My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

by Rene Gutteridge

  And I went blank.

  In the kitchen I poured another cup of coffee, feeling fatigued from the weekend. Although it had brought a bit of unexpected drama, Saturday night had ended as it always did. Edward dropped me off at my apartment, gave me a quick kiss, and said we’d see each other the next day at church, and off I went. I changed out of my pink dress, which would be mentioned no more for the rest of the night and probably the rest of our lives, and hung it in the back of my closet, toying with the idea of trying to put the tag back on it. I knew that dress would never see the light of day again.

  Edward and I parted peacefully, and he seemed content and satisfied that all was resolved. But for me, there was a lot more emotion to work through. As I tossed and turned Saturday night, I hoped my sleeplessness would work it out.

  But Sunday I really felt no better, even after picking my favorite and most dependable black dress for church. It was a great find, because it was sleeveless and featured my favorite accessory: a turtleneck. In it, I could splotch all the way up to my chin and still look somewhat elegant. Edward made a comment about it, and, that I can remember, it was the first time he’d complimented me on my attire in the last year. But I felt cold and isolated, even with him sitting next to me. And instead of going to lunch afterward like we had since the beginning of our relationship, I excused myself and went home.

  I napped then, only to be awoken by the phone ringing. It was Edward. We talked briefly, and I pretended to be fine. Afterward, I ordered pizza, watched Footloose, and lost myself in the evening.

  So Monday morning arrived with the living room light lifting me off the couch. I knocked over the pizza box as I stumbled into consciousness. I showered and got dressed, which was something my mother had insisted on every morning I’d lived under her roof. She would be shocked to learn that I spend most mornings in my pajamas in front of the computer.

  I did realize my mother’s insistence on a shower, and clothing in the morning was a positive and healthy step in fighting off depression. Like many people, I found it easier when I didn’t care about the world to stop caring about myself too. But for me, being a little grimy helped pull out the subtle and not-so-subtle flaws I needed for each of my characters. Subtle required the simple over sight of brushing my teeth. Not-so-subtle, and you’d usually find me on day three without a shower.

  But Jodie Bellarusa’s flaws were already fully developed. They didn’t need any help from me.

  I took one look in the mirror this morning and knew a shower was in order, if not for personal hygiene then at least for personal respect. So I was fully dressed, fully fed, and had all my bills paid. That was a perfect recipe for success. Yet it had been an hour and I still couldn’t get the exact right words for Jodie Bellarusa. Jodie was claiming she wasn’t tough enough, but I felt it was something different. It was vague and hard to pinpoint.

  I believed at some point the blinking cursor would give it up, but so far it was holding its own.

  The phone on my desk rang, and my caller ID announced it was a private caller, which was usually code for my agent. I squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn’t sure J. R. was a good person to talk to right now. But on the other hand, she did have a knack for motivating me.

  “Hello?”

  “Leah, it’s J. R.” She had a deep, scratchy voice that matched her personality but not her looks. If you ever saw her approaching, she’d remind you of your favorite grandmother, complete with a cane and pin curls. But then she would open her mouth. And not even pin curls could save her then. The woman roared, and not in a majestic lioness sort of way. “I’m wondering how the play is coming along. The one you can’t seem to find a title for.”

  “It’s coming along fine. I think this one is going to be great.” The blinking cursor mocked my every word.

  “Oh, Leah, darling, don’t curse yourself like that. I believe those were your exact words right before A Day in the Lie opened.”

  There was something prestigious about having J. R. Thompson as your agent. It was like the difference between the Cub Scouts and the Marines. We were few. They were proud. And after J. R. was finished with them, they were lethal. Having her name attached to anything you did gave you a legitimacy that only she could create. And admittedly, it was her name that had carried me through the last two disasters.

  J. R. was known to represent some of the most up-and-coming writers in Boston and New York. She was known to scout talent and snag the future superstars. But nobody’s perfect, as I apparently remind her every time we speak.

  “You’re still sure about this romantic comedy?”

  “Antiromantic comedy.”

  “That’s hard to say. It doesn’t roll off the tongue.”

  “That’s what’s funny about it.”

  She paused. I could hear her sucking in the smoke from her cigarette. “Okay, well, whatever the case, how’s it coming?”

  “Really well. It’s flowing like . . . crazy.” I turned away from my computer.

  “Peter’s been asking about you.” She was referring to Peter Deutsch, the director and producer who had believed in The Twilight T-Zone and had helped make it such a hit. He was a rare find in that he was interested only in scripts that had never been produced. He’d skipped on my last two.

  “How is Peter?” I asked casually.

  “He’s fine. He’s been having a lot of success, but he’s always interested in what you’re working on. And in fact called me Friday to ask specifically about you. I had to explain you were writing a three-act, and of course Peter said what I said, which is nobody does three-acts anymore.”

  “I’m a few weeks from being finished, but Peter is welcome to take a look then.”

  “I came across as nondesperate as possible, Leah, but as you know, there is a lot riding on this play. Not to mention, rumor has it that Kelly Gundy is getting ready to shop a new two-act. You know how fond Peter is of Kelly.”

  Kelly Gundy. She was a top-notch playwright from New York whose father was a famous Broadway actor and whose mother was a stage manager. It seemed everything Kelly touched turned to gold.

  “I didn’t realize that Kelly was working on something new.”

  “Leah, I have never personally doubted your talent. The first time I saw The Twilight T-Zone I knew that you were going to go places.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And it’s also not completely uncommon to have a second show that doesn’t do as well as the first. It’s almost inevitable. You’ve been put on such a high platform. Everyone is looking to knock you off.”

  “Yes.” J. R. had given me this speech about four times. But I pretended each time that it was fresh advice.

  “The third time is usually a charm, but in your case it was a bad-luck charm. We’re just going to move on past that like it never happened. I don’t even mention it when I’m talking about you. It’s like that strange cousin we all have who is ‘accidentally’ left out of all the photos. You know what I mean.”

  “Sure.”

  “I shouldn’t keep you. You have a lot of work to do. Just wanted to tell you about Peter. I took it as a good sign that he actually called me.”

  “That is a good sign.”

  “All right. I have to be in New York this evening so I better run, but I’ll check in with you soon.”

  You can’t run, you old fogey. You have a cane. “Good talking with you, J. R.” I hung up the phone just as my doorbell rang.

  Thankful I’d decided to get dressed, I cautiously approached. I hardly ever had visitors during the day, or anytime for that matter. The security door downstairs had been broken for three weeks now, so people, like Elisabeth, could just come on up, unannounced. I peeked through the hole and saw a bouquet of flowers.

  “Flowers?” I swung the door open with no regard for personal safety.

  The man behind the flowers said, “For Leah Townsend?” He pronounced my first name wrong, like I had two buns on either side of my head and was fond of Jedi masters and men with f
urry sidekicks. “Lee-ah,” I corrected.

  He handed me the clipboard, and I signed. I took the bouquet inside, more than a little curious about its sender. I couldn’t remember the last time I was sent flowers. Maybe two years ago on my birthday when my parents were out of town and not here to celebrate.

  The carnations were bright pink and in full bloom, nearly dripping with moisture. And they smelled wonderful. I set them on the table, forgetting to close the front door, and snatched the card. Who were they from? Elisabeth, congratulating me on my fun night out? (I’d led her to believe the night went well, because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.) Peter, wanting to let me know in a more personal way that he wanted my next play? I lifted the flap. Maybe Robby, the understated son of the Glyndells? I pulled out the card.

  Edward?

  I want you to know that all is well on my end. But I think the situation regarding the contention on Saturday needs to be addressed to maintain a healthy and organic relationship. We can’t do that if you’re angry. With love, Edward.

  I didn’t exactly understand what he meant, and if there was a more sterile way to send a love note, I couldn’t think of it. Then I noticed there was something else sticking out of the envelope. I reached in and pulled it out. It was a flimsy square piece of paper, a little slick and colorful, with a sticky note in Edward’s handwriting attached.

  It is the person with the most character who admits when she needs help. I want to make “us” work. Everything is paid in full. I know you want to make it work too. XO

  What was he talking about? I flipped over the small square I was holding, and to my surprise it looked like a coupon with dashed lines framing the black and blue lettering. I wasn’t sure I was reading it right, and in fact was pretty sure there was some sort of mistake.

  20% off

  Conflict Resolution Class

  This month only!

  It gave a phone number and address and instructions to call before it filled up.

  Learn to deal with difficulties

  in a proactive, life-enhancing way!

  “How ridiculous!” What was Edward thinking? A conflict resolution class? He was the one who had a problem with the dress. “How stupid!” He wanted us to attend a conflict resolution class together? Like therapy?

  Therapy?

  Even Jodie was nearly speechless. I’d never once known her to repeat what I said. I stared at the fine print, underlined by Edward’s pen: Starts this Tuesday at 7 p.m. I crushed the small piece of paper between my fingers and threw it in the garbage. Plopping myself into my desk chair, I glanced at the bright pink carnations sitting on the table, ironically—or maybe not—the same color as the dress I’d worn Saturday night.

  I glimpsed the phone from the corner of my eye. No. Block it out, I instructed myself. You’ve got a play to write. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Jodie to finish her sentence. After ten more minutes of padlocking my mind to my computer screen, I finally had to stand up and remove the flowers from my line of sight. Jodie Bellarusa hated flowers.

  And with that out of the way, I skipped over the sentence I couldn’t finish, telling myself I could fill in the blanks later, and let Jodie rant about flowers. It felt good, as good as any recreational drug could make me feel, I was sure.

  I sat back, threaded my fingers together behind my head, popped my knuckles with one swift crack, and smiled. I’d not only salvaged the scene, but I’d salvaged what had the potential to be a very, very rotten day.

  But then the phone rang.

  It was Mother.

  Chapter 5

  [The conversation lulls, briefly.]

  The dining table stretched from one end of the room to the other, with twelve expensively upholstered chairs lining either side and the two ends. Their tall, erect backs created the uninviting sense that even the slightest slump would not be tolerated.

  The upholstery had changed over the years, now to a lavish gold color, but the sentiment was still the same. I hated these chairs. We ate dinner at this table every evening that Dad was home, and as a child, all I could think about was how I wished all those empty chairs were filled with people, so that the conversation might revolve around something other than my father’s work.

  My mother knew guilt worked well with me, and even though I had plainly spelled out over the phone that I had a lot of work to do and that I’d not had a good day, I somehow found myself over at their house for dinner. It must’ve been that key phrase: you know I don’t ask much of you.

  With my napkin properly in my lap and my back straining in the awkward position called good posture, I watched Lola, my parents’ housekeeper and cook for the last twenty years, bring in a roasted chicken. Mother, across the table, busied herself by arranging trivets and candles. It was remarkable to me how important family dinners were to my parents, yet how little conversation took place. In fact, at the moment, Dad was in the other room on a phone call, which, in these postsenatorial days, consisted of heavy political conversations with other exsenators, usually ending with an important discussion about tee times.

  “Lola, the chicken looks wonderful,” I said as Mother took her seat.

  “Thank you, Leah.” Over the years, Lola had become less talkative, as if she was out of practice. She smiled at me and went back to the kitchen.

  “So, how was your day?” I asked.

  Mother glanced up at me with a startled expression, as if I’d just asked her to detail her mammogram. I knew Mother wasn’t one for light chitchat, but she also wasn’t one for deep, substantive conversations. So I was never sure exactly where the middle could be found.

  “Fine,” she said. Then she smiled. Just like Lola.

  “That’s good.” And how was your day, Leah? Oh, fine. Thanks for asking.

  Dad walked into the room. His face lit up when he saw me.

  “Hi there,” he said, his strong authoritative voice taking on that kind, warm tone that he used only for his daughter. I had vivid memories of watching my dad give speeches, hearing the certain inflections in his voice that caused thousands of people to sit silently and listen.

  Dad was never one for affection. His hugs were rare, and usually reserved for photo ops, but I knew that nobody else heard the voice I got to hear. As a child, it made me grin. And I still found myself grinning.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I’m glad you’re here for dinner.” He sat at the head of the table. “Where’s your sister?”

  If I’d heard that once, I’d heard it a thousand times. Katherine Elaine, known as Kate, or even better known as “I can’t believe she did that,” was late as usual. If ever there was a prodigal daughter, Kate was it. My little sister made Patti Davis look like a saint. And had the tattoos to prove it. We were distinct in so many ways, including how we addressed our matriarch. I called her Mother, which is what she had always wanted to be called, because she thought it would sound nice if she somehow found herself in the White House. Kate always refused and just called her Mom or, if she wanted to be really sassy, Mommy.

  In more recent years, Kate had settled into the idea that she was an adult, and no matter how many ways she chose to rebel, her family wasn’t going to ditch her. So though she still wasn’t the model politician’s daughter, her rebellion was much more subdued, and she attended most family gatherings.

  We were all thankful that her hair was fully grown back—even if we weren’t fond of the current color. She had shaved it off completely four years ago to protest hair products being tested on animals, which I found ironic since she never fed or watered any of our pets growing up.

  We all heard the front door open as Lola brought in the final dish. I could see relief in my mother’s features. As uptight as ever, she always seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Hurry up, Kate, dinner is served,” Dad called.

  Kate breezed into the dining room and flung herself into the seat next to Mother. Her hair, highlighted in four different colors that wou
ld never be seen together on wallpaper, looked windblown, but was actually the result of her latest protest against blow-dryers. She didn’t wear a stitch of makeup anymore either, due to an embarrassing allergy outbreak during her goth years. But she didn’t need it. She was really a natural beauty.

  She was now into bohemian. And as naturally beautiful as she was, she could never quite pull it off as well as the Olsen sisters. Mother pretended not to notice Kate’s appearance. Dad shot me that look, the same one he’d given me many times through the years. It was a smile, a wink, and a reassuring nod, telling me he was grateful for my khakis.

  Several minutes passed as we scooted platters around to one another and pretended to be interested in cutting our chicken or seasoning our vegetables. I stole glances at Kate, who seemed exceptionally happy. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and she was smiling at the saltshaker. My parents didn’t seem to notice, though.

  Suddenly my sister’s announcement broke the silence: “I’ve found the man of my dreams.”

  Dad stopped chewing. Mother tried to smile through the perpetual frown that left deep creases between her eyes. Kate glanced at me, realized I was somehow smiling, and smiled back.

  Understandably, my parents were nervous. The last love of Kate’s life was a biker named Joey, who came complete with the chains, the leather, and a motorcycle that cost more than my car. We all thought it was a phase, but the relationship lasted more than two years. We thought there was even a possibility of marriage.

  But then Joey was in a motorcycle accident. He survived but lost his left arm. Shortly thereafter, Kate broke up with him, citing her need for a man with two arms.