The Home For Wayward Ladies (26 page)

He wasn’t kidding. The walls of the liquor room are lined with more spirits than a mausoleum. I am so overwhelmed by the selection that I don’t know where to begin. With all this stemware, Betty Ford could go a year without having to wash a glass. Caterers could rent from him. “This is where the maid slept. She was a fucking lush, so when she died I converted it in memoriam. The rule of the house is this: I’ll show you where everything is and I’ll even make you your first drink. But if you’re thirsty after that- then that’s your own goddamn fault.”

Robin masterfully pours from so many bottles that I lose count. He serves the concoction in a martini glass with a sugared rim. Fittingly, it tastes of liquid ambrosia. “Omigod,” I say, taking another sip, “this is too delicious for words.”

Ever so pleased with himself, Robin then leads us to the drawing room. I listen politely as he explains his fascination with garish 20
th
century art. Eli, however, isn’t listening to a word. Instead, he is staring at an end table that has a cut crystal candy dish overflowing with weed. “Robin- I’m sorry to interrupt, but do my eyes deceive me? Is that pot?”

“Free for the taking. Vodka is my poison, but I keep that around for when cute directors come to visit. They seem to love the stuff.”

I, more sensibly, am ready for more booze- a second, third, and fourth round to be exact. Eli and I stop off to mix another drink as Robin disappears into the kitchen. Eli calls after him. “It smells fucking delicious,” he says. “But, for the love of God, don’t offer to teach me everything you know. I’m useless in the kitchen.”

“Then you don’t have to lift a finger. I like to be watched.” The kitchen is as remarkable as any room I’ve ever seen. It looks like it could be the set for a cooking show. Robin goes on, “My husband was a chef. This was his temple. It’s taken me months to learn where he tucked everything away. You may remember him. Alexander O’Neal, the host of
O’Neal’s Meals
?”
Robin doesn’t have to wait long for me to fall all over myself in response.

“Heard of him?!” I shout. “My Granny and I used to watch his show every Sunday when I would visit her at the home. That man sold more cookbooks than Betty Crocker.” I then recall having seen his picture on the cover of every magazine when he died in a helicopter crash last fall. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I had no idea he was family.”

Robin hurriedly scoops food onto platters before covering them with silver lids. “No one knew he was family. His agents were insistent that our relationship be kept from the press, even after he died. It was all a matter of protecting the empire. The majority of our marriage license was a confidentiality clause. But maintaining my tight lips got me this house. That was eighteen years ago. Alexander and I shared so many wonderful memories here. Together, it was our home. Alone, it is my cloister.” If I had a handkerchief, it would be his for the taking.

Eli breaks the silence. “You poor dear. You’re like something right out of the Hallmark Hall of Fame.”

Robin wipes away the pool of mascara that puddles beneath his eyes. “You’re right, my darling. What do you say we stuff our faces until we feel nothing but our waists expanding?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “I, for one, am famished.”

And, oh, how we eat. Robin announces the menu as he presents each individual course. “The salad was grown in my garden and is topped with a fresh strawberry balsamic vinaigrette. The main course is herb-crusted leg of lamb served with mint jelly. Side dishes are asparagus and mascarpone gratin as well as roasted potatoes with smoked paprika aioli. Dessert is a sampling of local cheeses and, if you play your cards right, I’ll pull out all the stops and whip up bananas foster.”  


“You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” I say, taking my napkin from my lap to wipe away the drool.

Eli raises his glass. “Here’s to our host.”

“Yes,” I echo, “to our fabulous host.”

“No-“ Robin says, “to the theater: for its innate ability to create old friends the minute they’ve just met. It truly is an honor.”

I was often reminded as a child to not speak with my mouth full. Thankfully, the meal that we have been prepared is so stupendous that I can’t stop chewing long enough to utter a word. Anyway, it’s easier to let Robin do all the talking. I merely prod, “How is it that you have come to perform at the Pocono Show Barn? You’ll pardon me if I’m speaking out of turn, but I would assume that someone of your stature would be all too consumed with charity work and entertaining heads of state.”

“Heads of state? No, thank you. Trust me- you’ve blown one, you’ve blown ‘em all. Since Alexander died, I’ve had to think of constructive ways to kill time before I join him in the ever after. The Poconos are the land of rest and relaxation; that leaves the locals with nothing much to do, crystal meth not withstanding. In regards to my performing, I used to be a semi-pro. The last time I was onstage was at the Show Barn back in 1975. That was the year Miss Ginny died. I have to tell you, it’s a good thing she’s gone. She would have hated to see what that scuzzbucket Vallenzino did to the place.”

“Was Miss Ginny your friend?” Eli asks before belching into his fist. 

Robin laughs. “That filthy broad tried to get me to marry her. Mind you, I was at least thirty-five years her junior and never sincerely considered the offer, even if she was loaded and had nine toes in the grave.”

“How did the two of you meet?” I say, putting my fork down for fear of getting so full that my stomach might explode. 

“My parents threw me out of the house after I got caught sucking off the gardener. I was twenty-one years old and living in my car when I auditioned for the Show Barn. They supplied housing for their actors, so there was a lot riding on that day. Ginny thought I was cute, so she cast me in the ensemble of
Brigadoon
. The way she fingered her pearls at that audition, I knew the reason why she was keeping me around. Still, it came as a surprise one night after a performance when she walked into my dressing room and showed me her heather on the hill.”

“My word,” I proclaim. “Whatever did you do?”

“I did what I was getting paid to do: perform. I turned off the light and fucked that bag of dust on the fainting couch. I needed a place to sleep and, let us remember, young gentlemen, that a hole is a hole in the dark.” My stomach churns at the notion of ever sampling a woman’s pudding pie.

“Look, I’m sure if you boys stick it out, you’re going to hear plenty of stories that paint Miss Ginny in the likes of Mother Theresa. But, have I got news for you.” He wags his finger like he’s doing the twenty-three skidoo. “Her kindness was an image she relied on to milk the teat of this community until her dying day. Under all that lace, she was a real bitch-on-wheels. She had to be, otherwise no one would have let her live her dream. Lucky for me, before that grade-A cunt dropped dead, she taught me everything I know.”

“Then why didn’t you take over the theater? It would be better off if it was run by a person who knows a cyclorama isn’t the new Marvel superhero."

“Don’t think I didn’t try. The state put it in probate. Lawyers are expensive and— don’t look too surprised —but this riche is slightly nouveau. It wasn’t until I married Alexander that I had the money to be so outrageous. After our nuptials, however, it was a full-time job monitoring my husband’s whereabouts. One day Paris, Vienna the next, then a private jet back home only to turn in an instant after another kiss goodbye. I implore you boys to not waste the time you’re given. It’s a gift. When you’re young, you think that love will last forever. When you’re old, you realize that forever could not possibly be long enough.”

31

ELI

Robin takes another sip of port to aid in his digestion as we look out from the veranda to the serenity of his moonlit garden. He muses, “I remember reading that there is a cave somewhere in Crete with a painting that dates from 1450 BC. Its subject is a single pink rose.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I read that too. They found it right next to the cave painting of your first communion.” Hunter looks so drunk he almost believes me.

“You’ll pardon me,” Robin says, “but my point, you precocious little shit, is how artists have always drawn inspiration from the land.”

“And your land is quite an inspiration.” Hunter looks down with disappointment on his empty martini glass. When he tries to place it down, he nearly misses the wicker table by a mile. I guide his hand. It’s adorable how he drawls like Scarlet O’Hara when he’s three sheets to the wind. “I would love to find a pair of gloves and get my hands into that dirt.”

“The idea of digging in the dirt sounds like fun to you? Robin, this proves yet again that my best friend is a mystery to me.” Hunter juts out his chin. It’s his pleasure to evade me again. I tell him, “I would have never guessed your thumb to be green.”

“My mother’s bloom was blue ribbon for three years running. We showed every August at the county fair.”

Robin massages the indigestion gurgling in his chest. “Another rule of the house: do whatever makes you happy, but clean up when you’re done. And if you’re digging in the garden, don’t go too deep; that’s where I hide the bodies.”

Hunter clasps his hands behind his head and stares off wistfully. “Gardening is a commitment you make back to the land. It relaxes me. So, if I’m expected to deal with Vicki Vallenzino for the next five weeks, six days, two hours, and thirty-seven minutes, you can allow me to borrow your trowel after every rehearsal. After today, I know I’m going to need it. Maybe that’s how I can earn my keep.”

“My guests don’t have to earn their keep beyond the ability to hold a conversation. You passed every test tonight with flying colors. Stay with me as long as you want and not a moment longer. I’d love the company.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” I laugh. “Vallenzino has us living in a slum. And, furthermore, I have reason to stick around this place; you still haven’t shown me the library.”

“Make yourself at home. Read every book twice for all I care.”

The clock in the hall chimes an elegant etude. It’s midnight already. If I fall asleep right now, I can still get seven hours. But time with drunk Hunter is worth all quantities of sacrifice. Robin, on the other hand, can’t be robbed of a solitary moment of his beauty rest. He sighs.

“I fear my carriage is turning back into a pumpkin. It’s been a lovely ball, but I must be off to bed, my darlings.” We rise to excuse her highness. “Hunter, you sweet boy, I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast. If you want anything special from the store, there’s a shopping list in the pantry. Write down what you need and I’ll be sure to grab it the next time I hit town. Eli, might I please borrow you? I require some assistance getting to my room.”

“I already told you, I’m not going to let you suck my dick.”

“Still, would it kill you to jerk off on my toothbrush?” Robin’s eyes drift as he watches the room spin. He stumbles into my arms so I have no choice but to catch him.

“Hunt, let me get this one to bed. Don’t go far while I’m gone; hide and seek in this place could last a millennia.”

Robin’s feet offer no help as I drag the coot inside. As soon as we are out of Hunter’s view, however, he composes himself entirely. His spine has returned and his eyes are sunny again. He asks, “You’re the director- how did I do? I think I played dinner a bit too heavy-handed with all that stuff about my dead husband and learning to love forever. I’ll admit it paints a picture, but it made me feel like Dorothy Loudon doing scenes that were cut from
Ballroom.
” 

“You were fucking brilliant, Robin. Shirley Booth couldn’t have played it better. Did you see the tears in Hunter’s eyes? You were right; if the Poconos don’t make him fall for me, then he’s a lost cause.”

“Eli, you’re doing brilliantly, but don’t put too much pressure on the boy. He seems like the type that will snap if you wind him too tight. And no matter what his response, remember he still loves you and always will.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so. He hung on every word you had to say tonight regardless of the fact that he’s heard you tell the same boring stories at least a million times. I can see how capable he is of finishing your every thought, but he never dared interrupt. Eli, I get the impression that he wants to hear the story of your life with him in it.”