Beaches

by Iris R. Dart

  “Wait till I tell you who we’re about to sign as a new client,” Jeffrey told him. “Boy, oh, boy—you go away, pal, and big things happen here. Well, you’re gonna shit when you hear. Now sit down.”

  “Who?” Michael asked.

  “A major friggin’ star,” Jeffrey said. “And maybe he’ll throw in season tickets.”

  Bertie came out of the bathroom. She was weak with shame and rage. What could she do to him? To them? She couldn’t go out into the living room now and confront them. Cee Cee and Michael. Probably hot and writhing on the sofa. On the floor. She walked again to the door of the living room, her hand on the knob.

  “Oh, my God,” she heard Michael say. “Cut it out and don’t tease me anymore. Come on.”

  “Maury Wills,” Jeffrey said.

  Michael was ecstatic.

  “Oh, no. Oh, God. Is that great. Oh, yes,” he whispered, realizing that the sun was coming up and if he was too loud he might wake Bertie.

  Bertie froze to the spot. Michael and Cee Cee were out there. Making love. Fucking their brains out, Cee Cee would call it. Good God. Somehow she managed to turn herself toward the bed, lie down, pull the covers and the pillow up, and sob so long and so hard that in exhaustion and pain she finally fell asleep.

  Michael hung up the phone and danced a happy little dance all around the room. Maury Wills. That name would bring the firm up a peg. Yes, it would. Maury Wills. God, he was hungry. He’d call room service and order himself breakfast. Maybe he’d order Bertie breakfast, too, and he’d ask them to send up a warmer, to keep it for her. That way when she woke up it would be right there. That would make her happy. So would the news about Maury Wills. Maybe to celebrate he’d buy Bertie a little bauble in the jewelry store. Well, not really to celebrate—to soften the blow when he told her that instead of waiting until Sunday, he really wanted to get back to the office right away, and he knew she wouldn’t mind if they had to leave today instead.

  He took the room-service breakfast menu out of the drawer. Just reading the names of all the delicious breakfast possibilities made his stomach growl. He’d order French toast and pancakes and fresh papaya, and some crisp bacon, and blueberry muffins with lots of butter, and he’d have them send up a newspaper, and then he’d sit on the lanai and watch the day begin at the Kahala pool.

  CEE CEE SAT ON the balcony of her room smoking a cigarette. Shit, she said to herself. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Am I that bad? Do I come on that whorey that he could think I’d do it? Maybe Bertie thought that too, and hated her now. And maybe if Bertie thought that too, she would go back to Pittsburgh and never want to write to her again. She ran her fingers through her wet tangled mass of red hair and pulled at it, furious at herself. Why was she always opening her big fat mouth? When it was a decent hour, she’d call up Bertie and go get her and take her for a walk on the beach. She’d explain. She’d say, listen, Bert, sometimes I open my dumb asshole mouth and get raunchy. John says it’s ’cause I need attention so bad, I’ll take it even if it’s not good attention, you know? Like a little kid who wants a spanking—because it’s better than nothing at all. So you’re probably gettin’ the wrong impression of me. That was a good beginning. What else could she say? Nothing. She wouldn’t say anything about how Michael had come on to her last night. She wouldn’t breathe a word about the scuzzy mongrel tryin’ to rub up against her, and grabbin’ her at the door of the hotel room. She’d just talk about herself and Bertie. She had to square things with Bertie.

  “What’re you doing up so early, hon?” John Perry stood sleepily in the open arch of the sliding glass door, wearing a white robe.

  “Nothin’,” Cee Cee said.

  “Thought you promised you were quitting smoking,” John said.

  “Go back to sleep, J.P. I’m okay,” Cee Cee told him.

  “As you would say, my love, bullshit. What’s up?”

  Cee Cee was quiet for a minute. She looked out at the calm Pacific, the morning light making it look alternately orange and gray. Then at the pool where the beach boys had already begun putting up umbrellas.

  “Am I a whore?” Cee Cee asked her husband. “Am I really the piece of crap low-life I feel like now?”

  John didn’t answer. He pulled a chair up next to his wife’s chair, sat on it, then pulled Cee Cee out of her chair and onto his lap.

  “Cee Cee,” John said, beginning a speech he’d made to her many times in many forms. “You’re a woman who needs to be loved so badly that the need seems to be never-ending. Bottomless. So you work for love, beg for it, demand it, seduce for it. In every way. With your voice when you’re singing on the stage, you seduce the whole audience. And with people you meet individually, you seduce them, too. You tap into them and somehow figure out what they want from Cee Cee Bloom. What will make them fall for her. And then you put that part of you out there for the person to take.”

  Cee Cee buried her face in the shoulder of John’s robe. She loved the way he smelled in the morning and the way he felt so warm.

  “You’re not a whore,” he said, “because it isn’t sex you’re after, even though you make it seem that way. What you really want is for the whole world to do this.” As John put his arms around his wife, he felt her tears on his neck.

  BERTIE WAS AWAKE. She knew Michael was still out there, and the clinking of glass told her that he must have ordered room service. Of course. She remembered him saying many times that there was nothing like a good breakfast, afterwards. God, she hated him. But it didn’t matter anymore. She would leave him. Go back to Pittsburgh and divorce him. Rosie would want her to come back and live at home, but she wouldn’t do that.

  Michael, you’re a very sick man, she would say to him. Michael, I’m taking the next flight out, and you’ll be hearing from my lawyers, she would scream at him. No, saying it calmly would be better. Michael, I’ll tell every one of your partners what a pig you are. I’ll tell all your clients, too. I’ll ruin you. I’ll—I’ll—Bertie almost made herself laugh. One of her thoughts of vengeance came directly from her childhood. I’ll tell your mother, she thought. But the smile from that fleeting thought was gone, and she was filled with the heart-pounding energy of her anger. The phone rang and she grabbed it.

  “Hello.”

  “Bert?”

  Bertie closed her eyes. The last time she’d heard Cee Cee’s voice it was saying, “Michael…Michael,” obviously caught up in the passion of the moment. Probably touching him. Wet bathing suit. “Come here,” he’d said.

  “What do you want?” Bertie asked.

  “You okay?” Cee Cee wanted to know. That fake concern in her voice. Well, she was an actress. Actresses faked emotions for a living.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Bertie said.

  “Well, if you didn’t eat yet, why don’t we go for a walk and maybe get some breakfast, ’cause I’ve got some stuff I want to tell you and—”

  “Cee Cee,” Bertie said. Now she would tell her. She would shock her when she said, I heard every word you and Michael said, you whore—and I know what went on here. “Cee Cee, I don’t want to go anywhere with you or hear anything from you, or see you again as long as I live,” she said, wanting to say more, wanting to tell her why, but she couldn’t, so she hung up the phone. Then she got out of bed, went into the bathroom, washed the Noxzema from her face, brushed her teeth and put on some make-up, all the while reciting what she would say to Michael. You’re a very sick man. The color from her sunburn looked great with her pink robe. She felt better than she had earlier. Pretty and strong; that would make it easier.

  The bright light from the living room was too bright for her eyes for a moment, but when they adjusted, she saw him on the balcony reading the newspaper and picking at some food from the table. As she got closer to the window, she could see the pool area below. A few early sun-worshipers were spreading towels on the chaise longues and oil on themselves.

  Michael turned and saw her and smiled the sweetest smile she’d ever seen.

&n
bsp; “Hi, Minnie, honey,” he said, and stood. “Got your favorite breakfast here. Did you have a good sleep?”

  Bertie couldn’t believe it. Did he actually think he could stand there casually like that after what he’d done? No. He had no idea that she knew. Had heard him. Bertie took a breath, clenched her fists, and spoke.

  “Michael, what did you and Cee Cee do last night?” she asked, wanting to sound tough like a lawyer in a movie questioning a witness, but it came out sounding a little whiny.

  Michael raised his eyes heavenward. “Bert,” he said. “She is such a bimbo. Why you keep that friendship going is—”

  “What did you do with her?”

  “I went swimming with her,” Michael said.

  “And then?”

  “Then she came up here because while we were out there I pulled her robe into the water by accident, so I gave her mine, and then she went back to her room.” Michael’s eyes narrowed. “What’s with you?” he asked.

  Bertie said nothing.

  “Bert, you can’t possibly think anything could or would ever happen between me and…” Michael laughed and came toward her. “Ah, baby, you’re jealous. And I think it’s cute. She’s a trashy little would-be star. And you’re jealous.” He put his arms around her, but she pushed him away.

  “Michael, did you touch her?” Of course he touched her. “Did you—”

  “Bert, if this wasn’t so funny, I’d be getting really mad. It just so happened that I stayed up all night and so did she. That’s all. I don’t want other women. Why would I? Look at you. You’re the best-lookin’ broad on the face of the earth. Think I’d leave you for that skag? You need your head examined. I’m calling the airlines. I don’t want to be here with you anymore. With your crazy paranoid stuff about some low-life show business hopeful and her sleazy old nobody husband. And you can stay here with them if you want, but I’m packing and heading home.”

  He walked into the bedroom. Bertie stood in the doorway between the two rooms. “Michael, you can’t—”

  “I can do whatever I want,” he said, shouting at her. Now he was really angry. “You’re a goddamned whining pain in the ass. I don’t give you enough sex. I don’t like your friends, after I extend myself to the ruination of my one vacation in years to be with those two losers and go to their lousy restaurant choices. I played tennis with him and acted charming to her and listened to her get up and embarrass herself with that phony voice. And now I have to take this shit from you? Let’s get a divorce, Bertie, we don’t work.”

  Bertie forgot her anger as panic took her over. She was supposed to say that, and he was supposed to fall apart when she did. Confess, and beg her to forgive him and to understand so they could go on. And he’d be true to her forever more. The way her Uncle Herbie had come back to Aunt Neetie. And their friends all admired the way Neetie had gritted her teeth, as if to say knowingly, “Men will be boys,” and took Herbie back.

  No, Michael. I’m divorcing you for adultery. Of the worst kind. With my friend. You can’t divorce me for whining, she thought.

  “Michael, you’re not divorcing me,” she began.

  He had pulled his suitcase out of the closet and was pulling clothes out of various drawers and throwing them into it.

  “Well, then,” he said, “if you’re coming home with me, I suggest you pack. I’m not going to feed into this insecurity of yours.”

  A tropical breeze swept across the outside balcony, rustling the tablecloth, and moved through the door in the living room. Bertie felt it on her back. Even though it was warm, it made her shiver. Almost all of Michael’s clothes were in the suitcase now, and he stopped packing and looked at her, then spoke softly.

  “Bert,” he said. “Nothing happened. Nothing.”

  Bertie felt unsure and afraid and confused.

  “I love you,” Michael said. “So much that I couldn’t wait for you to wake up so I could tell you I called Jeff early this morning, and he told me the firm is signing Maury Wills.”

  “Really?” Bertie asked numbly.

  “That’s such good news, I was crazed,” Michael said, smiling a smile Bertie knew was put on. “I was sure he was teasing me.”

  Teasing.

  “That’s great,” Bertie said.

  “Ah, c’mon, Minnie Mouse,” he said, coming toward her again. “I love my princess too much to see her upset like this,” and he pulled her close to him and she let him hold her tightly. “Let’s go home to Pittsburgh, honey,” he said into her hair. “What do you say?”

  Bertie just stood and felt him holding her. She needed him to hold her. She wanted him to make it better, to make it not hurt. She had to decide what to say to him now. He was her husband. He took care of her, and she loved him, but he was with Cee Cee last night. This morning. She was sure of that.

  “Won’t it be nice to get back home?” he asked softly, sweetly, lovingly. “To our pretty apartment. Why don’t we have your mother over for dinner when we get back? We can tell her all about our trip and what a good time we had. C’mon, sweetheart. I’ll even help you pack. Okay? Bertie, c’mon.”

  Now Michael moved her an arm’s length away from him, his hands still on her shoulders, and he looked at her confused face and waited for her answer.

  Bertie looked into his eyes. Then she put her hands over his and removed them from her shoulders. She walked slowly over to the bed, sat on it, and thought for a while about what would be the best thing to do. Michael didn’t say a word while she did. Finally, she spoke.

  “Yes,” she said, “let’s go home.” Then she stood, walked to the closet, removed her clothes from their hangers, and began to pack.

  BERTIE FELT AS IF they’d been away from Pittsburgh for a much longer time than six days. Being back in her little home felt comforting to her. There was her same room, and her same bed, and her same bathroom with her same tub. But when she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, she saw someone there who seemed different from the Bertie who’d left Hawaii less than a week before.

  “Back to the old grind,” Michael said as he took a last sip of coffee, gave her a peck on the cheek, and was out the door to work.

  As soon as he was gone Bertie dressed quickly. She knew what she wanted to do today, and she knew that she had to do it right now. She’d thought about nothing else on the long flight home. Within minutes of Michael’s leaving, she was out the door and in her car.

  The visitors’ lot was full, so she parked on a nearby side street and made her way slowly around the building. When she opened the door, the familiar feel of the place convinced her that she was doing the right thing. Down the hall past the reception office, through the doors and…

  “Is Dr. Shaw in?” Bertie asked.

  “Well, Roberta. How nice to see you,” the gray-haired receptionist Madeline said.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Madeline.”

  “She’s in a staff meeting,” Madeline said. “Want a cup of coffee?”

  There was one moment when a heavy feeling in her chest made Bertie unsure that this was smart. Made her want to say something light. Something like, “Well, I just stopped by to say hello—so give everyone my best, but I have to go now,” and then she could leave. But instead, she sat on one of the hard metal folding chairs in the reception area.

  “No coffee,” she said. “Thank you, but I’d like to wait for her if I may.”

  A half-hour later, when Dr. Shaw emerged from her meeting, she seemed genuinely glad to see Bertie. And yes, she did have a few minutes to talk.

  “Come into my office,” she said.

  Bertie held tightly to the arm of the chair she sat in across from Dr. Shaw’s desk.

  “I’d like to come back here,” she said the way she’d rehearsed it silently to herself so often. “Only I’d like to volunteer for five full days a week instead of two half-days. And I think I can promise you there won’t be another incident. It was unfortunate, and it won’t happen again.”

  Dr. Shaw nodded.
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  “You’re a hard worker, Roberta,” she said. “I suspect you were going through some personal crisis, but if you feel you can keep that separate—”

  “I will,” Bertie said. “I mean, I know I can. And…I’d like to be here. Very much.”

  Dr. Shaw nodded again.

  “Let’s try,” she said, standing to let Bertie know that their few minutes’ talk was at an end.

  “Thank you,” Bertie said. She wanted to throw her arms around the serious lady shrink and kiss her all over her face.

  “I’m so glad.” My God, she thought, if there’s anything I mustn’t do now it’s cry. “So glad.”

  “I’m sure,” Dr. Shaw said, moving around the desk, guiding Bertie toward the door, “that Carla will be glad, too.”

  Bertie looked surprised.

  “She came back last night,” Dr. Shaw said, taking Bertie’s arm.

  The two women walked together into the corridor.

  Dear Bertie,

  This is at least the tenth or eleventh letter I have written you and you aren’t opening them and you are sending them back and I don’t know why. Well—I think I do—but I’m not sure. I think you’ve got some crazy idea about me and your husband—only I swear it isn’t true. That’s what I wrote in the last ten or eleven letters, too, and I’ll keep sending them till you give up and answer me one day.

  Did Michael say something happened? Bert, I swear on everything it’s not true.

  I am opening in my first Broadway show next week. It’s a small part but I have a solo that’s really good.

  I have been fighting a lot with John and wish I could talk to you or write to you about it. I need your advice a lot.

  PLEASE, BERTIE, I’M BEGGING YOU. DON’T THROW THIS AWAY. READ IT AND WRITE TO ME.

  Cee Cee

  Dear Roberta,

  Well, here I am in Neetie’s beautiful new home in Miami

  Beach. I wish you had come with me, but I understand that Michael likes to have you at home instead of traveling without him.

  The weather here is as usual very warm and compared to the temperature it was in Pittsburgh when you took me to the airport, this is paradise.