Dorothy Parker Drank Here (18 page)

Y
our father?” Dorothy Parker said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he impregnated my mother and I have half his DNA.”

“Are you sure?”

Norah went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She came back into the room, patting herself with a towel. Had she really just revealed the secret she had kept her whole life?

“I'm sure,” she said.

“Does he know?”

Norah shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Why?”

She finished drying her face and stared at Dorothy Parker. “Because my mother never told him. She never told anyone but me.”

Dorothy Parker studied Norah's face and then nodded, as if she were beginning to understand. “I sense there's quite a story behind all this,” she said.

“I want to tell you, but . . . it's hard to talk about. I feel like I'm betraying her.”

“There's a cure for that.”

“I don't understand.”

“Of course you do. It comes straight up or on the rocks. Now let's go down to the bar. The change of scenery will do us both some good.”

—

E
xiting the elevator on the ground floor, Norah heard music that sounded straight out of the 1940s. It was coming from the Algonquin's famous cabaret, the Oak Room, where a lively sister act from England was belting a spirited boogie tune that could be heard clear across the lobby. With the guest book secured inside the tote bag once again, Norah led Dorothy Parker away from the music and toward the Blue Bar, which was dark and atmospheric enough to evoke an even earlier time. They slid into a quiet booth in the back.

“What can I get for you this evening?” a waiter asked.

“Order me something fashionable,” Dorothy Parker said to Norah. “I'd like to taste what people are drinking these days.”

Norah had been thinking about ordering something timeless, not trendy. But this was an easier decision. “Two appletinis,” she said to the waiter, who nodded and left.

“I hope that's not something healthy,” Mrs. Parker said.

“Don't worry. It's vodka and schnapps. You'll be hammered before you know what hit you.”

“In my day, we got drunk like that only on special occasions. For instance, Tuesday.”

A few moments later the waiter came back with their drinks. Dorothy Parker made him wait while she tasted it. Norah watched as she took one sip and then another, her expression inscrutable.

“Perfectly wretched,” Mrs. Parker said, and then added, “Bring two more.”

“Now, my dear,” she said to Norah, “tell me how your mother met Ted Shriver and became impregnated. I want every lurid detail.”

“I don't have lurid details, but I'll tell you what I know. My mother dropped out of college in the sixties and floundered around for a while. But she cleaned herself up and decided to go back to school. She got a job at a clothing store during the day and went to NYU at night, majoring in bio.

“That's when her health problems began. She was having trouble studying because her eyes hurt. She finally went to the doctor and he told her it was probably some kind of virus, and when it didn't go away he put her on antidepressants.”

Dorothy Parker shook her head. “As if depression were a disease and not a sane response to this miserable world.”

“It actually
is
a disease,” Norah said.

“I was depressed my whole life,” Dorothy Parker said. “I never knew it was an illness. I thought I just fell in love too easily . . . and always with the wrong men.”

“Always?” Norah asked. She seemed to remember reading that there had been a lot of men in Dorothy Parker's life, including a couple of marriages.

“Yes, dear. Every man I ever loved was handsome, ruthless, and stupid. If there had been a pill for that, I would have taken it.”

“Instead, you self-medicated.”

“I'll drink to that,” Dorothy Parker said, lifting her cocktail.

Norah raised her glass, took a sip, and continued with her story. “Anyway, in my mother's case it was a misdiagnosis. Deep down, she knew something was physically wrong. But there was another problem—she wanted desperately to have a baby. She told me that, on some level, she must have known her time was running out, because she became obsessive. Apparently, she had a vivid, emotional dream about lowering a sleeping infant into a bassinet, and it was an image she couldn't get out of her head. She said she felt like she
knew
that baby.”

Dorothy Parker glanced away for a moment and Norah thought
she looked like she was about to cry. But she blinked a few times and recovered, then picked up her drink and finished it in one swallow.

“Are you okay?” Norah asked. “You look—”

“I'm fine. But I understand exactly what your mother was feeling.”

Norah was surprised. Dorothy Parker didn't seem like the kind of woman who had wanted children.

“I think I underestimated you,” Norah said. “You must have had a harder life than I realized.”

“Four suicide attempts and two miscarriages. So you see, there wasn't much I was good at.”

“I'm so sorry,” Norah said.

“On the bright side, I did have a successful abortion. But of course, even that wasn't without ugly complications.”

Norah tried to imagine what that must have been like in those days—the shame, the secrecy, the risk. “I hope you had friends to help you through that.”

Mrs. Parker lit a cigarette and Norah looked around. “I don't think you can smoke in here,” she said.

Dorothy Parker waved away her comment and took a drag. “Unlike your mother,” she said, exhaling, “I told the culprit immediately. I thought at the very least he would visit me in the hospital after it was all done, but the son of a bitch sent me a get-well card. Can you imagine? Serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard.” She took a long drag and flicked the ashes. “Go on with your story—it's far more interesting than mine.”

Norah nodded. “Deep down, my mother was terrified that it was something serious. At the same time, her desperation to have a child was growing. She was kind of a trailblazer, and was prepared to do it all on her own. She consulted her gynecologist about having artificial insemination, but the doctor refused because she was a single woman with health issues. He said, ‘It wouldn't be ethical, Sherry.'
She looked into adoption, too, but that was even more difficult for a single woman.

“She started to get sicker at that point, and it was a dark time for her. Still, she had some good days and was trying to get on with her life. Then she saw a flyer tacked up at NYU—it said that Ted Shriver was coming to do a reading. It was right after his third book came out, and she was a big fan. She said she went with no expectations. She was just going to hear this wonderful writer.

“At the reading she ran into a friend, who invited her to the after-party, where Ted was the guest of honor. She was thrilled at the prospect of getting to meet him.

“To her surprise, he made a beeline for her at the party. I guess she was just his type. She was completely floored by the attention, especially since she had stopped dating. She had a hand tremor at that point, and it mortified her. People were so much more private about illness back then, and I guess she felt like a freak.”

“So they dated?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“For just a couple of months,” Norah said. “My mother lied and told him she was on the pill.”

“I see. She tricked him into impregnating her.”

“She felt guilty about it, but at the same time she knew it was her only chance. And she couldn't believe her luck, meeting a handsome and brilliant man.”

“Did he know she was sick?”

Norah shook her head. “She kept it a secret from him. Anyway, by the time she found out she was pregnant, the romance was all but over.”

“What happened? Did he lose interest? Did he cheat?”

“I don't know. She wouldn't go into detail on that part of the story. I was only thirteen when she told me all this, so if he acted like a shit, she probably would have shielded me from that.”

“Even if he'd been horrid,” Dorothy Parker said, “she could have called and told him she was pregnant.”

“I think she was deeply ashamed that she had duped him. And to make matters worse, she got the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis when she was about four months pregnant and didn't want anyone to know. Of course, she had to tell her parents the truth—about the pregnancy and the MS. And they were furious. Her father was a doctor and just went ballistic that she had been irresponsible enough to get pregnant when she knew her health was in jeopardy. They eventually came around and supported her—emotionally and financially—but at the time, they drove home the shame, and she withdrew from the world.”

“And she never changed her mind, in all the years that followed? She never wanted to tell him he had a child?”

“Maybe she did. I don't know. Bottom line is that the shame never really went away, especially since she got sicker and sicker. She didn't want him to see her in a wheelchair—she wanted him to remember the pretty young woman he approached at that party. I think it also helped her hold on to that image of herself.”

“And she was able to care for you?”

Norah remembered the night she found out her best friend was moving away. How old could she have been? Six? Seven? She had thought the world was coming to an end. Dawn lived next door and they had been inseparable since they were babies. Norah fell asleep crying, with her mother sitting next to her, trying to offer comfort. When she awoke during the night, Norah was lying on her side, and had a moment of panic at the thought of being alone. Then she noticed something silvery by the side of her bed reflecting the moonlight. She blinked a few times until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she realized what it was—her mother's crutches. She had never left.

“She did the best she could,” Norah said.

“And when she told you all this, did she expressly forbid you from telling him?”

“Not in so many words. But she didn't want him to know, and that's enough for me.”

“Oh, my dear, you must tell him.”

Norah looked at Dorothy Parker. Had she lost her mind? “Absolutely not.”

“He has a right to know he has a child.”

Norah stared at her. How could she consider Ted's “rights” when she was talking about her mother's trust? “That makes no sense. He was an unwitting sperm donor. That doesn't give him any rights.”

“But he's your father.”

“I don't think of him that way.”

“Of course you do. You've been thinking about him all these years. Surely part of you wanted him to know. Perhaps you even thought he might take one look at you and intuit the truth.”

“So what if I did? So what if I hoped we had some connection that transcended our shared DNA? The fact is, he's a liar and a cheat—a despicable man with a foul, dark soul. If I wasn't going to tell him the truth before, I'm certainly not going to now.”

“In my experience, people never stop yearning for a connection with their parents, no matter how awful they are. If you don't tell him, you could live to regret it.”

“I won't. My mother never wanted him to know and I've been at peace with that for a long time. Besides, now that I've seen the real Ted Shriver, I'd rather live with the regret than give him a daughter. I'm sorry I ever spoke to him in the first place.”

“I wish you would reconsider.”

“And I thought you were blowing smoke when you said you weren't a cynic.”

“My dear, people often mistake idealists for cynics. We're just so
terribly afraid of disappointment, you see? And I believe that's what's keeping you from telling him. You're afraid he might reject you.”

“No, I'm
certain
he would reject me. I mean, think about it. Is there even a one percent chance he would welcome the news? Could you picture that?”

“He might surprise you.”

“Please. Mrs. Parker, that's a conversation that couldn't possibly end well.”

“And here I thought you were a woman of extraordinary courage.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“What are you going to do now?”

Norah shrugged. She was truly at the end of the line. “I guess I'll check out in the morning, go home, and update my résumé. What else can I do?”

Mrs. Parker didn't look pleased. “I need to ask one final favor,” she said.

“And what's that?”

“Bring the guest book to Teddy's room. I need to have a chat with him.”

“Why? So you can tell him my secret? I'll do no such thing.”

“I wouldn't betray you, my dear. But, fine, if you don't trust me, at least return it here to the Blue Bar, where it belongs. If I'm going to spend the rest of eternity locked in loneliness, I'd like to be able to get a drink once in a while.”