by Sloane Tanen
“Hello?” Bettina shouted into the phone. “Tell Mr. Merrick it’s Mrs. Bunny’s housekeeper calling. It’s an emergency! She’s dead!”
Bunny wanted to tell Bettina she wasn’t dead but her mouth wouldn’t move.
“Please hold,” the receptionist said without emotion.
“Bettina?” Bunny heard Ian say almost immediately. What was Ian doing in her kitchen? That was so odd. “Bettina,” Ian repeated. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“I went out to buy some groceries and I just got home and she’s in the foyer, dead!” She paused, sobbing. “I found her collapsed in the entry hall, sir. All her presents from the party have been unwrapped. I think maybe there was some liquor in there because there’s a bottle and it’s empty.”
“The whole bottle?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you know she’s dead?” Ian said urgently.
“She’s kind of blue, sir.”
“Bettina,” Ian said. “Listen to me very carefully. I want you to walk over to Mrs. Bunny and see if she’s breathing. Take me with you. Is she breathing?”
Bettina was hovering close now. Bunny could smell her finger under her nose and feel the panting of her warm breath.
“Does she have a pulse?” Ian asked. “Pick up her wrist and feel for a pulse.”
“I can’t feel anything!” Bettina shrieked. “I’m calling an ambulance now.”
“Dr. Slattery is already on his way, Bettina. Do not call an ambulance. Do you understand? There will be even more press crowding around and the doctor will not be able to get in and help her.”
“Please, sir, hurry.”
“Listen to me, Bettina. Is she on her back?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to roll Bunny onto her side. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.” Bettina whimpered, set the phone down, and took a deep breath. Then she exhaled loudly and pushed Bunny’s body with such force that she flipped right onto her stomach.
“Faack owff!” Bunny groaned, scaring Bettina so terribly she fell backward.
“Thank God!” Ian’s voice announced over the speaker as Bettina scrambled for the phone.
Bettina cried, relieved and terrified. “She’s alive!”
“Good girl. Now keep her awake until we get there. Just a few minutes.”
“Everything is going to be fine, Mrs. Bunny,” Bettina said loudly into Bunny’s ear, as if she were deaf. Had Bunny been able to move, she would have socked her in the face. “Stay right there. I’m going to get some nice cold water to help bring you back around.” Bunny rolled over onto her back again.
A blissfully long silence was followed by the sound of running water coming from the kitchen. Bunny drifted off like a child. She didn’t want to wake up.
“What the—” Bunny shrieked as she was drenched in ice-cold water. Her eyes popped open and the room stopped spinning long enough for her to see Bettina standing over her with an empty bucket. Like a scene out of that terrifying Stephen King film, Bunny thought, staring up at her housekeeper in her crisp uniform.
“Oh, thank God, ma’am!” Bettina wailed like a child. The elevator bell rang. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”
“You’re fwired!” Bunny shouted, but Bettina’s heels were already clip-clopping toward the front door and out into the hallway. Bunny looked around at the pool of soaked wrapping paper, the indestructible bubble wrap, the drenched Milton Avery, and the ruined first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird. “You’re fwired, you’re fwired, you’re fired!” she yelled after Bettina, who seemed to have lost her mind.
Bunny tried to get up but found that she couldn’t. Her skull felt as if it had been hollowed out and filled with sand. She saw the empty bottle of Nolet’s. Had she finished it by herself? She kicked the bottle as hard as her leg would allow. It slid quickly down the hall behind the umbrella stand. She felt herself fighting off sleep despite her irritation with Bettina’s odd behavior. And where had Ian gone? Hadn’t he just been here?
She forced herself to sit up and promptly vomited (to her horror) onto her own lap. Bunny never vomited. The sheer force of the act shocked her so much that she began to cry. “This must be what war is like,” she said aloud, resigning herself to the indignity of the situation. She heard a man’s voice in the hallway outside the apartment and Bettina whispering hysterically to him as they neared the front door. Bunny forced herself to stand, slipped, and landed face-first in a pool of water and vomit. Then everything was quiet again.
“I can’t breathe!” Bunny said, coming quickly out of a deep sleep, relieved to find herself in the comfort of her bed. She closed her eyes and kept them tightly shut against the light pouring in from outside. Why were the blinds open? “Bettina,” she moaned. “Bettina!” She felt as if a moose were sitting on her face.
“You’ve broken your nose, Bunny,” a man’s voice said as Bunny reached to her face to feel the bandages. “I took care of it as best I could”—he paused—“considering I’m not a plastic surgeon.”
Bunny forced herself to open her eyes again. She squinted. Max Slattery, barely recognizable without his white lab coat, was sitting on the edge of her bed. Why was he there? He had on a shockingly inappropriate suede shirt that had obviously been ordered by his American wife from that dreadful Robert Redford catalog that sold clothes to octogenarian cowboys.
“You also vomited all over Harper Lee,” a more familiar voice said. Bunny used all her strength to turn her head in the direction of Ian.
“Oh,” she said. She tried to summon an apology, but the hammering in her head forced her to close her eyes again.
“How are you feeling, Bun?” Sam said. He was in yet another corner in the room.
“Sam? What the hell is going on here?” she asked, surprised by the pain in her throat and the cragginess of her voice. “Am I dead? Is this hell?”
“Dr. Slattery, Sam, Bettina, Ian, and I have come here today to help you,” an unfamiliar voice said from the far side of the bed, as she heard the blinds being raised a bit more. “You’re not dead, Bunny, but it was close. You have Bettina to thank.”
“Whoever the fuck you are, can you please close the blinds?” Bunny snapped. She sensed the room darken enough that she could bear to open her eyes again. She saw a skinny, unsavory-seeming bald man standing by the window. She looked desperately at the others but they said nothing. They just gazed down at her as though she were a car-struck deer they were debating whether to shoot or call wildlife rescue for.
“My name is Charles Dana. I’m a professional interventionist.”
“A professional interloper?” Bunny asked. “I didn’t realize that was a paying job.”
“A professional interventionist.” He smiled as if he’d heard that jab before. “I work with families and friends to help loved ones get the help they need.”
“Oh, piss off, all of you,” she said, sitting up in bed, wondering why on earth she was wearing a long nightshirt. Did she even own a nightshirt? Who had dressed her? “I don’t need your help. I don’t need help from any of you self-satisfied leeches.” Bunny paused. “I thought I fired you,” she said, glaring at Bettina, who looked disturbingly unrecognizable in some kind of matching casual trouser-and-jacket set.
“Bettina saved your life,” Ian said, pursing his lips angrily. He was the only one who seemed at all agitated. Sam, Bettina, and Dr. Slattery were calm.
The interventionist moved close enough that Bunny was able to confirm she didn’t like his face one bit. He had very thin lips and a ropy neck, like an iguana’s.
“People with addiction issues often don’t see the negative effect their behavior has on them and others. It’s important for us,” he said, indicating those gathered in the room, “to help you stop your behavior before you really hurt yourself. Try and think of an intervention as giving your friends and family a clear opportunity to support you in making changes before things get really bad.”
“They’re already bad,” Ian said.
“Okay, then,” the iguana said. “Before things get worse.”
“How dare you let this happen, Ian.”
“Bunny,” the interloper continued. “I’ve asked each member of the intervention team to detail specific incidents where your addiction has resulted in problems. They’ve been asked to keep it very brief—”
“Well, thank God for that,” Bunny interrupted.
“And they’ve been asked to write down their feelings and read them to you. Remember, this is not an attack. These are the people who love you and are concerned for your welfare.”
“These are my loved ones?” Bunny asked, registering Henry’s absence. “My maid, my agent, and my gynecologist?”
“I’m an internist,” Dr. Slattery said.
“Dr. Slattery is here as a medical professional. He won’t be participating.”
“Well, I can’t wait. Let’s start with my best friend Bettina.”
“Please, no,” Bettina said.
“Ian?” the stranger asked. “Why don’t you begin.”
Ian stood up from the table, walked to the center of the room like a schoolboy, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a sheet of folded, lined paper.
“You don’t need to stand up, Ian. If you prefer to sit and read, that’s just fine.”
Ian stood where he was, unfolded the paper, and began to read. “‘Bunny, you are my best friend. There is nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for you other than stand by and watch you destroy yourself like this. When you drink, you take every act of human kindness for granted. You don’t think twice about humiliating, demeaning, and demoralizing people. You go after perfect strangers and close friends with the ferocity of a lion. You put me in the terrible position of having to protect others from the person I love most in this world. Do you know what that’s like? The consequences of your drinking have taken a toll on our friendship, on your writing, and on the trust your public places in your hands.’”
“Ha!” Bunny barked loudly. Charles Dana silenced her and gestured for Ian to continue.
“‘I know that you can beat this,’” he continued, his voice growing shaky. “ ‘You are the most powerful woman I’ve ever known. But even the lion needed the mouse to gnaw through the netting. I beg you to go into rehab and let real doctors help you fix what you cannot fix yourself.’”
“Rehab?” she squawked.
“I miss my best friend, Bunny,” Ian said. He took a deep breath and looked at her. “If you don’t stop drinking, we can’t work together anymore. I can’t stand by and watch you destroy the woman and the career you spent so long cultivating.”
“You’re threatening to cut me loose, Ian?” She laughed. “I’d like to see that!”
“Yes,” Ian said with no trace of his usual irony or queenly sarcasm.
“Well, let’s see who will have a harder time replacing whom, shall we?”
“Please, Bunny,” the iguana said, lacing his fingers together and pointing his hands at her. “Your job is to just listen.”
Ian folded up the paper, sat down, and wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. Bunny noticed it with a bit of suspicion. Ian wasn’t a crier.
Bettina took Ian’s place, took out her letter, and drew in a sharp breath before she began. “‘I’ve been proud to work for you all these years, ma’am,’” she started, holding her letter so taut that Bunny thought it might rip. “‘I never have a gossip about you to anyone. I’m not one to buzz about, you know. Just ask anyone you like. All I say is that you are a good and fair lady. But lately, you are not good and you are not fair. You have me throwing away your bottles in the alley like a criminal. You send me sneaking around London buying alcohol for you. You have me sacking people who work for you! The maid firing the secretary!’” she wailed, fishing for a hankie in her pocket. “‘You scold me like I’m a child when you run out of drink or cigarettes. I’ve done my best, ma’am, but I can’t keep it up much longer. Truth be told, I can’t imagine working for anyone else, but I can’t imagine coming home and finding you the way I did again either. I thought you were dead, ma’am. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.’” Bettina started sobbing. “Please, Mrs. Bunny, you—”
The iguana cleared his throat as a way of gently interrupting her. “That’s wonderful. You can have a seat now, Bettina.”
Sam casually waved a piece of paper to indicate that he was ready. He didn’t bother opening the folded sheet. He began talking from where he was seated.
“Bun, you need help. The world knows all the wonderful things you are but those of us here also know the hideous things alcoholism has done to you. Your personality changes when you drink. Not for the better. You are a spoiled child who has gotten everything she’s wanted for too long. You have hurt me, you have hurt my wife, and, most important, you have hurt our son. You need to go away from here, take a break and get the help you need. You need to reconcile with Henry, who, despite everything, loves and needs his mother. This is something you cannot do on your own. I know how it pains you to be labeled something as pedestrian as an alcoholic, but that is what you are.”
“If Henry were so bloody concerned, why isn’t he here?” Bunny shouted before the last words were out of Sam’s mouth.
“He’s angry, Bunny,” Sam said. “I’m not saying he’s not angry.”
“I’m angry too,” she said, dissolving into tears. “Stop staring at me!”
“We’ve arranged a place for you at Directions in Malibu,” the mediator said. “Ian feels the British press is too salacious for you to attend a facility in England. It’s the very best rehabilitation center of its kind in America and they’re well aware of the difficulties of celebrity patients. They understand privacy. And it’s a very posh spot. You won’t have to do anything other than not drink. There is a car waiting downstairs.”
“Now?” Bunny asked, feeling a sudden alarm.
“Right now.” He arched his barely there eyebrows as if challenging her. “Your bags have been packed and there is a private plane ready to go. All you have to do is go downstairs and get in the car. The rest has been taken care of.”
“It’s in Los Angeles?” Bunny asked. “Will I see Henry?”
“That’s up to your son.”
Bunny looked at Sam. He lifted his shoulders a little as if to say he didn’t know.
“What about my nose?” Bunny asked Dr. Slattery.
“It’ll be okay to fly,” he said. “The cabin pressure may make things a little uncomfortable.”
There was a long silence as Bunny got out of bed and walked slowly to the bathroom. She let out a shriek upon seeing her reflection.
“Holy fuck,” she said, taking in her matted cluster of unwashed hair, her black eyes, the crusty patches of what she prayed wasn’t vomit stuck to her collarbone and along her neck. “Okay,” she said, holding on to the sink for balance. “Okay.”
“Okay what?” the man called from the bedroom. “Okay you’re ready to go?”
“Yes, you motherfucking professional fucking fucker. I’m ready to go.”
Part Two
Zugzwang (noun): The obligation to make a critical move when one would prefer to do nothing at all
Henry
“I am the son of the illustrious Bunny Small,” Henry Holter said in a loud voice, ripe with mock self-importance. All alone at his kitchen table, ignoring the stack of student papers he had to grade, he was talking to himself again, a habit he seemed to have just recently acquired. “I am a lucky, ducky boy,” he said with derision, raising his water glass in the air. “She is a great woman. Even the queen loves me mum.” He grunted, recalling Bunny’s being awarded the Order of the Companions of Honour a few years back. “A little late in coming,” she’d explained to him on the phone afterward, “but I suppose one can’t argue about when one becomes a national treasure.” Henry raked his hair off his forehead, pulled off his glasses, and buried his head in his hands.
He was having a very bad week. It had started on Monday
when his teaching assistant intimated that the woman Henry was dating had been carrying on with another professor. Henry had suspected the affair, but exactly when did his teaching assistant find out? Who else knew? Not that he should have been surprised about Risa. Between the fitted blouses and the recent TED Talk she’d given wearing a suede miniskirt without stockings (two million views for a lecture on Alexander Pope!), it seemed that every male academic in America, and maybe a few of the females, wanted to sleep with Risa. That she’d chosen Henry in the first place was, he had to admit, the thing he liked best about her. It might be the only thing left that he liked.
Since discovering the news about Risa, Henry had taken to reflecting on the greater history of his failed romantic life. His unusual childhood as Bunny Small’s son had prepared him for feeling quite comfortable alone. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t preoccupied with human companionship. He never chased women. The women he dated pursued him. It might also explain why every relationship he’d had followed an eerily similar trajectory—a few months of pleasant excitement that inevitably deteriorated into disappointment and bewilderment when he realized that he simply preferred being single to whatever romantic alternative had presented itself.
He’d been flattered by Risa’s attention, so he’d allowed his vanity to blind him to the fact that she was not only something of an exhibitionist but also possibly far more interested in Henry’s mother than in him. Risa was, in truth, the apotheosis of every misdirected romantic decision he’d ever made.
He still hadn’t been able to confront her about the affair, dreading a scene and, absurdly, not wanting to embarrass her. They had precious little in common other than that they were both single, still relatively young, and faculty members at the same university. Aside from the deception, which rankled, he wasn’t even angry with her. They hadn’t promised each other anything, and whatever it was they were doing had surely run its course. He was secretly relieved to have an out. Clearly she felt the same, since she’d been shagging August Tennenbaum, the knob who chaired the anthropology department and walked around campus in alligator wing tips. Henry had been assuming (hoping) Risa would initiate the breakup conversation. But she’d yet to say a word.