Farewell, Dorothy Parker (2 page)

“Yes, of course,” the host answered. “Right this way.”

A few heads turned as they were led to the Round Table Room, which was really just a section in the back of the open lobby. As they made their way past people relaxing in the overstuffed chairs and sofas of the hotel’s famous lounge, Violet heard someone quoting from one of her crankier reviews:
The best thing I can say about
By the Longhairs
is that people who have been given two months to live might be dead before it comes out on DVD.

Violet squirmed. It wasn’t the notoriety that made her uncomfortable. In fact, she liked being cited in newspaper ads and didn’t even mind getting trashed online. But being recognized in public was a horror-film double feature compared to seeing her name in print. She let her hair fall in front of her face.

“Your server will be right with you,” the maître d’ said, as they took their seats.

“Could someone get me a Dewar’s, rocks?” Carl asked.

The host bowed and left. Violet balanced her open bag on her lap and petted Woollcott.

Carl leaned over the table to get a look. “You brought that ugly mutt with you?”

“He’s not ugly,” Violet argued, though she knew she would have a hard time defending that position under cross-examination. He was, without a doubt, one of the oddest-looking dogs she had ever seen. In addition to the dull beige fur that stuck out in every direction, he had a pushed-in snout, round bulgy eyes set too far apart, and a nose and mouth cramped too close together. And though he was her niece’s dog, Violet was the one who had named him. She took one peek at his face and decided he looked like Alexander Woollcott, the famous theater critic of the 1920s and founding member of the Algonquin Round Table—the group of wits who met daily for lunch at this very spot.

But unlike his vinegary namesake, this Woollcott was so sweet and docile she considered him the world’s most perfect pet. Without opening his eyes he stuck out his pink tongue and licked her hand. She rubbed his ear.

“I have to talk to you about something,” she said to Carl. “Something important.”

“Is it the garage?” he said. “Because—”

“It’s not the garage.” Ever since she agreed to let him move in, Carl had been badgering her about the detached garage, which he thought would make a perfect studio for him. But it was crammed full of family possessions Violet was not prepared to part with.

“It’s just that there would be so much room in there if we got rid of all that—”

“Carl,” she said, and then hesitated. There was simply no way she was letting him do this. “I can’t—”

“I’ll rent the truck for an extra day and put the
stuff in storage myself.”

“Wait,” she said. “Please.” She petted Woollcott again and tried to find the words. She put her head in her hands and mumbled, more to herself than to him, “This isn’t working.”

“What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong? Are you mad about the beer?”

Yes, I’m mad about the beer, she thought. I’m mad that you can always find time to get a buzz on but can never find time to come with me to one of my screenings. I’m mad that it’s always about you and
your
needs, and never about mine. I’m mad that—

“Because you know I love you,” he said, “right?”

Irrelevant, Violet thought.

“And anyway,” he continued, “I really don’t drink that much.”

You do.

“You’re just hung up on the drinking thing.”

I am not.

He reached over and took her hand. “On account of your sister’s accident.”

Okay, so maybe he had a point. She pulled her hand away.

“And what about Delaney?” she asked, referring to her niece.

“What about her?”

“I need a stable environment for her.”

“I know I kind of got off on the wrong foot with her,” he said, “but she’ll warm up to me. I’m great with kids.”

Just say it, she told herself. Three simple words:
It’s over, Carl.
Then get up and leave. She stroked Woollcott. He picked up his head and looked at her, then gave her hand a lick and went back to sleep. Things were so beautifully simple in a dog’s world. Love, food, slumber.

“This is not…” She paused and swallowed, struggling to finish the sentence as she anticipated his reaction. Please, God, she thought, don’t let him freak out.

“Not what?” he asked.

Violet closed her eyes and tried to summon strength from her surroundings. She imagined the room abuzz with chatter as the members of the Algonquin Round Table ate and drank and traded quips. They were a group of writers and actors who met here for lunch every day for ten years, and their bon mots were printed in newspapers, laughed at over morning coffee, repeated in offices, and celebrated in speakeasies. But the most often quoted of them all was Dorothy Parker. Violet could envision the tiny brunette wedged between the rotund Alexander Woollcott and the very tall Robert Sherwood. And though physically dwarfed by the two men, her presence was gargantuan.

In contrast, Violet did her best to be invisible in a crowd. On the rare occasion that she actually accepted a social invitation, Violet managed to slink her way from the door to the host and back out again without being noticed. And if anyone did happen to spy the lanky woman with the hair in her face, they never would have suspected she was the often-quoted Violet Epps, whose passionate praise shouted from so many full-page movie ads, and whose searing swipes lit up the blogosphere.

Help me, she thought, and envisioned her muse turning her head. Violet looked straight into Dorothy Parker’s eyes, and for a moment the scene was so vivid she could swear she smelled gin and cigarettes. Was it her imagination? She took a deep breath. It was strangely powerful, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was smelling history. Where was it coming from? She sniffed her blouse.

“What’s wrong?” Carl asked.

Violet looked around. “Is someone smoking?”

“I don’t smell anything.”

She took another whiff. The scent was gone. Maybe it
was
her imagination after all.

She leaned back in her seat. When the waiter came with Carl’s scotch and asked her if she wanted something from the bar, Violet pulled her handbag closer and waved him away.

“What were you trying to say before?” Carl asked.

She stared into his drink, thinking about her niece. You can do this, she told herself. Just say it. She swallowed hard, rehearsed the words in her head, asked Dorothy for strength, and then tried to spit it out.

“You,” she said, and choked.
C’mon, words.

“Me what?” Carl said.

“You can’t.”

“I can’t
what
?”

Violet shut her eyes tight. “You can’t move in this weekend.” There. She did it. She did it, and she wouldn’t back down.

“You want me to
postpone
the move?”

“Not postpone—”

“Good,” he said. “Because I would probably lose my deposit on the truck.”

“I mean, you can’t move in
period.
”

He laughed. “Okay, I get it. I won’t pressure you about the garage anymore. At least for now.” He snapped his fingers at the waiter. “Can we see menus, please?”

Violet rubbed her forehead. Please, Dorothy, she thought. Help me out here. Give me
something.

She looked up and saw two men approaching their table—the maître d’ and an official-looking man in an expensive suit. The floor shook with their footsteps, and Violet knew she was in trouble. These men were on a mission, and it could be only one thing. The dog. The waiter must have seen him when he delivered Carl’s drink, and now she was busted. Violet knew it would do no good to try to make a case that Dorothy Parker brought her little toy poodle to lunch at the Algonquin almost daily for ten years. They were going to throw her out.

Damn it, Dorothy, she thought. I ask for help and this is what you send?

She quickly threw a cloth napkin over her open bag, her hands trembling. The thought of making a scene terrified her. Please, she thought, let it be over quickly. I’ll just grab my bag and leave.

“Ms. Epps?” the maître d’ said. “I’d like to introduce Barry Beeman, general manager of the Algonquin.”

The suited man thrust his hand at Violet, and she shook it. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Here at the Algonquin we’re big fans of the reviewer who’s been called ‘the modern Dorothy Parker,’ and we’d be honored to have you sign our priceless guest book.” He leaned over and placed an antique leather-bound volume in front of her.

“Guest book?” she said.

“It belonged to Percy Coates,” he began, and Violet nodded. She knew he had been the manager of the hotel when it became a literary landmark. “All the original members of the Algonquin Round Table signed it, and over the years we have asked specific notable representatives of the literary establishment to add their names—”

“Literary establishment?” Violet said, her face burning with embarrassment. Dear God, all she did was write snarky two-paragraph reviews for a weekly entertainment magazine. “I hardly think—”

He put an expensive pen in her hand and carefully opened the cover of the book. There, on the very first page, were the actual signatures of the men and women who had made the hotel so famous. Violet got dizzy just thinking about it—all these people in the flesh, holding this same book and signing it. The first was George S. Kaufman, who had a special place in her heart because she was a Marx Brothers fan and he had written three of their funniest movies. He was followed by humorist Robert Benchley, who was Dorothy Parker’s best friend, and then Franklin P. Adams, whose newspaper column quoted the group almost
daily. Harold Ross, founder of a tiny magazine he called
The New Yorker,
was on the list. Violet remembered reading that he had hired Dorothy Parker to write reviews, and once found her at a speakeasy in the middle of a workday. Her excuse?
Someone was using the pencil.

Of course, Alexander Woollcott, who presided over the whole affair, was on the list, and so was Edna Ferber, who wrote
Showboat.
Then, right under Robert Sherwood, was the one name she had hoped to see.

“Dorothy Parker,” she whispered. Violet put her hand over the name and could swear she felt a comforting warmth rising from it, as if the famous wit was trying to reach out and touch her.

“Some say she still haunts this room,” Mr. Beeman said.

I believe she does, Violet thought.

In fact, there was a powerful force emanating from the signature, and the longer Violet held her hand there, the stronger it got, until her fingers prickled with the strangest sensation—tingly and hot like she was touching a sparkler.

Her fingers started to burn, and she wanted to pull her hand away, but she willed herself to be brave, take a chance, see what happened next.

And then. The strange heat moved up her arms and shot through her body with so much force she had to grab on to the table.

“Oh!” she cried.

“What is it?” Carl said. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

He reached over and touched her cheek. “You’re ice cold,” he said.

No, she thought. I’m burning up. But she let go of the table to touch her own face and realized he was right. She was red hot and ice cold at the same time.

Then she was swept up by a terrible wave, as the two forces seemed to meet and clash, resulting in nausea so overwhelming Violet thought she must surely be dying.

The nausea continued to build until she could no longer endure it and the light began to disappear from her world. Thank God, she thought. Thank God I’m fainting. At last she passed out, carried off in beautiful, blessed unconsciousness.

Still, even in her blackness she heard the voices of the men around her.
Are you okay? Ms. Epps, are you all right? Maybe we should call an ambulance. Violet, wake up. Violet!

No, no, she thought. Leave me alone. Let me stay in this faraway place.

And then another voice spoke to her. A woman’s voice.

Don’t be a coward. It’s your moment.

Violet opened her eyes, and the sickness compressed itself into a tiny tight ball right behind her navel. She looked around the room, and it was as if the light had changed in a way that altered her focus. Everything was crisper, like she had just put on stronger glasses.

She stared straight at Carl. With her new vision, he looked smaller, weaker.

“There’s my baby,” he said, with a grin so condescending she wanted to spit.

“She’s okay,” the maître d’ announced. “Thank goodness. Ms. Epps, is there anything we can get you?”

Violet didn’t take her eyes off Carl. “A loaded pistol.”

“What are you talking about?” Carl said.

“Us. We’re over.”

Carl turned to the general manager. “Maybe you
should
call an ambulance. Something’s wrong. I don’t like the way she sounds.”

“And I don’t like the way you look,” she said.

“Violet, what’s wrong with you?”

She removed the napkin that covered her bag. “Don’t get up,” she said, as she reached in to give Woollcott one reassuring pat. But as soon as her fingers grazed his warm body, the hot sparklers returned
to her fingertips and sent a charge of static to the unsuspecting animal. Yet something more than electricity passed between them. The knot behind her navel shot from her like a bolt and split in two, zapping the dog and the guest book. Immediately, the room seemed to soften and change. Woollcott growled.

“Is that a
dog
?” the man in the suit asked.

“He’s very docile,” Carl said, reaching across to give him a pet.

Before he could make contact, Woollcott jumped from her bag to the table and sunk his sharp little teeth into the artist’s fingers.

“Fuck!” Carl said, and pushed the dog right into his scotch, which knocked over. Violet quickly slammed shut the ancient leather-bound guest book to protect it. Woollcott released Carl’s hand, leapt from the table to the floor, and ran, scurrying around chairs, past customers and between waiters, as he headed for the door.

“I’m so sorry!” Violet said to Barry Beeman and the maître d’. “Woollcott!” she shouted, and before anyone could notice, she slipped the guest book into her bag and ran off after him.