“When you’re weary, feeling small,” I sang. The man sitting at the front table reached out and took his wife’s hand. I looked over at Goodie. He was in his usual drag: blonde wig, blue eye shadow, his head thrown back, his eyes closed, the music rolling through his body.
In the last verse our voices locked in a resonant harmony that shimmered in the air. “Sail on silver girl, sail on by.”
Being onstage in front of an audience can oddly be the most private place in the world, and that night, at that moment, it was just Goodie and me riding that song like a breakaway freight train taking us on one hell of a ride. At the end Goodie was spent, perspiration running his mascara, making him look raccoonish. I almost laughed, but he caught my eye, and I suddenly knew this was the last time we would sing together. I knew it. The Icelanders started to applaud. Goodie got up from the piano and came to take my hand for the bow. He was very thin, and his fishnet stockings hung loose at his ankles. I hadn’t noticed that before. I hadn’t noticed because I hadn’t wanted to. We looked out at the audience and took our bow. Then I stepped aside and gestured to Goodie, and at that moment the audience stood up and they gave Goodie an ovation. They saw right away what had taken me so long to see, a talented man wasting away in the prime of his life. And they stood for that. They stood to bear witness.
Remembering that last night, I sit down at the piano and rest my hands on the keys, as if on a Ouija board.
“It’s been a long time, Goodie, but I still miss you,” I whisper. “I hope you are tucked away in some special part of the universe, standing on your hill enjoying the view.”
A few weeks before Goodie died he dreamed he was traveling on a bus with his childhood friends and they were going on a picnic. The bus took them to the top of a hill where they spent the day. When the sun started to set, everyone got back on the bus to go home, all except Goodie. He stayed behind because the view from the hill was so magnificent.
I close my eyes and rest my head on the piano. “Hey, Maggie mine,” a voice says, and I raise my eyes. I see a little foot housed in a plastic stiletto heel attached to a shapely leg poking through the slit of a stunning pink evening dress attached to . . . Oh my God . . . I am hallucinating. I blink my eyes and take a deep breath.
“It’s me. I’m here, really,” the voice says.
“Goodie?” I whisper.
“In the shrunken flesh. I’m back and better than ever!” Goodie throws his arm over his head and does a hubba-hubba dance. Then he sashays up the keyboard in a bump and grind.
“I’m losing my mind,” I say. “It’s an acid flashback. You always called yourself a fairy, but this is ridiculous.”
“No, it’s real. Wow, who knew? Who knew heaven was the Barbie department at Toys R Us. I’m living in the dream house. Too much pink but the layout is wonderful.”
“What? What are you talking about?” I lean over and put my head between my knees and take deep breaths. I’m afraid I’m going to pass out, or maybe I already have. I’m having a stroke. That’s what it is. Lack of blood to the brain. Randall was right about those light flashes. Oh, Jesus, heart attack.
“Maggie Magnolia, sit up and look at me,” Goodie says. I raise my eyes and Goodie is hovering at eye level.
“Good God, you have wings!”
“Yes, aren’t they great? Gossamer with rhinestones. And this outfit—do you recognize it?”
“No,” I say, trying to steady my breath.
“Barbie’s prom collection,” Goodie says. “I absolutely love the cut.”
“So you’ve been reincarnated as a flying Barbie doll?”
“Well, not right away. I started off with birthday wishes, and, P.S., it really is true about blowing out all the candles, then I apprenticed as the tooth fairy for a while. Not bad, but overrated. When I got a promotion to fairy godmother, I put in a request for you. And when they reviewed your paperwork, they put me on the case.”
“And who are they?” I ask.
“You never actually see them, so I’m not sure. It’s all computerized,” Goodie says with a sigh. “The old-timers tell me that being a fairy has lost a lot of its charm, but I don’t agree. It doesn’t matter how it’s all done. What matters is why. And you are why, Mags.” Goodie flies closer and whispers in my ear, “They stamped you urgent.”
“Me? Urgent? I don’t know why you say that. I am a-okay.”
“More will be revealed, Maggie,” says Goodie with a knowing wink.
“More of what?” I ask.
“Maggie,” Sidney says, startling me. He is standing a few feet away, coffee cup in hand. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” I take a drag off my cigarette. I look at Goodie. He is fluffing his wings. Apparently Sidney is not having the same hallucination I am. Great! So I am losing my mind.
“How about the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth of next month? It’s a Thursday and Friday at nine. It’s a good slot. We get a nice group of tourists. They’ll love you.”
“Can I get back to you tomorrow?”
“Sure, but no later than that. I’ve got to book those dates.” He turns to leave.
“Thanks, Sidney.” I put the stool back where I found it.
Goodie is standing on the piano grinning from ear to ear. “Good girl, Maggie,” he chimes. “I can’t wait!”
“Why can’t Sidney see you?” I ask.
“Because I’m your fairy godmother,” he says, “and I exist only for you. Isn’t that a hoot? Well technically I’m a guardian angel, but I told them you wouldn’t believe that—that ‘fairy godmother’ was more your speed.” Goodie jumps onto the keyboard and daintily skips up the scale. “I have to get back to Toys R Us. I’m having dinner with G.I. Joe. Can you believe it? I’ve had a crush on him since I was eight. Maggie Mine, I’ll see you later.” And he zooms off leaving behind a jet stream of fairy dust.
I stare after him. Wow. Okay. I’m crazy. I’m seeing things. Maybe it’s the beer. No more beer before five. And I must call Charles. And what is being revealed?
AT HOME THAT EVENING I leave a message for Charles on his cell. “Call me the minute you can,” I say.
Then I dig out the fishing tackle box that I use as a makeup kit and check to make sure I have enough black hair gel for my turn as Snow White tomorrow. I drink only one beer and decide that Goodie was a momentary hallucination caused by returning to Don’t Tell Mama. That’s all. Some sort of wacky daydream. The phone rings.
“Hi, Maggie, dear. I’m on my way downtown to meet some sexy Spaniards for dinner,” he says. “I’ll be showing the crushed shells on linen pieces next month.”
“Great,” I say. “Charles, has anything strange been happening to you? I mean, like seeing things?”
“Life, Mags, I’m seeing life. Sometimes I think for the first time. Like that young man I met in Santa Pola, the glassblower—he’s coming for a visit. I want to be the first to introduce him to the New York art world.”
“I meant smaller things. Little flying things.”
“You mean bugs?” Charles asks. “Call an exterminator.”
“No, I thought I saw Goodie today, but much smaller, and dressed in pink.”
“I think I see Goodie all the time,” Charles says, “but not in pink. I see him in yellow, and he’s always off in the distance and I can’t quite catch up to him. Once I saw him on top of the Empire State Building.”
“Was he flying?” I ask.
“No, kind of perched, but I think his arms were outstretched. I got to run. Call the gallery tomorrow. Ask Tosh for the name of the exterminator we use. They’ll take care of anything that is flying.”
“Well, I don’t want it taken care . . .” I begin, but Charles’s phone breaks up. I hear a scrambled goodbye and then nothing. All right. That’s it. I’m crazy.
4
Put a little Vaseline on the end of his nose,” Dee-Honey says. She is instructing Helen Sanders on what to do about a bad case of fur balls her cat Smiley is suffering from. “Just dab it ri
ght on the tip with your finger. That should do the trick.”
“Really? I never would have thought of that. Must line the stomach and then the hair doesn’t get clogged,” Helen says. It’s eight a.m. and I’m sitting in the backseat of the van. We’re waiting for Gloria, who plays the evil stepmother. She is running late. It’s hot. I’m eating a sesame bagel and drinking a coffee that I have to balance on my kneecap, because there is no room to maneuver. Helen Sanders plays Snow White’s mother and doubles as the dancing forest nymph. She was a regular on Days of Our Lives for about ten years, until a psychopathic cosmetic surgeon killed off her character a few seasons ago. She still works in regional theater, but mostly she’s been doing the Little Britches thing. She says it’s temporary, but we all know how that goes. Dee-Honey is sitting in the driver’s seat, checking her watch and listening to the traffic report on the radio. I sip my coffee and stare straight ahead. I didn’t get much sleep last night and it’s already feeling like a very long day.
Jack dropped by unexpectedly around eleven o’clock. The nerve, I thought as I buzzed him in. I opened the door and there he was peeking out from behind a dozen yellow roses. A dozen yellow roses—for me. I couldn’t even find a vase. I had to put them in the plastic pail I keep in the bathroom for when the ceiling leaks. Jack ordered pizza and we sat on the floor and ate and watched David Letterman and made love and fell asleep. What could be better? Maybe a phone call before the visit, maybe an actual date, maybe the moon on a platter, but then maybe not. Surprises are fun too.
For a change I had to leave first this morning, so I gave him a set of keys. I’ll get them back from him tonight. It seemed silly to make him get up and leave an hour before he had to, and I’m pretty sure he’s not going to steal my stereo or rifle through my desk drawer and find my safe deposit box key and rob me of the mutual funds I keep tucked away there. After all, he did leave five bucks for milk—I mean the kid’s responsible. Although, as I sit listening to Helen recount her latest run-in with her neighbor who plays his music too loud and throws off Smiley’s sleep patterns, I can’t stop thinking about all those America’s Most Wanted shows that detail the story of some handsome con man who scams lonely women for everything they have.
Suddenly I feel something moving near my feet. I glance, prepared to scream, and I see Goodie poking his head out of my shoulder bag, which is sitting on the floor. He’s wearing a light blue peignoir set.
“Do you like?” he askes, doing a circle turn. “It’s from Barbie’s trousseau. Look, don’t worry about Jack, he’s a sweetheart and very cute.” Then he winks. I quickly look around, expecting to see everyone staring at me, but no one seems to have noticed. I lean over and close the flap on the bag, shoving Goodie back inside.
“So I said to him,” Helen is saying as I tune back into the conversation, “get earphones! And then I turned my back just like I did when I played Nora in A Doll’s House. You saw that production didn’t you, Dee?” Helen and Dee have known each other for years. Helen’s first husband worked for Dee for several seasons back in the eighties.
“Oh honey, you were wonderful, very moving,” Dee replies.
“Well, remember when I did that final exit, I squared my back and then tossed my head,” Helen says demonstrating the move.
“Oh yes, honey, it was very effective,” says Dee.
“Well, that’s exactly what I did to my neighbor and—here’s the best part—when I went back into my apartment, I didn’t slam the door; that would be too much. He was waiting for it, expecting it, and I think you must always play against the obvious. It’s so important. So I just closed the door gently.” Helen nods with satisfaction.
“Oh I’m sure he’ll get the message,” says Dee-Honey. At that moment, Ron, the charming prince who is riding shotgun, spots our dear evil stepmom making her way across the intersection. Her cell phone is at her ear and she is talking a mile a minute. She is still optimistic enough to think there is a fast lane, and she’s determined to stay in it, but the fast lane is relative to the highway you’re traveling. If you’re doing children’s theater, that means the big fast lane has already passed you by, and you’re cruising on a two-lane access road. But I say, “Go girl,” because you never know when those two lanes might turn back into a four-lane interstate. I guess I can be an optimist too. Truth is, Gloria is ten years younger than I am and should by all rights be playing Snow White. But she’s five foot nine in bare feet, which is too tall for an ingénue and much too tall for the costume. Plus she’s a tenor.
We pack, or rather fold, Gloria into the car and Dee-Honey guns the engine and off we go—a merry band of players. The show is at the Yonkers Public Library and it’s like doing theater in a carpeted recreation room. We set up in the back part of the children’s picture book section. I carefully unpack my bag and look for Goodie, but he is nowhere to be found, nor is the peignoir set. I’m beginning to think I might go back to my old therapist if she hadn’t moved to Michigan. I’d probably make an appointment right now.
The lights for the show are two fluorescent overheads and a handheld “spotlight,” which is a glorified flashlight that Dee-Honey “runs” during the show. Frank, our ever-handy stage manager, has managed to use a few of the set pieces and define the playing area on the red and orange checked part of the carpet. He’s a genius at this sort of thing. The audience sits on the lime green section.
This is the lowest rung as far as performance spaces go. Usually we do have a stage and at least one or two lights with colored gels, and if we are really lucky there’s a dressing room where we can smoke (if no one catches us) and drink coffee and get zipped into our “drag.”
The show goes fine, except when Helen trips over a little foot sticking out from the audience (totally unintentional, I’m sure) while doing her forest nymph pas d’une, which she does beautifully in a full body leotard appliquéd in velvet leaf patterns. Granted she was more nymphlike before she put on the extra weight, but she still manages to appear limber and otherworldly. Unfortunately the trip causes her to lose her balance and plunge headfirst into the sea of first graders seated up front, but, thank goodness, no one is seriously injured. Helen finishes the show in spite of a limp, and the kids get a good laugh.
We stop at a McDonald’s on our way back to the city. I order a fish sandwich and fries and a vanilla shake. We sit at a big table and gobble down our carbs and grease. I get out my cell and check my messages. I have three, but the main thing is knowing that my home phone is still in working order, meaning that after I left, Jack didn’t go wild and pillage and burn the house down. There is even a message from my young prince. “Hey, babe, I love to love you. Talk soon. P.S. I made the bed and turned out the lights and took out the trash.” Geez, this guy is the bee’s knees or else he has some sort of chemical imbalance.
A hand reaches in front of me. “Do you mind if I have a few of your fries?” Helen asks as she plucks a fistful off my tray. “I’ve got to ice my ankle the minute I get home. You know ankles can be very tricky,” she reaches over for a second handful, “and I got a callback to play the doctor in Agnes of God. She’s a nervous character, very intense. I’ve got to lose five pounds before Tuesday. I’m going to do a juice fast starting tomorrow.”
I smile my most magnanimous smile, suddenly feeling pounds lighter and years younger myself. It’s easy to be magnanimous when I have a young man making my bed and taking out my trash and telling me he loves to love me. It’s very easy indeed.
“You can have the rest, Helen, I’m full,” I say as I push my tray in her direction, “and I think you’d be wonderful in Agnes of God.” And then I freeze in horror—Goodie is sitting on Helen’s shoulder, munching on a french fry.
“See, Maggie, it feels good to be nice, doesn’t it?” he says. I look at him. I look at Helen. No reaction. Helen grabs another handful of fries.
“I love the way you’re wearing your hair now. It’s so much more flattering,” she says. Helen is a kung fu master of the backhanded
compliment. She never gives you an inch without taking two back.
Goodie flutters his wings, swoops down, grabs another fry, and sails off. Helen finishes the rest and slurps the end of her Coke.
“Let’s move out,” I hear Frank say, and we all head back to the parking lot.
“We’ve got a busy summer, Maggie. We should run through our schedule soon,” Dee-Honey says when she drops me off.
“Give me a call and we’ll figure it out,” I say as I extract my makeup kit and bag from under the seat.
“Good, I’ve got some Poppers and some Wizards and Cindys on the Cape and something in West Virginia. I’ll have to check the schedule. Oh, and a week at the Westbury Music Fair.”
“Hmmm, sounds great, but Dee, isn’t there someone else who can do Dorothy?” I move in close so I can whisper in Dee’s ear. “That stupid little girl heckled me the last time I did it.”
“Don’t listen to that; those girls are just jealous because you are so pretty, and besides it takes a mature actress to really understand an ingénue.” Dee-Honey waves as she drives off, headed south on Broadway. Poppers is short for Mr. Popper’s Penguins in which I play Janie Popper and have a dance solo during the big finale, “Mr. Popper’s Penguins on Parade.” And, of course, the Wizards are the Wizards and the Cindys are the Cinderellas, in which, thankfully, I play an ugly stepsister and not the pretty little ingénue, and, since it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing a season of Shakespeare at Stratford-upon-Avon this summer, I guess I’ll be on Cape Cod in pigtails and hoopskirts. And Dee’s right. You need some life experience to play an ingénue, at least an ingénue with any depth.
It’s just four o’clock when I get home. Close enough to teatime. I pour myself a double scotch on the rocks and decide to tackle my laundry. I empty my hamper out on the floor and separate darks from whites, or rather off-whites, as I have never figured out the Clorox thing so my whites quickly go from sparkling to dingy, but that’s okay with me. Perfectionism creates problems in some areas of my life, but laundry is not one of them. I stuff all the darks into the bottom of my laundry bag and the off-whites on top. I stand for a while looking at my bed. Should I strip it or not? I take a sip of scotch and consider the possibility.
Dorothy on the Rocks Page 4