The Home For Wayward Ladies (25 page)

“So soon?” Mandy says, rooting through her schedules like I’ve just ruined her day.

“Yes, Mandy, so soon. Everyone- that was measure twenty-four. When we get back, we’ll try to tackle measure twenty-five.”

As soon as they are pardoned, Carolyn rushes through the lobby doors toward the bathroom holding her stomach and covering her mouth. Either the baby is trying to climb out through her esophagus or morning sickness has hit her earlier than it should. I can empathize. My queasiness takes me all the way through the wings and out the stage door. I find a seat by my lonesome on the loading dock and light my cigarette as systematically as a diabetic injects insulin.

“You know those things are gonna kill you.” I see Robin approaching, no longer bogged down by the weight of his unseasonable (and unfashionable) fur. He has stripped down to a more sensible billowing orange caftan with sequined lapel. His jewelry catches the mid-day sun. I am blinded by the bling when he tears the cigarette from my mouth and throws it to the ground.

“Excuse me. Robin, was it? I appreciate your concern, but seeing as you’re neither my mother nor my oncologist, it’s my preference that we learn to tolerate each other’s vices. That being said, if you waste any more of my cigarettes, I’m liable to claw your face until it’s nothing but ground beef.”

“Bravo, Mr. Director.” He mocks me with applause. “You’ve got that sassy cunt thing down pat. Who knows? I might wind up taking lessons from you. But if you tore off my face, whatever would I do with my surplus of Mary Kay cosmetics?”

I can’t help but laugh. I’m sure that if the two of us had been introduced under less distressing circumstances, I’d be willing to admit that Robin embodies everything that I aspire to be. It takes a certain kind of Lady to draw on eyebrows so close to what used to be his natural hairline. And before sunset, no less. 

“I should apologize for my outburst,” I say. “I fly into a rage at least once a day at the drop of a hat. They never mean much, even though I can make them sound like they do. I promise no one put a ‘kick me’ sign on your back.”

“It’s a pleasure to know. And I understand the circumstances surrounding your tantrum. My harmonic abilities have broken stronger men than you. I couldn’t hold a part if you put it in my hand and covered it in glue.”

“I’m sure it’s not all that bad, Robin. And something tells me that you’re worth the extra effort.”

“Oh, I am. When my feet don’t get in the way, I can really cut a rug. And I land all my jokes. Always.”

“Robin, darling, you’ve already got the role; stop auditioning. You’re just going to need some extra practice. I’ll tell you what— I’ll work with you as long as it takes until you sing the notes on the page. How does that sound?”

He raises his palm to his chest, which either implies that he is sincerely touched, or wants to show off his amethyst ring that’s worth more than my liver on the black market. “Whatever can I do in return for such kindness?”

I feel him press up next to me on the loading dock. There’s not enough room between us for me to draw a proper breath. “Robin, get a grip. I’m not going to let you suck my dick. Don’t even ask.”

“You spoil sport- I don’t have to suck it as long as you let me watch when someone else does. Which leads me to ask: what’s the story with you and that choreographer? Has anyone ever told you that you would make a cute couple?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you should take stock in Band-Aids because you’re a first-rate scab-picker?  There is plenty of story between me and Hunter, but if I start crying today, I might not stop until next Christmas. So, the long and short of it is—  I’m not the one for him.”

“Don’t be such a twat. Do you have any idea how many sheets have been soiled during honeymoons had in the Poconos? You’re living in a land of enchantment.”


“So I’ve heard…” I reply.

“Listen- if there isn’t a chance for you two, then fate wouldn’t have brought you here. I should read your tarot while you’re in town. Then we’ll see what’s really in the cards.” While I can appreciate his interest, it’s hard to dredge up feelings of romance when I’m staring at a dumpster in the middle of nowhere. He continues, “Here’s what I propose: in return for you spending extra time to help me learn my music, the two of you shall be my guests for dinner. Bring that choreographer by my estate this evening. Let me set the scene. Besides, it would an honor to get to know you darling, talented boys.”

I consider the alternative, which would be finding the only Chinese carry out in a fifteen-mile radius and, post-digestion, wondering how much soy sauce I had to eat to get my shit to smell so salty. “The offer of a home-cooked meal certainly is tempting.”

He bats his false eyelashes so rapidly I’m not sure if he has palsy. “Then it’s a date. And you should both pack overnight bags. That way, if I get you too drunk, you can crash with me instead of into oncoming traffic.”

“Robin, are you sure? That sounds like an awful lot of trouble. We wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience.”

Mandy pokes her head out of the stage door. “We’re back in two, gentlemen.”

Robin and I answer in unison, “Thank you, two.” As leader, it’s my obligation to feign concern, so I add, “How’s Carolyn feeling?”

“She’ll never eat a microwavable breakfast burrito again but, other than that, I gave her a cold compress and she’s gonna make it through.”

Robin swats away flies from below the brim of his floppy sun hat. “What a trooper,” he says, “and in the purest sense of the word- part of our troupe. It feels so wonderful to be a part of a theatrical family, doesn’t it, Eli?” Robin offers me his bespangled hand to lead me back inside. “By the way, dinner is served promptly at eight. I’ll start cooking as soon as I am pardoned from this wretched excuse for a music rehearsal.”

“Bitch, please. I’ll pardon you as soon as you can carry a tune in a bucket.”

He shoots me a leer and latches on to my elbow like we’re walking in an Easter Parade. “Then if that’s the case, dinner is served promptly next Thursday.”

I stop him before he can take another step. I remember how many obstacles a performer must face: finding his light, knowing his lines, not bumping into the furniture. But, as a director, the one thing I cannot allow is for an actor to stand in his own way. “Robin, relax. Those harmonies are going to be a piece of cake. Sure, there’s a lot of hard work that goes into navigating their intricacies, but one day soon you’re going to be so surprised when, all of the sudden— bang, you nail it.”

“I suppose the same could be said for you and that choreographer.”

I huff defiantly. “Tell me how I get to that house of yours or I’m not coming.”

“Mandy has my address if you need it, but honestly you couldn’t miss it if you tried. You take the left away from the Show Barn and follow the signs up to Buck Hill. The name of my estate is emblazoned on the wrought iron gate out front. I call it the Harmonia Gardens.”

30

HUNTER

Eating Godiva chocolate in a bubble bath could not compare to the decadence that is the Harmonia Gardens. From our vantage below, this house, I beg pardon, this
estate
shines like a beacon. There’s a candle lit in every window. The attic dormers have half-moon eyes that give the sense that our appearance is not an introduction. No, this place has been expecting us since its cornerstone was laid.

When we come to a stop on the hill below, the wrought iron gate swings open with a creak. It’s so loud it could send bats from a belfry. Tina Louise is not amused. I have to put her petal to the metal to get her up the sprawling driveway. It’s so steep that I suspect Robin must ski down to his mailbox in winter.

Ominous white-stone statues of children lost in time hide amongst the trees. They point toward the house like it’s forever been their dream to be allowed inside. I try not to gloat as we putter past, undeserving. 

Tina Louise stops on a cobblestone embankment that houses a fountain bigger than a community pool. Robin appears from the porch untying his apron strings. He approaches the car and says, “You can’t park this monstrosity here. The maid died six years ago and I’m not scrubbing oil off of cobblestone. Pull it around the back of the estate; there’s a garage in the basement. I’ll meet you there.”

“Get a look of this place,” Eli says. “Daddy Warbucks would put out to sleep here.”

As we pull around back, we come upon what looks like a stable built into the brick. Robin struggles as he opens the door. It’s hard for him to get leverage in the mud seeing as he’s wearing kitten heels. “Do you need any help?” I call.

“Don’t treat me like I’m infirm just because I’m old enough to be your mother.”

“Try ‘grandmother’, you old bitch,” Eli hollers back. Apparently while I was crossing the River Styx with Vicki Vallenzino this afternoon, the two of them found the time to develop a rapport. Robin cackles as he flips Eli the bird. The crass gesture almost looks elegant when his amethyst ring catches the light of the setting sun.

His bracelets sound like wind chimes when he gestures my car forward. My driving is, as some would say, unsteady, so I approach the tight enclosure by closing my eyes and hoping for the best. He signals me to stop when the bumper is just inches from a shelf of priceless vases. The bald light bulb on a chain dangles perilously close to his head. Still, he looks at home among the antiques.

“This is quite a remarkable collection you have,” I say, grabbing my overnight bag from the backseat. 

“This old junk? Please. I redecorate more often than Auntie Mame. These are the also-rans of interior design.” I watch enough PBS to know that he’s fibbing; some of these pieces are priceless. One section is Ming Dynasty, another Lladro. There’s enough here to furnish a hotel. “Truth be told,” Robin continues, “I don’t make it down here all that often. The moisture gets caught in my lungs. Once I start to cough like Ingrid Bergman in
The Bells of St. Mary’s
it’s all over
.
Follow me. This staircase leads to the Grand Hall. From there, I can start the tour and show you to your rooms.”

Robin makes his way to the staircase as if he were holding a lantern. The Grand Hall— and I do mean Grand —features a Swarovski chandelier so opulent it would make the Phantom of the Opera squeal. Its crystal pendants reflect into infinity on the black marble floor. I become Zeus on Mt. Olympus, walking confidently above the stars.

“Before we can begin our tour, I demand a proper hello.” This consists of him kissing each of us square on the mouth. I don’t mind all that much; women in history have done far worse to receive invitation to the royal court.

“Thank you so much for having us,” Eli says.

“Please,” Robin replies, “nobody’s had you yet.” He clears his throat and gestures like a docent. “Gentlemen, I’d like to welcome you to the Harmonia Gardens. Originally built in 1901 by a Pennsylvania coal magnate, its primary purpose is grandeur. Here we stand in the estate’s Grand Hall. Its original crystal chandelier, which still hangs above you today, can be seen from as far as the roof at the Skytop Lodge. The architect had a cheeky sense of humor. As we climb the split staircase to your rooms, take note that the rails were built to resemble a woman’s open legs. Victorian sensibility intervened when the architect suggested the balustrades be shaped like swollen ankles.”

Gloomy family portraits line the walls. The entire history of the twentieth century is displayed in the women’s hair. Top buns give way to bobs, then perms, then the Farrah. Even the Rachel makes an appearance toward the end of the line.

“I’ve set you up in these two rooms. They share a corridor. That way, you won’t have to tiptoe too far in the middle of the night if you’re hounding for a pounding. Poppers, lube, and rubbers are found in every nightstand. My room is this one right across the way. Just knock if you need a third. The bathroom is on your right. Disposable enemas are under the sink in case you need to un-stink your pink. Now, drop your bags so I could take you to the liquor room to get this party started.”

“Surely you mean ‘liquor cabinet,’” I say, placing my overnight bag down on the overstuffed bed.

“No- I mean liquor room. Come with me. I’ll show you.”