine how much fight he would have in him if it wasn't for his family. He pictured Jacob, the baby, the way he had looked last week when he fell asleep in the car seat, his small red mouth open, a strand of clean saliva wetting his shirt. Babies. Even their spit made your heart ache with love.

It was true—without his family, Pete had nothing. Still, there had to be something Ted was willing to live for. “I'm not ready to give up on you,” he said.

“Now who's the idiot?”

There was a sharp rap on the door and Ted held his head in his hands. “Just tell them to go away,” he said to his friend.

“Who is it?” Pete called.

“Aviva!”

Ted grunted. “If she's here to castrate me,” he said, “tell her it's a moot point.”

Pete opened the door and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I thought you were on your way to London.”

“Taxi's downstairs with the meter running—I have to be at JFK in an hour. Just couldn't leave yet.” She turned to Ted. “God, you look terrible.”

Pete glanced at his wife and could see she was truly unsettled by Ted's appearance. She swallowed hard.

“I tried making a deal with the devil,” Ted replied, “but it didn't work out. You, on the other hand—”

“If you tell me I look great ‘for my age,' I'll rip your heart from your chest.”

Ted bowed his head. “It's good to see you, too, Aviva.”

“What is it—twenty years?” she asked. “No wait, twenty-five.”

“And you've been busy. I understand you now rule the world.”

“A little corner of it.”

“You publish a lot of crap.”

“You always were a snob,” she said, approaching him. She kissed him on both cheeks, European-style.

“You don't hate me anymore?” he asked.

She took his hands in hers and knelt in front of him, looking into his eyes. “Ted Shriver, you are probably the biggest horse's ass I have ever known. You cheated on a woman who would have done anything for you. Then you blew a brilliant career in order to punish yourself. And now you're letting yourself die because you think you'll earn points for martyrdom. For a genius, you are
astoundingly
stupid.”

“You can put that on my tombstone.”

“If it were up to me,” she said, “I would.”

“Why did you come?”

“Despite what you think of my taste in literature, I've always been in awe of your talent.” He tried to pull away but she kept going. “No, listen. I mean it. I think it's obscene that you're letting the world believe you're a plagiarist. If you want to let yourself die because you think you deserve it, that's your business. But as an artist—”

“Okay, I get it. You're an emissary from the literary world. But what the hell do you need my blessing for? You've got your proof. If you're going to destroy Audrey, don't expect me to sign off on it.”

Aviva dropped his hands and stood. “She destroyed
herself
, Ted.”

“I thought you were her friend.”

“That was before I knew what she did. And before I knew she had been lying to me for all these years.”

Ted picked up his glass and downed the rest of his cognac. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Yesterday.”

He put down his glass. “How is she?” he said softly.

Aviva folded her arms. “Not good.”

“Sick?”

She shook her head and sighed. “Physically? No.”

Ted nodded. They all knew Audrey had always teetered on the edge. “How bad?”

“She pulled a gun on me.”

He stared at her, trying to determine if she was serious. “Is that a joke?”

“I wish.”

Ted stood and paced the room. “When she gets scared, she just can't control herself. She's like a trapped animal—she'll do anything to escape.”

“Are you
defending
her?”

“She's damaged.”

“That's my point,” Aviva said. “She was damaged before you met her. You didn't do this to her.”

“I broke her.”

“You were a piece of shit, I'll grant you that. And for a long time I believed you pushed her over the edge. But I see now that she was hanging by such a frayed thread that
anything
could have sent her spiraling.”

“Someone needs to help her,” he said.

Aviva stared at him, frustrated. She shook her head and sighed, and Pete thought she looked like she needed fortification. He offered her his cognac and she took a sip and turned back to Ted. “I don't know if that's possible,” she said.

“Poor Audrey,” he said.

“For twenty-five years ‘poor Audrey' made you take the blame for something she did. Now it's her turn.”

“She doesn't deserve it.”

“Like hell she doesn't,” Aviva said. “Listen, I have to go. I'm sorry.” She gave Ted a hug and looked into his eyes one last time. “If I don't see you again—”

“I don't do sentimental.”

“Okay, then. I'll see you around.”

Pete gave her a kiss good-bye and opened the door for her, only to discover the petite woman producer standing outside holding a tote bag.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I need to speak with Teddy,” she said. “I heard voices, so I thought I'd wait.”

“You could have knocked,” he said. “I'm sure you're very busy.”

“You'd be surprised.”

Aviva apologized to her, explaining that she had a taxi waiting to take her to the airport.

“Have a relaxing trip, dear.”

“Me?” Aviva said. “Never. I go in, I do my business, I leave.”

“Like the Luftwaffe. Bon voyage.”

Aviva waved and disappeared down the hallway.

“See you Tuesday!” Pete called, and then turned to the other woman. “You may as well come in.”

“Delighted,” she said, holding tight to the tote bag that was slung over her shoulder. Then she took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.