by A. W. Gray
The hair was a wig. A good one, but definitely a wig. Its color was a shade between black and brown, brushed out over the forehead in flippant bangs. The front of the do, in fact, was the giveaway; as Victoria Lee awk-ed and gawked around the dormitory, the bangs stayed rigidly in place. Less than a third of the way through the cook’s tour, Meg was already thinking, God, when will this be over with?
“And what child’s room is this, dear?” the actress said. She pronounced it, “deah,” and while the Texas accent was pretty good it was as phony as the hair. Reminded Meg of Michelle Pfeiffer, playing the Kennedy assassination freak in the movie Love Field.
“I’d have to check the room chart,” Meg said, which was a stall. Mrs. Dunn had a seemingly endless list of no-no’s, most of which Meg considered idiotic, but the one with which she agreed the most was that nobody was to tell which child slept in which room. Meg glanced down the hallway, where a group of plumpish, middle-aged women chatted patiently while the actress lagged behind. “Why do you ask?” Meg said.
“Just, just wondering.” The actress batted mascaraed lashes. She’s a bit much to stomach, Meg thought, sashaying here, twirling there, just loving everything about the place a little too enthusiastically for comfort. Victoria Lee wore a snow-white pantsuit and matching high heels, with a multicolored bandanna strung around her neck, and her skin was tanned the color of butter rum. Her sunglasses were L.A. Eyeworks with the emblem etched into the right lens, and she had an irritating habit of removing the glasses and sucking on an earpiece when she seemed in thought. “Do you attend the theater productions?” she asked.
“I go sometimes,” Meg said. “My current, friend, I guess you’d say, isn’t too interested in plays. But, yeah, I like to.” She kept her tone light and airy. Something else about this Victoria Whatchamacallit, she seemed a bit too stereotyped, as if playing the public perception of an actress rather than being one for real. “What ages are your children?” Meg said.
“I don’t have children.” Victoria Lee was bent over, examining a row of clay vases molded, painted, and kilned in art class. The pantsuit hugged a fanny to die for. Meg thought her own bottom a little on the skimpy side—though she hadn’t had any complaints, she reminded herself—and it occurred to her that this chick likely did a lot of working out. About my age, Meg thought, a year or two either way, twenty-six to thirty, give or take. “How darling.” Victoria Lee said.
“The kids worked hard on them.” The short hairs at the nape of Meg’s neck were suddenly standing on end. “What interested you in our school, Ms. Lee?”
There was the barest twitch in the actress’s upper lip. “You should catch Autumn Midnight. I think you’d like it.” She dug in her purse.
“I only have weekend evenings off. I live here in the dorm.” Meg folded her arms. “Where did you hear of Riverbend?”
“Oh, perfect. Please take these for Saturday. It’s our last performance, and you must come to the cast party afterward.” She handed Meg two pasteboard tickets. “Bring your friend. Significant other’s what they say these days.”
Which Meg thought was tired jargon—significant other. She said, “I wouldn’t want to crash someone’s cast party, especially since I don’t know—”
“Come on now, I insist.” Victoria Lee looked closely at the fire extinguisher in the hallway case. “This is well maintained, isn’t it?”
“Inspected every two months,” Meg said.
“What about night patrols?”
“I check the girls through the night.”
Victoria Lee arched an eyebrow. “Oh? How often?”
Meg’s chin moved slightly to one side. “Occasionally.”
The actress seemed irritated. “Come on. If I’m considering a donation, I want to know these kids are safe out here.” She pointed down the hall, toward the back exit. “Does that door stay locked?”
Meg hesitated. Opening up to this woman would eliminate any complaints to Mrs. Dunn, which in turn would do away with more lectures from the old tyrant. But Meg stood her ground. “I don’t have any problem with your knowing whatever, Mrs. Lee. But the rules here are, I’m not supposed to tell anyone certain things. If you want to talk it over with Mrs. Dunn, I’m sure she’d work something out. Answer all of your questions. Oh, and as for the tickets. I’m sure I’ll be there, though I may have to drag my friend along by the ear.”
9
Meg felt just the tiniest bit sorry for Frank, but wasn’t about to let him off the hook. “Relax,” she told him. “You might even enjoy it.”
He sipped from a transparent plastic cup, which held just enough Scotch to color the water the shade of weak tea. “It’s the suit. I wear one maybe twice a year, and this one’s gotten too tight for me.”
She rolled her program up and laid the cylinder affectionately on his forearm. “It doesn’t look too tight. Be still, my heart.”
“You’re just saying that. Look, couldn’t we just—”
“Am not. You look terrific in a suit.” Which was the truth, she thought, wavy brown hair peaked over his forehead, a spray of winning freckles and sort of an Alfred E. Newman, what-me-worry grin. When she could get him to grin, which at the moment was quite a chore. Broad shoulders and a thick, muscular neck, like a jock dressed up for the Heisman Trophy ceremony, but an expression as if he’d be more at home doing some blocking and tackling.
“I don’t feel terrific,” Frank said. “Tell you the truth, I feel out of place.”
Meg blinked. “I never would have guessed.”
“It’s these people.” Frank looked around at a lobbyful of men in dark suits, a few tuxes in the crowd, women in drop-dead spring cocktail dresses and full-blown evening gowns, all creating a hubbub of conversation while sipping weak highballs from transparent plastic cups. The padded carpet was beige, four wide steps ascending to the exit, clear glass panels revealing stately elms and sycamores, moonlight reflecting from a still river and the mansion rooftops along Turtle Creek Boulevard. “A couple of guys over there, one of them saw this off-Broadway. Says he’s dying to compare this cast with the one in New York. What do I do if somebody asks me something like that, offer them vanilla?” Frank ran his finger around inside his collar.
Meg showed what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Just tell them you went to see Guys and Dolls instead, the last time you were on Broadway. Everybody’s seen that one, so nobody’s likely to ask you how it was.”
“Jesus.” Frank looked toward the auditorium entry, where a slim young woman collected tickets. She wore a floor-length pink gown. “How long’s this going to take?” he said.
“There are two acts, the first is longer. Probably a couple of hours. Two and a half, at most.”
One corner of his mouth bunched. “Can’t we blow this off and go to a movie? Come on, Meg, let’s go.”
She blinked. “I’ve been invited, Frank, I can’t just…”
“Oh hell, just read a review. Then tell this actress you saw the play if you ever run into her again. She won’t know the difference.”
“Somehow I think she will. And if Dunn the Hun finds out I took the tickets and then didn’t show up, I’m never going to hear the end of it.” Meg had worn her lone formal evening getup, a black straight dress with a lace jacket flared around her hips, and matching spike heels. The outfit had set her back two seventy-five the previous winter at Lord & Taylor’s closeout sale, and she was reducing the balance at a snail’s pace, twenty bucks a month on her revolving charge account. She was glad to finally have the chance to wear the damned thing, which made up some for the months of sneering at her closet every time the L & T statement arrived in the mail. “You’ll probably enjoy the cast party more,” Meg said.
“I’ll bet.”
Frank looked absolutely miserable, and Meg felt a twinge of guilt. She opened her program and ran a freshly manicured nail down the cast list. Victoria Lee w
as fourteenth in order of appearance, her part identified merely as “Woman in Station.” Hardly a starring role, Meg thought. She examined the full-length program cover photo of the featured performer—Sarah Teas, an actress with Broadway credits—then thumbed through the pages to the bios. Not much on Victoria Lee, just a notation that she’d most recently appeared in Garnet Acres in Memphis, Tennessee, a play of which Meg had never heard. She closed her program, rolled it up, and shoved it under her arm.
Frank watched her like a man about to receive the death penalty.
“I’ll level,” Meg said. “I don’t want to go through this any more than you do. But this woman seemed a little strange yesterday when she toured the school, and…let’s just say I want to catch her act firsthand. Humor me, Frank.” She threw him a saucy wink. “I might even make it worth your while.”
Act II was ten minutes along before Victoria Lee made her appearance. By then Meg was every bit as bored as her escort, and probably more so. The play was a real yawner, action zero, a turn-of-the-century period piece about a young country girl falling in love in the big city.
The moment she’d been waiting for came in a train station scene, at a plot point where the heroine had decided to forsake unrequited love and head for home. If Meg hadn’t been meticulously counting the actors’ appearances, she never would have recognized Victoria Lee. The actress’s hair was hidden by a different wig than she’d worn at the school, coal black this time, stuffed underneath a sunbonnet. She also wore a bustle and carried a parasol primly under her arm, and all of the phony Texas accent was gone as well. Victoria Lee’s lone contribution was to shriek at the star, “There’s a gentleman looking for you” so loudly that it was comical, then exit left. Some juicy part, Meg thought. She leaned over and whispered to Frank, “That’s her,” and then did a double take.
Frank’s mouth was open in astonishment. His gaze was riveted to the spot on the stage where Victoria Lee had been.
Meg said softly, “What’s wrong?”
Frank turned to her. “You mean, the one that just left?”
A woman with blued white hair, seated one row ahead, turned to stare daggers. Meg bent nearer to Frank and whispered, “Yeah. Why, something wrong?”
Frank relaxed and leaned back. “Aw, nothing. For a second there she looked like somebody I know.”
Howard Molly had mint-sweet breath, a pointed chin, and a piercing, pin-you-down stare. “Since I’ve been single again,” he said, “I’ve had trouble meeting people. The job takes up so much.”
Which made about the tenth time he’d mentioned his divorce during a Five-minute conversation. Criminy, Meg thought, talk about backing a person into a corner. She held her drink in both hands, keeping the glass in front of her in case she needed to fend the guy off. “Have you tried the singles clubs?” she said, glancing beyond him in search of Frank. She and Frank had gotten separated somewhere between the entrance and the hors d’oeuvres table, and Meg hadn’t spotted him since Howard Molly had herded her off to one side.
“Those places are dangerous,” Molly said. “So much disease going around.” He wore a tux with blue satin lapels. He leered.
Meg continued her survey of the restaurant’s interior, her gaze roaming the long, linen-covered table and falling in turn on cheese trays, shrimp on ice, crabmeat laid out with goblets of cocktail sauce, and a huge platter of smoked salmon. Arnold’s-in-the-Quadrangle was the name of the place, and Meg had heard that the owner, a Lebanese guy, was quite a theater buff. He’d kept the restaurant open late for the cast party.
“You wouldn’t have to worry about diseases,” Meg said to Molly, “if you took your time getting to know people. Learn something about their background before you—”
“I believe in getting down to brass tacks.” Molly said. “You attend our plays often?”
“Not much.” Meg now looked to the standup bar, where a slender man in vest and bow tie mixed something in a cocktail shaker. Sarah Teas, the star with the Broadway credits, was holding court, surrounded by two older women and four men. Still no sign of Frank.
“Well, you should,” Molly said, moving in closer. “I knew you weren’t a regular, or I would have recognized you.” He watched her as if trying to decide which part of her anatomy to grab.
“You make it a point to meet all the women,” Meg said.
“Especially the attractive ones.” Molly produced a business card. “I’m director of the Center.”
“I know who you are.”
“You do? Have we met?”
Meg moved in a half-circle around him so that her back was no longer against the wall, giving herself breathing room. “No, we haven’t, but you know my boss.”
Molly’s chin tilted. “Who is…?”
“Helen Dunn. I teach at Riverbend School. In fact I’m—”
“You do?” Molly stepped back as if she’d poked him with a cattle prod.
“—the one who showed Victoria Lee around the other day, after you referred her.”
“You are?” Molly changed from Big Bad Wolf into Caspar Milquetoast in the wink of an eye. His thick hair was sprayed in place and he was graying at the temples. An ample belly poked out against his coat.
“That’s me. We had a nice visit. She seemed really interested, especially in our security.”
Molly averted his gaze. “I don’t seem to remember sending her.”
“You must have. Mrs. Dunn doesn’t forget those things.”
Molly quickly had a sip from his highball. “I’m certainly glad you came. Can you excuse me? I see a…”
“Maybe we could have the two of you out. You and Ms. Lee.”
Molly licked his lips. “I’m sorry, I do have to go.” He left her flat, walking quickly away and mingling in the crowd.
God, Meg thought, is it my perfume? At that instant she spotted Frank. His shock of hair was visible near the bandstand, where a three-piece combo played. Frank balanced a plastic dish in one hand while shoving smoked salmon on a cracker into his mouth with the other, and Victoria Lee had all of his attention. She’d changed from her stage costume into a pale blue cocktail dress that looked painted on, and as she spoke to Frank her eyes twinkled in come-hither merriment. As Meg watched, Victoria Lee put her hand on Frank’s shoulder, stood on tiptoes and whispered something in his ear.
Meg blinked. Dammit, this two-bit excuse for an actress was hustling Frank, no doubt about it. And Frank—the slug, Meg thought—acted as if he was enjoying the attention, grinning like a moron.
This chick had better go beat someone else’s time, Meg thought. She made a beeline through the crowd, practically running over Howard Molly as he struck up a conversation with a thirtyish blonde. Molly didn’t even glance at Meg. She walked up behind Frank and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi,” she said. Then, to the actress, she said, “Hello, Ms. Lee.”
Victoria Lee smiled like Eve. “So glad to see you.” She glanced quickly at Frank, then zeroed in on Meg.
I’ll just bet you’re glad to see me, sweetcakes, Meg thought.
“Frank mentioned during the play that you looked familiar.” she said. “Do you two have something in common?”
They covered up pretty well, but Meg didn’t miss the look that passed between the two. “Nothing at the moment,” Victoria Lee said. “Must be one of those things, you know, where they say everyone has a double.”
“Meg,” Frank said quickly, “you want me to get you something?” He gestured toward the hors d’oeuvres and bar area.
Meg let her gaze roam back and forth between Frank and Victoria Lee. Finally she said, “I don’t think so. I think we’d better leave, Frank. I feel a headache coming on. I can’t imagine what’s causing it.”
10
During the ride to Frank’s apartment, Meg made small talk. She absolutely would not ask him about Victoria Lee. Frank was her first real thing in a couple
of years, and she was determined to give him plenty of room. The breathing-down-one’s-neck approach had terminated her last relationship, with a corporate lawyer in a downtown firm, and the problems she’d had in breaking it off had given her the permanent willies. God, she recalled distastefully, I couldn’t even go to the supermarket without having to account to the guy. So if Frank happened to know Victoria Lee from some other life, that was his business. No way was Margaret Ann Carpenter going to be anybody’s clinging vine….
Frank responded to Meg’s small talk with a series of uh-huh’s and uh-uh’s, gripping his Jeep Cherokee’s wheel with both hands, streetlamps casting moving shadows on his cheeks and nose. Aha, Meg thought, he’s feeling guilty. I won’t have to ask about Miss Footlights; before the night is over, good old Frank will spill the beans.
They bounced into the parking lot at his complex and nosed in between a Corvette and a Buick four-door. Frank cut the engine, then sat for a moment and toyed with his keys. Meg waited patiently. Finally he said, “I guess we’d better go on in.”
The breath eased from her lungs. He’s on the verge, she thought, right there on the edge. “All right,” she said sweetly, then waited properly in place while he came around and opened the door. As she stepped down on the asphalt she kissed his cheek. He averted his gaze.
The breeze carried the scent of rain, and distant lightning illuminated a bank of thunderheads. Springtime in Texas was one raging storm after another. During the night a deluge would come; by morning the sun would shine. Meg climbed the metal steps, lightly touching the banister along the way, her gaze sweeping the parking lot and surrounding bushes in reflex. There’d been a recent string of driveway robberies in far North Dallas, but as yet the hijackers hadn’t struck in Frank’s eastside neighborhood. Nonetheless, coming in late gave Meg the creepy-crawlies. Once on the landing, she waited while he fumbled the key into the lock. Then he pushed the door ajar and stood aside. She showed him her best, not-the-slightest-bit-curious smile as she crossed the threshold.