Dorothy Parker Drank Here (27 page)

N
orah let herself into Ted's hotel room. It was the first time she had seen the place clean, and she imagined he had finally let housekeeping in to tidy up. The bed was made and the clothes that were usually scattered about had been neatly folded and placed on the dresser.

She opened the closet, which contained a few pairs of slacks, a sports jacket, several shirts, and a knobby cardigan that seemed intentionally ugly. Just as Dorothy Parker had promised, there was a green suitcase on the floor. It was the old hard-shelled type that didn't have wheels. Her grandfather would have called it a
valise
.

Norah pulled it out and carried it over to the table. She popped open the latches and lifted the lid. Sure enough, there were three manuscripts inside, each bound with a red rubber band. She took out one called
Genuine Lies
and rolled off the rubber band. She lifted the title page and stared at the four words on the page beneath it.

For Sherry

With Affection

The reality of it hit her like a rolling boulder. Their relationship had meant something to Ted. He carried a piece of her around with him. Norah ran her hand over the words as if it would somehow connect her with her mother.
He did this for you
, she thought, and wondered if her mother had ever pictured her name like this—on the dedication page of a manuscript, proof that he had felt something for her once, and that she had been young and healthy and worthy of love.

Norah went into the bathroom to grab a tissue and blow her nose. She brought the whole box out with her just in case. Not that she intended to read the whole book, but she wanted to get enough of an idea of the main character to see if she was truly based on her mother.

She turned to chapter one and began to read:

April's mother burst into her room without knocking.

“I want you to meet Mr. Munson,” said Doris, presenting an awkward man with oily hair and narrow shoulders.

Twenty-eight-year-old April Carner, who was back in college to get the degree she had abandoned years ago, quickly hid her twisted left hand under the
Modern Biology
textbook on her desk.

“For God's sake, Mother,” she said.

Doris laughed. “Sorry!” she chirped and then turned to the stranger. “I'm terrible—always forgetting to knock.”

“I apologize,” the man said to April, and his eyes looked so earnest she had to look away.

“Mr. Munson is interested in renting our room,” her mother said. “He's a teacher.”

“It's Tige,” he said. “Please.”

“Tige,” her mother said. “We can get used to that, can't we, April?”

“I have an exam tomorrow.”

“She's such a serious student,” her mother said. “I don't know where she gets it from. Well, we won't bother you, dear.”

Tige Munson gave her one last look before shutting the door behind them, and April knew he would rent the room. Her mother's painfully obvious plan had paid off. April was being offered as an incentive, and Tige Munson was exactly the kind of man who would be drawn to her.

There were men who didn't notice April—rough men, the kind who laughed too loud and drove too fast. But the other kind—men who were lonely and gentle—picked her out in a crowd, drawn in by her lithe grace and dark curls. And later, when they discovered her tender smile, they ached with gratitude. This lovely girl, they thought, appreciates me.

And they were right. But no matter how kind they were, April turned them away. She had decided long ago that she would never marry.

It was her left hand that made April feel she was too monstrous to be someone's wife. Due to a few minutes of incompetence by the young doctor who had overseen her birth, April's newborn brain had been deprived of oxygen just long enough for her cerebrum to suffer damage, causing the muscles in her hand to contract in paralysis, leaving her fingers and wrist twisted into an awkward fist. At a young age, she learned to keep this hand hidden behind her back or inside a pocket.

There were moments during her day when she didn't think about the shame of her condition, but even then it was there, an ever-present high-pitched noise, tinnitus of her heart.

Norah sat back in the chair. This was her mother. The facts were changed, of course. She had multiple sclerosis, not cerebral palsy, and her hand had a tremor, not a contortion. Also, it wasn't a birth defect but a condition she developed later in life. Still, this was her. Ted had found the essence of Sherry Wolfe and captured her in April Carner. And how perfect that he had chosen tinnitus as a metaphor. It was a condition her mother later developed, and the high-pitched ringing in her ears plagued her the last years of her life.

She picked up the manuscript and read on, eager to see what kind of fictional life he had created for her. He had changed her grandmother from a cold and withholding type to a giddy narcissist who slept with any rake who paid her a compliment. The tall, homely teacher was clearly Ted. And the more April fell in love with him, the more she pushed him away.

Norah wanted to put the manuscript aside, but she couldn't stop. She had to read on and find out what happened.

It was excruciating. Tige Munson was a bit of a prick, but it was also clear he was right for her. They would have transformed each other. But this woman simply could not get out of her own way.

In the second half, Tige sleeps with April's mother, which is described as “ugly sex, exciting only for its baseness.” Once Norah got to that part, she couldn't put the book down, because the idea of April finding out was just too painful a possibility to abide. In the end, of course, she did, and the results were disastrous. Doris suffered, Tige suffered, and any chance April had of ever getting past her disability was forever destroyed.

By the time she finished, Norah was depleted, both physically
and emotionally, as if she had spent the entire time running up and down a flight of stairs. She thought back to what Dorothy Parker said Ted had told her:
This changes everything.

It was exactly how she felt about reading the book.

Norah had always defended her mother's position on keeping the secret from Ted. She had been so vulnerable, and Norah wanted only to protect her. But that vulnerability was tied to a massive mistake, a perception of herself as too damaged to love. If Norah got anything from this book, it's that we're all damaged. The tragedy is letting it define you.

Her mother should have told Ted. Norah had always known that, but it was a truth she kept in a dark place, telling herself it didn't matter. What mattered was what her mother
wanted
. But Norah always knew. It was her own tinnitus, the noise in her head she wanted to ignore.

Maybe Dorothy Parker was right. Maybe deep down inside she knew that the outspoken spirit would go straight to Ted with the truth.

In any case, it didn't matter now. He knew. And Norah wanted to lay her head on his chest and weep for what she had lost. This father she'd never had.

She glanced out the window at the skyline—a pitch-dark night cut by a mosaic of lights, dim and bright, blinking and static. She had read the book quickly and voraciously, but nearly four hours had gone by. Norah had silenced her phone before she even ran out of the studio, as she needed to cut herself off. No doubt Didi and the rest of the crew were now celebrating the show and wondering where the hell she was. But Norah was in no mood for a party.

She picked up the remote control and clicked on the television to see if there was any news coverage about Ted's historic appearance. After going through all the channels twice, she realized there wasn't any information being broadcast. If she didn't want to call
someone, she would have to go home and do an Internet search, or wait for the morning newspapers.

Norah sighed and took out her cell phone. She didn't feel like listening to all the calls from Didi asking where the hell she was, so she played back a message from her friend Pamela Daniels.

Hey, just wanted to know what the hell happened. I was watching the interview and it looked like Ted passed out, but they didn't give any info. Is he dead or alive? Call me
!

Passed out? What was she talking about?

Norah replayed the message, feeling suddenly cold in the middle of Ted's warm room. She played the first message from Didi.

Something's happened. Where the hell are you? Call me.

The next message was from Peter Salzberg:

Norah, I'm so sorry I upset you, but you have to meet us at Lenox Hill Hospital. Ted collapsed and we don't know if he's going to make it. He asked about you, Norah.

D
orothy Parker sat demurely at the bar, waiting. It didn't take long for a man to approach her. He had white hair and the ruddy complexion of a drinker. That was the good news. The bad news was that he wore a brown suit, heaven help her.

“Hi,” he said in a voice that was likely a full octave lower than he normally spoke. “I couldn't help noticing you sitting there. You look like the consummate New York lady—sophisticated and confident.”

“And you look like a mattress salesman from Idaho.”

He laughed heartily. “You're not that far off, darling. I'm from Nevada and I rep a line of commercial bathroom fixtures.”

“How enchanting,” she said. “You sell toilet bowls.”

“That's about the size of it,” he said. “I hope you're not disappointed.”

“I would say you've met my expectations rather neatly. However, if you tell me I have a porcelain complexion I may not take it kindly.”

He looked perplexed, and then straightened his tie, as if it would help him think about what to say next. “Are you interested in politics, by any chance?”

“Only after a few drinks.”

“I'd love to buy you one, if you'd let me.”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

He summoned the bartender and they both ordered drinks. The man introduced himself as Cliff Calder and she said her name was Liz Bathory. She asked pointed questions about his career for as long as it took her to finish her drink, and he ordered her another. She repeated this trick until she'd had four gin and tonics and heard more about toilets than any human should have to endure. As he continued on about state-of-the-art industrial fixtures and sales records and how important it was to “stay one step ahead of the other guy,” she thought she would sooner dry out than listen to another word.

And then, just as she was about to grab a bottle of gin from the bar and crack it over her own skull, he invited her up to his room.

“That sounds perfectly lovely,” she said.

“It does?”

“I'll tell you what,” she said, “you go on up and I'll meet you there in a few minutes.”

Excited, Cliff Calder rubbed his hands together, gave her a key to his room, and left. She remained at the bar, nursing her drink and hoping someone less dull would come along.

After a few minutes, a man in glasses sat down heavily on the stool beside hers. She recognized him as the fellow Norah had been ready to exterminate.

“Well, I'll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “I must have been pretty sloshed the last time I saw you, because I thought you were a ghost or something, materialized out of nowhere. But here you are—flesh and blood and pretty as a picture.” He stuck out his hand. “Russell Hetterich.”

“Lucy Borgia,” she said. “Charmed.”

“Can I get you a drink, Lucy?” he asked.

“What a thoughtful idea. I'll have a gin and tonic.”

Russell snapped his fingers at the bartender and ordered them
both drinks. He leaned toward her. “Tell me all about yourself, lovely Lucy. What brings you to the Algonquin—business or pleasure?”

“Are those my only choices?”

He laughed and put a meaty hand on her shoulder. “You're a funny one, aren't you?”

“That's my reputation,” she said, removing his hand.

“Don't you want to be my friend?” he asked.

“Ask me again after a few drinks.”

“That's my kind of girl,” he said, slapping her on the back.

The bartender put their cocktails in front of them and she drank hers quickly. This fellow was even worse than the last.

“What do you do for fun, Lucy?” he asked.

“I walk on hot coals,” she said.

“Is that fun?”

“By comparison.”

“You tease!” he said. “What do you
really
do for fun?”

“I drink.”

“Is that all?”

“I'm afraid I've given up most of my hobbies,” she said.

“And why's that?”

“I was never very good at them. Falling in love, for instance. I always picked the most loathsome men.”

“I could give you some good loving,” Russell said, running a finger down her neck.

She batted his hand away. “And then there was suicide. Boy, I was lousy at that. But I'd give it another shot now, if I thought it would do any good.”

“Last call!” the bartender announced.

“Buy me another drink, would you, dear?” she said.

“And what do I get for it?” he said, leaning in to kiss her.

She backed away. “Are we negotiating?”

“You seem like a lady who drives a hard bargain.”

“I'll tell you what. Buy me that drink and I'll meet you up in your room just as soon as I finish.”

“You're not going to disappear on me, are you?”

“I might. It's my last remaining talent.”

“Last call!” the bartender repeated.

“What the hell,” Russell said, “you're worth the risk. I like a frisky gal.” He ordered her another drink and told her his room number. Then he gave her a sloppy kiss and left the bar.

Dorothy Parker nursed her last drink, and by the time she finished, everyone but the bartender had left. At least that's what she thought. But just as she drained the last drop of gin from her glass, she became aware of a familiar presence on her right.