Coming Attractions (13 page)

One particular conversation had taken place in the music room, when Helen had quietly opened the door and carried a tray inside. Cory, who was deep into practice, had been at the piano for two hours and Helen had decided it was time to break.

Cory’s nose suddenly twitched. She raised her head to the aroma of fresh-baked bread. She continued playing but the delicious smell grew stronger, too strong to blow off as the neighbor’s air escaping into her apartment. Helen knew what Cory was thinking: Had her Helen, her non-cooking, potato-nuking Helen, actually broken out the flour and eggs? Helen carried the lip-smacking, mouthwatering snack closer. Cory stopped playing, turned, and her eyes lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza.

“Yes!” She squealed when she saw a tray that bore freshly baked bread tucked snugly into a wicker basket. Fresh orange slices nestled with kiwi and buttery morsels of Swiss and Cheddar cheese.

Helen remained straight-faced. “Yoko dropped this off,” she said, and Cory smiled. “She said to fatten you up.” Helen placed the tray on the back of the grand piano and Cory followed.

“Did Yoko send any messages?” Cory asked nonchalantly and then tore into the steamy loaf.

“Yes.” Helen thought. “Something about a walrus and an egg man.” She watched Cory struggle to control a laugh. “And then she pointed to the kiwi and said ‘Give these a chance.’ What do you suppose it means?”

Cory sighed, nodded, and fed Helen a creamy chunk of Swiss cheese. “The first part is top secret, but the second part”—she swept her eyes over Helen’s face—“means you have flour all over your pretty little cheeks.”

Helen looked at her reflection on the piano and saw nearly enough flour to make a small pretzel. “Before Yoko left she yanked a huge powder-puff out of her sleeve and slammed it into my face.” She brushed off the flour with a napkin. “It was the strangest thing. She likes slapstick, is my guess.”

Cory was beside herself with laughter. She raised her finger to the air in emphasis. “Ah, yes. That’s Yoko’s ‘You gotta move to Boston’ powder-puff slamming.”

“You’ll have to relocate,” Helen said.

Cory munched an orange slice. “I wouldn’t mind supporting you if you wanted to get back to your book.”

“I love you, but I’m not so sure I want to move to Boston. My life is here.”

“You could change that.”

“So could you. Stay in New York.”

And so it would go each time.

Rejuvenated by a cool shower and donning fresh clothes, Helen wrapped a towel around her hair. In her search for Marty, she checked the living room and kitchen, but Marty was nowhere in sight. Back down the hallway, she headed toward an open door and peeked into a bedroom.

“Marty?” No answer.

A throat cleared in the dead air and Helen turned toward the muffled sound. Another sound, lighter and less masculine followed. A woman’s giggle, a muffled “ouch” and a “shh” led her to another door, and the distinct clamoring inside stopped Helen. She listened, curious.

“Face the door,” someone whispered. “She’ll—” Ping! Many giggles then, when someone hit what sounded like a very high piano key. “Shh!” the same voice said. “You’re worse than children.”

“I don’t know the words,” someone whispered desperately.

“What? Everybody knows—” The voice was cut off by a chorus of “Shh!”

Helen chuckled. Somewhere in that disorganized mess, Marty could probably be found. She turned the door handle.

“Marty?”

“Yeah, come on in, Helen.”

“The door’s locked.”

More laughter echoed from inside.

“Shit.” Footsteps pounded on the hardwood floor, the door swung open, and Marty grabbed Helen’s hand and pulled her inside. “Ta da! Hit it, Chamberlain.”

Helen was surprised not only to see Cory home a day early but also to find almost everybody from the party there, as well as some who hadn’t been there, like Jackie Payne, a sleek, soft-butch makeup artist. Blair, she noticed, was absent, and she supposed that was just as well.

They sang together, “When You Wish Upon A Star.” Some sounded good, some off-key, and some struggled through their laughter. Cory removed one hand from the piano keys long enough to blow her a kiss. Helen listened while they sang, and she half expected to see Jiminy Cricket dance across the room in his tuxedo.

Helen had made her wish to the stars and it seemed that they would make it come true. Not only her wish, it was obviously their own secret longing, to honor themselves and those who were their equal. She couldn’t believe that they’d agreed, and she wanted to hug each of them. The makings of a top-notch show were right there in front of her, and the thought of it gave her goose bumps.

“This is wonderful. We’re really gonna do it.” Helen punched the air in front of her. “Yeah!”

“It’s your ball game, Helen. We give you the talent and you give us the ways and means,” Mark said.

Her ball game. Suddenly she was launched into the role of producer. That meant getting their acts together, locating a hall or theater, setting a show date, producing programs, and probably a million other things she knew absolutely nothing about. She’d probably rely on Marty for insider advice, but she couldn’t wait to get started.

Cory left the piano and joined Helen.

“How did you keep this from me?” Helen asked after a long kiss from Cory and wolf whistles from the group.

“I—” She stopped abruptly as she looked toward the doorway.

Marty raised her eyebrows and a chorus of groans came from the others. Helen turned and looked behind her.

Blair leaned against the wall outside the door. She was squeezed into black spandex accessorized with a silver belt buckle, three-inch heels, and dark glasses. Her arms were folded in front of her. She looked sexy, something Helen would never admit to thinking, but Blair’s cold demeanor gave true meaning to the term icy-hot.

“I couldn’t resist crashing your little get-together.” Her voice was cool and steady.

“You’re welcome here any time,” Marty said, walking to the door. “I didn’t think you’d be interested—”

“Well, I am.” She pushed away from the wall and walked into the room. “I have something to say about this Townsend Shock Appeal.” She looked toward Cory. “It’s my turn to speak.” She paused for effect.

“Helen gets paid, rather hefty I presume, to stir up controversy.” She walked slowly around Helen. “Like us, she’s just another closeted queer.” Cory stepped up to Blair. Blair stopped and turned quickly to Helen. “Does that word offend you?”

“Not in this group,” Helen said.

Blair looked at Cory and smiled triumphantly. “Then I’ll continue. This is one story Helen can’t do alone, unlike Moses, who parted an entire sea.”

“With Divine intervention,” Jenny said. “And he was leading his people.”

Blair laughed. “They packed up their worldly goods and followed, in search of the Promised Land. Their Bill of Rights, so to speak.”

“What’s your point, Blair?” Stacey asked.

“My point is that all of you, except for you, Stacey, could possibly throw away your livelihoods for this woman’s personal need. There won’t be Divine intervention and there’s no promise at the end. There’s only hope where hope isn’t enough.” She looked at Helen. “But it can’t be left to lie and rot, can it, Helen? You need to wear that robe and carry that staff.”

“I’m not Moses,” Helen said. “Look. I don’t—”

“No, you aren’t a prophet and these people are mad to follow you. Your proposed show is the most absurd and foolish thing I’ve ever heard of and if you think I’d throw away everything I’ve earned, for the sake of freedom, freedom that I shouldn’t have to fight for to begin with, then you’re…” Blair paused and smiled. She removed her sunglasses and returned Helen’s wink from the party “…absolutely correct.”

The group around the piano let out their breath together and Cory did a double take on Blair.

Helen blinked, stunned by the words. “What?”

Blair responded with less bravura. “All of them can’t be wrong, Helen. I’ve thought about this for weeks, and the worst that can happen is I won’t work in Hollywood for a while. I could use a break, anyway.”

“Crazy woman,” Jay whispered.

“Am I in?” Blair asked. “I’d really like to do this show with you and I promise not to ask for top billing.”

Helen blinked again and looked around the room. Except for Jay, all heads nodded approval. “You’re in,” she said quietly and began to laugh. “She’s in.”

“Oh, goody,” Jay grumbled.

Chapter Fourteen

Helen sat in the stream of late morning sunlight. Her orange juice and rye toast remained untouched. Her hair was a tangled mess, Medusa-like. Helen Townsend just wasn’t glamorous in the mornings, and she didn’t care.

Her definition of breakfast couldn’t be found in any dictionary. Breakfast meant: “Leave me alone while I have coffee and toast. Don’t expect me to talk until I’m showered. Confine your cereal to the bowl and please clean up the mess. I am not your mother or your nanny. I am not human. I’m a lump. Treat me as such.”

Cory, on the other hand, sat wide-awake, her nose buried in the pages of the newspaper, oblivious to the sounds of her breakfast cereal. Snap-crackle-pop. Snap-crackle-pop. Snap-crackle-pop. Every morning Cory was home, Helen heard it. Snap-crackle-pop. The continuous battering of sound was grating.

“Says here that Webber’s fired Dunaway from
Sunset Boulevard
,” Cory said of the Broadway musical. She dunked her spoon into the bowl, and a heap of cereal fell over the side. Snap-crackle-pop. “Probably blown out of proportion by the press.” The loaded spoon disappeared past Cory’s lips and emerged again, empty.

Helen raised an eyebrow and grumbled a word. “Meaning?”

“Sensationalism.” She splashed into the bowl with her spoon. Cereal scattered onto the table.

“Is that how you see my profession?” Helen asked, an edge to her voice.

“Not always.” She dunked the spoon again. Whoosh went the cereal. “But you do hype stories.”

Helen counted twenty-seven bits of toasted rice that were scattered about the table, to her annoyance, while Cory chatted endlessly and looked disgustingly well groomed for that hour of the day. Well groomed, but sloppy in her eating habits. Helen wished Cory was as careful at her own breakfast table as she was in a public restaurant. Cory turned the page of her paper and her hand knocked the bowl.

“I know a woman,” Helen said calmly and got up. “She worked with me on fiction.” She walked to the cabinet. “She got me so crazy that I called her a word-sucking vampire.” She pulled a large crystal salad bowl from the cabinet and slammed it onto the counter. “She told me the characters needed conflict.”

“Uh-huh.” Cory’s nose remained in the paper.

With fluid motion, Helen dragged the bowl from the counter, reached up, snatched a ladle from above the butcher block, dropped it into the oversized bowl, and stopped beside Cory. She banged the bowl onto the table. Cory jumped.

“I wish I’d known you then,” Helen said.

Cory looked puzzled. “Is there a problem?”

Helen glared. “No. No problem.” She grabbed Cory’s cereal bowl with both hands, dumped its contents into the larger bowl, and slammed it back down on the table.

Cory folded the paper. She looked at the bowl and then at Helen. “What’s the matter?”

Helen picked up the large bowl. “Hold this,” she said and then scooped the spilled cereal into her palm and held it over the bowl. “This is the matter.” She emptied the stray pieces into the bowl. “Every morning—dunk, splash, snap-crackle-pop. I’ve asked you lovingly and then politely. Now I’m telling you. No more snap-crackle-pop if I gotta clean up the mess.”

“I wash my dishes,” Cory said.

“This isn’t about dirty dishes. Every morning you turn our breakfast table into chaos.”

“Well, I’ll alert the media: ‘Chamberlain Gets Careless.’”

Helen stomped to the cabinet, grabbed the box of Rice Krispies, and trashed it. “I
am
the media, and you’ll
get
shredded wheat.”

“What is it with you? You complain if I’m not here and you complain when I am. Eat in the dining room if you’re unhappy in here.”

Helen stormed out of the kitchen, into her writing room, and slammed the door. She powered up her computer, popped a disk into the drive, and watched the flickering green light. She needed a moment to come down from her anger and pondered whether she should work, in her current state. If she started a column, she might sensationalize, bend the arrow.

“My readers eat it up and my lover criticizes me. Even weathermen get to exaggerate.”

They don’t merely say it snowed, they’ll tell you how high, how long, how fast, how deadly. Gale force winds. Major storm blowing in. Major power outages. Major roadways impassable. Major this, major that, none of which should be confused with the Major Deegan Bridge, and that is, by the way, closed.

And now for local conditions.

Helen shut down the computer and headed for the door. She yanked it open.

“Al Roker from NBC wouldn’t take that crap from you,” she yelled toward the kitchen.

One. Two. Three. Helen counted the seconds before Cory charged down the hallway.

“You want to fight?” She pushed past Helen. “Look at this room. Reams of paper. Reference books. Piles of…
stuff
everywhere.”

“It’s my work and it’s not in your way.”

Cory picked up a silver lightning-bolt SS insignia from the desk. “This is work? Surrounding yourself with death? Look at the walls! You have more photographs than the Holocaust Museum. It’s wallpaper, and badly hung. The Nazis had a better sense of organization than you have.”

“Don’t ever glorify those bastards to me.”

“I want you to clean up the room.” She picked up a small battered aluminum vial from the top of Helen’s monitor. “Look.” She wiped the dusty cap. “What is all of this junk?”

Helen grabbed the vial and shook it in Cory’s face.

“A hair ribbon. My father opened an oven door and saw a little girl wearing two pink hair ribbons. The Nazis were less organized at that point.”

She pulled a black-and-white photograph from a pile near the desk. Bodies filled a trench fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. She shoved the picture toward Cory’s face.