Coming Attractions

by Bobbi Marolt

  “I’m leaving New York.”

  “Why?”

  “For a job offer that I’d be insane to refuse.”

  “Just like that? New York’s been your home for—”

  “—thirteen years. I’m in a rut and it’s time to move forward.” He took hold of her hand. “I wish you’d do the same.”

  “Don’t start with me. I have a terrific career and a roof over my head. Life is good.”

  “And memories. Don’t forget memories.”

  The clop-clop of horse’s hooves resounded like a finely crafted timepiece. Helen listened while time surged ahead, while family, lovers, and friends took leave. The clock ticked and she sat comfortable on the second hand. Around and around and around, but she never moved a centimeter.

  Suddenly, the horse reared, spooked by a careless jogger. The coachman regained control and the mare settled.

  “Sorry,” the driver said over his shoulder and continued his course.

  Helen brushed bits of salt from her lap. “Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

  “I’m not. I love you and I worry about you. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Helen’s eyes welled tears. “Will you please hold me?”

  “Sure.” Tucson pulled her close.

  “I love you, too. I’ll miss you. Will you spend time with me before you go?”

  “You know I will. You’re my best girl.”

  Helen laughed and wiped her tears with her napkin. “I’m your only girl. Will Pete go with you?”

  Their ride reached the end and they exited the carriage. “Yeah. We’ve decided that happily ever after would do us good.”

  “Good. It’s nice to have someone to grow old with.”

  Tucson slipped his arm around Helen’s waist and they crossed Fifty-Ninth Street. “Yes, it is, and I want you to remember that.”

  When they approached the entrance to the newspaper building, a jarring jolt slammed Helen into a three sixty spin. Oomph! The thud of bodies and entanglement of limbs dumped a mound of mustard onto her scarf. Helen snapped when she recovered from the unexpected whirlwind.

  “Damn it. Why don’t you people watch where the hell you’re going?” When she looked up, she caught her breath. Once more, that woman stared back and Helen was lost in the loveliness of her eyes.

  “Lady, jog in the park or something. Are you all right, Helen?” Tucson tried to wipe mustard from the scarf.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” Green Eyes said. “I hope you’re all right, and I’ll see that you receive a new scarf. Silk, I assume.” She reached up and touched the damaged item. “Yes, of course.” Her eyes shone happily when she looked into Helen’s. Her cheeks were bright red. “We must stop meeting like this, Helen.” The woman turned and continued her pace.

  Helen was angry. A million and a half people in Manhattan and that same woman knocks her socks off a second time? She didn’t buy it. She could sniff out a setup if it was buried fifty feet beneath concrete.

  Helen shouted down the sidewalk. “On a first-name basis now? At least one of us is.” But the woman was too far out of range to hear her.

  “You know her?” he asked.

  “Not really.” She continued to look, hopefully to catch another glimpse of the black sweat suit and the tied-back hair that bounced across the woman’s back.

  “Helen, you’re blushing.”

  “I’m pissed off,” she shot back.

  He laughed loudly. “No, honey, you’re flustered. That woman does something to you. Admit it.”

  “Yes, she does. She annoys the hell out of me, as you can see by my scarf.”

  “Call it what you will, but I want to hear more about that chick before I leave.” Tucson kissed her cheek. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Numbed from the encounter, Helen entered the office building. She made a mental note to have Sam pull the message from the Friday edition. She had to maintain control.

  Helen thought of herself more as an artist than as a writer. Anyone could write; few, though, could create effectively. Without creative control, she could become an assembly-line writer, grinding out books one month after a major story broke nationally. Helen would not accept a link to that category. She took pride in her investigations, her arousal of public interest, and made darned sure she could back up every word. No, Helen was not one to take assignments of the month, and Ms. Green Eyes seemed quick to become one of those assignments. Helen refused to oblige.

  Her private life was safe now, powered by the past. Those she loved most dearly lay buried, deep in her heart. She loved her parents and Chelsea. Loved them totally; loved them hard. Now they were gone. There was no more love to go around.

  With her scarf crumpled tightly in her hand, Helen approached the elevator. The woman’s rosy cheeks and shortness of breath made their way into her mind again and stirred adrenaline.

  The ring of the elevator bell sounded louder than usual. Bright aluminum doors opened wide. Several passengers hurried inside and brushed arms with those who exited. Helen hesitated, preferring to ride alone, but she gripped the scarf and stepped forward, into the mix.

  Control was failing.

  Chapter Three

  On Friday afternoon, inside the Black Sheep Restaurant, Helen swirled the ice of her White Russian with a stirrer. Ice chimed and clanged against the glass. She’d forgotten to have Sam kill the invitation, but no mystery woman had shown and the time was well past one thirty.

  She looked away from the patrons. “If I’d wanted to humiliate myself, I could have disrobed in the display windows at Saks. That would be less embarrassing than publicly begging for a date,” she said to the salt and pepper.

  All of those people sitting around the restaurant knew she was stood up. Yeah, they knew. They glanced at her column on page four of their newspapers and then back at her. Some whispered and some smiled. Some she knew, and most of them gave her the “you poor dear” look.

  Could she be any more brainless? If she never saw the woman again, that would be fine with her. But what if she did? How mortified would she be when the woman burst into laughter for not choosing to meet Helen? Maybe enough to reduce her to tears? Never. Maybe enough for Helen to fire back and grab those ample breasts that pounded into her each time they met. Would serve them both right.

  Again, she looked down at the condiments. “I don’t believe I did this.” She’d let a little girl crush, the result of an overzealous imagination, run wild. “Crush? Grow up, Helen. I don’t even want this sidestep from reality.”

  She paid the check and left.

  *

  “Where to?” the cabby asked and looked into his mirror. “Hey. Aren’t you the lady that wrote the column on queers? I think they should be lined up and shot.”

  Helen stared into the mirror. “What if you went home tonight and your daughter said, ‘Hey, Pop, I’m a lesbian?’ Would you shoulder the rifle, or would you prefer if someone else took a shot at her?”

  “My daughter ain’t no queer,” he said.

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Don’t be callin’ everybody a queer.”

  “Just be quiet. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

  “I didn’t ask for yours, lady.”

  “You damn well did if you read my column.” After his attitude, she estimated hundreds of brutal calls and messages when she reached her office. “Look, buddy. I won’t argue with someone whose grandest decision is whether to make a left or right turn.”

  “You got a smart mouth.”

  “Lately it’s been rather dumb.”

  The cabby laughed and shrugged. “You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’ I don’t know. Now where to?”

  “West Fifty-Seventh.”

  “What number?”

  “Just go.”

  *

  After crossing the Avenue of the Americas, she had a short walk to her office. On a downbeat day, a casual stroll gave her a needed sense of relaxation before the onslaught of callers would damn her to hell, aga
in.

  An attack, indeed, but not of callers. Helen was shocked to witness a group of demonstrators, police officers, and television crews that had swarmed the entrance to the newspaper. Picket signs held messages from opposing groups. She presumed they were right wing Republicans whose slogans read: NO RIGHTS WHEN GAY’S NOT RIGHT and TEACH OUR CHILDREN FAMILY VALUES. Other posters, however, read: HELEN’S CLOUT CAN HELP US OUT and ABORT HOMOPHOBIA.

  “No, it’s not the opinion of the paper. Helen chooses her own columns,” Sam told a reporter who shoved a microphone toward him. “But we’ll defend the right of freedom of the press.”

  She hadn’t anticipated a demonstration of public opinion. Phone calls from pinpricked patrons were easier to deal with. With reporters and cameras, there would be pressure to come out, and she didn’t want to become a sideshow for the eleven o’clock news. At least not this way. She’d do that under her own terms. When she turned to walk away, members of the media snagged her, and she found herself no longer hidden from hungry and anxious ears.

  “Helen!” reporter Jan Roland from NBC called out. She headed toward her, camera operator in tow. Helen watched Sam dash past them to be with her. Police held back the forty or so chanting protesters. ABC and CBS fell in with the NBC crew.

  Sam took hold of her arm. “Are you okay to face the cameras?”

  No, she wasn’t okay. She’d rather turn around and make a mad dash for the Queensboro Bridge and then pick up a nine iron at the golf center in Flushing Meadows. It didn’t matter that she didn’t golf.

  “I’ll handle them.”

  Roland shoved a microphone near Helen. “You’ve stirred up the proverbial hornets’ nest with your column,” she announced to Helen and the camera. “Some of these individuals seem to think—”

  “Tell her, Helen.” A man waved a rainbow sign. “Come on. Tell her we’re here, we’re queer, and so are some of you.” The chanting spread throughout the gay activists.

  So cliché. Helen’s eyes narrowed and she clenched her teeth. That type of finger pointing she loathed. She thought it obscene to incriminate others and, if forced, she would neither admit nor deny anything.

  “My column supports the rights of a particular subculture of our society. I could have chosen any subculture.”

  “Baa, baa, black sheep. Have you any wool?” a woman and her female companion yelled.

  Roland stepped closer with the microphone and Helen stepped back. “What do you expect to accomplish with your column?”

  “Nothing. Unless our society is quick to emancipate their minds, nothing will change much. We’re probably the only living organism that doesn’t tolerate same-sex affection. And why is that? Is it because we have a brain with the ability to think and discern? No. Monkeys have those abilities.” She looked directly into Roland’s eyes. Helen had once dated the still-closeted reporter. “I suspect rats do, too.” When Roland lowered her microphone and took a step backward, Helen pushed her way through the herd of protesters and cameras.

  “Show’s over,” Sam said and guided her through the boisterous crowd.

  *

  Alone, Helen stood at her office window and looked to the sidewalk below. The crowd had dispersed and she sighed wearily. She’d had the opportunity to speak out and it would be over. She’d be out of the closet and literally into the street. Bang. Boom.

  To the pedestrians below she muttered, “Repetition. It’s all you want. Why won’t you allow us our choices? What scares you?” She looked at her reflection in the window. “What scares me?”

  Freedom. Her right to choose. She knew, no matter how much she wanted freedom, she feared coming out alone. Helen had to organize her thoughts and plan, get them into action, and claim a fuller identity.

  While New York’s sky turned gunmetal blue, white headlights and red taillights clamored for position below. The time was past six and it had been one hell of a day. She ignored any messages that might be on her phone, preferring to deal with them on Monday. Her day was quiet now, and nothing remained to distract her. Sam dropped by and placed a box onto her desk.

  “Reception sent this up. It’s too light for a bomb. Good night, Helen.” He turned to leave. “Good job today.”

  “Thanks.”

  Helen stared at the box. She’d often received tokens from readers and that one came as no surprise. Some people still appreciated her column. She picked up the gift and noticed the elegant wrapping. A shake presented a muffled sound. Curious. Suddenly, she remembered—mustard and silk. Her flesh tingled.

  Alone with a cardboard container, which in no way, shape, or form possessed the ability to converse, Helen was speechless. She placed the package back on her desk and tried to justify not opening it. She knew the content, from whom it came, and that it was simply a replacement for damages occurred during an innocent, or not so innocent, jog. A scarf, but a scarf sent by a tantalizing woman she knew only as “yes.”

  Her fingers shook while she untied the delicate lavender ribbon.

  “How appropriate.”

  Next was the creamy white paper.

  “Virginal.”

  And finally, the box.

  “Pandora’s box.” She took a breath. “Relax. It’s a scarf. Just remove the cover…that’s it…and now peel back the tissue. Very good, Helen.”

  And there it was: A scarf, red and silky. A promise kept. No ghosts flew out, no bugs jumped on her, no diseases wreaked havoc. Now pick it up.

  She shook her head. “No, and I don’t believe I’m having a conversation with myself.”

  Helen finally pulled herself together and picked up the soft and cool-to-her-touch garment. When she noticed another wrapped item, she tore through the tissue and her entire muscular system collapsed. Another scarf, as bright as emeralds. Beneath the layers of fabric, at the bottom of the box, lay even greater hope: a note. A name. Helen picked up the parchment envelope, removed the fold of paper, and read aloud. “My apologies for the accident and I do hope the scarves will make up for any problem I have caused. Of course silk. Could I have imagined anything less? Have a lovely weekend. C.C.”

  Frustrated, Helen picked up the green cloth and felt its gentleness. She touched it to her cheek and, once more, captured the delicate aroma of lily of the valley. She deeply inhaled a memory.

  “C.C. That tells me a hell of a lot.” She looked back at the note. “I can eliminate Carol Channing, Claudette Colbert, and Charlie Chaplin. C.C. Cynthia. Carol. Christine. I like Christine.”

  Once more irritated with the woman’s elusiveness, and with her own obsessive curiosity, Helen shoved the scarves into the box, grabbed her belongings, and whisked herself out the office door.

  Chapter Four

  On Saturday morning, Helen snuggled deep into her down pillow and pulled the blankets to her neck. She stared at the old Time magazine cover she’d framed and hung near her dresser. The periodical date was October 14, 1991, and bore the headline “Jodie Foster. A Director Is Born.”

  On that cover, Foster personified sophistication. Amid a darkened background, a movie projector shone over her left shoulder, and her intense eyes studied the unseen screen in front of her.

  “Not bad,” she said and allowed herself the indulgence of imagining awakening to such a woman.

  She studied the photograph longer. Finely carved facial features, sharp angles of cheek and jaw, all added depth to Jodie’s eyes. Stacey had pointed out the small crease at the tip of the Foster nose. Stacey!

  Helen tore her thoughts away from the image on the wall. Stacey. Last night. A dream. She thought harder. The club. Stacey had handed her a green drink. M something. A martini? A Manhattan? No.

  All dreams had meaning. Helen threw back the blankets and grabbed the phone from her nightstand. She poked in Stacey’s number.

  “What?” Stacey growled.

  “Good morning.”

  “Blondie?”

  “I need to see you.” Helen sprang from her bed and headed toward the bathroom.

&n
bsp; Stacey groaned. “I just got in three hours ago.”

  “You can sleep later,” Helen said and turned on the shower. “I’ll be there at eleven.” She adjusted the water temperature.

  “Use your key,” she grumbled.

  *

  Stacey’s apartment was located in what had once been a garment manufacturing building. The building now held private residences. She’d gutted the loft and turned it into an exotic showroom of thick carpets, mounds of prime-color pillows, foliage to make a botanist weak at the knees, and bright Warhol silk screens that lined the walls: Judy, Marilyn, Ingrid, Chanel No. 5, and more, but no Campbell’s soup cans.

  Helen closed the front door and headed for the kitchen. She brewed fresh coffee and, while Mr. Coffee completed his task, hand-squeezed eight oranges before she’d extracted enough juice and pulp for a decent serving. She wouldn’t attempt that again for love, money, or even a Pulitzer Prize.

  She’d purchased a yellow rose from a sidewalk vendor and placed the flower on the tray with her peace offering. At the bedroom door, she first peeked in to be sure Stacey was alone.

  “Hey, you.” No response. She entered the room and set the tray on a nearby chair and then sat on the edge of the bed. Stacey still gripped the phone and Helen returned it to its base. “Hey,” she repeated and ran her fingers in quick patterns through Stacey’s short, ash-blond hair. Stacey grunted.

  “Why am I awake?” She rolled onto her back.

  Helen pulled up the sheet to cover Stacey’s breasts. “Because I need to talk to you.”

  “This is a nightmare.” She pushed herself up and through sleepy, bloodshot eyes, focused on Helen. She managed a smile. “Blondie.”

  “I’ve missed you.” Helen wrapped her arms around Stacey and squeezed.

  “You just wanted to see me naked.” She returned the hug.

  “I’ve seen you naked. I wasn’t impressed.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “You have teeny tiny boobs.”

  Stacey let the cover fall away from her chest. She looked down at her breasts and pushed at the side of one. “Almost a C cup. They’re good boobs.”