The Year of Pleasures (14 page)

“Well, Ed, that’s a really nice idea, but—”

“Your friend’s right there, idn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Well, go ahead and ask her! I’ll wait.”

“All right.” Good. I knew what Lorraine would say about getting up at six to appear on a radio show with a listening audience of the host’s mother. I held my hand—lightly—over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Lorraine? Want to be on a radio show?”

“What?”

I spoke slowly and deliberately. “This is the host, Ed Selwin, asking if we’d come and do a segment for his local show. It’s taped in a studio over the drugstore. It’s called
Talk of the Town,
and this show would be ‘Old Friends and New.’ ”

She smiled. I began to worry that her refusal would contain something not only nasty but obscene, but what she said, loudly enough for Ed to hear, was “Why,
certainly.
”

“Lorraine!”
I whispered.

“I’d
love
to!” she said—again, loudly.

“We would need to be at the studio at six-thirty,” I said. “In the morning.” I felt as though my eyes would soon bore holes into her.

“Oh, no
problem
!”

I took my hand off the mouthpiece. “Ed?”

“No need to say a word; I heard everything! So I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. Now, some people like to not eat until after the show on account of nerves. I been saying that since Sally Rethers lost her breakfast right on the air—we had to get a brand-new microphone, and they don’t come cheap! So I always like to tell people: You are the best judge of your own insides, but be aware of the stomach effect of high nerves. Now, we do have donuts at the station that the bakery gives us—they’re day-old, but I’ll tell you what, you would never know it. And you are welcome to those donuts either before or after. Okay, well, I said I wouldn’t take up much time, and I won’t—I’ll give Delores a call now. Thanks a lot!”

I hung up the phone, turned to Lorraine, and echoed Ed’s last words. She smiled and smiled, stirring more sugar into her coffee, with her pinkie held up high and her lips pooched in that smart-ass way I now remembered so well.

Lorraine was remarkably cheerful at six on Sunday morning. As opposed to me, who, despite a cold shower, was still half asleep. I drove slowly toward Main Street, irritated by what we were about to do.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Lorraine said. “Can’t you go faster? I don’t want all the donuts to be gone.”

“Ha, ha,” I said.

“I mean it! I love day-old donuts. Oh, I hope they have the plain kind with chocolate frosting, don’t you love those? They actually improve with age. If we’re really lucky, they’ll be real moldy, and then it will be like we’re eating Maytag blue cheese, you know, all veiny and—”

“Lorraine,” I said.

She grew mercifully quiet except for an occasional
“Mmmmm!”
to which I did not respond; I remembered that when she got this way, negative attention only encouraged her. With any luck, we could do a quick “interview” and be on our way to Chicago—we were going to tour some of the city before I took her to the airport. We’d meant to go yesterday but instead spent all day lolling around, catching up, changing out of our pajamas only when we’d gone out to dinner. I’d learned that Lorraine was as tired of directing as I was of writing. Both of us were poised for something new. I’d finally told her about my idea and she thought it was wonderful. We’d stood outside the empty store after dinner, peering in. “Put some head scarves and sunglasses in there,” she’d said. “And some huge jars of body creams that
work.
And journals that lie flat. And that Italian olive oil that comes in the beautiful bottles. And chandelier earrings that don’t make your lobes drop down too far. And spa towels wrapped in really good silk ribbon that you can recycle.” I’d asked if she wanted to be a buyer, and she’d said absolutely.

I parked directly in front of the drugstore. There was one other car there, Delores’s Cadillac. I felt a sudden rush of gratitude for her being there—both because she would make the interview easier to endure and because it was an opportunity to see her again. A few times, I’d wanted to call, but hadn’t.

“Oh, boy,” Lorraine said, unhooking her seat belt.

“Never mind,” I said. “Stop it.”

“Do you think Lydia Samuels will be there?” Lorraine asked. I’d told her about my meeting with Lydia at the nursing home. I thought Lorraine was probably intrigued by the idea of someone bolder than she.

“No, she will definitely not be there.”

“Let’s go get her. She’s a new friend!”

“Settle down,” I said, and felt an urge to laugh. It was nerves, I realized; often my response to feeling nervous was to laugh. I undid my seat belt and opened the car door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

“Wait.” Lorraine pulled down the visor and checked herself in the mirror. “Do I look all right? Oh, and after we fall in love and consummate our marriage, do you think he’s okay being on top? I don’t like to be on top anymore—my face falls.”

I looked at my watch. We were ten minutes early. “Let’s take a little walk,” I said. “I don’t want to get there early.”

“Are you
nervous
?” Lorraine asked.

“No.”

“You’re nervous!” she said, and I took her arm and began walking purposefully down the sidewalk.

“Everything you need is here, see?” I said. “Isn’t this a sweet little town?”

“I can’t believe you’re nervous!” Lorraine said. “Come on, Betta, this isn’t the
Today
show.”

That was for sure. When we opened the door beside the drugstore, it led to a tiny foyer with bent mailboxes and a narrow flight of stairs covered in yellowing linoleum and wide metal strips. A hand-lettered piece of paper saying
WMRZ SUITE 221
was taped to the wall, with an arrow pointing up.

“I’m sure glad they put that arrow there,” Lorraine said.

Down a long, dingy hallway we found the door open to the reception area of the station. There were four mismatched chairs against the wall, two on either side of a table holding a massive lamp with a ruffled shade and a stack of weary-looking magazines. Across the room, a coffeemaker sat on top of a dresser découpaged with yellow pansies. The promised donuts were arranged on a paper plate,
LIFE BEGINS AT 60
! napkins fanned out beside them. Two black-and-white photographs of older, beaming men hung on the wall, exuberantly autographed:
Lenny and Tiny Shulerman, Shulerman’s Autos.

Delores sat in one of the threadbare chairs, reading
Reader’s Digest.
She put down the magazine and smiled at me. “Well, there you are. And your
old
friend, too.” She stood and shook hands with Lorraine. “Hello, I’m the
young
friend, Delores Henckley.”

Lorraine smiled; I could see she liked Delores on sight. They began talking about how each had met me, and I headed to the bathroom, which was identified by two gold peeling-off silhouettes of a man’s head and a woman’s, a slash drawn between the heads with Magic Marker.

I splashed water on my face and took in a breath. I could not for the life of me get rid of the butterflies in my stomach. Maybe I was just hungry.

I came back out and surveyed the donuts, then selected a plain cake one. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Delores said.

“How bad?” I asked.

“Do you like hockey pucks?”

I put the donut back and went to sit beside her.

“How’s the house working out?” Delores asked.

“Fine,” I said. “I’d love for you to come by sometime and see it.”

“When?”

I laughed. “How about if I make us dinner sometime?”

“When?”

“Wednesday?”

“I’ll bring baked-potato soup.” She looked over at Lorraine. “Will you be there, too?”

“No,” Lorraine said. “I’m flying back tonight. But next time.”

I heard Ed’s voice, and then he stuck his head out from a smaller room. “Showtime!” Seeing Lorraine, he stopped smiling. I introduced them, and we filed past, Lorraine making a point of brushing herself suggestively against Ed. “Oh, now,” he said, laughing, then abruptly stopped.

He seated himself at a desk with a microphone and tapped against it, frowning. Then he smiled brightly and said, “Hello, all you fans and neighbors! You’re here with me, Ed Selwin, on another
Talk of the Town.
Today our show is about old friends and new, and my main guest is Ms. Betta Nolan. Say howdy, Betta.”

“. . . Howdy,” I said.

Ed adopted a Bob Eubanks style to say, “She’s a newcomer living by herself over in Lydia Samuels’s old place, but don’t think she’s alone, because guess what? She is joined here by old friends and new. The new one is none other than Delores Henckley, our town’s real estate wizard. Delores, say good morning and give our listeners your phone number!”

He handed the microphone to Delores with a flourish. “Hi,” she said. “Ed’s right. I can help you with buying and selling. Henckley Real Estate, 555-8893. I’m in the yellow pages if you forget, and if you’re like me, you’ve forgotten already.” She handed the microphone back to Ed.

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing we don’t forget, and that’s old friends. Let’s have a word from our sponsor, and we’ll be right back to tell you more.”

Ed turned the microphone off, leaned back, and smiled. “We don’t play the real commercial now, don’t worry. We just have to leave room for it. We’re going to get right back to the show now. But with that teaser, they’ll all be eager to hear what comes next.” He cleared his throat and turned the microphone back on. “We’re back. And sitting right here close enough to pinch is our new town resident’s OLD FRIEND, Lorraine Keaton! Now, I’ve got to tell you the truth, Lorraine is one easy-on-the-eyes woman!” He laughed. “I know that dudn’t have much to do with anything, but I’m telling you, she is one fine female specimen, no offense intended and I’m sure none taken. Whooee, make a man tongue-tied, even me! But . . . good morning, Lorraine.” He thrust the microphone toward her, and Lorraine wrapped her hand around Ed’s, then pulled her hair back to lean over the microphone and say in a sultry voice, “Good morning, Ed Selwin.”

Ed swallowed. “Well! You can’t beat that!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lorraine said. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. Smiled and licked her lips. Now I knew why I’d been nervous.

“Now, how long have you known our new resident . . . uh . . . Betty Nolan?”

“I have known your new resident Betta Nolan for . . .” She looked over at me, then said, “Thirty-five years!”

“Uh-huh,” Ed said. “Well,
you
sure don’t look your age!”

“I know it,” she said, and Delores snorted, laughing.

“And how did you meet Betta?” Ed asked Lorraine.

“In college. We were roommates. It was real crowded in our apartment, and sometimes Betta and I slept together.”

Ed stared at her for an overly long moment, then turned to me.

“Okay! Betta, I wonder if I could ask what you do for a living.”

I took the microphone with great relief. “I used to write children’s books. But now I’m . . . well, I guess I’m reevaluating, thinking of what else I might like to do.” I took in a breath, then said, “I might open a store here, for women.”

“Seems to me every store’s for women!” Ed said.

“Well, this would be different.”

“Gotta make a living, huh?” Ed said. “Get a real job.”

“Oh, writing was a real job.”

“Well, you don’t hardly get paid for writing children’s books, do you?” He looked at Lorraine, winked.

“I got paid,” I said.

Ed looked back at me, puzzled.

“I was published,” I said.

“
Oh!
I see!” He leaned over toward Lorraine. “Now, did you ever see this coming? Were the creative roots there in Betta’s old life, waiting to spring forth into the tree of books? Lorraine Keaton?” His tongue investigated his cheek, and he raised his eyebrows once, twice.

“Oh, my,” Lorraine said, and covered her mouth as though the question was so provocative she needed to think for a moment to come up with an answer worthy enough. But I knew what was really going on. I knew she was trying not to laugh. Delores, her head resting on her hand, was half asleep.

I snuck a look at my watch and let out a tiny sigh.

Lorraine’s flight wasn’t until seven that night, but we left immediately for Chicago—we wanted to take advantage of the light. On the way, we discussed—again—Ed Selwin and his radio show. “You know,” Lorraine said, “a guy like that, I mean, I just wanted to pick him up by his scrawny neck and smother him in my boobs.”

“Yeah. I believe he might have picked up a little bit on that.”

But in the end Ed had actually been more skilled than I’d imagined he could be. He asked questions about writing that were notable for not including “Where do you get your ideas?” or “Did you always want to be a writer?” or “How long does it take you to write a book?” or “So, what’s your book about?” or the increasingly popular “Is there anything you wish I’d asked you that I did not?”

After we talked about writing, Ed had asked all of us to talk about what made for friendships, about what drew people together. He may have been an odd and lonely man asking questions fueled by his own alienation, but what resulted was a remarkably refreshing interview. Chauncey Gardiner takes to the airwaves. What did we all have in common, he wanted to know. What were our differences? What were our respective ideas of a good time? How vulnerable must one make oneself to enjoy a really true friendship? Though the way Ed phrased it, again looking pointedly at Lorraine, was “Do you have to knock down the warriors at your gate to let the good Trojan horses in?”