Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  “It was love at first sight.”

  “Not quite. But I did want to see Peggy again. Only Madison made it very clear that she was off limits. Truthfully, Peggy didn’t seem all that outlandish to me. She has trouble remembering things, but she’s warm and sweet and…I guess what I’m trying to say is that my feelings for Peggy, right from the start, were stronger than mere chemistry.

  “When Madison went to the bathroom,” Sol continued, “I asked Peggy where she lived and…isn’t this your duplex?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to carry you inside?”

  No, tell me more, I thought. But I had a feeling Sol was finished. All I knew for sure was that Madison had meddled, maybe even done something horrific, and Sol despised him.

  In any case, I wanted to call my mother, tell her I loved her, thank her for the hours she’d spent driving back and forth to the city, taking Girl Scout leader courses so my friends and I could have a troop. I also wanted to thank her for the fuzzy-wuzzy bathrobe smile.

  “I’m okay, Sol,” I said. “Honest.”

  Which was true. A heating pad would take care of my bruised ribs, and my headache had become a dull throb.

  Sol insisted on walking me to the door. His eyes looked sad.

  As he drove away, I heard Ginger bark.

  Entering the duplex, painfully navigating the carpeted staircase, I thought Cleaning’s out, but I can still bake peanut butter cookies. First, a long hot bath. Then I’ll call Mom. Why is the bedroom door closed?

  Maybe a capricious breeze had slammed it shut.

  Drawing closer, I heard voices, and my next (dumb) thought was Andre’s watching his old soap on the bedroom TV.

  Then I had an out-of-body experience. I heard a squeal, followed by “Ann-dray, you’re baaaad!” I watched my hand grasp the knob, turn it to the right, and open the door. My feet dug into the hallway’s shag, but Frannie entered the bedroom.

  Three faces swiveled toward her/me. All three faces were topped by tousled “Scandihoovian-blonde” hair.

  Correction: one face possessed tousled German-blonde hair.

  “Oops,” said Fawn. Or Bambi.

  Chapter Forty

  In a movie, the tongue-tied heroine would clutch at her bosom. Tears would spring to her eyes and stream down her pale cheekbones. Then she’d turn and run away.

  I didn’t do any of those things.

  First, my tongue wasn’t tied. “Oops is a malapropism,” I said. “I believe you mean oh, fuck.”

  Second, I couldn’t run, not with my bruised body.

  Third, I had nowhere to run to.

  Exiting the bedroom, I shut the door and made my way back down the stairs. At least I could wrap up part of my game plan.

  To my surprise, Mom had installed an answering machine.

  “Hello whoever’s calling,” the machine said. “This is Miriam Rosen, Frannie Rosen’s mother. Frannie’s starring in a Victor Madison movie. I’m probably out shopping, spending Frannie’s money, so leave a message at the sound of the beep.”

  Why did I always forget that my mother has a sense of humor?

  “Mom,” I said, after the beep. “Buy yourself a fake fur, something that looks like mink, and I’ll pay you back. I owe you so much…” I paused, swallowing a sob. “I’ll call again, I promise, but don’t call me here. I’m moving to the hotel…” I tried to remember the name of the hotel but couldn’t. “I just wanted to thank you for…well, lots of things. I know you’ll say I’m meshuga, but…Merry Christmas, Mom.”

  As I hung up, I sensed a presence. The ghost of Christmas past?

  Close. Andre stood behind me, his body wrapped in a towel.

  “Is it deer hunting season?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Frannie.”

  “Oh, good. That makes everything peachy keen, Andre. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out of this room.” He didn’t move. “I’m not kidding. Can you say kill? Can Bambi or Fawn say malapropism?”

  “Your message, Frannie, the one you left on Rick’s cell phone…you said you’d be filming all day.”

  “Oh, I get it. What happened upstairs is my fault.”

  “In a way.”

  “What? In case you haven’t noticed, Andre, I’m a tad angry.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Frannie, my play opened.”

  “When?”

  “Five nights ago.”

  Five nights ago? Where was I?

  Playing Marianne, drowning myself in vodka, mourning Davy’s suicide, vomiting kisses.

  “And in case you care,” Andre continued, “the reviews were fantastic. I’m up for the TV remake of Bus Stop. And, another soap.”

  I took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why didn’t you ask? For starters, I left a note on the fridge.”

  “I didn’t see a note.”

  “Maybe your ghost destroyed it.”

  “Not ghost, Andre, demon. And for the record, I bet that’s exactly what happened.”

  “Oh, give me a fucking break.”

  “There is a demon, Andre, and he’s jealous. Why do you think I threw up the night we almost made love?”

  Looking like Scrooge’s Ghost of Things To Come, Andre pointed.

  My eyes followed his finger, and I saw an empty vodka bottle next to a half-empty bottle. Christ, Sol was right. No wonder my eyes were always dazed and/or scared.

  “Frankly,” Andre said, “I would have invited you to several parties, but I didn’t want a repeat of Rick’s party.”

  “What did I do at Rick’s?”

  “What didn’t you do?”

  “I’m serious, Andre. All I remember is you telling me you were too drunk to get it up.”

  I took a few steps forward and almost pitched to the floor. Andre caught me before I fell, then dropped his hands as if he’d touched a hot potato, and I caught his look of disgust.

  “I’m not drunk,” I cried. “I fell down the stairs, at work. They wanted to take me to the hospital…what did I do at Rick’s?”

  “You were fine, Frannie, until you went to the bathroom. When you came out, you said it was too cold in there and that Rick should turn the air-conditioning off.”

  “I don’t see what’s so wrong about ‑‑”

  “You weren’t wearing anything except panties, and you were all goosebumps. I tried to cover you with my shirt, but you growled at me.”

  “Growled like a dog?”

  “No. More like that girl in The Exorcist. You…”

  “What? I what?”

  “You said you were Robin and you wanted to make baby demons.”

  “Christ, Andre, I don’t remember any of that.”

  “Then you lay on the floor, out of it.”

  “I passed out?”

  “No. You played with your breasts and spread your legs. The guests were embarrassed, but they figured you were drunk. Rick laughed. After a while, he told me to carry you outside and sober you up, the guests were complaining. You fought me tooth and nail, until we got home. Then you asked if we could make love, sweet as sugar, but all I wanted to do was put you to bed.”

  “And go back to the party.”

  “Yes.”

  “To sleep with Bambi and Fawn.”

  “No…not that night.”

  “None of those things happened!” I screamed. “I’d remember if they did. I drank one beer, one crummy beer. No way did I take my clothes off. No way did I play with myself. No way! What I can’t understand is why you’re making it all up. Why, Andre? Why?”

  “He’s not makin’ it up.”

  Whirling around, I hugged my ribs so they wouldn’t fall out. The twins stood on the stairs, looking down into the living room.

  “He’s not makin’ it up,” Bambi or Fawn repeated. “We were there. I hate to say this, Fran, but you was actin’ real slutty.”

  “Please don’t call me Fran, and at least I don’t sleep with someone else’s boyfriend. That’s my definition
of a slut.”

  “Bitch!” said Fawn or Bambi. “You brought a guy home. We were at Rick’s, after the show, and we saw you, drunk as a skunk. This guy helped you walk, coppin’ a feel every now and then ‑‑”

  “You were wearin’ a cheerleader’s uniform,” Bambi or Fawn interjected.

  “I bet you hardly got the door shut,” Fawn or Bambi continued, “before he was eatin’ pussy.”

  “Shut up,” Andre said. “Go over to Rick’s and wait for me.”

  As the twins swiveled their butts down the stairs, I recalled my conversation with Jem. I had finally summoned the courage to ask him about the night of Davy’s wake. Jem said I got out at the curb. He swore up and down he hadn’t walked me inside, hadn’t stuck around, hadn’t said thank you Frannie, thank you Marianne. Yes, we kissed in the limousine. No, we didn’t fuck. I didn’t want to, not “in front of the driver.” That sounded like me, and I believed Jem.

  “Bambi,” I said, “the man you saw…what did he look like?”

  “Didn’t see his face,” one of the twins replied, her voice churlish.

  “What kind of car did he drive?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What was he wearing?” Dumb question, Frannie. Can you remember what Jem wore?

  “Black,” Bambi said, then followed her sister outside.

  “Andre ‑‑”

  “Enough, Frannie. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Would you make me a sandwich?”

  “A sandwich?”

  “I’m hungry. There’s a fresh loaf of bread and a can of tuna. Please?”

  “Hey, I’m not Wendy,” he said softly, his voice an echo from the recent past. Still wearing his stupid towel, he headed for the kitchen.

  I made my way over to the phone again, remembered the name of the hotel, and called Bonnie…who wasn’t there, damn it. My life had just changed radically, but everything (and everyone) else was so damn normal.

  Ho-ho-ho. Define normal, Frannie. What’s normal about a director firing a gun filled with blanks while a five-foot-two-and-a-half-inch itsy bitsy spider climbs down the staircase spout?

  Shit! Cat would be at the set, too. How about Jem?

  The hotel operator had been told not to put any calls through to Jeremy Glenn, sorry. Unless, she said, I knew the special password.

  Jem had given it to me…password…password…

  “Moosehead,” I said.

  Using one of my emergency God prayers, I heaved a sigh of relief when Jem picked up the phone. He said he’d collect me ASAP.

  One detail down, I thought. If the hotel didn’t have a vacant room, I’d bunk with Bonnie. Or Cat, assuming Dawn had returned to Houston and “collected” her daughter.

  As I tried to swallow my dry, no mayo, no celery sandwich, Andre said, “You’re looking good, Frannie. You’ve lost more weight, but in all the right places. And your breasts ‑‑”

  “Are bigger. Yes, I know. I think I’m pregnant, Andre.”

  I didn’t mean to blurt that out. But it’s hard to unshackle oneself from one’s best friend, even if one’s best friend has used one’s bed to make love to a couple of slutty stagehands.

  Andre’s sandwich had been halfway to his mouth. Putting it down with a shaky hand, he said, “Is it mine?”

  “No, it’s not yours.”

  “Is he the father?” Andre nodded toward the phone.

  “Jeremy Glenn? No.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Jesus, Frannie.”

  “It’s not what you think, Andre. I haven’t slept around. Despite what Bambi and Fawn said, there’s been no one but you.”

  “So that means I’m the father.”

  “Hey, I’m not even sure I’m pregnant. I’ve skipped a couple of periods, that’s all.”

  Relief washed over his classic features; not as classic as Jem’s, but close. “That sometimes happens when you lose weight,” he said. “I once dated a gymnast. She was twenty-three, over the hill, and had to watch her weight. She never got her period, which made me very nervous. So I…we…finally split. Up.”

  “I’ll bet she was low maintenance?”

  “What?”

  “Your gymnast. She probably didn’t eat very much.” I’d finished my boring sandwich, even the crusts, and still felt ravenous.

  Andre said, “Do you need help packing?”

  I wasn’t sure I could make it up the stairs again, but didn’t want to appear needy. So I said, “I’d rather avoid our…your bedroom, Andre. Throw a few things into a suitcase, undies, toothbrush, stuff like that, and I’ll get the rest another time…after you’ve changed the sheets.”

  Waiting outside for Jem, my mind focused on what the X-rated Bobbsey Twins had said.

  Bambi (or was it Fawn?) had said a guy helped me inside the duplex, but she hadn’t noticed his car.

  Wouldn’t she have noticed a limousine?

  I remembered my mother’s Nyquil remark. Maybe, instead of a rabbi, I’d call 1-800-EXORC’ST.

  Chapter Forty-one

  As Jem’s limousine approached, I saw that Bambi and Fawn were scrunched together, peering out of Rick’s window.

  Jem wore khaki pants and a white shirt, open to the waist. He hugged me gently, and I made certain my back faced the window so the twins could see his face. I pictured their trashy mouths open, drool accumulating at the corners of their trashy lips.

  On our way to the city, I asked Jem to stop at a drugstore. Telling him I needed shampoo and a mild pain killer, I purchased a home pregnancy kit. Then I dozed against his heroic chest until we pulled up to the hotel entrance.

  Jem said he was running late for a Houston Chronicle interview.

  A doorman took my suitcase while I thanked my knight in shining khaki. This time I gave him a hug, careful not to kiss him, knowing my ribs would never tolerate another vomit-his-kiss session.

  The woman at the registration counter could have doubled for one of The Spa nymphets. Perky as all get out, she told me I couldn’t get in. I tried to explain that I didn’t own a credit card because my father was my VISA, but could barely make out her reply. She spoke Texan rather than high school Southern. However, the bottom line was “Get lost.”

  A familiar voice said, “Find her a room, a nice room, and put it under my name, on my credit card.”

  “Yessir, Mistah Aarons,” the nymphet replied.

  “Thanks, Sol,” I said, “but that’s not necessary. I have some cash and my checkbook, and I’m sure my dad’ll wire me ‑‑”

  “We’ll settle up later, sweetheart. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, and burst into tears.

  Sol led me into the hotel’s art deco lounge. After three Cokes and one Andre-vent, I felt much better. Better enough to invite Sol to my room for purposes he couldn’t fail to understand.

  “I’m honored,” he said, swiveling on his bar stool to caress my cheek and wipe away my last tear with his thumb. “But…” He smiled. “Color me old-fashioned, Frannie, but I believe love comes before sex.”

  Rejected again, I said, “Don’t tell me you haven’t messed around since Madison’s sister.”

  He nodded. “However, if I should decide to mess around, you’ll be my first choice.”

  “Sol, I’m sorry. No, I’m not. I love you Sol, the same way I love Frank Capra, and love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

  A familiar voice from my recent past said, “Who is Erich Segal? Or, if you prefer, what is Ryan O’Neal?”

  I swiveled my bar stool, endangering my ribs, then grinned and said, “Sol Aarons, Mickey Roebuck. Samson, this is the greatest makeup artist in the history of the world.”

  “She exaggerates,” Sol said.

  “I do not.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Samson said. “I’ve seen your work.”