by Murphy, R.
A muted chorus of agreement greeted her statement, and then we first sopranos got into a passionate review of the day’s work. Kim, the lone alto, shrugged good-naturedly at being left out and spent the time looking around. Our sandwiches eventually arrived on beautiful tiered trays and, I confess, we all took pictures of the table before eating.
“How was Anything Goes last night, Roz?” Bev, who’d been asleep when I whispered my review the night before, asked.
“I loved it,” I answered and recapped highlights of the show, carefully avoiding mention of the dinner that had preceded it. By this point, we’d worked our way through two pots of tea and the dainty finger sandwiches and scones. Not feeling very hungry, Liz didn’t eat much so, encouraged by the others, I pondered my attack on her remaining miniature pastries. Worries about our upcoming performance had melted away, and gusts of laughter rang through our group as Bev narrated her bewildered encounter with a three-card monte shyster on Fifth Avenue.
Just as I lifted my first, much-anticipated bite of miniature éclair to my lips, I froze. Across the room, meandering unsteadily in my direction, came a very familiar gray suit. A memorable, very wrinkled gray suit. Topped with an unmistakable pair of sunglasses. Bob? Could it be?
Without thinking, I lunged to my feet. Unfortunately, I dropped the éclair on the floor, then stepped on it, slipped, and sprawled flat on my back in the middle of the Palm Court. My glasses flew under a nearby table. My friends shrieked and waiters gasped.
“Nuts!” I said. (Tah-Dah! I bet you wondered if I’d ever make it back to my opening. Frankly, I had my own doubts at times, if we’re being perfectly honest here. And I’m always perfectly honest. Well, mostly always perfectly honest, sort of. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes . . .)
“Nuts!”
(An inelegant word, perhaps, but definitely pithy. McAuliffe’s usage really was genius.) A strong young waiter rushed over and helped me sit up. Éclair custard decorated my shoe, my shin, and the lovely carpeting. It took a minute for me to get my breath and another minute for Liz to locate and clean my spectacles. Finally, with the ongoing help of my young waiter friend, I stood and sat back on my chair. A swat team of busboys swarmed the mess my éclair had made on the floor and it vanished in an instant. Bev handed me a fresh cup of tea, which clinked away on its saucer like a tap-dancing knight in armor as I tried to drink from it.
Politely ignoring the questions being thrown at me, I scanned the room. And there he sat, three tables away, martini in hand, laughing uproariously. My Bob―laughing his ass off at me. He never could resist a pratfall, even mine. Well, I guess some things never change. We hadn’t said a word, and I was already mad at him. Mad but, in all honesty, it felt great to feel those juices flowing again. Wiping his eyes, Bob lifted his martini in a silent toast.
Straightening in my chair, I re-focused on my friends. Just then, the manager, summoned from some far-off corner of the hotel, walked over. I told him repeatedly that I was perfectly fine and that the incident had been completely my fault. Reassured, he departed, leaving us with his best wishes, his business card, and the bill.
Eventually we left our resplendent tea and walked onto Fifth Avenue into a light springtime rain. No taxis could be seen in any direction so, with our new tea-fueled energy, the four of us, with Bob drifting along on my left, started walking south on Fifth back to the hotel. Under her breath, Kim sang tunes from the old musical Easter Parade and, when the crowds permitted, the rest of us joined in. Even Bob contributed in a surprisingly tuneful baritone.
Shop windows burst with flowers and balls of blossoms hung from each streetlamp.
“I thought there’d be more traffic,” Bev observed, looking around. “I don’t even see that many pedestrians, really.”
“Don’t forget,” Kim said, “It’s Good Friday, so a lot of people left work early. They’re already at home.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Bev said. “I had forgotten.”
The date had slipped my mind, too. But that’s why I had planned a quiet evening tonight. Even though I’m not a very good Catholic, frolicking on Good Friday has just never felt, well, right to me. It’s odd, because I don’t observe any other Holy Day but, there you are―illogical though it may be, I rarely play on Good Friday.
Forty-five minutes later we arrived at the hotel, slightly damp but spirits undimmed. Bev, Liz, and Kim changed and sallied forth to the theater. A revival of Equus had piqued their interest. I talked of catching up on my reading and the newspaper while I watched Bob stretch out on the miniature loveseat in the room. I wish I could say he had the grace to close his eyes whenever someone walked around half-dressed, but he didn’t.
Finally they left, and Bob and I had the room to ourselves. At long last. But after two months apart, I didn’t know what to say. I studied my ghost. He looked leaner somehow, more worn around the edges.
“You look kind of tired, Bob,” were my first words after months apart. Brilliant.
“It’s been rough,” he answered, playing with his silver flask.
“Did they send you to that remedial ghost boot camp you mentioned?” I asked anxiously.
“Holy Mackerel, yes, and before you ask, yes, I hated it.”
We’d only spoken for two seconds and I’d already hit a nerve. Sheesh―probably a new record for me.
“Are you allowed to tell me about it?”
“A little would probably be okay as long as I don’t give out details.” He played with his flask for a minute, running his fingers along the sides while he organized his thoughts. “I had to study lots of haunting basics, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. We started with Apparitions 101, How to Terrorize, Cold Spots and Ghostly Noises, and Horror―The Pros and Cons. Then we moved on to our specialties, according to our assignments. You’ll notice my martinis are much drier now, and anytime you want to try a sidecar I’m your man.”
“Bartending? You did remedial bartending in boot camp?” Incredulous, I stared at him. Here I’d been imagining the worst―Bob weighed down with gear, scrambling up and down obstacle courses, slogging miles through rain and mud―and this guy had been spending his time blending cocktails?
“Among many other things. All day, every day. We never got any breaks. There’s nothing fun about bartending or anything else if you have to do it all day, every day,” Bob responded testily.
“We call that 24/7 these days,” I mentioned absent-mindedly, my mind busily formulating a list of questions. “What about―”
Just then, the bedroom door slammed open. Liz, hands pressed against her mouth, ran into the bathroom and I heard the unmistakable sounds of someone retching up her expensive afternoon tea. I jumped off the bed and hurried to the bathroom.
“Can I help?” I asked, hovering outside the door. After a minute the toilet flushed and water ran in the sink.
Liz shuffled out, deathly pale, wiping off her face with a damp washcloth.
“Oh, God, I feel awful,” she moaned, sinking onto the bed.
“Just lie down,” I said. “Where are Bev and Kim?” I continued, confused.
“I made them go ahead without me. I think I have a twenty-four-hour bug. I haven’t been feeling well all day.” She leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes.
“You poor thing,” I said, slipping off her shoes and pulling the coverlet over her. “And you never said a word about feeling sick. No wonder you couldn’t eat your tea treats.”
“I didn’t want to ruin the day for all of you,” she answered, snuggling under the blanket. “If I can just get a good night’s sleep I’ll probably be fine in the morning.”
I felt her forehead. A little warm, maybe, but not burning up.
“I’ll be right here,” I reassured her. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
Liz nestled into her pillow and adjusted the covers.
Bob raised his eyebrows at me in a silent question and I shrugged. What could I do? He wriggled his fingers and disappeared with a crisp snap, instead of his usual air-leaking-out-of-a-balloon fizzle. Impressive. Maybe he had picked up some pointers in boot camp after all.
Liz slept heavily, never waking to undress or even turning over. I took a quick shower to avoid the morning rush and spent an hour with my book and my beloved New York Times, all the while keeping an anxious eye on her. When Bev and Kim showed up, we talked in whispers and got into bed as quietly as possible.
If anything, Day Two of rehearsal was worse than Day One. Now world-famous Harvey Prout, not his mere assistant, waved his hand in my face to get me to lower the volume. And between you, me, and the lamppost, some of those first sopranos from the other choruses were not very nice. I could swear I heard giggling behind me every time Prout motioned at me to be quieter. I even caught Bev grinning one time, and gave her an angry stink eye. The end of that morning’s rehearsal found me practically whispering my part. When Prout finished with us, he said, “Not bad, people.” Talk about rubbing salt in the wounds.
Liz re-joined the chorus after lunch.
“You’re still looking peaky,” Kim told her. “Are you sure you’re well enough to sing?”
“I’m not one-hundred percent,” Liz answered, “but I’m better, and I didn’t want to miss everything. I’d like to at least pretend I know what I’m doing when we sing at Carnegie Hall tomorrow.” Liz shimmied into her usual place next to Bev.
I leaned over and grumbled, “Well, you can always be like me and lip sync during the music. That seems to keep everyone happy.”
Bev glanced away, but I still caught her grin out of the corner of my eye.
“If you need it, I can review what we covered this morning before we go to the opera tonight,” Bev added as Liz opened her music.
The afternoon moved quickly and, once I became resigned to whispering the music, I received only one more quiet-down gesture from Prout.
David came over when we wrapped for the day and threw his arm around my shoulders as we left. Maybe all was forgotten? Maybe that day apart had done us both good? “Ready for the opera tonight?” I asked him.
“Yeah, about as ready as I ever am for opera, I guess,” he admitted.
“Oh, now, it’s not that bad,” Bev said, smiling.
“Don’t believe her,” Gino interjected, sounding like a long-time put-upon husband. “If we’re lucky there’ll be a dark, quiet second act and we can doze off for a few minutes. That’s my favorite part of the opera―high-quality nap time.”
Bev gave Gino a kittenish push. Spending time apart seemed to be working for them, too. They looked more playful and romantic than I’d ever seen. Enjoying their time together, Bev and Gino drifted off to a secluded alcove close to the rehearsal room. Liz and Kim chatted with some choristers from California while David and I took the elevator upstairs. If I hustled, I could have a few words with Bob before I rushed to dinner and Carmen. Amazing how many scheduling challenges came along with a genuine social life that involved actual humans.
David once more walked me to my door. As I fumbled for the plastic key, he said in a quiet voice, “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Roz.”
“I know,” I sighed. “Our timing on this trip has been a nightmare.”
“Let’s make a date together when we get back to the lake. Alone,” he said, emphasizing the last word.
“Absolutely,” I answered.
“You’re okay with everything going on in rehearsal, aren’t you? I’ve always thought you had a lovely singing voice,” he said, ever-loyal despite the mounting evidence to the contrary. “Don’t let those guys bother you. They’re just trying to get everyone under control before the performance.”
“Jerks,” I crabbed. “I’m fine, I’m fine. But I still think they’re jerks. They could have talked to me in private instead of humiliating me in front of everybody.”
David grinned, grabbed the key card away from my fumbling fingers, and opened the door. “Now there’s my Roz! See you at dinner, sweetie.”
As I entered the room I saw Bob stretched out on my bed with, judging by the quality of his crooning, his second martini. Is there such a song as “Good-bye, My Coney Island Baby”?
“Why, it’s Rosie!” Bob said, swinging into a sitting position without spilling a drop. “Let’s get out of this hotel and paint the town!”
“I’d love to, Bob, but I can’t,” I said, grabbing my evening outfit from the closet. “This weekend is packed. I’ve got just a couple of minutes to dress for dinner and the opera, and my roommates will be here any second.”
“Oh, come on, Roz. Just dump your friends for one night and let’s play,” Bob urged.
Oh, I was tempted. I was sooo tempted. But a lifetime of responsibility and boring seriousness prevailed, and I shook my head.
“I haven’t taught you a damn thing, have I? You have to grab these opportunities when you can, Roz,” Bob muttered as he laid back on the bed. “You’re a bit of a mope tonight,” he continued. Then, noticing the hurt look on my face, he changed tactics. “So, which opera are you going to? The one with the magic zither? Or the one with Rogolfo and the Duke of Minnestrone?”
“Magic zither,” I muttered to myself as I transferred my lipstick, comb, and some money from my day bag to my dressy clutch. “Where do you come up with this nonsense?” I asked, while a little glow warmed my heart. How I had missed this silliness when Bob was gone. My life was too serious without him.
“Apparently I used to be quite the opera buff in my day,” Bob responded. “I learned that in boot camp. In fact, I had an extravagant man-about-town reputation: Broadway shows, plays, dining out every night, a ‘boulevardier,’ so to speak.”
I rested on the miniaturized loveseat and contemplated Bob, lost in his martini on the bed. “When we get back to the lake you’re going to have to tell me all about this boot camp and why you were in such bad shape when I saw you at the Algonquin. I’m glad you found out more about yourself, and I want to know everything. For now, though, I’ve got to focus on all the events my group has scheduled, the opera tonight and rehearsal and the concert tomorrow. Once we get home, though, we’ll have plenty of time to talk, won’t we?” I studied Bob, memories of his unexpected absence making me anxious. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
He smiled and took another sip. “I’m all yours until you make up your mind about moving or until I mess up. And believe me, after months in boot camp, I have no intention of screwing up again.”
“Can you come to the opera with us tonight?”
“Maybe later.” Bob sighed, settled his martini glass on the nightstand, and stretched out on Bev’s side of the bed. “Right now I’d rather have some fun and the last thing I want to watch is a bunch of screeching peasants stampeding across a stage in costumes. Perhaps I’ll join you later.” Bob lifted his arms and wrapped them under his head. He sighed, and I couldn’t tell if he was bored, frustrated, or if the cares of the world had just rolled off his back.
Kim unlocked the door with her key card and strolled in. “You look nice. Almost ready? I need the bathroom for a couple of minutes to fix my face and then Liz and I are going out to dinner.”
“Can I just run in there for a second first? I’m heading downstairs to meet David and some others for that dinner at the opera house. We’ll see you later at the performance, right?”
Minutes later, David and I joined our dinner companions in the hotel lobby and cabbed uptown to the glamorous restaurant on the second floor of the opera house.
Bob and David’s protestations to the contrary (the first topic they’ve ever agreed on. Hmm . . .), I’ve never thought of opera as snooty. In fact, I’ve been somewhat shocked, recently, at how un-snooty opera’s become, especially the performances the M
etropolitan Opera simulcasts into movie theaters around the country. A blessing to culture-starved wilderness dwellers like me, those simulcasts require a minimum investment of time and money.
One Saturday afternoon a month, you drive to a nearby movie theater to see the live broadcast from the Met. Sometimes there can be hiccups, like the infamous solar flares that disrupted a Tosca transmission, but really, how often do you get to tell people that solar flares screwed up your weekend? It’s one of the snazzier complaints, I would say. In general, though, the simulcasts function pretty well. People show up early to get good seats and then snuggle in with movie snacks or homemade sandwiches until the matinee starts.
It’s amazing, like having backstage passes to the show. The broadcast host or hostess interviews the opera stars during intermission, shoving the microphone into their faces as they emerge, sweating and out of breath, from their act-closing arias. It’s hard to think of opera as snooty when the tenor says “hi” to his mom who’s watching from the outback of Australia, or the soprano megastar’s three-year-old son runs backstage for a hug during intermission.
In my mind, these simulcasts revive the way people interacted with opera when Joe Green (AKA Giuseppe Verdi) penned music back in Italy, or when Mozart performed in intimate music halls. Instead of opera being a glitzy separate world, one that requires diamonds and designer fashions as the price of admission, opera becomes as comfortable and accessible as a popcorn-scented movie theater, where you can dress in your bulkiest winter sweater and wave your homemade meatloaf sandwich at the screen to emphasize a point.