Suite Scarlett

by Johnson, Maureen

  “It’s fine,” she said quickly. “I’m just trying to get away from seeing my brother making out with my boss. I think it will save me some money in future therapy.”

  Eric responded with a gratifying laugh.

  “She does lay it on a little thick,” he said. “I can see what you were saying about your first day. She kind of comes out of nowhere. Literally. Out of nowhere.”

  “Welcome to my life.”

  The deli was sadly all too close, and Eric’s scooter was chained to a tree next to it. He was the owner of one very old but still extremely stylish black scooter. Its obvious age and many dings made it seem so much better than the shiny new ones.

  “Online ad, six-hundred bucks,” he explained. “Another gift from the commercial. It conks out a lot, but I’ve been able to keep it running. Faster than the bus, you know?”

  He made no move to unchain it. Instead, he followed her in and walked with her past the Pringles, the empty steam trays, and giant stacks of cat food. This deli knew its people and kept a large selection of organic things in the back. They charged double for the convenience, but Mrs. Amberson never seemed to care.

  Scarlett was feverishly working out a good-bye when they stepped outside, but he made no move for his scooter.

  “I hope you don’t mind about this,” he said apologetically. “I just have this thing about girls walking alone in the city at night. I’d feel better if I could walk you back. I did promise your mother I’d make sure you were okay.”

  He smiled, revealing that even he knew this was absurd. Still, no movement. He leaned over her, occasionally throwing his glance in the direction of the hotel.

  “I guess we’ll be working together now,” he said.

  “I guess so.”

  “That’s great.”

  Something was going on, but Scarlett had no idea what. Eric blinked a few times, looked around, leaned against the wall. He was close enough that she could smell him—he had the faint odor of the same heavy-duty detergent they used, and a little oil, probably from the scooter.

  “I guess…” he said again, “I can see the door from here, so, yeah. Maybe I should get going. I’ll see you around?”

  What was this? Offering to walk her a few feet—retracting the offer. If it was anyone else, Scarlett would have been annoyed.

  “Guess I’ll go,” Scarlett said.

  She walked back as slowly and evenly as she could. She was too terrified to turn around until she got to the door, but sure enough, he was still watching. He hadn’t even started unchaining. He gave a little wave.

  This was very, very good.

  THE GURU

  There was a fervent knocking at the Orchid Suite door around five in the morning.

  “What?” Lola groaned, putting the pillow over her head. “Make it stop. It has to be Spencer. Kill him.”

  Scarlett dutifully rolled out of bed, tripping over her blanket, to kill her older brother as requested. She loved Spencer, but she saw Lola’s point in this case. But it wasn’t Spencer. It was Mrs. Amberson, dressed in a faintly see-through blue robe and not much else.

  “You weren’t answering your phone,” she said.

  Scarlett took a second to figure out what she herself was wearing. She looked down to find it was a stretched out T-shirt and a pair of underpants. She pulled the shirt down as much as she could with one hand.

  “Do you need something?” she asked.

  “I need you in forty-five minutes.”

  “I…”

  “Make it forty minutes. Do you have any matches?”

  “No,” Scarlett said.

  “Dammit.”

  She shut the door herself. Lola looked over from her bed, her blonde hair tumbled over her face.

  “She’s not going to do that a lot, is she?” she asked.

  Scarlett half-blindly reached for her shower basket and towel and pulled on some shorts. Out in the hall, she bumped into Spencer, who was unused to seeing anyone floating around when he got up. He was leaning out of the bathroom door and brushing his teeth with a puzzled look on his face. He held up one finger to Scarlett, indicating she should wait. He stepped into the bathroom, spitting out the toothpaste foam loudly.

  “Was that my new director, your boss, just now?” he asked. “Kind of naked?”

  “Yes,” she said flatly.

  “Does she do that every morning? Because if she does, I’m going to start being late more often.”

  “Don’t do this to me.”

  “That lady works out. Do you think she does Pilates? I hear that’s very effective.”

  “Spencer,” Scarlett said slowly. “Lola told me to kill you earlier. I’m thinking about taking her up on it.”

  Spencer held up his hands in surrender.

  “I’m just saying, if this is too early for you, she can come to my room at the crack of dawn. I am all about service.”

  He moved swiftly along when Scarlett gave him a stare. Even as a baby, Scarlett Martin had a stare that could remove a strip of wallpaper at ten feet, and it had not weakened with time.

  Scarlett was admitted to the Empire Suite forty minutes later by Mrs. Amberson, who was now dressed only in a matching chocolate-colored bra-and-panty set. An unlit cigarette hung from her lips, and a pile of discarded outfits were thrown all over the bed, all of them stretchy and dancerlike. Scarlet tried to avert her eyes, but it was impossible not to notice how slender and muscular Mrs. Amberson was, especially since Spencer had been kind enough to point it out.

  “Where are we going?” Scarlett asked.

  “We are going to see Billy Whitehouse.”

  “Who is Billy Whitehouse?” Scarlett asked.

  “A genius. A genius of the first order. Everyone in the theater world knows Billy. I knew him when he was just a poor young actor, right out of Yale. He was always unnaturally gifted with voice—had studied every great vocal technique in the western world. I also used to feed him for free at work, let him stay with me when he lost his apartment. He wore sneakers all the time because he couldn’t afford any other shoes. I watched him rise to become the great man he is today.”

  “Why are we going to see him at six-thirty in the morning?” Scarlett asked. “Don’t theater people come out at night?”

  “Billy is a busy man. Normally, his time is booked months in advance. But I helped him meet his husband. He makes time for me. Have an umeboshi plum. You look a little tired.”

  She thrust the box of the disgusting little plums at Scarlett and stood there until she took one. Scarlett ate it, cringed, and spit out the stone. Mrs. Amberson tucked the cigarette behind her ear and pulled on her outfit.

  Altogether too soon, Scarlett was being ushered out into the heavy morning, full of humidity and the first signs of New York morning traffic. Not even the dry cleaner was open yet. Scarlett never went out before the dry cleaner was open. Mrs. Amberson saw a still-burning cigarette on the ground and pounced on it, using it to light her own. Then she leapt into the street and easily snagged a cab, palming the cigarette as she did so. She mumbled something at the driver and settled back in her seat, slinking down to surreptitiously smoke.

  “This has been the problem all along,” she said.

  “What’s been what problem?” Scarlett said, stifling a yawn.

  “My voice. It’s like I have a…cork…a cork bottling up my thoughts…and keeping them from my head. It’s here. Here between my heart and my head.”

  She pointed at her throat with the cigarette.

  “My voice. My voice is locked up.”

  “You sound fine to me,” Scarlett said.

  “My inner voice! Are you always this literal? It makes me wonder what they teach you.”

  “They’re usually wasting our time with Geometry, French, and American Government,” Scarlett said, looking out the window and yawning until her eyes watered. “We don’t get to our inner voices until next year.”

  She could feel Mrs. Amberson staring at her neck.

 
“Don’t be snide, child,” she said mildly. “It’s bad for your chi. In any case, performers often go through this. When they get blocked, their voice literally locks up. They can’t sing. I saw it all the time in the theater. The throat is one of the body’s great gateways. It carries blood to the head. It carries nerve impulses from the brain to the rest of the body. When you think about it, we are all about our throats.”

  Scarlett ignored this and went back to sleep with her head against the cab window. She was jolted awake when the cab pulled to a jerky halt. They had stopped in front of one of the Broadway theaters, terrifying a tourist with a large coffee and an even larger camera. Mrs. Amberson tossed a bill through the opening and sprang out. She led Scarlett down to a door marked CAST AND CREW ONLY.

  It was amazingly dark inside that doorway. They were in a little hallway with a warren of rooms, stuffed with racks of clothes labeled with masking tape. Mrs. Amberson picked her way through, finally getting to a staircase leading up into a massive, partially lit stage.

  “Over here,” a very deep, very crisp voice called. “And be careful or you’ll kill yourself on those wires.”

  A man emerged from the darkness on the other side of the stage.

  “Billy!” Mrs. Amberson exclaimed.

  Billy was exceptionally tall, with immaculately groomed white hair. He wore a white shirt, light khaki pants, and white shoes. He looked like a librarian, or someone who might run an art museum. He greeted Mrs. Amberson by exchanging cheek-to-cheek kisses. Then, much to Scarlett’s surprise, he gently sniffed her head, like she was a flower.

  “You’ve been smoking,” he said.

  She looked down guiltily. This Billy appeared to have genuine power over her, and that meant he was interesting to Scarlett. He turned to her now and smiled kindly.

  “Amy’s dragged you out at this hour?” he said. “There’s coffee over by the piano, if you need it.”

  “O’Hara,” she said, “this is Billy Whitehouse. He can unblock the best, and if anyone needs an unblocking, it’s you. No offense.”

  Scarlett said hello and made her way to the pot. She took a seat off to the side, looking around at the endless depths of the ceiling, the miles of cords and cables, the taped Xs all over the floor, the cherry picker in front of the stage. Broadway kind of looked like a construction site during the day.

  She had no idea what unblocking was, but it was pretty enjoyable watching Mrs. Amberson getting ordered around for a change. For the first few minutes, Billy had her run in a circle, barefoot, in the middle of the stage. He started to command her to say single words, like “home,” “feel,” “kill,” “love,” all at different volumes. He made her cling to the wall, crawl across the floor, run laps from side to side on the stage. All the while, he stalked around her like a lion tamer.

  Scarlett watched this for a while, until the cool darkness of the theater lulled her back to sleep. She woke with a crick in her neck, her head hanging heavily off the back of the seat, to see Mrs. Amberson rolling from side to side on the floor, yelling the word “endless.”

  “I needed that,” she said, getting up and dusting herself off.

  “Why do I feel that you didn’t just come down here at the crack of dawn to do a tune-up?” he asked.

  “You have an uncanny ability to read me, Billy. As it happens, I have acquired a show.”

  “What do you mean you acquired a show?” he asked. “Wait. Never mind. Don’t answer that. I genuinely don’t want to know.”

  “These are good actors,” she said. “Very good. But they need molding, solid vocal training. And you are the best…”

  “Amy…”

  “I would never ask this from you on a whim,” she said. “Not you.”

  A grave moment passed between them. Billy walked over to the piano and picked up a datebook and flipped through some pages.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Hamlet.”

  “And I take it you need me immediately?”

  “Today.”

  More flipping.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “You’ve run into a little luck. I wouldn’t be doing this for anyone but you, but…I can do two evenings this week. Tonight and Friday. Four hours on Saturday during the day. That’s all I’ve got. Then I have to spend some quality time with my long-neglected family at the beach. I haven’t had any time off in months.”

  “Billy!”

  She embraced him aggressively.

  “You’re out of practice,” Billy replied, shaking his head. “The smoking makes it worse.”

  “I know, I know. No lectures, please.”

  “It’s my job,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “You are just a nosy bitch.”

  “Also my job. I’ll expect to see you and your new company at my studio at seven.”

  THE OTHER FAMOUS WHITEHOUSE

  After the early morning session, Scarlett was released at nine-thirty in the morning with one order—contact every single actor and crew member and make sure they got to Billy’s studio on time. That meant waiting for Spencer to get home from work, which really meant going back to sleep for an hour or so.

  The lingering smell of overly strong coffee and burned toast wafted through the lobby as Scarlett entered it. Their father was on his knees in the far corner of the lobby, by the elevator, hammer in hand.

  “Some of the boards are coming up again,” he said. “I can’t hammer them down. Oh, well. I’ll do what we always do.”

  He pushed one of the canary-yellow chairs across the room to the spot. It didn’t quite fit there, but he seemed content.

  “If you have time,” he said, “I could use a hand cleaning up and resetting the Sterling Suite. We have someone coming tonight.”

  “Sure,” Scarlett said sleepily. “I’ll do it in a few.”

  “Oh, and Lola’s upstairs. I don’t think she’s feeling well.”

  Sure enough, Lola was in bed, but she didn’t look sick. She was sitting with her knees tucked up, and she looked more pale than usual.

  “I have a problem, Scarlett,” she said.

  Scarlett sat down on the edge of her bed and waited. It took Lola a moment to bring herself to speak.

  “They told me not to come in today,” she said. “They fired me.”

  Scarlett wasn’t about to say “I told you so.” Lola had obviously been chastising herself all morning. She shook her head over and over.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she said. “I honestly didn’t think they would. I have one of the best sales records on the floor. I really thought I was fine. I would never have taken the days off otherwise, I swear.”

  Scarlett reached over for her hand.

  “You don’t need to convince me,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t have.”

  “Mom and Dad are already so worried. About the bills, Marlene, Spencer’s career…I can’t believe I let this happen. Especially with Spencer doing this stupid show now. This is such a bad time.”

  It didn’t seem necessary to slam Spencer in this, but Scarlett let it go. Lola had truly loved her job. She was good at it.

  “You can get another one in a second,” Scarlett said, trying to sound cheerful. “You can tell Mom and Dad you got a better offer.”

  Lola took a long, slow breath and wiped at her face.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I was thinking it might be better if I worked in a spa. This could be a good opportunity.”

  She changed the head move to a nod, to affirm herself.

  “I have another favor to ask,” she said. “And I know I already owe you. I’ve decided to go to Boston with Chip this weekend.”

  Scarlett contained a groan.

  “I know,” Lola said. “This is what caused the problem in the first place. But I have no job now. Let me just do this, and then I promise…”

  “You can go wherever you want,” Scarlett said.

  “I know, but…there’s a bi
g Powerkids event on Saturday night. A dinner at the Hard Rock Café.”

  “Let me guess,” Scarlett said. “You want me to take her.”

  “I think that it’s good that you and Marlene…bond more. I mean, I won’t be living at home forever. Neither will Spen…well, Spencer may.”

  Scarlett was much more tempted this time to reply to the Spencer-bash, but Lola really did look contrite.

  “What are you going to tell Mom and Dad?” she asked.

  “That I’m going to Boston to do a weekend intensive on skin care for one of the product lines. You don’t have to worry about a cover story. You don’t have to lie.”

  “Fine,” Scarlett said. “But just this time.”

  Scarlett tried to sleep, but Lola was still sitting there, palpably fretting and talking to Chip on the phone. She went down the hall to Spencer’s room to sleep on his bed, but he returned soon after.

  “You’re going to see someone named Billy Whitehouse,” she mumbled. “Can you call everyone and tell them?”

  “Don’t mess with my head,” he said, dropping his bag on the floor. “I’m still nervous after last night.”

  “I’m not messing with you,” she said. “You’re going to see some guy named Billy Whitehouse.”

  “The Billy Whitehouse?”

  “Well, it was a Billy Whitehouse,” she said. “He was in a theater on Broadway.”

  Spencer got very agitated and started pacing in the three empty feet of floor space.

  “You’re not messing with me?” he asked seriously.

  “Why would I make this up? Do you know him?”

  “Billy Whitehouse, founder of the Whitehouse Method?” he said. “The guy who almost single-handedly changed the way live theater was performed in America? Former director of The Simply Shakespeare Company, pretty much the most famous Shakespeare group of the eighties? Former Juilliard professor? The person the best celebrity actors go to for guidance when they can’t nail a part? This guy?”

  He whipped a book from one of his lopsided bookshelves called You Are the Voice and flipped to the back, revealing a picture of the same man she had met a few hours before. He was looking coolly at an actor writhing on the floor.