Farewell, Dorothy Parker (15 page)

“Oh, my God. I…I don’t know what to say. I thought you were going to fire me or something and now. Shit, I can’t believe this. You mean I could really be promoted? That’s…that’s amazing.”

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” Violet said.

“I can do this,” Andi said. “I swear. I can toe the line. And I’m a really, really good writer. Honestly.”

“Hubris, Andi. You might have some talent, but at this point it’s important to remember that you’re still pretty raw.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to get cocky. I’m just excited, and, well, I think I have potential. I really do. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll make you proud.”

Violet smiled. This kid knew when to suck up.

Chapter 16

Mrs. Parker held up her empty glass. “Another drink, if you don’t mind.”

“Can you hang in there for a few minutes?” Violet said. “I have to take Woollcott for a walk. He seems pretty desperate.”

“And I don’t?”

Violet looked at Mrs. Parker, whose languid repose seemed to border on sleepiness. “Frankly?” she said. “You seem…bored.”

“Boredom is the ultimate desperation, my dear.”

“How about if I close the guest book and make a drink when I get back?” Violet said, clipping the leash to Woollcott’s collar.

“Here’s a better idea: I’ll take Cliché, and we’ll both go for a walk.”

Violet stared at her guest. “Seriously?”

“I could use a change of scenery.”

“But how?”

“You can carry the guest book.”

Even the thought made Violet nervous. “But we’ll be out in public,” she said. “What if someone asks who you are? I can’t very well—”

“We’ll tell them I’m your friend from East Egg or something. I’ll use a pseudonym.”

“East Egg is not a real town. Fitzgerald made that up.”

“Fine, you decide where I’m from. Just be sure it’s someplace with old money and mansions. I’ve never been rich, but I’m sure I’d be darling at it.”

Violet grinned at the quip and considered Mrs. Parker’s request. Now that she thought about it, there was indeed a kind of desperation about her—Violet could see it in her eyes. And, of course, it made perfect sense—it had been decades since the legendary wit had seen anything but the inside of the Algonquin Hotel or the rooms of this suburban house.

Violet took a deep breath and tried to imagine the worst that could happen. She supposed they could run into a neighbor who might find her companion odd, but that wasn’t a big deal, was it?

She pulled an extra leash from the drawer and handed it to her guest. “Just don’t do anything outrageous if we meet someone. I don’t want my neighbors saying I have a houseguest who claims to be Zelda Fitzgerald.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mrs. Parker said. “Take your purse. We’ll stop someplace for cigarettes.”

Violet made a face. “Has anyone ever told you what kind of poison is in those things?”

“You’ll excuse me if I’m not overly concerned with my
health
at present,” said Mrs. Parker.

Fair enough, thought Violet. But the problem was that she needed to maintain a healthy environment for a thirteen-year-old girl. Between the gin and the cigarettes, Dorothy Parker could turn the place into a speakeasy.

“Promise you’ll only smoke outside?” she said.

“Outside?” Mrs. Parker seemed incredulous.

“Indoor smoking is prohibited just about everyplace nowadays.”

“God help me, Western civilization is over. This country has turned into a nation of barbarians.”

“Promise?” Violet repeated.

“I swear on my life,” Dorothy Parker said. She didn’t crack a smile, but Violet could read the joke in her eyes.

“Very funny,” she said, “but I’ll hold you to that.”

Violet put her wallet and the open guest book into a large tote bag and stepped outside, expecting Mrs. Parker to follow. But when she turned around she saw her guest frozen in fear, clinging to the door frame.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s been—” Mrs. Parker seemed to choke, unable to speak.

“So long?” Violet offered.

“Yes, so very long.”

Poor Woollcott strained at the leash as Violet waited for her mentor to move, but the woman stood, stricken, her eyes wide in terror. Violet’s heart broke for her new friend. While she couldn’t imagine what it felt like to hover around this earthly plane in a strange limbo, she could come close to understanding how overwhelming it might be to experience the outdoors after decades in musty rooms. Mrs. Parker looked like she might collapse.

“Do you want to go back inside?” Violet asked.

Dorothy Parker took a long, slow breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them, her expression was transformed. The fear was gone, and Violet was in awe. Where had her friend gone to find such courage? It seemed to come from someplace too deep to mine with nothing but the force of one’s will.

“Let’s go,” Mrs. Parker said in a strong, clear voice. Then she stepped from the shadows into the sunlight and looked toward the sky. She gasped, as if she were seeing it for the first time.

“We can take this slowly,” Violet said.

“No need. I’m fine.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Mrs. Parker pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her nose. “Nothing to talk about, my dear. Which way is the closest smoke shop?”

Violet pointed to the right. “There’s a 7-Eleven if we head south.”

“South, then,” Mrs. Parker said, and they set off.

Violet glanced at Dorothy Parker’s face as they walked. It occurred to her that beneath the courage, beneath the rapture at seeing the sky, beneath everything, there was a sadness that never went away. She didn’t know if she should probe. Clearly, Mrs. Parker didn’t like to talk about her feelings, especially if they revealed any weakness. Still, Violet wanted her friend to know she cared.

“I’m sorry for you,” she finally said. “I’m sorry you’re stuck in this in-between place.”

“Who said I’m stuck?”

“You’re not?”

“Heavens, no.”

“But I thought—”

“Every time the book is open there’s that damned white light again.”

Violet stopped walking and turned to her friend. “You mean you could cross over to the other side if you wanted to?”

“Of course.”

Violet was stunned. She had assumed Mrs. Parker was trapped at this point midway between life and death, with no exit. “Why don’t you, then?”

“Would you?”

“Of course. I mean, if the choice was between spending eternity trapped in an old book and going toward the light, I’d choose the light. They say it feels like a destination, like the place where it all makes sense. And most of all, where you get to see all the people you’ve lost.” Violet could feel the hole in her heart where her mother and sister had been. She simply had to believe they would be reunited one day.

“Yes, well, most of the people I’ve lost can
stay
lost,” Mrs. Parker said, and continued walking.

Violet stood for a moment, taking in this information. The sadness
in her friend’s eyes took on a new meaning. Something was keeping Dorothy Parker from heading toward the light.

She caught up with her mentor and walked along in silence. Mrs. Parker looked left and right as they strolled, and Violet followed her gaze, trying to see the surroundings from her friend’s perspective. It was late spring, and the neighborhood was in full bloom.

“This place is lovely,” Mrs. Parker said. “So verdant. And the flowers!”

“I thought you hated spring,” Violet said, remembering one of Dorothy Parker’s famous poems:
Summer makes me drowsy, Autumn makes me sing, Winter’s pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.

“Another lie,” Mrs. Parker said. “I love this tender season. But if you tell anyone I’ll break your pretty neck.”

A short while later, Violet noticed a woman jogging on the other side of the road, her golden retriever trotting alongside her. It was inevitable that they would run into a neighbor on this long walk, and Violet was relieved it was the relatively benign Candy Baker, a sweetly named dental hygienist whose daughter had been Delaney’s friend since they were small. Violet knew the kids were still close, as Delaney had recently received an invitation to the girl’s bat mitzvah, and was eager to attend.

Violet glanced at Dorothy Parker, worried Candy might be able to pick up on something not quite earthly about her. She hoped that Candy was just neurotic and self-conscious enough to overlook any strangeness in others.

Candy waved to Violet and slowed down.

“What is that woman
wearing
?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“Spandex,” Violet said. “It’s for exercising.”

“It’s perfectly vulgar.”

“Good thing Emily Post didn’t live to see this,” Violet said. “Right?”

“I wish she had,” Mrs. Parker said. “It would have killed her.”

While Candy stopped to catch her breath, her big retriever pulled on the leash toward Woollcott and Cliché. The woman and her dog approached.

“Hi, Violet! Hello! Hi,” Candy said. She had a habit of compulsively repeating herself, as if you couldn’t possibly understand what she was saying until she found two or more ways to phrase it.

“Hi, Candy.”

“How are you? How’s everything? How’s Delaney? Everything okay? How
are
you?” Her dog sniffed Woollcott’s behind and then moved on to Cliché. Almost immediately, the retriever leapt back and started barking. Clearly, the ghost dog had spooked her.

“What’s gotten into you, Missy?” Candy said. “What’s wrong, girl? Is something the matter? What is it? What’s going on?” The dog strained against the leash, trying to get away. “What is it, Missy? What’s wrong?” She looked up at Dorothy Parker.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Mrs. Parker said. “I’m keen to see if she answers.”

“You’re a hoot!” the neighbor said. “I’m Candy Baker, by the way.”

“Surely, that’s a stage name?”

Candy petted the retriever, who was now whimpering. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? Baker is my married name, my husband’s name. So I wasn’t originally Candy Baker. But it’s my real name. And you are?”

“Daisy Buchanan,” Dorothy Parker said.

Violet shot her a warning look. The last thing she wanted was a buzz of neighborhood gossip about Violet Epps’s crazy friend who thought she was a character from
The Great Gatsby.

“Why do I know that name?” Candy asked. “It sounds so familiar. Are you famous or something? What do you do?”

“I’m an authoress,” Dorothy Parker said.

“That must be it,” Candy said. “I’ve probably seen your name on a book.”

“Quite impossible, my dear.”

“Impossible? Why? Why is it impossible? I know lots of writers.”

“Not writers like me.”

“Why? What kind of writer are you?”

Mrs. Parker’s expression remained stoic, but Violet noticed a subtle change. It was in her eyes. Yes, there was a mischievous sparkle, and it made Violet panic. She knew exactly what was going on. The famous wit had manipulated Candy Baker into setting her up with a straight line.

Please, Violet tried to convey. Don’t say it.

“I beg your pardon?” Dorothy Parker said to the neighbor, even though it was clear she had heard the question.

“What kind of writer are you?” Candy repeated.

There was a pause, and Violet held her breath.
Let it go, Mrs. Parker.

Dorothy Parker waved away the question and looped her arm through Violet’s. “Would love to stay and chat,” she said, “but we’re on our way to the smoke shop, and if I don’t get a cigarette soon I’ll pass out right here on the street. I’m sure you understand.”

Violet sighed, relieved.

“Smoke shop?” Candy said. She was still glistening from her healthy run and looked confused.

“Great to see you,” Violet said quickly. “Send my love to Alexandra.”

Candy blinked. “Smoke shop?” she said again.

Mrs. Parker shrugged. “Vile habit. I used to say, ‘I’ll quit when I die,’ but it turns out even
that
was harder than I thought.”

“Wha—”

Violet nearly choked. “We’d better be going.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Parker said. “It was lovely meeting you.”

Violet began to walk away, pulling on Mrs. Parker’s arm. But the famous wit took one step with her and hesitated. She turned back to the neighbor.

“Didn’t mean to be rude before,” she said.

“Rude?”

“You had asked what kind of writer I am, and I didn’t respond.”

“Well, what kind are you?” Candy said.

“A ghostwriter,” Violet answered, and steered her mentor away.

“How unkind,” Mrs. Parker said, after they’d walked away. “You stepped on my punch line.”

“You deserved it.”

“I know. I’m awful—always trying to be so damned clever.”

Violet softened. She didn’t want Dorothy Parker to feel bad about her gift for witticisms. “It’s okay,” she said.

“It’s not. I’m nothing but a wisecracker.”

“You’re much more than that,” Violet said. “Besides, your wisecracks are legendary.”

“Exactly,” Dorothy Parker said. “All I’m remembered for are my dreadful jokes.”

They turned onto the commercial street and approached the convenience store.

“Your jokes aren’t dreadful,” Violet said. “And anyway, your short stories and poems are still being read. How many writers have that kind of longevity?”