by Bobbi Marolt
For want of an orchestra, the girl was lost.
Cory sobbed and wiped her cheeks of tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Why can’t I make you understand—”
“Marty isn’t afraid.”
“She’s not the issue. Screw her.”
Helen didn’t think. She blurted, “Maybe I do.”
You idiot, the sensible part of Helen said.
If there was ever a moment in her life when she wished she could retract her words, it was then. The sentence was simple, yet volatile enough to hasten the death of any relationship, but it was a lie.
Cory looked up and the disappointment in her eyes nearly killed Helen. “Well, I hope it’s as good for her as it was for me.” She stormed out of the room.
“What do you mean by ‘was’?” Helen yelled down the hall and Cory charged back into the room.
“You won’t let me near you anymore.” She mimicked Helen. “‘It’s uncomfortable.’ ‘I don’t feel very feminine.’” Cory shook her head. “Fine. If Marty Jamison makes you feel—”
“I didn’t mean it, Cory!”
“Whatever the case, there’ll be no damage control. Obviously, I don’t make you happy.”
Cory left the room. Helen needed to find one of Einstein’s wormholes and climb through it, to go back in time. Only two minutes, that’s all she wanted, but there was no means of escape. All she had to work with was the present.
“Cory, I’m not sleeping with Marty,” she repeated when they met in the kitchen.
“Look. We aren’t working out and I’ll take the responsibility. Maybe it’s best that I’m leaving in the morning.”
Helen took a breath and her voice quivered. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
“I can’t be what you want. Go back to your apartment. We shouldn’t do this to each other any longer.”
“I love you.”
“You love my image.”
“What?” Helen’s blood boiled. “You love your image. I don’t give a rat’s ass if you can play—”
“I’ve worked long and hard for what I have,” Cory yelled. “If you can’t respect that, then to hell with you.”
Helen abruptly leaned forward. “I’d like to slap you, but I can’t get out of this frigging chair.” She banged its side with her left hand. Cory walked over and knelt beside her.
“Take your best shot.”
In a split second, Helen ended their argument with a strong blow to Cory’s cheek. Cory never flinched, but heavy tears rolled from her eyes. Deafening quiet surrounded Helen—who sat frozen in her wheelchair. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, it would be a different time. Not real…a dream…I didn’t hit her. She opened her eyes only to witness red marks where her hand had connected with Cory’s cheek.
“Oh, baby.” She reached toward the swelling cheek. “I’m…please forgive me. Oh God, Cory. I’m so sorry that happened. Please—”
Cory leaned away from Helen’s hand. “We’ve said enough, Helen.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll stay with Liz tonight. Please be gone when I return.” She walked out of the room, grabbing the suitcases that she packed for her trip.
“What about us?” Helen asked, on the verge of tears.
“It doesn’t exist.” She opened the door. “Good-bye, Helen.” There was no pause, no turning for a final look at Helen. She closed the door, not with a bang, and barely with a whimper.
Helen waited, expecting Cory to walk back in. She looked at the handle and watched for it to turn. Then she fumed. The nerve of Cory to group her with past lovers.
“I don’t love your image,” she yelled at the door. “I don’t need your image, and I certainly don’t need your insecurities.”
Still she waited, but as quickly as Cory had entered Helen’s life, now she was gone. There was never a middle moment for them.
“Good-bye,” Helen finally said over the soft gurgle of aquarium bubbles and silent fall of her tears.
It took only a few hours for Stacey to transfer Helen’s belongings back to her apartment. Some clothing, her father’s war memorabilia, and her computer system. She had planned to wait until she was out of the wheelchair before she moved in with Cory totally. At least waiting had been smart.
*
Helen read the papers and so kept up with Cory’s concert dates. Her reviews were terrible. Cory was labeled a second-rate talent by one critic, while another insinuated that she didn’t know a C scale from a fish scale.
Was someone feeding the fish? Helen wondered.
As if that review wasn’t bad enough, yet another made a comment that probably stabbed deeply. “…wouldn’t recognize Chopin from a dish pan.”
Cory ended one performance early, due to illness. Another review mentioned that she had been going through some personal problems.
Eventually, her final concert date was canceled.
Helen called and got her machine. “Are you okay? Please call me if you want to talk.” But there was no return call after two days and she worried. What had “due to illness” meant? She called Liz.
“Cory’s going through a bad time,” Liz told her. “She’s visiting a friend in Baltimore, trying to sort out the jumble.”
A friend. Elinor. An ex-lover.
“Watch out for flying piano benches, baby. Flying hands,” she said to the photo that Stacey had given her.
“Let Cory do what she has to,” Carolyn said. “Take your own space and worry about Helen Townsend. Let go of control.”
“I’m not trying to control her.”
“But you’re trying to do things when you should be healing yourself. Think of what you need more than Cory—to get healthy.”
“You sound like Teresa.”
“We think along the same lines. Don’t burden yourself. You love each other. Remember that. And no matter where she is, she’s loving you.”
*
Nights were increasingly difficult. The dreams, the screams, a consuming fire, and they always involved Cory leaving her seat and walking into the flames.
“Cory!” Helen yelled and awakened to an empty bed and their black-and-white photo.
She wiped her eyes, struggled to her good leg, and then removed their picture from the wall. She placed it in her closet. “Feel better in there, baby?” Helen went back to bed.
Chapter Twenty-four
Two weeks after Cory left, Helen’s confining casts were removed. Her transition from fully involved with Cory to adjusting to single life was difficult, but she immersed her legs and arm into physical therapy and kept otherwise busy with final preparations for their show. Two days before their curtain was scheduled to rise, she saw Teresa for a follow-up appointment.
Helen eased herself from the white, crackly paper of the exam table.
“How do your legs feel when you walk?” Teresa asked, after completing her own examination.
“Heavy. Stubby. I don’t know. There’s still some nerve damage, but the ortho doctor assured me that most of the feeling would eventually return.”
“Do you feel pain?”
“Sometimes, but it’s nothing to complain about.”
“How’s physical therapy going?”
“All right. I’m still shaky with walking, but I’m tired of using crutches for balance. They’re killing my arms.” She stepped without using the aluminum supports. Left foot first and then the right. Right, Helen urged the disobedient leg. Come on. Now the right. She tried again and the leg moved forward. Maybe the crutches were her friend after all. “Sometimes I think my leg’s been disconnected from my brain.”
“It’s been straight as a board for almost two months. The ease and range of motion will come back with therapy. It’s just inconvenient at this point. Take some slow steps.”
Helen placed her left foot in front of the right and shifted her weight onto Teresa.
“No.” Teresa gently pulled herself away. “Hang on to me, but take your weight on the foot unless it hurts.”
She took seve
ral more steps with greater confidence, but she didn’t like the gimpy irregularity present in her gait. “Still better with support. I hope my limp goes away.”
“It’s unlikely. You’re sporting about a half pound of titanium, and the joint won’t be perfect, but it’ll be useable. I have something that might help.” She rummaged through a tall cabinet.
“They forgot to mention that tidbit, or maybe I forgot.” She walked gingerly around the small exam room to loosen up. “What are those for?” she asked when Teresa held up two canes. One was black enamel with a brass handle shaped to fit the palm. The other was green. Chamberlain green.
“Lacks glamour, I know, but you’ll be more comfortable using one instead of the crutches. You’ll get the support you need.” Santos smiled. “First one’s on me. What’ll it be?”
“Black,” she said immediately. When handed the cane, she reached for the other. “No, green.”
Sucker.
“Take your time. Don’t stress your legs. Moderation is important.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Soak in a hot bath when you can. I also want you to try some exercises in addition to what your physical therapist tells you.” Teresa reached into a drawer, withdrew a paper, and handed it to Helen. Then she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her prescription pad. She wrote quickly and handed the page to Helen. “Here’s a few more painkillers, in case you actually don’t listen and end up in tears.” She smiled. “Now, there’s one more matter. Carolyn told me about Cory.”
“Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?”
“Physicians in conference. Are you all right?”
“I suppose.” Helen shoved the prescription into her handbag. “I’m better about it.”
“You know you can call me.”
“I know.” Helen stepped closer to Teresa. She hugged her, using both arms now. “Thanks for helping get me back together.”
“You’re a lucky woman.”
Lucky? She was alive, yes, but Cory was gone, Blair was dead, and Helen had a bum foot. They left Teresa’s office and met Stacey in the waiting room.
“Keep an eye on her, Stacey, and thanks for bringing her over.”
“Will do. You look hot with that cane,” Stacey said as she helped steady Helen. She pressed the down button when they reached the doors.
“I guess I’m getting closer to walking on my own two feet again.” They entered the elevator, and Helen pressed the L button for the lobby. They descended, and she stared at the blazing letter. Lesbian. Lover. Loser. But she had her health, whatever the hell that meant. She laughed without meaning to.
The bell chimed and the elevator doors slid open. They stepped out onto the shiny, over-buffed floor of the professional building. Through giant glass doors, Helen noticed a light snowfall and signs of a wicked wind. Pedestrians huddled into their coat collars, heads down, hiding from the icy blasts of wintry air.
“Wow!” a woman said when she came through the door. A whistle of air followed. “This has got to be the coldest month.” The woman groaned a shiver. Helen offered a polite smile but said nothing.
She looked down at her cane. “It’s just you and me, kid.”
Stacey corrected her. “Many people love you, Helen. Cory isn’t the only person with the privilege.”
Helen didn’t respond but took Stacey’s hand into hers. She pushed through the door using the rubber tip of her cane, her staff of Moses, and then Stacey hailed a cab. The show’s group was meeting at Marty’s at two for a final off-stage rehearsal.
*
It was after their practice, when they talked until early evening about their show. They’d each carried on the tasks of developing their acts and had settled on a name for the event. Helen agreed with their choice: “The Stars Night Out.”
“This show will change our lives forever,” Helen said. “We don’t know if that will be for better or for worse.”
“We’ll need to support each other. That’s very important,” Marty said.
“Family,” Jenny said. “Let’s not forget our loyalty.”
Stacey raised a glass of orange juice. “To family,” she said.
The others raised their drinks and answered in unison, “To family.”
The men cleared the table, grumbling in their macho way.
“Isn’t this why God created women?” Jay said, and Jackie slapped him with a dishtowel.
“Don’t invite me to your place,” Jenny said. “I can see it now—”
“Mounds of dishes everywhere,” Stacey said.
“I have a woman come in,” he said.
Kim missed the point and jumped in. “See? A woman! Men do need women.”
“Kim,” Jackie said, “you’ve just set women back about fifty years.”
Helen took Marty’s arm and they walked into the kitchen. The others could have their brawl alone. She was quiet while she rinsed their dishes and Marty loaded the dishwasher.
“How does it feel to have your legs back?” Marty asked, taking two plates from her.
“Tiring. I’d forgotten how much work walking is. I need exercise.”
“Well, give me a holler. We can go to your club or get fresh air at the park.”
Helen mumbled to herself. “I wonder if Ms. Frosty is still in a heap.”
“What’s that?” Marty dropped the flatware into the basket. “Let go of it.”
“That’s what Carolyn said,” Helen said.
“She told you to let go of the plate?”
Helen felt a tug on her arm and realized that Marty was wrestling her for the porcelain. “Oh. No.” She released the dish. “She said to let go of the guilt.” She dried her hands and Marty flipped on the dishwasher.
“Done,” Marty said and slapped her hands together.
“Come on. There’s something I have to say to the Bickersons in the other room.”
Helen gathered her friends in Marty’s living room. Marty sat across from her.
“Is this another pep talk?” Jenny asked.
“I think she’s going to ask Marty out and wants us here to shame Marty into it,” Kim said.
Helen laughed and looked at Marty. “Would I have to shame you into it?”
“No way, sweetheart.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Helen looked at the group. “I want to talk about Blair.”
“Go ahead, Helen,” Mark said.
Helen thought for a moment. She watched while smoke from Marty’s cigarette spiraled upward and scattered into different directions. There had been smoke that night.
“Blair touched our lives from many directions, on screen and off. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman like her.” She paused while heads nodded in agreement and smiles invaded her friends’ lips. “The first night I met her, I thought she was obnoxious, rude, undisciplined, and a lush. And she was. I think all of you will agree, but that was Blair. She was a pain in everyone’s ass, but also warm and intelligent and funny and sensitive. She was a friend.”
Marty wiped tears from her cheek and she reached for Mark’s hand. Phil stood with Nick, their arms around each other’s waist, and stared at the floor. Jenny curled up on a chair and closed her eyes. Jackie came up behind her and rested her hands on her shoulders. Jenny sat quiet. Kim walked to the window as the back of her hand caught a tear. She looked outside and listened while Helen continued.
“And she was always straight with us, whether we liked it or not.” Helen smiled at a memory. “She once told me I look like a sad cocker spaniel when I’m not smiling.” Her smile vanished and then her emotions broke. “I tried to protect her. Maybe if I hadn’t pushed her downward—” Stacey came up behind her and wrapped her arms around Helen’s waist. Helen turned and buried her face in Stacey’s shoulder. “She’s gone, I’m alive, and I feel so damn guilty.”
“No, Helen,” Jackie said. “Never feel guilty for your survival.”
“We don’t hold you responsible,” Jenny said when she reached Helen’s side. Sh
e pushed the dampened hair away from Helen’s cheek. “Blair would have said it was meant to happen that way and—”
“—and we shouldn’t make ourselves crazy over something that will never be clear,” Helen finished. A deep breath helped her continue. “So I’m accepting my life, and if you’re listening, Blair, I love you and I’ll miss you tremendously.”
“Me too, Blair,” Marty said into Mark’s shoulder.
Kim walked to Helen’s side, knelt, and wiped away Helen’s tears. “That was nice.”
Stacey cleared her throat and brushed a tear away. “So let’s call it a night.”
God, that felt good. Helen suddenly jumped. “One more thing! I want to make our announcement at the beginning of the show. How do you all feel about that?”
“I say do it and then we can slide into the good stuff.” Marty danced a shuffle. “Dazzle them.”
“Whatever,” Jay said.
“Okay, Helen,” Kim said with a new smile.
United in their purpose, they ended their night with hugs and kisses all around.
“The Stanwyck Theater, right, Helen?” Jenny asked.
“Yes, dear. March sixth. Rehearsal in the morning and be backstage by six that night,” Helen said. Jenny was a great costume designer, but also a scatterbrain. And young. Twenty-three. Oh, to be twenty-three.
*
Helen and Marty lounged on the sofa after the gang departed. Tired from a long day, she yawned and stretched her arms. She rested her head on the back of the sofa. Marty leaned back onto the arm of the couch and an overstuffed yellow pillow framed her head and shoulders.
Marty closed her eyes. “It’s gonna be a great show.”
“If the patrons stay,” Helen said.
“That never occurred to me. Do you think they might leave?”
Helen bounced her cane repeatedly on the tip of her toe. “It’s a distinct possibility. We won’t lose them all. The gays will stay. They’ll be saying, ‘I knew he was a queen or she was a dyke.’”
“We should have discussed it.” Marty sounded concerned for the first time. “I hope I can handle it.”