Alexandra Waring

by Laura Van Wormer

  26

  The Unveiling

  Part II: Jessica

  It’s only a Bloody Mary…, Jessica told herself.

  It’s still a drink and you know the rules.

  But it’s three o’clock…

  And you just got up.

  I can’t go to work twitching like a spider’s crawling around in my dress!

  But you have a show to do. No drinking before a show!

  It’s just an eye-opener.

  An eye-opener.

  Jessica remembered the first time she had seen that phrase. She had been on a trip with her parents, staying at a very expensive resort on Hilton Head Island. The Wrights had been there to improve their tennis and to knock some good sportsmanship into Jessica’s twelve-year-old head so she would stop fighting with her tennis-team partner at home and start playing to win. (The Wrights were very big on winning.) Anyway, Jessica’s parents had gone to a dinner dance the night before and were, that particular morning, looking very bleary-eyed and depressed until her father opened his menu and said, “Look, an eye-opener,” and then her mother opened her menu and her eyes lit up too.

  Jessica immediately looked inside her own menu to find out what was causing such quiet elation on their side of the table. (It didn’t occur to Jessica to ask her parents, because one didn’t ask questions in the Wright household. It was generally understood that one was either born with a certain set of knowledge or one should be at the library looking it up. At any rate Jessica knew better than to risk annoying her parents by asking them what would surely be interpreted as a dumb question.)

  THE EYE-OPENER

  Begin your country-style breakfast with your choice of an icy Screwdriver made with freshly squeezed orange juice; our special spicy Bloody Mary made with clam juice; or a chilled glass of our driest champagne.

  Followed by

  two farm-fresh eggs, any style; bacon, ham, sausage or chicken livers; golden home—fried potatoes; warm buttered toast or a freshly made muffin.

  “What do you think?” Mr. Wright asked Jessica’s mother.

  Mrs. Wright looked at her gold watch. “I think its four o’clock in another part of the world,” she said with a sly smile.

  “We’ll have the eye-openers,” her father told the waiter. “Bloody Marys, skip the eggs on mine. Just give me some whole wheat toast. And my wife…”

  “I’ll have the toast too,” Jessica’s mother said.

  “Very good, madame,” the waiter said, writing this down. “And for the young lady?”

  “I’d like an eye-opener too,” Jessica said.

  Everybody looked at her.

  “With a Virgin Mary,” she added more quietly.

  “She likes to act grown up,” her father said, winking at the waiter.

  “She likes to be the center of attention,” her mother said, sniffing sharply once and handing her menu to the waiter.

  “And…?” the waiter asked Jessica.

  “Two eggs, over easy. And bacon, potatoes and a muffin, please.”

  Her mother turned to the waiter. “Bring her half a grapefruit and a bowl of shredded wheat with skim milk,” she told him. “And I suppose you can bring her the bacon.” She sighed, turning back to the table. “Do you want to look like Kate Smith? Is that what you want?”

  “I like Kate Smith,” Jessica said, glum.

  “Well, let’s hope you like singing ‘God Bless America’ because that’s all you’re going to be good for and you’re going to have to wait until she’s dead to be able to do that,” her mother said in one breath, looking around to smile at people sitting at other tables. Then she sniffed again, glancing over at Jessica, adding, “No one’s going to want to marry you if you’re fat, you know.”

  Jessica folded her arms across her chest, sinking in her chair. “I’m never getting married. I’m going to be rich and famous and have an old and faithful servant.”

  “If I were you,” Mrs. Wright said to her husband, “I’d get her to put that in writing and hold her to it.” She started looking around the room again, saying under her breath, “It takes a lot of money to marry off spoiled little girls who want to be fat when they grow up.”

  “Yeah, I bet, “ Jessica said meanly, narrowing her eyes at her mother (who Jessica knew had been heavy as a child and whose family had had a bit of money).

  Mrs. Wright, exasperated, let her hand fall to the table. “Where did she come from?” she asked her husband. “Well, wherever it was,” she added, turning to look at Jessica, widening her eyes like Joan Crawford, “maybe we should send her back.”

  Jessica sat up, leaning menacingly toward her mother, widening her eyes like Joan Crawford too, and said, “Yes, maybe we should.”

  “Stop it,” her mother said. “You look like that poor man with the thyroid problem who does your grandmother’s pool.”

  “She’ll be going away to school soon,” Mr. Wright said, smiling because the waiter had arrived with their drinks.

  As soon as they all got their drinks, magically, it seemed, the mood at the table lifted. In fact, between the time her parents finished the first Bloody Mary and decided to have a second (because they would be sweating it out on the courts anyway, or so Jessica heard them tell each other in the course of deciding whether or not to have another), her mother suddenly leaned over and kissed Jessica on the cheek. “When you look better, you feel better, Jessica. That’s why I nag you so. I want you to grow up and make the most of your looks, that’s all. You’ll be happier if you do. I know.”

  So big deal, what was one Bloody Mary? Jessica thought, opening the lovely wood cabinet housing the bar in her hotel living room. As she made the drink she tried not to think about it.

  About how she had sworn she would not do this.

  After trial sips—to see how her stomach would take it—she finished the Bloody Mary quickly, knowing already that it was going to be okay. She opened a bottle of club soda then, confident that her body could now move on to the business of relative good health, and she went into the bathroom to take her birth control pill. Jessica had suffered lapses of irresponsibility in almost every area of her life, but birth control had never been one of them. Whether it was because she was terrified of getting pregnant or because she so loved children and would never wish a mother like herself on one, she wasn’t sure—but she did know that after the facts of life and sexual health had been explained to her in detail at a Planned Parenthood clinic when she was young, she had never been able to pretend that she didn’t know the consequences of failing to take precautions and have regular exams.

  (The irony that a trip to a Planned Parenthood clinic was the only thing protecting Jessica from the fate of so many of her classmates! One of the best boarding school educations money and clout could buy, and so many girls getting pregnant! And not just in school but later on, too. So many well-educated, fortunate young women who had supposedly had it all—except the simple knowledge that if you had intercourse without birth control you ran a good chance of getting pregnant. Who would have ever guessed that a twenty-dollar exam in a clinic would make Jessica Wright the one who would never have to go through the emotional indecision, pain and agony of so many of her classmates—that Jessica would go ahead and make a mess out of her life, but confine the mess only to her own?)

  Oh, God, she thought, feeling a little dizzy there in the bathroom, leaning forward to splash cold water on her face, why did I drink so much last night?

  And she had been so good for the last two weeks! She had barely had anything to drink for days. And last night, at a cocktail party for mostly media people stuck working the holiday, Jessica had had every intention of simply making an appearance, having one glass of wine and then going home to the Plaza, taking a bath and going to bed early. Well, she made her appearance (instantly depressed, since at a glance she could tell she was the most interesting person there), had her glass of wine and dutifully tried to be charming to everyone her host introduced her to.

  And t
hen she was introduced to this guy Curt, a DJ. Jessica did not like him at all, and the feeling was apparently mutual since in very short order Curt told her he thought she was full of shit and didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about (very eloquent was he, this Curt of the radio airwaves) and Jessica had another glass of wine during this exchange and then, a while later, she found herself sitting at a table in the kitchen with Curt, drinking Finnish vodka, thinking, I hate this son of a bitch—why am I talking to him? What am I doing? At first the caterers were upset to have guests sitting in the kitchen, but when it was determined that Jessica and Curt were not moving, a nice lady named Ragna from Russia cleared off the table and—after asking them to hold their drinks—she threw a nice white linen tablecloth over it, put the Finnish vodka bottle back down on it and brought Jessica the ice she requested in a silver bowl, complete with silver tongs.

  Jessica did not know what time it was that Curt suggested she come downtown with him to see his studio. Jessica had no desire to see it, but she no longer knew anything except that it was time to go somewhere because Morris the caterer was banging things; Scott, their host, had long given up on them and had gone to bed; and her friend Ragna from Russia had stopped laughing when Jessica, each time she went to the powder room, opened the broom closet door and asked Ragna if this wasn’t where they should put Curt the Vampire before the sun came up.

  Jessica remembered being in a cab and being aware that Curt was getting angrier and angrier about something—she couldn’t understand what he was talking about. Oh. Something about some goddam fucking faggot who fucked his motherfucking career. Jessica remembered looking down at her hands, her hands she could not feel, wondering if she shouldn’t be frightened. But she didn’t feel frightened. She didn’t feel much of anything. A little lost, maybe. She looked out the taxi window and saw a fenced-in baseball field go by and she thought, I know where we are. That’s where the Little League night games are played. The Circle K’s just up on the next corner, and then she laughed, realizing that the Circle K wasn’t on the next corner but was more like two thousand five hundred miles down the block in Tucson—which she tried to tell Curt, because it was so funny, but Curt was busy slamming the back of the driver’s seat, screaming about something, and Jessica thought again that maybe she should be scared. But she wasn’t. She felt very safe, tucked away, untouchable somehow.

  The next thing Jessica knew, a man was looking down into her face, asking her if she was all right, could he help her.

  She blinked, wondering where, exactly, she was.

  The man helped her to sit up, saying something about how lucky it was that he and his friend had just happened to come around the corner when they did.

  “Yes,” Jessica said, allowing the men to lift her to her feet. The other one picked up her bag and handed it to her.

  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” the first man asked, brushing the back of her dress off.

  “Who?” Jessica said, not feeling drunk, not feeling hurt, not feeling anything but confused. Wherever she was, the buildings were brick and only four stories high, and the street was cobblestone. “Where are we?” she asked them.

  The men looked at each other and told her she was on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village and then went on to describe how a man had been shaking her against the lamppost—

  Jessica held up her hand, indicating she did not want to hear any more.

  “Is there someone we can call?” the first man said gently.

  Now that was an interesting question. It was interesting because it reminded Jessica that there were really only two people she was free to call in New York. One was Denny, who had had many such calls over the years, and the other was Alexandra—that is, if whoever had been shaking her against the lamppost had not stolen her wallet, she had Alexandra’s number. But then she remembered that Denny’s number at his new apartment was still on the pad by her phone at the hotel; which made her wonder if she should ask these men if this was a nice part of town to live in, because she was supposed to have moved out of the Plaza a month or so ago and needed to find an apartment. But then she remembered she was supposed to be thinking of someone for them to call, which made her think they should call her limo driver, which made her wonder what had happened to her driver, anyway, but then she remembered she had walked up the street to the party. But wait a minute, she was supposed to be—

  Now what was she supposed to be doing?

  Nope. She had lost it; she couldn’t remember.

  So Jessica checked to see if she had any money—and she did—and asked the men to help her find a cab—which they did—and she arrived at the Plaza just as day was breaking, and a very nice house detective saw her safely escorted to her room.

  Dressed now and feeling a little better and knowing she was late, late, late, Jessica brushed her teeth and gargled extra well, grabbed her bag and was just at the door when she stopped. She turned around to look at the cabinet across the room. And then, slowly, she walked over to it. And then she opened it. Then she took two little two-ounce bottles of vodka out and put them in her bag, and then she put one of them back, and then she started to reach for it again, but then she took a bar of Tobler dark chocolate out of the cabinet instead, threw it in her bag, closed the cabinet and ran out.

  In a minute she was back, looking at herself in the full-length mirror (wearing a new blue-green dress and brand-new cowgirl boots, dyed to match) and then ran over to the dressing table to pick out pieces from the box of costume jewelry. Her hands were shaking so badly she finally just opened her bag, dumped everything in and took off.

  “You’re to go straight into makeup,” Alicia said, waiting for her in the West End carport, evidently alerted to her arrival by the guard at the gate. “Langley’s wife, Belinda Darenbrook Peterson, wants to meet you and Cassy says she’s a very important board member—but Denny’s got to see you first. He’s in makeup with the guests and has your notes.”

  “And hello to you too,” Jessica said, walking quickly toward the cement staircase that led to the level above. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Where are you going?” Alicia wailed.

  “I’ll be right down,” Jessica said, going up the stairs.

  “Jessica,” Alicia pleaded, following her, “please. Denny and Cassy said you have to—”

  “Hey!” Jessica yelled, whirling around to point a finger at her. “I’ve been doing this show for seven years and I know exactly what I have to do and what I don’t have to do and I’m telling you right now, I sure as hell don’t have to take any shit from you. Got it?” She wheeled back around, dress and hair whirling after her, and marched up the stairs. And then, a moment later, she called, “Where the hell are you, Alicia? Come on!”

  Alicia followed her up the stairs.

  “Okay, okay,” Jessica said, seeing her expression, “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not the least bit sorry,” Alicia told her, “so don’t even bother.”

  “Alicia,” Jessica groaned, going down a stair, grabbing her hand and pulling Alicia up the stairs with her, “I am sorry. I’m sorry I was ever born, I’m sorry I ever got married, I’m sorry you can’t understand that my only problem in life is that I can’t deal with the human race and that that has nothing to do with you because I think you’re an angel.” She glanced back at her, still pulling her up the stairs. “I’d die without you—how’s that?”

  “Better,” Alicia told her.

  When they reached the top of the stairs Jessica led Alicia outside and then through the little gate between Darenbrook I and III into the square. “See, this is all I wanted to do,” Jessica said, looking up at the cafeteria window and waving. Someone waved back and within seconds, it seemed, there was a crowd of people pressing against the glass, waving down at her. “Hi!” Jessica called, laughing in delight, waving. “Hi!” And then she said, “Okay, let’s beat it before anyone gets down here,” and they made for the door into Darenbrook III.

  “There yo
u are!” a production assistant cried as they got off the elevator on Sub Level 2. “Hey—hey, everybody,” he yelled, running ahead, “she’s here. Jessica’s here!”

  “If everyone was so worried I wouldn’t show,” Jessica said, breezing down the hall past several people, “why the hell didn’t anyone call me.)”

  “Because Denny said you would be here,” Alicia said from behind her.

  She went into makeup, got her notes from Denny, went with him down to the greenroom to say hello to the guests, and then came back to her dressing room to throw her bag down. There were several beautiful bouquets of flowers around the room and on her dressing table (just left by Alicia no doubt) was a tall glass of Coca-Cola over ice and several kinds of granola bars. Jessica ripped a bar open and ate it while reading the cards on the flowers, wondering why she never had a secret admirer, but only ones she knew and wished would go away.

  Then she took the Coke and her bag into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it, sat the Coke on the sink and dug into her bag to come up with the little vodka bottle. She drank some of the Coke, set it back down and then opened the vodka. She brought it over the Coke to pour in, but caught sight of herself in the mirror and froze, staring at herself. Her expression was of someone who had been caught in the act. Caught by herself?

  She sighed, closing her eyes. Then she opened them, quickly screwed the cap back on the vodka bottle, looked around, opened the linen closet, hesitated, and then stuck it inside a roll of toilet paper. Then she walked out, sipping her Coke, opening her dressing-room door to go to makeup, and found Cassy there, just about to knock.

  “Hi,” Cassy said softly, touching her arm. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a great show,” Jessica said.

  “Good, good,” Cassy said, not looking very sure that she believed this. “Listen, Jessica,” she whispered, looking back over her shoulder, “Belinda Darenbrook Peterson, Langley’s wife, appeared out of the blue and she wants to meet you.”