Beaches (20 page)

“Your mom any better?” Mr. Heft asked her.

Bertie smiled and shook her head. She was starting to feel close to Mr. Heft. This morning he had shown her pictures of his married daughter Ruthie and her husband Max and their four kids. “Boy, do these kids love their grandma,” he said, pointing to the I.C.U. doors. “They couldn’t live without her,” he said, his lip trembling.

She also felt close to Mrs. Devlin, the tiny red-haired lady of about fifty who regaled them all, including some of the nuns the night before, over corned beef sandwiches, with the story of the mastectomy she herself had had two years before, which, when she told it, seemed like the funniest comedy routine anyone had ever done. Now, Mrs. Devlin was waiting for news of her husband, who had had brain surgery yesterday; but this morning she’d said to Mr. Heft, “Don’t worry, Heft honey, she’ll dance at the grandchildren’s weddings. I’m telling ya!”

A support system. That’s what they were for one another. Even Peter Cache, the young man. He was very handsome. He looked like Hugh Hefner. But he didn’t sleep there with the rest of them. Instead, he came every day to visit his father, who’d had his third coronary. Cache

wore a suit and brought a fresh package of cookies from a bakery which he left in the waiting room for the others. The first day he had looked longingly at Bertie, who was certain the longing looks decreased in direct proportion to how dirty her hair became over the next four days, during which she did not dare leave the hospital.

Well, she was glad to be outside now. At last. To walk on Collins Avenue. Just to breathe. Just to-

GEE
CEE
BLOOM
.
FEB
. 14-28. There it was again. That marquee. Cee Cee. Bertie thought about Cee Cee every day. Everything made her think about Cee Cee’s being in Miami Beach. Mrs. Devlin’s story. Bertie kept thinking that as funny as the story was, Cee Cee would have, could have, told it better. Late that night, while Bertie and Neetie sat on the plastic sofa in the waiting room, whispering because Mr. Heft was asleep, and munching leftover chocolate brownies from Pumpernicks, Neetie asked, “How is your girlfriend, that girl from Beach Haven? The singer. I saw her picture in some magazine. And then we watched her on Ed Sullivan.”

Bertie nodded.

“She’s here,” Bertie said.

“Where?”

“Miami Beach.”

“No kidding? So why haven’t you seen her?” Neetie asked loudly, loudly enough to make Mrs. Koven, who was sleeping as usual, covered with her raincoat, on one of the plastic sofas, turn over. “Is she staying near here?” Neetie asked.

“Neetie, should I go be with Cee Cee before I sit in I.C. U., or when I come out?” she snapped, and was instantly sorry.

“You’re right,” Neetie said. “Sometimes I forget for a minute.”

Of course, the real reason Bertie wasn’t looking up Cee Cee was one that Bertie could never tell Neetie or anyone else in the world.

The anger rose in Bertie again. Cee Cee Bloom. Bertie had to force her eyes away from the marquee. Cee Cee was a star. Just like she said she would be that time in Hawaii. Hawaii. Cee Cee and Michael.

Mr. Heft was pushing open the glass door of Pumper-nicks, and holding it open for Bertie, and as they approached the deli counter, he pulled a small folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. The paper was a little limp from being against his perspiring body, and he peeled it open.

“What’ll it be, pop?” the clerk asked.

Mr. Heft read his deli order from the piece of paper to the clerk.

“Three corned beefs, two roast beefs, and a chopped liver with onion,” he said, and then looked apologetically at Bertie. “That chopped liver’s for me. I’m getting sick of corned beef.”

Bertie smiled and looked out the window toward the driveway of the Carillon Hotel directly across the street. A white Cadillac pulled up and stopped. What if the door of the Cadillac opened and out stepped Cee Cee?

A white-haired woman of about sixty got out of the Cadillac, and Bertie sighed and realized she’d stopped breathing, waiting to see who would emerge.

“Maybe you should try the chopped liver, too,” Mr. Heft said to Bertie. “With a red Bermuda onion. I’m tellin’ you, there’s nothin’ like it.”

Bertie smiled. “No thanks.” She had to go to the bathroom. Why hadn’t she gone before they left the hospital? “Always make a stop to be safe,” Rosie had taught her. “Even if you think you don’t have to.” Now Bertie would have to use Pumpernicks’ ladies’ room, which was where Rosie had . . . no. She’d wait until she got back to the hospital. She watched the man in the white apron behind the counter gingerly slice the corned beef. He was singing a song along with the movement of the slicing machine. It sounded like “What the World Needs Now Is Love Sweet

Love.” She looked around the restaurant, trying not to think about what it must have been like a few days ago when they found Rosie, and the ambulance came and . . .

Mr. Heft took the paper bag filled with sandwiches to the cashier and paid for them. Bertie looked out the window again, and across the street at the marquee of the Carillon Hotel.
FEB
. 14-28. When she looked back at Mr. Heft, he was motioning to her to come along with him. Yes, back to the hospital. To eat a sandwich and sit with Rosie and eat another sandwich and sit some more. Mr. Heft opened the door of Pumpernicks, and the two of them were outside again in the hot, salty-smelling Miami Beach day.

As they turned the corner and began walking toward the hospital, Bertie stopped. “Mr. Heft,” she said, “would you mind going on ahead? Tell my aunt I had something to do. Tell her I’ll be back in a few minutes. Could you do that for me, please?”

Mr. Heft patted Bertie on the arm and turned to go. Bertie stopped and watched him, and as he walked toward the hospital, he took his chopped liver sandwich out of the bag, unwrapped it with the hand that wasn’t holding the bag, and took a bite out of it as he walked along. It must have tasted good because he shook his head the way people do when they can’t believe something is as good as they’d hoped.

Bertie walked back to the corner, waited for the light to turn green, and crossed the street toward the Carillon Hotel. She kept telling herself that she was just going to find the ladies’ room in the lobby, use it, and leave.

It was a busy day. Several cars, three of them new Cadillacs, stood in line waiting to drop people off. Bertie caught sight of her reflection in the glass front door of the hotel. God. She looked like Rosie’s favorite expression, “the wreck of the Hesperus.” For years, she’d meant to look that up in the encyclopedia or somewhere, but hadn’t done it yet, and now here she was again, still not sure

what the wreck of the Hesperus was, but certain she looked like it.

The lobby of the Carillon was bustling with people. Laughing people. People who didn’t care that Rosie was in a coma or that Bertie’s hair was dirty, or that she was standing there now, shivering, wondering if it was because the air conditioning was too high, or in fear of running into Cee Cee.

What was she doing here? Why hadn’t she gone back to the hospital with Mr. Heft? It must be her turn to sit by the bed again. Suppose Rosie woke up? Came out of the coma, even for a moment, and she wasn’t there? “Sorry,” Neetie would have to tell Rosie, “she told me she was going out for a breath of fresh air and to help the old man carry the corned beef, but he came back with the sandwiches and said she went off somewhere, probably to have a good time.” And Rosie, disappointed in her again, would go back into the coma.

To have a good time. That was not why Bertie was here, now, in the lobby of the hotel. In fact, it was as if she couldn’t help coming here. But why? To be in the vicinity of Cee Cee? Why would she want to do that? Curiosity? Maybe. Rage? Was she coming here to unleash all the years of her pent-up anger?

The dark-haired girl at the desk directed Bertie to the ladies’ room. It was pink and gold and what Rosie would have called “fancy.” When Bertie came out of the cubicle to wash her hands, she tried not to look at herself in the mirror, but as she turned on the spigot, the hush it made at the moment before the water came, sounded as if it said, “Hesperus.”

Bertie walked back into the lobby. She would leave now. Stop playing this dumb game with herself. Go back to the hospital, and the safety of … The blond woman with the frizzy hair who was just walking in the door was back-lit, so Bertie couldn’t make out her face, but she had two poodles on leashes, so it couldn’t be Cee Cee. Gee

Cee had once told Bertie she thought dogs were revolting little creatures who panted all over you and breathed their disgusting breath in your face. Like most of the men I’ve dated, she added, and then she’d laughed.

“Sure, outside you wouldn’t do nothin’,” said the loud familiar voice to the dogs. “And now you’ll probably take a big crap right here in the lobby and make me look bad.”

She was heading for the desk now. Bertie watched her. That walk. That great slinky walk.

“Any messages for five-thirty-one?” Bertie heard Cee Cee ask in a voice so loud that everyone in the State of Florida could have heard her say it. The woman at the desk looked in a pigeonhole and pulled out what must be a big stack of messages and handed them to Cee Cee. Cee Cee didn’t look at her messages, just stuffed them in the multicolored basket that hung on her arm and started walking. Even though the poodles were each trying to pull her in different directions, she was definitely heading for the elevators.

Bertie’s heart was pounding. She didn’t move. Cee Cee was in front of the bank of elevators now. Some people who were waiting for the elevator had recognized her and they were asking her some questions, and all of them were laughing. Cee Cee picked up one of the poodles, and held it as if it were a baby. An elderly woman patted the little dog on the head.

The elevator doors opened, and a few people got off. When the elevator was empty, the elderly woman, still laughing and chatting with Cee Cee, got on. Cee Cee took a step toward the elevator.

That was when Bertie screamed as loud as she could.

“Cee Cee! Wait. Cee Cee,” and ran toward the elevator with such a burst that the poodle Cee Cee was holding leapt out of her arms, and both dogs barked furiously.

Cee Cee looked worried for a second, as if she thought this crazy person running toward her was some overwrought fan, but when she realized who it was, the look in

her eyes changed. Bertie couldn’t tell to what. Was it surprise? Maybe concern? Or pain?

Bertie didn’t wait to figure it out. Her arms went around Cee Cee’s neck.

“Oh, God, Cee Cee, this is crazy. I feel crazy for saying this, and crazier for coming here-but I’m so glad to see you, and I feel awful for sending your letters back all those times. Never opening them, but I was so hurt, so threatened.

“And now . . . and then … I mean, I was surprised to see you were here because I’m here. I mean I’m here because my mother is in the hospital, at St. Joseph’s in I.C.U., and I’ve been sitting there for days with all these people I don’t know . . . and sleeping on the sofa . . . afraid she’s going to die-and . . . eating sandwiches and . . .”

As she clung to Cee Cee, she could tell by the stiffness in Cee Cee’s body that Cee Cee didn’t care what she had to say, or how long she’d been sitting anywhere, or how badly she felt. Bertie moved away from Cee Cee and looked into her face. “Cee Cee, I couldn’t forgive you. I had to blame you for what happened. Not Michael. Because I needed Michael so much that if I … Cee Cee, maybe if we talked about it, worked it out, I could forgive you now.”

Cee Cee smiled. Thank God. There it was. Her knockout smile. Bertie sighed, and then she smiled, too. Thank God. Thank God. It was going to be okay. Bertie was relieved. So glad she’d made the effort to come here. To say all those things. Of course, the two of them would probably never be best friends again, but at least-

“Fuck you,” Cee Cee said, with the same smile that Bertie realized now was forced, because Cee Cee’s eyes were filled with anger. “Now go back to the hospital,” she said, and she turned and walked back toward the elevators, but after she’d gone halfway across the lobby she turned back, and now without the smile, she shouted,

red-faced and furious, at Bertie, who stood still and numb. Shouted from her guts across the distance that separated them. “Fuck you, because every time I opened one of your goddamned letters I was smiling and happy before I even read it. Just to get it. It made me glad. Made me feel alive. Made me feel important. I would close the door wherever I was so I could be alone and read it a couple of times. And then I’d put it away, and then I’d take it out and read it again later and then another time that night. I needed those letters. I got used to seeing them in my mailbox, tearing them open and devouring every line like dessert, like whipped cream. Every fucking exclamation point. All the way back to your stories about which asshole was tryin’ to feel you up in high school, or about how sad you were when they passed you over for senior queen. And all your theories about getting married, being married, staying married. And about what you were gonna do. Remember that, Bert?”

She was still shouting. So loud that two women who were walking by looked over and clucked to one another in disapproval. When Gee Cee noticed they were two women she had talked to at the pool, she seemed to get control of herself for a moment, then strode toward where Bertie stood frozen, unblinking. But the fury still burned feverishly in Cee Gee’s eyes. Only now the angry words were forced out in a hoarse whisper.

“Well, what about me? What about what / was gonna do? For the last couple of years, when my marriage was falling apart? Who was I supposed to talk to about that? When I was dying inside, and needed to know you were out there? Needed you to tell me it will be okay, Cee, you’re great, Cee, you’re the best, there’s no one better, you wouldn’t even open my fuckin’ letters because you had some craziness in your mind about me.

“Well, maybe you coulda helped me, Bertie. Maybe if I would have had you out there, I would have been able to figure out how to make it easier for John that it was me