“Well, how do you think it went tonight?” he asked. He wasn’t really asking she thought, only loving the sound of his own voice.
She could have killed him, but she narrowed her eyes, tightened her lips, caught her breath, swallowed hard and mumbled, “Just the way you planned it … right?” He laughed robustly, while to herself she said, you’d better laugh tonight because this will be the last laugh you’ll have for a little while in view of the fact I have a little plan of my own all mapped out for tomorrow, your majesty, your royal highness … your royal ass.
She was seething inside. Dominic had breakfast early in their room, eating heartily while she, still in bed, observed her husband over the rim of the coffee cup. When he finished, she turned her cheek as he pecked it lightly and quite matter of factly, said his arrivedercis, saying he would meet her later in San Diego, then left. Well … that was it. Finished, finito, and all because he had forgotten last night or didn’t even remember she was alive and well and sitting in the back like some morganatic wife not quite good enough to be seated with the king … that’s right. Okay … two can play the game … How? … Well, I’ll tell you, Your Majesty, although I do feel a little ashamed ’cause it’s not original on my part … I’m just not smart enough to ever have thought of runnin’ away from home … wish I had, but it sure as hell was the most ingenious idea any political wife had invented up to date so far as I’m concerned, to make a husband realize she was alive and that he owed her a little courtesy … so … I’m gonna follow the leader … gonna do what that brilliant Angelina Alioto did … of course she went to the missions … so I can’t do that, it just wouldn’t be cricket to steal her stuff and besides I gotta have a little imagination of my own, so I’m goin’ to the Farm … well … that’s not really so unique or original ’cause I’ve been doin’ that for years whenever I needed a rest, but what makes it so excitin’ and intriguin’ is the runnin’ away without lettin’ anyone know… That’s why I think what Mrs. A did was so smart… without lettin’ anyone know… Talk about fact bein’ stranger than fiction. Well, ain’t that the truth. All I can say is … God bless you, Mrs. Alioto … you sure did emancipate a lotta ladies by showin’ us the way… Two can play the game. Ciao.
Catherine hopped out of bed into her size four satin slippers, went to the bathroom, bathed in an aura of excited anticipation of what was about to happen. When the ablutions were over, she splashed herself with lots and lots of expensive Parisian cologne, made up her face (which did not diminish the deep circles under her eyes), dressed in her new Givenchy creation, put on her jewels in profusion, packed her Gucci luggage and called down to the desk clerk to have her bill forwarded, then left through the rear entrance, got into her rented Mercedes Benz and headed straight for Scottsdale, Arizona, and the Farm.
Although guests were only admitted on Sundays, for Mrs. Rossi, however, there was always a room waiting at any time on any day, since she had mentioned (facetiously, of course) on numerous occasions that her contributions had been so enormous with the frequent visitations through the years, that undoubtedly she had more than paid for the sauna. Sometimes she felt like a missionary, giving to that great and glorious cause … that mecca … that holy spa dedicated to the proposition that any woman who could afford fifteen-hundred dollars a week (plus gratuities) and wanted to get away from the kiddies and their husbands (who were driving them MAD, MAD, MAD) or the drudgery of telling the cook how many were coming to dinner this evening … or to avoid another dreadful, boring, horrible cocktail party all for the benefit of helping the old man get a few more votes at the next election, could find a haven here. Who said you never got another chance? Well, not in politics. If it wasn’t assemblyman there was supervisor. If not that, then there was mayor, or senator, or governor, or even president. Sure. Why not vie for the highest position in the land, why not, Catherine thought. Well, at least she had a place to retreat to, to contemplate, to … to … to meditate, to restore her spirits. Yes, thank God, for her there was always room at the inn.
Arriving at seven in the evening, and knowing every nook and cranny, she made her entrance through the side door, went up the backstairs one flight, then walked quickly along the narrow corridor to Mrs. Van Muir’s office, opened and closed the door immediately, slumped down in the pastel blue velvet chair, let her legs go askew and kicked off her shoes as her feet felt the cool, soft, lush deep piled blue carpet, then lay back wearily as her eyes wandered about the blue silk walls … to the blue damask draperies. Finally, her eyes came to rest on the enormous life-sized portrait of the patron saint (who founded this sanctuary) standing regally dressed in blue flowing chiffon. Even the fragrant scent of the room smelled blue. How divine, how quiet and relaxing in the atmosphere of the dim light that shone through the blue satin shaded lamp, that sat on the blue Venetian desk. Ah … oh, so tranquil, like a shrine … truly like a shrine. How long she had been dozing was indicated by the blue French clock ticking away on the blue desk. It was seven-thirty when Mrs. Van Muir gently took Catherine’s hand in hers and said quietly, “Mrs. Rossi?”
Catherine opened her eyes slowly, blinked, sat up and looked into the concerned face of Mrs. Van Muir. “Oh, my dear, how are you?”
Catherine answered tearfully, clutching Mrs. Van Muir’s hand, “You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”
“And I, you, my dear Mrs. Rossi, but you don’t look well… not at all.”
“Oh, I’m not, really I’m not. In the last few months, this campaign of my husband’s has simply been too much for my nerves to endure … it’s been plain hell, I tell you … just hell,” she cried, almost hysterically.
“There, there, my dear, we’re going to do everything in our power to help you through this most trying time,” Mrs. Van Muir said, patting Catherine’s hand, “now you just re … lax.” Quickly, she thought, should I offer our sainted disciple a little drinky-poo or not? Should I risk it? … since booze is strictly a no-no, verboten. Oh, what the hell, it would certainly do no harm to be in the good graces of the more than probable wife of the next senator from California. Who knew when one needed a favor … a new job. Throwing caution to the wind, Mrs. Van Muir said, “Mrs. Rossi, I know this is most irregular, but I received a bottle of cognac at Christmas which I’ve been meaning to throw out but have forgotten to do so. However, since I was so negligent, would you care for a little pick-me-up?” She smiled reassuringly.
“Yes, that would be nice, thank you.”
Mrs. Van Muir went to the closet where she kept a large stock of cognac for her own use, that she drank at the end of each weary day, which she needed badly after catering to all those neurotic bitches. Taking out a bottle she uncorked it, poured some of the lovely amber liquid into a brandy snifter and handed it to Catherine, who sipped slowly. It felt warm, soothing and relaxing after being on the road for nine-and-a-half lousy hours. God damn, it had been hot. Mrs. Van Muir sat down behind her desk and watched, wishing she could get bombed, but business before pleasure. When Catherine had finished, she was offered another which she gratefully accepted … then another, as poor Mrs. Van Muir’s mouth watered. By this time, Catherine was not only relaxed, but her words became slurred as she began to confide in Mrs. Van Muir, giving out with a tirade of complaints about the abuses and tyranny she had been subjected to by her husband, the public, the press and the Republican Party. That’s why she was seeking refuge here. But it had to be in the strictest of confidence. She had run away from home. No one knew where she had gone, and if anyone inquired as to her whereabouts (as she knew the family would, since this was the first place they’d suspect her to be when they got around to realizing she was missing), Mrs. Van Muir was advised in no uncertain terms that she was to say no one had seen hide nor hair of Catherine Rossi. Mrs. Van Muir unequivocally answered that Catherine’s secret was as sacred and secure with her as it would have been if told in the confessional at the Vatican, whispered in the ear of Pope Paul. However … there was only one place in the comple
x where Mrs. Van Muir knew Catherine would have maximum security, and that was in the old towers. Although it was still being cared for and Catherine would be provided with the same luxurious surroundings, there was one problem; an air-cooling system was going to be installed but not until a little later in the year. Apologetically Mrs. Van Muir asked if Catherine would mind the inconvenience of the overly heated quarters. At this point Catherine would have settled for the boiler room. Catherine sighed with great relief, knowing she could depend on Mrs. Van Muir’s discretion … her dear and trusted friend of long standing. Now dry eyed, Catherine continued (but not without first asking for another cognac): the plan was to be this … she would not go down for her meals, instead everything would be sent to her room and no one, but no one, was to know she was here. Not the help, not the guests. She was to be notified by Mrs. Van Muir before her suite was to be cleaned each day so that she could go down the service elevator to wait in Mrs. Van Muir’s office incognito, dark glasses, bandanna … sans jewels, sans Givenchy, sans eyelashes, sans makeup. Sans all the window dressing, her chances of detection were less imminent that she would be recognized in the first place. There was one other thing Catherine almost forgot … when her meals were served (and to hell with the diet at the Farm), the cart was to be wheeled in by Mrs. Van Muir, so that the Lady of Mystery wouldn’t have to go scurrying off to the bathroom and wait until some waitress took her leave. Catherine narrowed her eyes in studied contemplation. Had she forgotten anything … no, that was about it. Now, she wanted to retreat to her quarters, plunge into a warm tub before her dinner of steak, baked potato with sour cream, chives and bacon bits, buttered string beans, small salad with French dressing and coffee was served … oh yes, and a napoleon for dessert if that could be managed? No? Maybe not. Well then, whatever, she wasn’t too difficult to please, a piece of lemon cream pie or whatever goodies could be had. Damn, damn, she should have thought of buying a bottle of her favorite wine before coming, but for heaven sakes, a body couldn’t think of everything, especially when one was under such stress and strain. Tomorrow she would steal away during the siesta period, being sure not to be seen, and drive to the liquor store and buy enough for a few weeks, and while she was about it she would also purchase some other things for little late night snacks. Let’s see, now, crackers, nuts, potato chips, sardines, cheese, those little triangles and cubes wrapped in foil in those darling little boxes, a large tin of Danish cookies and … and oh, yes, a large jar of those enormous green olives, stuffed with pimentos. Oh hell, why hadn’t she brought that gorgeous box of Barricini chocolates instead of giving them to the chambermaid. But then, that was one of her greatest faults, always giving things away, always letting her heart rule her head. Oh well, no one was perfect. She’d just have to buy whatever chocolates she could find. One should be prepared at all times for any eventuality. From now on, she would be alone for some time to come, God only knew how long it would take for all of them to realize she was really missing and the prospect was a little frightening. Suppose it took months? Was that possible? Oh, come on, now, Catherine, don’t let your imagination play tricks on you. You know better than that. Why, within a few days Dominic will have the Foreign Legion out scouting when you don’t show up. That evening, Catherine turned off the light by ten-thirty, feeling the effects of her “long day’s journey into night,” closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. The full impact of what she had done, running off without telling anyone, suddenly began to nudge her conscience. But why, she thought adamantly, should she feel that way when she had been literally ignored by her husband and children in these latter years. Oh, damn, if only she had something to soothe her nerves. Was it too late to steal down to Mrs. Van Muir’s and confiscate that bottle of cognac? Without another thought, she hopped out of bed and into a silk robe and slippers, let herself out without fear of being seen, since by now, everyone was in their room either asleep or sequestered for the night in view of the fact that the rules were rigidly enforced in this fabulous overpriced prison for the overweight, the indulged, the pampered. She walked to the service elevator which took her to Mrs. Van Muir’s office. For a moment, she hesitated before knocking, then she tapped twice and waited, but when there was no response, she gently turned the knob and let herself in. What she found was Mrs. Van Muir in a horizontal position, stretched out on the blue velvet sofa, snoring and the bottle of cognac, half empty, sitting on the coffee table while the brandy snifter dangled from her hand. Why not, thought Catherine. What was there to do in this fat farm for excitement? In fact, Catherine could identify and empathize with poor Mrs. Van Muir and why not? After all, neither one of them had husbands. The only difference was Mrs. Van Muir’s husband was dead, but mine, Catherine said to herself, was running off into the jungle of politics like Tarzan in search of Jane, but the results were the same; they were both alone, unhappy and terribly lonely. God, what a curse loneliness was. Catherine would certainly never inform the establishment that poor Mrs. Van Muir was undoubtedly a silent night drinker (which up to now she never suspected), but if anyone found out, she’d have her little size eight fanny in a sling. Well, enjoy … enjoy, Mrs. Van Muir. After all, there are so few pleasures and rewards in this life … enjoy.
So as not to awaken the sleeping directress of the Farm, she tiptoed to the closet, opened the door carefully and took a bottle of cognac. Holding it close to her, she tiptoed out, just as quietly, closing the door behind her and hurried back to her room. Once there, she poured herself a stiff slug of cognac, settled herself in the large chair and sipped herself into oblivion.
The next morning, she awoke with a dreadful hangover. She called Mrs. Van Muir on the phone (who was just as cheerful as a squirrel gathering nuts). “Mrs. Van Muir,” Catherine said, barely able to speak above a whisper, “this is Mrs. Rossi.”
“Yes, my dear, what may I help you with?” she answered almost lyrically.
How could she sound like Little Mary Sunshine after being bombed last night? Catherine felt irritated when she had such a headache. “I’m not feeling well this morning and I don’t want any breakfast … in fact, I’m not sure about lunch and don’t bother to have the room straightened … I want to be left strictly alone.”
“Oh, my dear, you really don’t sound well. Isn’t there anything I can do?”
“Yes, on second thought, bring me some aspirin … oh … and a pitcher of tomato juice … and … and a large pot of black coffee.”
“Oh, my poor dear, Mrs. Rossi, you’re really not feeling at all well…” She was about to say more, but Catherine couldn’t even stand the sweet chirping of birds this morning, much less the sound of a human voice saying, my poor darling. She was sick to death of everything, including the solicitude of dear Mrs. Van Muir.
Abruptly, she interrupted, “Look, just bring up what I asked for … I have to go to the bathroom,” and hung up, doing just that, where she upchucked last night’s cognac as well as her dinner, she was sure. Then feebly, found her way to bed where she lay weak from the ordeal, perspiring. God, she felt simply awful. But it wasn’t just the liquor, it was her nerves and the accumulation of a lot of things she had harbored for a very long time.
When Catherine heard Mrs. Van Muir turn the knob on the door, she shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Quietly, Mrs. Van Muir placed the tray down, turned around, then paused for a moment in total disbelief when she saw her bottle of cognac sitting half-empty on the table. Wouldn’t a mother recognize her own child? You bet she would and she knew that was her bottle. Well, I’ll be damned. How and when did she get that. Quickly, she realized that dear Mrs. Rossi must have come to her office while she was sleeping in a state of inebriation last night and merely heisted it. Quite disgruntled, she decided from now on, she would be sure and lock her door when day was done. After all, she needed a little privacy too and this was the first time any of the old biddies had done anything like that. With those thoughts, Mrs. Van Muir left, happy that her cognac had not lain too lightly on Mrs. Ross
i’s delicate stomach. The moment she made her departure, Catherine left her bed, barely able to get out, and poured some tomato juice into a glass, unscrewed the top of the aspirin bottle, then popped two into her mouth and washed them down with the juice. Weakly, she sat in the large chair and drank some hot coffee, as her hand trembled slightly, then just sat breathing and sighing deeply. So far, this little escapade hadn’t been nearly as exciting as the ones Mata Hari had had. But it was only her second day … things would look up, but no more cognac … well, maybe, but not in that quantity.
When she gathered enough strength, Catherine went to the bathroom, turned on the water taps, added a packet of blue fragrant crystals, and watched as they turned into thousands of tiny iridescent bubbles. How beautiful they were, how delicious. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if life could only be like that. One great big beautiful bubble … oh, to hell with it. As she brushed her teeth and looked at herself in the mirror, she was shocked … My God, she thought, I look like a witch this morning with all the eyeliner and mascara running under my eyes and how ludicrous, with one eyelash off. It must be in bed. Putting her hands up to her cheeks, she stretched up gently. What a difference when she let go. My God, the crevices were really deep. There was no more jaw line, it had all gone slack, just jowls that really sagged and bags that were really bulging and dark under the lower lids … and the uppers were all crisscrossed lines that fell into folds as did her throat. She winced painfully, observing herself with yesterday’s stale makeup. The lipstick was all smeared. That was something she hadn’t done in a long time … forgotten to remove her makeup; she looked like a clown. Catherine started to cry uncontrollably. Oh my, how much she had aged in the last few years and nothing could prevent that from happening, not man, not money and God certainly wasn’t going to intervene with mother nature (the bitch) to knock it off on behalf of poor little Catherine Rossi. Nothing could prevent the process of erosion, not even plastic surgery. That was only temporary. Good Lord, what was going to happen to her in a few years from now. She cringed when she looked at her hands. Suddenly, she became infuriated at the thought that this was Dominic’s fault, all his fault. She was young and beautiful until he had gotten into those goddamned politics and her anger became heightened when she thought that he looked so young for his age. He had a skin like a baby’s behind, not a wrinkle in sight. God damn it … he should’ve looked ten years older according to the pace and race he was in. But no, not him, why he didn’t even had a gray hair, son of a bitch, and here she’d been bleaching hers for fifteen years because graying prematurely was a family trait. She needed something to soothe her nerves. Going back to the bedroom, she poured a stiff belt of cognac into the tomato juice, sat down sobbing and sipped as the tears ran down her cheeks into her mouth, unaware she was swallowing them along with the drink. When the acute emotion had subsided, she picked herself up unsteadily and went back to the bathroom where the water had almost reached the rim of the tub and was ready to overflow.
Fairytales Page 2