The Cosmopolitans (27 page)

Valerie raised her eyes to her new mistress with the dewy adoration that only a professional sycophant can muster. “I can learn from you, Bette. And I will.”

“All right then,” Bette drained her cup. “Let's get to work.”

There was a knock at the door, and because the moment was so right, and Bette had come to believe in
cinematic timing, she hoped after hope that the reversal of fortune would now complete itself. She ran to the door and called out, “My friend?”

“No,” Valerie said, over Bette's shoulder. “It is
my
friend.”

Valerie stepped through Bette and opened the door as though she, Valerie, were the recently appointed second-in-command to a brand new general. As though she were now Bette's secretary instead of the other way around. The kind of secretary who also serves as bodyguard and confidante, lover and adviser, in all important matters.

Bette returned to her chair and empty cup of tea wondering where all this would take her. She watched as a young, dark-skinned man entered the apartment. He was very handsome. His winning grin and curly hair deflected the menace made evident by his costume, that of a dangerous street tough living in one of the mad undervalleys of life in the city.

“You said
fifteen minutes
,” he reproached Valerie with anger, and Bette could see how quickly he arrived at rage. As soon as the man caught her seeing his true self, he switched to a smiling mode, using charm to get away with everything. “But I gave you sixteen,” he joked. Kissed her on the cheek.

Bette calculated. Valerie had budgeted fifteen minutes to take away a job Bette had held for thirty years. Thirty seconds per year. And now the time was up. Both of these young people were so efficient. They were a perfect match.

The man smiled brazenly at Bette in a triumphant sort of way. But what was he bragging about? Something
about this one was awfully familiar. And the more Bette studied him, the more she acquired a terrible feeling, trying, trying to place him. She had stared at the face once before, under horrible circumstances. What was it? Where?

“Joseph Cadine, this is Bette. The president of the company.”

“Hey.”

“You!”

She remembered. This was the man who had robbed and beaten Earl on that final night, the one where everything was destroyed. This was the thug who had pushed dear Earl to the place where he could no longer tell the truth. Where the truth was too much to bear. This beast was the conveyor of a punishment so unjust and so unnecessary that it drove Earl from goodness to evil. This was the messenger of oppression so vile that it made Earl vile. This was the perpetrator for whose crimes Bette had paid and paid.

“Hello,” he grinned, hiding nothing.

Bette was astounded by his bravado. This boy felt untouchable.

“Do you two know each other?”

“Yeah,” Joseph whistled. “We've passed in the night.”

Bette was impressed at how quickly Valerie adjusted to the news about company ownership. It was a matter of seconds, really. And now, Bette would learn from her again and follow suit. It was Bette's turn to adjust to this new . . . opportunity. That was the lesson of the void. If nothing matters, every obstacle may have a flaw that, if exploited, can bring you to your
goal. Especially if that goal is simply to get there.

“Joseph,” Valerie said, with uncharacteristic pride that could only come from erotic reassurance. “Joseph is at the Actors Studio.”

“I'm sure he is.”

And then it all came to her, so easily she wouldn't even need to draw up a plan. It was natural, now. Bette had been trained. When the strategic opportunity was born, she knew exactly what to do.

“Come in, Joseph,” she said, filling the kettle. “Have some tea. The night is cold, and I have some questions to ask you.” She smiled. “About acting.”

“Sure.” Cockily, he took a seat, assured that this old biddy wanted nothing from him but advice.

Chapter 28

S
trangely, it had all been quite easy. Dreaming up the money scheme, enacting it slowly. Transferring Crevelle's funds in small amounts, through Bette's own checking account, into the coffers of Tibbs Advertising Incorporated. Making Bette their sole patron and increasingly number-one shareholder. She'd come to the plan as the outcome of many days and nights of intense thinking, intense observation. She'd surmised that both Frederick and Earl had been able to destabilize her because they had both transgressed
suddenly
. Both of their betrayals had been a
surprise
. It was this, the unpredictability, indeed the impossibility of imagining such turnarounds that had, in fact, allowed them to take place. Therefore, learning by example from the people who had successfully hurt
her
, Bette came to understand that she, too, needed to strike in the dark. When no one was looking. When no one would suspect. And where did she have power that was invisible to others? What had they overlooked?

With this revelation in place, she began a systematic mental inventory of every element of the business. She spent hours at home, alone, in her chair. Hours that had previously been devoted to enjoying other people's creations. But now she was only interested in her own creation. She scanned the workday over and over: the steno pads, the cigarette machine, the rolling chairs, the teal walls, the stationery, the ledger books . . . the books! She realized that no one checked the books. Perhaps because they correctly assumed that she would not steal. Perhaps because there were no profits as of yet. Perhaps because all anxieties about the financial records were about staying afloat and none existed about ongoing flow. Perhaps for all these reasons, accompanied by laziness, stupidity, and hubris, the books were Bette's personal terrain. She even tested doing them right under Valerie and Hector's noses, and they never gave it a thought.

Now that she owned the company, it needed to increase in value. Then she would have the resources necessary to be able to share with Earl. To give him a break. In the meantime, she lit a cigarette and relaxed. Bette was trying a new brand, Kent. She'd seen them in the hands of the young couple who'd moved in down the hall. Dave and Gloria. Gloria was pregnant with her first child, and Kents helped her keep some equilibrium between her job as a social worker, taking care of her elderly mother who had moved in upstairs, and shopping, cooking, and cleaning for her husband until the baby was born.

As the next few days passed, Bette's new strategy remained articulate and fresh in her mind. It was
beautiful, really. She enjoyed thinking about these last few steps to the climax of her plan, and when she did, there was a gorgeous wellspring of hope that fulfilled her days. Sometimes she forgot that it was a dream and felt a deep satisfaction with life, lived the way that it should be lived. Then she would marvel with gratitude at her own happiness, suddenly remembering that this was just a plan. Not yet real. She no longer listened in the hall for signs of decay from Earl and Hortense. It was implicit. Anyway, she was at the wheel. Whatever falsities they had constructed between them were irrelevant. Their lying days were numbered. 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . . 6 . . .

The evening of the denouement arrived, and Bette stood by her front door, listening for Hortense's footsteps to slide down the hall. There was a new weight to the girl's movement. As Hortense's life had grown dimmer, her stride had become flatter. She barely lifted her feet nowadays, it seemed.

There she was, stopping before Bette's door. All would be well.

Bette waited.

The knock.

“Cousin Bette? Cousin Bette? It is Hortense. We agreed to meet this evening at eight, remember?”

Feigning casualness, as though she had other things that were far more pressing, Bette ran to the far side of the room and called out, “Oh yes, wait, I will be right there.” Then she stood silently for a few more beats.

“Bette,” Hortense whined through the door. “I am in trouble.”

She's speaking at a high volume
, Bette noted.
Therefore
Earl must be out living his real life
. Bette was happy. She had a rounded sense of well-being.

“Coming,” she yelled. Then she stamped her feet from soft to hard, as though to mimic the sound of approaching steps. Finally, she opened the door with arms outstretched. “How can I help you?”

Once safely inside, the girl cried, of course.

“What is it, my dear? Tell me.”

“Something wonderful is happening,” Hortense bleated through her tears. “And Earl is trying to destroy it.”

“What is it?”

“Well,” Hortense sniffled. “Miss Korie phoned us from the agency this morning.”

“She did?”
Good girl
, Bette thought.
Valerie is a reliable employee
.

“She said that they are considering branching out into producing their own television series.”

“My!” Bette brought her hand to her chest, fingering the lace of her blouse, as though it was all too much for her tiny little head to grasp.

“And then she said that they want their first program to be based on our commercial.”

“But, that's wonderful, my dear Hortense.”

Encouraged by approval, Hortense increased her histrionics. “They want Earl and I to develop a weekly show. It will be called
The Princess and the Cannibal
. It's about a princess who befriends a cannibal in darkest Africa and brings him to Manhattan to be her butler. It is a comedy. Red Buttons would play my father.”

“But that is lovely news.
The Princess and the Cannibal
.
How intriguing a title.” Bette was rather proud of having come up with that one. The absurdity of it, the insanity, and how quickly Hortense accepted it as fact. “Why are you crying, my dear? Unless those are tears of happiness?”
That was over the top
, Bette realized. She had to show some restraint or all would be revealed.

“Earl won't do it!” Hortense stamped her foot.

There was a wave of loving that came over Bette. He won't do it. He still exists somewhere.

“Do you want him to do it?”

“Of course,” Hortense cried. “It's our big chance.”

“Does he have any money?” Bette found her own chest tightening. Earl was so close, she could see his face before her.

“None.” Hortense manifested some outrage at this point. “You can't pay the bills with dreams.”

“So, he still has dreams.”

There was a hope so alive that it sang its own song. It brought its own story. It made its own bed. Her friend. She was right to believe in him through all of this. Underneath the staggering surface of his greed, Earl's essential self remained intact. As did hers. And the two would be joined again, soon, to find rebirth.

“Yes,” Hortense nodded tragically.

“What do
you
want him to do?” Bette asked carefully.

Hortense became illuminated by her own vision of a perfect world. The one she felt entitled to. The one that she had been raised to feel should be inevitable.

“I want him . . . to give up all thoughts of
great artistic creations
. To let us move forward into our own age. Television. To be famous. To be rich.”

Bette clucked sympathetically. “This is not the man you dreamed of, my poor darling girl. That must be so disappointing.”

“It's devastating,” Hortense agreed, sucking more and more attention. Wanting more indulgences. More. More.

Bette rose, walked solemnly to her dresser drawer, and pulled out a blue bandanna. Slowly, she undid the knot and opened it to a wad of cash. She counted out singles, slowly. Very, very slowly.

“Hortense, I am giving you twenty-five dollars. I withdrew it from my savings in case of such an emergency. This is from me to you.”

Hortense watched, hungrily, as each bill was counted. And once Bette held out the bribe, she grabbed it, then remembered to say, “Thank you.”

Bette watched as Hortense recounted the stack. That was a new attribute, something learned from need and deprivation. Hortense counted with a newly acquired knowledge. As each bill passed between her nimble fingers, she knew exactly what it would buy her. Cheap shoes, good shampoo, macaroni, face powder, pay the electric. She looked up at Bette. “How much do we owe you now?”

“That doesn't matter between family,” she assured her. “You'll pay it all back when you are able.”

“But I want to know.”

“One thousand three hundred and eighty,” Bette said kindly.

“With interest?”

“Yes, with interest compounded.” Bette offered the girl a single cookie, dry and crumbling on the plate.
“Tell me, my dear. Have you heard from your mother?”

“No. You are all I have, Cousin Bette. If Earl doesn't agree to this television program what will become of me?”

This was the moment. The soliloquy. Bette had practiced it in the dark and again in the soft rose light peeking through buildings that announced the coming of the dawn. She had felt it over and over again. So she was prepared to take a deep breath and deliver, to this audience of one, the stark truth.

“If Earl does not agree to this television commercial, Hortense, you will have but one choice.”

“What is it?”

“To give birth.” A siren blared down the street. Bette remembered that there was a world out there. People were winning and losing every minute. All and nothing.

“What?”

“Be a mother, dear Hortense. Work hard at rearing a child. Put it to bed every night and wake up with it every night and rise to it every morning. Remove its excrement and wipe clean and clean, again and again. Burp it. Watch it grow into a sad person who you cannot control. This will be your masterpiece.”

Hortense cowered in fear. “I don't want to.” She was panicking.

“You don't?”

“No! Poverty is catching up with us. And Earl has lost interest.”

“Lost interest?”

“Yes,” Hortense looked to the floor. “In all things.” Then the child from the provinces blushed, as they do in Ashtabula, when humanity strikes.

Bette opened her own purse and pulled out a small package. “Hortense, give Earl my extra set of keys, will you? Just in case.”

Now, the knock on the door. Bette had timed everything perfectly, down to the most pregnant pause. She'd learned from Valerie's
sixteen minutes
.

“Get that, will you dear?”

Hortense opened the door to a very handsome, dashing, and dangerous young fellow.

“Hello, Joseph. How nice of you to stop by. Let me introduce you to my niece, Hortense. Hortense, this is Joseph Cadine. A . . . friend.”

“Hey,” he said, T-shirt rolled to reveal chiseled muscle, hair razed at the sides and slicked back on top. Tight jeans, black leather boots. “Hey, Bette's told me all about you.” His eyes twinkled, he licked his lips. “She tells me that you're an actress.”

Hortense's eyes fluttered. “I've done some television.”

“Let me make some supper,” Bette sang, and disappeared discreetly into the kitchen.