The Bette Davis Club (34 page)

“Stop it!” I cry. “For God’s sake!”

Dottie and I abandon the table, but all that does is provide Boone with a work surface. He begins slamming Tully against the tabletop, the same way he slammed him against the hood of the MG. Indeed, slamming people seems to be Boone’s main mode of communication.

Dottie moves quickly to the coffee machine. She picks up the carafe. Somehow I don’t think she’s about to offer everyone hot beverages. She approaches the table, where Boone continues battering Tully.

Kelsey screams a warning, but it’s too late. Dottie dumps hot coffee down Boone’s back.

“Fuck!” Boone yells. He pushes Tully off the table and onto the floor.

Boone plucks his wet shirt away from his body. He spins round to face Dottie and me. “My code,” he says, “is if a woman hurts me, I do not hesitate to hurt her back.” He takes a step in our direction.

Tully reaches up from the floor, snatching at Boone’s pant leg. “Leave them alone,” he says hoarsely.

Boone stops. He looks down at Tully.

“Just a sec,” Boone says to Dottie and me.

He bends, seizes Tully by the collar, and begins pulling him along the floor. Tully’s fingers scrabble at the wood planks like Wile E. Coyote being dragged across the desert sands. As Tully is hauled past me, we catch each other’s eye.

I’m worried Tully will be hurt, yes. I care about him. But there’s something else. In that moment, Tully and I share the truth of our existence. We’re twins; we’re soul mates. We are life’s underdogs. We’re the defeated, the conquered, the vanquished.

We were made for each other.

Boone whistles to Kelsey. She opens the front door. Boone tosses Tully out into the darkened street.

With an ominous click of the brass lock, Kelsey bars the door against Tully.

Boone turns back to Dottie and me. “Give me that script,” he says.

“I don’t have it,” I say. “It’s gone. There was a fire, and it burned up.”

“Liar,” Kelsey says. She rakes her hand through her long hair. “Boonie, she’s lying!”

Boone comes toward me. He seems about to demonstrate his personal belief system concerning acceptable violence with regard to women. His hands shoot out in front of him, and he shoves me roughly up against a cupboard, so roughly that I swallow my gum.

Dottie yanks on Boone’s coffee-soaked shirt, trying to get him off me. But Kelsey isn’t having it. She pulls at Dottie’s hair, then pushes her to the ground. Startled, Dottie stares up from the floor. Her legs are collapsed under her, and she’s swearing a blue streak in French. She looks like a surprised mushroom.

Boone again thrusts me against the cupboard. This time he knocks the wind out of me. I gasp for air.

“Do not mess with me!” he shouts in my face. He smells of aftershave, liquor, and spilled coffee. “I will tear this junkyard apart, and everybody in it!”

There’s a loud pounding at the front door. It’s Tully, I’m sure, trying to get back in.

At that moment, Charlotte exits the bathroom, adjusting her suit jacket. She’s behind Boone and Kelsey. They do not see her.

Charlotte stops. She spies Dottie on the floor, me pushed up against the cupboard and gasping.

The fire poker rests nearby. It’s in the same spot it’s been in all day, since when I set it down this morning after using it to menace Dottie. Charlotte doesn’t hesitate. She crosses to the fire poker, picks it up, and raises it high in the air. She brings it down on Boone’s head.

Boone releases me. His hands drop to his sides. He stands there, teetering.

“Not again,” Kelsey wails.

Kelsey advances in Charlotte’s direction, murder in her eyes—but Dottie thrusts out a leg and trips her.

In the end, Kelsey and Boone go down simultaneously. Kelsey, like a child falling off a bicycle; Boone, like a felled tree. He lands against the ten-thousand-dollar mirror. It shatters.

“Damn,” Charlotte says.

“
On ne fait pas d’omelette sans casser d’oeufs
,”
Dottie says. “You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.” She removes the pink bubble gum from her mouth, reaches over, and sticks it in Kelsey’s hair.

Charlotte and I are the only people in the room still upright. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, regarding Boone. He lies on the floor, groaning.

“I’m warning you, buster,” Charlotte says. “I don’t know who you are, or what your game is, but don’t you ever again mess with Arthur Just’s two little girls.”

A while later, the police have come and gone, taking Boone and Kelsey with them. Tully, Dottie, and I are bruised, but otherwise okay. It was Tully who, when he was locked outside, called the police on his cell phone.

Dottie sweeps up broken glass from the mirror, and Tully puts the kitchen table and chairs back in order.

I approach Charlotte. She’s standing to one side, gazing at a hideous, open-mouthed stone gargoyle. “This thing reminds me of the woman who sold me lingerie at Bloomingdale’s,” she says.

“Thanks for saving my life,” I say.

“Balls to that. What did that fathead think? Women can’t defend themselves? I’m from Los Angeles. I work in the entertainment industry! I’ve taken so many female self-defense classes, I’m my own pit bull.” She pinches the gargoyle’s cheek.

“Charlotte,” I say, “there’s something I’ve been wondering about. Why wasn’t Donald at Georgia’s wedding?”

“My husband?” she says. “I suppose I could tell you he was in Barcelona, scouting vacation property. But I’m done lying to you, Margo. Marriage number four has come to an end. Donald has substance-abuse issues. Did you know he keeps cocaine hidden in a globe in the library? That’s bad enough, but then I found out he’s been having an affair with his personal trainer. His
male
personal trainer.”

From across the room, Dottie overhears this. She and I exchange looks. I know what she’s thinking: The Bette Davis Club has a new member.

“I’ll tell you what the takeaway is,” Charlotte says. “I’m going to fix up Daddy’s office. Turn it into a yoga studio. Breathe in, breathe out.”

Once things get tidied up, Dottie takes me aside. “You’ll be all right?” she says.

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

“
Bien
. I’m going home and soak in a hot bath. That will make Gerard happy—he can bring me chocolates.” She gives me a hug. “What a day it’s been, chérie! I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Charlotte also hugs me good-bye. It’s the first heartfelt physical contact she and I have shared in years. It feels a little awkward—like being hugged by Richard Nixon—but it’s a start.

Dottie and Charlotte decide to share a cab. They walk out the door together, discussing restaurants, shopping, and the finer points of antique mirrors.

For the first time all day, Tully and I are alone in the shop.

“You must feel pretty bad right now,” he says.

“No,” I say. “I’m kind of happy.”

“I mean physically. Quitting booze, withdrawal.”

“I think I’ve been going on adrenaline,” I say. “But you’re right, I have a headache. And I feel sort of . . .”

“Flu-ish?”

“Yes, like I’m getting the flu.”

“That’s how it is. I’ll fix you some eggs and toast. And orange juice.”

It’s nearly midnight when Tully cooks me breakfast. He sits with me at the kitchen table while I eat. “It’s not enough going to round-the-clock meetings,” he says. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Well,” I say, “if today’s any indication, there’ll be armies of people trooping through here. No one visits for years and years and then, all of a sudden, it’s busier than . . .”

“Pennsylvania Station,” Tully says. “The old one, before they tore it down.”

After I finish my eggs and toast, Tully accompanies me upstairs to the mezzanine. The room’s antique wall sconces give off a golden glow. I settle on the edge of the Victorian fainting couch and stare at the worn Persian rug.

“Remember that day we talked about hidden value?” Tully says. He stands next to Finn’s desk, fiddling with a glass paperweight. “About seeing things other people don’t see? Just to be clear, Georgia has no hidden value for me. Not anymore, if she ever did. You, however, have unplumbed depths.”

I laugh ruefully. “Like a sunken ship. Which is how I feel. Shipwrecked.”

“You’re not a shipwreck,” Tully says. “You’re a lost treasure. And I found you.”

I massage my temples. “I’m not good company right now, Tully. I’m so tired. You can go home, you know. I’m fine.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tully says.

“Please just go home,” I say. “Really.”

“No,” Tully says. “I won’t. I’ll sleep downstairs in the bathtub. If you need to talk in the middle of the night, we can talk. If you need me to wake up, I’ll wake up. If you want somebody to rub your head, I’ll rub your head.”

He puts down the paperweight and comes over to the fainting couch. He sits down next to me. After a while, he slips his hand into mine. It’s such a human thing to do, so warm and comforting, I melt. A tear moves down my cheek. I turn and bury my face in Tully’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, holding me, “it’s all right.”

“It’s a big fat mess,” I say, wiping my eyes.

“Well, yeah. But it’s all right.”

He lets go of my hand and scoots himself round so that he’s behind me. His back rests against the wall, his legs stretch out on either side of me. He puts both hands on the back of my skull, and begins massaging my head. I do not resist.