At least they would take Lalea out of the incubator once in a while and let Cassie hold her. The preemies’ mothers weren’t allowed to even touch them, their skin was so delicate and tender, translucent to the point that you could see the blue veins, almost watch the blood as it ran through their tiny bodies. Most of them were under three pounds. There was one baby boy who weighed just one pound, and would have fit in the palm of her hand. But nobody could hold him. All the parents of the preemies could do was watch them, talk to them, and maybe once in a while gently touch the bottoms of their little feet. It was a quiet group, those other six mothers. They all had husbands who came with them, at least part of the time, men who took turns watching the babies, and they all learned soon enough that Cassie had no husband. They didn’t ask questions and she didn’t offer answers, but her cheeks burned when she caught them looking at her, pity on their faces.
Her mother brought her fresh clothing once a week, and Baby sometimes came on the weekends and brought magazines, which Cassie pored over, searching for pictures of Lale. Bernadette came when she could leave the restaurant, always bringing food.
“Honey, I wish you’d try to eat something,” Bernadette said, handing her a bag. “I never thought I’d say it, but you’re getting down to skin and bones and you need to keep up your strength. Won’t you at least have a little of this good tomato soup? It’s still hot here in this thermos. I brought you a pimento cheese to go with it. Lots of mayo, like you like it, and sweet pickles. Don’t that sound good?”
“Thanks, Bernadette. That sounds real good. You can leave it and I’ll eat it later. I am eating. I really am. It just seems like nothing sticks.”
It wasn’t true. Cassie hadn’t had a real meal since the night she gave birth to Lalea. Food stuck in her throat and she gagged when she smelled it cooking in the cafeteria, so she didn’t go down there. She drank Tab, and once in a while bought a package of peanuts or cheese crackers from the vending machines. Still, she burned with nervous energy and walked the halls as fast as she could in an endless circle. The nurses had gotten used to her and paid her no mind when she passed their station over and over. The weight had melted off. She was hardly aware of it until the day she pulled up her pants in the toilet and they fell back down to the floor. She had to ask the nurse for a safety pin to keep them up. She stared at herself in the women’s room mirror, hardly recognizing the face looking at her. For the first time she remembered, she could see her cheekbones and hip bones. Her engagement ring got too big, and after the third time it fell off her finger, she put it away in its green velvet box, afraid she would lose it. It was almost a relief. After Lale had left, she’d worn it for a long time, hoping that one day he would come walking in through the door, but after she saw him in the L&M ad in Playboy magazine with that cute curly-haired blonde, she knew he wasn’t coming back. She didn’t blame him. What was there for him with her in Buchanan, Arkansas? Just a hard life of being poor, farming, and living with a girl he didn’t love and a deformed baby. She had cried so many tears there were none left. Now her eyes just felt dry, sandy, and hot.
Dr. Fulton had sent Dr. Nick Barker, a plastic surgeon, to examine Lalea, even though he knew surgery was something that would probably never happen. Dr. Barker told Cassie he couldn’t operate on the baby until she was a year and a half old, and then she would be in for a life of operations. Painful operations.
“She would look better and be able to eat, but I have to be honest, Cassie, if she lives, she’s never going to look normal.”
If she lives. And if she lived, all those surgeries would be expensive. They didn’t have any insurance. None of them had ever been sick, except for her grandfather, and he had Medicare—thank God President Johnson did that good thing, at least. Her father had died way too young of a heart attack in front of the TV set when she was in the eighth grade, and never spent any time in the hospital.
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing Lalea’s daddy’s not here to see her,” Cassie said, almost to herself.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where is her daddy?” Dr. Barker said carefully.
“Oh, he’s in New York City. He’s a big model in the magazines. Isn’t that funny? He was the handsomest boy in Buchanan, and now he makes his living with his looks. It seems almost like somebody played a trick on him, making his baby like this, don’t it? If she’d looked like him, she would have been so beautiful.”
“I think she would have been a beauty from your side, too, Cassie.”
“Me? Are you kidding? I don’t think so. I have this big old nose, and I’m fat.” He stared at her in disbelief. “I mean…I used to be fat.” She still couldn’t get used to her new body.
“I’ll keep in touch with Dr. Fulton. Here’s my card. Call me if I can help you in any way.”
She knew Dr. Barker wasn’t expecting to operate on Lalea, and if he did, there was no way to pay for it. Bernadette had been good about her taking time off from work, but Cassie knew she was going to have to hire somebody else soon. The restaurant was just too much work for one person, and Cassie felt bad about that.
“Did you ever find anybody to work for me?” she asked Bernadette now.
“Well, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Yes, I hired Melanie Johnston, but she knows when you get ready to come back, the job’s still yours. Oh, honey, I wish you would at least go home for a night or two and get some sleep. Lalea will be just fine. These nurses here know what they’re doing. Won’t you let me take you home, just for one night?”
“I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me.”
“I worry. Can’t help it. We all worry. Nobody will ever recognize you, you’re so skinny.”
“Yeah. I guess I am. That’s something I never thought I’d say.”
“Well, no black cloud without some small silver lining, right?” Bernadette tried to smile, but she didn’t think it was such a silver lining.
Bernadette scrubbed up, put on the yellow suit, and leaned over the incubator. Even though she had seen the baby several times, it was always a shock. Lalea had a feeding tube down her gaping nose, held in place by tape, and there were I.V. tubes in her heel. Cassie joined her and smiled.
“Look at her ears. Don’t she have the prettiest ears? Just like rosy little seashells. And look at her hands. She has Lale’s hands. You can always tell the daddy because the little fingers are alike. I have my daddy’s little finger.” She looked at her hands. Bernadette looked at her own hands.
“Well, I’ll be. I guess you could say my little finger looks like my daddy’s, too. He had big old rough coal miner’s hands, and mine ain’t much better from all the dishwater and burns. Seems like I just can’t keep from burning myself.” Hot tears scalded her eyes, but she knew it would just set Cassie off again if she cried, so she held them back.
“Well, I’ll run on, darlin’,” she said after taking a deep breath. “It’s a long drive. If you want me to come and get you, just call me collect from the pay phone, anytime, and I’ll be here. Think about just going home for one night. Annie can come sit with Lalea.”
“I might. Thanks, Bernadette, for the soup and the pimento cheese. You’re the best.”
Bernadette left, and Cassie settled down in her recliner and took out the latest issue of Playboy. On page twenty-six was a big picture of Lale, sitting on the back of an MG convertible, a girl with blond ponytails beside him. Cassie ran her finger over the page, then put it into her bag and tried to sleep.
24
* * *
MAX’S KANSAS CITY
There was a long line of people waiting behind a red velvet rope to get into Max’s Kansas City when we pulled up on the Harley. They all turned and looked at us, and I guess we did look a little like a traveling road show.
“So here we are, Sal,” Ron said. “I think I’ll stick with the plan to go on home. Cherry, want me to drop you off at your apartment?”
“NOOO! Cherry has to go with me! Please come with me, Cherry. It is so much fun, and I ne
ed somebody to be with me until my nerves, which have been jerked out by the very roots, calm down. Please. Please, please, please.”
The excitement had woken me up and I wasn’t as tired as I thought I was. Plus, I was curious about Max’s, which Sal had talked so much about, so I got off the bike with him.
“I’ll stay with Sal for a while, Ron. You go on ahead.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” He gave me a little peck on the cheek, then turned to Sal. “Sal, I’m trusting you to take good care of this girl. See that she gets home safe and sound.”
“I’m a big girl, Ron. I can get myself home. All you have to do in this town is stick out your hand and a yellow car stops.”
“They all stop for you—that’s true.” He smiled, then roared up Park Avenue South into the traffic and out of sight.
As we walked up to the door, I got a better look at the people behind the rope. They were mostly clean-cut types with short hair and suits, the women wearing nice dresses and heels, tasteful jewelry. A small black woman with thick glasses sat on a stool by the door, admitting people, but it seemed like the ones she was picking to go in were ones who looked most likely to be kept out. Some were dressed in outlandish hippie outfits, ratty old fur coats, dirty jeans, with long scraggly hair and chipped nail polish. A few were like Sal, men wearing women’s party outfits, sequins and feathers and bright makeup. It was a shock when I first saw Sal as Miss Sally, but he did look pretty good as a woman. Better than most of them.
The woman on the stool acted like she owned the place, and I could tell at one glance that she was one tough lady. As people in the nicely dressed line came up, she’d look them over and say things like, “Sorry, you can’t come in with no jacket,” Or, “Sorry, you can’t come in—it’s couples only,” or if they were a couple and had a jacket on, she’d say, “Sorry, you can’t come in—you have on brown shoes.” There was no rhyme or reason to it. People’s shoulders sagged and some of them walked away, their faces red with embarrassment or anger, while others just waited around to see if she would let them in anyhow. Sometimes she did, if they waited long enough. I was a little scared of her and hung back, but Sal grabbed my hand and we went right past the people in the line, all of whom glowered at us, and he gave her a big hug.
“Dorothy! You’re looking marvelous!”
“Hey, Sally. You look a little wilted, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“I am wilted, Dorothy! You have no idea what just happened to me tonight right here on the streets of New York City! If it weren’t for my friends rescuing me, I would be dead, dead, dead! Beaten to a bloody pulp by a screaming mob of gay-bashing New Jersey rednecks!”
“Well, that’s awful, Sal, but here you are safe and sound and all’s well that ends, and all that.” She pulled on a cigarette and narrowed her eyes up at me, squinting through her cat’s-eye glasses. “Who’s your friend? I haven’t seen this one before.”
I guess I fit in with the freaks, considering my outfit, windblown hair standing straight up, and the fact I was carrying a big yellow…well, you know what.
“Dorothy Dean, this is Cherry Marshall. Cherry, Dorothy. She’s going to be a big, big model.”
“She’s a big one already. When you look like her, it’s either become a model or join the circus. Hey, Cherry. Nice outfit. Nice duck. So go on in and have a drink. Unwind. Comb out your nerves.”
I smiled at her, but couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I wasn’t sure if I should be offended or not, so I decided not to be. We walked through the door into a long room of tables with a bar over on the left wall. I did a double take when I recognized a few people who were sitting on the stools and at the tables there. Then I did a triple take.
“Is that who I think it is, Sal?”
I pointed discreetly behind my hand so the person couldn’t see it.
“If you think it’s Robert Rauschenberg it is. He’s here all the time. Hi, Bob!” he called out, waving, and Bob waved back, like they were old buddies or something. Bob smiled a pearly smile at me while I smiled back at him and kept on walking behind Sal. I couldn’t believe it. It really was Robert Rauschenberg and he was sitting with a group of people, most of whose pictures I had seen in ARTnews magazine. I think the skinny guy who looked like a big bird was Roy Lichtenstein, the one who did those pop-art cartoon things, like panels from lurid women’s romance comic books. Some of the others I had seen before but couldn’t remember their names. One might have been Larry Rivers. But I thought all of them were famous painters, and I noticed then that the walls were full of their paintings! It was unbelievable. Like a museum with food.
Louise Nevelson was at the bar wearing her trademark head scarf, heavy blue eye shadow, and three-inch-long false eyelashes. Louise, unlike the Duck Guy, was a real legend. We had studied her in art class at DuVall University and made Nevelson-like sculptures out of wood scraps we got from the lumberyard. I tried to be cool and not stare as I stood close enough to reach out and touch her, waiting for Sal while he popped into the bathroom to fix his wig and makeup. He made his way back to me, stopping at nearly every table to tell his almost-getting-killed story again. He was still a little hysterical, waving his arms around dramatically. Of course, Sal was always a little hysterical, so it was hard to tell if he was really traumatized or just enjoying acting out the story.
I was having a good time gaping at all the art and had just spotted one of Louise’s sculptures on the other side of the room when a creepy guy with a terminal case of dandruff pushed by me and walked right up to Louise Nevelson and put his hand on her shoulder. She turned, gave him a look that would have withered an undertaker, and with two fingers moved his hand away like it was a dead fish.
“Louise!” he said, not for a minute giving up as he tried to wedge in beside her. “You look wonderful! How are you?”
“Do I know you?” Louise said, frost heavy in her voice.
“Louise! Of course you do! I just saw you at your opening at the Whitney! Don’t you remember? I’ve seen you at every one of your shows! We’ve had long talks. We know each other well!”
“Did I ever f*** you?”
I was shocked that someone like her would say that word right out loud. The man cleared his throat, a little red-faced.
“Well, no, Louise. I’m afraid I never had that pleasure.”
“Then I couldn’t have known you that well.”
Sal caught up with me and nudged me on through the crowd. A guy with long greasy hair was sitting by the cigarette machine picking his nose. A big nose. I was disgusted and was about to ask how that one had managed to get in, when Sal waved to him.
“Hey, Mickey!” He blew a kiss and Mickey smiled a big white smile, a silver tooth sparking the light.
“That’s Mickey, the owner. He’s amazing. You’ll love him. He’ll love you, no question.” Mickey was surrounded and it was too hard to get across the room, so we continued on. I was glad. I didn’t want to shake his hand, seeing where it had just been.
“The painters and the writers hang out in here in the front room,” he said, like a tour guide, “but we’re going to the back room, which is a lot more fun. Come on. You’re in for a surprise!”
Sal waved and blew kisses to more people as we passed, and I felt like every eye was on us. There was a weird red light beam, like an electric current, shooting across the restaurant, and it continued far into the back room, lighting up a doorway that glowed like the gates of hell. I felt a little apprehensive, like the room would be full of Hieronymus Bosch characters or something.
“What is this room? Why is it red like that? Where is that beam coming from?”
“It’s a laser beam. A friend of Mickey’s who lives across the street let him put the machine in his apartment and shoot it across right through the front window into the back room. Cool, huh?”
“Yeah. Cool.” But it made me nervous. It was only light but I could imagine it would burn a hole in you if you reached up
and touched it. As we passed the coffee machines and neared the door, I had a feeling of vertigo, like I was on a high board, about to dive into a pool full of blood.
We walked in and Sal again stopped at nearly every table to say hello, giving the people air kisses while I stood back holding the duck and feeling stupid. The room made everyone look red, and it took me a minute to get used to it. I felt like Dorothy Gale, who had wandered into the Ruby City of Oz by mistake. The tablecloths were deep red and a big inflamed fluorescent sculpture in the corner added more thick crimson to the atmosphere. In this light, everyone was beautiful, or at least interesting-looking. If they had any zits you couldn’t see them. Right beside where I was standing sat an extremely tall, handsome blond guy who could have been a male model in GQ and an exotic girl with wild blackberry hair and an armful of silver bangle bracelets. Her thick eyebrows went up at the ends like ravens’ wings and I thought of painted gypsy caravans with her dancing in full skirts in front of a roaring fire, him in a Brooks Brothers suit watching her. I didn’t want them to see me staring, so I glanced down to my other side and realized I was right in front of Jane Fonda and her husband Roger Vadim. She had her hair cut in a perfect shag and he did, too, his with a little pointed curl on his forehead that made him look devilish. They were smoking and drinking and talking, just like they weren’t movie stars. I always thought people like that would have bodyguards or something, but here everyone was just sitting around like normal people, relaxed and having a good time.
Except for me. There were at least two other women in the room who had white hair like mine, one of them also had white eyebrows, and all of a sudden I didn’t feel so special. I didn’t belong here. I wanted to turn and go home, and if Sal hadn’t finally come back just at that moment, taken me by the arm, and pulled me on toward a table, I would have.
Over in the corner, crowded together in a big round black vinyl booth, was a group of weird-looking characters and, believe it or not, the guy in the middle looked just like Andy Warhol. It was Andy Warhol. Nobody else would look like that on purpose. He had on round, dark sunglasses with transparent rose-colored rims and a black leather coat. In the light his skin was the color of bubble gum and his white wig looked pink. Frankly, I’d never been a huge Andy Warhol pop-art fan. His Campbell’s soup cans and big multiple portraits were clever ideas, but it all seemed too easy, somehow, the blowing up the black-and-white photos and just smearing some paint on them. I’m not even sure he did it himself. I read he had a factory and a lot of people worked making his art. My favorite painters had always been Alice Neel and Edward Hopper, and my style was kind of a cross between theirs, people in bright sunlight, moody like Hopper, but a little looser, like Neel. I liked to put paint on a canvas and create a person, not just color one in like the Warhol photo ones.
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