by Byron Lane
My eyes refocus on the silver. “It’s heavy.”
“That’s because it’s real!” Miss Gracie shouts. Then, “Please enter, dear. Let’s begin this scene.”
I turn and head toward the voice, that voice, coming from a dimly lit living room carefully protected from sunlight by dark window coverings. There, she waits. With Uta Hagen by her side, Miss Gracie is standing in the center of the room like it’s a stage. She’s chic and casually stylish for being eighty years old, wearing a peach turban-type wrap on her head and what appears to be a pink silk nightgown over a blue silk nightgown. Silk on silk on silk. She looks like she dressed to match the drapes. It’s a room that looks decorated by a movie studio set-design department. The curtains are from the fifties, pastel and faded and velvet. The couch is floral and long and boxy, with cushions so old they’re indented with butt impressions—perhaps the asses of Cary Grant or Gene Kelly or Ann Rutherford.
I walk down a step that leads to the living room, careful not to knock over a table filled with headshots—some of her and some of Kathi—each with a Post-it note attached and a name scribbled on it: for Dave, for Michelle, for Tony.
“Those are pictures sent to Kathi and me by our many fans,” Miss Gracie says. “They mail us headshots asking for our autographs and I always sign them and send them back. However, Kathi ignores them because she doesn’t like to sign free autographs—she prefers to sell her signature at conventions and whatnot, like some kind of pinup girl. But, in my day, you respected your fans, so I hired a handwriting expert to forge her signature, and that takes care of that. Please sit down.”
The floors are carpet but also covered in rugs. Carpet on carpet on carpet, so many layers to this universe. I look down and Miss Gracie suspects judgment.
“I once owned numerous homes that were tens of thousands of square feet,” Miss Gracie says. “I used to have so much room for all these rugs that I didn’t have enough of them. Now that’s all changed. Now they’re all piled on the floor beneath us. You’re standing on history.”
I nod politely and walk to the couch, passing an open door to my right. I can’t help but look inside.
“My bedroom,” Miss Gracie says. “Filled with treasure. Ignore the mess.”
There’s an unmade bed with a headboard not connected, just propped on the wall behind the mattress. A wig sits on top of a vase. Jewelry is piled in a cardboard box on the floor.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the money tree.
Behind me, photos cover a piano that’s too big for this house; a huge mirror hangs over the mantel. Miss Gracie’s gaze follows my every movement, and like Kathi, she seems to be able to read my thoughts.
“That mirror belonged to Bugsy Siegel, the weary gangster,” she says. “He used to keep it at his bar so he could always see who was coming up behind him. No one was ever going to stab him in the back. Or me! Right, dear?”
I smile and look to the other side of the room, to a bookshelf packed with biographies and autobiographies of her friends. One shelf doesn’t have books. It has—
“Yes, that’s the original Rosebud sled,” she says. “From the classic film Citizen Kane. I find the film’s performances to be quite offensive. The sled, however, I always loved and snapped it up at an auction.”
The sled’s runners look as if they’re held to the shelf with a large clump of the cheap white tacky stuff teachers use to hang posters on their classroom walls. A pair of men’s black dress shoes are beside it.
“Humphrey Bogart wore those in Casablanca, dear,” Miss Gracie says. “Don’t touch them.”
Assistant Bible Verse 9: Don’t touch anything.
I turn from the history of the bookshelf adornments to the history of her being, Miss Gracie, living and breathing and before me.
“Hello, dear,” Miss Gracie says, waving for me to sit on a wingback chair. She and Uta Hagen take their places across from me, on the aforementioned worn but wonderful sofa. “I once had a dancer named Charlie—I’m hopeful that it will help me to always remember your little name, even though it’s so common.”
“Thanks,” I say, but then slow down, trying to keep up with Miss Gracie’s word games. Did she mean my name is “common” as an insult? There’s no time to know. “I love all of your movies,” I tell her.
She winces. “I’m not in movies,” she says. “I’m in motion pictures.” She shakes her head, then continues. “This is Uta Hagen,” Miss Gracie says, motioning to the furry beauty beside her, a white Pomeranian. “I named her after the monster.”
“Nice to meet you, Uta Hagen,” I say to a blank and disinterested doggie stare.
“I wasn’t sure if you would survive Kathi’s employ for this long, all these months,” Miss Gracie says. “Many secretaries don’t.”
“Thanks. It’s so vintage that you call me a secretary. These days we call ourselves assistants—” But I stop as I notice Miss Gracie’s face melt.
“You’re a secretary,” she says. “Let’s not jest ourselves.”
“Right. Yes, ma’am.”
“Additionally, it’s hard for me to invite new people into our lives, our family. At least until I realize they can keep up. You do realize, you’re part of our family now, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, a brief bit of my father’s life lesson (BE POLITE!) making itself present in the room.
“Ma’am? Oh, you’re very sweet. Are you Southern?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m from New Orleans.”
“Oh! New Orleans. What a wonderful city. I once shot a film there—well, it was a scene in a film, in a cemetery. In the scene, I cried and held that city’s dirt in my hand,” Miss Gracie says, standing, making a fist, reliving the moment. “And I cursed the gods for taking my beloved husband and forcing me to visit my lover’s rotting corpse in this gruesome grave!” She exhales, sits, speaks normally. “Of course, I was just acting. In real life, I’ve hated all my husbands.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“My daughter is mentally ill. You must make sure she doesn’t leave her purse in Nordstrom again. Or her glasses at Mr Chow. Or her car keys at Givenchy. And take all the credit cards out of her wallet. You control them. You’re in charge of the money. Do you understand? I will fire you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I resist an urge to correct her, an urge to say she can’t fire me, that I don’t work for her, I work for Kathi. But the power Miss Gracie commands onscreen is the same in real life. Her presence in the room is crushing.
“I heard Kathi had a medical incident,” Miss Gracie says. “Roger was cooking and saw the whole thing out of the kitchen window. He saw you with Kathi by the gate. He was narrating it to me moment by moment while our quiche burned. I couldn’t go out and help because I had a mud mask on, and Roger couldn’t help because he has diabetes. But when he told me that Kathi outstretched her two hands to you, and you outstretched your two hands to her in return, and you held her—”
Miss Gracie stops, breathing heavily.
As if on cue, as if she triggered a silent alarm, Roger dashes in and hands her a handkerchief. She accepts it without looking up, without acknowledging Roger at all, like the handkerchief magically appeared in her hand. Roger exits swiftly, silently, the same way he entered. His movements are precise and perfect; he’s done this a million times before. Like Benny and Agnes, everyone here seems to move with a sort of muscle memory—they’re in a familiar matrix, they’ve seen everything, done everything, know every ending of the choose-your-own-adventure that is this lifestyle.
Roger, a lifer.
“I was so moved,” Miss Gracie whispers, dabbing her eyes. “I thought you could be lovers, but then I learned you were homosexual, and, well, I’m still getting used to it. But it told me you’re smart and you’re not afraid to connect, and I like it and also I’m watching you.”
“Thank you?”
“I’m concerned, however, that the episode may have been your fault. Are you confident you gave Kathi all the proper
medications? Did you see her take them? Do you have proof?”
“I’m—no—” I stutter. “I’m not sure. It may have been my fault, and I’m very sorry.”
“Watch yourself,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m familiar with your types, you know what I mean?”
“Gay people?” I ask.
Miss Gracie reaches down and pulls a bottle of chardonnay from a Brookstone wine cooler on the floor beside her. Like magic, like a second act, Roger appears again, putting a wineglass down on a coaster on the coffee table, and vanishing again. Without breaking eye contact with me, Miss Gracie unscrews the bottle, pours a sip of wine, swirls it, smells it, tastes it, nods approval. “It’s fine,” she says to herself, then pours more into the glass.
“I’ve seen many secretaries and helpers and whatnot come and go,” she says. “Mostly go. Almost always, they go.” Miss Gracie shakes her head, shakes it off. “Well, they don’t call it show business for nothing. That said, you need to know I like our help loyal. I once had a limo driver who worked for me for decades—always picked me up, always—and then one day I call the limo company to schedule him and he’s not there and I ask, ‘Where the hell is he?’ and they say, ‘He retired.’ Retired! Can you believe the nerve?! Why would anyone want to retire? What are they going to do all day? I’m never retiring. I’m working until my last breath, believe me. And that’s what I expect from the people around me. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.” I blush, not because I’m lying but because I’m embarrassed that I’m telling the truth. Why would anyone ever want to leave this show, The Kathi and Miss Gracie Hour—eight hours, actually, daily, Monday through Friday—playing on repeat, forever? Does Miss Gracie judge me for not having a life, for wanting to be a part of hers? She stares at me a moment, studying the slightest movements of my face, then continues.
“Additionally, you should memorize all important phone numbers. Our lawyers and agents and whatnot. You can get a complete list from Roger. He memorized all of them with flash cards. Oh! And in case of an emergency,” she says, closing her eyes and shaking her head, “do not ever call 911. First, call our plastic surgeon, Dr. Felton. He’ll know what to do. Roger has his number, naturally. And if Kathi or I have to go to the hospital, insist it is Cedars, no matter what, even if you must wrestle the ambulance steering wheel from beneath the driver’s steely fingers. I give Cedars so much money what else is it good for? You’re getting all this?”
I nod yes.
“Is that a yes? I can’t hear you, dear. I’m not psychic, though I did once play an extraordinary supernatural medium on Murder, She Wrote and was nominated for an Emmy, despite Angela being a shrew.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand. Thank you.”
“And I suppose you know about vegetables?” Miss Gracie asks, sipping her wine.
“The existence of vegetables? Yes—”
“Don’t be smart. I give money to Agnes each week to buy fresh vegetables, and now I’m going to start giving that money to you to buy the vegetables, because Agnes is a crook. I once saw her stealing a television from Kathi’s house. Just putting it in the trunk of her car. I could do nothing, because Kathi likes her, says she gave Agnes the TV. Can you imagine? I can’t for the life of me get rid of her. I’ve fired her many times, but Kathi rehires her because Kathi, who is mentally ill, likes her, and so I allow it because I love Kathi unconditionally. You understand?”
Therapista says unconditional love is a condition.
Therapista says judging others is really judging yourself.
Therapista says qualities you see in others are qualities within yourself.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Miss Gracie puts her wine down on the coffee table and opens a leather-bound ledger, pulls out a thick envelope, and hands it to me. I reach for it, but—
“Not so fast,” she says, pulling the envelope away. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Sign here.” She pushes the ledger and a pen toward me. On the paper is written, in her scratchy, elderly handwriting, “I acknowledge receipt of two thousand dollars cash for vegetables.”
I sign. “Two thousand dollars? That’s gonna buy a lot of vegetables.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Miss Gracie says. “It all comes out of Kathi’s inheritance.” She takes the pen and ledger and theatrically turns page after page after page, revealing a long list of other signatures—Kathi, Agnes, other secretaries—all marking other withdrawals from the Miss Gracie Bank and Trust.
“Did I mention Kathi is mentally ill?” Miss Gracie asks.
“Yes, ma’am. A couple times.”
“Well, it’s important. And you know Kathi is a drug addict, don’t you?”
“Well, former drug addict,” I correct boldly, suddenly seeing the whites of Miss Gracie’s eyes as her gaze widens, consumes. “I mean, as in, like, I’ve heard ‘once you’re an addict you’re always an addict,’ you know. I’ve never seen anything.” I fidget.
“She’s had overdoses and nearly died many times. Do you think that’s funny?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. I take all that very seriously. And I won’t be an enabler, if that’s on your mind. It’s not me at all. And like I told Kathi, I want to be the best assistant she’s ever had, and that means respecting her health and safety.”
“Dear, I have some advice,” Miss Gracie says, leaning forward only a few centimeters, but she may as well have come nose-to-nose with me, she’s that engaging. “You’re family now, so I can share this with you. You know the story about the man who wanted to fly, so he made wings out of wax, but he flew too high and the sun melted the wax and he fell back down to earth and landed flat on his ass in front of Jesus? It’s in the Bible.”
I’m thinking, That’s not the Bible. I’m thinking, Do not correct her.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say cautiously, worried she may ask follow-up questions I’m not academically qualified to answer.
Assistant Bible Verse 10: Become an emotional ninja. They don’t want to see you or hear you. Keep opinions to yourself. Facts don’t matter.
“Well, dear,” she says, touching my arm, an act of kindness, a sweetness, a chilling and electric signal for me to pay attention. “Don’t get too close to the sun.”
Hey, Siri, my new family is intense.
* * *
“I’m mailing you stuff,” Dad says, the sound of cardboard clamoring and duct tape ripping in the background. “I’m at the UPS Store right now. What’s your address?”
“Wait. What are you mailing me? What stuff?” I ask, balancing my cell phone to my ear, straightening magazines on one of Kathi’s antique side tables, fluffing fresh-cut flowers in a vase given to Kathi by Renée Zellweger after Kathi helped Renée compose a perfect break-up text.
“Stuff from the house. You said not to throw anything away,” he says. “So, what’s your address?”
“What are you trying to send me exactly?”
“Why are you being so sneaky?” Dad asks.
“I’m not being sneaky. You’re being sneaky. Why are you suddenly obsessed with cleaning? What are you trying to send me? Mom’s stuff?”
“TELL ME YOUR DAMN ADDRESS!”
The shouting, I’m still shaken by it. I’m sure it’s Pavlovian. Therapista says it’s common for kids to be stunted by screaming, stunted all the way into adulthood. Screaming is a form of violence and aggression, and children are unable to defend themselves—they’re physically weak, and mentally they don’t have the words. Therapista says sometimes for adults it’s like PTSD. We have to remind ourselves that we are not helpless, that we now have a vocabulary, that we don’t have to accept violence.
“Dad. I absolutely do not—”
“WHAT IS IT?!” he yells.
I give Dad my address and hang up. Even at this age, I’m picking my battles.
As I slip my phone back in my pocket, I wonder where I’ll put all the shit he’s sending me. My kitchen doesn’t ev
en have a pantry. My bathroom sink is the size of a spittoon. My closet is packed. No room for new things. In fact, every time Kathi buys me something, I have to throw an older thing away. Like a body sheds cells and is new after a certain amount of time, such is my wardrobe, maybe my life.
* * *
Kathi is out of bed, groggy but dressed for the day.
“Did you take your meds today?” I ask, as she ruffles through her purse, walking toward the front door, pulling out her car keys, Mom’s locket jingling patiently, unassumingly.
“Yup,” she says.
“Want to write today or are you heading out?”
“I’m heading out, darling.”
Darling?
That’s the first time I’ve heard her say darling. I mean, in the last many months she’s called me everything, even names that are not names and words that I’m not sure are words. There’s Cockring, Cock, Jimmy, Bubbles, Bubbles-Dundee, Nipples, Nipples-Dundee, and Niblet.
I assume nicknames are easier to remember than Charlie. Therapista says a nickname may help her keep me at an emotional distance, help her not see me as a real person. I get it. To really know someone, to really respect a human being with a real name, it’s harder to ask them to do things like pick up your hemorrhoid cream or clean your nose-hair trimmer.
There’s Tinky, Winkus, Daddy, Assfuzz, Cack, and Rosco.
But never darling.
It’s so strange and unsettling. Cockring at least makes sense, at least fits the picture: a strong woman subjugating me, reminding me who’s in charge, who has the power here, a nod to me being gay. But darling, it’s an endearment, a deferment, a kindness that catches me off guard.
“Miss Gracie gave me this—” I say, holding up a wad of cash as Kathi glides toward me.
“Thanks,” she says, snatching the two thousand dollars from my hand.
“That’s for vegetables.”
“As if I would spend it on anything else,” Kathi says.
“But I’m supposed to give it to Agnes for the grocery.”