Suite Scarlett (14 page)

Lola was in the Orchid Suite, stripping off her dress when Scarlett opened the door.

“Here,” she said, as Scarlett came in. “This is for you. I think it looks nicer on you, anyway. I’m not sure I can really wear black. Not everyone can. It’s a myth. I’m too pale.”

Scarlett accepted the dress and watched as Lola pulled on a pair of pink shortie pajamas and then set to work dumping out the contents of her underwear drawer onto her bed. She began refolding her panties into perfect little squares, which was something she usually did to relax herself in times of stress.

“Do you want anything?” Scarlett offered quietly. “Tea, or water, or something?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

Scarlett put the dress on her bureau and sat down on her bed opposite. She waited until Lola had folded everything to her satisfaction and sat down, squishing the pile of panties between her hands, like a delicate pastel accordion.

“We were at a benefit at the Natural History Museum tonight,” she said. “Some friend of theirs rented out the lobby for
something—I don’t even know what—and everybody paid about a thousand bucks to be there. There was a girl named Boonz there. I’ve seen her at a few things. She dates this other guy from Durban. She walked right up to me, like she wanted to make small talk, because there’s nothing else to do at these things. And do you know what she said to me?”

Scarlett could have come out with a few amusing possible answers that Spencer would have loved, but this was definitely not the time.

“She said, ‘Don’t you have a second dress?’ I kept waiting for her to laugh, to show that it was some kind of weird joke. But she didn’t. She said, ‘You’ve worn that every time I’ve ever seen you.’ And she smirked and walked away.”

Scarlett felt a flush coming to her cheeks. There was no reason for someone to cut Lola down. Lola, who could be one of those snotty and horrible people, but who never, ever was.

A few tears dribbled down Lola’s cheeks.

“I barely know her. There was no reason for her to do that. She just had to make a point of the fact that I wear this one dress a lot, because
they
get rid of them after they’ve worn them one or two times. I was trying not to cry, and I looked up at the dinosaur skeleton, and all of a sudden, I just had this horrifying image of…forever. Being around these people for the rest of my life. I put down my drink and walked out.”

“Good,” Scarlett said. “You should have. Did Chip leave, too?”

“He followed me out,” she said. “He tried to make me feel better. He said that he would get me a new dress. And that’s the problem. The solution is always going to be ‘buy another one.’ The people are always going to be the same. They’re so smug, and most of them
are so
stupid
, and they think they deserve everything they have. They’ll never have to work, never have to do anything they don’t want to do. They can’t understand not having money. They see it as a flaw. Chip doesn’t…but I just realized he’ll never, ever
get
it. He would never get that, to most people, getting a dress like this is a huge deal.”

She looked at the once-beloved dress, now lying limply on the bureau.

“He wanted to take me out somewhere else. Go downtown to a club, or over to the boat, and I just wanted to come home. We pulled up, and I broke up with him. Just like that. I always thought that was what I wanted. I always thought that’s where I wanted to be—with the people who really lived that life. And then I didn’t anymore.”

There was a knock at the door, and Spencer let himself in, slightly more subtly than normal. He dropped down next to Lola and leaned low over his knees to look up at her downturned face.

“You must be thrilled,” she said. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I wouldn’t. But I’m not saying a word. I was nice to him. And I will be even nicer to you, and your weird underwear sandwich.”

“Thank you.” Lola set the pile of perfectly folded panties on her bedside stand, then reached over and gave his hand a little squeeze. “I appreciate it.”

Both of them sat there watching Lola, waiting for something dramatic to happen, but nothing did. She sniffed a little, straightened the underwear pile, then stood.

“I should go tell Marlene,” she said. “And then I’ll tell Mom and Dad. About this, about the job. Might as well. I just broke up. They aren’t going to kick me when I’m down. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She floated off, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Did you see that?” Spencer said in a low voice. “That’s not what you look like when you break up with someone you really like. Remember when Gillian broke up with me last year, during our final production?”

“Which one was Gillian?”

“The one with the really long red hair. She broke up with me right in the middle of
The Music Man.
”

“I remember,” Scarlett said. “You sat in your room for three days over the long weekend and got drunk on that Johnnie Walker you stole from her apartment and told Mom you had the flu, except you smelled like booze. And you threw up a lot. And you never changed your clothes.”

Spencer nodded, not even a little taken aback by the description.

“Exactly. That’s what it feels like. I know.”

“Didn’t you go out with her best friend a week later?” Scarlett asked.

“That’s not the point…”

“And
she
broke up with
you
, so it’s not really the same.”

“All right. That was a bad example. Do you remember Emily, from junior year?”

“From
The Glass Menagerie
?”

“That’s the one.
I
broke up with
her
, and I felt horrible. I was a big, hot mess.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you break up with her because she was gay and about to break up with you anyway to date that other girl in your class?”

“Scarlett,” Spencer said, drawing himself up, “I am trying to teach you a lesson.”

“Sorry.”

“Lola’s way too calm.”

“Lola’s always calm,” Scarlett replied.

“Lola isn’t
always
calm.”

He said it like he knew what he was talking about, but Scarlett couldn’t figure out what he was referring to.

“You only look that calm when you feel relief,” he went on. “When you didn’t care in the first place.”

This was punctuated by a slamming door and heavy footfalls down the hallway. Marlene came tearing into the Orchid Suite and made right for Lola’s bed, clawing at the sheets and pulling them off the bed, then knocking things off the dresser. It was a very uncoordinated effort, one that screamed of a general frustration. Spencer caught her around the waist and hoisted her up. She flailed at him, but the blows were ineffective.

“Marlene,” he said, “you must chill a little, okay?”

He kept her dangling there until she gave up and went limp. Lola rejoined them and looked at Marlene sadly.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Marlene, I really am.”

Marlene wasn’t interested. She wiggled her way out of Spencer’s grasp and stalked out of the room.

“Why is she more upset than you?” Scarlett asked.

“I think she sees Chip as an older brother.”

“She has an older brother,” Spencer said. “
I’m
her older brother.”

“Her older brother with a boat and a driver,” Lola clarified. “She got attached to him. She’ll be all right. I’ll talk to her when she calms down. Don’t let her break anything, okay?”

Lola went off again, and Spencer just shook his head in amazement.

“That’s enough drama for tonight,” he said, peeling off his shirt.
Even he was struck by the powerful odor that had been caused by the long day in the church. He held it at arm’s length. “I’m done. I’m going to go to bed and read important books about theater.”

“It would be easier if you just said porn,” Scarlett said.

“No idea what you’re talking about. But knock first if you need me.”

When he had gone off, and the room was quiet at last, Scarlett went over and picked up the black dress and held it up to herself. It was hers now. And she had Eric. And Lola was single.

She went to the window and pulled it open. The windows of the Hopewell were old, made of thin glass, and largely uncared for wood frames that coughed up paint and pigeon feathers when you touched them. But the night air was warm and sweet, and didn’t smell too heavily of garbage from the alley below. There was a white full moon hanging over Naked Lady’s building.

She read the message on her phone again.

You’ve made a country boy very happy, city girl.

She was the city girl. This was her city. And for the first time that summer, maybe ever, Scarlett felt so full of contentment that she would even have been happy to see Naked Lady and wish her well.

The cast was fading in the heat the next day. They lounged on one another across the big, empty floor, treating each other like pieces of furniture. Scarlett had always noticed, when dealing with her brother’s friends, that actors were touchy. She now appreciated this fact completely. She smiled benevolently as she watched Ophelia share her bottle of water with Spencer.

She didn’t sit next to Eric. It was too soon for that. She took her place over by the wall, next to where Mrs. Amberson had planted herself during the actors’ warm-ups. She had now taken the low stage.

“Trevor and I have been talking,” she announced to the group. “And
we
think…”

Unless she was seriously imagining things, and she might have been, Scarlett detected a very slight, very fake British accent creeping into Mrs. Amberson’s voice. It wasn’t constant—it would just twang Scarlett’s ear from time to time, sharp as a flick of the finger. No one else seemed to register it. Or, if they did, they weren’t letting on. They were a bunch of actors, so they could have been
acting
like they didn’t hear it.

“…that we need to push the dramatic stakes a bit. We need to give this performance a real sense of style, so we’re going to take what you’ve been doing and extend it a bit. Think classic film. Think silent movie. Hamlet and Ophelia, you’re going to be like classic screen legends. Think Bogart and Bacall. Valentino and Garbo. Spencer and Eric, you’ll be our Keystone Cops, our Marx Brothers.”

There was a warm reception to this idea.

“I have one other piece of news,” she said. “Tonight, to celebrate all the work we’ve done, I want to have a little party.”

This was a surprise to Scarlett. She glanced over to Eric, who beamed widely at her.

“I’ll supply all the food and drink,” she went on. “So, we break at five and reconvene at eight.”

The idea of the party roused the group, and they threw themselves into the work. At five, Mrs. Amberson forced everyone out except Scarlett.

“You didn’t tell me you were doing this,” Scarlett said, as they stood outside and Mrs. Amberson waved toward a van that was pulling up at the curb.

“I like surprises,” she said. “And I certainly owe you and your brother and Eric some thanks. Now, let’s get these things inside.”

Mrs. Amberson had ordered a substantial amount of food, along with several cases of beer and two cases of wine.

“For the over twenty-ones, of course,” she said with a smile. “As for you, there is underage, and then, there is
underage.
I believe a taste of wine is perfectly acceptable, but please stick to one glass tonight. Now, let’s work on ambience.”

It was a strangely pleasant interlude. If there was one thing Mrs. Amberson was good at, it was creating a good atmosphere. From one
of the many boxes in the back, she produced a hundred or more tealight candles and strings of lights. Together, they created a bar out of crates and chairs, which Mrs. Amberson draped in fabric. They dangled the lights around the room, lined the stage with candles, created a center stage area and a few little clusters of chairs along the sides of the room. Slowly, the big dusty room was transformed into a softly lit hall.

Even her stories got more entertaining. Broadway flops, discos, schemes she’d used to get auditions…Mrs. Amberson was actually an interesting person when she wasn’t barking out orders or using Scarlett for one of her schemes. She was deeply engrossed in a story when the actors came drifting back, correctly guessing that all of the supplies had already arrived, and the sooner they got there, the quicker they could get at them.

Scarlett hadn’t really talked with the other cast members much before, but they all proved to be nice, and surprisingly interested in her. Over the course of the night, there was some impromptu singing. Hamlet got up and did a hilariously overdone version of the “To be or not to be” soliloquy. Eric and Spencer were called upon to do some of their usual routine, which they did with more manic energy than normal, throwing each other all around the room. Annoying Jeff tried to join in, but was rapidly frightened off by the speed and genuine skill it took not to get hurt. Scarlett kept an eye on Stephanie while this was going on, and sure enough, she was watching Spencer with a rapt expression. Scarlett felt a flush of pride—she really did have the best brother in the world.

Then the room broke into smaller groups. Mrs. Amberson sat with Trevor and some actors and told stories of her Broadway days. Out of the corner of her eye, Scarlett saw Spencer leaning in to talk
to Ophelia. From the way he was smiling and joking with her, Scarlett could tell that he was in heavy flirting mode. While she was glad for that, it really wasn’t something she wanted to watch. She drifted around, standing with various groups and listening to them talk. They all accepted her, but she couldn’t really join in with any conversation. It was all very theatery. She was starting to feel out of place, when Eric popped up from behind one of the poles that lined the edge of the room.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice was slurring just slightly, but not enough that the words slid out of place. “Meet me out front in five minutes?”

He vanished before she could answer. Scarlett had to take a heaving breath. Five minutes. She looked around to see if anyone had just noticed what transpired, but everyone was busy talking. She quietly got her bag from the corner of the room. When she went outside, Eric was there, staring into the driver’s window of someone’s car.

“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand and hurrying her down the block. “I should have showed you this before.”

They went four blocks to see whatever it was that Eric wanted to show her, finally stopping in front of a fairly run-down apartment building, one of hundreds that dotted the East Village.

“Wait,” he said, throwing himself up against the door. “Wait a second. Before you go in. I just want to say, you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. This wasn’t true. She was experiencing a kind of terror, but a pleasant terror.

“No,” he slurred. “Remember. I am Southern. I am a gentleman. I just need you to know that. If you feel uncomfortable, you just
tell me, and we go back in a second, okay? I’ve got iced tea and a television, and we can just drink iced tea and watch TV if you want. That’s all I’m saying. Or we could not go up. I wouldn’t be offended.”

He was drunk, possibly even playing it up to make his point, but it was all very sincere. He looked both hopeful and worried.

“It’s okay,” she said.

He smiled so deeply she felt her eyes water.

The lobby had a cracked mosaic floor and smelled like old pizza boxes. There were stickers for a political rally pasted all over the circuit breaker box. He didn’t let go of Scarlett’s hand or slow down the entire way to his apartment. He took the steps two at a time and had the door hanging open when she got there. It was dark inside the apartment. He went in first and turned on all the lights.

“Welcome to the palace,” he said, backing up against the refrigerator to let her past.

Eric’s apartment was a tiny studio, the kind that reminded Scarlett that most people in the city didn’t live in five-story hotels, no matter how decrepit they were. The room had an uneven floor and was just wide enough for a bed and a canvas chair. Those were the only real pieces of furniture. The kitchen—it if could be called that—was about the size of the back seat of a car and was full of miniaturized appliances. There was only one small set of shelves, and they were packed to the point of groaning, so most of his things were piled neatly and pushed against the walls—books, scripts, DVDs, piles of clothes. Everything was careful and neat.

“This is where I live,” he said, offering her the room’s only chair. “It’s not as nice as where you live.”

“I like it,” Scarlett said. And it was true. Eric could have lived in a box behind a pizza place, and she would have said she liked it and meant it.

“You know what? If I went to school in North Carolina, I could rent an apartment about twelve times this size for about half as much. Anyway, I have something to show you. Just sit there. Don’t look. Close your eyes.”

Scarlett slowly closed her eyes. She heard things being shifted around.

“Okay, open!”

He was holding up a boxed set of
Gone With the Wind
DVDs.

“This isn’t the normal version,” he said gravely. “Oh, no. This one has everything, all the extra footage. It has like…nine hundred hours of footage. If you’re in my family, this is what you watch on Christmas. My grandma gave this to me when I moved here so I wouldn’t forget the glorious cause.”

He set it on the floor by her feet and then went and sat on his bed, which was the only other piece of furniture on offer. Then he seemed to think better of it and sat in the middle of the floor.

“When I first met you,” he said, “I was so amazed to meet someone named Scarlett. I thought it was a sign or something. I had come to New York, and there was Scarlett, and she lived in a hotel. And she had beautiful blonde curls…”

He put the tips of his fingers together and touched them a few times. For several minutes, he said nothing at all. Then he dragged himself over to the foot of the chair and moved the wayward curl out of her eye.

“That’s always there,” he said. “I always want to move it. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s okay,” she replied, her voice dry.

“The thing…from the other day…”

He waited, as if thinking that Scarlett would need some time to recall the kissing.

“In the theater?” she asked.

“Yeah. That. Did you…like that?”

“It was the best thing that ever happened to me,” she replied, with a sudden and surprising candor.

“So, if it happened again…you wouldn’t be upset?”

Only a shake of the head this time. Saying “no” was way too complicated. He reached up his hand, offering her help down from the chair. When he kissed her this time, he leaned her back against the floor, guarding her head with his hand. Scarlett lost all sense of where she was, or anything else that could possibly have been happening when the whole thing was broken by the most horrible buzzing noise that she had ever heard.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just my door. Hold on.”

Spencer’s voice entered the room, very loudly.

“Hey,” he said. “I can’t find Scarlett. Is she up there with you?”

“Uh…” Eric looked down at Scarlett. “Yeah. She is. We’re coming down now. Meet you in a second.”

Scarlett looked at the clock. It was one-thirty in the morning. That had to be wrong. She looked to her watch for confirmation, and the DVD display, and the readout on the little orange microwave. They all said a variation of the same thing…1:32, 1:33, 1:34. How had it gotten so late? They must have been there for over two hours.

Eric leaned against his door and banged his head lightly against it in concern.

“That was your brother,” he said. “He didn’t sound very happy.”

“It’ll be fine,” Scarlett said. A quick glance in the mirror as she stood revealed a head of curls standing on end and a lot of makeup smudges around her eyes. She flattened the curls as best she could and rubbed away the blotches.

“Do you want me to go down with you, or…?”

“I should probably go by myself,” she said.

“But you’re okay?”

“Don’t worry,” she said taking a deep breath. “It’s just Spencer. It’ll be fine.”

He reached for her hand and rubbed a little circle on her palm with his fingers.

“I…” He shook his head. “I guess you have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”