The Home For Wayward Ladies (12 page)

That’s it. In seven days, we will all be unemployed. Although our show had fared about as well in New York as a cardboard box in the rain, it’s still a tender moment. A silent prayer falls over us as we wish our work will not have been in vain. Looking around the room, I can count a number of people who, without this show, would not have had their dreams come true. Some of these people got to sing and dance on Broadway for the first time. Even if it was in
Nautical Woman
, they’d made their families proud. Standing amongst them makes me feel like I helped make Broadway happen. My heart swells. I want to know that feeling again every day for the rest of my life, and not just by association. It’s time for my dreams to start coming true. 

What people often forget is that Broadway is a business. Not once has our show met its weekly operating costs so it burnt through its reserve and, ultimately, it’s lost every dime. Even for a failure to happen, it takes years of neglected wives and babysat children, not to mention the innumerable fights with agents, managers, and the producers’ own alternate personalities. The ushers were only around for the last few months of this harried ordeal, and still we have been embraced, acknowledged and, sometimes, even remembered. I guess the fucking nametags served their purpose after all.  

Not to say that I’ll miss mine. I, for one, wish that my name was not emblazoned on my chest while standing in that circle holding Jason’s hand. It is obvious that he is growing more uncomfortable by the minute, especially with Tino immediately to his right. As the room erupts in applause to celebrate our success at failure, Jason’s hand begins to twitch. 

“You wanted me to prove it?” he says. 

“Dear God,” I admonish, “not here.”  Then, without any warning, he frees his hand from Tino’s and places it around my neck. 

“Be careful what you wish for,” he says. Then he kisses me so forcefully that I’m convinced he’s trying to eat my soul. It is the most epic rape kiss that I have ever encountered, let alone been the recipient of. Also, it is the most embarrassing. We immediately gain the attention of the boys in the chorus who stop crying to emit a catcall so loud you’d think the Luftwaffe had been spotted over London. I want to duck and cover, to climb under a row of seats and shrivel like a banana in a vat of sulfuric acid. More so, however, I want to slap the shit out of Jason. Mind you, I have never slapped anyone before, but I’ve also never had such a perfect opportunity. 

I close my eyes tight like I am sucking on a lemon and the only thing that I hear is my heartbeat. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. When I open my eyes, Danny is watching with his hands cupped over his gaping mouth. It’s safe to say that Nick will know every scandalous detail before I’ve even made it home. The entire congregation leans forward to see how I’ll react. For someone who had been so scared, Jason must have taught me a thing or two about courage. Instead of walloping him, I kiss him back. It’s long and slow and tender like something out of a movie and, I shit you not, the crowd cheers. Their reaction is louder than anything we could expect to hear from our show’s audience for the remainder of our run. I wave their envy off with the back of my hand. “Show’s over,” I say. The stage manager calls “half hour” and everyone but Jason and me gets back to living their lives.

The ushers must now report to their stations. Before Jason and I are parted by my walk to Orchestra Left and his walk to Orchestra Right, he grabs my wrist. It’s the same one that he scratched earlier. It stings a little but not much. The wound has already begun to scab. He pulls it close to survey the damage and kisses it ever so gently.

“All better?” he asks.

“Almost,” I reply.

“Eli, I want to learn how to love you.”

“And I want you to learn how to love yourself.” 

He looks at me and laughs as he runs his fingers through his wavy hair which obviously has not been washed since the day before. “Sweet man,” he says, “those ideas don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

14

HUNTER

Another day, another dollar fifty. I spend the afternoon serving as a cater waiter at the Natural History Museum. My only protection from the hoi polloi is a silver tray of passed hors d’oeuvres. My hands won’t stop shaking. The pigs-in-blankets teeter as if they could still oink. The voices in my head are louder than the murmur of the gala crowd that’s gathered under the suspended whale. From the Restalyn sheen on all their faces, I assume that the primary purpose for this fête is to celebrate themselves. The cause hardly matters to this elite club; what matters most is that the well-to-do always have something, well, to do.

I spend my break trying to collect myself on a bench next to a diorama that exhibits a pack of Water Buffalo. There they stand, frozen in time, wandering the plains, unaware of their eventual extinction. Without a degree in something useful like anthropology, I can only assume that it was the magnitude of their own herds that made them appear individually expendable. But here, amongst their brethren, each stands tall. If only they were able, they look more than willing to roam the plains again. I urge them to escape. They don’t listen.

When I make it home, Nick is in the kitchen cooking his mother’s recipe for pasta primavera. Eli is nowhere to be found. The apartment smells of tomato mixed with spices and warm canola oil. It should smell delicious, but I haven’t eaten all day and the thought of trying to now makes my stomach sour.             

Nick is hardly the captive audience that I require him to be. He bellows, “Lady! There’s enough food here to feed the Navy and Fleet Week isn’t until May so I hope to God you’re hungry.” 

My gullet quivers. At the moment, I am not entirely sure that I could keep down Milk of Magnesia if it was fed to me through an IV. Still, time ticks on. If I do not start speaking my truth now, with or without Eli, I will undoubtedly lose the courage to ever try to do so again. Without first sticking in a toe to test the water, I dive in. 

“Lady, might you spare a moment to talk?” I say. Nick continues to dice his zucchini as if I had not said a word. Considering that the only lucrative conversations I’ve had all day were with myself, perhaps I had not actually made a sound. I clear my throat and try again. “Lady, I said I have to talk to you.” I am much more forceful because that is Nick’s language. This time, it registers.

“What’s the matter, boo? Are you pregnant? Don’t worry your pretty little head. I know a doctor we can call. And if you want to keep the baby, he’ll sew you together tighter than before.”

More than ever, I resent his vulgar humor. Would that my confession could be staged like an opera. I had imagined him sitting quietly at the table with a fist tucked under his chin. Ever after, the only acceptable response would be mutual tears. Perhaps he could then offer me a pat on the back to let me know everything will be okay. I feel my pulse beat in my lungs. It makes me lose control. Without warning, I take the knife from his hand by grabbing for its blade. “Nick, this is serious.”

I do not cut myself but he attends to me as if I have. His eyebrows mash together. “And how would you expect me to know the difference? These days, you change the rules so often that I’ve become the guest of honor at your mad tea party. You’re serious on Monday; by Tuesday, everything’s a joke.” He takes his knife back and resumes chopping, moving on to an eggplant that looks like Grimace from McDonald’s. “Listen, Hunter- I’m serious too. I’m sick of being the bad guy when all I’ve done is try to lighten the mood.”

He’s got a lot of nerve. I have done my best to relegate my depression to light footfalls. His sadness, on the other hand, has only just taken off its tap shoes because some well-hung producer started picking up his tab. “Maybe it would be best to discuss this when Eli gets home.” I slowly gather my belongings. I know he will not let me make it far after having invoked Eli’s name against him.  

“You’re probably right,” he says, calling upon the trademark guilt of the Jews. “Whatever you have to say is probably too complicated. It’s better you should wait until Eli gets home. At least then you’ll have someone on your intellectual level to confide in instead of stupid little me.”

I am too weak to avoid being hoisting by my own petard. “Lady, that’s not it. I have a serious problem that I want you to take seriously. I need your help” That’s all that I can muster before my throat closes completely. I work to regain control of my mind by visually rearranging the magnets on our refrigerator, first by size and then by point of origin.   

“I’m willing to help but I need to know more. What’s wrong? Go on— dish. The psychiatrist is in, but talk now because she charges by the hour.”

It’s for moments like this when I am thankful that breathing is involuntary. If respiration were but another chore on a list, I would, more often than not, be an unconscious puddle on the floor. I open my mouth to speak but can produce no sound. Nick takes my hand and leads me backwards into a chair. Being seated makes me dizzier than I had been while standing. “Lady,” he says, “I would tell you to take all the time you need but you’re starting to scare me. What the hell is going on? Spit it out before you turn blue.”

My fingertips cover my eyes to hold them shut. Speaking into my palms gives me the courage to admit, “I’m sick.”

He doesn’t bother to hear a single symptom before he commences to prescribing the cure. “I’ll get you a glass of water. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. After we nosh, you’ll feel fine. I promise. Why don’t you hop in bed? I’ll carry in a plate as soon as it’s ready.”

“Nick, stop. It’s not the flu. It’s not AIDS or cancer or an ulcer or Chlamydia or anything else that a plate of fancy noodles is going to make go away.” I pause. “Nick, I have a mental disorder. I suffer from OCD.”

The horrible way he laughs makes me feel more fragile than fine china in a microwave. “Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? Lady, please, let’s not be extreme.” He cackles again as he searches the drawer by the sink for some potholders. “You’re particular. That doesn’t make you some kind of freak.” By the time he pulls the garlic bread from the oven, my hands are back over my eyes. My palms collect my tears. 

“I was right,” I say, “I should have waited for Eli to get home.” I push myself away from the table and try not to walk into a wall as I storm out of the room. “Thank you for dinner. I’m not hungry.”

In my wake, I hear a tremendous noise. It sounds as if Nick has collected the silverware from our place settings and thrown them en masse onto the floor. It produces an awful crash that makes me startle. I didn’t mean to ruin his beautiful dinner, honest I didn’t. And I feel positively awful that I have lost the ability to control the way I feel. I hear him coming for me, so I make plenty of noise of my own when I slam my bedroom door. My fingers fumble, but I manage to get it locked before he can push his way in.  

He says, “Lady, open the door.” I do not move for I am not able. “Please, Hunter, today was the first good day I’ve had in ages and I won’t let you ruin it for me.” I remain as still as a raccoon that’s been caught rifling through the trashcans. “You didn’t even ask why I’m cooking. Do you even care? Hunter, that producer agreed to pick up my show. I made dinner so we can celebrate my success. Now open the door, you schlimazel; it’s almost on the table.” I struggle to contain a great surge of anger that rises from within. I want to move. I want to respond to him. I want to hug him and pretend that I am happy for his success, just as I have done for oh so many years. But I cannot feel happy for him. Not when I am still so sad for me. “Don’t do this to me, Hunter,” he shouts. “I said, ‘OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!’” His pounding on the frame makes my teeth rattle. I take solace on my island made of clothes and curl into a ball like a blind mouse being chased by the farmer’s wife. “Fine,” he says, defeated, “have it your way.”

I wait and listen as he walks away. I am relieved until, seconds later, his footsteps return. In a terrifying about-face, he launches himself at the knob of my door with a thunk and it starts clicking. He’s trying to pick the lock, as if to remind me he is a former resident of New Jersey. I have lost control over my body but I am still able to scream. It starts in my gut and shakes me so hard I drool. “Go away!”  


He refuses. The door offers a definitive click and he presses his way inside. He is sporting a victorious smile that quickly turns as he surveys the damage I’ve done to my room. To him, it must look like an asylum. My mattress is bare and every article of clothing that once meticulously hung in my closet has been pushed into a pile at the center of my floor. I am fetal atop it and sobbing.

“I don’t want your help,” I say.  “Forget everything I told you and leave.”