Dorothy Parker Drank Here (5 page)

“I'm hungry,” she said.

“Hungry?”

She pointed to the egg foo yong. “Can I have some of that? Please? I've been carrying it around and the smell is getting to me.”

He hesitated, and she touched her throat, signaling her vulnerability. Ted sighed and gave her one of the containers of Chinese food. “And take the book with you, too,” he said.

She sat down and opened the folds of the white cardboard box.
“I'm eating it here, if you don't mind.” She picked up a plastic fork as if it weren't open for discussion. She was staying.

He remained standing, holding on to the back of his chair, and Norah acted as if she had no idea he was thinking about what he could say to throw her out.

At last, he grunted and sat down. “Don't think of this as an invitation,” he said.

“I wouldn't dare.” The first thing she wanted to ask him about was
Dobson's Night.
She would start by telling him how much the book meant to her. And then, if he seemed even a little receptive, she would get to her question about the ending.

“Because as soon as you're done—”

“I won't overstay my welcome.”

He squinted at her. “You're not a reporter, are you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“What do you do?”

Norah used the side of her fork to cut off a bite of the egg foo yong. She had never tasted it before and was surprised by how much she liked it. “I work in television,” she said, swallowing, “but I'm not—”

“What's your title?”

Norah pushed around her food, wondering if she should lie. She caught his eye and could tell he knew she was thinking of deceiving him. He would see right through it. “I'm an associate producer,” she said, hoping to score points for honesty.

“For what show?” he asked.

“It's not relevant. I'm really not here in a professional capacity. I've been a fan almost all my life. In fact, there's something I've been wanting to ask you about
Dobson's Night
. The first time I read it—”

“For what
show
,” he repeated.

“Simon Janey Live,”
she mumbled, hoping he hadn't heard of it.

He stood so fast his chair fell over. “Get out!” he said.

“What?”

“Get the hell out. And take that goddamned book with you.”

“But—”

He reached for the phone. “One more word and I'm calling hotel security . . . or waking Tiny.”

Norah picked up the book, tucked it under her arm, and looked into his angry blue eyes. Her pulse beat in a rhythm of desperation. If he knew the truth, would he soften? She tried to detect even a microscopic crack in the fortress of his fury, but he was impenetrable. And while she understood that his anger wasn't personal (he barely knew her, after all), a ripple of pain headed straight toward a spot in her psyche she didn't even like to acknowledge.

“Out,” he repeated. “And forget you ever met me.”

She walked out and closed the door behind her, knowing it was the one promise she could never make.

I
n her hotel room, Norah laid the antique guest book on the dresser, opened it, and stood back. Not that she had anything to say to Dorothy Parker, she just needed a distraction from her misery. But nothing happened. The tough-tongued wit refused to appear.

She sat on the bed and pushed at her cuticles, replaying Ted Shriver's anger. She wanted to believe his dismissal of her wasn't absolute, that he had left open one small window of opportunity. But of course he hadn't.

She lay down, refusing to cry. She would not wallow. She would not dwell on her failure to connect with him. It was just one more hard knot in her long string of disappointments. She could get over it just as she had gotten over everything else.

And why shouldn't she? She got over losing her mother. And then her uncle. And three months ago, when Eric moved out of their Brooklyn apartment because he wanted someone “with a human fucking heart,” she got over that, too.

But what did she have left? Besides her job, nothing.

Simon Janey Live
had been a career change for Norah, and everything about it felt right. At her uncle's suggestion, Norah had
majored in business with a concentration in accounting. It was the practical thing to do, a way to guarantee that she would always have work. But she hated it from the start. So two years after college, when a friend got her an interview as a production assistant for a nightly TV interview show, she grabbed it. The salary was pitiful, but a year later she was promoted, and then promoted again. She had found a great home at
Simon Janey Live
. And she was well aware of how it had become a surrogate family for her. Didi was her mother figure. Simon was like her father, a looming but absent presence. Jack, Harve, Cynthia, Marco, Janelle, and Eli were like the siblings she'd never had. And of course, there was the show itself—that heart-stopping excitement of live television, and Simon's extraordinary ability to draw out guests. It was magic. These past five years were the happiest Norah had ever been.

She picked up her cell phone and stared at the staggering number of messages Didi had left for her. Twenty-three. And she had not played back a single one. Was it possible she had been fired for going AWOL?

No, she told herself. Absolutely not. Didi was too protective of her to do that. She checked the time. 10:07 p.m.—not too late to call back. She ran her fingers over the phone, wondering if she should listen to the messages.

Norah stacked the pillows behind her and sat up straighter. She pressed the speed dial for Didi's number, put it on speaker, and laid the phone on the bed next to her.

“Where have you been?” Didi said.

“Sorry. I was—”

“I thought you were deader than roadkill. Did you get my messages?”

“I didn't play them back.”

“Lord have mercy.”

She leaned forward, the tone of Didi's voice making her uncomfortable. “Something wrong?”

“Yes, something's
wrong
,” Didi said. “The show was canceled.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Canceled?”

“This can't be a big surprise,” Didi said.

“I thought we had more time.”

“Have you looked at the board lately? One B-list director, a chick-lit author, an economist, for heaven's sake.”

“But all those calls. Didn't anyone come through?”

“Hillary Clinton's on the schedule for next month, but we won't make it that far.”

“Can't you call in more favors?” Norah said, because she knew her boss had the phone number of every top publicist in Hollywood and Washington.

“What do you think I've been doing? Every name I pass by the network CEO, Kent, gets the same response:
Not enough
.”

Norah covered her eyes and took a jagged breath, trying to will away the lump in her throat. “And I can't help,” she said.

“No luck finding Ted Shriver?”

“I found him.” She batted at some gnats hovering nearby. “And then I lost him.”

“Oh, child,” Didi said, and her disappointment seemed to take the oxygen right from the air.

“I wasn't going to say a word about the show,” Norah said. “I was just trying to get him to warm up to me. Then he sniffed me out and all hell broke loose. I'm sorry.”

Didi went quiet for a few excruciating moments. Norah's eyes burned and she reached for a tissue.

“Forget it, sugar,” Didi finally said. “He wouldn't have said yes anyway.”

“He could have saved us.”

“What difference does that make?”

There was another long pause.

“What are you going to do?” Norah asked.

“My résumé is out and about. Yours should be, too. Something will come up.”

Norah felt nauseous. How long would she be able to afford her rent without a job? A couple of months? Not even. Not with Eric gone. She was barely scraping by as it was.

“What about your documentary?” Norah asked. Her boss's pet project was an independent film about what happens to reality stars once the cameras are turned off. She had been working on it about a year.

“Out of money.”

“I'm sorry. Wish I could help.”

“If you ever meet a generous millionaire—”

“How is everyone else?” Norah asked.

“Terrible. Janelle just bought a house. And Harve's daughter—”

“I know.”

Didi got a call-waiting beep and Norah told her to go ahead and take it. She needed to get off the phone anyway, as the fight to hold back tears was getting harder and harder.

“Just one more thing, bubbeleh,” Didi said. “I'm going to rush through the expense account for the hotel, so if you want to stay another night or two, I'll look the other way. It's not much. But maybe it'll help you feel better.”

Norah thanked her and choked out a good-bye before hanging up. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. It did nothing to wash away the darkness she felt. She tried again and again.

“What the hell am I going to do?” she said to her reflection.

“You will twist Teddy's arm until he begs to do your silly show,” came a voice from the other room.

Norah dropped her face towel and ran from the bathroom. There was Dorothy Parker, seated in the chair next to her dresser.

“You've been here the whole time?”

“I hover occasionally.”

Norah took the chair opposite her. She eyed Dorothy Parker, trying to detect something, anything, that wasn't quite human. She leaned to the left and thought she saw a faint glow floating above the woman. She moved in for a closer view.

“You're staring, my dear.”

“You're . . . shimmering. Is it a halo?”

“Hardly.”

Norah sat back. She closed her eyes, remembering how vivid her mother had appeared in that final visit. If only she had stayed a short time longer . . . if only Norah could have one more conversation with her.

She looked at Dorothy Parker. “Can you . . . contact people on the other side?”

“I suppose you have a question for someone who's passed?”

Norah sat up straighter. “Yes.”

“Sorry, dear. I haven't exactly crossed over. I'm simply right here, or I'm not.”

Norah sighed. It was silly to think she might be able to get some kind of message from her mother. “And when the book is closed?” she asked.

“It's like sleeping, except I never wake up next to a man I regret taking to bed. On the other hand, I never wake up with a hangover. Speaking of which, do you have a drink?”

Norah opened the minibar and read off the selections to Dorothy Parker, who chose gin and tonic. She made the drink and handed it to her, hoping the network would pay the whole bill, including a few outrageous minibar charges.

“You heard my whole conversation with Didi?” she asked, taking a seat.

“Your boss, I take it?”

Norah nodded.

“It sounds like you have a bit of a problem on your hands, Miss Wolfe.”

“Miss Wolfe?” It sounded so archaic Norah almost laughed.

“I'm sorry,
Ms
. Wolfe.”

“Please, call me Norah. And may I call you—”

“We already covered that.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“‘Mrs. Parker' will suffice.”

“Mrs. Parker,” Norah repeated, and discovered she liked the way it rang with the gentility of a more civilized era. “What did you mean about twisting Ted Shriver's arm? Do you really think there's any chance he would agree to do a live TV interview?”

“Perhaps.”

“You didn't see how angry he was.”

“I can imagine,” Mrs. Parker said, sipping her drink. “He has a lot of bluster.”

“The gin didn't work. The egg foo yong didn't work. I don't know what else to do.”

“Information is power.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, if you knew the true reason for the plagiarism, you could threaten to expose it. I'm sure he would rather tell the story himself than let the media fill in the details.”

“Except I
don't
know the story behind the plagiarism.”

The inscrutable spirit picked up her drink, closed her eyes, and took a dainty sip. “But I do.”

A tingle of electricity prickled Norah's flesh. “What is it?”

Dorothy Parker finished the last of her drink. “Make me another cocktail and I'll tell you everything you need to know.”

T
ed rolled over and ignored the knocking at his door, but it came again—the insistent pounding of a fist. He sighed and looked at his clock. It was the middle of the afternoon.

“Go away!”

“I will not,” said a man's voice.

Ted opened an eye. It had been over ten years since they'd last spoken—and twenty-five since they'd seen each other in person—but he knew who it was: Peter Salzberg, his erstwhile publisher and close friend. Had a day gone by that he
hadn't
thought about giving Pete a call? Probably not. And yet he didn't want to see him. Not now, not ever.

“Open the door,” Pete said.

Ted sat up, swung his legs around the side of the bed, and assessed his pain level. It was a pretty good day—not more than a four out of ten. Still, he reached for his Vicodin and swallowed two with a sip of water. He rose slowly and went toward the door.

“I can hear you moving around,” said his friend.

Ted pressed his forehead against the cold door. Despite himself, a spume of regret filled his chest with heavy air. “Is that really you?”

“I know you miss me, you son of a bitch.”

He closed his eyes and recalled the first time he heard that voice. One of his friends at the
Atlantic
had passed the manuscript for
Dobson's Night
on to a rising young editor at Litton Press. A week later Peter Salzberg called him at home and said, “This is why I went into publishing.”

“What are you doing here?” Ted asked.

“Just open the door. You owe me that much.”

Ted remembered the fight they'd had when the plagiarism allegation surfaced. At first, Pete had been so even, so understanding. He had put a hand on Ted's shoulder and asked him how it happened. Ted wouldn't answer. Pete pressed. This went on and on, and Pete moved from sympathetic to bewildered to furious to betrayed. Ted hadn't even apologized. He had just turned and walked out, and had never seen his friend again.

“I owe you a lot more than that,” Ted said.

“Damn right.”

Ted pictured himself dying in this room, his body found by a chambermaid. He imagined Pete in his office, getting the news by telephone. He would call a few friends.
What a wasted life
, they would say.

They would be right.

Ted grabbed the knob, hesitated for a second, and pulled open the door. There stood Pete—a little shorter, a lot grayer, and about twenty pounds stouter than the last time they had seen each other.

Ted frowned, avoiding his eyes. “You got old,” he said.

“You don't look so hot yourself.”

“How did you find me?”

“Wasn't easy. Then you called Gene Hoffman to hire a goon to stand outside your door, and he called Oscar Schwarz, and he called me.”

Ted shook his head. “Jewish conspiracy,” he said. “I should have known.”

“Oscar is German. You going to invite me in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Pete entered and handed Ted a brown paper bag containing something heavier than Chinese food.

“This isn't egg foo yong,” Ted said.

“It's cognac.”

Ted pulled the teardrop bottle from the bag. “‘Courvoisier XO Imperial,'” he read off the label. “They didn't have Hennessy?”

“Shut up and find two glasses.”

Ted poured as Pete produced two cigars, and the men sat opposite each other, drinking and smoking in silence. They puffed. They sipped. The cognac was like a warm bath for his bloodstream. And he had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed cigars. After a while, the silence felt easy, natural. But Pete was waiting for him to start, and he went for the obvious.

“How's Aviva?”

Pete ran his hand over the back of his hair, a self-conscious gesture Ted recognized. “She sends regards.”

“Regards?” Ted laughed. “I'd still play poker with you in a heartbeat.”

His friend looked at him and shrugged. “Women don't forgive. Not really.”

“And men?”

Pete studied his cigar for a long time. “You shouldn't have disappeared.”

“You were furious.”

“Of course I was furious.” He flicked his ashes. “But it's more than twenty-five years. I've gotten over it.”

Pete's reputation had been trampled by the plagiarism revelation.
Eventually, the publishing industry chewed the story to a pulp, and Ted emerged as the sole villain. Peter Salzberg's name was cleared, and he went on to become one of the most respected men in publishing.

“And now you want me to come clean?” Ted asked.

“I don't really give a damn anymore.”

“So why are you here?”

Pete picked up the bottle and poured himself another glass. He refilled Ted's, too.

“Can't you guess?” Pete asked.

“I owe you a manuscript.” At the time Ted went AWOL, he had been under contract to write another book for Litton Press.

“Don't be an idiot.”

“What, then?”

“Ted, you've got an
operable
brain tumor.”

“Gene Hoffman has a big goddamned mouth.”

“You've got to do it, Teddy. Let them save your life.”

“What for?”

“I don't know. So you can get laid? Write another book? Drink a case of Hennessy? Teach a class? Win the Pulitzer? See the sunrise over the damned Alps? Pick one. Pick ten. Because the alternative is what we fight.”

“I'm done fighting.”

“I don't think you are.”

“You don't know shit.”

“I know this. Refusing this operation is your last
fuck you
to the world for not believing in you.”

Ted stared into his drink. “And we were having so much fun.”

“Don't get cute.”

The men sat in silence for several minutes and Ted wrestled with a knot of turmoil even the cognac couldn't unwind. Should he pull out the box or shouldn't he? He glanced over at Pete and imagined
him at the liquor store, deciding which cognac to buy and choosing the expensive one. Because Ted was his friend. And because Ted was dying.

At last he stood and went to the closet. He pushed aside a green valise and dragged a large cardboard carton from the floor in the back. Bending to lift it made his head throb, but he did it anyway. He carried the box to Pete and dropped it at his feet.

“What is this?” Pete said. “A manuscript?”

Exhausted from the effort, Ted dropped into his chair. “No,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, as if it would relieve the pressure in his head. As if anything other than death or a surgeon's knife would relieve the pressure in his head. “It's three.”

“
Three
manuscripts?”

“It's been over twenty-five years, Salz. I had to do
something.
”

“Are you giving me permission to publish these?”

“Do whatever you want. It's my best work, especially
Louse.
”

Pete made a face. “‘Louse'?”

“The book is better than the title.”

“Rotting garbage is better than that title. What's it about?”

“A man who's not as complicated as he likes to think he is.”

Pete picked up the box and put it on his lap. He stared down at it like he was witnessing a miracle. “Three new books by Ted Shriver. Sweet fancy Moses.”

“Three
posthumous
books by Ted Shriver,” he corrected.

Pete picked up the title page on top and looked down. “‘For Audrey,'” he read. “Are they all dedicated to women who hate you?”

“
Genuine Lies
is dedicated to a girl I haven't seen since 1978, so I have no idea if she hates me. Met her at a book party. She had this hand tremor she kept trying to hide from me. It broke my heart.”

“What about the third book?”

“
Under the El
. Dedicated to a certain male friend I may have inadvertently screwed over.”

Pete stared at him for a moment to make sure he wasn't misinterpreting what he'd heard. “I'm touched,” he finally said.

“See if you like the book first.”

Pete put the box on the floor, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out a business card. He put it on the table between them.

“What's that?” Ted asked.

“Top neurosurgeon in New York.”

Ted looked at the card. “They're all the ‘top neurosurgeon in New York.'”

“What did yours tell you?”

“That if I had the operation right away, my odds of surviving were good. Close to seventy percent.”

“Seventy? Jesus, Ted, what are you waiting for?”

“With a ten to twenty percent chance of cognitive impairment.”

“That's pretty low.”

“Not to me.”

“Let me take you to see this guy. Let's hear what he has to say.”

Ted stood. “Thanks for coming by, Salz.”

“Are you throwing me out?”

“I have to lie down.”

Pete picked up the carton. “It'll take me at least a couple of weeks to read all this.”

“Take as long as you like.”

“I'll have questions.”

“If I'm alive, I'll answer them. If I'm dead, probably not.”

Pete didn't laugh. “I'll read
Louse
right away. I'll come back on Friday so we can discuss it.”

Ted opened the door. “Bring Hennessy.”