Spa

by Olivia De Grove

“My Harry? Mr. Cheapskate! Mr. One Pair Of Worn-Out Shoes!” Maxine looked around to see if anyone was listening, even though no one was there. She leaned closer to Joyce and lowered her voice: “That man pinches his quarters so hard that the American eagle looks like a Thanksgiving turkey. He didn’t pay for me to come here. He doesn’t even know I am here.” She nodded conspiratorially. “I have a little nest-egg that I’ve been saving up out of the allowance Harry gives me. A few dollars here, a few dollars there. It adds up.”

  “You mean that you came down here and didn’t tell him!”

  “What else? If I had told him, I’d still be in New York.” She took a sip of Perrier, and thought for a minute before continuing.

  “You know, you’re the first woman I have met who is getting a divorce.”

  “Really,” said Joyce, who had no idea how to proceed from here. She had no experience in her supposed area of expertise, and Maxine was obviously waiting for her to drop a few pearls of wisdom. She tried to think. What should she do?

  “Listen Maxine, I’m really not an expert on the subject, but it seems to me that if you’re thinking seriously about getting a divorce, you know, if you’re not just going through a phase where you’re mad at your husband, then this must be the right time to do something about it. It’s your marriage. Only you can know when it’s over.”

  Maxine tried to break off a piece of the quiche crust, but it disintegrated into a pile of crumbs. “No shortening. You need shortening to make good pastry.” She pushed the pile of crumbs to the side of the plate. “I think I’ll go visit the kitchen later on and tell them about it.”

  “Good idea. It’ll take your mind off things.”

  “Things. What things?”

  “Your divorce?”

  “My divorce.” Maxine shook her head. “You know, it doesn’t sound right. Only yesterday I was saying ‘I do’ and Harry was breaking the glass. Now I’m thinking about saying ‘I don’t.’ What went wrong?”

  “Maxine, believe me, things will get better. Being on your own isn’t the worst thing in the world. I know.”

  Maxine heaved a big sigh. “Maybe you’re right. If I could get used to being married to Harry, I can get used to anything. It’s just that I’ve never had to look after myself—financially. Harry may be cheap, but he was always a good provider.”

  “You know the laws now are very sympathetic to the position of the divorcing woman who has never worked outside the home. I’m sure that Ha … I mean your husband, will continue to support you.”

  “That’s just the point. I don’t want to have to keep asking Harry for money. To always have to explain why I need things. It was bad enough when we were married. If we’re going to be divorced … well, I want to have money of my own. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, I understand completely. But have you thought about what you can do to get it? You know, what kind of job you’re qualified for so that you can be independent.”

  “Qualified? I’m qualified for bubkess,” admitted Maxine. “I’ve never worked in my life. No, wait, two Christmases when I was in college I worked at Macy’s selling perfume. But I didn’t have to support myself on it. And then right after college I married Harry and then Bradley came along. There was never any time for “qualified.”

  “Well, what did you study at college?”

  “English and Home Economics.”

  “Home Economics?”

  “What can I say? It came in handy.”

  “Well, do you have any hobbies? Anything you really enjoy doing.”

  “Cooking and shopping. I used to enjoy sex, but it’s a little late to turn that into an occupation. Though I understand that it pays very well.”

  “Cooking and shopping.” Joyce shook her head. “I don’t know. You’re right, it’s not much to take to a prospective employer, but you ran a household for twenty-five years. You brought up a child. You’re not exactly without skills. It’s just a question of sorting it all out.” Terrific, thought Joyce, now I’m a guidance counsellor.

  Maxine brightened. “All I have to do is sit down and figure out what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-five years. Shouldn’t be too hard.” She paused. “Listen Joyce, thanks for letting me talk.”

  “That’s alright. I’m glad that you feel better, but there’s something I think I really ought to tell.…”

  “My god!” Maxine looked at her watch. “It’s twenty-five after two. So late. I’m scheduled for a Norwegian Body Scrub at two-thirty.”

  “A what?”

  “A Norwegian Body Scrub. It’s get something to do with seaweed and loofahs. Scrapes away all the dead skin. It’s in your brochure.” She picked up her tray.

  Joyce peeled the last piece of her apple and watched as Maxine hurried out of the cafe. A Norwegian Body Scrub? It sounded painful. She checked her schedule card. There it was, Thursday afternoon right after her herbal wrap. She could hardly wait.

  After a few more minutes she got up from the table, took her tray back to the counter, and went back to her room. It was time to call Harry. There were a couple of things she wanted to talk to him about.

  First, there was this business about the unpaid bills and the man named Mittlehoff. Also, she didn’t buy for one minute the story the doctor had laid on her about financing the spa from a family fortune. Something funny was going on. She could feel it.

  The second thing she wanted to mention to Harry was that his wife was talking about getting a divorce.

  Chapter 22

  While Joyce was sitting in the café with Maxine, Cliff was in the weight room, toning up his lats, pecs, and glutes with all the enthusiasm of an Olympic hopeful. And when he finished there, he decided that fifteen or twenty minutes in the steam room was in order, to melt away some of the bloat that had collected around all of the above from the amount of vodka he had been consuming lately.

  To say the least, this was a significant change in attitude as well as behavior. His stunning good looks had always been something he had taken for granted. Even on those days after the nights when he had been burning the candle at both ends and in the middle too, there had still been enough salivating women around to restore his sense of physical perfection. But the other night, with Joyce, when even though he had turned on the charm full force he had not been successful in turning on the woman, had struck a serious blow to his confidence. Maybe he had been letting himself go a little too long.

  Lying naked on one of the smooth marble benches, the steam wafting up around him, he closed his eyes and tried to think of the last time he had gone five days without a drink. He couldn’t recall one. Then he tried to think of the last time a woman had turned him down. He couldn’t recall one of those, either. Maybe the two were connected.

  Twenty minutes later he had had enough of the heat. Sliding down off the bench and wrapping the towel around his waist, sarong-style, he went in search of the masseur. After two sets of tennis, plus the weights and the steam room, he felt that he was due for a little relaxing round on the massage table with someone pummeling the shit out of him.

  He padded down the hallway, barefoot, the cold tiles a shock to the soles of his stream-heated feet. The sign on the door read, “Alfred, Masseur,” and Cliff pushed the door open and went in.

  Alfred—Adonis in a white singlet and slacks—was in the massage room reading a newspaper. Cliff noticed that it was the Miami Herald and that Alfred was reading the Employment Opportunities section.

  “You busy?”

  “The crowd just left.”

  Cliff hopped up on the table and lay face down. Alfred came over and whipped off the towel, poking a muscle here, a muscle there.

  “You’re pretty tight today, Mr. Eastman.”

  “I know. Give me a real good one, just like yesterday. O.K., Al?”

  Alfred poured a little rubbing alcohol on his hand. “You got it, Mr. Eastman.”

  Cliff shivered as the cold liquid touched his shoulders. But Alfred’s strong kneading fingers soon s
tarted to warm him up, and he began to relax. He was just drifting off into a pleasant drowse when Alfred spoke.

  “You ever think of having someone to do this full-time, Mr. Eastman?”

  “What?”

  “You know, a full-time trainer. I could keep you in terrific shape.”

  “You mean kind of like ‘Bodies by Alfred’?”

  “Yeah, sounds good, doesn’t it?”

  Forty-five minutes later, Cliff tottered back to his room. Every muscle had been kneaded and prodded until his whole body felt limp with relaxation. As Bobby Crystal would say, he felt “maaavellous.”

  Too bad it didn’t last. No sooner had he reached his room and collapsed onto the welcoming softness of the bed, than the telephone rang.

  Without getting up, he reached out and picked up the receiver and cradled it under his ear.

  “Lo.”

  “Cliffy baby, how’s tricks?”

  “Tricks are just fine, Alvin. What’s up?” From the exaggerated goodwill in his agent’s voice, he could tell that something was definitely in the works. He sat up. The relaxation of Alfred’s massage was draining away and being replaced by the tension of possibility.

  “Up? Up? I’ll tell you what’s up, sweetheart. You are. Way up there on the big screen. Have I got a deal for you!”

  “A deal eh? Alright, Alvin, stop congratulating yourself for a second and tell me what it is. No, wait. Don’t tell me. Goldman and Glick changed their minds about Pierce Brosnan?”

  “O.K. I won’t tell you that, ’cause they didn’t. That’s history, Cliff. Forget it. This is bigger. Much bigger. We’re talking George Lucas here.”

  “Alvin, get to the point, will you?” Cliff’s heart was beating faster. This could be just what he needed. A new start in a big picture with a world-famous director.”

  “O.K. O.K. Keep your pants on. Here it is. Lucas has got this great script about this cute but poignant creature from another planet that comes down to earth and.…” It sounded like he was reading from a press release.

  “I don’t do teeny-bopper movies, Alvin. We discussed that already. Besides, that plot’s already been done to death. Remember E.T.?” Cliff leaned back against the pillows. The tension of possibility was being replaced by the drag of fatigue.

  “No. No. Cliff, wait. This is different. Real different.…”

  “How different?”

  “Well, the kid’s a lot older, for one thing, and you get to play the part of the creature … it’s kind of like ‘Bugs Bunny Goes to Ridgemount High.’ The kids’ll love it. It’s a real scream. But deep, very deep.” There was no answer from the other end of the line.

  “Cliff? Cliff? You still there, Cliff?”

  “Yes, Alvin, and the answer is still No. Emphatically, definitely, No.”

  “You get to die in the end.”

  “I’d rather die in the beginning.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You can have your name above the title. Lucas already agreed.”

  “No.”

  “I can get you points on this one, Cliffy. Points.”

  “No.”

  “At least think it over. I promised George.”

  “Alvin, listen to me. There’s not enough points in the entire world to get me to play an extraterrestrial rabbit.”

  “But Cliff.”

  “Think about it, Alvin. One movie like that and my career as a leading man is over. What’s it going to be next, ‘Carrot People From Mars,’ for Christ’s sake?”

  “Alright, Cliff, don’t get testy with me. You’d better wake up and smell the coffee. Your career as a leading man is already over. This is your chance to make some big bucks and keep your name up there. They’re willing to go to a million five on this, plus points. I’m not kidding, Cliff, if I were you I would seriously think it over.”

  “Alvin, you can take this deal and shove it up your.…” But the agent had already hung up before Cliff got to the last word.

  Slowly, carefully, Cliff replaced the receiver. He felt calm, very calm, almost detached. It was like a scene from one of his movies. He got up and went into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. The camera panned in to catch the sight of the water swirling down the drain. Then up to catch the expression of defeat on Cliff’s face and then followed him as he turned and went back to lie on the bed. Cut and print it.

  Chapter 23

  Joyce had no trouble placing the call to New York. And, even more surprising, somebody on the Destiny switchboard was doing their job with more zeal than usual and she actually got straight through to Trixie.

  “Hi, Trixie. It’s Joyce. Is Harry in?”

  “Hi, Joyce. How’s the spa?”

  “Healthy. Is he in?”

  “Well, he is and he isn’t, if you know what I mean. Depends on who’s calling. He’s in a foul mood today, let me tell you. Must be something up with Maxine again.”

  I’ll say, thought Joyce to herself.

  “Look, Trixie, I don’t have much time, so would you mind seeing if I’m one of the people he’s ‘in’ for.”

  “Sure. Just a sec, while I put you on hold.”

  The line went dead, momentarily, and then clicked back into life.

  “He says he’s always in for you. I’ll put you through.”

  The next second Harry’s voice came bellowing over the wires. “Joycee. How’s it going?” He seemed exceptionally pleased to hear from her.

  “Fine, Harry. Just fine. There’s a couple of real biggies down here and.…”

  “Yeah, who?”

  “Oh Regina Taylor and her mother, and believe it or not, Cliff Eastman.”

  “Hey, that’s just great! I told you it’d be a great piece, didn’t I? How about you? How are you doing?”

  “Oh, pretty good. They tried to turn me into a candle this morning, but other than that, it’s been O.K. here. You know, relaxing and quiet and uh … listen Harry, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Go ahead, shoot. I’m all ears.”

  “It’s about the doctor. I was in his office the other day having a look around, and, well, he has a lot of unpaid bills in the files.…

  “So?”

  “So, that’s not all. There’s this ID bracelet too—looks like somebody melted down Tiffany’s. It says ‘To Lover Boy from Lady Bug’ on the inscription.…”

  “So?”

  “So stop saying ‘So,’ will you? Don’t you think its a little weird?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wear it, but.…”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little weird that it was in the doctor’s desk?”

  “Maybe he keeps it as a souvenir.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type. And, if you had heard the load of crap he laid on me about where he got the money from for this place, you’d think there was something not quite kosher going on here, too. He’s trying to cover up something, only I don’t know what it is yet.”

  “So find out.”

  “I plan to. But that’s not all, Harry.”

  “There’s more?”

  “When I was in the doctor’s office this funny little man appeared out of nowhere looking for the doctor, and well, let’s just put it this way: when I first saw him I had an overwhelming urge to say Sieg Heil! But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and just say he looked a lot like Charlie Chaplin.”

  “Joyce, are you trying to tell me there are Nazis at the spa?”

  “No, I’m not trying to tell you there are Nazis at the spa. I am trying to tell you that there’s a funny little man named Mittlehoff running around who looks like someone Eva Braun used to date. He’s not a guest, because I checked, and he’s not on staff, either.”

  “Tell me the truth, Joyce, have you been wearing a hat when you go out in the sun?”

  “Harry!”

  “Alright, I’ll run the name past Research and see if they come up with anything. Mittleho
ff—how do you spell that?”

  “How the hell do I know! I didn’t ask to see his American Express card!”

  “O.K., O.K., Joyce, take it easy. I’ll check it out. Sounds like I was right about the doctor though, doesn’t it? There is something fishy going on down there.”

  “Don’t sign yourself up for the Pulitzer just yet, Harry.” She paused. “Uh … by the way, there’s somebody else here that you should know about.”

  “Oh yeah, who is? Elizabeth Dole? A politico would really round out the story nice, Joyce.”

  “No, Harry, it’s not Elizabeth Dole It’s uh.…” Her mouth had dried up and she swallowed hard to try and generate some saliva. “It’s … Maxine Kraft.”

  “Maxine Kraft? Who the hell is … Jesus Christ! My Maxine Kraft! So that’s where she went. Bradley and I have been worried sick. She’s never done anything like this before.”

  “I know, I mean.…”

  “What’s she doing down there with you, for Christ’s sake? I didn’t say I’d pay for that.”

  “Harry, first or all, she doesn’t know I’m me. She thinks I’m Joyce Allan and that I’m down here because I’m getting a divorce from my husband and.… Oh, Harry, I know it’s none of my business, but I really think you ought to come down here and talk to her. You two really have to get some things sorted out.”

  “Come down there? What the hell for? You tell her to get her ass back to New York, or else.”

  “Harry, I can’t tell her that. Besides, I think she wants a divorce.”

  “A divorce? From me?”

  “You’re her only husband, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, well, of course.… Why does she want a divorce?”

  “Harry, I’m already more involved in this than I want to be. Why don’t you come down here and the two of you can talk things out.”

  “What things?”

  “Well, look. Oh Harry, this is none of my business, I.…”

  “What things?”

  “Well, uh. She says you’re never home. She says she eats dinner with Tom Brokaw every night. She says you’re ch.…”

  “What were you doing, interviewing her, for Christ’s sake?”

  “No, Harry. It’s just that she wanted to talk to someone who would understand how she felt. You know, another woman who’s also getting a divorce.”