Dorothy on the Rocks

by Barbara Suter

  “Maybe he’s hurt,” I say, “broken wing or something.”

  “No,” Jack says watching him, “he’s too heavy with all the soot. Watch, he’ll figure it out.” And sure enough the bird makes his way to a puddle left from yesterday’s rain shower and begins to take a bath. He ducks down into the water and then shakes himself off and ducks again and again and again. Then he tries his wings once more and this time he flies up and lights on the fire escape of the synagogue, sits for a moment, and then soars up and over the building, headed for the blue skies and far horizon that Jack promised him.

  “Go, little fellow,” Jack cheers as boy-birdie disappears into the morning.

  Jack and I sit and drink our coffee and stare off in the direction that birdie flew. I think we are both half expecting him to fly back for one last look, or to sail over and dip his wings at us like pilots do in the movies as a kind of salute to the people waiting below. We sit in silence for quite a while.

  “I guess he’s going to be all right,” I finally say.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jack says, clearing his throat, “he’ll be fine.” Then my handsome young man reaches up with his strong left hand and wipes away a tear.

  “Are you crying?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I guess I am. It’s pretty powerful to watch something reclaim its freedom. To be back where it’s meant to be.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “must have been scary in that chimney, not knowing which way to go.”

  “Well, he’s not scared anymore,” Jack says.

  “No, I guess not,” I say.

  “Lucky bird,” Jack says and smiles up at the morning sky. Jack and I sit and watch the sun come up, and then I offer to make breakfast.

  “I have some English muffins,” I say, surveying the contents of my fridge when we get back upstairs, “and some leftover Chinese. And some cottage cheese. Oops, no, this is way over the expiration date.”

  “An English muffin,” Jack says. “Mind if I jump in the shower? I got to get on the road.”

  “Sure.” I put a muffin in the toaster and look for some butter. I find margarine and grape jam. I go to my window to see if our bird has circled back into the courtyard.

  “I smell something burning,” I hear Jack say. I rush to the kitchen and sure enough the toaster is smoking. Jack pulls the plug and waves the smoke away with his towel.

  “Damn,” I say. “This is my life in the kitchen.” Jack upends the toaster and the two blackened muffin halves plop out into the sink.

  “There,” he says. “Breakfast is served.” Then he kisses me on the forehead. “I’ve got to run; I’ll pick up something on my way.” Jack goes to the bedroom and starts slinging on his clothes. I’m still standing in the kitchen looking at the dead muffin when Jack comes up behind me and kisses me on the top of my head.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “It’s okay,” Jack says. “You win some, you lose some.”

  “But I bet you win most things,” I say.

  “Hell no,” he says, pulling on his socks, “my life is a mess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just a guy who is trying to get by.”

  “Oh,” I say, and bite hard on my lip so I don’t say something I’ll regret.

  “I’m no prize. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Well neither am I.”

  “Good, we’re even.” Jack steps into his shoes by the door. “I got to go.”

  “Wait,” I say, “don’t leave now.”

  “I have an appointment,” Jack starts for the door.

  “Stop,” I say, “stop, please.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll call you.”

  “I want to say that you’re a prize to me.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you really knew me.”

  “What?” I say. “What does that mean?”

  Jack looks at me for a moment. Takes a step, then reconsiders.

  “Sorry, forget it,” he says and ducks out the door. I follow him and yell from the landing as he gallops down the stairs.

  “That’s a lousy thing to say. I do know you.”

  “All right,” he yells back, “have it your way, Sweet Pea. Love ya.” And he exits quickly out the front door of the building.

  “Love ya too,” I yell back. Mrs. Vianey pokes her head out of her door two flights down.

  “What’s going on?” she asks. I lean over the railing and she looks up at me. What’s going on? I think. I wish I knew.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Vianey,” I say. “I was . . . just rehearsing a scene and it got a little loud.” Which I realize is absurd.

  “Shakespeare?” she asks hopefully. “I love Shakespeare.”

  “Well, this was more like Sam Shepard.”

  “Oh,” she says, looking up at me. “I saw Laurette Taylor in Glass Menagerie. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “Yes, you have,” I say. “Many times, actually.”

  “Oh,” she says.

  “But I always love hearing about it,” I say.

  “She was wonderful,” Mrs. Vianey says. “I was a young girl, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I say, moving toward my door. I reach out and steady myself against the frame. My knees feel weak and my stomach is growling and I’m having that flickering sensation in my peripheral vision again. I make my way to the kitchen and open the refrigerator and look for a beer, something to ease the angst in my head, and then panic hits me. I threw it out. I threw the beer out, along with the rest of the booze. Shit! I close my eyes and count to ten . . . and then remember my special secret. I open the cupboard over the sink, shove a chair next to the counter, and climb up. I reach into the big pot that I would make spaghetti in if I ever made spaghetti. Eureka. There it is, my emergency bottle of scotch. What a smart girl I am. “Be prepared,” I whisper. My old girl scout leader would be proud. I climb off the chair. I hug the bottle for a moment and take a deep breath. Just for now I’ll drink this. Then I’ll quit again. I promise I will. What’s the big deal anyway? I unscrew the top and take a deep swallow and slide down the wall and sit on the floor and let the scotch work its magic. No thoughts—open, drink, slide. The scotch rolls down my throat and hits my belly, and immediately I feel a wave of nausea. I run to the bathroom, lean over the toilet, and throw up. I close my eyes, the room spins, I squat holding my head between my hands. Bixby meows. I open my eyes. He is looking at me, his cat face so close to mine that he looks huge, like something out of a Japanese sci-fi movie—The Cat That Ate New York. I gasp and lie back. My head hits something hard. It takes a moment to realize it’s the tub. I struggle to my feet and start searching for a cigarette thinking that will steady me, and then I remember I quit that too. Shit. And, I didn’t hide any anywhere. I call Brian.

  “I really want to smoke. I am not smoking but I really want to. I just wanted to tell you.”

  “What time is it?” Brian groans.

  I squint at the clock. “It’s six fifteen,” I say.

  “In the morning?” Brian snaps.

  “I think,” I say. “And I haven’t had a cigarette. I have a headache but no cigarettes.” I don’t tell him about the scotch.

  “Hot milk,” Brian whispers into the phone. “I know it sounds corny, but it really works, and if you have a nice slice of toast with it, dip it. It’s like eating baby food. Call in the morning . . . the real morning. Like around ten.” Then he hangs up.

  I drink some hot milk—adding a medicinal splash of scotch. The milk eases that scotch into my stomach and this time it stays down. I eat a piece of toast and then I decide I should lie down and get some sleep before I have to meet Dee-Honey. I set my alarm. And it seems to go off before I even close my eyes. I stumble to the shower, turn it full blast. I don’t know why I feel so upset; after all, Jack did say he loved me. Maybe that’s what upsets me. He said it like he was saying goodbye.

  IN MY RUSH to get packed and meet Dee-Honey, I scratch my right eye with the earpiece
of my sunglasses. It hurts like hell. My eye waters and stings and my head is pounding. This is punishment for my bad behavior. And I have to go to West Virginia and pretend to be an ingénue. I should call the funny farm right now and make a reservation

  “Bye, Bixby,” I say as I close the door. “Sandy will be in to feed you and visit and perhaps have a tryst with her lover, but don’t judge, Bixby. Remember, you can’t judge a man until you have walked in his moccasins, or her Dansko clogs, in Sandy’s case.” I can’t get the idea of Sandy and Mr. Dogwalk out of my mind, especially the image of them having sex under the trees next to the dog run bright and early in the morning. I wonder if that’s against the law? Don’t you need a permit from the parks commission to fornicate in the undergrowth?

  By the time I get to Ninety-sixth Street to meet the cast, my eye is throbbing and my head is pounding louder and louder by the minute. Also, I’m having trouble seeing and the sunlight is giving me a terrible headache on top of the pounding.

  “Good morning, fair damsel,” Ron says as I approach.

  “Funny,” I manage to say, but talking makes it worse.

  “Hey, I just had a great audition for Alabama Shakespeare. Henry V. That would be awesome,” Ron says, helping me get my bags into the van.

  “Ahh,” I say, “Henry V. I know it well,” and despite my throbbing eye and pounding head I quote a few lines. It’s an affliction common to actors, the irresistible urge to spout lines from past performances

  “Wow. That’s impressive,” Ron says when I finish.

  “I played the chorus at San Diego Rep about ten years ago. I hope you get the part.” Now my head feels like a raccoon is chewing on my frontal lobe and I’m seeing in triplicate, which is alarming because this is exactly how my friend Dan’s brain tumor started.

  “Are you okay?” Ron puts his hand on my shoulder. “You look a little off.”

  “To tell you the truth, I hurt my eye this morning. I was in a hurry and when I put my sunglasses on—”

  “Let me see,” Ron interrupts me. “Take off your glasses.” I pull off the glasses and the sunlight about knocks me out. I can’t even open my eyes.

  “Wow,” Ron says. “We need to take you to the emergency room.”

  “Look I think I—”

  “Dee, Maggie scratched her eyeball and she needs to go to a hospital.”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” I say.

  “It’s your eye. You don’t want to mess around,” Ron says. Dee-Honey comes over and takes a look. Then Randall Kent inspects the damage.

  “Oh, God,” he exclaims. Pretty soon the whole cast of Snow White is examining my bloodshot, weepy eye.

  Helen Sanders offers to call her eye doctor and see if I can get a drive-by appointment. The receptionist says if I can be there in fifteen minutes, the doctor can see me right away.

  “You scratched the cornea. That is very painful. Are you nauseous?” Dr. Trostle says after he examines my eye.

  “No. It just hurts like hell.”

  He cleanses it and gives me a painkiller and then bandages my eye.

  “You’re not going to have any depth perception, so you have to be careful. Take the pills and put the drops in twice a day. I’ll give you a prescription. And keep the eye bandaged.”

  “Am I going to be able to see? I mean is it damaged permanently?”

  “No, it’s a deep abrasion but it should heal fine,” Dr. Trostle says, writing out the prescriptions. “Drops twice a day, and be sure to keep it bandaged.”

  We stop at a Duane Reade and get the prescriptions filled. We are an hour behind schedule, but Dee-Honey has a heavy foot so that’s no problem. We’ll make it. Besides, the first show isn’t until tomorrow morning. As we settle into the drive all I can think is three days with my fellow thespians, a scratched cornea, and nicotine withdrawal. Thank God for the painkillers! I have to be careful no one steals them. I close my eyes, the good one and the injured one, and try to sleep.

  We get to the Days Inn outside of Wheeling, West Virginia, about eight p.m. We check into the motel, then we assemble and head for the IHOP we spotted on the way in. Helen orders a short stack with a side salad. Her reasoning: roughage flushes out the carbohydrates, thus canceling the meal. Interesting. You just have to get a look at Helen from the back end to know that this theory is only true in, well, theory. I order a short stack of blueberry pancakes and a side of whipped cream because my eye needs the comfort of sweet, fluffy food. It’s called the sweet and fluffy diet.

  “So what do we tell the kiddies?” Randall asks.

  “About what?” Helen says, shoving a big spoonful of pancakes in her mouth.

  “About how the lovely young Snow White lost her eye,” he says looking at me.

  “I haven’t lost my eye,” I say. “I hurt my eye. In a domestic accident.”

  “So mundane, run of the mill,” Randall says frowning. “I think it should be a curse, a curse from the wicked stepmother because of your beauty. The one flaw. And yet even with only one eye you see clearly. Good lesson for the kids.”

  “Maybe you should tell them you lost it to cancer because Snow White used to smoke and she got cancer of the eye,” Ron offers in reference to my last outing in the part.

  “I told you, Snow White found the cigarette in the forest,” I say getting irritated by the whole discussion.

  “Maybe we could say it was eaten out by a rat,” Helen offers. The image of a rat eating my eye causes my throat to constrict and the pancake that was starting it’s way down gets stuck in my windpipe and I realize I can’t breathe.

  “I like it,” Randall says leaning back in his chair. “A rat that was cursed by the evil stepmother. Or maybe it is the evil stepmother.”

  I look wide-eyed around the table. I put my hands to my throat. I can’t even cough. I have no air. It’s eerily the same feeling as with the man in the park. No air. I pound the table and then throw my arms in the air.

  “My God, she’s choking,” Helen says. I wag my head up and down.

  “Who knows the Heimlich?” Randall booms in a panicked voice. Everybody freezes for a second. Eddie Houser yells for the waiter. Helen gets behind me and places her arms around my waist.

  “Higher up,” Ron says putting his hands over hers and together they strike sharply below my rib cage. Pancake debris flies out of my nose and mouth. I take a deep breath and shiver out a long exhale. I put my head down on the table and take a few quick breaths.

  “You’re okay,” Helen says, patting me gently on the back. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Ron slumps back in his seat. Gloria, who has been huddled in the corner of the booth, talking to her boyfriend on her cell phone, never misses a beat on her phone. She is giving her boyfriend a play-by-play of the near catastrophe.

  “Then Ron and Helen administered the Heimlich and saved Maggie’s life,” she says.

  Oh, God. It dawns on me what happened. I was choking to death.

  “How do you feel?” Ron asks.

  I nod.

  “Wow,” Helen announces with gusto. “That was great. That’s the most exciting thing that has happened to me in years. I saved someone’s life. Maggie, I swear I saw your life pass in front of my eyes. Weird, huh? And I knew we were about to lose you, but thank Jesus I had the strength to save you.”

  “And Ron, you and Ron,” I say getting my voice back.

  “Of course, Maggie,” Helen says. “We both saved you.” She reaches over and puts her hand on mine and gives it a squeeze. “And it’s always going to be something special between us.”

  I momentarily wish they had let me choke.

  “So did you really think you were going to die?” Gloria asks between phone calls.

  “Yeah, I guess, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Seems be to happening a lot lately,” I say. “Does anyone have a cigarette?”

  “Now, Maggie, remember, you quit,” Randall says. “We didn’t save you to have you poison yourself with nicotine. We’re your p
rotectors now.” I look around the table and everyone is nodding at me in a patronizing, disgusting way.

  “Does anyone have a cigarette?” I say at the top of my lungs to the whole room. “Huh? Does anyone have a fucking cancer stick I can smoke?”

  All the activity in the restaurant skids to a stop like in those old E. F. Hutton commercials. Fifty people sit with forkfuls of pancakes suspended in midair. Then a big guy in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut out reaches in his breast pocket and pulls out a pack of Camels.

  “Here, little lady, have one of mine.”

  I walk over, take the pack, and shake out a cigarette.

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” And then I turn and make my grand exit out of the restaurant. Prince “Ron” Charming is right on my heels.

  “Don’t smoke that, Maggie,” Ron says. “Come on, hand it over.”

  “If you come near me, I’ll bite you,” I say, holding my hand up. “Don’t you dare try to stop me!”

  “All right I won’t get any closer, but let’s at least talk this through,” he says. “Look, you had a traumatic experience, and of course you are on edge and want a cigarette, and it’s hard I know. I remember when my mother quit.”

  “Fuck you. I don’t want to hear about your mother.”

  “Well, it’s just that she’s about your age.”

  “That does it. I’m not listening to another thing you have to say.” I turn and stomp off in the direction of the motel.

  “You’re not going to walk, are you? It’s more than two miles.”

  “You bet I am,” I yell over my shoulder. “These boots were made for walking, kid. Ask your mom about that.”

  “You’re wearing sandals,” he yells back. “And you’re blind as a bat with only one eye.”

  I turn around and stomp my foot and say with a snarl, “I’m not listening to you or anyone.”

  “All right. Have it your way,” Ron says and starts back into the restaurant. “Oh, FYI, Mom said the first week is the worst.” And he is gone.

  Now I have to walk back to the motel. I’ve made my stand. Damn. Take a deep breath I tell myself. “Drink some hot milk and have a piece of toast,” I hear Brian’s voice say. I’ll give him a call when and if I get back to the motel without being kidnapped and sold into a white slavery.