Dorothy Parker Drank Here (26 page)

1984

A
nger. Dorothy Parker felt it swirling about her, chilling the air in the dimly lit bar. She didn't need to look up to know whose dust was rising from the Algonquin guest book. It was her old friend and fellow writer Lillian Hellman. Dorothy Parker finished the rest of her drink and signaled for another. The bartender was quick, but not quick enough. She barely had time to fortify herself with one determined gulp when she heard the rustle of someone at her side.

Dorothy looked up and there was her old comrade, regal in her Blackglama mink, and as familiar as always with her teased coif and heavy nose.

“Oh, Dottie,” Lillian Hellman said, “isn't it terrible? We didn't make a damn bit of difference after all.”

“Hello, Lilly.”

“Scotch on the rocks,” Lillian said to the bartender as she threw her mink over an empty stool. She took a seat next to Dorothy, helped herself to a cigarette, and lit it. She took a long drag and exhaled heavily, as if there were more troubles inside her than she could be expected to contain. “What a disappointment.”

“The cigarette?”

“The world, silly girl.”

“What did you expect?” Dorothy said. “People are shits.”

“I thought I'd make a difference. I thought
we'd
make a difference.”

“Don't be polite, dear. You never believed anything I did made a difference.”

Lillian took another drag and flicked her ashes. “Fine, you were a disappointment, too, scribbling away at your little stories and verse, never bothering to try anything bigger. And then one day you simply died. Pitiful.”

“But I did try. That's the sad truth. All I ever wanted was to follow in the exquisite footsteps of Edna St. Vincent Millay, unhappily, in my own horrible sneakers. But I couldn't even manage that.”

“Nonsense. You didn't lack talent—you lacked drive.” The bartender set Lillian's drink in front of her and she picked it up. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Dorothy said. “Good to see you again.”

“Ha.”

“I'm always glad to see you, Lilly. You know that.”

“Even when I'm awful about your writing?”

“I was surrounded by sycophants all my life and it's been no different in death. The honesty is refreshing.”

“I'm always honest,” Lilly said.

Dorothy Parker turned slowly toward her friend, trying to read her expression. Did Lilly actually believe what she was saying? For as long as Dorothy had known her, Lillian had indulged in the dangerous habit of substituting fantasy for reality. Her memoirs pushed the truth further still, and even Dottie was surprised by the audacity of her friend's lies. She was already here, in this post-life, when the books were published, but she followed the news with interest, especially when the truth came out and the whole world learned that the memoirs were more fiction than fact. Lillian Hellman had been exposed.

“Of course you are, dear,” Dorothy said, letting her sarcasm do the heavy lifting. “Who could ever doubt you?”

Lilly shook her head. “Not you, too.”

“I've been hovering around here almost all these years, Lilly. I know about your memoirs. I know about the allegations. I even know that Mary McCarthy said—”

“Allow me,” Lillian interrupted. “That bitch told the world that every word I wrote was a lie, including ‘and' and ‘the.'”

“You must admit you took quite a few . . . liberties.”

Lillian waved away her comment. “I'm an artist.”

So that was her excuse. Dorothy lit a cigarette. “No regrets?”

“Oh, I have plenty of regrets. But I stand behind what I wrote. In any case, I'm flattered you've kept abreast of me all these years.”

Dorothy finished her gin and tonic and signaled for another. It was time to tell Lilly what else she knew. She had been waiting for this moment a long time.

“I've kept abreast of most things, my friend.”

Lilly paused, looking into her drink. “That sounds quite pointed.”

“I'm giving you the opportunity to apologize.”

“Me?” Lillian said. “What do
I
have to apologize for? You're the one who needs to apologize, Dottie.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Lillian's eyes went cold and she lowered her voice. “You didn't leave me a cent. Not even a token. You made me executor of your estate and left everything to a complete stranger.”

“I left everything to Martin Luther King, Jr.”

“Like I said.”

“Oh please, Lilly. You didn't need my money. Besides, I had almost nothing. The least I could do was make a statement about where I stood on civil rights.”

Disgusted, Lillian made a sound in the back of her throat and brought
her glass down on the bar. “Saint Dorothy of the Upper East Side,” she said.

“Weren't you just complaining that we hadn't made a difference? Well, I died trying. Literally.”

“You could have told me.” She picked up her drink again and took a sip.

“So you were angry.”

“Damn right I was angry,” Lilly said.

“Is that why you purposely denied my one final wish?” Dorothy's will had been unequivocal: there were to be no funeral services, formal or informal. Yet Lilly had arranged a lavish affair, inviting friends and acquaintances. She even delivered a long-winded and disingenuous eulogy—exactly what Dorothy wanted to avoid.

“People needed a chance to say good-bye, pay their final respects,” Lilly said.

“What about respect for
me
? I made my wishes quite clear.”

“But you were wrong, Dottie dear.”

Dorothy exhaled a long trail of smoke. “Lilly, you are insufferable.”

“You made me the executor. It was my duty to make things right.”

“Please. It was an act of vengeance. You were furious that I didn't leave you the rights to my work.”

“If I'm so evil,” Lillian said, pointing to a spot over her head, “why have I earned eternal peace? I can feel it right there, calling for me.”

“That's a riddle I can't solve. But consider this: Can you sense Dash there waiting for you?” Dashiell Hammett had been Lilly's mate and lover—a hell of a writer, but a brutal son of a bitch.

Lilly glanced up, her expression softening. “He's there, and he's happy.”

“So you see,” Dorothy said, “you don't need to be a paragon of godliness . . . or even decency.”

“I thought you liked Dash.”

“I liked his work, dear. As a man, he was monstrous.”

“He wasn't too fond of you, either,” Lilly said.

“Yes, he made that quite clear. But
you're
the one who wounded me.”

Lillian looked over at her. “All these years you've been holding it against me that I organized a memorial service for you? That's rather small of you, Dot.”

“If only that were your worst offense.”

“Don't keep me in suspense,” Lillian said. “What was my other unpardonable crime?”

“My remains, dear. You never even claimed them.”

“You didn't leave instructions.”

“I didn't think I had to. Besides, you wouldn't have followed them anyway. I certainly never imagined that my ashes would remain at the crematorium and eventually wind up in the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet in a lawyer's office. On Wall Street, of all places. Really, Lilly. No one deserves that kind of indignity.”

“Since when do you care about dignity?”

“Don't be glib. If I thought it was an oversight or some kind of mistake, I could forgive it. But let's be honest for once. You were furious with me over the will, and it was the only way you could get even.”

Lillian Hellman finished her Scotch and stamped out her cigarette. “I guess this is my cue to leave.”

Dorothy watched as her friend rose and reached for her mink coat. After all these years, it felt good to make Lilly face the ugliness of her behavior.

“Good-bye, Dot,” she said.

Dorothy looked up, and as she pictured Lillian disappearing forever into the white light, a familiar depression bore down on her. It could be years before someone else materialized from the guest book, and all that time she would be sitting here, alone. Dorothy lowered her head and realized that, despite everything, she didn't want Lilly to go. Not yet. Surely she could stay for another drink or two. She touched her friend's arm.

“What is it?” Lillian said.

Dorothy tried to speak, but the fear of isolation choked her and she couldn't utter a word. Lilly shook her head, her disgust softened only by pity.

“Well?” Lilly said, and Dorothy could tell by her voice that she was willing to stay for a while. It was an act of mercy.

Accept it, Dorothy told herself. Lilly owes you at least that much. And anyway, what is pride compared to the oppression of loneliness?

Dorothy Parker considered that as she stared at the woman who had betrayed her so heartlessly. Where was her mercy then?

Lilly grew impatient. “No last words?” she said.

Dorothy picked up her cigarette and took a long drag, stalling as she decided what to say. At last she snubbed it hard in the ashtray and spoke.

“Send my regards to Dash.”

T
here was no studio audience on the set of
Simon Janey Live
, but there was a small seating area off to the left. Visitors were instructed to remain quiet and to be careful of the cables running across the floor.

Pete sat in the middle, between Aviva and Katie, his Litton publicist. Audrey sat on the other side of his wife. He glanced back into the glass booth to see if Norah had returned, but there was no sign of her. Clearly, his assumption had been right—she was Ted's daughter. But for some reason she had kept it a secret from him. Pete didn't know who finally told Ted the truth, but he was grateful. The knowledge had given his friend the desire to live. If only Norah was willing to face him, it might stick.

A cameraman steered his equipment toward the stage and the lights went on, bathing Ted and Simon in brilliance. Simon smoothed his hair. Ted did nothing.

“Quiet on the set,” came a voice through the loudspeaker—presumably from the director inside the engineer's booth. A man kneeling under the camera held up his fingers and counted down out loud, pointing silently when he reached
one
.

Simon looked directly into the camera and spoke. “Ted Shriver is a writer who rose to fame in 1969 with the publication of his first book,
Dobson's Night
, which the
New York Times
called ‘a rich exploration of a contemporary male ego unable to cope with the depth of his own love, rendered in luxuriously restrained prose and destined to become a classic.' It sold over one hundred thousand copies in hardcover and was a finalist for the National Book Award. That was followed by two more critically acclaimed novels,
The Worst of Daniel Prince
in 1973, and
Last Game
, which was published in 1977 and went on to receive the prestigious Clampett Award. In 1981 he published his much-anticipated
Settlers Ridge
, a darling of the critics until the
New York Times
discovered that it contained several paragraphs lifted almost verbatim from a memoir of Vietnam veteran Rick Beardsley. Mr. Shriver never addressed the allegations and withdrew from public life. That was over twenty-five years ago. He has never done an interview since. That is, until tonight. He is here with us in the studio to break his long and mysterious silence. Welcome, Mr. Shriver, and thank you for being here.”

Pete glanced from the stage to the monitor and saw that Ted's face was on camera, looking somber and terribly old. He nodded in recognition of the welcome but didn't say a word. Pete shifted in his seat. The camera went back to Simon.

“Let's jump right in to the issue of timing. After all these years of cutting yourself off from society and refusing to make any kind of public statement, you have agreed to come on a national television show. Why now?”

Ted cleared his throat. “Just to be accurate,” he said, “I didn't ‘cut myself off from society.' I wasn't living in a cave in Afghanistan—I was in a house in Connecticut, reading the papers, having drinks at a local pub most Friday nights, sometimes even talking to a neighbor.”

“Fair enough. But you certainly shunned the media.”

Ted's face filled the monitor again. This time, he opened his mouth to speak and then winced. He rubbed his forehead. Audrey and Aviva leaned forward simultaneously.

“Yes,” Ted finally said. “That's true.”

“So I'll go back to my question—why now?”

Ted sucked his cheeks and Pete could tell he was in terrible pain. Pete tried willing him to make it through. It seemed to work. Ted took a few breaths and responded, “You left me no choice.”

“What does that mean?” Simon asked.

Ted bowed his head in thought and the camera stayed on him. After several moments, Simon spoke again. “Mr. Shriver?”

Ted still didn't lift his head.

“Are you okay?” Simon asked.

The camera stayed on Ted as he sunk lower, bending over at the waist. Audrey rose from her seat, her hand to her throat. Pete stood, too.

“Mr. Shriver?” Simon repeated, but there was no response. The camera went back to his face as he tapped his earpiece. “Apparently, Ted Shriver needs a few minutes to recover and we're going to break for commercial. Please stay with us.”

“We're out,” someone said.

Simon pulled off his mike and jumped from his chair. He grabbed Ted's shoulders so that he could lift his head and look into his face.

“He's unconscious!” he called, and they were immediately surrounded.

Pete rushed onto the set and knelt in front of his friend. “Ted, can you hear me?” he said.

Someone tried to hand Pete a glass of water, which confused him. Was he supposed to splash it on Ted's face or pour it down his throat? He shook his head and went back to his friend.

“Ted,” he said, gently patting his face. “Can you hear me?”

“I'm calling an ambulance,” Aviva said, taking out her cell phone.

“We're already on it,” came a voice over the speaker.

“Let's lay him down,” Pete said, because it seemed like his friend was about to slide off the chair. Two stagehands helped him lift Ted off the seat and lay him gently upon the carpeted set floor.

Ted groaned softly and Pete sighed in relief. “I think he's coming around,” he said. “Ted, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

Ted mumbled something unintelligible.

“Can you say that again, pal?” Pete asked, putting his ear near Ted's mouth.

“Where's Norah?” he whispered.

“Don't worry, we'll find her. Hang in there.” He looked up to see Didi standing over him. “He's asking for Norah.”

“I haven't seen her,” she said, and then spoke into her headset. “Can someone find Norah?”

“Is he going to be okay?” Audrey asked.

“Of course he's going to be okay,” Pete said. He leaned toward his friend. “You're going to be fine. The paramedics are on their way.”

“Salz,” Ted whispered, then he took a sudden deep breath and his whole body went rigid in some kind of spasm. When it relaxed, he was unconscious.

“Ted!” Pete said. “Ted!” He looked behind him. “Does anyone know CPR?”