Temporary Insanity

by Leslie Carroll

  Back at ARMPIT, Tony was solicitous of my grandmother’s condition, and I tried to behave in as civil a manner as possible, despite my urge to spit venom in his perfectly featured face. Still, I didn’t like feeling like a doormat; so, one quiet afternoon, after I’d been back at work for a few days, I knocked on his office door. “It’s Alice. Can I come in?”

  He came to the door and opened it. I slipped in and closed it behind me. “I don’t remember whether or not you apologized to me,” I began, knowing full well he hadn’t. “Has anyone ever made you feel like a used Kleenex? Just used you and tossed you in the trash when they were done?”

  Tony looked at me, not knowing how to answer the question.

  “No? That never happened to you? Well, you’re very lucky, then. Because that’s how you made me feel.”

  “It’s not as if you weren’t enjoying yourself, Alice.”

  A harsh-sounding laugh escaped my lips. “I wasn’t about to deny that. However, you suckered me. I can tell you right now that we wouldn’t have shared a single kiss—not even to satisfy my curiosity—if I’d had any inclination that you were married. Obviously I’m no prude, but there are some things I just don’t believe in…mostly because I know how dreadful I would feel if I were in the shoes of the Cindy Lous of the world.”

  Tony came around to the front of his desk and rested his butt against it. “I’m sorry, Alice.”

  That’s it? I wondered.

  “I’m not going to say any more than that, because I don’t know what I could say to you that won’t sound…I don’t know…fatuous or something. I want you to know, though, that I do respect you. And I hope we can at least be acquaintances from now on.”

  He held out his hand for me to shake, as though proposing a bargain. I found myself taking it. I shook his hand and regarded him grimly. “I’m going back to my desk now. Thank you for the apology,” I said, trying hard to sound cool and unemotional.

  Did I handle that like a grown-up?

  Alice, I’m proud of you. No tears, no recriminations. And you handled Ms. Hunt well, too, that afternoon in the ambulance. You know, just because you’re someone’s employee, it doesn’t give them carte blanche to abuse you.

  I told Gram what I’d said to Tony. Incidentally, she was wowing everyone with her remarkable powers of recuperation. In fact, it seemed that she’d taken out a new lease on life since her hospitalization. She’d even expressed taking an active part in the Musketeers’ meetings—which we had started holding at our apartment, over a couple of bottles of wine—saying she’d always wanted to be a producer.

  “Have I taught you nothing, Alice?” Gram said, laughing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You really can pick ’em, my sweetheart.”

  “Well, what about Grandpa Danny?” I countered.

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “You take right after me! We’re such suckers for charm—though at least your Grandpa Danny was a paragon of fidelity.” Most grandmothers would probably have wagged a bony finger at a grandchild who’d confessed she’d come within six inches of committing adultery. But Gram looked upon my behavior philosophically, accepting it as one of life’s rites of passage.

  I’d had such rotten luck with men this year that I decided to forswear them for a while. If I counted up all the hours I’d spent since (in a conservative estimate) the sixth grade wondering whether:

  “Johnny” liked me or

  what was the magic charm, metaphorically speaking, that would get him to notice me, and

  why didn’t “Johnny” love me as much as I loved him, or

  why did he seem to fancy “Mary” more than me…

  and on and on, up through this morning…and I got to take all that time back and put it to a different use, I bet I’d have a string of days, if not months, with which to concentrate on my career, on spending more time with Gram and my friends…wow.

  Okay, so I made a pact with myself to focus on Alice for a while. But I didn’t tell anyone else about it in case I couldn’t keep it. Sort of like a New Year’s resolution.

  Chapter 12

  Sometimes, I must admit, working with Claire Hunt could be almost fun. There was the wintry Friday afternoon when she stopped by my desk on her way back from lunch…

  “Alice, I wondered if you could do me a favor…”

  I didn’t feel the customary uh-oh sensation upon hearing this. Perhaps it was because Ms. Hunt was almost smiling. She must have had a cocktail or two with her midday meal.

  Ms. Hunt didn’t wait for my response. She never did when it came to asking for one of her “favors.” She placed her hands on my desk and leaned forward, reducing her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Regina has a fitting for her wedding gown at five forty-five this evening at Saks Fifth Avenue. I thought perhaps you could accompany me, so my daughter could have the benefit of a more youthful eye than mine. Her bridesmaids are all still in Ohio. And they’re scientists, too, of course.”

  I thought about it for a couple of moments. “I have a meeting after work this evening,” I told her truthfully. Dorian, Izzy, and I had some major decisions to make regarding the selection of a director for our show.

  “If it’s money you’re concerned about, I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you.”

  Hah!

  “You can certainly bill the company for your overtime, Alice.”

  You can certainly use the money, Alice.

  “Let me see if I can rearrange my schedule,” I told her, and after she went into her office, I phoned Isabel.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Izzy said. “I just got a call from Dorian two seconds ago and he’s stuck on a shoot, so it would have been just you and me anyway. I’ll go home and give Dominick some extra attention. We went into couples counseling and made a pact to spend more quality time together, anyway.”

  “You know, I’m worried about Dorian. He seems so…I don’t know…so lonely,” I said to Izzy. “He just goes from one background job to the next, and I know he’s making okay money when he’s booking work, but I can tell, just from looking into his eyes and listening to him, that he’s so unfulfilled by it. He never gets to play a real role; he’s like furniture.”

  “You and I have been on the same wavelength,” Izzy agreed. “And I also think Dorian’s too inclined to pick up a gin bottle for comfort. I mean, when was the last time he was in a relationship with anyone?”

  I pondered her question for a moment or two. “Never. At least in all the time we’ve been friends, he’s never mentioned anyone. And he’s not that secretive a guy. In fact, when he gets going, he can be pretty gossipy.”

  “That’s why it’s such a good thing that we’re producing our own show,” Izzy said. “Dorian may need the affirmation even more than we do.” She laughed. “And that’s saying something!”

  I told Izzy where I was going after work. She thought it was a hoot.

  “Have you ever met Regina?” she asked me.

  “I spoke to her on the phone once for just a minute, when she was looking for her mother and the receptionist switched her to my extension by mistake. It wasn’t enough to get a sense of her.”

  Izzy chuckled. “Well, have fun! And remember, you’re getting paid for it.”

  Regina swung by the office at four-thirty. She was tall and very thin and not unattractive, but a personal sense of style was clearly not a priority for her. On that count, anyway, Claire Hunt had been right about her daughter. Regina also didn’t strike me as the blushing gushing bride type, the fluffy wedding appearing to be more of a nod to her mother’s wishes than a plan of her own.

  The three of us went down to the street to hail a cab. I ended up sitting on the “hump” of the back seat, per Ms. Hunt’s determination, since Regina’s legs were longer than mine and Ms. Hunt needed to sit by a window because she claimed that car travel often made her nauseous and she required fresh air.

  Great.

  When my boss directed the driver to head north,
for the George Washington Bridge, I sensed that we were in trouble.

  “Oh, I thought we were going to Saks Fifth Avenue,” I said, attempting to sound casual.

  “We are,” Ms. Hunt replied, “but we’re not going to the flagship store,” she added, referring to the original Saks emporium, which is on Fifth Avenue, only a few blocks from ARMPIT. “Their bridal salon is too small and cramped and their staff seemed so overwhelmed that they made Regina anxious, so-—”

  “They made you anxious, Mother,” Regina corrected quietly.

  Ms. Hunt chose to ignore the comment. “So then we discovered the Short Hills location, and it’s so much more pleasant.”

  Everything I have ever heard from now-married friends, including Izzy, about the nightmares that went into planning their nuptials must be true. During the loooonnnng cab ride out to New Jersey, where we were imprisoned in a snarl of rush-hour traffic, Ms. Hunt managed to either ignore or correct everything her daughter said, every idea the younger woman expressed. And there I was, trapped between them, the three of us bundled into our winter coats, with the heat turned up full blast, squashed and miserable, as they squabbled. Every once in a while, Ms. Hunt would look to me for confirmation of something she’d just said. “Isn’t that true, Alice?” she would ask me.

  She wasn’t paying me enough to get between her and her daughter. Not at a time like this. In fact, not ever. So no matter which one of them I might have agreed with, I would reply, “Huh? Oh, I’m sorry, I thought it was a family discussion. I wasn’t listening.” I think my boss finally took the hint.

  We arrived. Finally. I was grateful to stretch my legs and back, which had cramped up during the ride out to Short Hills. Regina took long strides and her mother strove to keep up with her pace. I found myself straggling behind, ignored by both women.

  Why am I here? I asked myself.

  It’s a paycheck, Alice. Look on this as an adventure…and if that becomes impossible, you’ll be home in a couple of hours.

  The bridal salon was spacious and well appointed and the large fitting rooms had comfy chairs, so I ensconced myself in one of them, as Ms. Hunt directed me to watch her purse and Regina’s as though I were the ladies’ maid.

  Miranda, the fitter, was competent, accommodating, but harried. It was clear that she didn’t mind Regina but didn’t much care for her mother, who decided that the gown—which was so simple that it bordered on boring—needed some trim after all, despite her previous decision to excise it.

  “Well, I thought it looked more elegant without the soutache,” Ms. Hunt remarked, “but now that I see it on Regina, I think she needs a little something extra to draw the eye. What do you think, Alice?”

  Uh-oh.

  “I think that all eyes will be focused on the bride with or without the trim,” I answered, trying to be Switzerland. “After all, it’s her day. Isn’t that what the magazines say?”

  “Mother, I could care less about the trim. I’m fine without it. If you like the soutache appliqué, or whatever it’s called, then we’ll have it stitched on. I could be married in a white lab coat and be happy. But you’re not, so—”

  “My daughter’s a microbiologist,” Ms. Hunt told Miranda, who had clearly heard this disclaimer during earlier fittings.

  She rolled her eyes upward and looked at me. “Yo se, yo se,” she said, assuming I spoke Spanish.

  “She knows that, Mother. She doesn’t care. All that matters to Miranda today is whether we put back the trim or leave the gown as it is.”

  Ms. Hunt ignored Regina. “Alice,” she said turning to me, “don’t you think they should add some more boning through the bodice? Regina needs something to give her a little lift, don’t you agree?”

  No way was I responding to this one.

  Regina blushed crimson, the color spreading across her throat and chest. I felt mortified on her behalf. “Mother,” she said, “I am thirty-four years old. I have a life that I am quite satisfied with and a career that I find exceptionally gratifying. I am having this ridiculously ostentatious and expensive wedding to make you happy, because you never let me forget that you and Daddy eloped—so you didn’t get the dress, the flowers, the band, the hall, and the presents. I’ve even agreed to get married in New York, where none of my friends live anymore, where Arthur has never even been before, to make things convenient for you, so you can have your little fantasy. But I’m warning you right this minute—I am about this close”—Regina demonstrated by holding her thumb and forefinger about an inch and a half apart—“to calling off the whole thing and doing exactly what you and Daddy did!”

  I admired the fact that Regina had never raised her voice. I wanted to give her a standing ovation, but her mother had loaded me down with their coats; there wasn’t a hook to hang them on and no extra chairs in the room. Still, I was so embarrassed to be a witness to this domestic dispute that I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. Miranda, her mouth full of straight pins, acted like she’d seen it all before, hundreds of times, with each bride at every fitting.

  “We’ll discuss this on the way home,” Ms. Hunt told Regina, her tone steely.

  Oh, God, do I have to endure another couple of hours of this on the ride back into Manhattan, I wondered.

  Be careful what you wish for, Alice.

  The fitting ended. A betting man could have successfully predicted the outcome. The soutache trim was to be reapplied; and boning, as well as a built-in bra, were to be inserted into the lining of the bodice. Having boned up on several bridal books as part of my current job description, I knew that these more or less last-minute alterations would cost an additional fortune.

  We left Saks. Ms. Hunt took out her cell phone to call a New Jersey car service to take us back to New York. Regina seemed like another person, having become somewhat emboldened by her little speech in the fitting room. Ms. Hunt was clearly unaccustomed to not having the upper hand, particularly in front of an employee. She suddenly snapped her phone shut without making a call and returned it to her purse.

  “Regina, I think we should talk about this,” she said decisively, “and I haven’t eaten a thing since lunch. I’m getting a headache.” She pointed across the parking lot at an Apple-bee’s. “Let’s discuss it over dinner.” They started to make their way toward the restaurant. I trailed a few steps after them.

  “Oh, no, Alice,” Ms. Hunt said to me, having realized that I was following them. “This is a family dinner. Regina and I have a great deal of ground to cover. And I’m sure she would be more comfortable if we didn’t have…”—she reduced her voice to a bare whisper—“a stranger at the table. You understand, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  So where does that leave me? Stranded in the middle of north Jersey, that’s where.

  I couldn’t believe she was doing this.

  “I’ll see you in the office on Monday,” Ms. Hunt said cheerily, as she headed off with Regina.

  Shit.

  I had no idea where I was in relation to any sort of transportation back to New York City. This much I knew: I wasn’t about to pay the fifty-seven dollars it cost Ms. Hunt to take a taxi from midtown to Short Hills. I didn’t even have that much in my wallet. I returned to Saks and sought out the customer service desk, where a nice woman pointed me in the direction of a New Jersey Transit bus stop and told me which lines would take me to the Port Authority.

  Done.

  I made it home at around nine-thirty in the evening, utterly exhausted.

  “So where have you been?” Gram asked. I realized I’d never called her to tell her I was going to be home late. She’d still assumed we were having a Musketeers production meeting at six-thirty in the living room. “I was so worried about you.”

  Damn. I hate doing that to her. I apologized and explained that I’d gotten so caught up in the Hunts’ dysfunctional mishegas, as Uncle Earwax would have said, that I totally forgot to apprise her of my plans. I told her all about my evening with Ms. Hunt and Regina at the bridal
salon. “Can you imagine her calling such attention to her own daughter’s underendowed bosom?” I said.

  “If she’d been my mother, I’d have decked her,” Gram said.

  Winter turned to spring, the near-affair with Tony DiCarlo receded into memory, the pigeons returned to Central Park, and Regina Hunt’s wedding plans were in full swing. I sat at my ARMPIT desk “looking busy,” not with the Musketeers’ cookbook—which was now completed and waiting to be marketed by us to potential backers of our theatrical production—but with frequent wedding-related communications. Since it was rather obvious that my tasks had nothing to do with research marketing and promotion industrial trends, Ms. Hunt had instructed me to keep my voice low so that our co-workers couldn’t glean the substance of my conversations. Of course, everyone in the office knew what was going on. I’d even heard rumors that Ms. Hunt was on her way out the door. If that was the truth, then she probably had little to lose by spending company time orchestrating her daughter’s wedding.

  Lucky Rafe, though. He’d been offered a three-month extension of his national tour, which, naturally, he’d accepted, so he wasn’t planning to return to New York until September.

  I was in Ms. Hunt’s office going over the list of invitees to the Great Event when something struck me. Not that I expected it—I was, after all, simply Ms. Hunt’s temporary executive assistant, but—

  “Alice, I hope you won’t be insulted if Regina and I don’t include you on this list. We’re looking at nearly two hundred dollars a plate, and I don’t feel it’s appropriate to invite you.”

  I swallowed hard. I had absolutely no desire to attend Regina Hunt’s wedding. Still, this felt like a slap in my face after all the months of work I’d been doing to help in the planning of it. I was perfectly aware that I was getting paid to handle whatever Ms. Hunt threw at me, and I knew how expensive it all was. Nevertheless, it seemed ungracious to make a point of not sending me an invitation.