Swim to Me (18 page)

Mr. Hanratty had asked Roy personally whether he would act as the catcher for that act, and that was a big deal. As Roy wandered through the campgrounds, people waved or nodded at him: the clowns, the little people, the calliope player, the elephant trainer. And of course Carmen, the aerialist, who made even the simplest
sentence sound like a seduction, greeted him with a creamy, “Hey there, Mr. Catch Me If You Can.”

The thought flashed through his mind: if only Gail could see him now, a well-respected man, a tan and muscular man with long hair and important responsibilities. What would she say to that?

What was the name again?”

“Walker. Gail Walker.”

The hotel clerk ran his finger down a list of names as he tapped a pencil against his forehead.

“I'm sorry, but we don't seem to have any Walkers. Is it possible it could be under another name?”

“I'm here with the CFAA Convention. Maybe it's under Mandor. Avalon Mandor,” Gail said, trying to sound pleasant.

“Avalon. Interesting name,” he said, twirling the eraser into the side of his cheek.

“Ahh, yes, here we go: Avalon Mandor: one assistant, plus child. Assistant—” He looked up. “Could that be you?”

Gail hadn't quite thought of herself as an assistant. She had certainly made it sound to Thelma and Delores as if she were equal to Avalon, if not running the CFAA. But the truth was, ever since the cab pulled up to this hotel, pink as Westie's Play-Doh, with its turrets, pointed arches, and swaggering palm trees, Gail had felt overwhelmed by the size and ritziness of it all. The one time she had gone into New York City to shop at Saks Fifth Avenue, she'd felt as if she were trespassing—that Alexander's was where she really belonged. This hotel, with the men in their starchy blue uniforms reaching for her bags, calling her ma'am, and wishing her a good
stay made her feel the same way—as if everyone was wondering what exactly a woman of her station thought she was doing here. So she allowed that, yes, she could very well be Avalon Mandor's assistant.

“We have a room for you and the little guy,” he said, looking down at Westie. “This, uh, time of year, particularly with this, uh, convention, we get booked so far in advance. It's a little, uh, modest, but cozy. And you'll be only minutes from the beach. Room 101.”

Gail took the key. “Sounds fine,” she said, surprised by the sharpness in her voice. She picked up Westie in one arm, their bags in the other, and said she would make her own way to the room, thank you. The room was half in the basement and half above ground, so that there was a band of light across the top of the window. It was dark and small, and the constant revving sound of the generator made the walls vibrate slightly. A narrow bed was covered with a pale yellow blanket, full of those little nubs of wool that indicate the blanket has been well used. Next to the bed was a fold-up canvas cot. There were no pictures on the wall, just the purple stain of something spilled or thrown. Wine perhaps. And there was a folding metal luggage rack and a scratched wooden bed stand with a gooseneck lamp.

“They've certainly put me in my place,” Gail said to Westie, as she searched the wall for a switch that would turn on the gooseneck. Westie sat at the foot of the bed, hugging his stuffed turtle. Tired and hungry, he'd only talked to Otto and Dorph since they'd left Weeki Wachee six hours earlier.

Weeki Wachee, she thought. I have a daughter who's a mermaid at Weeki Wachee. And she's good. Darn good. That strange Thelma woman with those goggle eyes kept telling me how talented my own daughter was, as if I couldn't see for myself. Delores is growing up,
when she's not being an awful teenager. But she sure was sweet with Westie. I was a mother at her age. Now, here I am, in Boca Raton with a fashion magazine. Strange world.

According to Avalon, fashion was serious business, maybe the number one business in America. It was about how people looked. No, about how people wanted to look. That's what counted.
Cool
magazine told women who they could be. If they just worked a little harder at it, had more what-cha-ma-call-it? Oh, you know, self-esteem. Avalon said that the models in the magazines looked the way the readers wished they could look. Ha, fat chance that would ever happen. Of course they never told the readers that. They made it seem as if anyone who wanted could go out and spend one hundred dollars for a pair of sandals or wear those zillion-dollar see-through dresses. They called everything “a real pick-me-up”: cucumber facial masks, skin-tight blue jeans, eyebrow plucking. A real pick-me-up. Big business, this one, and here she was, plunked down right in the middle of it. Gail Walker has self-esteem, yessiree, that's for sure. Otherwise, what would she be doing in a Boca Raton resort on the eve of one of the biggest CFAA conferences in the history of accessories?

She opened her suitcase and started to spread her clothes out on the bed next to Westie. She was admiring her new green velvet bell-bottoms when the phone rang. She let it ring twice, so it didn't sound as if she was eager for someone to call.

“Hay-llo,” she sang, eyeing her reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door. “Ah, Avalon. How's it going?” She stood up straight and sucked in her stomach.

“Terrible,” said Avalon, her voice exhausted. Gail's eyes widened with concern as Avalon continued: “Can you meet me in the lobby in a half hour? We're having dinner with some advertisers. It was supposed to be the publisher and me, but her plane got delayed.
The buyer is expecting more than just me. The editor will kill me if I screw this up. I know it's asking a lot, but can you come? Are you up for that?” There was silence at both ends of the phone. Both were thinking different versions of the same thing. Gail had never met an advertiser. The only person Gail had ever spoken to at the magazine was Avalon. What would she say? Would she act appropriately? Would anyone believe that she worked there or would it quickly become obvious that she was the cleaning woman?

“What about my son? What will I do with Westie?” asked Gail, trying to tamp down the anxiety in her voice.

“Oh, don't worry about him,” said Avalon. “The hotel has a babysitting service. I've already arranged for them to come pick him up in fifteen minutes. They'll feed him dinner, hamburgers most likely. There'll be some other kids.”

Gail wasn't sure about leaving Westie. “I don't know about that,” she said. “Having him go off with strangers.”

“Oh silly,” said Avalon. “All the big hotels have babysitting services. They're used to dealing with new kids. He'll be fine, honest.”

Avalon could be so thoughtful sometimes.

“The people we're having dinner with are from Timex,” Avalon continued. “They've been in the magazine for years. We're seeing the account executive from the Atlanta agency and two of her creatives. So we need to work the conversation around timepieces as an essential accessory. Don't worry. I hear this woman's a real hoot. Just relax and have a good time. You're a saint to do this. Okay, gotta get ready. See you in the lobby in a half hour.”

Gail hung up the phone, pushed over her folded clothes, and sat down on the bed next to Westie. “I can't do this,” she said aloud. At times like this, when she felt so utterly frightened and alone, she had to reach back into her history and remember other instances in her life when loneliness had echoed inside of her. After her mother
died. After Roy left. After Delores left. The feeling that she couldn't go on so overwhelmed her at those times, even thinking about it set bats loose in her stomach. She pulled her hair out of her face and studied the pretty clothes laid out on the bed. She would wear the velvet green pants that were left over from a New Year's Eve fashion story. Nothing too gaudy—a white silk blouse from the same shoot and a pair of gold hoop earrings that one of the editors must have dropped under her desk.

Getting dressed up always buoyed Gail's mood. It made her feel more firmly in place. Westie would have fun playing with kids his age. He'd been around adults too much lately. She'd get through the dinner tonight. All she had to do was be natural. As Avalon said, all she had to do was relax and have a good time and not forget to mention timepieces. Everything would be fine. It made her smile to think that here she was, living proof of what a pick-me-up fashion could be. She hugged Westie, careful not to muss her hair. “Guess what, honey?” she said in as perky a voice as she could muster. “In a few minutes a nice lady from the hotel is going to pick you up and take you to play. It'll be like being with Helene, only there will be other kids there. You'll get to eat hamburgers and maybe even watch a movie. Doesn't that sound like fun?”

A ribbon of patchouli perfume floated under Westie's nose. He tried to wave it away but patchouli stays put. He hugged Dorph and stuck his thumb in his mouth, something he did only when he needed to comfort himself.

A half hour later, Gail walked into the hotel lobby, her brown platform heels clacking against the marble floor. There was Avalon, with her curly hair swept up on top of her head like a bushel of apples. She was wearing a pink and white checked strapless sheath. Gail had never seen Avalon outside the office. She looked entirely different: more beautiful, more confident, and taller. She was standing
with a plump woman who looked to be in her late twenties. No one had teased hair in 1973, yet here was this young woman with a voluminous flip set in place by hairspray. She wore a magenta-colored miniskirt and a plunging, pink silk blouse and apparently gave no thought to how the outfit exposed her heavy thighs and pale bosom. She was already a hoot, and she hadn't even said anything yet.

Avalon put her hand on the woman's arm. “Crystal Landy, I'd like you to meet my colleague, Gail Walker.”

Crystal Landy stuck out her hand. “It is a real pleasure to meet you. I am such a fan of your magazine. Obviously, I am not one of your couture readers, but I get a kick out of what you folks in New York call style.” Her wire-thin bangles made the sound of loose change as she shook Gail's hand.

Having never come upon the word
couture,
Gail forced a smile as she shook Crystal's hand and searched for the right thing to say. “Style is as style does,” she said, pleased to have passed that juncture.

At dinner, Gail sat between Crystal and one of the young creatives named Jeremy. Jeremy seemed to have his mind and gaze fixed on something other than the three of them, so mostly, at first, Crystal talked. She said she'd grown up in Florida, up north in Gainesville. Her family was still there, but she rarely went home. “Gainesville isn't big enough for both me and my mother.” She then turned to Gail and asked about her family.

“Well, I have a daughter who's seventeen and a little boy, nearly three,” Gail said. So far so good. She asked Crystal: “And you. Are you married? Do you have kids?” Crystal's cheeks flushed and her expression turned somber. “I was engaged to be married. My fiancé got killed in Vietnam.”

The table fell silent and Gail saw that Crystal didn't know where to settle her eyes. Gail said the first thing that came into mind.
“Your fiancé died a hero. My husband took off in the car nearly three years ago and I haven't seen or heard from him since. Not the most courageous man I've ever met.” Crystal recognized Gail's generosity, and though she found her manner odd, she made it her business to include her in the conversation for the rest of the evening. “So,” she said, turning to Gail, “what accessory are you in?”

Gail was prepared for this question. “Mostly I work in footwear, you know, shoes, boots, sandals. But I also work with timepieces as they are an essential accessory.” Gail glimpsed the hunk of watch on Crystal's left wrist. “I see that you are wearing a Rolodex. Now that's a statement in itself, isn't it?” she asked, pleased with herself, despite having confused the expensive watch with an address file.

“I'll say it is,” Crystal said, with a little laugh. “It certainly saves wear and tear on the phone book.”

Gail laughed along, although she had no idea why.

“And what's your statement?” Crystal asked. “What are you wearing that most says who you are?”

Gail did a mental inventory running from the platform shoes up to the hoop earrings. “I'd have to say that my biggest statement is about what I'm not wearing.” She thought about the wedding band that she'd long ago stashed away in her dresser drawer behind her underwear. She thought about the light blue cleaning-company uniform, its white collar and dark blue insignia over the right breast; her white lace-up shoes with their thick crepe soles; the garbage pail she dragged behind her like the scent of cheap perfume. She could feel herself disappearing.

“Now my daughter, there's a girl with a statement,” she said, brightening. “Every day she wears a mermaid's tail. Honestly, I think by now she's actually become a mermaid.”

“That's weird. Why does she wear a mermaid tail?” asked Crystal.

Everyone at the table turned toward Gail.

“She's works at that place with the mermaid shows, Weeki Wachee.”

“Holy cow, I saw them on TV,” said young Jeremy, as if someone had just shaken him awake. “Didn't they do some spoof of
The Godfather?”

“Yes, it was last Christmas,” Avalon piped in. “They did a show called ‘The Merfather,' and it was written about all over the place.”

“My daughter had the starring role. She was Connie, Don Corleone's daughter.”

“Wait, I read about her,” said Crystal. “What's her name again?”

“Delores. Delores Taurus.”

“Right,” said Crystal. “And the papers said something about how Delores Taurus swims with the fishes.”

“Mermaids—wow!” said Jeremy. “They're supposed to cause shipwrecks and floods, and cool stuff like that. They're real seductresses.”