Falling in Love (25 page)

I ripped my arm away. “I said, no! Damn it! NO!”

I rushed for the door. “Jesus. What a bitch.”

I turned around, unsure of what I had just heard. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

I flushed with anger but after a moment I smiled. On my 113th day of sobriety, for the first time in my life, I’d actually said no to a man.

“Thank you,” I replied, and walked out.

I returned home to hear my phone ringing. Dede had been back in town for two weeks but I hadn’t had time to see her. Now she desperately needed my advice. A half-hour later, we met in a Chelsea bar called “Plants,” a combination plant shop and a bar adorned with beautiful fernery. Dede wasn’t at the bar flirting this time. She was in a corner table by a fern, looking lost in thought.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, after I’d sat down and ordered a diet Pepsi. She looked really glad to see me.

“I just had a drink with the director of the OBP,” she told me. When she saw that I had no clue what that was, she added, “Off Broadway Playhouse. It’s on Forty-Second Street, between Eighth and Ninth. It’s a great role. I could get a lot of work out of it, maybe even TV.”

Dede mentioned three TV actresses and one movie actress who had gotten their breaks after starring in an OBP play. Then she added, “I just don’t know whether or not to take it.” She sipped her Fume Blanc and added, “In basically every play that OBP puts out, the female lead is always young with a great body and has to do a nude scene. But my mother will throw a shit fit.”

“Is she that religious?” I asked.

“Christ, no. It’s just about control. When I told her I might want to be an actress, she immediately said that if I did a nude scene, she’d disown me. Christ, I was nine at the time. I didn’t even know people appeared nude in movies.”

Dede drained her glass and then ordered another one. “Knowing my mother, when she’s seventy, she’ll probably meet some toy boy and leave it all to him anyway, or to her horse. But she would love to hold that threat over me.”

“But it’s not like a movie,” I protested. “She’ll probably never find out.”

“Yes, she will. The director will take pictures at the dress rehearsal, including of me topless. If, later, I get a TV show, or something, then he’ll sell the pictures to the tabloids for big bucks. He says that the only way he can keep the theater open every year is by selling nude pictures of the actresses that got breaks out of his plays. It’s probably BS but what am I supposed to do?”

Dede again drained her glass and motioned for another one. “You know how many female leads there are in plays on 42
nd
Street within two blocks of Broadway? Seven. I counted them. And I can be one of them. I can show what I can do.” She looked at me, “What do you think I should do?”

With my background advising someone to take off their clothes was probably the last thing I should do but I heard myself saying, “If you do the play and nothing happens with your career, your mother will probably never find out and if you get a TV show and it becomes a hit, you may get rich enough that you won’t need her money.”

“You’re right,” she said, “I’m doing it. Thanks. Where should we eat?”

At a neighborhood Italian restaurant, Dede mostly talked and I mostly listened. I loved that Dede was so open. Within two hours, I felt like I knew everything about her life, her problems with her boyfriend, her dialect coach, her scene partner. Everyone else I knew seemed to have so many secrets that they were holding in and I probably held in the most of all. Dede held in nothing. I wanted so badly to be like her, to just let everything all out. But me doing that was a dream, or maybe a nightmare.

Dede later gave me a ticket for opening night and both Dede, and her breasts, were awesome. The play was an instant hit and Dede was touted in all the papers as a rising starlet.

Within a week, she called me to say that she no longer did the nude scene. “The director is afraid that someone might sneak a camera into the theater and take a picture and sell it to the tabloids before he can sell his. Ironic, huh? The play is now a hit and ninety-nine percent of the people who see it are going to see me with my clothes on. It’s all because of you, Sis. You got me to do the play.”

Somehow, I didn’t think Dede’s success was due to me but it was nice hearing it anyway.

I was drawn to a drugstore window adorned with a large photo of a stunning silk swallowtail butterfly kite soaring above a sunny beach. I was mesmerized by the butterfly, remembering that such a beautiful creature with its array of brilliant colors was once a slimy caterpillar. Within minutes, I was en route to Central Park armed with my own butterfly kite in its gift box with a card that the clerk was kind enough to inscribe, “To Sheryl. With Love.”

At the edge of the Great Lawn, I unwrapped my ‘gift,’ set it on the spring grass and admired it before setting about threading the bamboo rods into the wings’ pockets and down its spine and looping the line to the keel. The breeze seemed fine to me but every time I tossed the kite into the air, my brilliant butterfly crashed to the ground.

“There’s not enough wind near the ground,” a small voice informed me. I turned to see a young black boy in a T-shirt that read “Future Rock Star” above jean shorts and dirty knees. “You’ll have to run with it.”

Rock showed me where to hold the string so that it had enough play to let the wind catch it and then together we raced into the breeze. Suddenly, the string leaped out of my hand as the kite sailed upward. “Let it out slowly,” Rock advised me. As I did, my gorgeous butterfly dipped downward, heading for a crash. “Pull on it. Run!” Rock exclaimed. I did as I was told and my butterfly soared upward, its rainbow array of colors sparkling in the sunlight. I was thrilled!

“You’ve got it now,” Rock assured me.

For the next half-hour, with Rock’s assistance, I flew my butterfly higher and higher until we could barely see it reaching up toward the skyscrapers and my spool of string was gone.

“I love this,” I let Rock know. Then I asked, “Where’s your kite?”

“I don’t have one. I was flying my friend’s but now he’s flying it. Did you lose your kid, Lady?”

“Yes,” I smiled. “But I’m finding her.”

He looked around. “Where?”

“Do you like this kite?”

“Are you kidding? It’s great.”

I handed him the spool. “Well, now it is yours.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Sometimes. But it’s still yours.” He beamed with delight. “Take good care of it,” I told him. “It’s always been good to me.”

I walked away feeling glorious.

I was still repeating my aphorisms a thousand times a day but not always giving it my full attention. I began to fear that muttering, “I will show love for myself by becoming the person I’ve always wanted to be,” might be watered down in my subconscious mind if at the same time I was crying about Elsa leaving Rick at the end of
Casablanca
. If I had to constantly “show love” for myself, I wanted to make sure I got the full effect.

I also wanted to try to stay in some like of shape. I hadn’t worked out since being called a “bitch” at the gym but now that the weather was continually advertising spring, I decided to try running. I figured that jogging on the streets of New York City was probably a death-defying experience and since a sizable portion of the City’s population seemed to be jogging in Central Park, I decided to be one of them.

Jogging around the reservoir again appealed to me. The water felt tranquil and the budding leaves on the trees seemed hopeful. Every semi-sunny day, I gasped and slogged around that one-and-a-half mile oval three times. That was enough. I wasn’t training for any marathon, especially since my favorite part was flaming up a cigarette as soon as I finished.

When the prospect of running in a circle seemed too boring, I trotted along the bridle path that wound its way through the park’s splendor. I was forced to keep an eye out for the horses galloping by but they were often so beautiful and graceful that I usually stopped to watch them, feeling very much like the awkward two-legged that creature I was. They also offered the challenge of sidestepping mature.

One day after I’d finished dodging horses, I was walking toward the subway while whispering my affirmations and clicking my counter as I avoided looking at a nearby group of women kicking a soccer ball around.

“Look out!” I heard and turned to see a stray ball heading straight for my waist.

Instinctively, I trapped it and kicked it into the center of the group. As I walked on, an older pretty brunette came running up to me. “Hi? You play?”

I keep on walking. “A long time ago.”

“Listen, the League hasn’t started yet. But we were hoping to scrimmage today, only we’re a couple of players short. Would you like to practice with us?”

I shook my head as I turned around. Then I stood still stunned and speechless. She couldn’t be the world’s greatest women’s soccer player ever? I stuttered, “Are you Paula Harper?”

She smiled softly. “What’s left of me.”

No! Paula Harper couldn’t want me to play with her! I laughed. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t really want me?”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled softly again. “Come on, we’re really just kicking the ball around. It’s early in the year. What have you got to lose?”

I was shocked. Paula Harper wanted me to walk on the same field as her? I had always desperately missed soccer but I had so many bad memories, especially one, that I had never attempted to play it again. But in recovery I was now trying to face my past demons. How much could a scrimmage hurt? Besides, no matter how badly I played, for the rest of my life, I could say that I once played with Paula Harper. “Okay. But consider yourself warned.”

She held out her hand, “Please to meet you…”

“…Sherry,” I said, shaking her hand. “Sherry Johnson.”

“Then let’s do it, Sherry.”

We walked toward the field. “Don’t you want to strip off your sweats?”

Ostensibly, I had always been swaddled up in a sweatsuit to make me perspire more and thus give me a better workout but in reality sweats were my security, protecting me from revealing my body to anyone. I looked around. There wasn’t a guy nearby. The other soccer players, who had stopped to wait for Paula, were staring at me. In the middle was attractive blonde who, despite wearing a knee brace, had the most beautiful legs I’d ever seen. I couldn’t believe that any guy would ever look at me if I was within fifty yards of her. I quickly stripped off my sweats and sprinted onto the field.

“This is Sherry,” Paula called out to a chorus of greetings. One woman, a tall redhead, came over to shake my hand. I recognized her as Christine Cane. She was now a sportscaster who had recently covered the Olympics. She had played with Paula throughout her career and together they had chalked up two Olympic gold medals, one silver and two World Cups. I looked for the third member of their triumvirate, Rachel Miller, who had been their goalkeeper, but I didn’t see her. Maybe she was one of the missing players.

Christine kicked the ball to me. I tried to pass it to Paula but missed her. It wasn’t a great beginning but it did feel good to be back on the field. I tried to figure out where I had seen the leggy blonde before. I was absolutely sure that she had never been to Rosebud.

Since the other two girls didn’t show up, Paula, who turned out to be the coach, decided not to scrimmage. I was grateful. Every time I made a good move it seemed that one minute later, I messed up. I told myself that I was just rusty but I knew it was more than that. The other players were out of my class. They had all not only played in college or higher but now played together as a unit, especially Paula and Christine. I was playing by myself and was glad when practice was over.

As they lined up for wind sprints, Paula motioned for me to come near her. She was standing next to the leggy blonde whose name was Darcy and who was one of the best players, although I still didn’t recognize her.

Paula said, “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant. I knew I couldn’t compete with them at soccer but I did think that I might be able to hold my own in sprints. I had always been the fastest player on the field. But that was junior high school. We had all matured since then. I decided that no matter how great these women were, I wasn’t going to finish last.

Paula yelled “Go,” and they all took off like rockets. I wasn’t wearing cleats and slipped badly and almost fell. I regained my footing and tried to catch up, making it into the middle of the pack. Up front, Paula was edging pass Darcy into the lead when Darcy elbowed her, knocking Paula off stride and Darcy won.

“You are so bad,” said Paula, breathing heavily.

Darcy smiled sweetly. “It’s just soccer.”

Then we raced back to the other goal. I got a good jump and stayed a step behind Paula and Darcy, running as hard as I could. I waited for them to pull away and when they didn’t I realized that I might just be able to beat them. I pumped my legs harder and came up beside Darcy who didn’t see me because she was eying Paula. I kept trying to pass her but she was too fast. I got mad. I had never lost a race in my life. Maybe I couldn’t beat her but I was going to let her know I on her other side. I pushed myself beyond endurance and began edging ahead. She glanced at me, looking stunned as I started to pull away. I heard the others behind cheering.