Dorothy Parker Drank Here (16 page)

B
aseball was one of the few things Ted Shriver could still lose himself in, and this was a good game. The Yankees were playing the Mets at Shea, and were up by one. It was the bottom of the fifth, the tying run was on second, and Pettitte was pitching.

Someone knocked on his door. He ignored it.

Lo Duca—a hard guy to strike out—was at bat. Pettitte threw a fastball and the scrappy Met was all over it. He swung and hit a high fly to deep right field and it sailed over the fence.

The knocking came again.

“Goddamn it,” Ted muttered, and kept his eyes on the screen as the runners rounded the bases and the Mets took the lead.

The person outside the door rapped about ten times in fast succession, and Ted couldn't help feeling like the intruder had somehow ruined Pettitte's pitch.

“Drop dead!” he called.

“Ted,” he heard a familiar female voice say. “It's me.”

He muted the television and listened. It couldn't be, could it?

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

It
was
her. He hadn't heard that voice in decades, but there was
no mistaking it. He ran a hand through his overgrown hair and straightened out his shirt. He wasn't trying to look good, just less pitiful.

Ted opened the door, and there stood Audrey. She looked small and frail. Still pretty, but older, with a deep crease in her brow. And those eyes were the same—intense, worried, unforgiving. As sick as he was, her daintiness still made him feel bulky and potent.

“Oh my God,” she said, “you look—”

“Like shit. I know.” He stood straighter in the doorway.

“I didn't mean that. They told me you were sick.”

“They were right.”

She eyed him up and down. “Your clothes,” she said. “It looks like you slept in that shirt.”

He glanced down. There were sharp creases everywhere. “I did.”

Audrey squinted, like she was trying to think of something to say. She smoothed her hair, and he understood that she felt self-conscious and unattractive. “I got old.”

“You look fine, Audrey.”

She glanced away for a second and then stared back at him, a hint of hurt and accusation in the tension around her eyes. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and it was the word
fine
that had done it. Ted had always held back, never giving her the compliments she craved. Why did he do that? Why couldn't he tell her she looked pretty, or even
good
? But no, he had said she looked
fine
, a weak and noncommittal word, devoid of flattery.

And he knew she wasn't just insulted, she was disgusted that he hadn't changed. She shook her head slightly, and there was communication in that, too. She was letting it go.

Audrey adjusted the shoulder strap on her bag—a big red satchel—and he saw that there was a small puppy inside.

“What's that?” he said.

She pulled out the tiny dog, which was about half the size of a
meatball hero. “He's a Cavalier King Charles spaniel,” she said, kissing it on the head.

“I thought you hated dogs.”

“People change.”

“No they don't.”

She ignored the remark. “You want to pet him?”

He didn't, but he reached out and ran his rough thumb over the dog's small, silky head.

“I got a lead on a story,” she said.

“I heard.”

“That's why I'm here. You're my star witness.” She gently put the dog back in her purse. He licked her hand and she smiled. She looked up at Ted and her expression turned serious. “I know why they gave me the story—as a favor to you.”

“More of a bribe than a favor, but what difference does it make?”

She shrugged. “I need the work. I wasn't in a position to turn it down.”

“It's a big story,” he said. “You'll be a star.”

“I don't know. Once the truth about
Settlers Ridge
comes out I'll be the most hated woman in America.”

He knew she was right, but he was still trying to figure out a way to mitigate the damage. “I'll take all the blame,” he said. “I'll go on that damned TV show. I'll tell them I drove you to it.”

“You think martyring yourself is going to make it better? Face it, Ted, I'm ruined.” Her eyes filled with tears. She took the puppy out of her purse again and handed it to Ted. “Hold him for a second,” she said, rummaging through the various compartments. Finally, she pulled out a linty tissue and wiped her nose. “It wasn't my fault.”

He nodded. They both understood what she meant. He had been crueler and crueler to her, and nothing she did could touch him. When he got drunk and insulted her, she stopped talking to him for a week and he acted as if he were happy about it. When he flirted
with a young writer at a party and she begged him to never do it again, he laughed. After he cheated on her for the first time and she threatened to leave him, he promised he would change. But then he finished writing
Settlers Ridge
, and after she typed the entire manuscript for him, proofread it, photocopied every page, and sent it off to Litton, he went on a bender for three days, and the only time she heard from him was when he drunk-dialed her from another woman's bedroom.

Of
course
she took revenge. She had been hanging by a loose thread to begin with, and he frayed it bit by bit until she finally snapped. So they both knew it wasn't her fault, but the world would have a hard time believing it.

“You married a real son of a bitch,” he said, handing the dog back to her. It was as close as he could come to an apology.

She nodded. “I know.”

“You should have cashed those checks I sent you.”

“You didn't owe me anything.”

“I wish they hadn't found those manuscripts,” he said.

She cuddled the dog for comfort. “It's Aviva's fault. She kept them all these years.”

“Aviva had no idea,” he said.

She put the dog back in her purse and let out a long breath. “You're right. I just . . . I don't know what I'm going to do.” Her eyes filled with tears and Ted remembered how he felt when he met her. She was such a fragile, needy thing. She was his chance at redemption. He had been such a prick to Marlena. With Audrey, he was going to make up for all that. Then he destroyed her.

She dabbed at her nose with the disintegrating tissue and it was more than he could take. “Do you want to come in?” he asked.

“Why?”

He rubbed the stubble on his face. “Because we need to talk about getting rid of those manuscripts.”

D
idi gave Norah a massive hug. “I knew I did good when I hired you,” she said.

Norah returned the embrace and almost didn't want to let go. She wished she was as confident as Didi that Ted would come through. God knows she wanted it with every charged ion of her being, but a nagging doubt swelled in Norah's throat. Would he honor his word?

She stepped back to examine the papers her boss had just handed her. They were copies of the guest contract Ted Shriver would need to sign before appearing on
Simon Janey Live
.

“Let's not celebrate until the ink is dry,” Norah said. They were in her hotel room at the Algonquin. If all went according to plan, she would be checking out that night and wouldn't have to worry about the show picking up the tab.

“If you say so, sugar,” Didi said. “But I know he's going to sign them; I can feel it.”

“Clairvoyance or wishful thinking?” Norah asked.

“Bit of both, I reckon.”

“He might still put up a fight,” Norah said.

“The trick is,” Didi said, “don't
ask
. Just hand him the pen, and act like you're in a hurry.”

Norah nodded, trying to imagine Ted's reaction to such a performance.

“You sure you don't need me to go with you?” Didi asked.

“It'll be better if I see him alone,” Norah said. “I think he'll feel ambushed if we show up together.”

“I trust you, bubbeleh,” Didi said. “You are saving our hides, as sure as gold is precious and honey sweet.” Then she gave Norah one last hug and left.

—

A
few minutes later, Norah was alone at Ted Shriver's door, contracts in hand. This time, she didn't have to beg and plead for him to open the door. As soon as she knocked, there he was—freshly showered and shaved, wearing a clean shirt that was only slightly wrinkled.

“You look . . .” She paused, trying to find the right words. In truth, he didn't look better, just neater. If anything, he looked even sicklier, his gray pallor and sunken cheeks incongruous against the smell of Old Spice and Irish Spring.

“Dashing,” he offered. “I could almost pass for human.”

Even the room itself smelled fresher, and Norah noticed that the window was wide open. He had been airing out the place.

“You must be feeling better,” she said.

“Not a bit. I've just decided to fake it until I'm dead.”

This was positive. He seemed to be in a good mood. “I brought the contracts,” she said. “I visited Audrey—she's taking the assignment.” Norah didn't want there to be any doubt that she did what she had promised.

“So I heard.”

“You already spoke to her?”

“She came by,” he said, and Norah understood why Ted had cleaned himself up. It was astounding. This cranky, belligerent, dying man was trying to impress his ex-wife. If Norah had any doubts that he was still in love with Audrey, they were officially dismissed.

“Did she interview you about the guest book?”

“A bit. If I'm still alive, I'll be seeing her again tomorrow.”

A date
, Norah thought.
No wonder he looks less miserable
. “That's . . . terrific. I guess you have no reservations about signing the contract then,” she said, handing him the pen.

“None at all. I just need to ask for one thing.”

“What's that?” she said.

He put the pen down. “Let's grab a bite and talk about it.”

“A bite?”

“I'm starving.”

Norah took a step back, confused. “You want to have dinner with me?”

“You eat, don't you?”

It was like her dream—having dinner with Ted Shriver. Clearly, seeing Audrey had melted away his belligerence. She knew she should press him to sign the papers first, but how could she risk this chance to connect with him? They would find a quaint outdoor café on a quiet street downtown. At last, she would get to open up and they would talk—
really
talk. It would be the conversation she had always wanted to have, and by the time they were done he would consider her a friend. In fact, she would be the last friend he would make before he died. It was almost too much to bear. She turned away, muttered something about allergies, and ran a finger under her eye to prevent her mascara from running.

“Where are we going?” she asked, hoping he had a European-style outdoor café in mind.

“Downstairs. That's the benefit of staying in a hotel with its own restaurant.”

She suppressed her disappointment. So what if it wasn't a perfect match with her dream scenario? They could still connect. And anyway, it wasn't like they were eating at McDonald's. This was the Algonquin—a hotel rich in literary history. Norah decided that it was perfect—better than her fantasy.

He took the contracts from her and laid them on his dresser.

“Why don't we take those with us?” she said. If a perfect moment to get his signature arose, she wanted to be ready.

“I just want to talk,” he said. “I'll sign them later.”

He wants to
talk
, Norah thought, her heart rate rising. She looked at his bloodshot eyes and could see nothing but the dream she had held so close since the day she and her mother had that conversation at the kitchen table.

“Okay,” she said, and they rode down in the elevator to the Algonquin's famous restaurant in the hotel lobby.

The maître d' led them to the back of the long room, where they sat in golden-yellow upholstered chairs flanking a small round table. Ted immediately ordered two martinis.

“With a twist,” he added.

“I'm not in the mood for a martini,” Norah said, surprised by the mix of chivalry and chauvinism.

“They're both for me,” he said. “You can order what you want.”

She laughed. “You never disappoint, do you?” She turned to the waiter and ordered a glass of cabernet.

Norah waited until the drinks were served before she steered the conversation in the direction she had always imagined.

“Do you get sick of people asking you about
Dobson's Night
?” she said.

He sighed. “It's one of the things that makes death seem appealing.”

She looked into her wineglass, suddenly tongue-tied. Where was
the witty repartee she had imagined? Where were the delightful bons mots that were supposed to roll from her lips so charmingly? All these years she had told herself she would be able to impress him, and here she was, approaching him just like any other stupid, gushing fan. She could sense a wave of depression rising in the distance and hoped she could protect herself.

“But go ahead,” he said. “It's been a long time since I've even looked a reader in the eye. Maybe I'm ready to answer a question like a fucking human being.”

Norah let out a long breath. It was just the encouragement she needed. She took a sip of wine to fortify herself and choked on it. “Excuse me,” she said, coughing into a napkin.

He pushed a glass of water toward her and she took a sip.

“Sorry,” she said, catching her breath. “Sometimes I choke for no reason.”

“I suspect there's a reason.”

She took a deep breath, testing her airway. “You're not going to psychoanalyze me, are you?”

“That's more boring than talking about my book.”

Norah folded her napkin. “Am I that uninteresting to you?” she said, and immediately regretted it. She didn't want him to think she was a frivolous girl who fished for compliments.

“Don't take it personally. I'm a dick, remember? I'm not interested in anyone but myself.”

She shook her head. “I don't actually believe that.”

“Now you're going to psychoanalyze
me
, right? I'll tell you a secret—I'm really not all that complicated.”

“I've read your books.”

“So?”

“You have more emotional depth than anyone I know. I think your bluster is a lot of bullshit.”

“Maybe the books are a lot of bullshit.”

She looked at his hard face. He had no intention of letting her in. This was going to be hard work.

“I was thirteen the first time I read
Dobson's Night
.” She paused, wondering how she could say what it meant to her without sounding banal. “I was young, I know, but—”

“Please don't tell me it changed your life.”

“Why not? It
did
.”

“No it didn't. You woke the next day and you were the same lonely, miserable kid you were the day before. Or maybe you were the same happy little spoiled brat you were the day before. I don't know. The point is, you were a baby. You had never read a real book on your own before. And
Dobson's Night
was simple enough for you to understand, and complex enough for you to know it was a little more relatable than the crap they gave you in school. So you had a moment of recognition. Maybe it taught you that you could enjoy books that dug deeper than the ‘first kiss' shit you and your friends were breathless over. And if that's the case, I'm grateful. I'm grateful it taught you something and opened you up to
literature
, whatever the fuck that means. But don't think it changed your life just because you happened to read it at the very moment your pituitary gland was activated and hormones were exploding from your ovaries.”

“You think you understand everything about me.”

“I understand enough.”

She shook her head. “I know a lot of thirteen-year-olds went cult-crazy over
Dobson's Night
, but I grew up with a single mother—”

“Please, don't,” he said.

“Listen to me,” she said. “I'm trying to tell you something here. The scene where the father and son are walking toward the church—”

“I don't remember,” he said, waving his hand as if the scene were washed from his memory.

“Of course you do. Let me explain why it meant so much to me.”

“There are a lot of people who would be happy to talk to you about it.”

“But you're Ted Shriver.”

“And you're Norah . . . What's your last name again?”

“Wolfe.”

“Wolfe,” he repeated, looking away. “I knew someone named Wolfe.” He pulled the olive out of his martini and dropped it on the table. “Why can't they ever remember to bring it with a fucking twist?”

Norah felt her face flush, and she held her wrists against her cool water glass. She needed to change the subject quickly. “I have to ask you something.”

He sipped his martini and sat back, a signal that he was ready to hear it.

“After the father leaves Robert at the church,” she continued, “he never comes back.”

“That's not a question.”

“I think you know the question,” she said. “It's
why
. Why doesn't he come back?”

“Why do you think?”

“I don't know. That's what I didn't understand. I mean, he loved him so much.”

“Of course he did.”

“Why, then?”

He leaned forward. “Let me explain something, Norah Wolfe. When I finish with a book, I'm done. There is no more than what I wrote. You know as much about what happens outside those pages as I do.”

“It's hard for me to accept that.”

He shrugged.

“Isn't there anything you can tell me?” she said.

“Just this—it's important that you're asking that question.”

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“Just live with it for a while,” he said. “And if I'm still alive a week or month from now, we can talk about it again.”

“I'd like you to stay alive.”

“Yes, of course. You want me to do your TV show.”

“It's not just that.”

The emotion in her voice had embarrassed her, and the pause that followed was terrible. She had meant to play it cool, to act as if this conversation was important only for the intellectual stimulation. But that quaver gave it away. She felt naked.

He shook his head. “Don't get too attached to me, okay?”

Norah cleared her throat. “Too late for that.”

“You seem like a very smart young woman,” he said, “and you've seen what I leave in my wake.”

“I just want to be your
friend
,” she said.

“I'm too old to be your friend.”

“I don't know about that. Some days I feel like I'm a hundred and one.”

He lowered his head, as if he could only get a good look at her by looking up. “An old soul, eh?”

“I've been on my own a long time.”

“Fine, I'll be your friend—your temporary friend. But if you're looking for a father figure—”

“No!” she said too loudly, and again felt herself flush. She gathered herself and lowered her voice. “What did you mean earlier when you said you needed one more thing before signing the contracts?”