Playland (65 page)

Although occasionally there were those that couldn’t.

“Yes.” With age, I answered the telephone the same way my father had, and for much the same reason.

“Mr. Broderick?”

“Yes.”

“Will you hold for Barbados Brown?”

I was once more reading Melba Mae Toolate’s birthday letters to her unknown daughter, now known to me, and saw no reason to hold for anyone with a name as ridiculous as Barbados Brown. “No.”

A moment later, the telephone rang again. A rich, velvety voice. “Mr. Broderick, this is Barbados Brown.”

“Yes.” She seemed to think I would know who she was, or perhaps would say something about her name.

“From Oprah.” A pause. “Winfrey.” When I still did not respond, “
The Oprah Winfrey Show
.”

“Yes.”

“I’m Oprah’s executive producer and head talent coordinator.”

“Yes.”

“And we—that is to say Oprah and I—would really love to have you on a show we’re planning.”

“No.”

A laugh meant to be engaging. “You are the most monosyllabic man.”

I did not answer.

“Or the rudest.

“Thank you for calling, Ms. Brown.”

“A full sentence. We’re actually getting somewhere. You know, I didn’t think you people listed their telephone numbers out there …”

“Out where?”

“Hollywood.”

“I don’t live in Hollywood.”

“Well, it’s all the same thing.”

“No, it’s not. Hollywood has a different area code.”

“See, we’re having a conversation.”

“Ms. Brown …”

“Call me Barbados …”

Not as long as I can draw breath, sweetheart. I thought of hanging up, but she would just call back again. I waited.

“My mother actually named me Barbra. After Streisand. Because I’m from Brooklyn too. Then as I got in touch with my ethnicity, I changed it.”

She sounded like a guest on her own show. In spite of my resolve, I said, “Because your family came from Barbados?”

“See, my name is such an icebreaker …”

I knew I should have kept my mouth shut. This time I did. Too late.

“Actually my roots are in the Antilles.”

“Not specifically Barbados, though …”

“The world of negritude.”

I took a deep, unfortunately audible, breath.

“Do you have difficulty relating to people of color, Mr. Broderick?”

I wondered how often she had pulled that one on recalcitrant guests. “No, I don’t, Ms. Brown. But I am not going on your show, you are wasting your time and mine …”

“But I saw you once on GMA, and you were wonderful. I remember that hilarious anecdote about your father. Bill.” The bitch must have ordered up the tape. “You’ve worked for Sydney Allen, haven’t you?”

I did not reply. I had a bad vibration about where this was going, and Sydney Allen’s name only confirmed it.

“I’m sure you know Sydney wants Oprah to star in his new film.” In other words, Sydney must have told Oprah she was perfect for the part as a way of getting on the show to start
some preproduction heat on
Empire
. Or perhaps Oprah was hustling Sydney for a part. “
Triplets
. Did you do the screenplay?”

I had never even heard of
Triplets
. But then Sydney’s plate was always full.

“It’s such a delicious idea. About an African-American woman—Oprah, of course—whose sister and her European-American husband—Sydney said he was looking for a young Bob Redford—are killed in a plane crash, and he’d been raising his three children from his first marriage—they’re Anglo-Saxon, of course …”

“… and triplets.” Shame was foreign to Sydney Allen.

“That’s right. You’re not the grouch you pretend to be, Mr. Broderick.”

I think she expected me to say Call me Jack. “It’s been nice talking to you, Ms.…”

“I haven’t even told you what your show is about, Jack.”

“It doesn’t matter, Ms. Brown, I’m not going to be on it. So thank you for—”

“Jack, I am told—or rather Oprah was told—that you had rediscovered Blue Tyler …”

That fucking Sydney Allen.

“… and she was a bag lady or something in Minnesota, is that right?”

“No.” Minnesota was not Michigan. And bag ladies did not have small annuities from Arthur French.

“Then you didn’t find her?”

“Ms. Brown, I have nothing to say on this subject.”

“Then you did find her?”

“Good-bye, Ms. Brown.”

“And isn’t it true she has a child, a little girl, who must be almost thirty or something now?”

“I have no idea.”

“No idea if she has a daughter, or no idea if …”

“Please, Ms. Brown.”

“… if Jacob King was its father.”

“Good-bye, Ms. Brown.”

“Oprah’s going to do this show, Jack, whether you’re on it or not, but you’re the only one who can protect her memory, her dignity. That’s why you’d be such an addition to the show. A necessity. It’ll all be done in such good taste, not like Geraldo, all he’d want to know is who she balled. We’ll have clips from
Red River Rosie
and
Carioca Carnival
and
Little Sister Susan
, we’ve gone through boxes of Kleenex looking at those films, they’re not even on tape, did you know that? Oprah had to get prints from Cosmopolitan Pictures, and then we had to rent a screening room. Sydney and his producer, a Mr. Martin …”

Marty Magnin. I should have known.

“… were so helpful. If we can get the mother and the daughter together, and you, well, if you are thinking of doing a book on this, Jack, I don’t need to tell you, because you are a very bright man, what the ratings of
The Oprah Winfrey Show
are, and what that means in terms of copies sold, you can become a very rich man—”

“I have to hang up now, Ms. Brown.” This time I did.

Marty Magnin was in meetings all day. Sydney Allen was on his way back to New York on the Cosmo jet.

I drove out to Trancas to be alone. I walked on the beach and watched the sun set, and when I got home, my answering service said that Barbados Brown had called three times, Oprah Winfrey twice, and a Mrs. White in Anaheim, who had not left a number.

The telephone rang at nine the next morning.

“Yes.”

“Jack?”

“Yes.”

A note of uncertainty. “Jack Broderick?”

“Yes.”

“This is Lily White.”

The Mrs. White from Anaheim. I did not know any Mrs. White in Anaheim. I did not know anyone in Anaheim. I
thought of hanging up, but there was something about the voice.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

It was coming back to me now.
Lubricated or unlubricated
. The Socially Responsible Single. A one-night stand in a terrace condominium in a less Grosse Pointe with a divorced mother of two.
Things to dislike about sex. The bad breath in the morning. The curly strand of pubic hair on the tongue. The acrid smell of postcoital micturition
. The tenured professor of fucking’s downside.
Would you please go? Just call a cab and go. Go. Please go
. And go I had. To meet Melba Mae Toolate in a cab heading in the wrong direction. “Of course I remember you.” Better than you could possibly ever know. From your bed to Blue Tyler’s latest disappearance and Meta Dierdorf’s murder. To Arthur French and Chuckie O’Hara and U.S. Senator Denis Maxwell (“Max”) Riordan, R-Fla. “What are you doing in Anaheim?” My bright voice. “Visiting Disneyland?”

“Yes.”

“Are the children with you?” The Mensa child.
Were you hurting the man, Mama, when you were biting him
. What was her name? Fern. And the boy.
His peepee sometimes sticks up like the man’s
. Terence. “Terence and Fern.”

“No.”

“So you’re visiting Disneyland?” Emphasis on the “you’re.” I was sounding inane.

“I’m here for a convention of travel agents. At the Disneyland Hotel.”

Of course. She was a travel agent.
In the travel business, you tend to meet people with return tickets
. “A perfect place for it.” Another inanity. “Disneyland.”

“I was wondering if perhaps …” Her voice trailed off. “… we could have a drink.” She hesitated. “Or something.” The “or something” carried a hint of sexual invitation, and she immediately tried to haul it back. “I mean …”

“I’d like that.” Considering all that had happened since I left her apartment that night a few short months before, I probably
at least owed her a drink. On the other hand, perhaps my life would be neater had she not thrown me out with my openreturn ticket. Certainly it would be less complicated. And would have affected fewer people. “What’s good for you?”

“I don’t have a car. All the convention meetings are here at the hotel, so I didn’t …”

“No problem. I’ll come to you.” I’ll come to you was Hollywood talk. I was sounding like an agent. At least I didn’t say Let’s do lunch.

“It’s in Anaheim, it must be far, I mean, I’ve never been here before, everything seems so far, there’s no need to put yourself out, I can get a cab …”

I wondered why she was so nervous. “Don’t be silly. It’s not that far.” Only a hundred miles round-trip. “Say noon. Twelve-thirty. At the hotel. I’ll call up from the desk. We can have lunch with Mickey and Minny.”

“With who …”

“Mickey and Minny. Mouse. Disneyland.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve got that. That’d be nice, Jack.”

The traffic was lighter than I anticipated and I was early arriving at the hotel. There was no answer in her room. I looked in the coffee shop and the dining room. She was not in either place. The lobby was full of travel agents and their families wearing Mickey Mouse headgear and carrying Disneyland paraphernalia. I checked out the newsstand. She was not there either. I called her room again. No answer. I went to the reception desk.

“Welcome to the Disneyland Hotel, sir, how may we help you?”

“Do you have a Mrs. White registered?”

The room clerk pressed some keys on his computer. “A Mrs.
B
-for-Barbara White, Miss
G
-for-Georgia White, Ms.
L
-for-Lily White, or Mrs.
P
for—?”

“
L
-for-Lily,” I said.

“She checked out, sir.”

“Checked out? When? I just talked to her a couple of hours ago, I was supposed to meet her here …”

“About fifteen minutes ago. Let’s see.” The room clerk bent over his computer again. “Her room was prepaid, four days, she’s leaving a day early, I had to tell her she couldn’t get a refund on the last day, prepaid is nonrefundable.”

“Do you know where she was going?”

“LAX. She was taking the airport bus.”

“When did it leave?”

The clerk checked his watch. “It actually won’t leave for another five minutes, at twelve forty-five.”

“Where?”

“In front of the hotel, sir. Ask the doorman. You can’t miss it.”