Snagged (11 page)

“No, thank you. I never touch sweets,” she purred.

“I’m sure glad I got old before they started pushing that rabbit food on us. A couple of cookies a day never hurt anybody.” Flo moved along with her tray, only to have the next young model decline her offer with a shake of her head and a wave of her Evian bottle. “Land’s sakes,” Flo mumbled.

“Flo, please sit down,” Richie pleaded.

“I am, I am.”

“Tomorrow,” Richie continued, “is a day I liken to the day when man walked on the moon. Instead of ’One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,’ it will be ‘One small step in the Birdie Panty Hose, one giant leap for womankind.”

“July 20, 1969,” Pearl Schwartz recalled, uninvited. “My little grandkids had just gotten halfway through lighting the candles on my birthday cake when that guy finally decided to come out of his spaceship. So they blew them out and then, after he’d bounced around for a few minutes up there, they relit them. The cake turned out to be a waxy mess. By the time I peeled all the wax off my piece, half the icing was gone.”

“You should have had a cheesecake in honor of the occasion,” Flo offered.

“Pearl, Flo, please, we’ll have time for chatting later,” Richie moaned. “Now, as I was saying, tomorrow could be the beginning of a new era for women. To wear comfortable, flattering panty hose that doesn’t run or snag, that dries in about thirty seconds, that doesn’t bag around your ankles in embarrassing folds. This is what we will be revealing to the world tomorrow. I need you to help create the excitement.’’ Richie looked to the young models seated together. “That’s what fashion shows are all about, right, girls?”

They nodded their heads almost imperceptibly.

“Right,” Richie said as if to answer himself. “What we have here is a great product, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to get people interested in it. I hope. Hell’s bells, when you think of some of the stuff they try to pass off at those fancy-schmancy fashion shows—those clothes look like they were designed by someone on Pluto. But people buy them even though their price tag is in outer orbit too. So why shouldn’t a panty-hose company want to buy my invention?”

“Don’t say hell, Richie,” Flo admonished.

“Sorry. Now before I get started, I want to thank the models from the agency who came out to lend us a hand. They’re donating their time to help us save our home.” Richie started to clap and was soon joined by the rest of the group in a round of polite applause.

“And right next to me here . . .”

Oh God, Regan thought.

“. . . is my friend Regan Reilly. She’s here to help me out. Stand up, Regan.”

Regan stood up, smiled, waved, then sat back down. Quickly. That has to be one of the more awkward rituals that human beings subject themselves to, she thought. The introduction to a big group. And having to wave. It made her feel sorry for the Queen and beauty-pageant winners, who probably wave in their sleep.

“Regan’s going to arrange for us to have some nice music during the show tomorrow.”

Feeble applause started in the back of the room, and before Regan knew it, she was smiling and waving again.

“Regan’s mother, Nora Regan Reilly, has arranged a cocktail party in one of the penthouse suites at the Watergreen. That’s where we’ll have the show, too. They’re setting up a runway for us.”

One of the women in the front row smiled sweetly at Regan. Regan smiled back.

The woman leaned forward in her chair. “Are you married, dear?”

“No.”

“I have a grandson who has a nice little business going for himself . . .”

“Minnie, please,” Richie said with frustration. “We’ve got a lot to get done.”

Regan found herself propelled out of her chair by the force of her nerve endings. “Richie, why don’t we distribute the panty hose?”

“Good thinking.”

The twenty pairs of different-colored panty hose were handed out after much discussion about who should wear which color, who had a dress to match a certain shade of peach, violet, ivory, rust, et cetera.

“Remember,” Richie said, “you have to wear dresses short enough so we can see your legs at least up to the knees. Some of you might want to go shorter.”

“Oh, sure,” Minnie mumbled.

Respectfully, Richie left the room as they all struggled into their assigned hose, amid murmurs of “These really do feel nice,” and “How pretty.”

Finally Regan called Richie back in.

“Birdie would be proud of you, Richie,” Bessie called out. “These make my legs feel good.”

“Thanks, Bessie.”

Regan and Richie placed all twenty models in a line, with lovely Annabelle from the agency leading the pack.

“Annabelle,” Richie said, “let’s see how you walk across the room and back, like you do when you’re in a show.”

With a self-assured attitude, Annabelle strode the length of the Dolly Twiggs room, turned from side to side, paused, and then sauntered back with one hand on her hip and the other flowing at her side.

“That was great,” Richie exulted. “Now, did you see what she did, everybody? That strut, that look in her eye, that pause at the end of the imaginary runway. You all do that and we’ll have the audience eating out of the palms of your hands.”

“I feel ridiculous trying that at my age,” Pearl kvetched.

“Do you want to go back to living with your daughter-in-law?” Flo asked her.

“Of course not.”

“Then get out there and strut.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll imagine I’m at one of the USO dances during the war.”

Pearl started to shuffle across the floor.

“You have to look happy, Pearl,” Richie advised.

“I’m trying, I’m trying.”

“Well, pick up your head and stretch out your torso like Annabelle did.”

“Like Annabelle! She’s two feet taller than me to start with!”

“It’s all in your attitude,” Richie insisted. “I want to show that women at any age will look great in and will love Birdie Panty Hose.”

They rehearsed with Pearl several times and before too long they had her swinging her arms and cracking a smile. “This is good exercise,” she said.

“Tomorrow, when we have music, you can really get into the rhythm,” Richie declared.

The other models each took their turns at parading across the room, listening to Richie’s instructions to “be natural,” and “flirt with the audience.”

“Now that wasn’t so bad,” Richie said when they were all finished.

“The show really won’t last that long, will it, Richie?” Regan asked.

“No, but that’s good. People’s attention spans are getting shorter by the minute. Your mother is going to narrate a little script she’s writing. We just want to grab them, hook them, and let the bidding begin!”

One of the old girls raised her fist. “Let’s do it!”

“What about some sort of finale?” Regan asked. “Something to pull it all together at the end.”

“Like the Rockettes!” Richie exclaimed.

“Well, something like that.”

The models lined up side by side with their arms around each other’s waists, and at Richie’s repeated urgings, kicked up their heels. Slightly.

“Come on, a little more, a little more. Just look like you’re having fun. At the end of the song you’ll all file off the runway, snapping your fingertips. We want to bring the house down with this number.”

“You’re going to end up bringing me down,” Pearl said. “If I kick too high, I’ll lose my balance.”

“Do what you can, Pearl,” Richie advised. He turned to Regan. “Can you think of anything else we should cover before the group breaks up?”

“Richie, we want to get started with the memorial service,” a voice said. Regan turned to see Elmer Pickett standing in the doorway.

“Have a chocolate cookie, Elmer,” Flo snapped. “I can assure you, there are plenty left.”

He’s such a disagreeable soul, Regan thought.

“A couple more minutes, Elmer,” Richie said and turned to the young models, who were now anxious to hurry off to other appointments. “If everyone could just leave their panty hose in one of the plastic bags and mark your name on it, I’d appreciate it. We’ll have a changing room in the suite. Get there early tomorrow, everyone, and we’ll knock ’em dead!”

If someone doesn’t get to us first, Regan thought.

H
E SAT IN the phone booth and sighed, twirling his finger around the cord. The crackling noise in his ear was finally joined by the sound of a foreign ring. The long-distance connection to South America was finally going through.

The phone was answered by a man with a heavily accented voice.

He let go of the cord and nervously identified himself.

“Well, what’s going on?” the voice asked.

“We haven’t been able to get him yet.”

“Why not?” the man with the accent asked angrily.

“All day today he’s been with that girl.”

“So, get rid of her too! Don’t you realize that we’re running out of time?”

“I know. Don’t worry. One way or another it’ll get done.”

“It better get done. There’s a lot at stake here. I knew we should have started this sooner, but you . . .” The man took a deep breath. “You said there wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I didn’t think there would be. And there still might not be.”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses or explanations. Get it done!” The phone clicked.

He sat there holding the receiver in his hand. “It will be,” he said after a moment, slamming the phone back down and pulling open the door. “You can be sure it will be.”

I
F I SHALL walk through the valley of death, I shall have no fear. I know that my sister, Dolly, will be there to greet me and we can go on that walk on the beach in heaven together.” Lucille, with tear-filled eyes, looked around the congregation gathered in the Dolly Twiggs Memorial Room. “My sister was so fond of you all. I feel she’s looking down right now and sending a spiritual greeting. But I know she would have wanted you all to have something physical to remember her by, something that was important to her. There’s a box of her seashells by the door. Please take one on your way out.”

A hum of gratitude rippled through the audience.

“I know that she also would have wanted you to raise the money to buy the Fourth Quarter and live here for the duration of your earthly lives. I want that too. More than anything. So let us join hands and pray silently, in the religion of our choice, for the sale of Richie’s panty hose.”

Regan and Richie joined hands. Regan turned to Elmer Pickett, who was sitting on her other side. He was sitting there with his arms folded. Clearly he did not intend to hold hands with anybody.

For someone who wanted to get this service started on time, Regan thought, he certainly doesn’t seem to be fully participating in the tribute. Or was it the sale of the panty hose that he didn’t want to pray for?

Regan looked around at the rest of the group. Everyone else’s eyes were closed, some shut so tightly it looked as though they were squinting in the desert sun, as if the harder they squeezed, the more likely the panty hose would generate some cash.

“Amen,” Lucille finally said.

“Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Amen.”

Up and down the rows of folding chairs the word was heard.

Lucille quietly took her seat in the front row.

Flo, who Regan figured must have been president of the pep club in high school, got up and addressed the group.

“When Dolly died, with the way she died, on the beach, alone, we were all in shock. We had a funeral but we never really came together to talk about Dolly and honor her until now. Time is a healer, thank God, and today we want to celebrate her life with joy. This was a woman who kept our rents low all through the years. She wanted to keep us together as long as possible. When she could no longer afford to keep up this place, she promised us the chance to try and buy it for ourselves. This at a time when the prices around here started to skyrocket and she could have gotten way more than she was asking us. And now her sister, Lucille, who never really knew any of us before, has been so patient and is praying with us here so that we can raise the money to buy the Fourth Quarter. She isn’t looking for a fortune, either. She just wants to get back to her gentleman friend in Texas.”

Lucille blushed. “Flo, hush.”

“It’s all right, Lucille. Now I invite anyone who would like to come up here and share. Share with us a story about Dolly, anything you’d like, about how she touched your life in some way.”

To Regan’s surprise, Elmer Pickett got out of his seat and walked to the front of the room.

“I only moved in here shortly before Dolly died, but she was very welcoming to me,” Elmer said almost accusingly to the other residents of the Fourth Quarter. “My wife had just died and I didn’t want to live all alone in our house. So I sold it and got an apartment here. Dolly was always there to talk to me when I was just moping around. One day we took a walk down the street outside here and saw all of those models getting their picture taken. They asked us to stop and be in the background. After that, Dolly encouraged me to try and get involved in the modeling. That’s when I got an agent. I used to report back to Dolly about all the goings on at the agency. She told me I should stop by there every day to see, maybe a call would come in when I was there and they’d need an old guy. It got me back on my feet again. Heck, I’m not a star, but it gave me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.”

Regan thought he directed his attention to Richie.

“I haven’t gotten as much work lately, but whatever I do get, I have Dolly to thank for it.”

He’s mad at Richie, Regan thought, for getting that commercial.

Next up was Pearl. ’’Every year on my birthday, which was the day the men landed on the moon, Dolly always baked me a special cake and stuck an American flag in it.” Her voice quivered. “I’ll always remember that.”

Minnie Kimble ambled out of her chair and recounted how she and Dolly used to love to walk on the beach together.

“Dolly was always picking up every seashell she passed and inspecting it to see if it was worth keeping. I used to say to her, ’Dolly, when are you going to stop collecting those shells? Haven’t you got enough?’ And she said her favorite tongue twister was ’She sells sea-shells by the seashore.’ Try saying that three times fast.”