There was a sinking feeling in the bottom of my stomach. I’d been thinking of this project as a personal memento, something she wanted for herself. Maybe she’d give a couple of copies of it as Christmas presents. It had never occurred to me that she was hoping to sell it. “You want to publish this … book?”
“Absolutely. And now that I’ve found you, we’re going to make it happen. Together.”
Anyone with half a brain in her head—in other words, anyone but me—would have said what Chicky wanted to hear, taken her money, and paid their co-op fees. But I’m my mother’s daughter. No way I could take a paycheck from a little old lady if she really thought she was going to find a publisher for a story about two long-dead vaudevillians and their equally dead art form. If that was what she was expecting, I was going to have to kiss the fifteen thousand bucks good-bye.
“You need to know,” I said, as visions of Annie and me living in a cardboard box raced through my head, “I can’t guarantee that this … project … will actually sell …”
“That’s so sweet,” she murmured. “You’re trying to protect me.”
“I just don’t want you to have any illusions.”
“I’d have been dead years ago without ’em, Doll Face.”
“What I meant was—”
“I know what you meant. Just you write this story. The rest will take care of itself.”
“But—”
“Francesca, sometimes life hands you a gift. You don’t question it, you just take it. I have faith in you.”
I told myself I’d tried my best to tell her the truth, and it wasn’t my fault if she didn’t want to hear it. Besides, I liked hearing that someone had faith in me—no matter how misguided. “Okay, then,” I said. I took out the contract and we signed it. Then, for good measure, we shook hands. The deal was done.
I have a job! sang my heart. I’m going to stop at Allie’s Chinese Diner on the way home and pick up an order of shredded duck. With extra sauce. Or maybe lobster lo mein. It’s been so long since I’ve had takeout, maybe I’ll get both. And something chocolate for dessert.
“I’ll walk you to the lobby,” Show Biz said, breaking into my happy reverie. “My shift is over for today.”
“Thanks.” I turned to my tiny benefactress. “See you tomorrow morning,” I said.
“You betcha, Doll Face.”
CHAPTER 9
Show Biz was planning to hang around the Upper East Side. “I have a date for dinner, and I live out in Rockland County, so there’s no point in going home and then coming all the way back into the city,” he explained. “The commute is a pain in the ass.”
It had been a long time since I’d been out of my apartment, and all of a sudden I didn’t want to go back. “How about a cup of coffee?” I asked. He nodded and we headed for a greasy spoon on the corner. There was a Starbucks that was nearer, but neither of us considered it. Since I believe the invasion of chain restaurants and stores is eroding the soul of Manhattan, I gave us both points for that.
“Chicky seems like a sweet old soul,” I said to Show Biz, after we’d ordered our coffees.
“Chicky, sweet?” He gave a little hoot of laughter. “Not exactly.”
“She was very nice to me.”
“I saw.” He frowned a little.
“Was that unusual? She seemed awfully friendly.”
“She is—in a way. But total strangers don’t usually get a nickname on the first date—if you know what I mean. It took me three weeks to get mine.”
“Then I guess I’m honored,” I said politely. Show Biz did another frown. “What?”
“I think there’s something about you….” He paused. “You know how we found out you were looking for a job?”
“You said you read the post on my website.”
“Yeah. But here’s the thing. From the moment Chicky read your website, she’s been making me check it out for her. Like every couple of months. Just to see what you’re doing. She said she wanted to keep up with you because she liked Love, Max so much.”
“What can I say? It is a fabulous book.”
But I had to admit Chicky didn’t strike me as the type to become a devoted fan. And there was that feeling I’d had a couple of times—that she wanted more from me than just a business arrangement, which had been a little strange. But when I thought about it, I realized that what we were doing was more than mere business. She was trusting me with cherished memories and dreams she’d had for decades. So I wasn’t going to dig into it. I had a paycheck and Chinese takeout in my future, and I didn’t want to start looking for a job again.
“You’re awfully good to Chicky,” I said, deftly changing the subject. “She’s lucky you’re her friend.”
“No, I’m the one who’s lucky. I wouldn’t have my job without Chicky. She pushed for me to get it.”
“You knew her before you started working at Yorkville House?”
“Chicky and I met at a rehab center—physical rehab, that is—after I ripped up my knee. We were both in the same boat; I’d just lost my big Broadway shot, and she’d just blown her dream for her golden years. She’d come to New York after living all over the globe, because this was going to be her home for her old age. She told me that this was always her plan, which was why she never put down roots anywhere else. On her first night in her new apartment, she went out to shop for groceries. She tripped on a curb and broke her hip. So we both wound up in physical therapy doing leg lifts. And we bitched together.” He laughed a little at the memory.
“When Chicky was ready to leave the rehabilitation unit at the hospital, she didn’t have anyone to help her at home, and they didn’t want to release her back to an empty apartment. They were going to send her to a nursing home, which she really didn’t want, so I said I’d check up on her every day. I stopped by for six weeks until we were sure the new hip was working.”
“Like I said, she was lucky you were around.”
He shook his head. “I was in worse shape than she was, I just didn’t know it. Chicky’s tough. After her fall she realized she shouldn’t be on her own, so she moved to Yorkville House because they would look after her. It wasn’t what she’d wanted for herself but she was realistic.
“Me, on the other hand? I couldn’t admit my dancing days were over. I had a nice apartment in Alphabet City, and a boyfriend who was willing to carry us both until I figured out a new line of work. But there are a lot of doctors in this town who will give you enough pain pills and steroids to get you through anything and I found them. I was three quarters stoned all the time, and even with the meds I was out of my mind with pain because I was insisting on taking dance classes every day.
“My boyfriend walked, which was the only smart thing he could have done, and since I couldn’t last through an entire audition, I wasn’t getting any work, so I couldn’t pay the rent. Chicky knew all about it and she was worried. So one night I get this phone call.” He segued into a really good imitation of Chicky’s growl. “Hey, Show Biz, I’ve got you a job at the old ladies’ home if you want it. Should be right up your alley; you know how good you are with old farts. At least give it a try—for me.” He picked up his coffee cup and smiled down at it. “She’d talked them into hiring me at Yorkville House. I didn’t have any training as a health care aide, but she promised them I’d get it.” He took a swallow of coffee. “I got the job, quit the dance classes, and canceled my subscription to Show Business Weekly. I also stopped the pills. It took me a year to kick them, but I did it.”
One look at his eyes told how much it had cost him.
“I moved to Rockland County, where I could afford the rent. And I got the health care training, the way Chicky said I would. Now I’m taking classes at night to get my degree in geriatric social work. My big dream these days? Move back to Manhattan. That’s it. I love the city and I hate the frigging train.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For me? Don’t be. Chicky was right: I am good with old farts.”
“But you were a dancer on Broadway!” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I hated myself.
“Excuse me, I am the leading—and, I might add, the only male—Swinging Grandma. I just can’t do it for longer than fifteen minutes, and I have to bring my ice bag to performances.” He paused. “To paraphrase Evita, Don’t cry for me, Francesca. I’m in my mid-forties—which is probably why I got hurt in the first place—and the shelf life on my career would have been expiring anyway. Dancers I used to work with are scrambling around trying to figure out what to do next as we speak. I just got a head start on them.”
Everything he was saying was responsible and mature. I shivered, just thinking about it. Because what if that was all there was for me—just a Plan B existence I’d have to like because I didn’t have a choice?
A vision flashed through my mind. It was the first big charity party Jake and I attended. We stepped out of our rented limo in front of the Museum of Natural History, as photographers’ flashes lit up the dark sky. And I heard someone say, “That’s Francesca Sewell!”
“I’m still going to write another book of my own,” I told Show Biz defiantly.
“Sure. Why not?” he agreed.
“What I’m doing for Chicky is a job. I’ll do it as well as I can, but it’s not my real work.”
“What is?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your real work. What’s the new book?”
Oh, God. “I can’t talk about it yet. That’s why I’m doing this biography for Chicky. So I can make enough money to finish my novel.” Or finally start it.
Show Biz nodded knowledgeably. “Yeah, when you’re doing your creative thing, you’ve got to have a day job to cover the bills.”
That was when I realized Chicky hadn’t paid me. I had the contract we’d signed safely tucked away in my purse, but in the flurry of saying good-bye, somehow we’d forgotten my check. I thought about running back to Yorkville House to ask her for it, but that seemed pushy. She’d forgotten it. I knew old people could be touchy about memory loss, and I didn’t want to embarrass her. I decided to phone her when I got home and remind her. Very gently.
CHAPTER 10
Chicky wasn’t embarrassed at all when I called to remind her that I was not yet a paid employee. “Doll Face, at my age I’m lucky if I can remember the day of the week,” she growled over the phone. “I figure I’m ahead of the game if I can come up with the president’s name.” She paused for dramatic effect. “It’s Roosevelt—right?” We both chuckled. Then she said, “Seriously, I’m glad you called. I wanted to say something about the book.”
“Of course.”
“It’s a love story. That’s what it’s really about.”
I sighed. I’m sure there are people less qualified to write a love story than I am—the late Jack the Ripper, for instance, and that vicious guy who judges people on American Idol—but I’m definitely in the bottom tenth percentile. I mean, check out my track record.
“‘A love story,’” I repeated. “Thanks for the heads-up. I can’t wait to get started.”
Right after I go play in the traffic in Times Square.
But after I’d hung up, I lay back on my bed and thought about the time when I was a romantic. Back when I was kid. Back when my parents were still together. I was a true believer back then.
MY PARENTS WERE married when Alexandra was nineteen and Dad was twenty-two. Alexandra was the oldest daughter of a prosperous Greek American family that had moved from the Bronx to Riverdale after World War II. Dad—Nathaniel Townsend Sewell III—was the only son of the impoverished wing of a powerful wasp clan that had migrated from Massachusetts to Manhattan sometime after the War of 1812. Grandpa Karras was a truck driver who built himself a small empire of parking lots, garages, and a fleet of moving vans by working eighty hours a week until a month before he died. Grandpa Sewell lost most of his tiny trust fund playing baccarat and drinking at the Yale Club. What he didn’t lose, he took with him when he deserted his wife and son for parts unknown before Dad turned five. There is no record of Grandpa Sewell ever working at anything.
When young Nathaniel hit puberty, the Sewells called the family to an emergency session to discuss what should be done with him. Dad rated this concern because he was the only son of the clan’s only son and therefore the sole male left to carry on the Sewell name. It was decided that he must be properly groomed to take his place in the world. In Sewell terms this meant immediate removal from his mother’s care—and her dingy East Side apartment—to the school that had been educating Sewell men since the American Revolution: Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, known simply as Andover to the initiated. Here Nathaniel would pick up the basic tenets of muscular Christianity before proceeding on to Yale—another Sewell tradition—where he would forge the friendships that would guarantee him a well-paying gig upon graduation and entrée into all the right social circles. This was how it had always been done in Dad’s family, and no one saw any reason for a change.
There was one hitch in this scheme, however. There was no way Dad’s mother, Harriet, could afford this pricey regimen of higher learning on her salary as an elevator girl at Saks. The family, which had totally ignored her financial plight up to that moment, was going to have to provide. Two of Dad’s maiden aunts were assigned to pick up his tuition at both Andover and Yale—possibly this punishment was imposed on them for not producing heirs of their own—and it was further decreed that when Dad began his freshman year at college, another cousin would take him to Tripler’s on Madison Avenue to purchase the navy blue suit, three white cotton shirts, and two silk ties required by all Sewell males attending Yale. Dad would also be given a small check for the rest of his clothes and told to spend it wisely at the Gentlemen’s Resale Shop, also on Madison Avenue. Money for his clubs and fraternity would be sent to him as needed by another, even more distant cousin.
The family made it clear that in return for all this largesse, my father was supposed to avoid following in his father’s footsteps. He was to make a success of his years at prep school and college. This meant maintaining grades that did not go too far above or below a gentleman’s C—no one wanted either a grind or a dummy in the family—and dating the kind of discreetly well-pedigreed girl who could someday become the mother of another generation of Sewells. Instead, Dad never got less than an A in any of his courses and began going out with my highly unacceptable mother in his junior year of college.
His own mother, Harriet, was responsible for this disaster—not directly; she was a timid soul who would never have dreamed of defying her terrifying in-laws—but she had been the cause all the same. It had happened one warm Saturday in August when she was manning the middle elevator at Saks Fifth Avenue. Just as she had stopped the car and was about to announce Ladies’s Lingerie, she felt dizzy—it was probably the heat and the fact that she had skipped breakfast—and passed out. My mother happened to be on the elevator that day, shopping for her college wardrobe. It should probably be noted that this excursion represented a major victory for young Alexandra. She was the first Karras female to go beyond high school, and her father had been against it on the grounds that higher learning would turn her into an old maid. Mother had worn him down in a battle that had lasted over two years. So even though she hadn’t yet morphed into a feminist crusader, the signs for the future were clearly there.
And anyone who knew her could have predicted that when the elevator operator—my grandmother Sewell—slid to the floor in front of her, Alexandra would spring into action. Dropping her packages, she knelt next to the woman and administered first aid as she had learned it in a lifesaving class at summer camp. After Harriet had come around, she was still rather wobbly, so Alexandra escorted her to the office of the store’s manager and demanded that someone take her home immediately. The manager agreed to give Harriet the rest of the day off, but he drew the line at paying for a taxi. She could take the bus, he said. Furious, Alexandra called f
or the limo her father always provided for her, when she left the safety of Riverdale for the big city, and insisted on hauling the now totally mortified Harriet back to the apartment she shared with her son.
My father, Nate, was working nights that summer, so he was home when his mother and mine burst through the door of Harriet’s small fourth-floor walk-up. When I was a child I liked to picture Alexandra as she must have looked to him at that moment. She wasn’t a pretty woman by the standards of her day—her nose was too long and her mouth was too full—but her blue eyes were gorgeous and, indignant as she was, they must have been shooting fire. Her cheeks would have been flushed to the deep rose color that sets off her eyes perfectly, and her mass of red-brown hair had probably escaped from the combs she used to hold it back. When she’s angry, and her cause is righteous, my mother can be compelling in a way that goes beyond mere beauty. And my father—with his hazel eyes, blond hair, and patrician features—was always a knockout. So that was what they saw that first time, a passionate girl and a knockout. When I was a kid I was sure it was love at first sight.
Of course, Pete always said I overdid it. “You’re trying to make them into some kind of fantasy,” he used to say. But damn it, they were one. At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.
Their families weren’t happy about the relationship. The Sewells held another of their famous summits, this time with Dad in attendance. It was pointed out that the family had invested a considerable amount of cash in him and it had certain expectations, which did not include a girl who did not know it was vulgar to say one was “at Yale,” because everyone who was anyone said “in New Haven.” Dad’s response to that piece of old WASP snottiness was to quit Yale and go to work selling cars. See what I mean about true love? The guy gave up an Ivy diploma for her!
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