Comedy of Erinn (21 page)

It was a note, written on hotel stationery. It read:

Erinn sank onto the bed. Well, all right then—it was the old adage, “All's fair in love and war.”

She saw herself in the mirror. She felt foolish in her new shoes and silly earrings. She took them all off and threw them in the trash. She quickly packed her suitcase as she stuffed her feelings back into the metal locker from which they had somehow escaped. She took a breath and felt oddly centered. She was used to this hollowness.

It fit better than the shoes.

“O
K, Erinn, that's enough,” Erinn's mother, Virginia, said, pulling back the drapes so that sunlight flooded the tiny guestroom of her Greenwich Village apartment. “Come on now, let's greet the day!”

“I'm not ready to greet the goddamned day,” Erinn said, putting her head under the pillow.

“I swear, dear, you're worse than that Carrie in that
Sex and the City
movie.”

Erinn peeked out from under the pillow and opened one eye.

“Say again?”

“You know, when Big stood Carrie up at the altar and she went on her honeymoon with her girlfriends and just . . . pouted . . . the whole time. It was most unbecoming.”

Erinn sat up. Suzanna and their mother shared a love of all things
Sex and the City
, and in retirement, her mother's passion for the characters seemed to have escalated.

“Well, this is hardly the same situation. I was not left at the altar. This is professional.”

“Ah! Professional pouting. I see.”

Erinn and her mother stared at each other, Erinn scowling, Virginia smiling benignly.

“OK, you win. I'll get up,” Erinn said with a shrug.

Virginia patted her daughter's knee and left the room before Erinn could beg her to draw the drapes. Erinn sat back against the ornately carved headboard and noticed that her mother had left a glass of orange juice on the nightstand. In her head, Erinn could hear her mother saying, “There's no better way to start the morning than with a great big glass of orange juice.” She'd been saying it since Erinn was a child.

Erinn drank the juice, and hated to admit that she was starting to feel slightly more human. The drink turned sour in her mouth as the events of Philadelphia started playing again in her brain. Erinn put the glass down with a thud. She wondered:
How long have I been at my mother's, anyway?

And then:
How long did Carrie pout over Mr. Big?

Erinn dragged herself out of bed and into the shower. As in many old New York apartments, Virginia's plumbing led a life of its own. One wrong turn of the ancient handle and the water would turn so cold or so hot that it could shoot you involuntarily out of the shower. Luckily, the shower seemed to understand that Erinn was in no mood for games. Washing her hair turned out to be blessedly noneventful.

Erinn emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in one of her mother's silk kimonos. Virginia was in the kitchen, the morning paper in front of her, looking out onto the bleak landscape of her tiny garden. The barren sticks of last year's plants stuck up through the snow.

“I've always imagined this is what the Phantom of the Opera's garden would have looked like,” Virginia said without turning to look at Erinn. “Bleak, bleak, bleak.”

Erinn poured herself some tea. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and expertly pulled her hair into its tousled do. She sat down with her mother and regarded the garden.

“Last year, I went on a tour of the Los Angeles Arboretum before the flowers bloomed,” Erinn said. “We were riding on a long open-air cart and the driver was pointing out all the various roses, but there was nothing to see but branches. I thought . . . what if aliens saw us right now? What would they think?”

“I always wonder what aliens would think if they saw us at a movie theater before the show begins,” Virginia said. “All these people staring at a blank screen.”

“Interesting,” Erinn said, and sipped her tea.

“Dear, may I ask you something?”

Erinn nodded, sipping her tea and musing about aliens.

“When did you stop combing your hair?” Virginia asked, gazing at Erinn's updo.

Erinn fell into the familiar rabbit hole that was childhood and instinctively planned on blaming her sister for the unfortunate hairdo. But she stopped herself. She had to admit she really liked the softer look. She touched her hair and pulled a curl over her forehead.

“I've made a lot of changes lately,” she said.

Erinn noticed her mother had scooted the
New York Times
closer to her. It was open to an advertisement for holistic eardrops made from garlic and olive oil. She looked at her mother, who sat innocently sipping her tea. But Erinn wasn't fooled for one minute. This was Virginia's oddly passive way of telling Erinn she needed to buck up, get out into the world again. She needed to listen.

Erinn went back to bed.

 

The following morning, Erinn got out of bed without her mother's pressure, craving orange juice. She opened the bedroom door, planning on tiptoeing to the kitchen, when she saw a large glass of orange juice sitting on the floor right outside her room. When she was growing up, this unnerving radar of her mother's used to annoy Erinn. Now she was grateful for it. Erinn started to take the drink into her room, but she could hear her mother puttering in the kitchen and carried the glass in there instead.

“I see you've decided to join the living.” Erinn's mother poured a cup of tea for her as she made her way to the table. “Look at this magazine, dear. You're in it!”

Erinn snapped awake and looked at the magazine in front of her. Under the headline
Whatever Became Of
. . . was a short paragraph about Erinn Elizabeth Wolf returning to the city of her early triumph. Erinn let out a sigh of relief. That was all the information given.

Virginia sat at the table and brought the phone with her.

“I'm listed, you know. I bet the phone is going to ring off the hook now that everybody knows you're back.”

Erinn and her mother stared at the phone in silence. It did not ring.

“Oh, Mother, nobody cares that I'm back. This is silly!”

The phone rang so suddenly and so shrilly that both women jumped. Virginia answered it. She handed the phone to Erinn.

“It's for you.”

“Erinn Wolf here.”

“Really?” asked the voice on the other end of the phone. “Are you really her?”

“Am I really
she
?” Erinn corrected.

“Well, are you or aren't you?”

“Let's start again. I am she.”

Erinn's mother put the call on speakerphone, so she could listen. Erinn always took a secret pleasure in her mother's pride. Virginia had practically glowed at the premiere of
The Family of Mann.

“This is so exciting,” said the voice. “You know, I saw
The Family of Mann
six times! I can't believe I'm talking to a celebrity.”

“Well, that's very flattering,” Erinn said.

“When I saw your name in
Celebrity Magazine,
it sure brought back memories,” the voice said. “Even though it was in
Whatever Became Of
. I guess that means you're no longer a celebrity.”

Erinn watched as her mother started to frown.

“No,” Erinn said. “It means you are no longer flattering.”

She hung up the phone. Her mother looked at her over her reading glasses.

“Erinn, dear,” she said. “Was that nice?”

Erinn stared at the column again. Was the fact that she was mentioned in a magazine a coincidence? No one but her mother knew she was in town. No one had seen her—she hadn't been out of the house.

“Mother?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Do you think it was a coincidence that
Celebrity Magazine
wrote an article about me while I just happened to be in town?”

“Oh, I have no idea.”

“You did this, didn't you?” Erinn said.

“I did not!” Virginia said.

“Then it must have been Suzanna.”

Her mother snorted and waved her hand in dismissal.

“Then it was Mimi!”

“It was not Mimi. If Mimi wanted to expose you, she would have contacted
People
magazine, not
Celebrity
.”

“I cannot imagine that
People
magazine would have any interest in my whereabouts.”

“That's exactly what Suzanna said.”

“So you
did
tell Suzanna I was here?”

“Well, of course I told her you were here. Suppose she went to your house and discovered that man was back with the cat—and no you. She would think you had been murdered. I couldn't have your sister frantic with worry.”

Erinn decided to let her mother off the hook. Her mother was no match for Suzanna's badgering. Perhaps it was just serendipity that
Celebrity
should mention her. Perhaps they mentioned her all the time. Erinn wouldn't know if New Yorkers still cared about her, what with her living on the West Coast.

She made a mental note to order a subscription to
Celebrity
when she got back to California.

Erinn stood up to pour them both more tea—a secret family signal that a subject was closed. She could see the relief in Virginia's eyes. Erinn decided she should go easier on her mother.

“Are you intending to see any friends while you're here?” Virginia asked.

Erinn retracted her resolution. Her mother was relentless.

“I . . . I don't really have any plans.”

“Well, I think it would do you good to get out. You've been sleeping for almost three days,” Virginia said. “The city has changed a lot since you've been back.”

Virginia prided herself on knowing the town—even though she'd only been back for fewer than two years. The fact that it had been nine years since Erinn had been back to New York went unspoken.

Erinn knew it made no sense staying inside—that's what she did in Los Angeles. When she used to live in New York, she'd turned her kitchen into a closet since she was never home enough to use it. But she did not want to revisit the city right now, no matter how much it had changed.

“I'm not really interested in going out right now,” Erinn said. “I thought I'd just stay inside with you.”

“I have my own life, dear.”

“I thought you and I could have lunch at Tavern on the Green.”

“You loathe Tavern on the Green. Besides, it's closed.”

Erinn's mother looked at her.

“Erinn, you can't pull the rug up every time something goes wrong,” Virginia said. “I let you hide the last time, and I regret it. Now, call someone—anyone—and leave the house.”

“Mother, please, I know you mean well, but I'm an—”

Virginia held up her hand.

“I don't want to hear that you're an adult, dear. First of all, you aren't acting like one, and second, I'm your mother,” Virginia said, putting a phone down on the table in front of Erinn. “Call someone—anyone—and make a lunch date.”

“I don't have any phone numbers.”

“What about Facebook?”

“Oh, Mother, please. I am not on Facebook.”

“Dear, you can be such a caveperson.”

“Even if I find someone with whom to have lunch . . . I don't know where to go.”

“Everyone's going to the Chelsea Market these days,” Virginia said, leaving the kitchen.

 

Erinn stood outside Chelsea Market, waiting for Lamont Langley to show up. She looked up at the gray sky and, for a moment, longed for the California sunshine. She jumped up and down trying to stay warm.

Erinn had not kept up with any of her New York friends or colleagues, but she had Lamont's number from the
BATTLEready!
call sheet. Erinn was surprised that Lamont had agreed to meet her after the George Washington debacle, but he seemed amenable to the idea of getting together. She saw him striding toward her and she squinted. He seemed to have some people with him. As they got closer, Erinn recognized at least two of the men—they were older now, but they were definitely two of the elusive “money people” who backed Broadway shows back in her own heyday. Memories of successful plays and of feeling as if the good times were never going to end flooded her as the men came closer. One of them took her hand and kissed her on the cheek.

“Hello, Erinn. It's been a long time.”

E
rinn closed her eyes as her plane lightly touched down on the runway at Los Angeles International Airport.

After her lunch with Lamont, she had come back to her mother's to find Virginia had packed Erinn's suitcase and dragged it—and all of her camera gear—to the front door. Virginia had just come from a pottery class, where she had spun out Erinn's sad tale along with a lumpy serving tray. Apparently, “tough love” was the verdict handed down by her fellow artisans, and Virginia was throwing Erinn out.

“Go home, dear. I've gotten you a ticket,” her mother said. “Here's your boarding pass and a little gift for the plane.”

Ever since Erinn had been a little girl, her mother had always sent her girls off with small presents, prettily wrapped, to open during those endless hours in the middle of a trip. After reading everything in the in-flight magazine, Erinn dug into her carry-on and examined the gift bag from her mother. The gift bag was entombed in an airline-regulation plastic bag for liquids, and Erinn anticipated a bottle of French perfume—her mother's one weakness. She debated as to whether she should open it or not. After all, Virginia had tossed her out like an old boot! But Erinn knew she meant well.
Always the mother
, Erinn thought, carefully separating delicate ecru tissue paper. She pulled out a tiny green suede pouch. She could feel the tiny stopper through the bag. Her pulse quickened. Her mother's love of perfume had passed on to the next generation. Erinn tried to guess what it might be. Chanel No. 5? No, wrong shape. Shalimar? Ditto. Erinn gave up and opened the drawstrings. She lifted out the slim vial.

It was a bottle of eardrops.

Always
the mother.

 

Erinn looked out the window of the taxi as it crawled through the congested traffic on Lincoln Boulevard, inching its way toward Santa Monica. Erinn tried to think positively, and was happy to see that her winter flowerbeds looked great—as a matter of fact, her garden could compete with the professionally tended landscaping across the street in the park. She had Massimo to thank for that, she supposed. Thank God for Massimo!

The taxi driver had no interest in helping her to the door with her gear, so Erinn pulled, pushed, and lugged until all the suitcases and equipment cases were in the front hallway. Erinn listened. The house was completely still. Perhaps Massimo had moved back to the guesthouse after all.

Caro meowed a sullen hello from the top of the stairs and padded down to greet her. Erinn was surprised how much she had missed her pet. She picked Caro up and stroked the soft fur. She realized she was a sorry sight: a middle-aged woman, teary-eyed, stroking a huge cat, whose paws spilled lankily over Erinn's arms.

Still sniffling and cradling the enormous cat, Erinn went into the living room. On one hand, she felt as if she'd never been away, but on the other hand, she felt she'd left this room one person and returned another.

She had some emotional shoring up to do, that was for sure.

Erinn sat down at the computer and stared at the dark screen. She wasn't quite sure she was ready to dive back into e-mails—and she certainly didn't know what she wanted to do about her stolen lighthouse idea. She turned the computer on and absentmindedly opened Word. She listlessly looked at the most recently opened documents.
Let It Shine
had been opened while she was away.

Surprised, she dropped the cat unceremoniously to the floor and dug out her half-moon specs. Caro landed flat-pawed with a thud and stared at her accusingly. Erinn looked again at the list of newly opened documents. She was staring speechlessly at the screen when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Guiltily, she reached for the mouse, to shut down the page, but stopped herself.

This is
my
computer!
she thought as Massimo breezed into the room.

“
Che sorpresa!
I saw your bags in the hall,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks. “I was not expecting you.”

Erinn tried to detect any hint of apprehension in Massimo's demeanor, but couldn't see any.

“I have been sleeping with Caro in your room,” Massimo announced.

Erinn waited.

“I will move to another room?” he asked.

“Well, I think you should move back to the guesthouse . . . now that I'm home.”

“But,
cara mia
, I thought in Philadelphia, you said we would rent the guesthouse to someone new.”

“No, Massimo, in Philadelphia,
you
said we would rent the guesthouse to someone new.”

Erinn was annoyed, but realized she had set herself up for this one. She could smell something fantastic coming from the kitchen and told Massimo that she would get settled and they would talk over dinner. Massimo seemed to relax. He headed quickly toward the kitchen, Caro following at his heels.

Traitor,
Erinn thought—about the cat.

She went up to her room and unpacked. Erinn had planned to dump all her clothes in the hamper, but her mother had washed everything before packing them. Erinn sat on the bed. She realized that she had been looking forward to doing the laundry. It would be something to do, something to think about.

Dude, you are so lame,
she thought as she caught a glimpse of herself in the oval mirror that attached to her antique dresser.

After emptying the suitcases, she headed downstairs. Massimo was setting the table in the dining room. He had spread a black-and-silver embroidered shawl over the table and used her hand-painted Italian china. He had obviously made himself at home, she observed. This stuff wasn't just lying around the house. He had to know where she kept everything.

Erinn smiled and took a seat while Massimo poured wine. She didn't recognize it as one of her own, so he must have bought it.

Or poached it from the restaurant
. . .
when he still worked there.

Massimo served them Portobello mushrooms with rice and tomato sauce. Erinn took a bite and was transported back to Italy. Maybe she was being too hard on Massimo. He took liberties, to be sure, but perhaps it was just cultural. The Italians were just more casual about this sort of thing, she told herself. Besides which, he cooked like an angel. She looked at him and they stared at each other in the flickering candlelight. His liquid-mercury eyes sent a shiver down her spine.

Caro sat at Massimo's feet. Erinn was a little jealous of Caro's affection for Massimo, but at least she was sure Caro would approve of her new roommate.

Massimo continued to pour wine, offer second helpings, and set out small glasses for port (which
was
hers, Erinn noted) so seamlessly that she hadn't realized two hours had passed. Massimo started to clear the dishes, but Erinn insisted on helping.

Massimo demurred, but when Erinn said, “Massimo, it's my house. Let me help,” a little too forcefully, he gave a small bow and followed her into the kitchen.

The Italian china had to be hand-washed and dried. Massimo rolled up his sleeves as he opened the taps. He handed Erinn a dishtowel and they set to work.

When Erinn had finished drying the large serving platter, she headed to the china cabinet, when Massimo stopped her.

“Cara mia,”
he said. “The china now lives in the cabinet beside the stove.”

Erinn froze midstep.

“You . . . you rearranged my kitchen?”

“
Sì
. . . but you do not have to thank me. It was nothing.”

“Oh, it was something,” Erinn said, trying to keep her anger at bay.

Massimo had turned on the Vibiemme Domobar espresso machine, and the smell of dark, strong coffee filled the kitchen. Erinn punched down her hard feelings.

She would be insane to give this up because of a few—eccentricities.

Erinn and Massimo took their espressi into the living room. Massimo lit a fire, and Erinn mused that one never really needed a fire in Santa Monica . . . not like in Valley Forge, where they . . . She stopped herself and focused on the crackling logs. Massimo sat on the same couch as Erinn, but at a respectful distance, she was relieved to see. The cat, not usually a diplomat, curled up between them. They sipped in silence. When Erinn could stand it no longer, she asked, “Massimo, was my sister here while I was away?”

“
Sì
. . . I don't think Suzanna trusted me with Caro.”

“Did she ever . . . go to my computer?”

“No.”

“Was anyone else in the house?”

“
Sì
. A very loud woman. With the soul of a man. ”

“Mimi?”

“
Sì!
Mimi. She disgraces the name. Puccini would roll in his grave if he would hear such screeching.”

It often took a moment for Erinn to unscramble Massimo's conversation, but she understood that he felt that her agent, with her aggressive ways, did not live up to the tragic, waif-like heroine named Mimi in Giacomo Puccini's operatic masterpiece
La Bohème.

“And what did she want?”

Massimo shrugged.

“She said she was your agent. I know in Hollywood agents rule the world, so I let her in. She went to the computer.”

Erinn's stomach lurched. But why would Mimi steal her show? Did she want to sell it with a different writer attached? She thought back to Cary's remark that the show had been pitched by “someone we know and love,” and she flipped between feeling betrayed by her agent and relieved that it wasn't Jude.

Or
was
it Jude? He'd made no attempt to contact her since leaving the note.

And the note! That implied guilt, didn't it? She realized she had been silent a long time.

“I'm sorry, Massimo,” she said. “I was thinking.”

Massimo moved closer. He played with a tendril that was curling on Erinn's neck.

“About me, I think?”

“No,” Erinn said, moving a few inches away from him. “I think my agent might have . . .” She couldn't bring herself to say it.

“I am . . . what do you Americans say? . . . I am here for you. Talk to me.”

Erinn took a deep breath.

“I'm afraid my agent may have stolen a show idea from me. It's about a lighthouse . . . and . . .”

“No!”

“I know it is hard to believe, but . . .”

“No!” Massimo said again. “Your agent did not take your idea.”

Erinn started at Massimo. So it was Jude? But how would Massimo know?

“How do you know?”

“Cara mia,”
Massimo said. “Is not with your idea. I am with your idea.”

Clearly, Massimo did not understand what Erinn was trying to say. She tried to think what the Italian words were for “back-stabbing agent” or even “lighthouse,” but she was very tired and the words did not come.

“I don't think you . . .”

“Sì . . . sì . . . sì,”
Massimo said eagerly. “I wants to read your work, and I am lonely and bored in the house. I reads about the lighthouse, and I say to myself, ‘Massimo, that is a good idea.' Before I got to Philadelphia, I meets Cary and I tell her about this great idea.”

“Did you tell her it was
my
idea?”

“No,
cara mia
. Why make it . . .
complicato
?”

“You just can't . . . be . . . with someone else's idea,” Erinn said, “when there is money involved.”

“Oh, no, Erinn, there is no money. I gives to them the idea.”

She tried to think of a simple way to explain that this was just not done. This was America! This was commerce! Hearing Mimi's voice niggling in her ear, she thought,
This is a negotiation. I must remain breezy.

Nothing came to mind.

“I have done a wrong thing?” Massimo asked.

“Well . . . uh . . . yes . . . being with someone else's idea and then selling it . . . for no money . . . to someone else is not a good idea,” Erinn said, trying to keep her voice steady. Massimo's grasp of the English language seemed to come and go rather conveniently, she thought, but then reprimanded herself. Of course his English would slip during heated conversations. Her Italian was nonexistent at this point!

“But I will get another job with this new show now! Cary will make me a . . .
come si dice
. . . a person who plays . . .”

“A contestant . . .”

“
Sì.
And I can now pay rent. You can now be a producer. It is a good thing!”

“But can't you understand? It was my idea.... There is money involved.”

“Money is like a pie. You eat it up a piece at a time and then . . . there is no more money. So, money, she is not important.”

Could Massimo be so innocent? Erinn wondered. He really did not seem to understand that he had done anything wrong. And it did mean that he would be able to pay rent and that she would be a producer.

And it did mean that Mimi hadn't stolen her idea. Although why Mimi had been in her place at all remained a mystery.

And most of all, it meant that Jude was innocent. He hadn't called, but then she had not contacted him, either.
Well,
she thought,
I will rectify that!