There was a warm reception to this idea.
“I have one other piece of news,” she said. “Tonight, to celebrate all the work we’ve done, I want to have a little party.”
This was a surprise to Scarlett. She glanced over to Eric, who beamed widely at her.
“I’ll supply all the food and drink,” she went on. “So, we break at five and reconvene at eight.”
The idea of the party roused the group, and they threw themselves into the work. At five, Mrs. Amberson forced everyone out except Scarlett.
“You didn’t tell me you were doing this,” Scarlett said, as they stood outside and Mrs. Amberson waved toward a van that was pulling up at the curb.
“I like surprises,” she said. “And I certainly owe you and your brother and Eric some thanks. Now, let’s get these things inside.”
Mrs. Amberson had ordered a substantial amount of food, along with several cases of beer and two cases of wine.
“For the over twenty-ones, of course,” she said with a smile. “As for you, there is underage, and then, there is underage. I believe a taste of wine is perfectly acceptable, but please stick to one glass tonight. Now, let’s work on ambience.”
It was a strangely pleasant interlude. If there was one thing Mrs. Amberson was good at, it was creating a good atmosphere. From one of the many boxes in the back, she produced a hundred or more tealight candles and strings of lights. Together, they created a bar out of crates and chairs, which Mrs. Amberson draped in fabric. They dangled the lights around the room, lined the stage with candles, created a center stage area and a few little clusters of chairs along the sides of the room. Slowly, the big dusty room was transformed into a softly lit hall.
Even her stories got more entertaining. Broadway flops, discos, schemes she’d used to get auditions…Mrs. Amberson was actually an interesting person when she wasn’t barking out orders or using Scarlett for one of her schemes. She was deeply engrossed in a story when the actors came drifting back, correctly guessing that all of the supplies had already arrived, and the sooner they got there, the quicker they could get at them.
Scarlett hadn’t really talked with the other cast members much before, but they all proved to be nice, and surprisingly interested in her. Over the course of the night, there was some impromptu singing. Hamlet got up and did a hilariously overdone version of the “To be or not to be” soliloquy. Eric and Spencer were called upon to do some of their usual routine, which they did with more manic energy than normal, throwing each other all around the room. Annoying Jeff tried to join in, but was rapidly frightened off by the speed and genuine skill it took not to get hurt. Scarlett kept an eye on Stephanie while this was going on, and sure enough, she was watching Spencer with a rapt expression. Scarlett felt a flush of pride—she really did have the best brother in the world.
Then the room broke into smaller groups. Mrs. Amberson sat with Trevor and some actors and told stories of her Broadway days. Out of the corner of her eye, Scarlett saw Spencer leaning in to talk to Ophelia. From the way he was smiling and joking with her, Scarlett could tell that he was in heavy flirting mode. While she was glad for that, it really wasn’t something she wanted to watch. She drifted around, standing with various groups and listening to them talk. They all accepted her, but she couldn’t really join in with any conversation. It was all very theatery. She was starting to feel out of place, when Eric popped up from behind one of the poles that lined the edge of the room.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice was slurring just slightly, but not enough that the words slid out of place. “Meet me out front in five minutes?”
He vanished before she could answer. Scarlett had to take a heaving breath. Five minutes. She looked around to see if anyone had just noticed what transpired, but everyone was busy talking. She quietly got her bag from the corner of the room. When she went outside, Eric was there, staring into the driver’s window of someone’s car.
“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand and hurrying her down the block. “I should have showed you this before.”
They went four blocks to see whatever it was that Eric wanted to show her, finally stopping in front of a fairly run-down apartment building, one of hundreds that dotted the East Village.
“Wait,” he said, throwing himself up against the door. “Wait a second. Before you go in. I just want to say, you don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not worried,” she said. This wasn’t true. She was experiencing a kind of terror, but a pleasant terror.
“No,” he slurred. “Remember. I am Southern. I am a gentleman. I just need you to know that. If you feel uncomfortable, you just tell me, and we go back in a second, okay? I’ve got iced tea and a television, and we can just drink iced tea and watch TV if you want. That’s all I’m saying. Or we could not go up. I wouldn’t be offended.”
He was drunk, possibly even playing it up to make his point, but it was all very sincere. He looked both hopeful and worried.
“It’s okay,” she said.
He smiled so deeply she felt her eyes water.
The lobby had a cracked mosaic floor and smelled like old pizza boxes. There were stickers for a political rally pasted all over the circuit breaker box. He didn’t let go of Scarlett’s hand or slow down the entire way to his apartment. He took the steps two at a time and had the door hanging open when she got there. It was dark inside the apartment. He went in first and turned on all the lights.
“Welcome to the palace,” he said, backing up against the refrigerator to let her past.
Eric’s apartment was a tiny studio, the kind that reminded Scarlett that most people in the city didn’t live in five-story hotels, no matter how decrepit they were. The room had an uneven floor and was just wide enough for a bed and a canvas chair. Those were the only real pieces of furniture. The kitchen—it if could be called that—was about the size of the back seat of a car and was full of miniaturized appliances. There was only one small set of shelves, and they were packed to the point of groaning, so most of his things were piled neatly and pushed against the walls—books, scripts, DVDs, piles of clothes. Everything was careful and neat.
“This is where I live,” he said, offering her the room’s only chair. “It’s not as nice as where you live.”
“I like it,” Scarlett said. And it was true. Eric could have lived in a box behind a pizza place, and she would have said she liked it and meant it.
“You know what? If I went to school in North Carolina, I could rent an apartment about twelve times this size for about half as much. Anyway, I have something to show you. Just sit there. Don’t look. Close your eyes.”
Scarlett slowly closed her eyes. She heard things being shifted around.
“Okay, open!”
He was holding up a boxed set of Gone With the Wind DVDs.
“This isn’t the normal version,” he said gravely. “Oh, no. This one has everything, all the extra footage. It has like…nine hundred hours of footage. If you’re in my family, this is what you watch on Christmas. My grandma gave this to me when I moved here so I wouldn’t forget the glorious cause.”
He set it on the floor by her feet and then went and sat on his bed, which was the only other piece of furniture on offer. Then he seemed to think better of it and sat in the middle of the floor.
“When I first met you,” he said, “I was so amazed to meet someone named Scarlett. I thought it was a sign or something. I had come to New York, and there was Scarlett, and she lived in a hotel. And she had beautiful blonde curls…”
He put the tips of his fingers together and touched them a few times. For several minutes, he said nothing at all. Then he dragged himself over to the foot of the chair and moved the wayward curl out of her eye.
“That’s always there,” he said. “I always want to move it. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s okay,” she replied, her voice dry.
“The thing…from the other day…”
He waited, as if think
ing that Scarlett would need some time to recall the kissing.
“In the theater?” she asked.
“Yeah. That. Did you…like that?”
“It was the best thing that ever happened to me,” she replied, with a sudden and surprising candor.
“So, if it happened again…you wouldn’t be upset?”
Only a shake of the head this time. Saying “no” was way too complicated. He reached up his hand, offering her help down from the chair. When he kissed her this time, he leaned her back against the floor, guarding her head with his hand. Scarlett lost all sense of where she was, or anything else that could possibly have been happening when the whole thing was broken by the most horrible buzzing noise that she had ever heard.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just my door. Hold on.”
Spencer’s voice entered the room, very loudly.
“Hey,” he said. “I can’t find Scarlett. Is she up there with you?”
“Uh…” Eric looked down at Scarlett. “Yeah. She is. We’re coming down now. Meet you in a second.”
Scarlett looked at the clock. It was one-thirty in the morning. That had to be wrong. She looked to her watch for confirmation, and the DVD display, and the readout on the little orange microwave. They all said a variation of the same thing…1:32, 1:33, 1:34. How had it gotten so late? They must have been there for over two hours.
Eric leaned against his door and banged his head lightly against it in concern.
“That was your brother,” he said. “He didn’t sound very happy.”
“It’ll be fine,” Scarlett said. A quick glance in the mirror as she stood revealed a head of curls standing on end and a lot of makeup smudges around her eyes. She flattened the curls as best she could and rubbed away the blotches.
“Do you want me to go down with you, or…?”
“I should probably go by myself,” she said.
“But you’re okay?”
“Don’t worry,” she said taking a deep breath. “It’s just Spencer. It’ll be fine.”
He reached for her hand and rubbed a little circle on her palm with his fingers.
“I…” He shook his head. “I guess you have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
THE IMPOSSIBLE BREAK
Spencer was outside on the sidewalk, sitting on the stoop and drumming his fingers on the lid of one of the trash cans chained to the front of the building. His unicycle was balanced against his knee. There was a look in his eyes that Scarlett had never seen before—a distant, dim stare. She saw him notice her tousled hair and slightly rumpled clothes.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said. “I called you about a dozen times.”
Scarlett looked at her phone in confusion. The answer was depressingly dumb—it had run out of charge.
“Oh, it…”
She held it up to explain. This didn’t impress him much.
“Come on,” he said.
He said nothing as they waited five minutes for a free cab to come by. Spencer tossed the unicycle into the trunk. She got in and he slid beside her, keeping close to his side of the seat.
“I called home and covered for you,” he finally said in a low voice when they were halfway uptown. “That wasn’t easy. You were supposed to be home two hours ago. I told them we were working late and that I was with you. It’s a good thing I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, because I might not have.”
“You’re angry,” she said.
“Yeah,” he snapped. “I am seriously pissed.”
The cab made a frighteningly fast turn. She slid into him and then edged her way back.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.
There was no point in denial.
“I…couldn’t.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t?”
She was about to say, “Because Eric said not to.” But no matter how she put that, it was not going to come out well. She left the question unanswered as they rode up Third Avenue.
“Then you took off from the party without telling anyone where you were going. So, suddenly, you just aren’t there, you’re not answering your phone, you’re just gone. No one knew where you were, not even Mrs. Amberson. To be honest, Scarlett, it scared the crap out of me. I only went to Eric’s because I had no idea where else to look.”
The cab jerked to a halt in front of the Hopewell. Spencer reached into his pocket, pulled out some crumpled bills, and shoved them through the window to the driver. He kept three steps ahead of her while he unlocked the front door and didn’t say a word in the elevator. When they hit the fifth floor, he dropped the unicycle and stalked down to their parents’ room, the Diamond Suite, knocked on the door, and mumbled a few words of explanation.
His entire body stiffened as he walked past her to his room. She followed him inside. He started undressing, as if the conversation was over and she wasn’t even there.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I am. I swear.”
“I’m tired,” he said, tossing his shirt into the corner. “I get up early, remember?”
He climbed into bed, still in his shorts and shoes, but she didn’t leave. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at her. Spencer mad was actually a scary, but infrequently seen thing, like the Loch Ness Monster. He could hold a lot of emotion in the narrows of his face.
“Do you want to know what really bothers me?” he said. “What makes me mad is that you couldn’t just tell me. You looked right at me and lied to my face.”
“I…”
She was going to say had to. But she didn’t have to lie to Spencer. She just did. He had her dead to rights.
“Can I just ask,” he said, his voice reaching a sharp edge, “what you think is going to happen? He’s about to start college, Scarlett. You’re going to be a sophomore in high school. How’s that going to go? Do you think he’ll have time for you once he starts school?”
There was a meanness to this that was completely unfamiliar. It made her nauseous.
“So, you think he can’t like me?”
“Of course he likes you,” he said. “He’s a guy.”
“What does that mean?” she spat. “Are you just mad because you’re not dating anyone?”
Where had that come from? She didn’t mean that. It just came out.
“It means just what I said,” he replied. “This is a bad idea, all around. And this is my show you’re messing with.”
“Messing with?” she said. “This isn’t about you. He likes me. So what if he’s in your cast? And the only reason there’s even a show to go to is because of me.”
He rubbed his face hard with his hands, as if trying to make the view of her go away.
“Forget it,” he said. “I covered your story. I’m going to sleep.”
He flopped on his side, turning from her. She backed out of the room, waiting for any sign that he was going to keep talking. It didn’t come. When she was out in the hall, he got up and closed the door. And for the first time, she heard the sound of his bolt sliding shut.
ACT III
Almost every hotel in New York has experienced a death; therefore, it is no surprise that most hotels in New York have had reports of spectral activity.
In 1934, the Hopewell Hotel on the Upper East Side was well-known among the Broadway set. Its small size and au courant design made it an elegant enclave—and it was considerably more affordable than The Waldorf-Astoria or The St. Regis (where the Bloody Mary was invented in the King Cole Bar that very same year). Performers desiring decent accommodation and a friendly atmosphere kept the hotel going during the Depression. (It was also helpful that the hotel’s owner tended to turn a blind eye to room sharing. A room filled with too many guests was better than one with no guests at all.)
In June of that year, a would-be actress named Antoinette Hemmings moved into a room in the Hopewell called the Orchid Suite, which she shared with a theatrical secretary named Betty Spooner. Though Antoinette had done many chorus roles, sh
e had greater aspirations. It looked like she was on the verge of her first big break when she auditioned for the role of Hope Harcourt in the new Cole Porter musical, Anything Goes. A summer cold and a sudden attack of laryngitis derailed Antoinette’s dreams on the day of her final, critical audition.
Antoinette was crushed to miss such a massive opportunity. She was determined to get noticed some other way. She returned to the Hopewell and wrote a long note of instruction to Betty, including the name of the closest hospital and the phone number of a friendly newspaper reporter who covered the theater beat. After dressing herself in her diaphanous, pink, feather-edged dressing gown, she took a handful of sleeping pills, and washed them down with champagne…timing the entire event carefully to coincide with Betty’s return from work.
Unfortunately for Antoinette, the normally timely Betty was delayed. Instead of finding the elegant but still very much alive Antoinette draped elegantly over the bed, ready to be carried off to the hospital in her pink gown…she found the very dead body of Antoinette by the door. She had apparently realized in her last moments of consciousness that Betty was not going to be able to save her and made an attempt to get help.
In 1974, a guest in the Orchid Suite reported that a young woman in a pink gown knocked on his door. She asked if Mr. Cole Porter had called for her. The man was about to ask her who she was or why the longdead Cole Porter would have called her when he said she “vanished before my very eyes, like a lifting fog.”
—FROM 81 BIG APPLE GHOST TALES, CHAPTER 8, “HOTEL GHOSTS: THE GUESTS WHO NEVER CHECK OUT”
PUNCH IN A VELVET GLOVE
It should have been one of the best weeks of Scarlett’s life.
Mrs. Amberson was more or less out of Scarlett’s hair entirely. She had forgotten all about the book, and was spending the majority of her time running around the city doing what she called “social PR” for the show. She sent Scarlett in her place to watch and help with costumes. This meant that Scarlett had a full six hours a day to hang out with Spencer and watch Eric.
Suite Scarlett Page 17