Dorothy on the Rocks

by Barbara Suter

  “Goodnight, John,” I say quickly. Our eyes meet for a second, and then I turn and walk down the sidewalk and to the end of Forty-third Road and back to the subway station. I stand on the tracks and wait for the number 7 train to take me home to Manhattan.

  THE NEXT MORNING I sit across from George, my therapist, a cup of black coffee cradled in my hands. No more milk for me. I want it straight and strong. George is staring at the floor, waiting for me to have a revelation. There is none coming. We’ve been sitting like this for about twenty minutes.

  “Life goes on,” I say finally.

  “Yes,” George agrees. He looks at me, then smiles, and we lapse back into silence.

  “I’m not smoking or drinking,” I say a few minutes later.

  “That’s good, I guess,” George says.

  “I feel numb. I have no desire for anything. Flat,” I say. “I feel flat.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “I went out to Queens last night. To see Jack’s house, and his father was there and he invited me in for dinner.”

  “Really?” George moves forward in his chair. “And how was that?”

  “It was surreal. I had never been to Jack’s house, and there I am in the house he lived in and in his bedroom and talking to his father.”

  “What’s his father like?”

  “His father is grief-stricken.”

  “I see.”

  We sit for another twenty minutes or so. George glances at his watch and makes a move. I take a deep breath and get up to leave. When I get on the street I realize I’m shaking, and I feel a sensation of being unsafe, unsafe in the world, and mortal, very mortal.

  I have to meet with Thomas in a half hour and go over the songs for Friday night. I stop at a pay phone and dial Charles’s number at the gallery. My cell phone is, of course, nowhere to be found. Tosh answers.

  “Is Charles there? It’s Maggie.”

  “Hang on a sec, hon, he’s just finishing with a client.”

  “Maggie, darling. What’s up? I’ve been worried. I called and left a message on your cell. I haven’t heard from you. You’re not still angry about the video thing. Chad’s a sweetheart and so talented. You’ll like him when you really get to know him.”

  “It’s been a tough time. The young guy I was seeing, remember?”

  “Sure. The one that had you thinking about babies.”

  “That’s right. Well he died. Suddenly.”

  “Oh my God. Maggie, my love, I’m so sorry. What can I do?” Charles asks. “Are you all right?”

  “It was a few days ago. I’m okay. You know.”

  “Yes,” Charles says. “I do know.”

  “I’m singing Friday at Don’t Tell Mama,” I say. “Sidney asked me to help him out. He needed a show. He’s got the hotel crowd on weekends. Do you think you can be there? It would mean a lot to me.”

  “Be there? I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be in the front row,” Charles says. “Oh, I have an appointment. I have to run. Let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  “Just for you to be there Friday.”

  “You can count on it. Love you,” Charles says.

  “I love you too,” I say.

  I meet with Thomas and we work out a running order for the songs and go over the arrangements and practice a couple of the numbers.

  “Nothing fancy,” I say. “Let’s keep it simple. I hope I can sing for an hour. I feel like it’s been years since I’ve done this.”

  “You sound fine,” Thomas says. “Just don’t push. Think of it as a dress rehearsal.”

  “Goodie always said to sing from the heart and everything else would fall into place.”

  “He was right,” Thomas says. “Do you want me to wear a tux or a jacket?”

  “Anything you like except sequins. I’ll be wearing the sequins.”

  “Gotcha. How about a black shirt and jacket?” he asks.

  “Sounds good,” I say, getting my things together. “I’ll see you at the club on Thursday for rehearsal.”

  The next three days fly by. I vocalize and take Mr. Ed for walks in the park and cuddle with Bixby. I drink lots of black coffee and suck on cinnamon sticks, which someone recommended for cigarette withdrawal. I let the phone machine take any messages. My agent calls with some auditions for the following week. I call her back to confirm and invite her to the show Friday night.

  “Thanks, Mags, but I’ll be at the beach for the weekend. Maybe next time,” she says. I call Patty and tell her about the gig. I also call Bob Strong.

  “Wow,” he says. “I can’t wait. See you then.”

  I call Spider and leave the information on his machine. “And I haven’t had a drink today,” I say as if it’s a joke, and yet I know it’s not a joke. I know it’s dead serious. And I’ve been leaving that message on Spider’s machine every day for over a week now. Then I sit and look at the phone for a while. I screw myself into a tight little fist. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Should I call John Eremus? I feel a blush run up my neck. He said he might come to hear me sing; maybe he would like to come Friday. I look around in my desk drawer for the piece of paper I jotted his number down on. I finally find the House of Noodles menu. I have got to organize my life, I think once more as I dial the number. I take a breath and try to relax. After five rings the machine picks up. “Leave a message at the beep,” John’s voice says.

  “It’s Maggie. Turns out I’ll be singing this Friday night at Don’t Tell Mama. It’s on Forty-sixth Street at eight o’clock. It’s short notice. I’m filling in for someone. Just wanted to let you know,” I say and hang up the phone like it’s a hot potato. There, I did it.

  The rehearsal on Thursday goes pretty well. My voice holds out, and Thomas and I are finding our own music shorthand with each other. I debate with myself over wearing the sequins. Is it too much without Goodie to balance it out? Oh, hell, why not? I have an electric blue dress that looks pretty damn good on me, especially now that I’ve lost about five pounds. The “grief” diet. It works every time.

  The show is at eight p.m. so I get to the club around seven. I get a cup of coffee for Sidney and one for myself at Amy’s Bread Shop on the corner. The bar is hopping when I enter. Several well-tanned guys with spiked hair are hanging on the barstools, flirting with Jim, who is behind the bar wearing very shorts pants and a muscle shirt. There are some couples at the tables and a few are leaning on the piano, singing a medley of Elton John hits. I go in the back to Sidney’s office. I tap on the door.

  “Come in,” he says.

  “Brought you a coffee,” I say.

  “You’re a doll,” Sidney says, getting up from his desk. I hand him the coffee and he toasts me with the cardboard cup. “To a great show.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I really appreciate you helping me out on this one,” he says. “It’s going to be packed.”

  “Terrific,” I say. I can feel the dread rising in my throat—that terrible dread known as stage fright which erases all rational memory and leaves you with only the horrid fear that you will be standing on the stage stark naked with nothing to say.

  I make my way to the dressing room and deposit my makeup kit on the counter and hang up the garment bag that contains the pretty sequined dress that will magically transform me into a dynamic, confident performer. I check my watch. I have an hour before the show. I walk outside to get some fresh air and exorcise the dread. I sit on the steps of the stoop next to the club entrance.

  I look down the block and see someone walking toward me. I’m looking west into the sunset and the figure is silhouetted in the beams. It’s familiar, very familiar, and suddenly out of the sunset steps Goodie, full-sized, wearing his long white raincoat and his yellow high-top Converse sneakers. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek.

  “You’ll be great, Maggie.”

  “Goodie, you’re a real boy again!” I put my arms around him and hold on tight. “How is it possible?”

  He smiles a
t me. “Anything’s possible, you know that, don’t you?” he says, smiling his hundred-watt smile.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “You’ll be wonderful, Maggie,” he whispers in my ear. “And take care of that precious cargo,” he says, patting my belly.

  “What precious cargo?” I say.

  Goodie smiles and takes my hand and places it on my stomach, right below my waist. He covers my hand with his and looks me in the eyes. “Happy ending. Like in the fairy tales.”

  He kisses my cheek and then the light shifts and he’s gone. Poof.

  “Maggie,” someone says behind me. It’s Thomas. “Ready to rock and roll?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, then look back down the street. People are coming and going along the sidewalk, rushing, bustling through the evening. But there is no Goodie, full- or pint-sized—at least not that I can see.

  “Goodbye, Goodie,” I whisper. “Don’t stay away too long.”

  Thomas and I go into the club and begin our preshow preparations. Billy the lighting guy comes in carrying flowers.

  “These are for you,” he says, handing them to me. “Someone delivered them this afternoon. They were downstairs.”

  “Thanks.” I open the card. Sorry I can’t be there. I have to work. Break a leg—Spider. P.S. Call me tomorrow. I can’t believe he came by and brought me flowers. It was some kind of miracle meeting Spider in the park the night of the attack. Maybe miracles happen all the time and the trick is to recognize them. I will call Spider tomorrow. I will call him and tell him I’ve had one more day without a drink.

  IT TURNS OUT Sidney wasn’t exaggerating about a full house. It’s packed. He has really hooked into the hotel trade. They bring in extra chairs. As promised, Charles and Chad are sitting in the front, and Patty and Jim are to the left of them. Bob Strong is in the back, leaning against the service bar. Thomas starts the introduction to the first song. The audience quiets down. My hands are shaking, but it’s more from excitement than fear. At least that’s what I tell myself. Then the lights come up on me in my blue sequined dress and I sing and sing and sing. Thomas is great. We find a groove by the third song. The audience is great too. Everything is absolutely great.

  For the next to last song of the set we do one we worked on yesterday, “River of Dreams.” For Jack. Thomas plays the introduction, and as I start to sing I notice a man standing at the back of the room. The lights from the bar highlight the side of his face. I recognize him as much by his stillness as by his face. It’s John Eremus. I miss my entrance to the song. I look at Thomas. He plays through the introduction again. I come in this time and sing it from my heart. By the end, half the audience is crying. Charles is weeping like a baby and reaches out for Chad’s hand. Patty dabs at her eyes with a tissue, then hands it to Jim. Thomas begins the last song. It’s up-tempo. The Bee Gees “Stayin’ Alive.” It’s an arrangement Goodie loved and I have a flashy tambourine solo in it. Some of the audience sings along for the last chorus. Thomas and I bow and leave the stage. I’m shaking all over. I did it. We did it. I hug Thomas.

  “Thanks. You were great.”

  “You too,” he says.

  Charles and Chad find me and gush and gush. And Patty and Jim gush and gush. Friends are so nice to performers, especially when the performer is also in mourning. I decline their invitations to go out. I’m too spent. And besides, according to Goodie, I’m pregnant. Oh my God. What if it’s true?

  “Well,” Patty says. “We’ll be at the Westside Diner if you change your mind. I’m starving and I love their tuna melts.”

  “Thanks, I’ll see.”

  “Fantastic,” a voice booms. “You sound fantastic.” It’s Bob Strong. He gives me a big bear hug. “Oops, careful,” he says. I hear a muffled bark from the bag Bob has slung over his shoulder. “I snuck Piper in for the show.” A little head pops out of the bag and licks my face. “Piper loves live music,” Bob says, cooing to the dog. “Don’t you. And he thought you were terrific.”

  “Well, thanks, Piper,” I say, scratching his head. “I know poodles have very discriminating taste.”

  “Absolutely,” Bob booms. “We’ve got to run. We’re seeing another show downtown. You were swell, Maggie. Really swell.”

  “Thanks, Bob . . . and Piper.” Bob zips Piper back in the bag and off they go.

  I go to the dressing room to change. I pack up my things and on my way out stick my head in Sidney’s office.

  “Great show, this was a great warm-up for the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth,” he says. “Call me on Monday. I want to talk about a regular night for you if you’re interested.” He hands me an envelope with my pay.

  “Thanks, Sidney,” I say.

  I go back in the room to thank Billy. He is resetting the lights and the sound guy is checking the microphones. The next show is at ten o’clock.

  “See you soon, Billy,” I say.

  “You too. Great show,” he calls from his ladder in the middle of the room.

  “Thanks.”

  I walk out through the bar, which is now mobbed with the usual Friday night crowd. I push through the throng and make my way to the exit.

  “Maggie,” I hear someone say. I turn around. It’s John Eremus. That blush starts up my neck again.

  “Hello.” I smile at him and he smiles back.

  “You sounded great,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say. He is looking at me with that unsettling look again. John Eremus is a very attractive man, I realize. He is maybe fifty years old, close to my age actually. He’s wearing a gray sports jacket and white shirt with an open collar. His greenish brown eyes are deep pools of warm water I could easily step into and that is what is so unsettling. “Can I buy you dinner?” he asks.

  “Sure. I guess,” I say.

  “All right.”

  “Yeah, that would be nice.” We walk out into the warm evening. “There’s a nice place on Forty-eighth Street. It’s Italian, excellent pesto,” I suggest.

  “Sounds good,” John says.

  We get to the restaurant and are shown to a table in the back. It’s an old favorite of mine, nice place, not too noisy, not too crowded.

  I order the pesto rigatoni and John gets the linguini with clam sauce and a beer. I stick with Diet Coke.

  “How are you doing?” I ask.

  “All right,” he says. “It’s tough. I talked to the doctor who treated Jack in the emergency room. He said probably nothing could have saved him. He was dead in less than two minutes. He could have been in the hospital and they still couldn’t have saved him. It was a massive hemorrhage. Congenital. A time bomb.”

  “Did they say what caused it at that particular moment?”

  “Not really. They say it could have happened at any moment. At a certain point, when the artery walls are that compromised, it can be the next cup of coffee or the next belly laugh or the next intake of breath. It’s a crapshoot, Maggie.”

  “It’s amazing anyone makes it out alive,” I say.

  “No one makes it out alive, Maggie, that’s the point,” John says.

  “Oh, right.” I blush slightly and take a big sip of the Diet Coke the waiter has placed in front of me. I wish it were something with a stronger bite.

  “Have you always sung?” John changes the subject.

  “Yes, I guess. My mother had a lovely voice and I would sing with her when I was small,” I say, remembering my mother sitting on my bed singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with me. “Then, when I was about ten years old this acting company came to our church and performed a musical version of St. Joan of Arc. It was wonderful. And the two actresses stayed at our house that night. My mother let me stay up late and we all sat at the kitchen table. The actresses drank scotch and smoked cigarettes and talked in these wonderful throaty voices. They told stories and my parents laughed and I laughed and I knew right then that my dream was to be onstage and to sing.”

  “Here’s to dreams,” John says picking up his glass of beer.
/>   “Here’s to a whole river of them,” I say picking up my Diet Coke, tears filling my eyes. And suddenly I remember the man in my recurring dream the last time I dreamed it, when Jack was sleeping beside me. It wasn’t more than a couple of weeks ago. I was standing at the edge of the abyss and from nowhere came the man who reached out his hand. It was an older version of Jack. My God, I think, it was John Eremus. Every hair on my head begins to tingle. Oh, my God.

  “What is it?” John asks.

  “What is what?” I ask back.

  “You look a little shaken,” he says.

  “I am shaken,” I say. “These are shaky times.”

  “Yes.” John drops his eyes. “Yes they are.” He moves his food around on the plate for a minute. “The Yankees are really kicking ass this year.” He launches into the safe world of sports talk.

  “I know,” I say. “Did you see the game last night?” And just like that we are in the lifeboat of small talk and managing our way safely through the meal.

  John insists on driving me home. Before I get out of the car I say, “I sat across from you at the monastery, in the meditation hall. Did you know that?”

  “You’re kidding?” he says. “At the last retreat?”

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t see you, but then I don’t look around much during those things. I try to stay focused.”

  “It was my first time,” I say. “All I did was look around.”

  “That’s strange that we were there together,” John says. “You know I got a call the last day about Jack.”

  “I figured that. I didn’t find out until I got back to New York.”

  “Of course,” he says, looking at me and then dropping his eyes to study his hands.

  “Odd, isn’t it?” I say in barely a whisper. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you at the funeral. I thought it was you, and then when I noticed your limp, I was sure.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “I wasn’t wearing my leg at the monastery.”

  “Well, not while you were sitting zazen. You were so still, so serene.”

  “Oh, God,” John says. “If I could go back to that week before this nightmare happened. If I could have been with Jack when it happened maybe I could have . . .”