Lala Pettibone's Act Two

by Heidi Mastrogiovanni

  Lala continued writing about the shows until she reached the end of what she wanted to say about them. The result was thirty-seven double-spaced pages of text.

  “That is going to require some major deleting,” Lala said. Her stomach had been growling for the last hour, and she marveled that her dogs were still asleep, proving they clearly weren’t feeling any hunger pangs yet.

  Lala exited the apartment in search of breakfast. She held a leash in each hand. One was attached to Petunia’s collar, the other to Chester’s. And strapped to Lala’s chest, facing outward and nestled snugly and smugly in a baby papoose, was Yootza.

  The little dachshund surveyed the landscape from his high vantage point, as they all walked toward Lala’s favorite beachside café, like he owned the universe and every other living creature was renting space from him, and he was starting to reconsider the terms of the lease as maybe not having been entirely biased enough to his advantage.

  As Lala had recently explained to Geraldine, “The spoiled little bastard isn’t willing to walk anywhere anymore unless he decides that he wants to walk, which is generally only something he does around four o’clock in the morning just when I’ve finally managed to fall asleep, and which, apparently, is the optimal time for the spoiled little bastard to drag me along outside in the dark like he’s running in a fucking marathon.”

  Lala stood outside the café studying the sandwich board that was hawking the morning specials. As she debated between going in the sweet direction via pancakes or taking the savory route by way of eggs and hash browns or being horrifyingly gluttonous and having both, her mind started to wander and obsess. Aloud.

  “So you live here? What a stupid comment that was. I mean, how much did I age myself? Like I had somehow forgotten because I’m too doddering and old-fashioned to remember that you can e-mail stuff to anyone anywhere in the world because this isn’t the 1980s. Barf. James Lancaster must think I’m such an untalented old crone—OMIGOD look at you! GOD, how did you sneak up on me so quietly. Are you a spy?”

  James Lancaster stood next to Lala with a baby carriage, one that must have been oiled daily, judging by how silently it had traveled.

  “Please tell me you didn’t hear what I was just saying. Even if you did, please lie to me.”

  “I heard you mumbling, but, and I swear I’m telling the truth here, I couldn’t understand a word. Not one word. To be frank, and I’m being frank so you will believe that I’m not lying about not hearing you, you actually sounded rather demented.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good. Thank you.”

  Lala rubbed Yootza’s head with her knuckles as she took in the existence of the stealth buggy that apparently belonged to James.

  “You have a baby?” Lala asked. She peered through the tightly-woven, dark netting that covered the front of the baby carriage, but all she could see inside was a mound of pink blankets. “Is that your daughter?”

  James unzipped the netting and moved it to the side. He pulled back some of the blankets. Lala saw the head of a cocker spaniel poking out from beneath all the quilting. The dog was asleep and had probably been old when the original Rin Tin Tin was young.

  “Yes,” James said. “That’s my little girl, Ruby.”

  _______________

  After considering the sandwich board from their table outside on the patio, James said he didn’t want to have to choose between sugar and salt and, if Lala was of the same mind, would she split an order of pancakes with him so they could also order maybe omelets and eat, essentially, way too much?

  Yootza kept reaching his little neck over the top of the papoose and whimpering piteously in the direction of Ruby and her carriage.

  “I think he wants to visit with her,” James said.

  “Would that be okay?” Lala asked.

  “I think it would be great.”

  James very gently extracted Yootza and, in so doing, momentarily brushed his right hand against Lala’s left boob. Neither of them acknowledged this by look or by word, both apparently and immediately having decided that the extra fabric of the papoose that separated flesh from flesh as an additional layer to the cloth of Lala’s shirt had, for all intents and purposes, rendered the encounter at best nonexistent, and at worst nonsexual.

  James put Yootza in the carrier next to Ruby. Ruby didn’t wake up. Yootza snuggled next to her and passed out.

  “The slumber party is on,” James said. “I think the grownups should have a few mimosas to unwind while the kids are napping, don’t you?”

  I think I love you, Lala thought.

  “I do some of my best writing when I’m slightly potted,” Lala said.

  “What a coincidence. I do some of my best editing when I’m half in the bag.”

  The mimosas were overwhelmingly champagne with really just enough fresh-squeezed orange juice to make them seem like a brunch beverage rather than an out-and-out Happy Hour libation.

  “And that’s the way I like my mimosas,” Lala said. “In name only. P.S., these are the best pancakes I have ever had. That is not hyperbole. The honor was previously held by a little coffee shop in Montauk.”

  “Not LaSalle’s Breakfast Bungalow?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “LaSalle’s.”

  “Cut it out,” James said. “We went there all the time when I was growing up. Incredible pancakes, and, yes, these are even better.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “In Connecticut. We went to Montauk every summer.”

  “Cut it out,” Lala said. “I went to college in Connecticut.”

  “Yale?”

  “Wesleyan.”

  “Cool. I went to Yale.”

  “You went to Yale? When were you there? Did I sleep with you? I didn’t recognize your name when we met, but I definitely thought you were very cute, and maybe I can make the excuse that that’s the champagne talking right now. Are you operating under a nom de plume? A nom de guerre? Are you in the witness protection program?”

  “I would definitely remember sleeping with you. So I’m going to have to say, sadly, I don’t think we have.”

  They discussed their favorite everythings over a second round of mimosas and bread pudding for dessert.

  “This is the best bread pudding I have ever had,” Lala said. “The honor was previously held by the Cornelia Street Café. In the—”

  “West Village,” James finished. “Best bread pudding on the East Coast. Second only in the world to this bread pudding.”

  “I had some lovely bread pudding the other night. I’m putting that one in third place.”

  “Don’t change the subject. How can you say you prefer Now, Voyager to Jezebel? Bette is sublime in Jezebel.”

  “Agreed. But Now, Voyager is my favorite. Maybe because she transforms a tiny bit more in Now, Voyager.”

  “It’s brilliant. No argument there.”

  “Please tell me you’re a liberal Democrat. Please tell me you love The Count of Monte Cristo. Please tell me that if you could travel back in time, you would clean The Eagles’ clock before they had the chance to write ‘Hotel California,’ because I swear, if I ever hear that song again, it’ll be too soon.”

  “Duh. Duh. And duh,” James said.

  “Did you live in New York?” Lala asked.

  “I’ve visited. I moved here as soon as I finished grad school.”

  “Why?” Lala asked.

  “The weather, of course.”

  “Well, okay. But . . . really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Weather shmeather. There’s nothing like New York,” Lala said. “I moved there the second I graduated. Nothing could keep me away from Manhattan.”

  “So why did you move here?”

  “Ohhh, it is a sordid story,” Lala said. “Ummm . . . Well, my co-op had a huge assessment levied on it in a blink, and so I
borrowed forty thousand dollars from my best friend who is very rich, and I moved here so I could rent out my cozy, adorable West Village one-bedroom as a vacation rental. You know tourists will pay insane amounts to stay in the West Village. I’m on track to pay my best friend back in just under eight months. Which is two months longer than the time between my late husband’s diagnosis of stage-four stomach cancer and his death ten years ago. Wow, I must feel very comfortable with you, or I must be very drunk.”

  James was in the process of motioning the waitress over to order another round of mimosas when Lala blurted her life story to him. The waitress arrived just as the gravity of Lala’s glibly delivered revelation was sinking in.

  “One sec,” James said before the waitress could speak. “Could you come back in a few minutes, please?”

  “With two more mimosas, please,” Lala said.

  James got up and unzipped the cover of Ruby’s carriage. He very carefully picked up the still sleeping dog and very gently placed her on Lala’s lap. Then he picked up Yootza, who also didn’t wake up, and cradled him in his lap.

  Lala’s arms melted around the dear, fragile old dog she held. She buried her face in the lush, wavy fur around Ruby’s neck.

  “Wow,” Lala said. “Your girl does not smell like an old dog. I don’t know what your secret is. I can’t get my beagle to be sweet-smelling for longer than half a day after her bath. I’m sorry, Petunia, but I’d be lying if I said otherwise.”

  “Sometimes you just need to hug a dog,” James said. “I know that sounds like an e-card, but I think it’s true.”

  And I think I love you, Lala thought.

  “I am so sorry about your husband,” James said. “And you’re picking up the check. Jesus. A vacation rental in the Village. Jesus, what are you raking in? Two grand a week?”

  “Try three, Big Guy,” Lala said.

  Their next round of mimosas arrived, and, as they drank them, they sat in relative silence compared to how much they had been talking before Lala revealed that she was widowed. Their respective dogs stayed on their respective laps while the two bigger hounds slept in the sun on blankets from Ruby’s stroller and woke occasionally to slurp water from a big bowl provided by the café.

  Lala rested her champagne glass on Ruby’s head between sips.

  “Her skull is a perfect coaster,” Lala said.

  “I know,” James agreed. “It’s unusually flat. One of the many things I love about her.”

  Lala was surprised to note that she felt very at ease not talking much in James’s company.

  Seriously, how often do I not feel compelled to chatter? she thought. I must be very, very, very comfortable around him. And I’m sexually attracted to him, and he’s smart, and he has an old dog. All my bitching about the downs in my life up to this point aside, I have to say a big, fat thank you, universe, for introducing me to two perfect men since I set up camp here in the Beach that wants to be Manhattan. I’m not even feeling bitter that one of them left town right after we fucked. Because that would be greedy with Mr. James Adorable Publisher sitting right across from me, wouldn’t it? It’s like Jackson Platt said, you can’t expect to—

  “Are you doing an inner monologue?” James asked.

  Lala lifted her nose out of Ruby’s fur and saw James smiling at her as he stuck two fingers in the air to get the waitress’s attention and then mouthed, “Another round,” as he twirled his index finger in a circle over their empty glasses.

  “Yes, I am in fact going over my entire life in a matter of seconds to myself. And then just now I was thinking about a moment in A Map Without Latitude when—”

  “Omigod, is that book crap, or what? I met Jackson Platt at a symposium last year, and he is the biggest tool. Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “I’m reflecting on how relieved I am that you’re not perfect, because I had up until just now been thinking that you might be, and now I know what a can of worms that is. A Map Without Latitude is my favorite contemporary novel. Jackson Platt is a genius.”

  “Check, please,” James yelled in the direction of the entrance to the café. “Well, I guess I could be generous and say that literature is not plane Euclidean geometry, so there are no absolute right and wrong answers, but I prefer to just point out that I’m not the only not-perfect person at this table.”

  The bill came with their final mimosas of the day, and James pulled out his credit card and handed it to the waitress before Lala could shift Ruby on her lap so she could reach for her wallet.

  “No, no, let me—”

  “I was kidding about you paying,” James said. “Jesus, I thought that was obvious. Your husband died, for fuck’s sake. What kind of a schmo would I be if I didn’t pick up the check?”

  They were in no hurry to finish their drinks and leave. They sat together for another hour, again not saying much other than the staccato, punctuated ribbing of each other that they had fallen into with synchronized ease.

  “A Map Without Latitude,” James chuckled.

  “Shut up,” Lala said. She smiled at James and playfully swatted him on the shoulder, and then leaned over and put her head on that shoulder for a fraction of a moment, and then immediately jerked it up again and made herself dizzy.

  “Oof. That was not a good idea.”

  “Jackson Platt,” James snorted.

  “Seriously, shut up.”

  “God, your taste is for shit. I can’t wait to read your other stuff. Does it suck like Jackson Platt’s stuff sucks? How come I enjoyed your piece at the reading so much when you have such shitty taste?”

  “I love that ‘how come’ means ‘why’ in English, don’t you? It doesn’t in French. I don’t think. Comment venir? No, that can’t mean anything.”

  “We have a great language,” James agreed. He stood up, cradled Yootza under his arm, and helped Lala get up out of her chair with his free hand. “Come on, let me walk you home.”

  Yootza and Ruby happily shared the baby carriage for the journey back. Petunia and Chester trotted next to the vehicle, their energy restored by an entire afternoon of hibernation.

  Lala gripped one half of the handle to the carriage while James worked on keeping the movement of the group from swerving all over the place by steering with his right hand on the other half of the handle with his left arm firmly around Lala’s waist.

  “I love your website,” Lala giggled. “I looked at it right away when I got home after the reading where I met you, and you gave me your card. I am focusing on the details and the specificity of the language I am choosing in order to counterbalance how muddled I am feeling right now.”

  “Of course,” James said. “I understand. You drank as much as I did, and I’m what? Twice your size? Mind the ditch.”

  “I love your Bentley’s Miscellany section! That’s the Victorian magazine that serialized Oliver Twist!”

  “Yes, I know. Though technically the actual inspiration for choosing that name was my childhood dog, Bentley von Schnauzer. Are you okay? You look very pale.”

  “Ummm, I think I might have to barf.”

  “Nope. Not now. We’ll save that for when we get to your place and get you in the bathroom, right?”

  “Ummm . . .”

  “Take your mind off it,” James ordered. “Tell me what you love most about writing.”

  “The words,” Lala answered without having to debate. “I love words. There are infinite possible combinations of them, and they have infinite potential to do anything. Delight. Enrage. Sadden. Inspire. Educate. Divert. Unite. You know how to say grapefruit in French? Pamplemousse. Is that a fun word, or what? And their word for tire, the noun, not the verb, is pneu. And I love that they pronounce the ‘p’ when they say their word for tire, the noun, in French. Language. Is language swell, or what? And what is language? It’s words! Words! And stuff! I can see my house from here
. Two streets down. The pretty fourplex. Can you see it? I am definitely not gonna make it there before I have to barf.”

  “Don’t think about it,” James said. “Tell me what most vexes you about being a writer.”

  “Ohhh, that’s easy too. I have the attention span of a hummingbird. And I don’t know if I’m maybe falsely accusing hummingbirds of being as flighty as I am. It just seems like they might be because they move so fast. I used to see a lot of them when I was growing up in Santa Monica. I used to believe that they bring good luck.”

  Lala suddenly stopped.

  “Are you going to puke?” James asked.

  “Actually, I think the tidal wave of nausea may have passed, and five seconds ago I would not have predicted that could be possible. We should buy lottery tickets. I just now realized that Southern California has hummingbirds, but I don’t think New York, New York does. I never saw one there. The Bronx Zoo notwithstanding. Wow, there is actually something that I prefer about Los Angeles County. Wow, miracles actually happen.”

  “Hang on,” James said. “We may have had sex in college. I’m having major déjà vu here. With much better weather this time around, of course. An attractive and very chatty Wesleyan student who was about to puke. We didn’t screw that night because she smelled of vomit, but we did have a delicious weekend extravaganza a few days subsequent to her nausea battle. Could have been you, no?”

  “God, wasn’t slutty college sex fabulous?” Lala asked rhetorically.

  “So, you were saying. Hummingbirds. Attention span.”