Dorothy Parker Drank Here (4 page)

A
fter Ted Shriver slammed the door in her face, Norah looked down at the book in her hands, her heart still racing. The meeting wasn't what she had hoped—there had been no meaningful connection, no spectacular moment she could hold on to for the rest of her life—but she had seen him, spoken to him, looked into tired eyes the same shade of blue as her own. And he had given her this strange book. What did it mean?

She ran her hand over the surface. It was a musty relic, bound in leather, with the words
Guest Book
stamped on the cover. She carefully opened it and saw that it was a collection of signatures from famous literary figures, most of whom had belonged to the group that made this hotel so famous.

Norah closed the book and held it to her chest as she leaned against the wall, disappointment rising like a fever as she played back her few moments of face time with Ted Shriver. She knew it was naive to have thought there would be an immediate connection, but still. She had assumed that fate would intervene and create some special bond. Maybe she had never admitted it to herself in exactly those terms, but now that she had actually seen him, Norah
understood that deep inside she had believed that something about her would spark a flame.

She made the decision quickly. She would take it back to the room Didi had booked for her, study the signatures, and figure out Ted Shriver's connection to these people. Tomorrow she would go to see him again, and she'd be armed with a conversation starter. He would be resistant at first, but he would invite her in and they would talk and talk and talk. She would tell him about the scene in
Dobson's Night
that moved her the most, the one where the father and son are walking to the wedding. Most people said it was too long, but she knew it wasn't. If anything, she wished it was longer. She could have read the dialogue between those two forever. It was desperate and tender and beautiful and real. And of course, she would ask him The Question. The one unanswered mystery of that haunting story.

After that, she would call Didi and give her a full report, explaining all she had learned about Ted Shriver's remarkable heart. There would be a pause as Didi took it all in. Then she would say something like,
Sounds like you made a hell of a connection with him, sugar. Why don't you go ahead and make the pitch? If anyone can sign him for the show, it's you.

Norah headed toward the elevator and pressed the button. When the doors opened, a stocky, dark-haired man in a hotel uniform got out and offered a tense smile. Then he saw what she held and stopped. She tried to move around him, but he blocked her. His name tag said
Angel.

“Excuse me,” he said. “This book—where did you get it?”

She held it against her body. “Someone gave it to me.”

“Please, miss. It belongs to the hotel.”

She looked at the cover again. Of course it belonged to the hotel—that made perfect sense. But why was it in Ted Shriver's room? She didn't want to let it go.

“I just need to spend a few hours with it,” she said. “I'll give it back to you in the morning.”

He looked over his shoulder and then back into her eyes. “I'll get fired, miss,” he whispered, then shook his head. “Why did I make the delivery?”

Norah was torn. She didn't want to relinquish the book, not yet. But this poor man—he seemed serious.

“Will twenty dollars—”

“No, please. I must put it back. You understand?”

“But I can return it tomorrow. Surely no one will come looking for it tonight.”

“It is my first day, miss. If someone notices, I lose the job.”

His eyes looked so sad, so earnest. How could she possibly deny his request? And yet, this book could represent everything she had spent a lifetime thinking about.

Angel reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He opened it to a picture and turned it to face her. “Ana Sofia,” he said.

She glanced at the photo of a baby girl with shiny black hair and large dark eyes, her mouth in an O as if mimicking an adult's expression of surprise. She wore a pink-striped bib. It reminded Norah of her own baby picture—the one where she's in the high chair, looking into the camera, while a hand holding a spoon hovers to the left. Her mother's hand.

Norah swallowed against a hardness in her throat. “Your daughter?” she asked.

“Eight months old,” he said.

At last, she held out the book. She meant to release it, but somehow she couldn't quite relax her grip.

“It will be downstairs,” he said, “in the Blue Bar. You can see it when you wish.”

“What was it doing in . . . the man's room?”

“I delivered it there,” he said. “The . . . the lady. She asked me to.”

“The small woman in a hat?”

His eyes went wide. “You seen her?”

Norah nodded.

“He talked to her?” Angel asked.

“I suppose,” Norah said. “They seemed like old friends.”

“She is nobody's friend, miss,” he said, pulling at the book again.

“Why did the lady want him to have this?”

“So she can talk to him.”

“I don't understand.”

“Me, too,” he said, and gave one last tug, pulling the book from her hands. Then he disappeared into the stairwell with Norah's best hope at connecting with Ted Shriver.

—

B
ack in her hotel room, she ignored the four voice-mail messages from Didi and tried to sleep, but everything conspired to keep her awake—the disappointing meeting with Ted Shriver, the missed opportunity of the puzzling guest book, the mysterious woman in a hat. Who was she and what was her connection to the book? Most of all, Norah wondered why Ted Shriver had given her the book . . . and why it seemed less like a gift and more like a curse—something he needed to get rid of.

Another hour passed and Norah realized her efforts to sleep were futile. She rose and got dressed. She simply had to go downstairs and look at that book again.

At four a.m., the only light in the deserted Blue Bar was a dim wall sconce illuminating a small shelf. Norah approached it to see that it shone on a glass case that held the strange book. She opened the lid, removed the heavy tome, and carried it to the nearest table, where she sat down to scan the names again. They were almost all famous writers, most of whom had been members of the Algonquin Round Table, the legendary group of wits who started their daily
lunch just yards from where she sat. Norah knew all about them because her college roommate, an English major, had been obsessed with these people. Her enthusiasm was infectious and Norah read a good deal about them herself.

Norah paused to let it all sink in. She laid her hand upon the book and closed her eyes to picture them seated around her. She imagined Robert Benchley coming in from the rain and closing his umbrella.
I need to get out of this wet suit and into a dry martini
, he would remark as he lowered himself into a chair.

Norah opened her eyes to discover she wasn't alone. The small woman who had been in Ted Shriver's room was seated at the bar, smoking.

“I didn't hear you come in,” Norah said. She left the book at the table and approached her.

“I've mastered the art of sneaking around,” said the woman.

Norah took the barstool next to hers and introduced herself.

“Dorothy Parker,” said the woman, extending a hand. “Charmed.”

Norah opened her mouth and closed it. Did the woman just say her name was Dorothy Parker? Norah looked her up and down—taking in her wardrobe—and the light came on. She was a look-alike, hired by the hotel to act the part of the famous writer when she was in her prime. PR people could be so clever. Of course, that didn't explain what she was doing in the famous writer's room.

“How do you know Ted Shriver?” Norah asked, hoping she could get the actress to break character.

“He interviewed me for
Atlantic Monthly
in 1967.”

So that's how it's going to be, Norah thought. But she could play along, especially since she seemed to remember reading the interview in a collection of Shriver's essays.

“It was right before you died, wasn't it?”

“He was one of my last visitors.”

“And now you're a ghost, haunting the Algonquin?”

“That depends. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No,” Norah lied. The truth was, she never forgot the visitation she had had from her mother on the night she died. Norah was only fourteen, and had been asleep, when she felt someone hovering over her. She opened her eyes and saw her mother out of her wheelchair, standing tall and strong, and Norah bolted upright. In an instant she knew her mother had died and her spirit had come to say good-bye.

“You're not leaving, are you
?
”
Norah pleaded.

Her mother tilted her head and smiled, as if to say it was all okay.

“No!” Norah said. “You can't go
.
”

Her mother put her hand to her chest in apology, and Norah wanted nothing more than to grab on to her. She felt so young. Not like a teenager at all, but like a little girl desperate for her mother.

“Mommy, please.”

At last the spirit spoke.
It's okay
, she said, and Norah knew it was meant to comfort her, but she wasn't ready.

“Don't go!”
she cried, but it was too late. The spirit vanished, and the words
Be strong, love
floated in the air, and then disappeared along with her.

“Tell me, dear,” said the woman, “what is
your
interest in Ted Shriver?”

Norah shrugged. She didn't want to reveal too much. “It's personal.”

“He's a difficult man.”

“I've noticed.”

The look-alike nodded toward the table with the book. “You should return that to him.”

“I don't want to get anyone fired.”

“Ah, you must have spoken to the nervous fellow who gave me his cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes?” Norah asked.

“Surely you spoke to him. Dark-haired chap—name tag says
Angel
.”

“How did you know?”

“It's his first day so he doesn't realize it, but the book goes missing all the time.” She paused to take a drag of her cigarette and flick the ashes. This was a woman who looked as if she was never in a hurry. Norah thought it was quite an act.

“They all think it's carried off and replaced by ghosts,” the woman continued. “But of course, ghosts are the only ones who
can't
carry the damned thing.” She exhaled, and the smoke wafted into Norah's face.

She's taking this a little too far,
Norah thought as she fanned the air around her face. She stood. “I should go to bed.”

“I thought you wanted my help.”

“No offense, but I'm not sure there's anything you can do for me.”

“I can tell you how to get Ted Shriver to talk to you.”

Norah paused, holding on to the back of the barstool. “And I suppose you'd want something in return?”

“Naturally.”

“And what would that be?”

“I need you to steal that book.”

T
he egg foo yong wasn't a problem. All it took was a few phone calls to track down a Chinese restaurant willing to make it on special order. The bigger challenge was ignoring the intrusive call-waiting beeps on her cell phone. She hadn't listened to a single one of Didi's messages, but clearly her boss was getting frantic. Norah just needed to put her off a short while longer. It was the day after her first encounter with Ted Shriver, and she was on her way to his room for the conversation she had been looking forward to her whole life. Once that was done, she'd give Didi exactly what she wanted.

For now, the smell of egg foo yong filled the Algonquin's small elevator, and her companion, who had asked to be called “Mrs. Parker,” seemed bored by the whole thing.

“Can't you hold this?” Norah said, balancing the antique guest book, open to the page the real Dorothy Parker had signed, on her right hand. She held the brown paper bag from the Chinese restaurant in her left.

“I cannot.”

“Then let me close it.”

“You may close something else.”

“My mouth?” Norah asked.

“Clever girl.”

Norah exhaled, exasperated. “Hold the egg foo yong,” she said, and thrust the bag at her companion, who seemed annoyed. They looked up at the lights as the elevator ascended.

“Why is the book so important, anyway?” Norah asked.

“I can't go anywhere without it.”

“I don't understand.”

“Join the club.”

“You don't understand, either?” Norah said.

“Of course I do. I didn't say it was
my
club, did I?”

Norah shook her head. Was this woman really a hired look-alike or just some delusional fruitcake? God knows New York is filled with them, she thought.

“Why is it so important to deliver the book to Ted Shriver?” Norah asked. “You never told me what you wanted from him.”

“I need him to sign it,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Why?”

“Because it gets lonely.”

“Lonely?”

“Shall I get you a dictionary?”

Norah knew Dorothy Parker's reputation for having an acid tongue, but this woman was getting on her nerves. “Explain it to me or I'll shut this book right now.”

“Don't be tiresome.”

Norah began to move the covers together.

“For heaven's sake,” the woman said. “The simple truth is that I signed the book, I died, I'm still here. If he signs the book, I'll have someone to keep me company—someone who has no desire to head into the light.”

Norah stared. This crazy little woman clearly believed what she was saying. And Norah was trapped on an elevator with her. Worse,
if they approached Ted Shriver together, he might assume they were
both
deranged.

When the elevator doors opened on the third floor, she had a flash of inspiration.

“Here we are,” Norah said, ushering the woman over the threshold.

“Wait a second,” Mrs. Parker said as she looked around. “This isn't the right floor.”

“No, it's not.” Norah grabbed the egg foo yong and jumped back into the elevator just before the doors closed.

She wasn't smug enough to laugh, but she did feel pleased with herself. Now all she had to do was knock on Ted Shriver's door. She would tell him she was returning the book he had given her. He would want to send her away, but the egg foo yong would be the perfect enticement to gain entry.

When she reached his floor, however, she was again waylaid by Angel, who blocked her exit.

“Get out of my way,” she said.

“You give me the book
now
,
miss
.
”

“No.”

“You want me to tell the manager?”

“Move.”

“I am being nice, miss. I tell them you stole it and you will have big problem.”

“Fine,” she said. “Call security.” Norah knew she could deflect any trouble by telling them there was a crazy woman running around the hotel, harassing guests and claiming to be Dorothy Parker.

She tried to move past him, but he grabbed the open book with both hands.

“Don't you dare—” she began, but before she could even finish her sentence, a look of terror passed over Angel's face. It seemed that he was staring past her, but she knew there was no one on the elevator with her.

“What is it?” she said, but he didn't answer. He just released the book, fled into the stairwell. Norah glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing but a few floating dust particles.

This place,
she thought,
is filled with nuts
.

But it didn't matter. She had everything she needed, and was about to see Ted Shriver.

Norah walked down the corridor, nervous and excited about this very real chance to connect. This, she knew, could be it. He could let her in. They could talk. She could ask him about
Dobson's Night
and he'd answer. It would be wonderful, and she'd carry the moment around with her for the rest of her life, feeling more whole than she ever had. And later, he would agree to do
Simon Janey Live
, and they would make history.

When Norah turned left onto the hallway that led to Ted Shriver's room, she saw something that sunk her spirit. Standing outside his door, with folded arms, was a human mountain in a tight black T-shirt. He was at least six and a half feet tall, with bulging biceps that shone like polished stone. Even his neck was enormous—a tree trunk growing out of hard-packed earth. His head was shaved and he wore a gold earring. He was heavily cologned.

“Who are you?” Norah asked.

“Who are
you
?” he said back, his voice thick with the ravages of steroids.

“I'm . . . uh . . . a friend of Mr. Shriver's.”

“Mr. Shriver doesn't have no friends.”

“I need to return this to him,” Norah said, showing him the book. “He gave it to me.”

The man ignored her.

“Please,” she said, “just let me talk to him.”

“Walk away, lady.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked, holding up the Chinese food.

“Yeah.” He grabbed the bag from her hand. “Now go.”

“I need to see him.”

He glared at her. “Last warning.”

His tone chilled her, but Norah refused to give in to fear. “I'm not leaving until I talk to him,” she said. Her pet theory was that bullies like this always backed down if you stood up to them.

She was wrong. He put his massive hand on her neck with just enough pressure to be taken seriously, and Norah dropped what she was carrying. She didn't think he really meant to hurt her, but she knew things could go very wrong very quickly. She needed to stay calm, to find the right words to soothe his savage breast. Norah looked into his eyes, trying to get a read on his anger, and witnessed the same change she had seen in Angel as his fury gave way to a sudden terror. Only, with this guy, it drained all the color from his face.

He released her and teetered, his eyes rolling back. She stepped away and it happened—he hit the floor like a felled oak. The thud sent shock waves under her feet.

“What the hell?” Norah said. Startled, she turned around to see that Mrs. Parker was standing right behind her. Where had she come from?

“You're quite welcome, dear,” the woman said. She stooped to pick up the bag of Chinese food, stepped over the massive body, and knocked on Ted Shriver's door.

Norah couldn't speak. She held on to the wall, dizzy and confused. This . . . person, or whatever she was, had materialized out of nowhere.

“Pick that up, will you, dear?” the woman said, pointing to the book lying open on the floor.

Dazed, Norah did as she was told, still confused as she watched Ted Shriver open the door to his room.

“Egg foo yong,” Mrs. Parker said, showing him the package.

He looked at the body on the floor. “Is it poisoned?”

“The poor dear just had a terrible fright.”

“I think we're about to have another casualty,” he said, nodding in Norah's direction.

Dorothy Parker looked at her. Norah meant to speak, to form some sort of question, but she couldn't. There was simply no way to access language.

“She looks ill,” Mrs. Parker said. “Let's get her inside.”

He grabbed the bag from her. “If she's sick, call a doctor.”

“Come now, Teddy. She's the one who got the food.”

“My humblest thanks, miss,” he said to her.

“Have a heart. The brute had his hands on her neck.”

Ted's eyes widened. “He
what
?”

“If I hadn't come along when I did . . .” she said.

Ted gave the unconscious giant a kick. “I said no rough stuff, Tiny.”

The beast groaned.

“You're fired,” Ted said, then he opened the door and ushered the two women inside.

“Get her some water,” Dorothy Parker said as Norah lowered herself into a chair, still holding on to the open Algonquin guest book.

“Now I'm a nursemaid?” He opened his minibar, found a bottle of Evian, and gave it to Norah.

Dorothy Parker frowned. “I said
water
.”

“It
is
water.”

“Doesn't water still come up through the tap?” she asked.

“Capitalism marches on, Dot. What good is free water when you can pay a hotel three dollars a bottle?”

“And people are okay with this?”

“Of course. America's love affair with commerce never cools.”

“If you tell me they're still reading Ayn Rand I may spit.”

Norah barely listened to the conversation. She took a small sip of the water and didn't feel any better. “Can someone explain what's going on?” she said.

“I think you know what's going on,” Dorothy Parker said.

“Are you really a ghost?”

“Something like that.”

“But you seem so real, so . . .” She bit her lip, thinking.

“I believe the word you're looking for is
corporeal
,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Yes,” Norah said, thinking about the visit from her mother on the night she died. She had looked real, too, but not like this, not flesh and blood. Her mother had appeared as particles of the lingering light that she had once embodied. This woman, on the other hand, seemed like she belonged here.

“It's because of that . . . thing,” Dorothy Parker said, pointing to the guest book. “Anyone who signs it gets to stay around.”

“Anyone?” This piece of information took the wind out of Norah. She looked at the bottles of medicine on the night table, then at Ted Shriver, who was sitting at a small table, pulling the Chinese food containers out of the bag. “Did you hear that?” she asked him.

He stuck a plastic fork into the food, pulled out a bite, and shoved it in his mouth. “Mm. This is good,” he said as he chewed.

Norah looked back at Dorothy Parker. “You're talking about
immortality
,” she said.

“Don't get dramatic, dear. My sphere is rather limited. I can't go anywhere without that open book, and I'm unable to touch it or move it, so I'm at the mercy of living souls.”

At last Norah understood what she had been saying on the elevator. “And you get lonely.”

“The living tend to avoid friendships with the dead. And then, of course, they have the pesky habit of dying and heading into the light.”

“You want Ted Shriver to sign that book so that when he dies . . .”

He laughed.

“What's so funny?” Norah said.

He shoved another forkful of the Chinese food in his mouth and took his time with it. “The only thing I'm signing,” he said, “is a Do Not Resuscitate. Let me have that water bottle.”

“Teddy, allow me to explain,” Mrs. Parker said. “If you sign the book, you get to decide if you want to go toward the light. Otherwise, you have no choice.”

“I'll take my chances,” he said as Norah handed him the water.

“You really want to spend an eternity with loved ones? Hasn't your father crossed over? Your first wife?”

Norah imagined the pure bliss of crossing into the light to join her mother. It had never occurred to her that there were those whose souls were so damaged they would reject a chance to connect with that kind of love. And yet here she was, with two people who simply couldn't accept eternal peace.

Ted Shriver wiped his mouth and stood. He approached the dresser, where Norah had placed the book.

“Norah, dear, find him a pen,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Don't bother,” he said, and slammed the book shut. Instantly, Dorothy Parker vanished. He handed the book to Norah.

“What did you do that for?” she asked.

“So I wouldn't have to listen to her. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to eat in peace.”

Norah swallowed hard. He was throwing her out again, and she couldn't give up without a fight. But what could she say? If she tried to explain how much he meant to her, he'd push her out even faster. She coughed a couple of times and got herself together.