Bob at the Plaza (9 page)

“Rosie, Rosie,” Bob muttered, and sighed, a big blob of drool dripping on the table.

“You’d better leave,” the big-eared ghost repeated.

I stood, and the second I took my hand off Bob the nausea smashed into me. Knees almost buckling, I staggered to the doorway and behind me I could hear Dorothy and the big-eared man starting to argue about Clive. I clutched the doorframe and took off the ring, slipping it into my pocket. As quickly as it had come, the nausea vanished. I took a few deep breaths to settle my stomach and clear my head then turned and walked unsteadily toward the deserted table where both our dinners sat untouched, stone cold. I stood at the table and looked over to the reception desk where David talked to the manager. He turned as I stood there, then blinked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, and walked over.

“Where the hell have you been? Jeez, Roz, you’re white as a bone. Here, sit down.” David helped me to my seat and beckoned to a waiter to clear our dishes and get me a brandy.

I couldn’t connect with David, or with the dining room. Mist floated in and out of my vision. I felt close to fainting. Gradually, between David rubbing my hands and sips of brandy, I started to thaw. And then I started crying, quiet tears dripping down my face, ruining my carefully applied makeup.

Chapter 9

Anything Goes!

“Honey, what’s wrong? Where did you go? Don’t cry. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

I’d never seen David this upset. He rubbed my back, hugged me, and pressed little kisses on my temple.

“I don’t know what to do,” I snuffled, trying to ignore the startled diners around me.

“Sweetheart, we’ll figure it out, I promise. Just tell me what’s wrong, so I can help.” David motioned for another brandy and started buttering the rolls that had been left on the table, handing me bites as I sipped so I wouldn’t get too drunk.

“You’d never believe me,” I hiccupped.

“Try me,” David said softly, hugging me.

“It’s my ghost,” I sobbed. “I want Bob back, but I don’t think they’re going to give him to me.”

To his credit, David didn’t pull his arm away. Or laugh. He said, “Huh?” and looked into my eyes as if trying to read my mind. Then, taking his arm from my shoulder and moving to hold my hand, he said, “Why don’t you tell me about it, sweetheart?” and a jigsaw piece clicked into place in a long-closed-off part of my heart. I think that’s when I started to fall in love with him.

I wouldn’t call it a fun conversation. I’ve always hated looking like an idiot. But I got out my complicated history with Bob and felt much the better for it.

After three buttered rolls and a full confession, I’d almost regained my composure and managed to start paying attention to my surroundings. Our expensive Broadway show started in forty-five minutes. Ouch. I’d sort of eaten, but David hadn’t had a bite.

“What do you want to do?” I asked him. “I hate to miss
Anything Goes
. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks and those tickets cost so much money.”

Looking at his watch, David replied, “I’m more worried about you than missing the show, but if you’re feeling better we could get there if we hurried. It wouldn’t hurt me to miss a meal, but I’ll ask the waiter if they can throw a sandwich together and I’ll eat it later. No problem.”

In a few minutes we were speed-walking—speed-wobbling, in my case—toward Broadway, with a sandwich and our uneaten desserts packaged in a fancy to-go bag. They’re very kind folks at the Algonquin. I don’t understand how these stereotypes of brusque, uncaring Manhattanites ever got started.

Anything Goes
surpassed its outstanding reviews. Bouncy, bubbly, with a couple of show-stopping song and dance numbers that levitated the wildly applauding audience to its feet. I couldn’t concentrate, though. Partially because I kept mentally reviewing my encounter with the Vicious Circle—I finally understood how they earned that nickname—and my concerns with how bad Bob had looked, partially because David kept a gentle hold on my hand, and the way he stroked it from time to time completely distracted me.

As wonderful as the show had been, the air outside the theater afterward felt cool and refreshing and I enjoyed it as we walked, hand-in-hand, the few blocks to the hotel.

“So let me get this straight,” David said as we strolled, resuming our earlier dinner conversation. “Bob’s been assigned to help you decide if you should move, and he’s supposed to motivate you to do something. And neither of you have any idea what this ‘something’ is.”

“I used to think the ‘something’ involved the Community Chest campaigns I work on. But Bob said he handled more personal projects, so now I’m starting to wonder if it’s related to the writing I’ve been doing,” I said, stopping with David as he paused in front of a store window that showcased a two-foot-tall electrified Swiss army knife, where the blades slowly opened and closed.

“Writing?” he said, turning to look at me in the light cast by the storefront. “What kind of writing? You mean in addition to your business writing?”

Embarrassed, I muttered, “Well, it’s kind of a novel. A book about me and Bob and how we met. That sort of thing.”

“Huh,” David said, for the second time this evening. “You’re writing a whole book about this ghost?” It seemed like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. We started strolling again, but this time I noticed that David didn’t take my hand. So I took his.

He squeezed it, and continued. “So you and Bob have to talk once a day, most days, while you’re trying to get this so-called assignment done. You’re writing a whole book about your relationship with him, and you usually have dinner together.”

“It’s not really a relationship,” I protested. “After all, he’s a ghost.”

“If it’s enough to get a whole book out of it, it sure
is
a relationship,” David countered in a flat voice. Then he continued, “What happens, Roz, if you and I keep spending a lot of time with each other? What happens with Bob?”

“I wish I knew.” I sighed, shrugging my shoulders in bewilderment. “That’s the worst thing about Bob. I never know the rules. Bob’s always talking about how they need to do an Orientation Program for new ghosts when they arrive on the other side. I’ve been lobbying for a Ghost Owner’s Manual instead. The whole situation is just so confusing . . .” My voice drifted off as we entered our hyper-lit and ever-busy hotel lobby. We strolled silently toward the bank of elevators.

“Here, you take the desserts. I’m sure your roommates will enjoy them. I’ve never been too big on sweets,” David said as he passed me the to-go bag, grabbing his sandwich from the top.

“I remember,” I said as we waited for the elevator. Our evening’s mood was drifting downward, getting more and more somber. David had been nothing but supportive and understanding about Bob, but it seemed the more I talked about my ghost situation, the more remote and polite he became. The atmosphere between us churned with things we didn’t know how to discuss. I hated the way things felt.

We rode the elevator to our floor in silence. David gave me a quick, preoccupied peck at my door, mumbled, “See you tomorrow, Roz,” and turned down the hallway toward his room. I felt like yelling at his diminishing back, “It’s not
my
fault I have a ghost!” Instead, I grumbled petulantly under my breath as I pushed open the door, “Sheesh, he acts like I have cooties or something.”

Chapter 10

Tea for Two(ish)

Rehearsals commenced promptly at 8 a.m. Friday morning in the Empire meeting room at the hotel. Between showers, dressing, and makeup, our room had been buzzing in nonstop motion since six. Liz, ever the early bird, smuggled in breakfast sandwiches and coffee from a café outside the hotel.

Once we had pushed into the sterile rehearsal room, packed with members from choruses around the country, an older man mounted the portable wooden conductor’s box in front of us. Portly, sporting a yellow sweater vest topped with an already-limp bow-tie, he shouted to get our attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he yelled, clapping his hands. Gradually the room quieted. “I’m Trevor Whigby, Harvey’s assistant. I’ll be working with you today on our Shakespeare songs while Harvey runs through the cantata with the orchestra at Carnegie Hall. Tomorrow morning we’ll meet here at eight to practice your sections of the cantata. After lunch, we’ll run-through the entire program several times. Sunday morning we’ll bus you up to Carnegie Hall for a full run through with the orchestra before the matinee performance.”

I winced, worried about the intensity and last-minute feeling of this musical escapade. Glancing at Bev, I noticed the same grimace of concern on her face. We’d begun this morning feeling excited about our adventure. Finally, though, the reality and high-stakes nature of performing at Carnegie Hall began to sink in. This would be no Avondale concert, where the audience consisted solely of non-musical, ultra-forgiving friends and family. We’d landed in the big-time.

Trevor warmed up the group and spent the morning methodically guiding us through the ten Shakespeare songs on the program. Late in the morning, he clenched his fist unexpectedly, cutting us off when we’d been going full throttle on “Anthem Day.”

“Listen, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in an impatient, clipped tone. “The name of this game is
blending. Listen
to the voices around you.
Merge
with them. Don’t just stand there bleating your notes like so many sheep. From now on, if I point to you and make this gesture”—he took his hand, fingers up, thumb horizontal, and slowly brought all four fingers down to the thumb in the universal ‘shut up’ gesture—“I want you to sing softer and
blend
with the voices around you. Now, let’s try this again.” He gestured to the pianist, and we started from the beginning.

Halfway through the song, Trevor stepped off his conductor’s box and started pacing in front of the chorus, pausing to listen to the blend of voices while keeping time with one hand. Then his other hand darted out, pointed to a base and an alto, and gave them the dreaded hand signal.

Trevor continued pacing until he paused in front of the sopranos. Without even the courtesy of a questioning pause, his finger whipped out and pointed straight at Bev, standing right next to me. I gave her a sympathetic glance and kept singing. Poor woman. How insulting to be singled out in front of everybody. Devastating to come all this way for nothing. Then I noticed Trevor was still pointing. A frustrated look crept into his eyes and he started wagging his finger.

I stared at him, baffled, and then, horrified, I realized he was pointing at me. Ahhhhh, nuts. To add insult to injury, I swear I heard titters from some of the so-called ladies behind me.

Embarrassment washed through me. All my fretting and penny-pinching to get to Carnegie Hall only to be told, essentially, to shut up. Stacey, our Avondale conductor, gave me a concerned look and rushed over as soon as we broke for lunch.

“Don’t worry, Roz,” she said, trying to soothe me. “He’s not saying you have a bad voice. He’s just saying he wants you to blend a little more. You know, play better with others.”

“I know, I know,” I groused. “I’ll work on it. The other sopranos didn’t have to giggle, though.”

Stacey muffled her own titter and squeezed out in a tight voice, “I know, Roz.”

After a quick hotel-supplied lunch where I got to say no more than hello to David as we grabbed our sandwiches, Trevor began working with individual sections of the chorus, demonstrating how he wanted us to punch through certain entrances and sneak up on others. Even though we couldn’t leave the room while the other sections rehearsed, he allowed us to sit down, a welcome break. I’m not built for standing seven hours in a row anymore. I even had a chance to sit next to David for a couple of minutes.

By 3 p.m. I felt like I’d gone nine rounds in a boxing ring. My stomach ached from clenching it to hit my high notes, my throat scratched, and my feet had gone blessedly numb an hour ago. We mobbed toward the exit when dismissed, but I waved over the crowd to David, who traveled in the midst of a pack of tenors. He and Gino planned on beers and a sports bar tonight. A little alone time was probably best for both of us.

“I’m exhausted, but I’m determined to get to our Plaza tea,” roommate Kim shouted in my ear as we crowded into our elevator packed with conversing choristers. 

“Me, too, but let’s cab there instead of walking,” I yelled back.

Kim nodded in agreement.

Once in the room I sat on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and groaned as I massaged the feeling back into my numb feet. Kim mirrored my actions, and we were moaning together as Bev and Liz came in.

“What a picture,” Liz quipped. “Doesn’t look like we’ll be walking to The Plaza.”

“You’ve got that right,” I answered as I searched under the bed for my most comfortable shoes. “Are you ready? We need to get going if we’re going to make our reservation.” Five minutes later, purses in hand, we squeezed into a doorman-hailed cab.

We arrived at four on the dot, just in time for our reservation. Such a beautiful place, and so much fun to share this experience with my roommates. Returning to The Plaza now and again felt like visiting an old friend, a gracious, wealthy old friend. As much as my life changed between visits, the Palm Court remained a fixed constellation in my universe, with its ornate carpeting and discreet tables nestled among columns. Maybe that’s why I like these old landmark hotels so much. They provide a little predictability in my very uncertain world. 

After salivating over the menu for a few minutes, I selected a substantial dinner-substitute tea, featuring smoked salmon and lobster sandwiches, while my roommates opted for sweeter choices involving scones and assorted pastries.

“That rehearsal was brutal,” Liz said after we placed our orders. She bumped into me slightly as she quietly kicked her shoes off and rubbed one foot against the other.

“Tell me about it,” I groused.

Liz continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “I liked Trevor, but I think he’s going to rehearse us into the ground. Did you see how surprised Stacey looked with some of his musical decisions?”

“Well, conductors see things differently,” Kim, ever the peacemaker, replied.

Next to me, Bev grumbled, “You’d think he’d do more of those Bach choruses with us if he’s going to keep us standing there for an hour. I sure hope the soloists are good.”

Kim calmly observed, “I’m just as glad we’re only doing three segments of the cantata. That way we’ll have less Bach to worry about. Besides, the chorus will be center stage for the Shakespeare. And to get back to your point, Liz, I’m glad Trevor’s working us so hard. I don’t want to get on the stage Sunday and humiliate myself. I just hope I can remember half of the things we covered today.”

A muted chorus of agreement greeted her statement, and then we first sopranos got into a passionate review of the day’s work. Kim, the lone alto, shrugged good-naturedly at being left out and spent the time looking around. Our sandwiches eventually arrived on beautiful tiered trays and, I confess, we all took pictures of the table before eating.

“How was
Anything Goes
last night, Roz?” Bev, who’d been asleep when I whispered my review the night before, asked.

“I loved it,” I answered and recapped highlights of the show, carefully avoiding mention of the dinner that had preceded it. By this point, we’d worked our way through two pots of tea and the dainty finger sandwiches and scones. Not feeling very hungry, Liz didn’t eat much so, encouraged by the others, I pondered my attack on her remaining miniature pastries. Worries about our upcoming performance had melted away, and gusts of laughter rang through our group as Bev narrated her bewildered encounter with a three-card monte shyster on Fifth Avenue.

Just as I lifted my first, much-anticipated bite of miniature éclair to my lips, I froze. Across the room, meandering unsteadily in my direction, came a very familiar gray suit. A memorable, very wrinkled gray suit. Topped with an unmistakable pair of sunglasses. Bob? Could it be?

Without thinking, I lunged to my feet. Unfortunately, I dropped the éclair on the floor, then stepped on it, slipped, and sprawled flat on my back in the middle of the Palm Court. My glasses flew under a nearby table. My friends shrieked and waiters gasped.

“Nuts!” I said. (Tah-Dah! I bet you wondered if I’d ever make it back to my opening. Frankly, I had my own doubts at times, if we’re being perfectly honest here. And I’m always perfectly honest. Well, mostly always perfectly honest, sort of. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes . . .)

“Nuts!”

(An inelegant word, perhaps, but definitely pithy. McAuliffe’s usage really was genius.) A strong young waiter rushed over and helped me sit up. Éclair custard decorated my shoe, my shin, and the lovely carpeting. It took a minute for me to get my breath and another minute for Liz to locate and clean my spectacles. Finally, with the ongoing help of my young waiter friend, I stood and sat back on my chair. A swat team of busboys swarmed the mess my éclair had made on the floor and it vanished in an instant. Bev handed me a fresh cup of tea, which clinked away on its saucer like a tap-dancing knight in armor as I tried to drink from it. 

Politely ignoring the questions being thrown at me, I scanned the room. And there he sat, three tables away, martini in hand, laughing uproariously. My Bob―laughing his ass off at me. He never could resist a pratfall, even mine. Well, I guess some things never change.  We hadn’t said a word, and I was already mad at him. Mad but, in all honesty, it felt great to feel those juices flowing again. Wiping his eyes, Bob lifted his martini in a silent toast.

Straightening in my chair, I re-focused on my friends. Just then, the manager, summoned from some far-off corner of the hotel, walked over. I told him repeatedly that I was perfectly fine and that the incident had been completely my fault. Reassured, he departed, leaving us with his best wishes, his business card, and the bill.

Eventually we left our resplendent tea and walked onto Fifth Avenue into a light springtime rain. No taxis could be seen in any direction so, with our new tea-fueled energy, the four of us, with Bob drifting along on my left, started walking south on Fifth back to the hotel. Under her breath, Kim sang tunes from the old musical
Easter Parade
and, when the crowds permitted, the rest of us joined in. Even Bob contributed in a surprisingly tuneful baritone.

Shop windows burst with flowers and balls of blossoms hung from each streetlamp.

“I thought there’d be more traffic,” Bev observed, looking around. “I don’t even see that many pedestrians, really.”

“Don’t forget,” Kim said, “It’s Good Friday, so a lot of people left work early. They’re already at home.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Bev said. “I had forgotten.”

The date had slipped my mind, too. But that’s why I had planned a quiet evening tonight. Even though I’m not a very good Catholic, frolicking on Good Friday has just never felt, well,
right
to me. It’s odd, because I don’t observe any other Holy Day but, there you are―illogical though it may be, I rarely play on Good Friday.

Forty-five minutes later we arrived at the hotel, slightly damp but spirits undimmed. Bev, Liz, and Kim changed and sallied forth to the theater. A revival of
Equus
had piqued their interest. I talked of catching up on my reading and the newspaper while I watched Bob stretch out on the miniature loveseat in the room. I wish I could say he had the grace to close his eyes whenever someone walked around half-dressed, but he didn’t.

Finally they left, and Bob and I had the room to ourselves. At long last. But after two months apart, I didn’t know what to say. I studied my ghost. He looked leaner somehow, more worn around the edges.

“You look kind of tired, Bob,” were my first words after months apart. Brilliant.

“It’s been rough,” he answered, playing with his silver flask.

“Did they send you to that remedial ghost boot camp you mentioned?” I asked anxiously.

“Holy Mackerel, yes, and before you ask, yes, I hated it.”

We’d only spoken for two seconds and I’d already hit a nerve. Sheesh―probably a new record for me.

“Are you allowed to tell me about it?”

“A little would probably be okay as long as I don’t give out details.” He played with his flask for a minute, running his fingers along the sides while he organized his thoughts. “I had to study lots of haunting basics, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. We started with Apparitions 101, How to Terrorize, Cold Spots and Ghostly Noises, and Horror―The Pros and Cons. Then we moved on to our specialties, according to our assignments. You’ll notice my martinis are much drier now, and anytime you want to try a sidecar I’m your man.”

“Bartending? You did remedial
bartending
in boot camp?” Incredulous, I stared at him. Here I’d been imagining the worst―Bob weighed down with gear, scrambling up and down obstacle courses, slogging miles through rain and mud―and this guy had been spending his time blending cocktails?

“Among many other things. All day, every day. We never got any breaks. There’s nothing fun about bartending or anything else if you have to do it all day, every day,” Bob responded testily.

“We call that 24/7 these days,” I mentioned absent-mindedly, my mind busily formulating a list of questions. “What about―”

Just then, the bedroom door slammed open. Liz, hands pressed against her mouth, ran into the bathroom and I heard the unmistakable sounds of someone retching up her expensive afternoon tea. I jumped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom.

“Can I help?” I asked, hovering outside the door. After a minute the toilet flushed and water ran in the sink.

Liz shuffled out, deathly pale, wiping off her face with a damp washcloth.

“Oh, God, I feel awful,” she moaned, sinking onto the bed.