Maggie stopped a girl in a cowboy hat. “Are you here for the auditions?”
The girl made a sour face. “I was. But they took the first three thousand people, and told the rest of us to go home.”
Maggie’s heart sank even further. This would not do. This would not do at all! She hurried through the crowd as fast as her high heels would carry her, finally locating a harried-looking woman with a walkie-talkie and a jacket with a yellow “MTV” logo on the back. Confidence, Maggie told herself, and tapped the woman on her shoulder.
“I’m here for the audition,” she announced.
The woman shook her head. “Sorry, hon,” she said, without looking up from her clipboard. “Doors are closed.”
Maggie reached into her backpack, grabbed her purloined bottle of Midol, and rattled it in the woman’s face. “I have a medical condition,” she said.
The woman looked up and cocked her eyebrow. Maggie wrapped her fingers around the label, but not fast enough. “Midol?”
“I have debilitating cramps,” Maggie announced. “And I’m sure that you’re familiar with the Americans with Disabilities Act.”
Now the woman was staring at her curiously.
“You can’t discriminate against me just because of my troubled uterus,” Maggie said.
“Are you serious?” the woman grumbled . . . but Maggie could see that she was more amused than irritated.
“Look, just give me a chance,” she pleaded. “I came all the way from Philadelphia!”
“There are people here who came all the way from Idaho.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Idaho! Do they even have cable there? Look,” she continued, “I went through extensive preparations to be here.”
The woman raised her eyebrows.
“Would it interest you to know,” Maggie continued, “that I’ve had a very personal portion of my anatomy waxed into the MTV logo?”
For one dizzying instant, Maggie thought the woman was actually going to ask to see. Instead, she laughed, scribbled something on her clipboard, and beckoned to Maggie. “I’m Robin. Follow me,” she said. Once she’d turned, Maggie jumped into the air, clicked her heels together, and gave a little shriek of glee. She’d made it! Well, she’d made it part of the way, she thought, hurrying after Robin. Now it was just a question of wowing the judges, and she’d be home free.
Inside, the corridors were even more jammed than the sidewalks had been. There were guys with cornrows and bandanas and jeans that drooped toward the floor rapping softly to themselves, gorgeous girls in miniskirts and low-cut tops preening into hand-held mirrors. Maggie quickly deduced that most of them were in their early twenties, and subtracted five years from her age on the form Robin gave her to fill out.
“Where are you from?” asked the girl in front of her, a tall, skinny girl who’d done herself up like Ginger Spice.
“Philadelphia,” said Maggie, figuring that she had nothing to lose by being gracious. “I’m Maggie.”
“I’m Kristy. Are you nervous?” asked the girl.
Maggie signed her form with a flourish. “Not really. I don’t even know what they want us to do.”
“Talk into the camera for thirty seconds,” said Kristy, and sighed. “I wish they’d have us perform or something. I’ve taken dance classes since I was four. I can do tap and jazz, I can sing, I’ve got a monologue memorized . . .”
Maggie gulped. She’d taken dance classes, too—twelve years’ worth—but no acting, and the only thing she’d memorized for the occasion was Rose’s address, so MTV would know where to send flowers after she’d won. Kristy ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know,” she murmured, piling her hair on top of her head, then letting it tumble back down toward her shoulders. “Up or down?”
Maggie studied Kristy. “How about a French twist? Here,” she said, digging in her backpack for her hairbrush, hairspray, bobby pins, and elastics. The line inched forward. By the time Maggie made it to the front, three hours had flown by, and she’d done Kristy’s hair and redone her makeup, smoothed glittery gold eye-shadow onto an eighteen-year-old named Kara, and lent Latisha, who’d been behind her in the line, Rose’s Nine West boots.
“Next!” called the bored-looking guy behind the camera.
She took a deep breath, feeling no nerves at all, feeling nothing but a surpreme confidence, a blazing joy as she stepped into the tiny blue-carpeted cubicle beneath the circle of burning-hot light. Behind the cameraman, Robin grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
“Tell us your name, please,” she said.
Maggie smiled. “I’m Maggie May Feller,” she said, her voice low and clear. God, she could see herself on the monitor hanging overhead! She sneaked a quick peek, and there she was! On TV! Looking terrific!
“Maggie May?” asked Robin.
“My mother named me after the song,” said Maggie. “I think she always knew that I was destined for musical greatness.”
Robin scanned Maggie’s form. “It says here you used to be a waitress.”
“That’s right,” said Maggie, licking her lips. “And I think that’s given me the perfect experience to work with rock stars.”
“What do you mean?” Robin asked.
“Well, once you’ve handled frat boys having waffle fights, you can handle anything,” Maggie said. “And when you’re a waitress, you see all kinds of people. You’ve got your girls on diets who have all kinds of weird allergies.” She raised her voice to a snotty soprano. “‘Are there peanuts in this?’ Which is fine, except they ask it about everything. Including iced tea. You’ve got picky vegetarians, vegans, the Zone dieters, diabetics, macrobiotics, macrobiotic Zone diabetics with high blood pressure who can’t have salt . . .” And now she was off and running, ignoring the lights, ignoring the competition, ignoring even Robin and the guy in the baseball cap. It was just her and the camera, the way it was always meant to be. “And if you’ve ever had to dump iced coffee in some guy’s lap because he was trying to leave his tip in your cleavage, well, you’re not going to be afraid of Kid Rock.”
“What kind of music do you like?” asked Robin.
“All kinds,” said Maggie. She licked her lips and tossed her hair. “Madonna’s my idol. Except for the whole yoga thing. I just can’t get into that. Of course, I’m a singer, too, in a band called Whiskered Biscuit ...”
The guy behind the camera started laughing.
“Perhaps you’re familiar with our soon-to-be hit single, ‘Lick Me Where I’m Pink’?” Maggie asked.
“Could you sing us a little bit?” asked the cameraman.
Maggie beamed. This, finally, was what she’d been waiting for. She pulled her hairbrush out of her backpack and used it as a microphone, tossing her hair and wailing, “Lick me where I’m pink! Pour yourself a drink! Don’t wanna hear your problems, what am I, your fucking shrink?” She wondered, fleetingly, whether it was okay to say “fuck” on MTV, and then figured that the damage was done.
“Anything else we should know about you, Maggie?” Robin asked.
“Only that I’m ready for prime time,” Maggie said. “And if Carson Daly’s ever single again, you’ve got my number.” She blew the camera a kiss, then stuck out her tongue, mockingly, flashing her piercing at the camera.
“Way to go!” Kristy whispered. And Latisha was applauding, and Kara gave her a thumbs-up, and Robin hurried out of the booth into the line, tapped Maggie on her shoulder, grinned, and pulled her down a corridor to where a group of a dozen other people were waiting. “Congratulations,” she whispered. “You’ve made the callbacks.”
“You’re where?” Rose demanded.
“I’m in New York!” Maggie yelled into her cell phone. “MTV’s having auditions for VJs, and guess who got a callback!”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “You told me you had a job interview,” Rose finally said.
Maggie’s face flushed. “What do you think this is?”
“A wild-goose chase,” Rose said.
“God, can’t you even be happy for me?” The girl next to her, a six-foot-tall amazon in a leather catsuit, scowled at her. Maggie scowled back and moved to a corner of the waiting room.
“I’d be happy if you got a job.”
“I’m going to get a job!”
“Oh, you know for sure that MTV’s going to hire you? And what are they paying?”
“A lot,” said Maggie sullenly. In truth, she wasn’t sure what the job paid . . . but it had to be a lot. It was on television, right? “More than what you’re making. You know what I think? I think you’re jealous.”
Rose sighed. “I’m not jealous. I just want you to give up this whole crazy fame thing and get a job, instead of wasting your money going to New York.”
“And be just like you,” Maggie said. “No thanks.” She slipped the phone into her purse, and stared furiously at the ground. Fucking Rose! Why had she thought that her sister would be happy for her, or impressed with hearing how she’d talked her way into the auditions and wowed everyone? Well, she thought, reaching into her purse for her lipstick, she’d just show Big Sistershit. She’d ace the audition, she’d get the job, and the next time Rose saw her she’d be on TV, larger than life and twice as lovely.
“Maggie Feller?”
Maggie took a deep breath, gave her mouth a final touch of lipstick, and headed back to capture her dream. This time, they led her to a larger room where three blinding-bright lights perched high on stainless-steel scaffolds shone down on her. Robin smiled at Maggie from over her clipboard and pointed toward a television set.
“Have you ever read off a TelePrompTer?” Robin asked.
Maggie shook her head.
“Well, it’s easy,” she said, demonstrating. She walked over a masking-tape X on the floor and faced the screen. “Coming up next!” she read, her voice loud and enthusiastic. “We’ve got the hot new debut from the Spice Girls! And don’t touch that remote, ’cause you’ll see Britney Spears within the hour!”
Maggie stood, staring at the television set. The words rolled down the screen, then reversed themselves and zipped back up so fast that Maggie felt instantly queasy. She could read. She could read just fine. Just not as fast as other people. And not while the words were moving around like this!
She realized that Robin was staring at her. “Okay?”
“Oh, sure!” said Maggie. She walked to the taped X on shaking legs. “Coming up next,” she whispered to herself. She shook her hair, licked her lips. The lights shone down on her, as merciless as fire. She felt sweat form at her hairline. “Whenever you’re ready,” called the cameraman.
“Coming up next,” Maggie began with a confidence she didn’t feel. The words started to roll down the screen. “We’ve got . . .” She stared at the screen. The words wiggled some more. “The debutt video from the Spice Girls! And . . .” Oh, shit. “Debut,” she whispered. “Debut!” she said, out loud, and wondered for perhaps the millionth time in her life why words weren’t spelled the way they were pronounced. The cameraman was laughing, only not in a nice way. She peered at the screen, praying with all of her heart, please just let me be able to read this okay. A B. Something with a B and a Y. What? “Boyz II Men?” she guessed. “Yes, Motown Philly’s back again! And . . .”
The cameraman was staring at her curiously. So was Robin. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Can you see the screen all right? Do you want to try again?”
“Coming up next!” Maggie said, much too loudly. Please, God, she thought, as hard as she could. I’ll never ask you for anything else again, only just let me be able to do this. She stared at the screen, trying as hard as she could, as the b’s flipped into d’s and the w’s turned upside down. “We’ve got a lot of great music, right after this next commercial here ...” And now the words had dissolved into incomprehensible hieroglyphics, and Robin and the cameraman were both staring at her with expressions she could read just fine. Pity.
“Coming up next, we’ve got the same crap we played for you yesterday,” Maggie snarled as she turned on her heel—make that Rose’s heel—and blundered toward the door, swiping at her eyes. She ran through the waiting room, almost knocking over Ms. Catsuit, and had shoved her way into the hall, but not before she heard Robin’s voice for the last time, saying, “Next!” and, “Let’s hurry up, people; we’ve got a lot of you left to get through.”
EIGHT
Lewis Feldman stood on the landing, a bouquet of tulips in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other, and a sense of trepidation as heavy as a winter coat hanging on his shoulders. Did this ever get any easier? he wondered, taking a deep breath and staring up at Ella Hirsch’s door.
“The worst thing she can say is no,” he reminded himself. He shifted the tulips to his left hand and the chocolates to his right, and stared down at his pants, which, in spite of his best efforts in the laundry room, were wrinkled and had a suspicious stain below one of the pockets, as if a pen had exploded—which, Lewis thought glumly, was probably exactly what had happened.
A no wouldn’t kill him, he reminded himself. If the small heart attack he’d had three years ago hadn’t killed him, certainly Ella Hirsch’s rejection wouldn’t, either. And there were other fish in the sea, fish who’d flopped right out of the water and into his boat before he’d even thought to bait a hook. But he hadn’t been interested in Lois Ziff, who’d dropped by two weeks after Sharla’s funeral with a kugel and her blouse undone an extra button’s worth, exposing a bonus three inches of wrinkled cleavage. He hadn’t been interested in Bonnie Begelman, who’d slipped an envelope through his door last month with two movie tickets and a note saying she’d be happy to join him “when you’re ready.” In the days after Sharla’s death, in the weeks when he endured daily visits from what he’d come to think of as the Casserole Brigade, dozens of women with concerned faces and Tupperware, he hadn’t thought he’d ever be ready, even though she’d given him her blessing.
“Find someone,” she’d told him. She was in the hospital for the last time, and they both knew it, even though that truth remained unspoken between them. He was holding her hand, the one without the IV needles in it, and he’d leaned forward to brush her thin hair off her forehead.
“Sharla, let’s not talk about this,” he’d said. She’d shaken her head and stared at him, her blue eyes lit with a familiar spark—a spark he hadn’t seen much of since the day he’d come home to find her sitting quietly on the couch. He’d looked at her and known, even before she raised her head, even before he’d she’d told him, It’s back. The cancer came back.
“I don’t want you to be alone,” she said. “I don’t want you turning into one of those unpleasant widowers. You’ll eat too much sodium.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?” he teased her. “My sodium?”
“Those men get nasty,” she said. Her eyes were slipping shut. He held her straw to her lips so she could sip. “Self-righteous and crotchety. I don’t want it happening to you.” Her voice was fading. “I want you to find someone.”
“Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked. “Anyone special you’ve noticed?”
She didn’t answer. He thought she was asleep—eyelids slipped shut, thin chest rising and falling slowly beneath the fresh bandages—but she said something else to him. “I want you to be happy,” she said, each word coming in a separate puff of breath. He’d bowed his head, afraid that if he looked at her, his wife, the woman he’d loved and lived with for fifty-three years, he’d start crying and wouldn’t be able to stop. So he sat by her bed and held her hand and whispered into her ear how much he loved her. He thought, when she’d died, that he’d never even want to look at another woman again, and the neighbor ladies, with their kugels and their cleavage, didn’t appeal. Nobody had until now.
It wasn’t that Ella reminded him of Sharla—at least, not physically. Sharla had been small, and with age she’d only gotten smaller. She’d had round blue eyes and bobbed blond hair, a too-big nose and a too-big bottom
that she’d despaired of, and she’d loved coral lipstick and costume jewelry: necklaces of painted glass beads, dangly earrings that flashed and glittered when she moved. She’d reminded him of some tiny, exotic bird with iridescent plumage and a high, sweet song. Ella was different. She was taller, with fine features—a sharp nose, a firm jawline—and the long auburn locks she kept twined around her head, even though all of the other ladies at Golden Acres had short hair. Ella reminded him a little bit of Katharine Hepburn—a Jewish Katharine Hepburn, not quite so regal, or terrifying, a Hepburn steeped in some secret melancholy.
“Hepburn,” he muttered. He shook his head at his own foolishness and started up the steps. He wished his shirt weren’t wrinkled. He wished he had a hat.
“Well, hello!”
Lewis was so startled he actually jumped a little bit, and stared at a woman whose face he didn’t recognize.
“Mavis Gold,” the woman supplied. “And where are you off to, all dressed up?”
“Oh . . . just ...”
Mavis Gold clapped her hands, causing her tanned upper arms to jiggle in a celebratory fashion. “Ella!” she whispered—a whisper so loud that cars on the Causeway probably heard it, Lewis thought. She ran one fingertip appreciatively over the top of a tulip. “They’re beautiful. You’re such a gentleman.” Mavis beamed at him, kissed his cheek, and thumbed away the lipstick she’d left. “Good luck!”
He nodded, took a deep breath, repositioned his gifts for the last time, and turned the doorbell’s crank. He listened for a radio, a television set, and heard nothing but Ella’s feet padding quickly across the floor.
She opened the door and looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Lewis?”
He nodded, suddenly tongue-tied. She was wearing blue jeans, the kind that came only as far as the middle of her calves, and a loose white shirt and no shoes. Her feet were bare, long, and pale, beautifully shaped, with a polish the color of mother-of-pearl on the nails. Her feet made him want to kiss her. Instead, he swallowed hard.
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