Eating the Apple

EATING THE APPLE


I entered the room and saw the usual--a vast hall in its Sunday best. Large crystal chandelier earrings, polished black and white marble shoes and velvety scarlet curtains that impressed in the elegant glow of the evening. This was the kind of room that only looked good at night with the scrutinizing daylight being too cruel. The same could be said for those attending: candles and moonlight were much more sympathetic to the marks of age than the intense glare of the unforgiving sun. The literati of the Jazz Age were faces that no longer graced the society pages and with good reason: the trademarks of age, lines of varying depths and colors, were evidence that they had not been champions for the Prohibition.
Frequenting these soirees over the past twenty years, I had established a ritual to get through the evening. First, I eyed my peers perched ever so writerly at the ruby draped tables. Second, I noted whom I wanted to avoid. Third, and most importantly, I searched out the bar. I had been to countless dinners ‘In Honor of So and So’ or ‘An Evening with Blankety-Blank’ and they always needed one thing--a steady flow of straight gin martinis. This particular evening I happen to have been one of the illustrious ‘So and So’s’, and even with that I certainly wasn’t going to abandon my routine for the sake of honor.
The old girl, Routine, had been a loyal and trusting confidant to me and I certainly wasn’t going to drop her because Honor, Ms. High Society herself, waltzed in and wanted to be my friend. Honor and I have had words. Our previous encounter was at this very same dinner of last year, Annual Literary Gala number twelve, in May of 1933. The Guest of Honor that particular evening was Jules Hyder, nee Herschel Katz, an author of distinct mediocrity. His book, The Days of Myra, was a fashionable chronicle of a flapper and her downfall. Several of his books had sold well, each one fitting snugly into what had become a long line of entertaining yet insignificant work. The public and press had deemed him ready for a meeting with Honor and she obliged willingly.
I had known Mr. Hyder when he was much less; I knew him when he was just Mr. Katz. We were both stringers for the International Press Telegraph, a reputable wire service during World War I. Neither of us enjoyed this job, but we were both authors-in-waiting and IPT provided us with experience and money. It was extremely openhanded with the experience and tightfisted the money, but we had the tolerance of youth to comfort us. We liked each other from the onset, Mr. Katz and I, and our relationship had all the flagships of a lasting friendship: shared ambitions, mutual respect, and the unmistakable bond of war. We got through -- by any means necessary -- the endless stream of bombings, troops advancing, battalions surrendering, and local boys dying. These means included late night drinking, planning for the future and harmless flirting that cleverly segued into silences replete with the truths we knew all too well about each other.
Our friendship ended abruptly, as is often the case in war. A story had come over the wire about an unfortunate battle lost in Avignon, France. Included in those lost was not one, but two sons of a prominent financial tycoon. I was assigned the story and churned out what I considered a decent and touching piece about the man and the loss of his two sons. Coinciding with this tragic news, the position of Editor had just become available and Herschel and I were both being considered for the higher paying job. Feeling quite content with my piece, I left the office late in the evening knowing that the story would be run the next day. It did. Although it was a fine showing of my talent, there was one complication. The byline read, ‘by Herschel Katz’. I was stunned and he was promoted. My angry confrontation made Herschel uncomfortable and apologetic but still the editor. Anger, Betrayal, and I all three of us, quit that very day.
Over the ensuing years, I was made aware of Katz’s achievements through industry press and claptrap at publishing parties. Each of his successes made my ethics wince, but no one else’s seem to notice so I continued on my own path, quietly comforting my resentment. Then aged rancor, Routine, and I ran into Occasion at last year’s Literary Gala. Watching Katz being deified was too much for all of us to withstand and Routine and I crept into action. It took awhile for Routine to see my point of view, but finally, she succumbed.
“I didn’t think you’d make it, Muriel.” A voice startled me back to the present. Usually I don’t like it when someone interrupts my enjoyment of the first gin soaked olives of the evening, but it was Jack Mann, my editor. It was difficult to ignore Jack because not only was he one of the nicest men I knew, he was one of the loudest. He was the epitome of tall and hearty walking and his raspy voice carried easily over the cornetist’s sluggish rendition of the “Tiger Rag.” “When I spoke with Evie this morning, she said she was not only trying to convince you to come tonight but to get out of bed.” I set my perfectly chilled martini gingerly down on the cherry oak bar and turned around.
“Ah, Jack, I had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that I am now, ‘the Distinguished Muriel Weston’. It makes me sound like a smoking jacket. You know they never call anyone under forty ‘distinguished’.”
“Come on, you just get better with age. But thanks for coming. You’re saving my ass, you know.”
“Well, I am here only because of you and I expect some serious favors for this. Jack, I don’t know how you deal with these pretentious windbags day in and day out. You’d think-“
“Careful,” Looking around at passersby, easily smiling, waving and nodding, Jack leaned down toward me and in a frustrated whisper, sounded off “these pretentious windbags are honoring you tonight and it’s in your best interest to be on good behavior. You and I both know that this is long overdue, but after your last fiasco at the Annual Literary Gala, I am surprised they even let you in the door much less honor you. So just try to make me look good for once. This is precisely why I wish Evie would come to these things-then she could handle the babysitting for the evening.”
As I am told how to remember that evening, I was well into my fifth martini by the time Katz was up at the podium waxing pedantic about diligence and craft. I provided a running commentary that, I thought, only Routine could hear. It was profoundly amusing to me, and again I thought, only to Routine. Receiving such an emphatic response from Routine, I realized immediately that my brilliance needed to be shared with everyone present.
As I slyly approached the stage, I tripped over chair legs causing me to grasp at anonymous men and women for support, thinking that the stunned looks on their faces were due to the obvious injustice that had been served that evening. The snickers from the crowded sounded exactly like approving laughter as I carefully walked toward Katz, presenting a few choice eye rolls of exasperation to the audience.
After an arduous journey, I reached my destination: the microphone. I decisively pushed Katz aside, knowing that what I had to say was much more worthy of amplification than whatever he was blithering about. Routine agreed. I paused dramatically and clearly said, “The only clever thing this man has ever done was changing his name from Katz Hyder to Herschel Jules.”
I had made my point.
I winked at Routine as I trotted off the stage, knocking over a row of discreet plastic potted ferns that looked as though this would be their last hoorah. I had shown Honor exactly what I thought of her. And that is where my remembering stops. I know that the evening ended, but I don’t know how. Jack and Evie doled out goodbyes and apologies perfunctorily like complimentary tickets to a long awaited show that had been cancelled.
The sin of forgetfulness usually required the heaviest penance: humility and contrition. A year later, I was still knee deep in both.
Two sips of a now aging martini were not enough to appreciate the booming ominous measures of Jack’s reprimanding aria, delivered mezzo voce but with feeling. What I heard was a discordant reprise, flat and obligatory, only enough to provoke me to squint my eyes in disgust and wave my slightly risen hand in protest. I was holding between my fingers a stunning red plastic toothpick donned with a stag olive that surpassed its purpose as a mere garnish and had reinvented itself as a baton of emphasis.
“For Christ’s sake Jack, don’t you think I can handle myself with decorum? I know how important this is for you. Trust me, I will be so good tonight these fools will want to canonize before the night is through.” I countered sotto dolce with makeshift olive branch in hand. “And, I don’t need Evie here to monitor my every move making sure I never encroach upon the boundaries of fun.”
Jack smirked, standing at full mast and scanning the room confidently.
“Muriel, you would be nowhere if it weren’t for Evie and you know it. She lets you act like you don’t need her but truth be told, you couldn’t write word one if she didn’t pull on your reins every once and awhile-
“Look, Jack, I am perfectly capable of exercising good judgment, with or without Evie.” I put my olive back in the shallow martini to wade. “I will give you this, it is a lot easier
when she’s here. Then I don’t have to participate directly with my so-called colleagues in conversations involving ‘witty repartee’ and ‘pithy remarks’. She usually handles all that.”
I honored the last of my martini while Jack continued to wave, grin and nod at the wedding cake couples gliding by in their dinner jackets and ankle length gowns.
Jack jovially placed his elbow on the bar, still smiling with white teeth twinkling and gray eyes glistening. Or perhaps it was the other way around; everything twinkles and glistens during the second martini.
“For putting up with you all these years, she should be the one being honored.” With the raise of his eyebrows and quick short laugh, I was reminded of what I had always known, Jack admired me but he truly liked Evie. “Just do me a favor, Weston. Try not to embarrass that dress you’re wearing.”
In the past, I had embarrassed much of my clothing, in late nights and early mornings. I did not discriminate against what I wore or when I wore it. If I wanted to misbehave, the outfit was an unknowing participant, gradually turning from an early evening decision of ‘what is going to make me look good’ to a late evening statement of ‘this happens to be the only good thing about me right now’.
It had become more difficult to peruse my wardrobe and find any frock that did not hang in shame. Undoubtedly, each outfit that adorned a hanger slowly elicited a blurry memory of last wearing immediately followed by a pained grimace. The crimson sequined gown that once sparkled in the store window now blended into the back of the closet, hoping to not be noticed. The long billowy chiffon number with the sheer sleeves that I wore last year to this very same event still looked hung over.
For this auspicious evening, I had chosen a dove gray velvet floor length gown with a pearl white satin lining. Loose from the waist down and a tight fitting bodice from the waist up, it cleverly accentuated the positive. The positive at this point had become a broad, strong upper torso, a generous bosom, and the wisdom to hold my chins up. I was well proportioned. The gown plunged low to reveal skin that did not get out much, but when it did, it was glad to be seen.


I was often described as “attractive.” ‘Attractive’ had become a railroad track that ran through my life. When I was smiling, I came from the good side of the tracks; when I was not smiling, I came from the bad side of the tracks. I had a large charismatic smile that could quickly send my face to the extreme. Angry, beady eyes became forgiving shiny sea green gems; sagging, discontented cheeks became blissful, glowing red apples; aged and bitter wrinkles became charming and effervescent crinkles of serenity. And I would love to float through my life smiling until my charisma was forced to retire, but the essence of aging is that you find with every moment less and less reason to smile.
Realizing how little there was to smile about, I then turned to the bartender and ordered one of the only reasons that made me smiI turned back to face Jack with the full intent of continuing our tête-à-tête, and I was taken aback by the presence of a live wedding cake couple. The Groom was tall and trim with glossy chestnut hair gingerly placed on his head by some unknown pastry chef in hopes of delighting friends and families everywhere. All his features were beautiful which is on the whole a wonderful asset but because everything was perfect, nothing seemed real. I would not have been surprised if his picture appeared in next morning’s paper right below “Statue from Wax Museum: Missing”. But the Bride, everything about her was captivating. Immediately, I tried not to look at her because all I wanted to do from that point on was look at her.
“Ah, Muriel, I’d like you to meet one of our new promising young talents, Miss Clare Ames. Clare Ames, our famed literary workhorse, Ms. Muriel Weston.”
Gracefully headed my way was the palest and most delicate of hands, waiting for my blunt and well-worn hand to wrap politely around hers and shake it. The shake was always important-too hard and one could be considered overzealous, lonely, or new to the whole hand shaking business; too weak and one could be considered disinterested or too old to squeeze harder. Although the handshake is a common occurrence in most circles, I was already expressionless and sweating.
Light brown hair, large brown, yellow eyes and small, full mauve lips, all set just-so into a pearl canvas softly glided into a sweet smile as she blinked once. Her eyelids were blankets that slowly covered her tiger-eyes tucking them into bed for a good night’s rest.
Quietly, she said, “I am a big fan of your work. You inspired me to write,” she looked down quickly and up again with a shy smile, “The Transient is still my favorite book. I would like you to meet my fiancé, Simon Kelly. He’s an editor.”
Jack boomed merrily, “Well, almost, almost. Mr. Kelly is still learning the ropes.”
Just then, another hand came my way. This time, I checked for authenticity. It looked like the hand of a department store mannequin, but on touch, it proved human.
And with a confidant yet somewhat unctuous lilt, Mr. Kelly said, “Oh, Ms. Weston, I am such an admirer of your work. This is definitely the highlight of my evening.”
As required, I shook Mr. Kelly’s hand while looking directly at Clare. Even though I knew I should have suppressed the urge to speak, I didn’t and pointedly said, “Ah-hah, an editor. How, shall we say…convenient? Now that is one thing in this business I have yet to try. So tell me, Miss Ames, is this true love or career planning?”
Clare and her big eyes were speechless--stunned, in fact. So stunned, that even Jack was fumbling for a graceful exit from the stupefying round of silence that I had just bought for everyone. As he quickly went through Party Mingling Manual’s chapter ‘In Case of’…. emergency procedures, all sorts of awkward fumbling came from his direction: stage worthy throat clearing, swirling the ice cubes in his very meager Gibson and anxious foot tapping to “The Potato Head Blues”.
Simon and Clare looked at Jack hoping he had found that very chapter because it was evident that neither of them were proud owners of any such manual.
“Come on now, Muriel,” Jack chortled uneasily, “you promised you would be on your best behavior tonight. Actually, I edit Clare’s work, not Simon. She happens to be very talented-“
Simon followed Jack’s lead as any self-respecting editor-to-be, drinking with his boss would have and mimicked, “Why yes, I fell in love with Clare because of her talent. But, even if I weren’t in love with her, I would still recognize her promise as a writer. You should read some of her work. I think you might be impressed.”
“Oh, impressed, would I? And what do you think, Miss Ames? Do you think I would be impressed with your work?” I catechized Clare with a slight smirk.
With the still stunned countenance hung on her unusual face, she said, “I doubt you would be much impressed by anything. Now, perhaps my ‘career move’ and I shall leave you two alone. I am sure you’re in high demand this evening.” Her soft, hoarse voice attempted to be as hardhearted as it could be, but her gentle nature did not allow well for chilly remarks and her voice broke on the im- of impressed.
Clare gave me a quick, subtle glance, grabbed Simon’s hand, and turned around to rejoin the other perfect plastic Brides and Grooms. The Wedding Cake Couples were at the height of their glory: mingling, floating, laughing and posing hoping to soon return to their respective cake tops where other party revelers would stare at them in awe, still and stylish. Being a reveler who just scared off a coveted Couple, I was ashamed. I was ashamed for judging and ashamed for misjudging. I dove tongue first into that dreadful abyss, witty repartee, thinking that Clare would be impressed. But the moment I saw her round eyes dampen with a shield of tears, I knew I had been careless.
Youth, innocence, and good intentions breed your garden-variety sensitivity, but what Clare possessed was a rare sort: fragile, pure, and poignant. As one ages, sensitivity either matures or sours, leaving the connoisseur of good taste disgusted and searching for any elixir to wash away the tart flavor of bitterness. My sensitivity had always been presented in a mix of clever quips and sharp retorts with the faint tinge of sensitivity only apparent to those highly trained in perception. Most people were not skilled in perception and I -- the weak and vulnerable -- have handed my sensitivity to many of those everyday unknowns who have sneered and disapproved with an ugly laugh of ridicule, leaving me to wrap my sensitivity up in a soft cloth of discomfort and tuck it neatly in the back of the drawer of my emotions.
I was envious of the obvious about her. Clare held her sensitivity up for all to see, but I my envy allowed me to overlook it. So, when the novice handed me the tender gift of her pristine admiration, my jealousy -- conniving as it can be -- grabbed it, smashed it and handed back proudly the pieces of admiration.
The icon faltered.
Jack looked down at me, and on me, and agitatedly said, “Jesus Christ, Muriel, why did you have to do that? She is a very good writer who looks, or shall I say looked, up to you. All you had to do was smile and say ‘thank you’. Why do you always have to make things so difficult?”
Staring into my all-knowing martini with the heavy smell of boeuf bourguignon permeating the air, I resigned to being defensive.
“Oh hell, Jack, if she can’t take it she will never make it in this business. You and I both know that-“
As he gestured with his gimlet, high-priced gin quickly jumping ship in fear of the oncoming storm, he hastily interjected, “But it’s not your job to toughen her up. She’s not like you. She’s fresh and raw and she needs some direction. I guess I was a jackass to think you had it in you…well, to help someone else.” And with a look of disappointment, he threw back the last of his Gibson, wiped his mouth with the red cocktail napkin, and bit all three pearl onions that were pierced by a cocktail pick. Setting the glass firmly on the bar with “Mood Indigo” providing an ironic tone, Jack winked at me, as if I were a child that had just been scolded for underachievement at school, and walked off into the crowd.
My martini continued to nurse me as I watched the Couples smiling and acknowledging each other, hands gently touching arms, and party ready lips gracefully air kissing all in the name of business. I spotted Clare and watched her. She was beautiful in a very unusual way: a classic beauty with an air of innocence. She had the looks of a woman and the expressions of a child. Her silver and white form fitting ankle length gown bared ivory shoulders that shimmered as much as her dress. With her animated head nodding and chin dropping in humility, her jaw length brown hair - shining like a wet worn penny --- swayed every so often as if being stirred by a mild autumn wind. She dissolved slowly as Simon led her by the elbow into the core of the well-dressed writers, editors and publishers.
Just then, Andrew Whitmore, the master of ceremonies and famed film critic approached the podium and told everyone to take their seats. I worked my way through the maze of beaming smiles of the unhardened and pedantic looks of the less attractive, more seasoned veterans, nodding and reeling off a quick litany of “Hi, how are you?”‘s and “Fine.”’s until I reached my table. Situated front and center of the podium, being the guest of honor was quickly creeping into my realization.
I was alone at the table set for eight of my most intimate friends. Of course, I had no idea who the other lucky seven were, but I was sure one of them was Jack. And true to the ubiquitous ambition of company underlings, I was assuming the others were the most intimate business associates of Jack’s publishing firm. As I waited for my friends to arrive and introduce themselves, I scanned the table for any sign of something edible. The three martinis were making their presence known and I needed more than a trio of large green olives to greet them. I spotted, placed quite uniformly in between the red tipped orchids and the obligatory banquet candle, a basket of what I was hoping were dinner rolls wrapped in a white swaddling cloth napkin.
Upon closer scrutiny, I was relieved that the gin had not seriously altered my powers of observation and I decisively chose a roll from the litter. The roll was of a much stronger constitution than I had suspected and gave a struggle. Wanting to declare victory but finding my finger battalion useless, I resorted to my specialized team of incisors. At the moment of hard fought success, Jack touched my shoulder as he, Clare and Simon approached on my right flank. I raised my hand and waved tentatively in recognition as I tried to gnaw graciously on my fossilized conquest. Forcing my crumb-covered lips into a weak smile, I noticed Clare’s disapproving look upon witnessing the unpalatable, like a dog feasting on a bone of unknown origin. I chewed purposefully and thoroughly, with the sole intention of swallowing my embarrassment.
Jack sat, thankfully, to my right followed by Simon and then Clare. Hard rolls and the object of my disaffection-not the dinner guests I was expecting.
“Sorry Ms. Weston. Didn’t mean to catch you in the act. Never fear, we won’t utter a word,” said Simon with a wink and a manufactured smile.
At this point, I realized that my previous libation was helping my powers of observation and it came to my attention abruptly that I simply did not care for this man.
I reached deep into my repertoire of disingenuous requisite social smiles and matched his with a beauty of my own.
“I truly appreciate your vow of secrecy but I doubt my unassuming yet formidable reputation will be marred terribly by early dinner roll consumption.”
Turning to Jack, I posited, “For the Love of Mike, where is our waiter? I can’t get through the whole dinner participating in this mind numbing small talk without another mind numbing martini.”
Through clenched teeth and a mandatory smile of his own, Jack replied, “Watch it, Muriel. I have been down this road with you too many times before to ignore the warning signs. You had better be coherent and charming when you accept this award tonight or so help me Go-
“Hello Jack,” Jack suddenly glanced up as not one, but two Wedding Cake Couples approached and the first Groom stuck his hand out for Jack’s shaking.
“Oh, Peter, hello. Glad you could make it.” Jack rose, glad-handed and introduced himself to the remaining Groom and Brides and sat back down.
“Ms. Weston, it’s truly an honor to meet you. I hope we’re not interrupting,” Peter looked at me and then to Jack questioningly, “but we just wanted to introduce ourselves before we joined you for dinner.”
Politely Jack proffered while motioning to the four vacant chairs at the table, “By all means, join us. Enjoy yourselves.” Jack laughed cordially, “Yes. Fine, fine. Here we all are.”
The octet was complete as Jack’s two junior suits and their gowns glided into place.
Even though I was the guest of honor, I had the overwhelming feeling that among these pretty, young faces and their expectant hope, I clearly did not belong. I looked over at Clare who was intently observing all the other attendees and unknowingly ignoring that present conversation with which she was supposedly a participant. Simon would gently touch her arm when someone asked her a direct question or when ensemble laughter was required. She would then reenter with a feigned smile of interest and oblige with the appropriate response: yes, no or a short laugh of amusement. She did not belong either.
She caught me staring at her and I didn’t immediately turn away, although I knew that would have been best. She stiffened her back as she repositioned herself in her chair, taking a sip of water, while the realization of being watched swept over her face. She did not turn away; instead, she looked directly back at me and then down for a quick second. She coolly returned to scanning the room, now fully aware that I was watching her. She was not nervous. Every so often, she would cut her eyes checking to see if I was still within her peripheral vision. She went on performing as herself, intrigued and hoping that I was still a rapt audience.
I had made a bad impression. I wanted to keep Clare interested. Throughout the ensuing ambush of identical plated culinary fare, I forced myself to exhibit the politesse particular to high society. I passed things cordially with a smile and a nicety. I said “please” and “thank you.” I courted compliments with humility. I was just as delightful as any member of a privileged class should be -- discussing the news of the day without an opinion of my own yet wholeheartedly nodding in agreement, no matter what was said. I was charming from soup to chocolate soufflé. The disingenuousness of manners had a way with finessing the bruises of verbal indiscretions.
I could see that etiquette was working in my favor. Clare looked at me inconspicuously. Catching her every so often in mid-stare, I smiled at her as if to acknowledge that I was obviously still a player in a subtle adult version of hide and seek. Her face covered with the affect of manufactured indifference, she casually shrugged of the accidental eye contact. I started to believe I had done the impossible; I had overcome myself.
Jack, of course, was suspect -- pleased, but suspect.
“I don’t know what in the hell they are putting in that martini, but it must not be what they usually put in there. Christ, Muriel, you’re a different person,” he said incredulously as he leaned towards me.
“Oh, Jack. Don’t be so surprised. I haven’t been charming in awhile. I wanted to see if I could still do it.” I smirked at him in response.
“Well, tonight I will take it. But I don’t trust it. Evie is never going to believe it,” he countered as he scraped that last streaks of chocolate soufflé from his glass dessert cup, “has she ever seen you act like this?”
I responded with a staccato laugh and then I realized I hadn’t thought about Evie all evening.
Yes, there’s Evie. There has always been Evie.
Anger swelled through my system as I thought about her absence. She should be here. We had argued about her coming tonight and now her words were resonating loudly in my head as if they had never stopped, but the volume had merely been turned down.
“Muriel, I am tired of watching you making a fool of yourself. You will get drunk, insult someone or embarrass yourself and ruin the evening. Then I will have to stand there apologizing to everyone as if I were the nanny of a spoiled Madison Avenue brat,” she had said calmly.
Then she added for emphasis, “It’s your choice not to enjoy your life, Muriel. But I am not going to watch you do it. If you want to get loaded and make an ass of yourself, feel free. I just don’t want to see it anymore.”
I considered a hostile retort at the time, but I knew that this had been a long time coming. I wondered why it hadn’t happened sooner.
I knew goddamned well why it hadn’t happened sooner.
What is a savior with no one to save?
Purposeless. I gave Evie nothing but purpose. She wanted to see me drunk and humiliated so she could come to my rescue; the patient martyr with purpose. Ever present, quietly and dutifully gathering up the chards of my dignity and handing them back to me with a cool look of superiority. She never put the pieces back together. They were dumped backed in my hands, jagged and sharp, so I could see and feel acutely what I did not remember.
What would a tortured sot like me do if there were no Evie to offer eternal redemption?
This particular tortured sot would do nothing. No Martini driven outbursts to recount shamefully, no hurtful remarks delivered in a tear inducing cloud of gin scented breath, and absolutely no downcast eyes begging for someone to still love me because no one else would. There would be none of that at all. Having nothing to clean up would anger Evie the most.
I could picture the conversation. Quietly, I would open the door to foyer just in case Evie was asleep even though I knew she wouldn’t be, set my keys on the small darkly stained oak mail table and walk nonchalantly down the hardwood hallway past the living room where I knew she would be. She would be sitting there dressed in her pale blue silk pajamas with her silver rimmed reading glasses placed comfortably three quarters of the way down her strong nose, intently reading a book.
And as I was one step past the living room doorway she would softly call, “Muriel? Is that you?”
I would soberly reply, “Oh…yes, it’s me. I didn’t see you there. I thought you would be in bed.”
“No, I was just reading.” She would say matter-of-factly as if she had been turning its engrossing pages for the past two hours without a thought of me or anything else.
“Oh. Any good?”
“Yes, quite good,” Evie would reply taking off her glasses and clicking its arms into a folded position as if to sit flatly on her chest in judgment.
I knew she’d had been reading the same page over and over again, never grasping the meaning of any string of words. If I were to ask her what she was reading, she would have to look at the cover to tell me.
Then she would casually ask, “So, how was it?” expectantly awaiting the slightly slurred recollection of blunder filled conversations, stumble filled walks to and from the stage and the prayerful look for an appeal.
“Well,” I would excitedly and unexpectedly respond, “It was wonderful. I talked with Jack, some of his young guns most of the evening, and of course Roger from Vanity Fair-oh, and you remember Eleanor? From NBC radio? She was there as flamboyant as ever gabbing on and on about how she would love to turn The Transient into a weekly radio program and did I mention the bouef bourguignon? It was outstanding. Not like last year’s petrified chicken. And of course the introductory speech by Whitmore was very flattering and if I do say so myself my acceptance speech left little to be desired ending with an appropriate ovation. Evie, my dear, you missed a great evening.”
All this would fly across the dimly lit room landing squarely in her lap, right on top of unknown book. She would wince at the surprise arrival and try to respond happily as she knew she should, but too stunned to even remember days later how she had responded.
I was gently brought back to the slightly worn evening by the fading bars of I Got Rhythm that competed with the busy clings and clanks of dishes and silverware being cleared away by uniformed waiters. The footsteps of Andrew Whitmore’s black dress shoes clapped across the wooden stage to the microphone signifying that the reason for the evening was about to commence.