Farewell, Dorothy Parker (6 page)

“Duh.”

“Don’t forget to take it with dinner.”

“I won’t.”

“Remind her,” Sandra said to Violet.

“I will,” Violet said.

“Promise?”

Violet gripped the steering wheel so tightly she felt like she could yank it from the car. She wasn’t going to play this game—the game where Sandra is the only one responsible enough to care about Delaney’s welfare.

“Chill out, Butch,” Delaney said.

Sandra ignored the insulting nickname. “Promise me,” she repeated to Violet, making it sound more like a command than a request.

Shove it up your sass, Violet thought.
I’m
the one who slept on the recliner in her hospital room for four straight days when we didn’t know if she would make it.
I’m
the one who took her to three different pediatric cardiologists to find the best person to treat her.
I’m
the one who worked with a therapist to help coax her back into the world, inch by excruciating inch, when she wanted to curl up and die with grief. So don’t make me
promise
to give her the goddamned medicine she needs for her poor broken heart.

“See you tomorrow,” Violet said, hoping Sandra would back off from the car so she could pull away.

Delaney saw something that made her sink in her seat. “God, let’s
go.
”

Violet looked toward the house to see what her niece was reacting to, and there stood Malcolm, smiling broadly enough to flash his newly bleached teeth against a glowing artificial complexion. God, he was an idiot, but so happy and guileless Violet couldn’t help but have a soft spot for him.

“Wait a minute,” he shouted, taking a careful step forward.

“What’s on his feet?” Violet asked. He was shuffling forward in what looked like paper slippers.

“He just got a
pedicure,
” Delaney said, rolling her eyes. “He gets
pedicures
now.” She pronounced the word like it was covered with drain scum. “Could you gag?”

Yes, I could, Violet thought, feeling a little queasy at the image of some poor woman on her knees scraping at Malcolm’s feet.

“Seen any good movies lately?” Malcolm said, when he reached the car.

It was his standard greeting to Violet, and, apparently, it never ceased to amuse him.

Violet forced a smile. “How’ve you been, Malcolm?”

“I got a new car,” he said, pointing to a red SUV in the driveway.

“That’s
yours
?” Violet was surprised. As long as she had known him, Malcolm never drove anything but pre-owned Lincolns.

“It’s a RAV4,” he said, beaming.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one that color before.”

“Salsa red. Special order.” He looked as if he might burst with pride.

“Well, that’s great. Congrats.”

“Can we
go
?” Delaney asked.

Malcolm laughed. “Teenagers. Always in a hurry.” He patted the top of the car as a signal to take off. “You two kids have fun,” he said, and stepped back.

As Violet pulled away from the curb she heard Sandra yell, “Don’t forget the digoxin!”

Chapter 6

“He’s so clueless he can’t even get a midlife crisis right,” Delaney said when they were under way. “I mean, a RAV4? That’s a lesbian car. Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to get a sports car when he’s trying to impress chicks?”

Violet glanced at her niece and then back at the road. “A lesbian car? Where do you get this stuff?”

“It’s common knowledge.”

“Doubt that,” Violet said, laughing. “And what do you mean, ‘trying to impress chicks’? Malcolm is trying to impress chicks?”

“What do
you
think?”

Violet didn’t consider herself naive, but it had never occurred to her that Malcolm might be on the make. “I think he’s too impressed with himself to worry about what anyone else thinks,” she said.

“Yesterday he came to my track meet. I wanted to
die.
”

“He’s not
that
bad,” Violet said.

“Aunt V, he was wearing
skinny jeans.
”

Violet almost did the driving equivalent of a spit-take, but somehow she managed to stay on the road. “He was not!”

“He was!”

She patted her niece’s knee, laughing. “At least he’s happy.”

Delaney folded her arms and got quiet. Violet waited a few minutes for her to say something and finally asked if she was okay.

“Everyone deserves to be happy but me.”

Coming from another kid it might have sounded like ordinary adolescent petulance, but Dr. Susan, Delaney’s therapist, had explained that overcoming survivor’s guilt was often a long process.

“Of course you deserve to be happy,” Violet said.

“Then why am I living at Casa de la Puke?”

You shouldn’t be, Violet thought. You should be living with me.

After the accident, Violet dropped everything in her life for Delaney. There wasn’t a moment of soul-searching about it, or even time to grieve her old lifestyle. She simply abandoned her Manhattan apartment to move into her sister’s house and try her damnedest to give Delaney what she needed. Of course, what she needed most was the one thing Violet couldn’t deliver—her loving parents. So she did everything else—took a hiatus from work, ignored phone calls from well-meaning friends, stopped everything and anything that didn’t relate directly to Delaney’s well-being. She barely even ate for three months.

And what did the Webers do? They hired a lawyer.

Of course, it wasn’t just the unfairness that brought Violet’s blood to near boiling, it was the threat to her niece’s fragile progress. Violet knew, without equivocation, that Delaney was better off with her than she was with the Webers. Nothing else mattered.

She counted silently to ten so that she could respond calmly to her niece’s question.

“You know I’m not allowed to talk about that, Del,” she said.

She and the Webers were under strict orders from the judge not to discuss the custody battle with Delaney. It was tragic, because the girl needed to hear that her aunt was fighting for her. But if Violet brought it up she could jeopardize her case, and that would hurt even more.

Delaney breathed on the window and drew a frowny face with her finger.

“Woollcott’ll be excited to see you,” Violet said. The dog was her
secret weapon. Delaney loved that little creature with all her heart, and the idea of seeing him was often enough to lift her from her funk.

“I brought him a new fish,” she said. “Neon green.”

Woollcott’s favorite toy was a squeaky plastic clown fish, and Delaney adored going to the pet store to find more treasures for him.

“He’ll love it,” Violet said.

“Hey, what happened with Vincent van Loser?” Delaney said, using the nickname she had coined for Carl the first time she saw his artwork. “Did you give him the ax?”

“Not exactly,” Violet said, and knew she needed to rectify that as soon as possible. Somehow she would have to find the strength to make it crystal clear. He could not move in. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

When they got to the house, Violet asked her niece to drag the trash cans into the backyard. It was a ruse so Violet could slip inside and close Dorothy Parker back into the guest book before Delaney came in.

As soon as Violet opened the front door she knew something wasn’t right. From the foyer she could see straight into the study on the right, which looked empty. But there was noise coming from the living room across the hall. It sounded like humming.

Violet walked toward the sound and there was Dorothy Parker, laid out on the sofa, Cliché curled up in a ball by her feet. On the floor in front of her was a broken glass, an empty bottle of Beefeater gin, and the Algonquin guest book. A bottle of scotch was propped up next to her on the cushion.

“What the hell?” Violet said.

Dorothy Parker turned toward her, only one eye barely open. “Ms. Epps,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “You have a very well-stocked bar, but you are going to need to purchase more gin.”

Violet was horrified and perplexed. How did Dorothy Parker leave the study and get into this room? “I don’t understand,” she said.

Mrs. Parker struggled to sit up. “There’s nothing wrong with
scotch,” she said. “But if one is drinking gin, one should
stay
with gin. It’s just so ghastly to run out. One should
never
run out of gin.” As she righted herself, the bottle of scotch next to her tipped over and began spilling onto the cushion. Violet quickly grabbed it and placed it on the bar.

Mrs. Parker didn’t see the maneuver, and felt around the sofa for the bottle. “Hey, where did the scotch go?”

“How did you get out of the study?” Violet asked.

“I go where the book goes,” Mrs. Parker said.

“But I thought you couldn’t move it.”

“I can’t,” she said, and reached toward the book to illustrate how her hand went right through it. “But I have a trick. Watch this.” Dorothy Parker clapped her hands at Woollcott. “Come here, come here, little doggie.” She picked him up, and Violet stepped forward in case she needed to snatch the dog to protect him from her drunk guest’s hands. But Mrs. Parker simply nudged Woollcott against the book so that it inched forward.

“See?” she said. “My little friend here helps me out.” She put him down and patted his head. “Good boy.”

Violet heard the front door open and her niece call out. “Woollcott? Aunt V?”

Alarmed, Violet grabbed the guest book. “Sorry, Mrs. Parker,” she said, and slammed the cover shut, closing her visitor inside.

Delaney appeared at the door of the room just as Dorothy Parker and her little dog disappeared. She stooped to pick up Woollcott, who had trotted over to her, wagging his tail madly. “Woolly Woolly Woollcott,” she said, petting and kissing him. She surveyed the room. “Holy crap, Aunt V.”

“Bad, huh? I, uh…had a few friends over last night.”

Delaney picked up the empty gin bottle and turned it upside down to illustrate how dry it was. “A
few
?”

“Heavy drinkers.”

“It stinks.” She leaned over and picked up the Algonquin guest book. “And what’s this?”

Violet grabbed it from her. “Nothing,” she said. “A friend left it there. Why don’t you take Woollcott for a nice walk and I’ll get this place cleaned up.”

Chapter 7

With Delaney gone, Violet paced up and down the hall, holding tightly to the phone, telling herself she could do this without Dorothy Parker’s help. She would just tell Carl she was breaking up with him and that he couldn’t move in tomorrow. If he objected she would stand firm.
We’re done,
she would say.
Fini. The End. No epilogue. No sequel.

But what if she couldn’t? What if she froze…again? She pictured standing at the front door with Delaney in the morning as Carl pulled up with his moving van. What kind of message would she be sending to her niece about sticking up for yourself?

In some ways, the breakup with her husband, Andrew, had been easier. But, of course, she had gone through all her emotional trauma in the months leading up to the separation. After the tragic result of her pregnancy, Andrew had made the cruel decision that he didn’t want children after all. It ripped through Violet like a knife. How could he change his mind about wanting a baby? How could he possibly not want to try again? At first, Violet tried to be understanding. She thought it was the grief talking and that he would change his mind when enough time had passed. But he didn’t; all the talking and probing and crying went nowhere.

She went to her sister and brother-in-law for help, and Ivy had said, “I think it’s a control thing. He likes being the one to call the shots, and this gives him ultimate power over the relationship.”

Violet couldn’t disagree. Not completely. But it didn’t feel like the whole story.

“Maybe he decided he wants you to himself,” Neil said. “Maybe he realizes a baby would take your attention away from him.”

If only, Violet thought. Deep down, she knew that Andrew had started pulling away from her even before she got pregnant. And as the weeks went by, his stubbornness turned to animosity, until she could no longer ignore the reality: Andrew wasn’t rejecting the idea of a baby. He was rejecting her.