Farewell, Dorothy Parker (12 page)

“Is that all you have to say? After what you did?”

“Didn’t work, eh?”

“Excuse me?” Violet said.

“We didn’t succeed in getting that luscious creature into your bedroom?”

“As a matter of fact, he did wind up in my bedroom. But no, we didn’t sleep together.”

“Pity.”

“You humiliated me!” Violet said.

“Oh, come, now,” Mrs. Parker said. “All I did was offer the dear boy some encouragement.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Violet said. “Don’t ever enter me again without my permission. That was terrible, awful. Just completely out of bounds.”

“Fine. But may I remind you that you were making a spectacle of yourself
before
I entered you? You were blubbering like a child…and you weren’t even drunk.”

“I know,” Violet said. “But all you did was pile one humiliation on top of another.”

“Did it work at all? Did he express an interest?”

Violet looked away. “I don’t know.”

“What did he say?”

Violet didn’t want to talk about it. She asked Mrs. Parker if she still wanted that drink.

“You can assume, my dear, that the answer to that question is always yes.”

Violet left to make the cocktail, and Mrs. Parker called out after her, “You may wind up thanking me!”

“Unlikely!” Violet shouted back.

When she returned with her guest’s drink, Mrs. Parker asked what she knew about Michael.

“Not a lot,” Violet confessed. “I know he’s an ex-Marine. I think he served in the Gulf War, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. He loves martial arts, and always wanted to run his own studio, so when he got out of the service he got a job teaching kung fu and eventually bought out the owner.”

“The man knows what he wants. I like that. What else?”

“He has a kid—a daughter. I’m not sure if he was ever married to the mom. But he’s head over heels in love with the girl. She comes to the studio sometimes. Her name’s Kara—about a year older than Delaney.”

“That could be good or bad.”

“What do you mean?” Violet asked.

“Depends if the girls get along.”

“You’re already planning my life with this guy? I think you’re getting a little carried away. A
lot
carried away.”

“This is what women do, Ms. Epps. We meet a man, we develop a crush, we get carried away. It’s perfectly ghastly, but we never learn.”

“Who said I have a crush on Michael?”

“Please. I know a crush when I see one. Hell, I
invented
crushes. As to your Michael, well, he is exactly the kind of man I would have been all over in my day.”

“Really? I thought you had a weakness for blond-haired, blue-eyed leading-man types.”

“I like martinis,” Mrs. Parker said. “It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t adore a whisky sour every now and then.”

Violet’s interest was piqued; interracial dating was almost unheard of in Dorothy Parker’s day. “So you would date a black man?”

“Would and have.”

Violet’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“My dear, I hope you don’t take me for a racist. I devoted much of my life to the civil rights movement.”

“No, no. Not a racist at all,” Violet said, worried she had offended her guest. “I know how passionately you fought bigotry and injustice. You even got yourself arrested—”

“Sacco and Vanzetti,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Yes.” Violet had read that Dorothy Parker protested the unjust murder trial of two Italian immigrants in the 1920s. “They took you away in handcuffs.”

“A lot of good that did.”

Violet nodded. She knew the men had been executed. She also knew that, guilty or innocent, the prejudice against them for being foreigners and anarchists had sealed their fate. Violet wished she could say something supportive, like, ‘You fought the good fight,’ but it sounded too facile for something so tragic. It had to have been an excruciating injustice to witness. “I’m sorry,” she simply said.

“It just about ruined me.”

“But you didn’t give up.”

“Never. And that’s the cold, hard truth about me. I’m the greatest little hoper that ever lived.”

Yes, Violet thought. It was why she left her entire estate to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the NAACP—her abiding hope that the world could change.

“I’m sorry if you thought I was accusing you of being prejudiced,” Violet said. “I know how hard you fought.”

Mrs. Parker waved away the comment. “I’ve been called worse.”

“You must have been bursting when you heard about our 2008 election…I mean, you know about President Obama, right?”

“I do…” Mrs. Parker said, and stopped. She was literally choked up.

Violet waited while her guest tried to collect herself, but Mrs. Parker seemed unable to speak.

“I guess you didn’t think we’d ever get this far,” Violet offered.

“But I did. And isn’t that the damnedest thing? I suppose inside every cynic beats the heart of an idealist.”

Chapter 12

Delaney started taking piano lessons when she was eight years old, and Violet had been to almost every recital. But last year’s performance was only two months after the accident, and the girl wasn’t emotionally ready for it, so they skipped it. That meant this year’s recital would be the first time Delaney would play without her parents in the audience. Violet was almost sick with worry. How on earth would the kid get through this?

The event was in a cavernous subterranean space beneath the showroom of a large piano store, and the mood, as always, was exuberant. The parents were nervous and excited about their children’s impending performances. The kids, dressed in crisp clothes reserved for special events, were proud and anxious.

Sandra and Malcolm sat on one side of Delaney, and Violet sat on the other. The piano teacher, Mr. Lawrence, introduced the children, and one by one they rose from their seats and stepped up onto the platform to take their place in front of the Steinway grand. There was a mix of students, from beginner to advanced. Some made mistakes as they went along; all got enthusiastic applause.

Now and then Violet glanced at Delaney’s face to see how she was handling the event. The girl seemed cool and composed, but her aunt could sense a layer of tension beneath.

Please, Violet thought. Please let her play a happy song.

At last it was her turn. Mr. Lawrence announced, “Our next student
is someone I take extra-special pride in, and I’m thrilled she’s playing for us this year. Please welcome Delaney Weber, who will be performing Ludwig von Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ ”

Oh, no, Violet thought. Not the “Moonlight Sonata.” She knew, of course, that it was a beautiful song, but the tune was so heart-wrenchingly poignant she couldn’t imagine Delaney playing it. Not today. Not for her first recital performance as an orphan.

As Delaney rose, Violet saw people throughout the room leaning in to one another, whispering. She sensed what they were saying:
That’s her. That’s the poor girl who lost her parents.
Violet reached into her handbag for a tissue.

Delaney parked herself on the piano bench and smoothed her skirt. Violet had been in this room so many times over the years with Ivy and Neil that it was impossible not to feel their presence. It was as if Ivy were sitting in the row behind her, beaming, while Neil was grinning behind his camcorder. She was sure Delaney felt it, too.

Hands still on her lap, Delaney turned to the audience. “This is dedicated to my parents,” she said.

The whispering stopped, and a hush fell over the room. A hard lump formed in Violet’s throat. Delaney had said “my parents,” not “parental units” or some other jokey designation. To anyone else it might seem insignificant, but Violet knew it was an important step in the healing process. She looked over at Malcolm and Sandra to see if they caught it, but their eyes were trained on their granddaughter in rapt concentration.

Delaney opened her sheet music and poised her fingers over the keyboard. The crowd waited as the girl seemed to focus. She closed her eyes, hands still hovering. A few moments passed, and Delaney seemed frozen in place. Someone coughed. A chair leg scraped. People began clearing their throats.

Still more time passed. What is she waiting for? Violet wondered.
She glanced over at Mr. Lawrence. He had his hand over his mouth as he stared at Delaney. Clearly, he was getting worried, too.

Violet considered approaching him to say that he should step in and tell Delaney it was okay, she didn’t have to play.

She looked back at Delaney. The girl still had her eyes closed, only now her lips were moving the tiniest bit, as if she was talking to herself. Violet waited.

Nothing.

I have to get up and say something, she thought. I have to.

But just as she was about to rise, Violet noticed that her niece took a deep breath. And then, with a single nod, she began.

Delaney’s slim fingers landed on the keys, and Beethoven’s sad, soft, slow, lovely lament began to fill the room. And Violet felt it. The sorrow was exquisite. The melancholy as delicate as a remembered scent. It drove home what it means to be human, to feel and be moved, to have a hole in your heart because someone you loved—a mother, a father, a son, a sister—is no longer part of your life. It joined her with Delaney and the Webers and Beethoven and everyone in this basement listening to one tender, damaged orphan playing for her dead parents.

And when she was done, when that last sustained minor chord went quiet, there was a moment when the song still hung in the silence…a moment that dissipated in grateful applause and audible sniffs. Violet looked around. Indeed, everyone was crying.

She looked back at her niece, who stood, wet-faced and somber. Delaney took a deep bow. When her head came up, she was smiling.

“Chocolate-chip cookie dough,” Delaney said. “With hot fudge, please.”

“Whipped cream?” Sandra asked.

Delaney smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Grannygran,” she said, and gave Sandra a hug.

In a spirit of temporary détente, the four of them—Sandra, Malcolm, Delaney, and Violet—had decided to go out for ice cream together after the recital.

“You’re in a good mood,” Violet said to her niece after Sandra and Malcolm had gone up to the counter. She hadn’t seen the girl being this sweet to her grandmother in years.

“Don’t get used to it,” Delaney said, smiling. There was no edge to her humor today. The kid was glowing.

“I guess Beethoven hath charms to soothe the savage breast,” Violet said. “And even the occasional teenager.” She pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped some stickiness from the table.

“It’s not Beethoven,” Delaney said. “It’s you.”

“Me?” Violet was surprised. The girl seemed serious.

“It’s just…” Delaney leaned in to be sure the conversation was private. “I’ve been thinking about that phone conversation you had with Vincent van Loser. You were
fierce.
”

Violet swallowed. That wasn’t me, she thought. That was Dorothy Parker. “Thank you,” she said, “but what does that have to do with—”

Delaney glanced over her shoulder to be sure her grandparents weren’t within hearing distance. “I know you’re fighting for me, Aunt V,” she said. “And I know you’ll win. You’re like a superhero, with special secret powers.”

“Oh, Delaney,” Violet began, “I don’t know if—”

Her niece cut her off. “I’m coming home soon,” she said. “I just know it.”

Malcolm and Sandra came back to the table with a tray full of ice-cream sundaes.

“They didn’t have chocolate-chip cookie dough,” Sandra said, as
she placed a sundae in front of Delaney. “So I got you plain chocolate chip.”

“Plain chocolate chip?” Delaney said.

“See? I told you we should have asked her,” Malcolm said.

Sandra looked pained. “I guess I’m the bad guy
again.
”

“It’s fine,” Delaney said, digging her spoon into the ice cream.

“Are you sure?” Malcolm asked.

“I’m sure,” she said, and to prove her point she stuck a spoonful in her mouth and smiled, never taking her eyes off Violet.

Chapter 13

Violet got off the elevator, leaning to the left so that the giant tote bag hanging from a shoulder strap wouldn’t knock the cup of coffee she held in one hand or the brown bag containing a toasted whole-wheat bagel in the other. She walked through the open door to Enjoy’s reception area, where a stack of freshly printed magazines sat on the desk for staff members to grab on their way in.