Piece of Work

by Laura Zigman

  At the check-in desk, Mary was told she would be staying in the Minnie Mouse Suite and Julia was told she’d be staying across the hall in the Donald Duck Room. Mary shook her head with disgusted resignation and followed Dumbo and the Two Dwarfs to the elevator and off again and then down a long carpeted hallway to their rooms. Julia followed them. Disappearing into her suite without even saying goodbye, Mary barked orders at the three oversized costumed bellhops about their mishandling of her luggage. It was just another day, another city, another chapter in Mary Ford’s life as a has-been, taking out a lifetime’s worth of frustration on anyone unlucky enough to serve her.

  Standing there in the hallway with her tote bag over her shoulder and her signal-less cell phone in her hand, Julia couldn’t do anything to stop Jack from torturing them and she couldn’t stop Mary from torturing the costumed bellhops (especially the Two Dwarfs, who, from what she could hear, were getting the worst of it) except reach into her bag for her wallet and the thick wad of twenties inside it. Even though there wasn’t nearly enough money to compensate for the pain and suffering Mary caused wherever she went, when Dumbo came out with Sleepy and Grumpy behind him, she peeled a bill off for each of them anyway and whispered her apologies.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  Knowing they had nothing to do until Nick came back to pick them up at five-thrty for the Macy’s appearance at six o’clock, Julia went into her room and closed the door behind her. It was almost over, this tour, this farce—after today, after the Macy’s event (assuming it wasn’t overrun with protesters the way Bloomingdale’s in Boston had been the night before), she’d be on a plane home tomorrow, back to New York and home to Larchmont to go trick-or-treating with Peter and the artichoke.

  Since she had nothing to unpack and since she’d decided not to bother switching hotels unless Mary forced the issue, Julia put her tote bag and her laptop on the desk and sat down on the bed. It was quiet, and when she looked around the room she couldn’t believe how far they’d come and how low they’d sunk.

  A week ago they were at the Hay-Adams in Washington, and then the Ritz-Carlton in Atlanta; just yesterday they were at the Westin in Copley Square.

  She bounced on the mattress once or twice to determine its quality (far from heavenly), ran her hand over the slick synthetic bedspread, then reached for the light—pressing the beak of the giant Donald Duck lamp next to the bed—and flipped through the room service menu. After almost fifteen minutes of distractedly staring at the two pages of offerings—it’s a good thing they were going home tomorrow, otherwise Jack would probably book them into a Motel 6 or a Best Western or a Holiday Inn Express—she finally settled on the “Snow White Salad” with a side order of “Pinocchio Fries” and a pot of “Buzz Lightyear Coffee.”

  In the twenty minutes it took for Pluto to deliver her lunch, Julia had noticed at least four Deliberate Mickeys (Hidden Mickeys that were in plain view and used in décor)—the hand soap in the bathroom, the embossed toilet paper, the multicolored bedspread, and the alarm clock—and then three more on her room service tray: butter pats, sugar cubes, and corn chips. Looking down at the salad and picking briefly at the long, thin shoestring fries, she realized, though she hadn’t eaten since the night before, she had no appetite. Shocked and amazed—she couldn’t remember the last time she had lost her appetite, if ever—but too exhausted to be appropriately delighted by it, she put the tray on the floor outside her door. Then she called Jonathan to check in for messages and to make sure that all was quiet at the office (it was) and that there was no news of an ambush being planned at Macy’s later that evening (there wasn’t).

  At the window she pulled back the curtains that matched the bedspread and thought she could see Main Street USA just past Cinderella’s Castle. Though she’d never been there she knew that the Magic Kingdom was divided into five distinct “lands”—Tomorrowland, Fantasyland, Frontierland, Liberty Square, and Adventureland—and she remembered reading once that Walt Disney, being a complete control freak, had insisted that a huge network of underground tunnels be constructed to connect all the “lands” so guests wouldn’t see any “behind the scenes” operations or costumed “cast members” walking “offstage” through one world (Tomorrowland) into another (Frontierland) and breaking the illusion of fantasy.

  Julia suddenly felt sad that Leo wasn’t with her now—she could just imagine his delight in the hotel room right then, with the Donald Duck lamps and wall sconces and the Mickey Mouse bedspread and the nonstop cartoons on TV—and she was crushed that there probably wouldn’t be time for her to sneak away to the theme park itself before or after the event with a disposable camera and at least take pictures and buy souvenirs to bring home. Even if there were time, she knew Mary wouldn’t want to go, given the terrible time she said she’d had there years ago.

  But to Julia’s shock and amazement they did go: first to the Magic Kingdom and then to the Animal Kingdom—after the Macy’s appearance, which, though it had no protesters (even the staff hadn’t really heard about the PETA situation), was grossly underattended. Despite newspaper ads and heavy in-store promotion, there were, at most, thirty women milling around the cosmetics department and only about half of them bought boxes of perfume for Mary to sign.

  When Nick asked how it had gone as they crawled back into the car, Mary waved her hand at him dismissively.

  “It was a bust,” she said.

  “It wasn’t one of her better events,” Julia said.

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Einstein, here. The Queen of Relativity.”

  Julia nodded reluctantly.

  It was a disaster.

  In a moment of sheer celebrity-inspired exuberance, an over-eager Macy’s saleswoman had sprayed the entire signing area with Legend just minutes before she and Mary had arrived, saturating the white linen skirted tablecloth and their upholstered wing-back chairs. Once she and Mary sat down with their noses crinkling and eyes watering, the saleswoman had returned, bottle in hand, ready for more spritzing. Which is when Mary almost attacked her.

  “Get away from here with that bottle or I’ll call store security,” Mary barked, reaching across the signing table for Julia’s cell phone to prove she was serious.

  The saleswoman looked confused, then horrified, quickly checking the bottle in her hand to make sure it was Legend and not some other celebrity’s fragrance. Relieved to see that she hadn’t made some grotesque error, she smiled.

  “But it’s your perfume, Miss Ford! And we’re so excited to have you!”

  “I don’t care how excited you are. Put that goddamn bottle down or I’ll have you forcibly removed from this store.”

  Feeling a wave of perfume-induced nausea coming over her, Julia had smiled nervously. Then she sneezed. “It’s just that I’m allergic,” Julia lied, trying to make the saleswoman, who had tears coming out of her eyes, feel better, and to contain the public relations crisis already in full swing: the few customers who had been in line had overheard Mary’s verbal threats and were now wondering why she, former star of stage and screen—and Hollywood legend—was bellowing at someone half her age and half her size. Julia wondered if she should fake a sneeze or two, but while she was deciding, she sneezed—for real—three times in quick succession.

  Before Julia could get complete control of the situation, the saleswoman left the signing area in tears, and Mary sat back down at the table. The bottle of Legend was now in her hand, and Julia realized that while she’d been busy sneezing Mary must have wrestled it out of the poor woman’s hand. Which was probably why the first three women in line had put their boxes of perfume down on the table and walked away, muttering the word “bitch” under their breath, without making their purchases. Clearly, things were going downhill fast.

  Now, back in the car, waiting for some direction from either Julia or Mary, Nick finally started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. And when his question of where they wanted to go now was
met with a wall of silence, he suggested that they let him show them a good time.

  “What kind of a good time did you have in mind?” Mary asked, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Dinner at the Wilderness Lodge,” he said. “Then the nighttime fireworks display at the Magic Kingdom. The perfect end to a not-so-perfect day.” He turned around and told them he’d put some brochures in the side pockets on the doors for them to look at.

  Julia picked up the brochure about the nighttime fireworks display and scanned the text:

  Make a wish upon a star and then marvel as the nighttime sky comes to life. . . .

  She turned to look at Mary, who had picked up and opened the same brochure.

  Join Jiminy Cricket as he guides Pinocchio, Cinderella, Ariel, Peter Pan and other beloved Disney characters through this fantastic story told amongst the stars. . . . Discover that wishes do come true when you experience this story so big only the sky can hold it.

  Mary put on her smart black glasses and read aloud, “The show is presented as the park’s good night kiss to its guests.”

  “They think of everything,” Nick said.

  Mary took her glasses off. “Well, I don’t kiss on the first date.”

  He laughed. “You said yourself that this is your second time here.”

  She smirked, then put the brochure back in the side pocket. “I’d rather go to the Animal Kingdom. I like animals. Despite what my daughter and her group of activists think. In fact, I like animals better than people.”

  When Nick told her that he had a friend who could get them special passes for the “Sundown Safari,” she shrugged, as if still thinking about Lindsay and the PETA situation. Then she told him to slow down and keep it under sixty on the highway.

  “Don’t overdo it with the gas pedal.”

  Nick winked at Julia in the rearview mirror and pumped the brakes.

  “Sounds like a yes to me.”

  It was after dinner at the Wilderness Lodge—after Nick had paid off a friend of his to get a golf-cart vehicle to drive Mary and Julia to a private nighttime ride across the savanna with their own special guide; after he had helped them both into the all-terrain-style vehicle with canvas awnings and bench seats high enough to see past the bushes; after Nick had sat down next to Mary in the seat just behind the driver and after Julia sat down in the seat behind them; after they passed two black rhinos and three reticulated giraffes—when Julia’s cell phone rang.

  The night air was chilly, especially for southern Florida in late October, and the park, bathed in its artificial simulated moonlight, appeared empty except for them. Mary, who seemed to actually be enjoying herself—no lines, no walking, first class all the way, finally—turned around briefly as Julia fished frantically through her big black tote bag for her phone.

  When she saw the Caller ID number glowing—Patricia’s office—and the time—well after ten o’clock, late even for Patricia to still be at work—Julia knew something was wrong.

  “Can you talk?” Patricia asked, all business.

  Julia looked past Mary and Nick in the front seat of the safari vehicle to the driver behind the wheel. He had just driven them past the rhinos and the giraffes and appeared to be headed for a herd of antelope foraging for food.

  “Sort of.” She turned her back on them so she couldn’t be overheard and described the surrealistic scene for Patricia—strange and oddly humiliating as it was. “You know how it is.”

  “Unfortunately I do.”

  Julia shifted in the seat and stared at the antelope while she waited for Patricia to say whatever it was she had called to say. She assumed the animals were real, though she wasn’t sure—this was a Disney theme park, after all, full of fantasy and illusion and the blurring of the lines between the two—and now, unable to ask the driver, she would have to spend the rest of the ride not knowing what was what.

  “Look,” Patricia said finally. “I’m calling to give you a heads-up on something.”

  Julia laughed nervously. “You’ve discovered something better than Thermage?”

  Patricia didn’t laugh. “Actually, I’m calling about Mary Ford’s daughter.”

  “What about Mary Ford’s daughter?”

  “She has a book.”

  “Another novel?”

  “No. It’s nonfiction. A memoir. A tell-all book.”

  “Like a Mommie Dearest book?”

  “It’s called Mary Dearest. But yes. Same idea.” Patricia paused awkwardly. “She’s hired Pulse—and me specifically—to handle her and counteract all the bad-daughter press she’s going to get when her agent sends it out.” She paused again. “I know this makes your situation even more complicated but I thought you should hear it from me so you wouldn’t get completely blindsided when the shit hits the fan in two days.”

  Julia blinked rapidly, trying to get her bearings. “How did she come to you?”

  “Jack DeMarco sent her.”

  “Jack DeWack sent her?”

  Julia shook her head in disbelief. This whole thing was going from bad to worse. First the perfume smelled terrible, then Jack and Lindsay sabotaged the promotional tour, and now they were coming in for the kill. The campaign was falling in with the timed precision of a house of cards. She’d never seen anything quite like it in all her years in the business.

  “You’ve read it, I assume?” Julia asked, even though she didn’t have to.

  “Let’s just say there are no surprises.”

  But her daughter was a nobody! And Mary Ford was a has-been! Who, besides Leeza Gibbons and Deborah Norville, would really be interested in either of them?

  “Who cares? I’m not worried. When it comes out it’ll disappear in a week.” Julia knew she was doing a shitty job of pretending she wasn’t flipping out but she did it anyway.

  “It’s not the book that will make headlines,” Patricia said. “It’s the film rights. This story has great female roles, one for an older actress. Material like this doesn’t come along that often for women of a certain age, so they’re expecting the submission to generate a lot of interest.”

  Julia knew she was right. Faye Dunaway, for all her great work in Bonnie and Clyde and Chinatown and Network, would always be best remembered for her viciously campy portrayal of Joan Crawford.

  She stared at Mary in the front of the safari vehicle sitting next to Nick, and for the first time since she’d met her, Julia actually felt truly sorry for her. The two of them had discovered over dinner that they had grown up within blocks of each other in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn years ago and were still talking about the old neighborhood as the vehicle made its way across a twisted bumpy bridge over a turbulent crocodile pool. In the distance a group of hippos stood at the base of a cascading waterfall looking up briefly at the low headlights of their vehicle.

  She had no idea how she was going to break the news to Mary, and she had no idea how she was going to position their side of the story to the media. She also knew she would have to tell Mary right away—she couldn’t risk her hearing it from someone else. As the vehicle bounced and bumped along the rutted road, she asked Patricia what their time frame was.

  “They’re submitting the manuscript to publishers and film people on Friday—in time for them to take it home and read it over the weekend. By Monday we’ll know more.”

  Julia folded up her phone and stared into the manufactured moonlight.

  It was Tuesday night.

  They’d get back to New York sometime the following afternoon.

  Which would give her most of Thursday in the office to set up her end of a crisis-management response—Mary’s official statement regarding her position on her daughter’s book would have to be written and ready for immediate release; internal decisions would have to be made about who—Katie Couric? Diane Sawyer? Barbara Walters?—would get access to Mary for her first sit-down televised interview. Mary Ford might indeed be at the nadir of her fame, but there was nothing those ambulance-chaser shows loved more than someon
e—an actress, a mother, a has-been—under attack.

  Just as she was trying to figure out when to break the news to Mary—Back at the hotel later that night? The following morning at breakfast before their flight home? Just outside Mary’s apartment at the Ansonia while the car idled curbside, waiting to drop her off and take Julia out to Larchmont in time for Halloween?—Mary turned around and yelled out over the sound of the vehicle.

  “Who called?”

  Julia hesitated. “My friend Patricia.”

  “The one you told me about?”

  Julia nodded.

  “Why was she calling so late?”

  Mary didn’t miss a trick. Even with all the jungle noises and night-vision binoculars, nothing got past her.

  Julia froze, wishing she could stop time, freeze the frame right there in order to be more prepared for what she had to do—tell Mary that her daughter had written a nasty book about her that was going to hit New York and Hollywood in about forty-eight hours—but deep down she knew that there was no way to spin the news of Lindsay Green’s memoir into anything other than what it was: a public humiliation and the ultimate betrayal.

  She also knew that delaying the inevitable wouldn’t score her any points in the long run. Mary would be incensed if she learned that Julia had kept the news from her for any substantial length of time. And so, she leaned forward on the edge of her bench, tapped Nick on the shoulder, and pointed at the driver.

  “Tell him to stop the ride.”

  The vehicle slowed down and came to rest right in the middle of a clearing of underbrush where a family of colobus monkeys was gathered. Their black and white fur glistened in the simulated moonlight and they looked remarkably peaceful on their little piece of fake wilderness, searching through the trees for leaves and berries.