Beaches (4 page)

MY
MOM
SAYS
SHARON
WHITMAN
IS
ONLY
JEALOUS
AND
SHE
SAID
THAT
POPEYE
AND
THE
MEAN
GUY
WHO
HAS
THE
BEARD
BOTH
LOVE
OLIVE
OYL
SO
SHE
MUST
BE
PRETTY
GOOD
EVEN
IF
SHE’S
SKINNY
.

MOM
HAS
PUT
THIS
PICTURE
INTO
A
FRAME
AND
EVERY
TIME
I
COME
HOME
FROM
SCHOOL
I
TURN
THE
FRAME
TO
THE
WALL
AND
SHE
GETS
MAD
. HA HA.

DO
YOU
HAVE
ANY
PICTURES?

BERTIE
W. XX OO P.S.
SEND
ME
ONE
.

DEAR
BERTIE
.

I
NEVER
ASKED
YOU
IF YOC7
HAVE
ANY
BROTHERS
AND
SISTERS
. I
DON’T
. DO YOU?

SOMETIMES
I
PRETEND
I DO
AND
I
LEAVE
ROOM
FOR
HER
IN MY
BED
AND
SLEEP
ALL
THE
WAY
OVER
ON
ONE
SIDE
.

HERE’S
A
PHOTO
OF ME AT
SCHOOL
. IT IS
YUCKY
BUT
LEONA
TRIED
TO
IRON
MY
HAIR
LIKE
A
TABLECLOTH
AND
I
LOOK
REALLY
DRIPPY
.
ANYWAY
, / AM
FINE
.
ARE
YOC7? MY
MOM
TAKES
ME TO
DANCING
SCHOOL
EVERY
DAY
.
OTHERWISE
I
WOULD
HAVE
MORE
TIME
TO
WRITE
YOU
.

CEE
CEE
.

P.S.I AM
SAVING
YOUR
LETTERS
IN A
SHOEBOX
.
THEY
ARE
THE
FIRST
REAL
MAIL
THAT
EVER
CAME
TO ME.

DEAR
CEE
.

GOT
YOUR
LAST
LETTER
ON
FRIDAY
AND
IT
WAS
ALSO
A
SPECIAL
DAY
FOR
ANOTHER
REASON
RECAUSE
I
HAD
MY
FIRST
REAL
DATE!!

IT
WAS
SORT
OF
DUMB
BECAUSE
HIS
FATHER
DROVE
US TO
THE
MOVIES
AND
THEN
WE
WALKED
TO
WEINSTEIN’S
(A
DELICATESSEN
)
FOR
A
SANDWICH
AND
THEN
HE
CALLED
HIS
FATHER
AND
WE
WAITED
OUTSIDE
OF
WEINSTEIN’S
FOR
HIM
TO
PICK
US UP,
RUT
,
ROY
,
DID
I
HAVE
FUN!!! HE
PUT
HIS
ARM
AROUND
ME
AND
EVERYTHING
. (MY
MOTHER
WILL
KILL
ME IF
SHE
FINDS
THIS!!!!)

MY
MOTHER
SAYS
THIRTEEN
IS
TOO
YOUNG
TO
HAVE
DATES
RUT
IF WE
DIDN’T
GO ON
HAYRIDES
OR
ANYTHING
,
ONLY
MOVIES
,
THEN
IT’S
OKAY
.

OH!
THIS
BOY’S
NAME
IS
SANFORD
GLASS
. HE
HAS
RED
HAIR
.
BUT
I
DON’T
LOVE
HIM
. (YET!!!)

LOVE
,
BERTIE
.

Dear Bert.

I am so relieved. Today my dad agreed with Leona that I don’t have to go to college. It would be a waste of time and money for me since I’m going to be a star and that’s something you can’t learn about in school. Right?

Anyhow, I hate school. I am a moron in math. I got a D in algebra, and that was just lucky. In English I’m better, because I like reading the stuff we have to read there, but I can’t write good papers. The only time I like to write is these letters to you because I know you better than some kids in New York. I mean, I know more about you. Maybe it’s because when someone writes things down, they don’t have to look you in the eye, or have you look them in the eye or something.

I am so glad I’m almost graduating. Not just because I won’t have any more homework ever again in my life (
YAY
), but because I don’t like the kids in my school very much. The girls are all snobs and think they’re real big if they’re pretty or if their dads have money or nice cars. I don’t care about them. In fact, I hate them, so it will be nice to never have to see their snobby faces again.

Leona bought me this dumb stationery with ballerinas on it for my birthday. I think it’s kind of jerky. Do you? Oh yeah. Thanks for that key ring you sent me for my birthday. How did you know I like Elvis? I guess I told you one time. Some of the girls in my school think he’s filthy, but I think he’s soooo gorgeous, and even though

I don’t drive a car I put my key to the apartment on it and get to look at Elvis every day when I get home and take my key out of my purse.

Anyway, it’s really late at night, and if Leona comes out to go to the bathroom and sees my light on, she’ll brain me ‘cause I have an audition tomorrow for some children’s show in Greenwich Village, so I’m going to put this in an envelope and go to sleep.

WRITE
MORE
, I
LOVE
YOUR
LETTERS
. C.C.
BLOOMCECILIA
BLOOM
CEE
CEE
BLOOM
SEE
SEE
BLOOM
SI SI
BLUE
M.

Los Angeles, California, 1983.

Within an hour, Cee Gee was getting out of the car at
LAX
. She’d asked Jake, the limo driver who usually drove her to an exercise teacher’s studio at lunchtime, to drive her home instead. While he waited, she packed and called the airlines. Shit. There were no seats available to Monterey. Not that afternoon, or that evening.

“How ‘bout outta Burbank?” she asked.

Why had she let her lousy secretary take the day off to go see her goddamned parents in San Diego? And there was no way she could call her pain-in-the-ass business manager to try and get the airlines to bump somebody and give the seat to her. Because then her business manager would know she was leaving town, and he’d try to stop her. She had to get on a plane. Had to. Now. She’d never tried this before, but maybe it would work.

“Hey, this is Cee Cee Bloom, for chrissake,” she yelled into the telephone, “and I gotta get to Monterey. Today. Now.”

“Sorry, Miss Blue,” the dumb bimbo on the other

end of the line said. Blue. The vacuum head didn’t even get who Cee Cee was.

“But sometimes people change their plans and don’t show up, so you could come to the airport and stand by, or-”

“The name’s Bloom, you stupid dipshit. Bloom,” Cee Cee said, and slammed down the receiver. A cigarette. She lit a cigarette and paced. What could she do? Connections. She needed connections. Who were her connections? Cee Cee dialed the number at Burbank Studios.

“Burbank Studios.”

“Ray Stark,” Cee Cee said.

“Ray Stark’s office.”

“This is Cee Cee Bloom.”

“He’s in Europe, Miss Bloom.”

“I need to borrow his airplane.”

“Why don’t I have him call you when I hear from him?”

“When will that be?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Thanks anyway.” Cee Cee slammed the phone down. Jesus Christ. She started to shuffle through her address book for more ideas, but finally slapped it shut in frustration. “Ahh, why not,” she thought and grabbed the small overnight suitcase she’d packed and ran down the steps.

“Hey, Jakee,” she hollered out to the limo driver. “Let’s hit the road, pal. I’m gonna pretend I’m a real person and fly standby.”

Jake, he was okay. She’d make him swear he’d never seen her leave
CBS
. Say that she’d gone out a back door and that he didn’t know where she was.

“There’s five hundred bucks in it for you, Jake-o,” she said just as they were driving onto the San Diego Freeway going south. “Buy somethin’ for your kid.”

“Fuck you, Cee Cee,” Jake said. “You think you have to buy my loyalty? I never saw you since I drove you in this morning at eight, even if they cut my balls off.”

Cee Cee’s eyes filled with tears of embarrassment. Why were people so nice to her even if she was such an asshole? How could she be so stupid to offer Jake money? God, she was a klutz.

“I’m sorry,” Cee Cee said, and she was silent for the rest of the ride. Thinking about how dumb she was. So friggin’ dumb and crass, and all the money and clothes and chauffeurs in the world couldn’t take that away.

It took her till she was twenty-one, for chrissake, before she figured out why, when you ate in a restaurant, they put all those forks next to your plate. Who needed more than one fork? She always figured the forks were there to give you a choice of what size you liked the best. God knows Leona never taught her stuff about forks, and J.P., well he didn’t know much more than Cee Cee did. Even though he always pretended he did, the phony.

And tipping. Christ, she never knew anything about tipping. She always gave too much or not enough, or gave it to the wrong people. Once she got off an elevator. She was with Bertie that time-where the hell were they? maybe in Hawaii-and when they stepped off the elevator, Cee Cee handed the elevator girl a quarter. When the elevator door closed, Bertie said, “I must be going crazy. I could have sworn I saw you tip the elevator girl.” And Cee Cee said, “You mean you’re not supposed to?” And Bertie laughed so hard at that she had to lean against the wall in the hallway just to laugh. Of course, Cee Cee laughed with her, pretending it was a joke, pretending she’d never done that before, but the truth was she really didn’t know one thing about manners or politeness, especially when it came to money.

Well, who was gonna teach her? Nathan didn’t know and Leona sure as hell didn’t know, and once when her business manager was telling Cee Cee about payment for a certain club date he told her she was gonna be paid in increments, and before she looked it up and found out

Peaches 35

that increments were a series of payments, she thought they were little gold coins or something like that.

Anyhow, even now, even though she had a secretary and a maid and a business manager and a driver and a cook and a gardener, when it came to knowing rules about life, she was a lox. Like her mother. Leona, the poor cow. Cee Cee felt like laughing and crying at the same time when she thought about it.

“Chawmed I’m shuwah,” Leona used to say to some dopey shoe salesman wearing a bad rug when he told Leona what attractive feet she had so she’d buy the patent leather pumps from him. Cee Cee would die of humiliation. Wish for one day, even one hour, she could have a pretty mother, a thin mother, a mother who didn’t look at television and eat popcorn and laugh so loud with her mouth open that pieces of chewed popcorn flew across the room.

But you couldn’t pick your mother, and Cee Cee was stuck with Leona saying, “Chawmed I’m shuwah,” and elbowing people out of the way to be the first on line wherever she went. That was Cee Cee’s teacher about life. Leona.

“Thanks a lot,” she said as Jake opened the door for her at the curbside check-in. She was embarrassed to look at him. “I just have this one little bag, so I’ll carry it on and-”

Jake took her gently by the arm. “I’ll walk you up, Cee Cee,” he said.

She knew he must think she looked silly, because she was wearing that dumb outfit she always wore when she didn’t want to be recognized by anybody, and every time she wore it everybody recognized her anyway. Even with the hat, the scarf, and those dumb sunglasses.

“I’ll walk you up ‘cause you’ll be less noticeable with me,” Jake offered. Cee Cee bought it.

“S’go,” she said.

The
PSA
flight was leaving for Monterey in fifteen minutes.

The check-in area was filled with people. Everyone was so busy with their crying children or saying good-by to loved ones or reading Newsweek that no one even looked at Cee Cee, who sat on a bench while Jake went to get her a standby number.