Dorothy on the Rocks (14 page)

“I hate you, Mags.”

“I know, Helen.”

We get back in the car and head to the civic center. My left hip hurts like crazy from where I fell against the kitchen counter, and my spine feels like a pretzel from sleeping on the kitchen floor last night.

Right before the show starts I bum a cigarette from Frank. I lean out the fire exit and take a few puffs. It's so hard to smoke anywhere now it's almost not worth it, but
almost
is the operable word because I‘m still not humiliated enough actually to kick the habit, especially now when all my underpinnings seem to be coming unpinned.

I hear Frank call, “Places, please,” and I stamp out the cigarette and head to the stage left wing, ready for my entrance. Helen has the first scene as Snow White's dying mother. She's very moving and does a lovely job with the ballad. She declares the baby's name to be Snow White because her skin is as white as snow and her hair as black as ebony. (However, today Snow White is a blonde, as I forgot the black gel I usually put in my hair to darken it.) Then Helen dies as the huntsman reaches for baby Snow White.

In the next scene I skip onstage and sing my little Snow White happy song. Then Dee-Honey sweeps onstage as the evil stepmother, or as Frank calls her (never to her face of course), “Herself, the Ancient Evil.” We do our scene and then I scrub the stage while Ron, the handsome play prince, arrives. My hip starts to throb as I scuttle around the stage on hands and knees. And then my stomach does a few more flip-flops.

“Is that Snow White?” I hear a girl whisper in the front row. I glare out at her.

Don't you dare, I think, don't you dare say a word. The girl
looks at me and I look at her and then smile my adorable ingénue smile and she smiles back. She can't resist. I'm a star, dammit, and nobody, not even a spoiled rotten six-year-old, can resist star power. I finish the scene and exit stage left. I head for the dressing room for another cigarette while the Ancient Evil and the huntsman plan my demise. Helen is in the dressing room struggling out of her wood nymph costume.

“Maggie, could you help me? I think the zipper is stuck.” With a good bit of tugging and yanking and grunting I get Helen unzipped and out of the leotard. She collapses into a chair.

“I hate doing this show. It's not worth the trouble. Dee-Honey has got to do something about this costume.”

“Helen, you're lovely as the dearly departed mother and be thankful you don't have to wear the Dorothy pinafore.”

“Why, Mags, you're adorable in pinafores,” she says with a hint of snideness. It's her way.

“Well at least this Snow White costume fits the whole way around,” I say.

“Yes, this one is much more flattering, the gingham makes you look . . .”

“All right, Helen, that's enough.”

“Too angelic, I was going to say.”

“Uh, thanks, Helen.” I smile. “Your voice was to die for in the ballad today.”

“Really? I thought I was flat today. In the bridge.”

“Flat? You were dead on and your vibrato has never been sweeter.”

“Thanks, I do think I bring a kind of . . .” she trails off, waiting for me to supply the appropriate term of flattery.

“Delicacy?” I venture.

“Yes, delicacy. It's tricky. You don't want to be too melodramatic, but for goodness sake the woman is dying.”

“No, Helen, really, you do it just right. If you milked it anymore, it would be criminal.”

“What?” She turns as I am out the door and rushing down the hallway to the fire exit to get a few hits of nicotine. I need it. I've had a hard week and now I can't stop thinking about Joe. About my Texas Joe. Damn him, damn him, damn him. Not that I thought it would work out for us. I knew we weren't going to end up together as Mr. and Mrs. on El Ranchero Drive in Houston, Texas. But it never occurred to me that Joe would end up with anyone else either. I figured maybe after all was said and done we'd retire together to Sarasota, Florida, and take up golf.

“Mags, you're on,” I hear hissed behind me. Frank's head is poked out the stage door.

“Shit,” I push through the door and run onstage for my scene with the huntsman.

“What a beautiful forest,” I say, and then I hear that little girl.

“She's smoking, Mommy.” And then I hear lots of muttering from the peanut gallery. Randall (as the huntsman) does exaggerated eye acting and I realize I am still holding a lit cigarette in my hand.

“Look at this, Mr. Huntsman,” I say, raising the cigarette for anyone who hasn't yet noticed it. “Someone has been smoking in the forest, and we all know that is not good, is it?”

“No, Snow White,” Randall indulges me, “it's not good.”

“Nobody should ever smoke these evil cigarettes,” I say. Frank is standing in the wings shaking his head. I continue: “I better take this over to the stream and drop it in so it won't cause any harm.” I turn to exit and hear Randall.

“Oh, fair maiden, be sure to drop the dampened butt into a trash receptacle because thou must never litter either.”

“Yes, kind sir,” I say from the wings where Frank is ready with a half-drunk cup of coffee. I plunge the cigarette in and go back onstage.

“And now as I was saying, what a beautiful forest.” And we continue the scene without further incident.

“What the hell were you doing out there?” Randall snaps at me when we're offstage.

“You can never have too many public service announcements about smoking,” I say with a wink.

“Maggie, wake up! You were smoking onstage as Snow White in front of five hundred children.”

“I was setting an example,” I yell after him. “It wasn't
my
cigarette. I found it in the forest.”

Frank walks by me still shaking his head.

“What?” I say.

“That was definitely a first,” Frank says. “I give you credit for that. No one else has ever smoked as Snow White.”

“She wasn't smoking,” I say at the top of my lungs. “She found it in the forest! The big bad wolf was smoking it.”

“Mags, there is not a big bad wolf in
Snow White,
” Frank says.

“Well there should be!” I say and stomp off to the dressing room.

I
GET HOME LATE
that afternoon and go straight to the kitchen and pour myself a tall scotch. So big deal Snow White is a smoker. Wait until they find out what else she does. I'll save that for my next performance. The whole cast serenaded me back with a three-part arrangement of “Who's Afraid of the Big Bad
Wolf?” I check my message machine and find it empty. No one has called, not a soul, and especially not Jack. And why should he? We are hardly even friends. I mean, it's not like I even know him well enough to miss him. Besides, he probably heard via the grapevine that Snow White is a smoker and a slut. Who cares? It's just bad timing what with Texas Joe announcing his marriage. It would be nice to have a warm body nearby to absorb the shock. I go next door and knock on Sandy's door. Maybe a neighborly chat will do the trick. “Hi, how are you?”

“Come on in.” Sandy opens the door.

“I wanted to see how Mr. Ed is doing.”

“He's mending. He's asleep in the bedroom.”

“The vet said he would sleep a lot.”

“Well, then he's doing exactly what the doctor ordered. How are you doing?” She gestures to a chair. “Sit down. Can I make you a cup of coffee? I was about to have one.”

“You go ahead.” I indicate my glass of scotch. “I brought my own libation.” Sandy makes herself a cup of coffee and we sit and talk. She tells me all about her garden up at their country house in Ulster County. All about the tomatoes and the herbs and the hibiscus and her prizewinning rhubarb. Sandy and I aren't really friends, but we are good neighbors. She gets my mail and feeds my cat when I'm gone, and I do the same for her. And now the other little thing is that her dog saved my life. Maybe someday Bixby will do as much for her. I can't imagine the circumstances in which that would occur, but I'm sure if called into service Bixby will do his damnedest to deliver Sandy from harm.

When I get back to my apartment the message light is blinking on my answering machine and my heart almost stops. “It's him, it's him, it must be him,” the Vikki Carr classic plays over and over
in my mind. I don't listen to the message right away. I wait, get a beer out of the refrigerator, circle the phone a few times, then I hit the button.

“Maggie, I wonder if we could reschedule our session tomorrow? Could we do it from eleven to one instead of noon to two? Let me know. Oh, it's Thomas. Call me.”

It's my accompanist, not Prince Charming. “But it's not him and then I die, again I die,” Vikki sings in my head. I look up Thomas's number on my Rolodex. I dial and his machine picks up.

“Hi, it's Maggie. Tomorrow at eleven will be fine.” I pour myself another scotch.

I can't believe I have a club date coming up. I haven't even contacted anyone. I haven't sent out announcements to the throngs of people who have been holding their breath waiting for me to come out of retirement.

I open my cupboard and find a stack of publicity postcards left over from the last time I did a mailing to casting directors. I count out twenty-five and sit down at my desk. I tune in the Yankee game and then write out twenty-five notes with the show information. I go through my Rolodex and get addresses. It's the old-fashioned way—no computer, no Xerox—just pen and ink and hand cramps. I get to the last card and write out Jack Eremus, and then realize I have no idea what his address is in Queens. But I remember the business card he gave me, and sure enough it's stuffed in the D-E-F section of my Rolodex: AJ Auto Sales, 3120 Greenpoint Avenue, Long Island City, NY.

The Yankees are losing five to three to the Tigers in the bottom of the eighth inning when I finish addressing the cards, but Derek Jeter is on first and the top of the order is coming to bat. In baseball you have to hit the ball only 30 percent of the time
to be a great hitter. That is a source of comfort to me when I'm playing this other game called life. Then Derek steals second, the second baseman drops the ball, and Derek slides into third, so it ain't over yet.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I get to the post office bright and early, buy thirty stamps, and mail off the postcards. I hold Jack's aside, considering whether to put a lipstick kiss under my signature. Maybe not, I decide, maybe that's not such a good idea. I do caress his name with my thumb before I put the card through the slot and head over to Central Park West to catch the C train downtown.

I get off on Twenty-third Street and stop at a Starbucks a block from Thomas's studio. I treat myself to a grande skim latte and a chocolate chip scone. If I can't have a boyfriend, at least, I can have sugar. And if I have enough sugar I probably won't have to worry about a boyfriend ever again because I'll be two hundred pounds and living in a trailer park outside of York, Pennsylvania, working in the home decor department at the local Wal-Mart. Not that there is anything wrong with that; in fact, it's a rather pleasant fantasy I indulge in more than I'd like to admit. There is something so addictive and relentless about trying to “make it” in this great big city on the Hudson that on some days a job at Wal-Mart with profit sharing and a double-wide trailer with a patch of green around it feels like a trip to Maui. The session with Thomas goes pretty well.

“Slow down in the verse. I think you're rushing it.”

“Really? I think it sounds too sentimental if it's slow.”

“Your voice sounds great, really great. Let the audience enjoy it.”

“Does it?” I ask. “I'm not fishing for a compliment, honest. It's
just been such a long time since I've really sung that I was afraid maybe I'd lost it.”

“No.” Thomas smiles. “You certainly haven't lost it. You've got it in spades. Now let's go back to the verse.”

He starts to play and I sing it again, slowly, savoring every note. It feels so good to be singing again. It feels like my soul is wearing chiffon and dancing in the moonlight. I have two auditions in the afternoon. One is for an on-camera spot for Fleet Bank. I am the mother of two with a mortgage and station wagon and worry lines on my brow. I can do that and I do. The second is a radio voice-over for Toyota at five p.m. I finally get in to see the casting director about five forty-five. It's June Enders. She's pretty nice, but she's never been a big fan of mine. I smile more than necessary and ask about her husband.

“He walked out five months ago.”

“Sorry,” I say wiping the now unnecessary smile off my stupid mug. I consider mentioning my own recent heartbreak, actually a doubleheader what with Joe getting married and Jack walking out, but it's never good to upstage someone's pain. We all like to feel special when we suffer.

“We celebrated our twentieth anniversary and the next week he left.”

“I'm so sorry. I remember when you got married. You were assistant casting director at B and D. Can't believe that was twenty years ago, June. We were kids.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Maggie.”

“Well, you look great,” I say and then realize I might be pushing it, but June smiles and I exit as quickly as I can.

I can't believe I've known June for twenty years. I feel as old as dirt as I make my way down Seventh Avenue. I catch the number 1
train uptown at Twenty-third Street. It's almost seven, not rush hour, but the train is still crammed with people. It seems like the subways are always crowded now. When I first moved to New York it was different. The subways were dirtier and there was more graffiti, but they weren't as crowded. I loved getting on a subway car that was almost empty and hurtling through the underground tunnels of New York. Back then people smoked if the cars weren't full. That seems very romantic to me now—to be on a subway smoking a cigarette and to be young. And that's the real romance of it—not being on a subway car smoking, but being young.