Dorothy Parker Drank Here (15 page)

“It's going to change everything,” Audrey said.

“Exactly.”

“Was that really Dorothy Parker?” she asked.

“Hand to God.”

“Are there others?”

Norah shook her head. “Apparently, there have been others, but they all crossed over to the afterlife. Doesn't make the story any less astounding, does it?”

“It's the story of a lifetime,” Audrey said, “but it'll never work, not unless I have witnesses.
Reputable
witnesses.”

“I can get you those,” Norah said. “A few anyway.”

“Like who?”

“There's a hotel employee who saw her. He'll be great—he even interacted with her.”

“Will he talk to me?”

“Oh, I'm sure he will,” Norah said, though she wasn't sure at all. In fact, she thought it might be damned hard to get Angel to open up. “And there was another man who saw her—a big tough bodyguard. He'll add some great color to the story.”

“Who else?” Audrey asked. “This is going to be a tough sell. I saw her
myself
and I hardly believe it. I'll need some people who seem like they would never in a million years believe in ghosts.”

“There's a woman named Edie Coates who says she's the great-niece of Percy Coates. She's suing for the book.”

“That will add some spice to the article, but it's not enough. Who else?”

“Aviva and Pete saw her, but I led them to believe she was my boss.”

“That doesn't get me where I need to be. If they had actually seen her materialize it would be different.”

“I'm sure you can find others if you ask around at the hotel. She's been hanging around the Algonquin since 1967—there may even be some retired people you can interview.”

“I'll investigate,” Audrey said. “That's my job. But I need you to tell me every person you know of.”

“That's it,” said Norah.

Audrey squinted at her. “I feel like you're holding something back from me.”

For a twisted wacko, Audrey was remarkably astute. But Norah didn't want to set her off by telling her about Ted.

“I'm not holding anything back,” Norah lied.

“Are you sure there's no one else?”

“I'm sure.”

“I've been a reporter for a long time,” Audrey said, “and I've learned to read people. It may be my only true talent. And right now my bullshit detector is in the red zone.” She folded her arms. “I can't take this story unless you're fully honest with me.”

Norah sighed. She still felt like bringing up Ted's name was just too risky—it could push Audrey over the edge again. “There is someone else,” she said, “but I don't think you'll want to talk to him.”

“Why not?”

“I can't tell you.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Trust me, Audrey, this isn't something you even want to know.”

Audrey stared at her, as if trying to glean the truth. Then she stood and paced the room while Norah held on to the puppy. She continued petting the velvety spot under his neck until he fell asleep in her arms. It was easy to get attached to the little guy. She wondered if there was any way she could make room for him in her life.

“Okay,” Audrey finally said.

“Okay?”

“I'll take the story.” She paused. “But I want the puppy.”

“What? No. You don't even
like
dogs.”

“I like this one.”

“Audrey, it's a big responsibility. You have to feed him, walk him, take him to the vet. A dog is not a hobby.” Even as she said it, Norah understood that she was trying to convince herself that she couldn't possibly have a dog at this point in her life.

“I understand all that.”

“A few minutes ago you were afraid to let him in here.”

“I know it sounds impulsive, but he did something to my heart.” She walked over to Norah and took the sleeping puppy from her
arms. She kissed his head and laid him to rest on her shoulder. “I've never taken care of anyone else in my life and I think I can do this. I think we'll be good for each other.”

“You'll need a carrier and dog bowls. You'll need squeaky toys and wee-wee pads. You'll need puppy food—lots of it.”

“There's a pet store one block away. They have all of that.”

“Can you afford it?”

“I'll make it work.”

Norah looked at her face and could see that the dog had a calming effect. Clearly, he was good for her. But was she good for
him
? Could she really give the pup a reasonable home? Norah had only known him for about an hour, but she already felt a sense of responsibility for this little creature.

“I don't know,” Norah said.

Audrey sat down and shifted the sleeping puppy to her chest. Without opening his eyes, he stuck out his tiny pink tongue and licked her hand. “See?” she said. “We're bonding.”

“What about the gun?” Norah said.

“What about it?”

“I don't want to give the puppy to someone with violent tendencies.”

“It's not loaded,” Audrey said. “I don't even have bullets. The gun is just for show. A friend gave it to me after I was robbed—he thought it would help me feel safe.”

Norah didn't say anything. She was trying to figure out if Audrey was being honest.

“You don't believe me?” Audrey said. “Go see for yourself. It's in the night table under my copy of Strunk and White.”

She went into Audrey's bedroom and found the pistol just where she had said. Norah had never held a gun before, and picked it up carefully. It was heavier than she expected. Norah examined it for several minutes, trying to figure out how to check for bullets. She found a
button near the trigger, and assumed it was a release for the magazine, which she could see protruding from the bottom of the handle, but how could she know for sure?

Norah coughed against a scratch in her throat and reasoned it out. If it wasn't a trigger, what was the worst that could happen?

Holding the gun pointed away from her and as far from her body as she could, she pressed the button. The magazine fell out of the handle and hit the floor. Norah picked it up and inspected it. There were no bullets inside. She looked into the gun and there was nothing there, either.

So Audrey had been telling the truth—the gun wasn't loaded. Of course, that didn't prove anything—she could have ammunition hidden somewhere. Norah couldn't very well search the entire apartment, but she did take a look in the night table drawer on the other side of the bed. There were no bullets, but she found something else—a hardcover copy of
Dobson's Night
. She picked it up and read the opening paragraph she knew so well. She was about to put it back when she noticed a small bookmark sticking out. Norah turned to the page and saw that Audrey had tabbed the very scene that had stayed inside Norah's heart all these years. She imagined Audrey rereading it again and again, just as she had.

She returned the book to the drawer and went back into the living room, where she saw Audrey sitting on the floor playing with the dog. To Norah, she no longer looked like a dangerous explosive, but a broken woman who simply couldn't figure out how to put herself back together again. Norah didn't know if little Jim Beam would help, but he certainly couldn't hurt. And Audrey would be an attentive pet owner. In fact, Norah figured that the worst thing she would do was spoil the pup.

“Satisfied?” Audrey said.

“I have a leash and a baggie of puppy chow in my purse,” Norah said, “but you'll need to go shopping right away.”

“Of course,” Audrey said.

“And you're going to have to find a way to take care of him and write the article at the same time. You think you can do that?”

“I do.” She picked up the dog and stood to face Norah. She was actually smiling.

“And another thing,” Norah said. “I can't leave the guest book with you. So if you want to inspect it again, you'll have to come see me.”

“I understand.”

“Do you have any more questions?”

“Just one.” She looked down at the dog and then back at Norah. “The other person who saw Dorothy Parker . . .”

“Audrey—”

“It was Ted, wasn't it?”

Norah looked into her eyes, which already seemed so much more accessible. Not that all the crazy was gone, but there was enough humanity there for Norah to understand that she could handle the truth.

“Yes,” she said quietly, and watched closely to see the reaction.

Audrey simply nodded, and Norah knew what would happen next. Audrey was going to visit Ted Shriver.

A
s a child, Norah never had a pet—her mother's illness made it impossible. It wasn't just that she was too sick to care for an animal but even a minor allergic reaction could be fatal. Multiple sclerosis was a cruel disease—devastating and unpredictable—and her mother did everything possible to minimize the risks. But Norah grew up knowing it might not be enough, and that her mother could be taken from her at any time.

She was only six when she learned this lesson. Her mother had been hospitalized for pneumonia, but her grandmother refused to tell Norah her mother was sick. “She needs to rest” was all she had said, and Norah was confused. Why did her mom need to go away to rest when she had a perfectly good bed at home?

The answer became clear over the next several days, as her grandmother had moved in and assumed her mother's duties, making breakfast, doing laundry, checking homework, supervising bedtime. Whenever Norah vexed her grandmother, which seemed to happen all the time, she was told, “If you want your mother to come home soon, you have to be a good girl.”

Norah understood the message. It was her fault that her mother needed to go away to rest. When she knocked over her milk at breakfast, needed help tying her shoelaces, requested a glass of water at bedtime, couldn't find her gloves, asked too many questions, got knots in her hair, fell down and cried, dropped a slice of pizza on her lap, didn't shut off the television, left a wet towel on the floor, or did anything else that required attention, she was exhausting.

So she knew she should be quieter and more well behaved, but she just couldn't. In fact, the longer her mother was away, the worse she got. Years later, she would understand that she had been acting out, but at the time all she knew was that everything infuriated her and she didn't feel like she had to listen to her grandmother, her teacher, or anyone else. Worse, any punishments she received only fueled her fury. Send her to her room? Fine, she would pull out all the dresser drawers and upend the furniture. Make her miss recess? Perfect. She would spend the entire time scratching ugly black drawings all over her printing exercises.

Finally, her uncle Mickey came by to take her to see her mother.

She burst into tears the second she entered the hospital room, where her mother was sitting up in bed, her dark hair full and beautiful and familiar against the stark-white sheets. Norah knew she should say something, but she couldn't. The sobs had taken over.

Her mother moved to the side of her bed so Norah could crawl in next to her. Uncle Mickey sat in an orange side chair.

“It's okay,” her mother said, stroking Norah's hair. “I missed you, too.”

Her uncle said something she couldn't hear over her own crying. She couldn't make out her mother's reply, either. At last she took several jagged breaths to quiet the sobs. She stared up at her mother's pale face to see if she looked like she'd had enough rest. But how could she tell? Norah never understood what grown-ups meant when they said someone looked tired. Her mother looked like her mother,
except that her lips were chapped with white flakes of skin that moved when she talked.

“Are you still tired?” Norah asked.

Her mother pulled a tissue from a box near the bed and wiped Norah's face. “Not today,” she said.

“When can you come home?”

“As soon as they let me.”

Her uncle Mickey told a few jokes that made her mother laugh, and then he gave Norah some change and told her to go to the soda machine and get her mother a Sprite. Norah hesitated, looking from her uncle to her mother, sure that it was a test. She had to prove she could do this on her own. Her uncle put more quarters in her hand and told her to get one for herself, too.

Norah took the coins and stood in the hallway, just outside the room, unsure of what she should do next. She had no idea where the soda machine was, and wondered if he had given instructions when she was sobbing. As she stood there, thinking, she overheard the conversation between her mother and Uncle Mickey.

“You think Mom's scaring the shit out of her?” her mother said.

“Mom could scare the shit out of Cujo,” he said.

“I have to get out of here,” she said, “before this place kills me.”

The coins dropped out of Norah's hand. This place was going to kill her mother! She ran back into the room, crying, pleading, begging her mother to get out of bed and come home. She couldn't hear the response or anything her uncle said. She only knew she had to get her mother out of the hospital before it carried out its evil plan. She needed her mother. She wouldn't let her die!

Norah didn't remember much after that. She knew that her mother didn't come home that day, and that she had cried so hard and so long her face went numb. She wouldn't talk to anyone after that, certain that they had all left her mother at the hospital to die.

Of course, she eventually understood that the hospital was not
trying to kill her mother, and that she had gone there to recover from pneumonia. But the fear took such deep root in Norah that even her logical adult mind couldn't dislodge it. It was as if the synapses leading to that dense knot of terror had been cauterized, leaving her phobic of hospitals for the rest of her life.

She was embarrassed by her fear, and covered it up by sending friends elaborate bouquets when they gave birth, and calling to say she couldn't wait to meet the baby. When Didi was hospitalized with appendicitis, Norah called to confess the truth and there were never any hard feelings. But when Eric needed stitches in his foot and she asked if his brother could take him to the emergency room, he thought it was inexcusably cold. Eventually, he said he forgave her, but she could tell that he never understood how someone so strong could be cowed by an irrational fear.

—

W
hen Norah walked through the doorway of the Algonquin Hotel she scanned the room for any sight of Angel, who was probably on the lookout for her. She clutched the book to her chest, and for a moment, Norah had the vague sense that she had forgotten something. It disoriented her. What could she have left behind? Then she realized—the puppy. Of course. And suddenly she felt bereft and empty without him.

It was the way the boy felt in
Dobson's Night
, when he looked over his shoulder at his father standing on the church steps. The first time Norah read the book she had to put it down after that scene even though there were only a few pages left. She felt like she would never be able to contain herself again unless she got someone to understand how deeply the dialogue had touched her. The problem was, the only person she wanted to talk to about it was the author himself.

She had gone into the kitchen, where her mother was making
dinner. She was still able to stand for moments at a time, as long as her wheelchair was nearby, and she had risen to flip over the burgers she was cooking. The kitchen smelled like beef and fried onions.

Still holding the spatula, her mother lowered herself back into the chair and turned around to face Norah. “Done?” she asked.

“Almost.”

“What do you think?” She wheeled herself toward the kitchen table, which was Norah's indication to sit down. Her mother didn't like having a full conversation with someone who was standing. But Norah just couldn't sit. Not yet.

“I . . . I can't even talk about it. I love it so much I want to
do
something, but I don't know what.”

“I understand.”

Did she? Norah wasn't sure her pragmatic mother was capable of grasping the magnitude of emotion roiling through her.

“I think I need to write him a letter.”

“Honey, sit down.”

“I have to finish reading it. I'm almost done.”

“We need to talk.”

Norah turned to walk out of the room, but there was something about the tone of her mother's voice that stopped her. “About what?”

“Please. I need you to sit.”

Norah felt a chill. There was important news coming and she couldn't tell if it was good or bad. “Why?”

“It's about your father.”

Her father? She grabbed the back of the chair to steady herself. It was the big mystery of her life, and she had been forbidden to ask questions about it. All Norah knew was that her mother had been single and alone, and wanted desperately to have a child. The way she told it, she faced almost insurmountable obstacles. Then she met a man who swept her off her feet, and she knew from the start she would have his child.
I don't ever want you to think he abandoned you
,
her mother had said.
If he knew about you, he'd be here. But I didn't tell him. I couldn't.

She never explained what she meant by that, and Norah was left to wonder
why
her mother couldn't tell him. But she was about to learn the truth, and it became the one secret Norah could never tell another soul.

—

I
n the Algonquin lobby, Norah was waylaid by a man with a heavy accent. “Excuse me,” he said, and Norah held the book tighter to her chest. But it wasn't Angel—it was a tourist who wanted to know where he could get a taxi to Saks Fifth Avenue. Norah directed him to the doorman, and then glanced around the lobby to see if she had a clear path to the elevator. Angel was not in view, but a loud, familiar voice caught her attention, and she turned to see Edie Coates having an intense conversation with the maître d' of the Lounge restaurant.

Norah put her head down and walked as fast as she could to the elevator. Just as the doors opened, she heard Edie's voice call out, “Hey! Wait a minute!”

Norah pushed the
Close Door
button as Edie headed toward her. “I want to talk to you!” she called.

Why were elevator doors so damned slow? Norah pushed the button again.

“Please! I need to speak with you,” Edie called out. “About the book. About the—”

The elevator doors shut, and Norah couldn't be sure of the last word Edie had said. It sounded like
dog
, but it couldn't have been. How would Edie know about Jim Beam? No, Norah thought, she must have imagined it. Surely Edie had said, “about the ghost.”

Yes, that was it. Norah needed to get her mind off that puppy.