Lala Pettibone's Act Two Read online

  Helene’s face lit up with the foreshadowing of recognition and maybe a new best friend on the horizon.

  “And Trotsky?” she said.

  “Lev Bronstein,” Lala said.

  “Do not tell me you had Pierce Parker.”

  “I did,” Lala said.

  “Do not tell me you went to Wesleyan.”

  “I did,” Lala said.

  “Were we in his class together?” Helene asked.

  Okay, I don’t even care if she’s blowing smoke up my tuchus, Lala thought. Now I can’t even hate her because she’s being so nice. I hate when that happens.

  “Oh, stop,” Lala said. “I’ve got to be close to ten years older than you.”

  “You certainly don’t look it,” Helene said.

  Ohh, jeez, Lala thought. Helene’s little finger? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lala, and I just got wrapped around you. Nice fit, huh?

  _______________

  Monty kissed Geraldine’s and Lala’s hands as they all said goodbye. Lala could see how beguiled Geraldine was by him.

  Before they left, Geraldine bragged to Monty and Helene about what a wonderful writer her niece was and about how she was working on a novel. Lala winced at the proud sounds her aunt was making, and, against all odds, successfully prevented herself from smothering Geraldine with an embroidered pillow to make her stop. And then Helene clapped her hands with delight and said that Lala absolutely had to come read some of her work at a charity event Helene was hosting for a local literacy program next week, and Lala said she would be delighted, and Monty asked Geraldine to be his date for the evening. And Lala wanted to stab herself repeatedly in the heart with one of the antique rapiers that Monty had in a display case in the living room.

  Well, Lala thought as the whole fiasco was unfolding, at least neither Helene nor Monty has asked me if I am in fact a published or produced writer. Because then I would have to say yes, twice. In The New Yorker. Back when Tammany Hall still reigned with an iron fist over Gotham politics.

  They walked home in silence with Lala frowning.

  “Well, my dearest niece,” Geraldine said after a few blocks. She was once again carrying Yootza like an infant because he had resolutely refused to walk another step after they got maybe a hundred feet from Monty’s house. Clearly, this being carted around everywhere had become a happy habit in the little dictator’s mind. “You are as brilliant an observer of the human condition as you are beautiful and caring and—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Lala snorted. “I know exactly what you’re doing. At this point, you’d probably bonk Monty just to make me feel better about myself.”

  “Yes,” Geraldine agreed, “I probably would. Because you are very precious to me, and I recognize that you’re maybe feeling a bit low right now. Fortunately, though, I would actually like to bonk Monty at some point, so you really are a very insightful matchmaker.”

  “Thanks,” Lala said.

  They walked along a bit in silence. Until Lala heaved a gust of a sigh.

  “It’s worse that we went to the same college,” Lala said.

  “I understand,” Geraldine said.

  “Whether that’s reasonable or rational or not. It just is. And she’s nice, which drives me crazy.”

  “I think it was lovely that she invited you to read at the charity event,” Geraldine said. “Clearly she thinks of you as a peer.”

  “That’s just because she doesn’t know what a failure I am,” Lala said.

  Geraldine stopped walking. Her tone became very stern.

  “I don’t think any of the animals you have helped would agree with that assessment.”

  Lala, who had continued walking and had indeed picked up the pace considerably while Geraldine stood firmly in her indignant tracks, yelled back over her shoulder.

  “Not fair! How am I supposed to wallow in self-pity when you say shit like that to me?”

  Geraldine scrambled to catch up with Lala and Petunia and Chester. Yootza bobbled up and down as she ran, and his little head smacked against Geraldine’s right breast, and he growled because Geraldine was disturbing his princely repose.

  “Look, Helene’s life is not a reflection on your life, okay?” Geraldine puffed. “Do not go down that path. That way lies madness.”

  “You’re tellin’ me,” Lala said. “We are never seeing Helene again. Not ever. And we’re not going to see Monty again either. Never ever. I’m sorry, but this has got to be my final word on the subject. Case closed. End of discussion.”

  _______________

  “Why did you invite everyone?”

  Lala smiled at her aunt even as her words to Geraldine were uttered through her teeth with intensity intended to convey a verbal slap. Lala returned a wave to Helene, who had flapped her hand across the room to Lala with a welcoming nod, followed by a raised index finger to indicate that she would be over soon to chat with Lala and Geraldine.

  Lala surveyed the large central room of The Remarkable Bookshop in downtown Manhattan Beach. The family-owned emporium had been there for almost fifty years and was one of the last independent bookstores in the area. Or the state. Or the country. Or the Milky Way galaxy.

  Geraldine grabbed two full champagne flutes from the bar right next to them and winked at the cute bartender. She handed one of the glasses to Lala.

  “I invited our neighbors because they are our friends and because they like you, and I’m proud of your good heart. I’m proud of your tenacity. Don’t be so cranky.”

  “If I’m cranky, it’s because I haven’t slept in a week worrying about this damn reading,” Lala said. “You know how lazy I am. You know I write in fits and starts.”

  “I stopped by to check on you last night.” Geraldine swooped in to dip a snow pea into a vat of ranch dressing. “Because I hadn’t seen you all day. You were sound asleep in front of Say Yes to the Dress. You were drooling on Yootza’s little forehead.”

  “Okay, but I was working in front of the TV because I write in fits and starts because I can’t focus on anything for very long, and I probably was taking a short break from all the fabulousness on that show.”

  Geraldine saw one of their neighbors walking in their direction. She leaned in to whisper to Lala.

  “Did you know they lifted the fatwa against Salman? Sort of. It’s a long story. Salman told me. He still wants us to call him Thomas. I guess you can never be too careful.”

  Thomas was balancing five glasses of champagne on a disposable plate that was, thankfully, plastic and not paper.

  “Oh, you’ve already got drinks,” Thomas said.

  Lala sucked down all the champagne in her glass and slammed the empty vessel on the top of the bar.

  “Not anymore,” she said and grabbed one of the glasses off the plate. In an instant, Thomas’s carefully planned balance was thrown off, and it was only the quick acting of Geraldine and Thomas that saved the evening from complete disaster. Lala surveyed their handiwork admiringly.

  “Wow, you two work really well together. Someone should write a screenplay about you. Kind of buddy flick meets . . . meets . . . I don’t know what. Dame Helen Mirren could play you, Aunt Geraldine. And . . . umm . . . someone who looks a lot like Salman Rushdie could—”

  “Shhh,” Geraldine hissed. She glanced around nervously to see if anyone with ties to any ayatollah had heard Lala.

  “Yeah. Oops. Sorry.”

  Their other neighbors, Stephanie and Chuck, came over carrying stacks of books and grinning dementedly.

  “You can buy these here!” Stephanie trilled.

  “They’ve got books that you can buy and take with you right away!” Chuck said.

  Lala looked at the two young veterinarians and wrinkled her nose with her mouth open in the universal facial contortion conveying, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

&
nbsp; “It’s a bookstore,” Lala said.

  “Yeah, isn’t that cool!” Stephanie said. “Amazon better watch out. This kind of convenience could catch on fast.”

  “Hey, Lala, have you heard from Doctor David?” Chuck asked.

  Oh barf, Lala thought.

  “He is so cool,” Stephanie said. “What a great guy.”

  “Okay,” Geraldine said. She put her hand on Stephanie’s elbow and gently started to steer her away from Lala. “How about if Thomas and I take you two adorable kids over to the cashier, and we’ll show you how to pay for these books in person? It’s a little tricky at first, but I know you’ll get the hang of it. Lala, you go ahead and get ready for your reading.”

  Lala watched the four of them depart. And then she hustled to the ladies’ room, where she started twitching and hyperventilating until both her exposed and covered skin had a sheath of sweat on it, and where Helene found her dabbing under her armpits with a wad of toilet paper.

  “Hi there!” Helene said, floating through the door. Helene’s entrance almost seemed to transform the standard-issue, but very clean store bathroom, into a powder room Lala might have expected to find at one of New York City’s most absurdly expensive hotels.

  “Hi!” Lala said.

  God, she’s got style, Lala thought. There’s just something about her. Why do I so often find myself in the company of women about whom there is just something?

  Lala didn’t turn around. She just stared at Helene’s reflection in the mirror. Helene started to wash her hands.

  Helene was wearing a pair of black pants with very thin, pale pink stripes and a matching jacket with short sleeves. The jacket was buttoned, and she didn’t have a shirt on underneath. Her hair was up in a casual French twist. She looked gorgeous.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Helene said. “I’m so grateful that you could join us. I love your dress.”

  Lala did indeed have on a lovely new wraparound dress in a rich, blue shade that her aunt had picked out for her. Geraldine had insisted that she wear it with her new high, black boots after Lala came knocking on Geraldine’s door an hour before they were supposed to leave for the reading, shrilly announcing, “I’m not going to the damn reading because I look like shit in every damn thing I have, and I don’t need more humiliation in my life, thank you very much.”

  “Thanks,” Lala said. She handed Helene a paper towel. “Helene, you look fabulous. You really do.”

  Helene gave Lala a quick kiss on the cheek and put her arm around Lala’s shoulder. The two women made their way out the door.

  “Come on, pal,” Helene said. “Let’s go glory in the written word.”

  _______________

  Lala guessed there were over a hundred chairs set up around the podium where the readers would be sharing their work. All of the chairs were occupied.

  I’m going to barf, Lala thought.

  Geraldine blew Lala a kiss from the front row. Monty, who had, since the last time they saw him, exchanged his leg cast for a much more relaxed but still substantial brace with thick straps of Velcro wrapped all up and down, was sitting next to Geraldine grinning like a pauper who had just won a Powerball lottery with the highest payoff in the history of legalized gambling.

  Geraldine and Monty each gave Lala a big thumbs up. When they saw that they had made exactly the same encouraging gesture at precisely the same moment, they collapsed together in a fit of giggles.

  Sheesh, Lala thought. Look at those two. How cute are they? Seriously.

  After making a pitch for the literacy program that was as heartfelt as it was rote, Helene read from the first chapter of her soon-to-be-released book.

  Lala had never read any of Helene’s work before. She was miffed to find that Helene’s writing was very good. Very, very good.

  The only thing that is saving my sanity, Lala thought, is that she writes mysteries and that’s not my genre at all, nor do I ever want it to be. So I guess my raging jealousy has been momentarily subdued.

  Three other writers read before Helene called Lala to the podium. Lala found the work of two of them to be delightful and the work of the third to be insufferable. Several times as the young man was reading, Lala had to stop herself from groaning aloud.

  “In the morn, in the dark, there are echoes of my time with Miriyan that whisper until I beg madness to overpower me.”

  Jesus, Lala thought. What is he? In junior high? Where does he come up with this crap?

  The young man tossed his hair back and gave a soulful look to the audience before he continued.

  “But then this morn, my comrade, Rothal of the Unicorn Leagues, reminds me that on this day we fight the united armies of Strobl and Lulilaerd. This day, we fight the darkness. This day, we fight for the good. This day . . .”

  And here he paused.

  Seriously, shoot me now, Lala thought.

  “We fight for our lives.”

  The young man slammed his book shut. He stepped to the side of the podium, stood in full view of the audience, paused again, and then took a sweeping bow that brought his forehead in danger of colliding with the floor and that would have made the curtain calls of Sarah Bernhardt look folksy.

  Helene led the enthusiastic applause as she approached the podium. Lala watched a row of young ladies that must have represented the cream of every cheerleading squad within a fifty-mile radius stand and wave their arms about like madwomen as they shouted, “Whoo, whoo, whoo!”

  Helene gave the young man a hug. The young man blushed even as he lingered with his cheek hovering over Helene’s bosom until Helene had to gently push him away.

  “What a lovely reading,” Helene said. “Thank you, d’Artagnan.”

  Seriously, that’s his first name, Lala thought. You are fucking kidding me. His parents have some damn nerve.

  “And now, please welcome Lala Pettibone.”

  Helene turned to her friend and made a cute, little beckoning “get-on-up-here-you-adorable-sassy-older-new-gal-pal-o’-mine” wave.

  And now, please don’t let me trip, Lala thought.

  Lala stood. She walked to the podium. She placed the notebook that contained her carefully proofread work on the stand and opened it. And that moment of opening her notebook was the first moment in which she realized that everyone else who had read had been reading not from notebooks that they had created themselves, but from copies of their books. Copies of their published books. Copies of their writing that had been deemed desirable for publication. By an outside arbiter of some sort.

  Fuck me, Lala thought.

  Lala looked down at the words that were doing aquarobics and playing water volleyball and executing cannonballs off the high tower in front of her.

  She debated whether running screaming out of that charming independent bookstore might feel defiant and liberating and brave and deliciously self-indulgent.

  She glanced up at the audience and smiled.

  Fuck it, she thought.

  The first word she read was “The.”

  It came out sounding like the bleating of a severely congested sheep.

  Lala cleared her throat.

  “The Soused Cinéaste,” she read.

  Several people in the audience chuckled.

  Lala froze.

  I fucked up, she thought. Are they making fun of me? Did I fuck up already?

  She took a deep breath. And then, without any conscious decision to unleash the fury, she let the floodgates open.

  “Reflections on the world of film at thirty-seven thousand feet. Flying cross-country after having knocked back several glasses of quite lovely champagne. And may I pause to send my kudos to Sir Richard Branson and any other airline magnates who understand and appreciate and act on the public’s desire to have their own damn private screen on the seat in front of them so that they can relish their own da
mn private selection of entertainment. Because, let me tell you, in bubbly veritas, and for my money, anything that can help make the time pass in any way is genius when you’re stuck in a space that small with that many strangers for that long with no hope of escape. And didn’t that just sound like a description of a maximum-security prison? Or Hell?”

  An appreciative laugh rippled through the crowd. Lala paused and smiled nervously at everyone.

  Wait a minute, she thought, surveying the warm, encouraging faces with her glazed stare, I think I remember that sound. Was it . . . wait . . . when I was in that comedy group . . . on those rare occasions when I was actually any good . . . I think the audience would make that sound.

  Lala bobbed her head and grinned at everyone.

  Geraldine looked at Lala with sudden and expanding concern.

  “Are you okay?” Geraldine mouthed silently at her niece, with exaggerated clarity so that the movements of her mouth would be interpretable as words.

  Geraldine also added a few gestures to up the odds of Lala understanding what she was getting at.

  The gesture for “okay” was a broad smile and an insouciant sideways nod of her head. Accompanied by a wink.

  Lala winked back at her and gave her the universal symbol for okay—tips of the thumb and forefinger of the right hand together in a circle with the other three fingers standing jauntily. At which point Geraldine slapped her forehead because she had apparently forgotten that of course that was the way she should have conveyed that word.

  “Cool,” Lala said. “Cool. So.”

  She went back to her pages.

  “OMIGOD, there’s a channel called ‘Blockbuster Classics.’ OMIGOD. Look at the offerings. Thor. I’ve already seen it, and I can’t wait to see it again because it is genius. And did you know that the character of Thor is played by a hologram? Because NO MERE HUMAN can be that gorgeous and perfect.

  “And may I pause to add that my dream ménage à trois consists of myself—which I suppose should go without saying, but I want to say it anyway so there’s no misunderstanding should the opportunity ever arise—consists of myself, the God of Thunder, mighty Thor, and Loki, Lord of the Underworld.