The Home For Wayward Ladies (32 page)

I try to enter quietly, what with Nick still sleeping on Mandy at center stage. His head is in her lap at such an angle that I’m surprised she’s not bothered by his horns. The flashlight on her knee casts shadow puppets on the wall as she gently strokes his brow.

“Shhh,” Mandy whispers as I trudge down the aisle, “our little angel is still sleeping.”
Angel indeed
, I think. The demands of the day show heavily on everyone’s drooping faces. She gently tries to wake him. “Nicholas, honey,” she says in her most soothing tone, “it’s time to get up. Eli wants us to finish the show.”

“Let him sleep,” I say. “Hunter convinced me to let everyone go home. Especially you. Go get some rest. I want you to be here early tomorrow morning for when Frank comes to restore the juice to this rusty shit box.”

Without a trace of irony, Mandy replies, “Yippee skippee. Is there anything else you need before I go?”

“Plenty,” I laugh, “but I’ll manage to get by.” I share a knowing glance with Hunter. Ever the coquette, he bats his eyelashes before looking the other way.

“Well, at least let me help you get this sleepy bee out to the car.”

“You’ve done enough for the day,” Hunter tells her. “We’ll take good care of him. Right, Eli?”

“Better than he deserves,” I reply. “Scout’s honor.”

She winks. “Then it’s jammie time in Mandy-ville. Great work today, fellas. I thought this show was done-zo but Nicholas is going to be a smash.” Even his current state of paralysis can’t stop him from receiving the compliment. He smiles toward her from the depths of some faraway dream. “Good night, my beautiful and talented future cousin-in-law,” she says, blowing him a kiss while struggling to her feet. “I would tell you to cut the lights when you go, but…” she laughs, handing her flashlight to Hunter. “Good night, boys.”

After she is gone, Hunter and I hover above Nick whose condition has reduced him to cargo. I nudge him with my shoe. Nothing. I get the urge to draw back and kick him but Hunter kneels down in my way. He shakes him by the shoulders. “Lady, wake up; it’s time to go to sleep.” Nick murmurs but does not budge.

“It comes as no surprise that he’s going to make us do this the hard way. Hunter, get his other side. We’ll carry this motherfucker to the car.”

A part of me doesn’t mind; it’s better that Nick stays sleeping. That way, at least I am spared his interference when Hunter and I get home. Hunter must agree because he obliges by draping Nick’s limp arm around his neck. “On three,” he announces. “One, two…” We hoist him off the ground with little effort. With Nick’s trim physique, he doesn’t weigh more than a bag of rice at Costco. Really, it’s his height that is the problem. Actually, to be fair, it’s Hunter’s height that is the problem. He is easily six inches shorter than the rest of us, which puts Nick at a perilously awkward angle. Not that I would mind dropping him down a flight of stairs, but with Hunter making eyes at me, I take efforts to maintain the peace. Besides, now that we’re a team we have a professional obligation to get along. With Hunter causing more harm than good, I find it best to shoulder Nick’s burden alone.

“I’ve got him from here,” I say, scooping his knees over my elbow and cradling him with a grunt. “Just make sure I don’t slam his head into anything along the way.”

“Eli…”  Hunter tsks, running ahead to open the lobby door.

Because this is more of a workout than I’ve experienced since Mackinaw forced me to take ballet, of course Hunter parked Tina Louise in another fucking county. I don’t know why he bothers distancing his car from the others; an atom bomb wouldn’t bring down its Blue Book value. At least the long sojourn across the parking lot is accompanied by a peaceful breeze. The rush of early morning mountain air makes Nick snuggle close. Without the capacity to make a sound, I remember why he is my friend.

Hunter sprints to the car, his ass clenched tight (hopefully that will loosen later). Beads of sweat collect at his hairline and I celebrate what a handsome man he has become. “Slide him in real gentle,” he says, opening the back door. I toss Nick onto the back seat with no concern for if he lands on the floor. “Close enough,” Hunter says. “Now if you can get him upright, I’ll buckle him in and we can go.” I hear the seatbelt click and close the car door so hard its hinges scream. Nick doesn’t seem to notice. He itches his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie and is back to dreaming as soon as the ignition starts to purr.

When we get back to the Harmonia Gardens, the house is silent. Robin’s been asleep for ages. We do our best to not wake him while Hunter and I manage to get Nick upstairs. We decide to put him in one of the many spare rooms just down the hall. “The poor dear,” Hunter says. “His clothes are soaked through with perspiration. We’ll have to take them off before putting him in bed.” After he does so, I quickly cover our Lady with blankets rather than steal a peek at Danny Olsen’s prize.

I take Hunter’s hand. “Shall we?” I ask, tugging him toward the door. “Let me make a pit stop to freshen up and I’ll meet you in your room in five.”

He leads me into the hall. “Not tonight, Eli.”

“What do you mean not tonight? So that’s it then? ‘Oh, happy dagger, here’s thy sheath’? If not tonight, then when?”

“Someday, Eli,” he muses distantly. “Someday…”

38

NICHOLAS

I’m not sure what angel laid me to rest in this magnificent bed, but if I ever meet him I’d like to shake his wing. Egyptian Cotton sheets are tucked under the stubble on my chin as I float on a pillow-top dream. Crisp hospital corners have my feet splayed so compactly that I don’t possess the strength required to set them free. It’d be okay if the Ladies left me here to die; if only there were more flowers I’d be convinced I was already dead.

“That’s right,” I remember, rubbing the ache in my knees, “the magnificent house from my dream.” After all the time I spent in that dilapidated theater with no electricity last night, this luxury that surrounds me now is a relief. It far exceeds anything I anticipated from the Poconos. Then again, I suppose this place can’t be all log cabins like
Dirty Dancing
. But judging by the money in this manor, it’s safe to say no one around here is expected to carry their own watermelon.

There must be servants for every task imaginable: one to select the wine, one to uncork the bottle, one to pour, and one to throw out the stemware when you’re done. But you’d think with all those people on payroll, one of them could have fanned me while I slept. Alas, it is with a hot head and a sweaty sack that I rise to greet the day. The flocked brocade wallpaper doesn’t help me breathe. Its purple pattern absorbs so much humidity that I’m surprised it doesn’t drip. Billowing curtains are still drawn over the six enormous windows but, somehow, a blinding light finds its way through. It casts itself onto an array of porcelain Erté
tchotchkes that radiate heat like they’ve just come from the kiln.

I hear a clamoring in the hall so I attempt to make myself useful. It starts as a distant rumble. As it draws near, however, the nasal voice seems to be everywhere. “It’s breakfast!” I recognize the caterwauling as Robin, the darling old Mary that’s starring with me in the show. “Everyone get up. If you don’t hurry, these waffles will be as soggy as I am when I look at you.”

The banging continues on each door until it finally reaches mine. “Nicholas, darling, welcome to my home, now get the fuck up; it’s time to greet another glorious day.” If it’s so glorious, then why am I getting yelled at like I’m still in middle school and my Ma thinks I’m going to miss my bus? Even Captain Von Trapp had the decency to use a whistle.

I scramble to my feet when the doorknob starts jiggling. It seems that whatever angel laid me to rest yesterday evening knew that I prefer to sleep in the nude. My clothes are in a pile on the chaise lounge across the room. Seeing as my body has not yet regained use of its faculties, I cannot reach them in time, let alone put them on.

“I’m not decent,” I say, expecting Robin to pass me by. Apparently it only gives him more reason to barge in.

“You look half decent to me. Jesus, do you carry a permit for that thing? No wonder these other schlubs keep you around.”

“I would shake your hand, but…” I use my chin to point down at my mitts. They are cupping my cucumber and melons, protecting my modesty from his prying eyes. “It’s Robin, right? You must be the mistress of the house.”

“Well, I sure as shit ain’t the maid. She’s dead, so make your bed before you tie a fig leaf on that thing and come down to breakfast. I’m serving in the solarium.” The idea of eating anything before noon makes my stomach loop-the-loop, but he’s already proved to be the type which doesn’t take “no” for an answer.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I reply. 

Robin trounces to the windows and sends the sunshades up with a sputtering snap. I shield my eyes. “Move it or lose it, Buster Brown,” he says. “I don’t wait well.”

When he is gone, I stumble into the first palatial bathroom that I find. My stomach is so agitated that I anticipate the spray of a chocolate fountain. I rush to the toilet and release. For all the struggle it requires, I only manage to produce a few Raisinettes. They barely have the heft to displace the toilet water.

Meanwhile, my feet can’t stop dancing. They feel good on the cool bathroom tile as they twitch through the patterns of Hunter’s choreography. Even after I insisted he cut me a break, he refused to simplify a single step. Lucky for him, I’m as light on my feet as I am in my loafers. I root through the medicine cabinet to see if I can find something to stop my legs from feeling apt for amputation. After some digging (why Robin has several brands of home pregnancy test, the world may never know) I make myself a cocktail of Percocet and Pepto. I slug it back with a fistful of tap water and set out on my journey. 

It takes the use of echolocation for me to find breakfast. Marlboro, New Jersey doesn’t have too many manor estates and, even if it did, I doubt that I would ever be their guest of honor. At least getting lost allows me explore. This place is truly spectacular. I assume that Robin did his own decorating; the marble sculptures of virile men with uncut cocks on Roman columns are a solid clue. I pass a shadowbox collage made from what appears to be pubic hair. I surmise that, yes, perhaps this house is a tad overdone but, then again, so is the house’s owner.

The waffles, however, are done just right. It’s a shame I don’t have an appetite because, if I did, I’d make for a damn good Goldilocks despite my raven hair. Whenever Robin looks my way, I push some food around my plate so as not to hurt his feelings. Eli, on the other hand, never has found an excuse not to chow down. He’s shoveling in the grub in lieu of making conversation.

Frankly, I’m glad no one has much to say. I need my concentration to decipher the notes I took last night in the margins my script. “After ‘Blue Moon,’ I run off stage and put on my letterman sweater to come back on for ‘I Could Write a Book.’ That goes
into the pregnant girl’s reprise of ‘With a Song in my Heart’ but where the hell do I exit when she’s done?”

“Stage right, second leg,” Eli mumbles.

“Don’t worry yourself into anemia,” Hunter adds. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing,” I snap, somewhat breathlessly. “Well, I’m trying to. You can’t blame me for being overwhelmed. And, for the love of God, someone tell me what I do after the quartet.”

“It’s simple,” Eli says. “You congratulate Robin for retaining one-third of his harmonies and leave the stage to tepid applause that you did not earn.”

Robin looks up from the compact he’s using to re-apply some coverage to yesterday’s Vallenzino inflicted battle scars. “After the quartet, Vicki belches her way through ‘Thou Swell’ and the audience shoves cotton into their bleeding ears. We get a break in the show there, sweetie. There’s ten minutes before we’re back on, which, I might add, is plenty of time for us to go back to our dressing room so you can sit on my face and spin.”

Robin’s vulgarity only endears him to me more. Hunter, however, gives airs like he’s too couth to be amused. (Honestly, it’s like Eli and I have taught him nothing.) “Robin, mind your P’s and Q’s. It’s a long day ahead and there’s no need to make it any longer.”

Eli shuts his laptop, which, even I have the manners to know should not be on the breakfast table. “Robin, leave Nick alone. He’s already spoken for. He’s got a fancy-schmancy producer boyfriend back in New York that pays him for his services.”