Unfinished Symphony (8 page)

"I don't enjoy eating things that I know are
overpriced," he insisted.
"I really don't need to have lobster, Dorothy." "Of course she doesn't," Philip said, nodding.
"She gets it dirt cheap back on the Cape and it won't
be as good here. Think of something else," he said. "I've got some work to finish in my office," he explained as he rose. I realized he was not quite as tall as Dorothy. "It was nice meeting you," he added,
nodding as he walked away.
"Philip's the most efficient man I've ever
known," Dorothy said shaking her head. "He reviews
the household accounts once a month and makes
brilliant suggestions to save money. He says he does it
for his clients, why can't he do it for himself? I
suppose that's true. Well, do you want to find
something to read? You can look in our library. I try
to keep up with everything. I belong to three book
clubs."
"First, I'd like to try to call Gina Simon," I
explained.
"Oh. Well then, why don't you use the phone in
the parlor. You'll have some privacy there," she
suggested.
"Thank you," I said, trying to remember where
the parlor was in this big house. She must have read
that in my face.
"Just go down the corridor to the third doorway
on the left, dear. There's a phone book on the shelf of
the small table."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. I'll be in after a while and
then we can go to the den and watch some television
if you like. Desperate Lives is on tonight. Do you
watch it? Philip calls it nothing more than a soap
opera, but it's so much more than that, it's . . . just
more," she said.
"No, I haven't heard of it," I said.
"Haven't heard of it? Oh dear. Well, maybe
you'll like it," she said and I went to the parlor. I
found the phone book and discovered three Gina
Simons, but the address pointed out the right one.
With my fingers trembling again, I lifted the receiver.
It was an antique brass and ivory dial phone and I
misdialed the first time and got a phone number that
was disconnected.
I dialed correctly the next time, but after only
three rings, an answering machine came on. "This is Gina Simon. I'm sorry I'm not able to
take this call. Please leave your name, the time of
your call and a brief message at the sound of the
beep," the voice directed. I listened closely. It did
sound like Mommy, but there was an affectation, an
attention to diction I didn't recognize. I waited and
called again just to hear the voice. It sounds like her, I
told myself. It must be Mommy.
Dorothy entered the parlor, a small white
angora cat in her arms.
"This is Fluffy," she said. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Yes, she is."
"Philip won't let me keep her in the house
proper. She stays with Selena. He says whenever she's
permitted to run through the house, she leaves hairs
everywhere. He's so finicky about the house. If a
piece of dust is out of place, Philip knows it." She sighed and sat in the soft cushioned chair
across from me, the cat purring in her lap.
"So, did you try calling that woman?" "I got an answering machine," I said. "It sounds
like my mother."
"Did you leave a message?"
"No. I wasn't sure what to say."
"She might have been there, listening," Dorothy
said, nodding. "People often do that here. They wait to
see if it's someone important and then they answer. If
it's not someone important enough, they let the
machine take the call. It's a power thing, Philip says." "Power thing?"
"Yes, you just don't speak to anyone. It
diminishes your importance."
"I can't imagine my mother thinking that way." "Well, if this woman wants to be someone in
the industry, she behaves that way, believe me. I've
met enough of them."
I thought about it. What was it Billy Maxwell
had told me just before I had left New York . . . be
prepared to find a very different woman, even if she
was my mother. Perhaps that was very true. "I wish the world we lived in wasn't so
conscious of every little thing," Dorothy said, dreamyeyed as she petted the purring cat in her lap. "Philip
wants me to be perfect, to remain perfect. If I have a
hair out of place, he asks why I didn't go to the beauty
salon this week," she said a bit more mournfully than
I would have expected.
"He doesn't seem like that," I told her. She
snapped out of her reverie and raised her eyebrows. "He's a man, isn't he? They're all the same,
waving a magnifying glass over you, checking for
wrinkles, for age spots, measuring your bosom, your
waist, your hips, looking for an ounce of ugly fat. "I have a personal trainer," she continued, "who
comes to the house three times a week. It's such a
bore, but I bear it for Philip's sake. And my own, I
suppose," she said with a sigh. "Well, a woman has to
do all she can, doesn't she?" she added.
"I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it I
guess," I said.
"Of course you haven't. You're still young and
beautiful. You have a way to go, but believe me, one
day you'll wake up and look in the mirror and notice a
little wrinkle here, a little more puffiness there and
you'll realize it's going to take some work to look
beautiful.
"Of course," she continued, "if you're bright
enough, you won't settle for just anyone and you'll
marry someone substantial as I did, so he can provide
you with the best there is when it comes to cosmetic
surgery."
"Surgery?"
"Now don't sit there and flatter me and tell me
you didn't notice how firm my buttocks are for a
woman of my age without thinking I had something
done," she said smiling.
"I didn't really notice, but . ." An operation on
her rear end?
"It's nothing more involved than a tummy tuck.
I can't tell you how
_.
many times I've had that done.
Oh, and my eyes of course. Some people are so lucky.
They're born with genes that help them to remain
young-looking longer. Philip's mother, for example, hardly had a wrinkle in her late seventies and look at Philip. Well, it's always different for men anyway. They can have wrinkles. It makes them distinguished
looking, but we girls .
"Well," she said with a little more animation in
her face, "do you think our sexual relationship would
be as strong as it is if I didn't keep myself attractive?
There's an article about it in my latest issue of Venus.
According to scientific studies, a successful
relationship means a husband and wife make love on
the average of five times a month, even at our ages. I
told Philip about it and he said his own research
indicated between four and six times. We mark the
calendar. You probably noticed it on the wall by our
bed. Philip appreciates order in his life.
"Oh, I know what men do when they have ugly
wives," she continued, ignoring my gaping mouth,
"especially in this town," she said, nodding. "A
woman has to work on her relationship. That's her job.
And I don't mind telling you I'm very successful at it. "You saw how the young male waiters were
gazing at me at The Vine," she said, batting her
eyelashes and smiling. "They have no idea how old I
am, and they'll never know," she said firmly. "You
guard your age like you guard your life. Never tell a man your true age. Always subtract five to seven
years at the least," she advised.
"Oh no," she said suddenly, rising to her feet.
"Desperate Lives has started. Quickly," she ordered
and marched out of the parlor.
I sat there for a moment, trying to digest the
things she had told me the way you would try to
digest food that was far too spicy. The words kept
repeating themselves.
"Come along, dear!" she shouted.
I rose and joined her in the hallway. She turned
in to the den and flipped on the television set. Then
she plopped herself into her overstuffed chair, curling
her legs under her lap, and gazed at the television
screen like a teenager about to see her teen idol. I sat
on the sofa beside her and listened to her little moans
and sighs as one handsome young man after another
paraded before us on the large television screen. But fatigue began to rise in my body like
mercury in a thermometer. I felt my eyelids getting
heavier and heavier and drifted off a few times, only
to be wakened by her shouts at the television set,
complaining about something a character said or did,
as if she thought they could actually hear her. "Doesn't that just get you infuriated," she railed, turning my way. I nodded, even though I had no idea why she was so upset. "And I hate it when they leave you hanging like that. But," she said, smiling suddenly, her mood swinging radically in the opposite direction, "as Philip says, that's how they get you to tune in night after night and how they get to sell all those products. You look tired, dear. Perhaps you
should go to bed. I know it's late for you."
"Yes, I guess it's all finally caught up with me,"
I said, rising. "Thank you so much for everything." "Nonsense. Tomorrow, right after breakfast,
we'll go to Rodeo Drive and get you something proper
to wear. Don't," she said, raising her hand to stop any
protest, "say anything that will make me deaf. Philip
and I have no children. I was never fond of the idea of
being pregnant and Philip really can't tolerate little
people very well anyway. But we both enjoy doing
things for young people now and then. When they're
deserving, as you are, of course." She smiled. "Have a
good night's rest."
"Thank you," I said again, too tired to argue
anyway, and went upstairs, taking the steps as if I
were already walking in my sleep.
Despite my exhaustion, before I turned out the
lights and crawled under the cover, I lifted the phone receiver and dialed Gina Simon's number. It rang and rang until the answering machine came on again, and again, I listened closely to her voice, feeling more and more confident that it sounded like Mommy's voice.
Or was I just wishing it did?
And why wasn't she picking up? Had she gone
away? Maybe it would be days, weeks, before I stood
face to face with her.
I lay my head back on the pillow and closed my
eyes, grateful I was too tired to continue thinking, but
still apprehensive as to what tomorrow would bring.

5
A Bitter Pill
.
Once again it was a gentle knock on my door

that woke me, but this time a pleasant-looking woman with strands of gray running through her dark brown hair entered. The breakfast tray she carried was laden with a silver coffee pot, cup and saucer, a plate, silverware, eggs in a dish, a croissant, jelly and butter and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Alongside everything was a small vase with a single fresh red rose.

"Good morning," the woman said. She had a pretty smile brightened with the warmest blue eyes I had ever seen. She was about five feet two with a small bosom and hips definitely too wide for Dorothy's taste. Her forearms were strong, but she had small hands. "I'm Christina, Mrs. Livingston's maid. She asked me to bring up your breakfast this morning."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that," I said, sitting up and struggling to get my eyelids to stay open. "What time is it?" I gazed at the clock in the belly of a light blue ceramic, seagull. "I've never slept this late."

"It's all right, dear. Mrs. Livingston insisted," Christina said, placing the tray on a bed table she'd retrieved from the closet.

"You have two, two-minute soft-boiled eggs," she said, lifting the cover to show me. "Did you want anything else? Hot cereal, different juice? I have freshly squeezed grapefruit or prune."

"No, this is fine, but I could have come downstairs," I said, uncomfortable with all her fussing.

"Only Mr. Livingston comes down for breakfast as a rule," Christina replied with a smile. "He reads the morning papers and doesn't mind eating alone. Mrs. Livingston always takes her breakfast in bed. Do you have everything you need?" she asked, walking into the bathroom. "More towels, anything?"

"I'm fine at the moment," I said, drinking my juice. "Thank you."
She nodded at me and watched me take a few bites of the croissant.
"I hear you're from the East and this is your first trip to California," she said.
"Yes."
"I've never been to New York, but I hope to go one of these days. I have a daughter who can't be much younger than you," she added. "Her name's Stacy. She's starting community college this year, working at a department store and taking some courses. She wants to be a grade school teacher."
"That's great," I said. "I guess she likes working with children."
"Yes, she's a great help with my others. I wish we could afford to send her full-time, but . . . we just can't at the moment."
"How many children do you have?"
"I'm raising four," she added.
"Four?"
How did she manage raising four children while working as someone's maid, and have such a pleasant personality? I wondered.
"The youngest is six, a boy." She paused at the doorway. "Just leave everything beside the bed. I'll be up later," she told me. "Let me know if you need anything," she added as she left.
I couldn't help feeling guilty about being pampered so much while I had yet to make contact with Mommy, so I ate the delicious breakfast quickly, then showered and dressed, taking more time than usual with my hair. Dorothy had made me so selfconscious about my looks I was afraid she would rush me off to the beauty parlor if I didn't look pretty enough to greet the California morning.
Mr. Livingston was just leaving the house when I came down the stairs. He wore a pin-striped suit and maroon and white tie. He stopped at the front door to look up at me as I descended.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning."
"I hope you had a good night's rest," he said without a smile.
"Yes, thank you."
"Well, enjoy your day," he added. He looked uncomfortable speaking to me alone. He fumbled with his briefcase and then hurried out the door.
I thought about dialing Gina Simon's number again, but imagined I would only get the answering machine. It was better to go over there in person. I had to wonder if Sandy Glee had told her she had a visitor and then described me to her.
"Excuse me, miss," Alec said, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. "You have a phone call."
"A phone call? I do?"
"Your name is Melody, is it not?" he asked sharply, as if he thought I was being critical.
"Yes."
"Then, you have a phone call. You can take it in the parlor," he said nodding in that direction.
"Thank you."
I hurried in and lifted the receiver.
"Hello."
"Hi," Holly said. "Sorry I missed you yesterday, but I had a reading to do and by the time it was over, I thought it might be too late."
"That's all right."
"How are you doing? Did you meet the woman in the catalogue yet? Kenneth called me early this morning to see if I had heard from you."
I told her about my visit to the apartment complex and the things Sandy Glee had told me about Gina Simon.
"I'm not getting good vibes, Melody.
Remember what I told you. Pack up and come back if things aren't what you hoped they would be," she said.
"I will," I promised.
"Good. How's my sister treating you?"
"Like royalty," I said. I told her about my room and my breakfast in bed.
Holly laughed.
"I hear you. She's a character, huh? And Philip, did he say more than two words?"
"About seven or eight," I said, laughing. It was so good hearing Holly's voice, hearing the sincerity and the warmth. "It's nice of you to call, Holly. It's nice of you to care."
"Would you be any different if roles were reversed?" she asked. "Billy sends his regards, too."
"Tell him hi and I'll call you guys as soon as I know . . . anything," I said.
"Okay. Take care and don't let Dorothy talk you into a face lift while you're there," she warned before hanging up.
Before I had even set the phone down, Dorothy appeared.
"Good, you're up," she said as she entered the room. "The stores are just opening."
"I'm sorry I overslept. I'm usually up a lot earlier than this."
"Overslept? Nonsense. A woman needs her sleep. That old fashioned idea about beauty rest happens to be true. If you don't rest your skin, it gets old faster. I never get up much earlier than this unless I have a very important reason. Anyway, I've called for the car. I just have to tell Selena what Philip wants her to make for dinner tonight and then we'll be off to the shops."
"Dorothy, really, I just want to go back to the apartment complex, see Gina Simon and(r)"
"You need something decent to wear first. Then you'll go," she insisted.
"Really, I--"
"Deaf," she said, shaking her head with her hands over her ears. "Meet me outside. Spike's bringing the car around."
She left for the kitchen. There was nothing to do but let her be generous, I thought, and then pay another visit to The Egyptian Gardens.
Anyway, I couldn't help but be impressed with the stores on Rodeo Drive. Papa George and Mama Arlene, who had lived next to to us in Sewell, West Virginia, used to say their grandparents came to America thinking the streets were paved with gold. This was the closest anything came to that, I thought. The designer clothing stores with their richly draped mannequins in the windows, the grand art and antique galleries, the beautiful restaurants and expensive jewelry stores all made it look like shopping for the rich and privileged. Everywhere I looked, I saw Rolls Royces, Mercedes, and other expensive automobiles, as well as limousines like ours with chauffeurs in uniforms opening doors for people who looked like they were all in a contest to outdress each other.
"Right here, Spike," Dorothy ordered and turned to me to say, "I know this boutique well. They have the sort of clothing young girls like these days. You'll see," she promised.
When we entered the store, I thought it was going out of business. There were so few things on display, each item was treated like a special work of art. Toward the rear of the store was a bar where a bartender prepared cappuccinos, lattes and espresso for the customers. The saleslady recognized Dorothy immediately and hurried over, her high heels clicking on the Spanish tile.
"Enchanted, Mrs. Livingston. How have you been?" she asked, her hand out limply. A gold bracelet filled with diamonds dangled from her small wrist. She looked like she had spent a half a day preparing her makeup and hair. Not a hair was out of place and she had the most even pancake complexion I had ever seen, which made her look tan down to the base of her neck, after which there was a milk-white line. Dorothy just squeezed her fingers quickly.
"Very well, thank you, Farma. This is my sister's friend from the East Coast. She had to rush here and wasn't able to pack her better things. So I thought we would just pick up something nice for her to wear during the day and something for the evening."
"Oh, how nice," Farma replied and gleamed at me with dollar signs in her eyes. "We just received this Italian pants suit in a perfect color for . . ."
"Melody," Dorothy said. "I knew you would have something appropriate."
"Come dear," she said, drinking me in to measure my size. "What a delicious little figure you have." "Doesn't she?" Dorothy said.
I never felt anything as soft as the material out of which the pants suit had been made. It was a creamy white color with swirls of pink through it and it did fit perfectly. When I gazed at myself in the mirror, I felt my ego swell. Then I glanced at the tag dangling from the left sleeve and I almost fainted. It was fourteen hundred dollars!
"She looks fantastic," Dorothy said. "What a wonderful choice for day wear," she said, without even checking the price. "Now, let's think about something for the evening. I plan to take her to Chasens tomorrow night, and you never know who might walk in."
"Oh, I have a darling black dress, just in from Paris."
Farma hurried off to get it and I spun on Dorothy. "Dorothy, look at the price of this!" I exclaimed. She gazed indifferently at the tag.
"What of it, dear? Decent things are going to be expensive these days."
"But this--"
"Please," she said widening her eyes, "don't embarrass me. I know all the salespeople in these stores and they know me. Oh, that does look sweet," she said when Farma brought out the thin-strapped evening dress. Reluctantly, I tried it on and it also fit perfectly, flattering my figure, but it was eighteen hundred dollars! I couldn't swallow after Dorothy told her to wrap up the evening dress.
"She'll wear the pants outfit now," she declared.
"Very good," Farma said.
"Dorothy . . ." I stood, astounded.
She stepped up to me so she could lower her voice.
"If I don't spend my money, Philip will only invest it in one of those dreary annuity funds and tie up the money for years. As it is, I never get to spend all of my monthly allowance."
"You have an allowance?" I asked, amazed at the idea of a grown woman being given an allowance.
"Of course I do. And if I don't use it, I can't get him to raise it, can I? He's too smart. He'll simply say I don't spend what I get now, so why raise it? All of my friends get allowances and I happen to be at the top. I don't intend to lose that position," she added.
"Besides," she continued, "I don't enjoy giving my money to charity as much as I do buying something for a pretty young girl. It makes me feel . . ." She smiled. ". . feel younger myself. I used to have a figure like yours . . naturally. Now go put on that suit. We're going to go someplace special for lunch and many of my friends will be there."
She smiled triumphantly.
"When Spike takes you back to the apartment complex, people will pay more attention to you and be more impressed with you. They'll take you more seriously. You'll see. Here everyone's impressed by clothes and cars first, and then they consider the person wearing the clothes and driving the car. You'll learn."
"I feel like they should have given me a passport when I left the East Coast," I remarked and she laughed so hard she had to tell Farma what I had said. Then they both laughed again.
While I changed into the Italian pants suit, Dorothy bought herself three blouses and two skirts. The bill at the end of our visit was enough to keep a family of four in food and shelter for months back in Sewell, I thought, but I dared not utter another complaint.
Before Dorothy had Spike take us to lunch, she insisted on buying me a pair of shoes to match the pants suit and a pair for the evening dress. Then we had lunch at a little cafe off Rodeo Drive where a sandwich cost as much as an entire meal anywhere else in America. Dorothy seemed to know everyone there, introducing me as her sister's close friend. I listened to them chatter about clothes and jewelry, and all the things they had bought that morning. Everyone managed to get in how much they had paid, as if the higher the cost, the more justified they were in buying it.
My head was spinning from this spending whirlwind by the time Dorothy had Spike drive her home. Alec was brought out to carry my packages up to my room, and then I was finally excused to pay another visit to the apartment complex.
"You look great," Spike said. "You belong in expensive clothes."
"Nobody belongs in things that cost this much. It's outrageous," I said. He laughed.
"It's supposed to be. This is Hollywood. Later, I'll take you up to Grauman's Chinese Theater and you can look at the footprints and handprints of the stars."
"I'd rather find the footprints of my mother," I mumbled and sat back, hoping this time I would have more success.
Now that I knew the buzzer on the directory at the front of the complex didn't work, I simply entered through the main gate and followed the path past the pool. There were a half dozen young men and women sunning themselves on the lounges, some holding reflectors under their chins. Unlike the first time, no one paid any notice to me. I didn't see Sandy Glee anywhere. As I approached the building in which I knew Gina Simon's apartment was located, I heard a loud, familiar laugh. A woman I was sure was Mommy came out of the entrance accompanied by a short, stout man with thinning gray hair and a bulbous nose. He had thick lips and was wearing a pair of thick-lensed eyeglasses that made his eyes look like the eyes of a dead fish.
I knew it was Mommy because when she saw me, she gasped, brought her hand to the base of her throat, and paused. Her escort looked at her curiously and then at me. Mommy regained her composure with a deep breath and smiled at the man.
"Anything wrong?" he asked. I stood waiting, my heart thumping like a parade drum. "You forget something?" he followed when she didn't reply.
"No," she said quickly. "It's all right."
"Well, we had better move along. Gerry Spindler is the sort of producer who likes to be the one who's late for a meeting, not the person he's interviewing. Not that I think there's a doubt about you, sweetheart. He'd have to be made of stone to pass on you," the stout man said and laughed grotesquely, his jowls shaking and his lips curling. Mommy fixed her eyes on me as they continued toward me.
"Mommy!" I exclaimed when she was only a few feet away.
"Pardon me?" she said.
The stout man brought his head back.
"Mommy, what's going on? Alice found your picture in a catalogue and sent it to me in
Provincetown and Kenneth found out who you were and where you were," I said quickly. "Grandma Olivia gave me the money to come out here. Mommy, don't you recognize me?"
"What?" she said laughing.
"Who is this?" the stout man asked.
"I have no idea," Mommy said. Her eyes turned as cold as two small stones in a West Virginia mountain brook.
"It's me, Mommy. Melody. Don't you recognize me? Really?"
"First, honey," she said in a sharp, hard voice I didn't recall, "I could never be your Mommy. I'd have to have been six when I had you."
The stout man roared with laughter.
"And second, I never saw you before in my life. I wish they would fix that damn security system here," she told the stout man. "Any riffraff can walk in off the street and you know what we have walking the streets around here these days."
"Yeah," he said nodding and gazing at me.
"Mommy . . ." Tears burned under my eyelids. I tried to swallow so I could continue, but the lump in my throat felt like a chunk of coal.
"Maybe it's someone's idea of a joke," the stout man offered. "Anyway, don't worry about the security system. You get this job and you'll be able to move into a classy place, honey. And so will Mr. Marlin."
"Please, listen," I finally uttered. Mommy glanced at me and then quickly threw her head back to brush the hair from her eyes. I was shocked by how empty she could make her eyes, as if she knew how to turn all her emotions off. She tightened her hand around the arm of her fat escort and continued down the walkway as if I didn't exist.