Farewell, Dorothy Parker (24 page)

It was a time when Americans were in love with words and enamored of writers. Dorothy Parker was one of the most admired women in the country back then—and certainly the most quoted. It saddened Violet to know that her friend grew bitter about those glamorous years, and she wondered whether her idol was being disingenuous when she condemned her Round Table friends and her role in the group.

“Can you tell me something interesting about those years I might not know?” Violet said.

“There
was
nothing interesting about those years, my dear. They were dreadful.”

“But at the time,” Violet had said, tearing pieces of lettuce and dropping them into a colander, “at the time it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Fucking your best friend’s husband is fun,” Mrs. Parker said, “but it’s not something you look back on with any particular pride.”

“But those were your friends.”

“Mr. Benchley was my friend. The rest were awful.”

“But witty, talented…”

“Please. There’s a hell of a difference between witty and wisecracking. And talented? Hardly.”

“You liked and admired them back then, didn’t you?”

“They amused me. That was all.”

Violet finished with the lettuce and wiped her hands on a towel, as she weighed her next statement. Dorothy Parker had spent ten years having lunch with these people. There had to be more to it than her friend was admitting. Something drove her bitterness and soured the memory.

“Do you miss them?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Mrs. Parker refilled her glass and took a long drink. Violet waited. Clearly, her friend intended to ignore the question. Or maybe she was getting too drunk to respond. But Violet pressed on. “You do, don’t you?”

Mrs. Parker bent to pick up Cliché, who was at her feet, and nearly fell off the chair. Violet rushed to her side and helped her get settled in the seat.

“You okay?” Violet asked.

Mrs. Parker waved away her concern. “They really thought I was something,” she said, as she stroked the little dog.

“Of course they did—you were. You
are.
”

“I never did a single great thing. Not one. I came close when I got arrested for protesting that sham of a trial. Those poor men.”

Violet knew she was talking about Sacco and Vanzetti again. “You should feel proud for trying.”

“They were executed. Innocent men.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Violet said. “You did what you could.”

“But what did I accomplish?”

“Tons. I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Perhaps I can help,” Mrs. Parker said. “Let’s see. I drove my husband to suicide. I steered my stepmother to the grave. I fueled my own mother’s death.” She paused to consider what else she could add.

“None of those things were your fault.”

“This is exactly what I can’t abide about the modern world. You people don’t believe in personal responsibility.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Psychotherapists are as ubiquitous as screenwriters and just as loathsome. Everywhere you turn, there’s a headshrinker on a mission to convince guilty souls they’re not to blame for their own awful behavior.”

“People are just trying to understand themselves,” Violet said.

“Rubbish.”

“Point is, you need to give yourself credit for all your achievements.”

“I achieved nothing.”

“Your poetry—”

“Light verse. And not even good light verse at that. I was just trying to follow in the footsteps of Edna St. Vincent Millay, unhappily, in my own horrible sneakers.”

“Aren’t you proud of your short stories, at least?”

“Entrails,” Mrs. Parker said.

“But you won an O. Henry Award.”

“Writing one passable short story is a feeble body of work.”

Violet shook her head. “Even your reviews are still being read today.”

“I suppose malevolence will always have its fans.”

Violet sighed, pulled out a chair, and sat. It was hopeless. She simply could not convince Dorothy Parker that she deserved any kind of happiness in life, or even in death.

“Can’t you give yourself credit for
anything
?” Violet asked.

“Why should I?”

Because, Violet thought, if you recognized even an ounce of self-worth, you wouldn’t be afraid to cross over into the light. And then, instead of suffering this terrible space between life and death, you’d find love.

But she knew it wouldn’t help to say it. Dorothy Parker would have to discover it on her own.

Chapter 28

On Saturday morning, just after Violet headed off to get Delaney from her grandparents’ house, she heard her cell phone’s text-message alert, so she pulled over to read it. As she suspected, it was from her niece.

Violet set her GPS for the address and texted back:

The reply came almost immediately:

A short time later, she turned onto a pretty block in southern Syosset. She found the address—a pale yellow cape—and rang the bell. The door opened, and Violet reeled in surprise.

“Michael?”

He was smiling. “Hello, Violet.”

“What are you…Is this your…She didn’t tell me this was your house. I…” She paused to get her wits about her. “I thought you lived in Plainview.”

The smile melted from his face. Clearly, he hadn’t anticipated her reaction, and at once Violet understood: he thought she knew she was ringing his bell.

“I…I do,” he stammered. “This
is
Plainview, but I told Delaney she should tell you to program it in your GPS as Syosset because it’s on the town border. I figured she would let you know it was my house.”

Violet shook her head. “She didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and there was an awkward pause. “Will you come in?”

Violet stepped into the entryway, feeling like she had been ambushed. Kids. What was Delaney thinking? Were the girls cavorting in some kind of
Parent Trap
–inspired plot to bring them back together?

The worst part of it was that Michael was feeling as uncomfortable as she was. He had looked so happy to see her when she approached the door. But now that he realized she was there on false pretenses, he barely knew what to say.

“I never told her to lie to you,” he said. “I hope you know that.”

They were at the bottom of a staircase, and Violet could hear the girls moving around upstairs. Michael looked freshly showered, with wet hair and a close shave. He leaned his back against the banister and stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. She had never seen him self-conscious before, and it made her feel awful. But the worst part of it, she thought, was that he smelled so damned good.

“Do you want a cup of coffee or something?” he asked, pointing toward the kitchen with his head.

“No, I have to—”

“Okay, I’m not, you know, pressuring you or anything.”

“I’m so sorry about coming here, about…” She trailed off, hoping he understood that she meant she was sorry she broke it off the way she did, and that she just couldn’t explain it to him.

“Violet,” he began, and she knew there was some kind of a speech coming that would put her on the spot. She wished she could vaporize.

“Michael, I—”

“Listen,” he said, “I’m sure you’ve been getting my phone messages, but I need to say this to your face: I have no idea what I did to freak you out. And if you don’t feel comfortable telling me, that’s okay. I hope one day you will, and that you’ll give me the opportunity to straighten it out.”

“But—”

“Wait,” he said. “I need to finish. I want you to know that I’m going to stop calling you. I don’t want to cross the line into harassment. Just know that I feel terrible that I upset you in some way.”

“Michael, please. I meant it when I said you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just…I’m sorry I can’t explain it, but it’s…it’s just not right.”

“I must have done
something
wrong.”

“You didn’t. I swear.”

He nodded, as if he were finally believing her. “Then is it—” He stopped himself.

“What?” she asked.

He took a deep breath. “Carl,” he said. “Is it Carl? Are you still in love with him?”

“God, no!”

“Really? Because you can tell me.”

Violet swallowed hard. It would be such an easy lie. It would end everything so neatly and without question. It would take him off the hook. He’d be free to think it wasn’t his fault after all, and that she was just some kind of awful person who slept around while she was still hung up on someone else.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what it is. I’m sorry.”

He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, and she nearly melted under his touch.

“Okay,” he said.

Violet fought back the urge to cry. Had she done the right thing?

He stared at her face, as if he were discerning something vital, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. It would be wonderful, she thought. One last sublime kiss.

But he took a step back and called upstairs to the girls. Within seconds they came bounding down, side by side, plugged in to the same iPod.

“We want to go out for frozen yogurt,” Delaney said.

“All four of us,” Kara added.

“Maybe another time,” Violet said.

“C’mon, Aunt V. I’m starving.”

“We have things to do, and it’s almost lunchtime.”

“Please!” Delaney said. “There’s a new place, and they have sixteen toppings, and Kara-bon has a coupon.”

“Not today, kiddo.”

“When?”

Violet tsked. “We’ll talk about it in the car.”

It took about fifteen more minutes of arguing, but Violet, frayed and exasperated, finally got her niece packed up and buckled into the passenger seat.

“So unfair,” Delaney protested.

“I know.”

“Just because you and Groucho broke up or whatever…”

“Stop it. There are about ten different reasons I’m not taking you out for frozen yogurt.”

“But one of them is because of him, right?”

Violet sighed. “It’s complicated, Del.”

The girl folded her arms. “First my parents get killed, and then I get stuck in the middle of my aunt’s messy breakup. My life sucks.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

“I really
like
her.”

“I like her, too. I’m not going to get in the way of your friendship. I promise.”

Delaney folded her arms and stared out the window. Violet decided to let her sulk until she was ready to talk again. When she finally did, it was with well-calculated manipulation.

“I want you to take me to another screening. In the city.”

“To make up for not taking you out for frozen yogurt?”

“To make up for getting me caught in the middle of your stupid breakup.”

“So you’re playing the guilt card?”

“Yes.”

Violet laughed and considered the request. “Okay, that honesty deserves a reward. As it happens, I’m going to see a PG movie next Friday, and I’ll take you. But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to promise not to make a fuss tomorrow when your grandfather comes to pick you up for your piano lesson.”

Delaney snorted. “Do I have to?”

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

The girl let out a long sigh. “Okay.”

“Seen any good movies lately?” Malcolm said the next morning, when he came to get Delaney. Violet laughed and told him he smelled good. She was buttering him up for the favor she was about to ask.

He smiled, baring his blue-white teeth. “Scarface,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s the name of my cologne.”

“There’s a cologne called Scarface?” Violet asked, trying to
reconcile the information with the Brian De Palma film flashing through her mind.

“Comes in a bottle shaped like a pepper mill,” he said.

In other words, Violet thought, a phallic symbol. “I can see why,” she said. “It’s spicy.”

Delaney came bounding down the stairs with her piano lesson binder. “He smells like rotting fruit.”

“Be nice,” Violet said.

The girl rolled her eyes. “Can we just
go
?”

“Wait a second,” Violet said. “I have to ask Malcolm a favor.”

He grinned. “Anything!”

Violet picked up the large Macy’s box that was sitting on the side table, and launched into the story Dorothy Parker had invented. “I have a friend who lives near you out in Smithtown, and it’s hard for her to get into the city. So I did her a favor and picked something up for her.”

“What is it?” Malcolm asked.

“It’s…uh, an antique book she had appraised downtown. If I give it to you, can you bring it home? She lives close by and can come get it tomorrow.”

It was all a lie, of course, and the last part would require one last bit of deception. Violet planned to come by the next morning to pick up the book herself, making up some excuse for her “friend,” who got unavoidably detained.

“Sure,” Malcolm said. “That’s no problem.”

Violet carefully handed over the book and thanked him. “Just one more thing,” she said. “It’s very delicate and can’t be exposed to humidity for too long, so whatever you do, don’t leave it in the car.”