A Dream for Addie (5 page)

When Gloria came off, the four of us poked our heads out the door again to see if Constance had arrived. She hadn't.

“What are we going to do if she doesn't show?” asked Carla Mae.

“She'll be here!” I said, trying to sound positive. “She'll be here! Just don't panic!”

“Well, what if she doesn't come in time to give out the awards?” asked Tanya. “You and your big ideas!”

“Oh, zip your lip, Smithers,” I said irritably.

We heard Mrs. Coyne introducing Tanya next, and she made her way to the stage. Her dress was as obnoxious as she was. She imagined herself a great ballerina, and her dress was a sort of draped chiffon affair in sea-foam green. She had a big bunch of artificial flowers pinned at the waist and actually had the nerve to wear ballet shoes. She was covered in all her mother's best rhinestone jewelry. I had told her that she looked like somebody's fairy godmother, but she just sniffed and said I had no idea of high class and elegance.

She walked up and down the aisle in a slow-step, as though she were in a wedding procession, and then suddenly, with a great lunge, pirouetted around like a top, then went back to her slow-step. She was absolutely ridiculous. Her narration, of course, was the ickiest of them all.

“Next is Miss Tanya Smithers, in her creation for the artistic young woman, ‘Green Goddess.' Note the classical Greek lines in the drape of the luxurious fabric.” As Mrs. Coyne read Tanya moved her hands over her dress to demonstrate. “And the lovely way the dress moves on the graceful dancer's form.” I could tell it was all Mrs. Coyne could do to keep from laughing as she read what Tanya had written. “A perfect frock for sitting in the Royal Box at the opera, or for waltzing in the Vienna woods, or for a New York penthouse cocktail party … ‘Green Goddess.'”

Tanya kept on posing and pirouetting, even after Mrs. Coyne had finished with her narration, and Mrs. Coyne practically had to ask her to get off the stage.

“That was absolutely revolting!” I said to Tanya, when she came off stage. She just stuck her nose in the air and pranced by us, quite satisfied with herself.

“You're next, Addie!” hissed Carla Mae.

“OK, I'm going!” I answered.

“My gosh,” said Gloria, “Constance still isn't here!”

“Don't worry!” I said, and ran for the stage.

I wasn't too crazy about parading up and down in front of the whole Women's Club like a heifer at the County Fair, so I shoved my card into Mrs. Coyne's hand and shot up and down the aisle rather stiffly, trying to get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible. Grandma was in the audience, and she caught my eye and smiled.

My secret dress design was bright blue with red and white rickrack everywhere. I just loved rickrack, and I had gone absolutely crazy trimming the dress. It looked like a road map. As I whirred by, Mrs. Coyne read the description I had written on my card.

“‘Rickrack Rhapsody,' by Adelaide Mills … the perfect dress for driving in your European sports car or signing autographs at Hollywood and Vine or perhaps for brunching in the Blue Room at the White House.” I thought that was one of the better lines of my narration, tying in the color of the dress and the Blue Room and all.

“Note the unusual detailing in the application of rickrack,” Mrs. Coyne continued. “On the sleeves, on the cuffs, on the collar …” As she mentioned each part of the dress, I gestured with my hands to show it to the judges. I had rehearsed it a dozen times at home, but in the heat of the moment I forgot what order the details came in, and I ended up frantically waving my hands around like a windmill, trying to follow what Mrs. Coyne was reading from my card. “On the bodice, on the skirt, on the hem …” She began to laugh, but continued reading, “On the socks, on the purse, on the pigtails …” At that the whole audience began to laugh. “On the hat, indeed, a veritable ‘Rickrack Rhapsody.'”

Suddenly, the door opened at the end of the room, and there was a terrbile crash. Constance had come in and had swung the door open too hard, knocking over a tray of dishes. Everything stopped, and there was an awkward silence.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Didn't mean to interrupt.”

Then one of the judges motioned Constance to her seat at the head table, and Mrs. Coyne finished with my narration. Constance nodded in my direction as she sat down, and I could see she was sorry for spoiling my big moment in front of the judges. I went quickly off the stage, embarrassed at the commotion.

I had been the last to show my dress, and we were all called out on the stage again to wait for the judges' decision. Everyone in the restaurant was watching Constance, and she seemed self-conscious. She was wearing a pale blue suit and a dramatic brown hat with pheasant feathers. She lit up a cigarette and fiddled with it nervously as the judges handed their decision to Mrs. Coyne.

Mrs. Coyne gave Constance a flowery introduction and said, “Won't you please give a warm welcome to our own Broadway star, Miss Constance Payne!”

The audience applauded, but Constance didn't seem to realize she was supposed to go up on the stage until one of the judges next to her tapped her shoulder. She looked startled, then got up suddenly and accidently pushed her chair against the foot of a lady seated behind her. The woman let out a cry of pain, and Constance seemed flustered and fumbled for a place to put out her cigarette. She walked up the steps to the stage and stumbled slightly at the top. The whole audience gasped.

“I'm used to coming out from the wings,” Constance said nervously, “not up the steps.” There was a slight ripple of laughter from the audience. All of us on the stage were watching Constance closely. I wondered why a big star like her would be so nervous and clumsy in front of a crowd.

Mrs. Coyne handed her the paper with the winners' names, and Constance stared at it blankly for a long moment.

“Oh,” she said, “I forgot my glasses.” She started digging through her purse.

“Can I help?” asked Mrs. Coyne.

“No, no, no. It's all right,” Constance said. She looked out at the audience apologetically. “I know how excited …”

“Louder please!” someone called from the back of the room.

Constance began again, louder. “I know how excited you all are to hear the winners …” She trailed off without finishing the sentence, still searching in her purse. I stared at her, wondering what was wrong and why she was so inept. I had expected her to be dazzling.

“I think she's drunk!” someone near the stage whispered loudly. We all heard it, and I looked quickly over at Constance. She had heard it too. She looked as though her face had been slapped. I realized that the woman in the audience was right. I suddenly felt sick. I wanted to be anywhere but there. It had been my idea to invite Constance, and now it was a mess and all my fault. I wished she had never said yes. She went on fumbling in her purse, looking for her glasses.

“Wait,” she said. “This'll just take me a minute.”

“I'll be glad to read the names for you,” said Mrs. Coyne, reaching for the piece of paper.

“I'm sorry,” said Constance. “Just a moment.”

I was burning with embarrassment for her, and I could feel the discomfort from everyone else on stage. I knew drunk people could be unpredictable, and I was afraid she might do something awful.

“I'm afraid the handwriting's hard to read,” said Mrs. Coyne, tugging at the paper. “Let me help you.”

“No, it's all right,” said Constance. And suddenly, as they pulled in opposite directions, the paper tore in half, and Constance's purse dropped from her arm and its contents spilled out on the floor. There was a titter, then cold silence from the audience.

Constance knelt unsteadily to try and gather up her belongings, and Mrs. Coyne, trying to make the best of an awkward situation, bent to help her.

Then Constance seemed to give up and whispered to Mrs. Coyne, “I think you'd better do it. I'm afraid I'm just not feeling very well.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Coyne.

Constance grabbed her purse, leaving some of her things on the floor, and turned to leave.

“Excuse me … you'll have to excuse me,” she said in the direction of the audience. Then her eyes met mine. She looked terribly sad, and turned and walked quickly to the door. There was a deadly silence as everyone turned to watch her pass by. When she reached the door, she fumbled with the knob, and all eyes were on her as she struggled to get out of the room.

I wondered at that moment, why, in the movies, drunk people were always funny—staggering and hiccuping. Constance wasn't funny at all. I stood on the stage, watching the door after she left, not even listening when Mrs. Coyne announced Mary Beth Walsh had won first prize. I didn't care.

Chapter Four

Grandma and I didn't say much to each other on the way home from the style show. She always knew when I didn't feel like talking, and she would let me keep my silence for a while. Sooner or later she would encourage me to talk it out, but I appreciated just being left alone sometimes, and she understood.

We weren't home long when Mrs. Coyne arrived with the things from Constance's purse that had been left behind. She said that she knew I was a friend of Constance's and that it might be better if I took the things to her because Constance might be embarrassed to see her. I thought it was good of Mrs. Coyne to realize that, but then she was one of nicest people I knew. She said she and Constance had been friends in school and that she had always liked and admired her. Grandma told me not to blame myself for what had happened, but it didn't cheer me up much. I just sat there after Mrs. Coyne left and stared at Constance's sunglasses and the other things she had left behind.

Dad came home soon, carrying a bunch of pussywillows he had found near the gravel pit where he was working. Usually I would have been delighted, but I was too glum to care. He knew what had happened at the style show. He had heard the story from someone when he had stopped at the post office on the way home, and he said it was all over town by now.

“The whole thing doesn't surprise me a bit,” he said. “That's about what I'd expect from old Constance.”

“Now, James!” said Grandma. “You shouldn't say those things.”

“Oh, Mother!” he said. “Her dad was a boozer, and she takes after him. Remember how she was looking for a drink over here at dinner the other night?”

“Well,” said Grandma, “there's lots of folks take a drink at dinner and don't go overboard with it. It's just too bad she don't know how to handle it. I feel kinda sorry for her.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“Boy!” Dad laughed. “She must've been some sight! Lurching around.”

“James!” said Grandma.

“There wasn't anything funny about it!” I said angrily. I was almost surprised to find myself defending Constance after what she had done. I was puzzled about what had happened. I didn't understand why she would drink too much before setting off for such an important event, knowing that people would be watching her closely.

“Sure wasn't funny,” said Grandma. “I bet she must feel awful about what she did.”

“I'll bet she's done the same thing a dozen times before,” said Dad. “People get hittin' the bottle, and they don't care what anybody thinks. And going around feeling sorry for 'em only makes 'em worse.”

“How do
you
know?” I asked angrily.

“I've seen plenty of 'em,” he said. “Old George Bardle used to drink on the job all the time. He'd go on a toot and then come whinin' around sayin' he was sorry, and they'd give him another chance and a couple of days later he'd be off again. People like that never change.”

“Anybody can change, James, if they get the chance,” said Grandma. “Poor old George didn't have a friend in the world.”

“What do you expect when somebody behaves like that?” asked Dad.

“Well,” Grandma said, almost to herself. “It's too bad Constance don't have someone to help her out.”

After supper that night, Gloria, Tanya and Carla Mae came over, and we spread ourselves out around the kitchen table to do our egg-decorating. We dipped hard-boiled eggs in dye water and put decals and ink designs on them. We used our hollowed-out eggshells for more permanent decorating jobs. My grandmother always kept bits of trimming and buttons in old Quaker Oats boxes, and we had three of these big round boxes of treasures on the table.

We took out bits of velvet ribbon and rickrack and fancy buttons, and carefully glued them to the hollow eggs in various patterns. I made a red, white and blue rickrack egg that matched my Easter Style Show dress, just to drive everybody crazy.

While we worked, we discussed the relative merits of each other's egg designs and then got to the subject we were really dying to discuss, Constance Payne. We talked in low, furtive tones, so Dad and Grandma couldn't hear us from the living room.

“Well,” said Tanya. “Her name is absolutely
dirt
in this town from now on! My mother says she should be ridden out of town on a rail!”

“Oh, what does your mother know? She's never had the problems of a great dramatic actress!” I said angrily.

“Just because she's an actress,” said Tanya, “is no reason to get drunk!”

“I felt sorry for her,” said Gloria.

“Me too,” said Carla Mae. “It was so embarrassing.”

“I did too,” I said. “My grandmother says she probably needs help.”

“Yeah,” said Tanya. “She needed some help getting the door open to get out of there.”

“Smithers, you have absolutely no human compassion!” I said haughtily.

“She's just an old lush!” said Tanya.

“Great artists have problems other people can't understand,” I said. “Remember how Van Gogh cut off his own ear?”