The Home For Wayward Ladies (13 page)

Nick takes a step back before he has the mind to step back in. “Oh, my God,” he says coolly, analyzing the details of the mess as if it were the first responder at a homicide. “Lady, I had no idea.”

I sit stoically amongst my shame. My island is the only part of my room that remains free from contamination. I bid him come no further. “Don’t,” I say, shielding myself with an unsheathed pillow should he strike. “I don’t want your help.”

“You may not want it, Lady, but it sure as hell looks like you could use it,” He steps toward me and I recoil. As he reaches the perimeter of the island, he falls to his knees and opens up his arms. I collapse into him. When I do, I melt into a sob so powerful that each chamber of my heart must function on its own.

“It’s okay, Lady. Let it out. I’m here for you,” he whispers.  “I’m here.”   

We sit rocking until my tongue remembers why God put it in my head. I recite for him every aspect of my disorder that I understand and some others I cannot: Cousin Jonathan and the sleeping bag, the bunny hop, contamination, therapy with Mr. Landings. Nick remains as quiet as he has ever been. His silence makes me remember why he is my friend. But, while it comes as a relief to be offered an absorbent shoulder to cry upon, the honesty breeds new conflict. For some undetermined reason, I had expected my admission of guilt to yield an automatic resolve. Nothing has changed. To look around, it becomes resolutely clear how much work must still be done. 

“I’ll help you clean up,” he offers.

“No,” I stop him. “It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

I pull a few dozen hangers from the closet and place them on the bed. While I work to determine order out of chaos, Nick sits thinking. “Maybe we shouldn’t worry Eli about this. You know how much he cares about you, Hunt. Knowing this will only upset him. You don’t want to put him through that, do you?” 

It has been my plan all along to tell Eli of my misfortune the moment he gets home. Then, as soon as Nick suggests the alternative, acting deceitful seems like a far better plan. Yes, while I work to rectify my mental situation, some distance between Eli and I will serve us well. If I allow him to get no closer than a bench across the street, his view might remain mercifully obscured. That way, he can keep on loving me until the day I decide to love him in return. There’s no need to distress him with my innumerable distresses. And God forbid I have to start this whole conversation over. It’s not as if it went so well the first time that I long for a repeat performance.  

“Ok,” I agree. “This can be between us.” Nick appears somewhat self-satisfied as he reaches out his hand to shake on it. Baby steps, I know, but I overcome my fear of contamination and comply. With one secret having been finally revealed, another one is born as quickly as it is buried away. There it sits among the buffalo, a diorama frozen in time.

“Dinner will be on in a flash,” Nick says and makes his way back to the kitchen. As I put away my socks in drawers and my shirts on hangers, the smell of his spectacular meal trumpets the return of my appetite. As soon as I have had something to eat, I must remember to herald Nick’s good news. Anything joyous would be a welcomed reprieve and I do want to hear all about this Danny fellow that’s come calling.

I am still putting my world in order when Eli comes home dragging that new boy behind him like he’s Little Bo Peep. By the dinner bell, my room is tidy enough that I am not embarrassed to leave the door ajar. As the four of us prepare to sit down to a family meal, Nick appears overeager to make Eli’s guest feel at home. He tells Jason to pull up a seat. Jason does as he is told. He sits proudly like we’ve elected him the chairman of the board. As Nick strikes a match to light the candles in the holders left to me in my Granny’s will, Eli puts his hand on his new man’s shoulder. He turns to see if I have noticed. I have, naturally, but I will not be bothered by his modest display of affection. No, sir, not one bit. Until my affairs are in order, Jason will serve as a perfect decoy. 

I reach my dainty hand across the table. It crosses Eli’s plate to stop him from shoveling it in. He puts down his fork long enough to hear what I have to say. “Welcome to our home, Jason. I do hope you enjoy your visit, however long that may be.”

15

NICK

Four Months Later

I’ve been staring at myself in my dressing room mirror for hours trying to determine if, when I blink, the stranger in the mirror blinks too. The fear that I would never truly
become
Bette Midler made rehearsals for this show a total bitch. But, now that opening night is here, the only fear I have is that I got so close to her that I’ve lost myself.

“Is there such a thing as too happy?” I say to my reflection.
Don’t be ridiculous,
it scowls,
of course there is
;
how else could you explain the dissolution of Sonny and Cher?
For starters, the venue that my boyfriend, producer Danny Olsen, booked for me is a total fucking dump. Panhandlers wouldn’t perform here. I shit you not: while my tweezers work to define the natural arch of my brow, three roaches scurry across my dressing table. I want to run screaming. I remind myself that I’ve no right to be frightened of my own kind. Still, it would be a relief to get to scream about something. Danny, perhaps. Even if that beautiful man was able to get agents to see me, it’s probably best that they don’t see me here. 

Half of the mirror bulbs are out and I can barely see my eyes. The bags beneath them, however, are unmistakeable; they’re bigger than what Anna brought to meet the King of Siam. Every time I lift a makeup brush, I slam it down defeated. For me to capture Ms. Midler’s essence, I need to look glamorous beyond compare. Since it’s unlikely that three Magi carrying the gift of uppers will appear, I rely heavily on Maybelline. Too heavily. I keep spackling the shit on thicker and thicker. It’s not until I find myself purring the tune to “Memory” that I realize I’ve gone too far.

“Motherfucking-cock-sucking-cunt-licking-son-of-a-bitch-whore!”

As if I needed another reason to throw a fit, I left my makeup wipes in my other Caboodle. I’m forced to scrub off my mistake with dry paper towels. I ball them up in a wad and attack my face like I could take the finish off a boat. It doesn’t wipe the slate fully clean the way I want it to, straight down to the bone. My skin grows more irritated than my mood. I’m panting as the door creaks open. It shatters my nerves entirely.

I know it’s Danny. No one else would have the nerve to bother me now. A vase full of long-stemmed roses blocks his face, but his Italian leather shoes give him away. “Happy Opening, My Sweet Baboo!” he cheers. When he puts the flowers down, their weight makes my dressing table sag. Every shade of lipstick I own rolls toward them. 

“They’re beautiful,” I say, pushing them aside. I’m surprised my touch doesn’t turn the water in that vase permanently to ice.

“But not half as beautiful as you.” I let him kiss me on the cheek before I wriggle away. At the moment, I’m so displeased with Danny Olsen that flowers won’t help his cause. He has given me enough bouquets in the past four months that I could sponsor a float in the Rose Bowl. At first, his gifts charmed my ankles up to my ears. I suppose that’s why he keeps bringing me the goddamn things. But it’s safe to say: the moment that a courtesy becomes a routine is also the precise moment it becomes a nuisance. At the end of the night, I hope he doesn’t notice when I don’t bother to carry them home. It would be more convenient to leave them here to die.

“What do you think?” he says, unapologetically. “This place has a vibe that will really make your show sing.” 

“It’s not exactly La Scala, darling.”

“And you’re not exactly singing
La Traviata
.” Even his curt response doesn’t turn me on.

“Thank you for the flowers, Danny, now leave. I have to put on my face.”

“Which one?” he asks. His thumb finds a knot in my shoulder. When he presses it, I wince.

“The one that doesn’t look like I’ve survived an acid attack. I look wretched!”

“You look wonderful.”

“You’re a handsome liar, Danny Olsen, but leave the acting for those more capable like Cameron Diaz. I haven’t even done my hair. I’m afraid to. If I turn my hair dryer on, this place could burn to the ground. Although that might not be such a bad idea. You didn’t give them a security deposit, did you?”

“Baboo, stay calm.”

“Don’t tell me to do what’s not possible; there’s far too much to be done to stay calm. Which reminds me— let the sound guy know I need to run through all the group numbers as soon as the Harlettes get here. The fat girl singing backup thinks she’s destined to sing lead, and I’m not blowing out my pipes to compete with the likes of her. The guy in the booth needs to take the batteries out of her mic. Honestly, if you didn’t already buy that bitch a matching dress, I wouldn’t let her go on. And I need to talk to the accompanist. ‘The Rose’ is a ballad, not a dirge. And if that asshole doesn’t slow down at the top of ‘Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy’, I’m likely to have a stroke before I get a chance to blow eight to the bar.” I turn to see he’s defiantly standing still. “Why aren’t you writing this down?” 

“Because I’m your producer, not your assistant. I’ve seen every rehearsal. Trust me: leave well enough alone.”

“I’d be willing to do just that but, ‘well enough’ doesn’t get a person an agent.”

I catch sight of the guest list in his hand. It’s a veritable who’s who of “who’s that?” Everybody who is nobody is going to be here without a single somebody in sight. Sure, the room is going to be full of people that I’ve known since the day one. They all goddamn better laugh at everything I have to say, but if any of them was capable of advancing my career, I wouldn’t be performing in a place where the stage lights have two settings- on and off. 

“All you have to worry about tonight is going out there and being the best damn Bette Midler you can be. Let me worry about the rest.”

“Danny, I’m starting to get the sense that you’re not worried enough. Every time I see that guest list, the names don’t change. It’s been the same group of so-and-so’s ever since your intern started taking reservations. You promised me there would be agents- I don’t see any agents. You promised me there would be managers- I don’t see any managers. Instead, you waltz in here with flowers and a pep talk about how all I have to do is be my fabulous fucking self.” I take the guest list from his hand and wave it as if I was fanning a fire. “If you can’t understand that this is worth your worry, then you leave me no choice but to worry enough for the both of us. Danny, please,” I say, grabbing his hand and trying to force myself to cry, “I beg of you- fix this list.” 

Ever since I let that sap fall for me, our business arrangement has been compromised. I’m starting to get the sense he’s trying to spare my feelings. What if he’s spent two months on the phone trying to change the fact that not a single somebody is interested in watching his boyfriend prance around like he was Bette Midler? 

“You have to understand,” he says, taking the list from my clenched hand and tucking it away, “agents and managers are busy people with busy lives. I promise you that every one of them that matters has the details of your where and when. Nick, I want them here as badly as you do, but you have to understand I’m doing everything I’m able.”

I choose to look at his reflection in the mirror because direct eye contact with me might turn him to stone. “Danny, tonight is it. You’ve given me my big chance and I can’t begin to express my gratitude.”

“Then maybe you should try,” he says.

“I have too much riding on tonight to waste my talents on a room full of nobody special.”

Defeated, he makes his way toward the door. I didn’t meant to be so rough, but I can’t say that I’m not glad if I’ve managed to light a fire. Maybe now he’ll find the motivation to make some magic happen. It’s not until I catch the sight of sadness in his eyes that my morals start to quiver. “Oh, Danny, wait. I didn’t mean…”

“That’s not true, darling. You mean every word you’ve ever said. That truth-telling is what’s going to make you a star. Look, I wish I could tell you that William Morris himself will be sitting in the second row, but we won’t know that until curtain.” He pulls the list back out of his inside jacket pocket. “What you need to keep in mind is that there are plenty of names on this list that should matter a whole lot more than any of the names that aren’t. There are people in this world with the unfortunate burden of giving a shit about you now. Those are the ones who put up with your nonsense from dawn to dusk. Those are the ones who bring you flowers whether you’ve earned them or not. Those are the real somebodies, Nick. Try not to forget us so soon. By the way,” he adds, “there’s a card in those flowers. It will be a lot easier to read it if you take your fucking head out of your ass.”