Dorothy on the Rocks (3 page)

“So did you make it back to Kansas?”

“Yeah, but I almost left Toto in Oz. When the lights did their magic flashing thing, I tripped over the Wizard's throne and the stuffed dog went flying. Frank had to throw him back to me from the wings just as Auntie Em ran onstage saying, ‘Oh Dorothy, I've been so worried'—well, you know the story.”

“I sure do, and all the lines and all the lyrics,” he says.

“Gosh, Dee-Honey should have called you this morning.”

I glance at my watch. It's nine fifteen. “I have to go to the ladies' room. Will you order me an espresso when the waiter comes back?” I say to Charles.

“Espresso, darling? I take it I'm not your last port of call tonight.”

“Hmm, and I doubt that I'm yours.”

“Bingo, baby, and a bull's-eye as well.”

Charles and I are all that's left of our odd little family. During Goodie's illness, he and Goodie and Goodie's brother, Texas Joe, and I were together almost every night. We had dinner and watched TV and played scrabble and put Goodie to bed and made sure he was medicated and washed and comfortable. In the last months we would eat in his room, where a hospital bed had been installed. Sometimes I would read to him, and then, when he had fallen asleep, I would just sit and watch him breathe. After Goodie died, my affair with Joe came to its logical conclusion: the logic being that he lived in Houston and I lived in New York and neither one of us was willing to change the situation.

I pick up the phone in the ladies' room and dial Mr. Handsome's cell phone number from the scrap of paper I stuffed into my bag. Smart me. Now if I could remember to charge the battery on my cell phone and put it in my purse, I'd almost be living in the twenty-first century. The phone rings and he answers, “Jack here.”

Thank God, now I won't have to ask his name, which is the height of rudeness. Or is it? After all I barely know him, except for the lap-riding, giddyup, possibly kinky sex episode.

“Jack. It's me, Maggie,” I say.

“Wassup? Where are you? I'm on my way into the city. Let's get together.”

“Sure. I'm just finishing dinner. Why don't you meet me at my place around ten thirty?”

“Great. See you then. I'll bring some beer. Rolling Rock, right?”

“Yeah. Till then.” I hang up. Wow, he remembered what I drank yet I couldn't remember his name. Obviously he's better at relationships than I am. God is in the details, but then, so is the devil.

I finish my espresso with Charles and walk him to the subway at Seventy-second Street. He's going downtown to dance in some disco with naked waiters and strobe lights. We hug for a moment.

“We are going to go to Saks and buy you a sexy black cocktail dress with sequins. And then I want to hear you sing ‘Night and Day' in the key of G.”

“Charles, I have plenty of sexy cocktail dresses with sequins,” I say.

“Where are they? In cold storage?” Charles asks. “Come on, Maggie dear, it's time to get back in the game.”

“And I can't sing anything in the key of G, you know that.”

“Well then G-flat,” he says.

“That's not funny. You know how singers hate that word
flat.
” I hug him again.

“Darling, you never sang flat a day in your life.”

“You're too nice.”

“I mean it, Maggie Magnolia, it's time,” he says, kissing me on the cheek and then hurrying down the subway stairs.

Pesky tears well up in my eyes, and I stand a moment watching
as he disappears into the station. Charles is grand in a too grand sort of way, and he's a bit supercilious at times, but deep down in the midnight hour of his being, he is a kind and caring person who believes in his friends, is loyal to a fault, and can take the worst batch of lemons and turn it into the most delicious lemon meringue pie.

With Charles gone, I focus on the rest of my evening, Rolling Rock beer and the Lone Ranger. Giddyup, indeed! I check out the clock over the Apple Bank for Savings on the corner of Seventy-third Street: it's ten o'clock. I hail a cab. There's just time to get home and freshen my makeup and fluff the apartment.

As the taxi hurls its way up Amsterdam Avenue, I think of what Charles said about my doing a cabaret act, and I decide he's right, I need to get back to the music. A few months ago I did a workshop of a new musical about the life of Eleanor Roosevelt, and I liked the accompanist. I'll call him and then I'll call Sidney at Don't Tell Mama, and I'll schedule a show.

The cab stops in front of my building. The meter reads $6.40. I fish around in my belly bag and come up with a ten-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” I say, handing it to the driver. I'm a good tipper, mainly because it's easier than doing the math. Dick Andrews, a neighbor, is in front of my building, walking his terrier, Mr. Ed, the talking Westie. Mr. Ed is a great conversationalist. You say something to him, and then he barks back at you in a very creditable fashion. When Dick and his wife are out of town, I walk Mr. Ed and often fall into deep conversations with him over a beer and doggie treat (for Mr. Ed, of course). He is an engaging little dog with plenty of insight into city life.

“Good evening, Mr. Ed,” I say as I bend down and scratch him between his perky ears.

“Arf, ar-arf-arf-arf?” Mr. Ed asks.

“Pretty good and how's by you?” I respond. Mr. Ed sits on his haunches, settling into conversation mode.

“Arf arf ar-ar-arf—ar-ar!”

“No really? You haven't been out since this morning. That is a long time.” I scowl up at Dick. “They are mean to you. You have to come visit me next weekend.”

“Arf-ar-ar-arf.”

“I gotta run, Mr. Ed. Hang tough, little guy.” I stand and look at Dick. “Mr. Ed is mad at you.”

“I know,” Dick says with a perfectly straight face. “You're the first person he's talked to all day.”

It's 10:17 by the digital clock on the VCR as I enter my apartment. Damn. I turn on the light in the bathroom. Yikes! The face that stares back at me from the mirror is very ragged. Bixby jumps up on the toilet seat and gazes at me in that punch-drunk way he does when he is rudely awakened from his cat sleep. I get out my economy size jar of Noxzema and lather up. I rinse with very cold water (rumor has it Sharon Stone submerges her face in ice water for a half hour every day—brrrrrr). I quickly apply under eye cover cream, powder, lipstick, and a little mascara. It'll help, but still I'll keep the lights low—that's the ticket. Lighting is everything after forty years of age. I'm sure the person who invented dimmers for home lighting was a woman over forty. And God bless her.

I wish I had time to do one of those facial masks that promises to peel off all the old skin and leave just the brand-new pink undercoat brimming with youth and hope. A new face to greet the faces that you meet. In this case a younger face in the person of Mr. Handsome, or rather Jack, as has now been established.
I lean over and brush my short and sassy blonde, overprocessed hair with its equally overpriced highlights a few times toward the floor in an attempt to stimulate gloss. Blood runs to my head and I momentarily feel dizzy. Oops. Beer and espresso are the worst kind of gasoline, but it's what my engine runs on. Protein, a little voice says. Eat protein. I look in the refrigerator. Skim milk, Dijon mustard, bean sprouts, yogurt, and mozzarella cheese. Cheese is protein, isn't it?

The buzzer rings. Shit, he's here. Forget the protein and put on music. I put on a Billy Joel CD, dim the lights, and suck in my stomach. I turn the knob and open the door and there he is—as tall and handsome as I remember. He's wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and carrying a six-pack of Rolling Rock.

Young man, young man, hit me over the head and drag me anywhere, I think as he places the beer on the table and turns. And before I can say a word, he wraps his arms around me and smothers me in his embrace. Yes, smothers. It's like a scene from a 1940s movie with me being played by Barbara Stanwyck, and Jack, the young man, played by Jack Palance, the Hollywood stud.

I run my hand down his well-shaped gluteus maximus and stumble across a bump, a something or other, a garter belt? He's wearing a garter belt! I knew the one in the freeze-frame memory wasn't mine. So he comes equipped. I don't linger on the telltale bump. I don't want to appear surprised, but I do wonder if he is also wearing hose? Black fishnet perhaps, and who can imagine what else? He is moving his mouth down my neck, headed for my right breast. I moan and press against his privates. Yum. He is hard all right, very hard indeed—unless it's just more equipment. No, this is definitely the real thing. He grabs me under my buttocks, does a quick wrestling maneuver, and just like that we
are on the floor, writhing on that cotton throw rug again. Zippers are unzipping, buttons unbuttoning, legs parting, juices flowing. Sex. Sex is happening as it has happened for thousands of years. The double-backed beast, the two-headed monster, the sublime and the ridiculous, but, alas, I am a little too sober to make it to home plate. Damn, I think, as Jack makes his way down, down, down to the part I was told never to touch.

“Don't ever put your hands down there. It's nasty,” my mother said as she stood over me, a curious five-year-old playing in the bath. Well fine, I won't; I'll let other people do it. Ha, ha, ha, I laugh to myself. But the thought of my mother and the lack of sufficient alcohol make me sit bolt upright.

“What is it for Christ's sake?” Jack moans, as he rolls off to the side, conking his head on the hardwood floor.

“I have to pee,” I say weakly. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, sure. You really turn me on.”

“Likewise.”

I get up and go to the bathroom. My clothes are crooked and tangled; my hair is matted to the back of my head. Recently I had seen a book at Barnes & Noble entitled
The Sadness of Sex.
I sit on the toilet and try to pee, but nothing happens so I turn on the faucet and stare at the wall, humming the opening bars of Cole Porter's “Begin the Beguine.”

“Let's take a time-out and have a beer,” I say, reentering the room. Jack is still lying faceup on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

“Time-out? We didn't even make it through the first inning.”

“I'm thirsty,” I say as I twist off the top and hand the beer to Jack. I get another one for myself and sit down on the floor next to him.

“So where did you go so bright and early this morning?” I ask.

“I had to check out some apartments.”

“Are you a broker?”

“No, I'm thinking about moving into the city.” Jack cracks the knuckles on his left hand.

“Really? Where do you live now?”

“In Queens.”

“In an apartment?” I sit cross-legged and balance the beer on the inside of my knee.

“No, I live in a house.”

“Wow. That's great. A whole house to yourself, or do you have a housemate?”

“I guess you could call him that. Usually I call him Dad.”

I take a moment and adjust my preconceptions.

“You live with your parents?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face and a tone free of judgment, but it's hard. In any other circumstance I would burst out laughing and hit the table a few times. Jack takes a swig of his beer and leans over and runs his hand up my thigh, causing a warm tingle to dance down my spine. Is it really so awful that he lives with his parents? Think of all the money one could save. I do a quick calculation of the amount I could have pocketed if I was still living at home, a small fortune to say the least. What is twenty-some years times twelve months times the average rent? Wow. Of course I knew I'd have ended up locked in some psych ward if I had lived with my parents one second longer than I did, but it's fun to dream.

“So you must be pretty close with your folks?” I ask, studying the curve of his shoulder as he leans closer into me, his eyes focused with intent.

“I don't live with my folks. I live with my dad, and yeah, we get along, and how 'bout we not talk about it right now.” His mouth
opens on mine. I moan slightly as he pushes me gently down onto the cotton throw rug.

Here we go, I think, here we go again. My hand finds that interesting bump on his thigh.

“Are you wearing a garter belt under these pants?” I ask in a husky tone.

“And nothing else,” he replies as his left hand tweaks my nipple. “Ever consider a nipple ring?”

“Nipple ring?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can.

“Yeah, we'll get you one. You'll love it.”

Billy Joel is singing “If I Only Had the Words to Tell You.” Jack doesn't need any words. His body is communicating just fine.

The next morning Jack is gone before eight a.m. Again. He leaves me a note under the hot fudge sundae magnet on the refrigerator:
Last night was awesome. Call you later. You need milk.
There's a five-dollar bill with the note and an empty carton of milk in the sink. I guess the five bucks is for the milk. At least I hope it is and not for . . . No, of course not, nobody is that cheap.

So he left me milk money. That's sweet. I wonder if he leaves his dad money for milk or eggs or whatever he consumes in the morning on the way out of the house they share in Queens. And where, I wonder, is his mother? Is he a product of divorce? Did she abandon him? Is that where I, the older woman, come into the picture? Am I filling some maternal need? Ugh. I look for the slip of paper I jotted his cell phone number on and find it in my bag. I light a cigarette and then punch in the numbers. “Jack here,” he answers.

“Maggie here,” I respond.

“Wassup, Sweet Pea?” he asks.

The “Sweet Pea” catches me by surprise. Boy, it has been a lifetime since someone called me that, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Should a woman my age even respond? Wasn't Sweet Pea that strange baby in the Popeye cartoon, the little one with no legs?