Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes Read online

  “Then you mean it’s not serious?” I asked. “She’s really fine?”

  “Oh, it’s plenty serious and she’s not fine at all. In fact, she’s in the ICU. But you’re not a relative and I’m sure they wouldn’t let you in to see her at this time of night.”

  For some reason, I kept wanting to scream at her. I think now I wanted to scream at her so much in order to shake her obvious complacency. Elizabeth was in trouble and she was alone. Couldn’t Lottie see how awful those fraternal-twin facts were?

  “Just go during regular visiting hours tomorrow,” Lottie said, loudly yawning again. “In all likelihood, she’ll still be alive by then. Or not.” Click.

  Bitch.

  The ICU at St. Vincent’s Hospital, where I’d hightailed it first thing the next morning after choking down a quick bowl of Cocoa Krispies, was about as depressing as those places are everywhere, with its share of accident victims, like the guy whose motorcycle had taken him for a ride instead of the other way around, or those who needed their vital signs closely monitored. And then there were the families. Unkempt and unshaven, distraught and distracted, they sat by their loved ones trying to hold out hope, paced the waiting room and corridor in despair. With Elizabeth Hepburn’s wealth and reputation, I would have thought for sure that despite Lottie saying she was in the ICU, she’d be in a private room rather than here with what I was sure she must view as riffraff, and that she’d be surrounded by loved ones, just like everyone else.

  “I like the riffraff,” Elizabeth Hepburn said of the first. “Reminds me of my days in vaudeville. Gypsy Rose Lee, Schmypsy Rose Lee. I taught that girl everything she knew about feathers and don’t let anyone tell you different.

  “I keep telling you,” Elizabeth Hepburn said of the second, “there isn’t anyone else left. Why do you think I like being with the riffraff so much? You’re my best friend.”

  I was sure she didn’t mean that to come across in quite the way I heard it, that I was riffraff, and I sure was glad to find her awake.

  “Of course I’m awake,” she said. “Did Lottie tell you I’d died already? Lottie is always in such a hurry for me to die already.”

  “What do you mean?” I found it hard to believe it was true, but then, Lottie had behaved oddly during our phone conversation.

  “Lottie thinks that, with no heirs and with her the only one that takes care of me, everything I have will go to her.” She chuckled weakly. “Little does she know I’m still debating between that and giving it all to Literacy Volunteers of America.”

  How sad it must be, to have the only person regularly taking care of you be someone you knew was eagerly awaiting your death.

  “Why don’t you fire her?” I asked.

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who has no life of their own and is willing to live in full-time?”

  Actually, I didn’t.

  I looked around at the absence of cards, flowers. Sure, she’d only been there twenty-four hours, but you’d think there’d be some evidence of someone in the world showing concern for her.

  “Oh, in another day or two,” she said, “I’m sure there’ll be flowers from my agent. Even though I haven’t acted in twenty years, Simon still thinks he can talk me into doing the stage version of On Golden Pond when they take the show to Luxembourg. And I know Bacall would be here in a heartbeat if she weren’t busy with whatever that new show is that she’s doing. Really, Delilah, you’re not just my best friend. You’re my only friend. Now, tell me, how did your trip to Atlantic City go?”

  I pulled up a seat and, acting in my role as her best friend, took her crepe hand in mine.

  “Never mind that silliness,” I said. “I don’t even know why you’re here.” I looked at the machines, the monitors. “What happened?”

  “Oh,” she laughed weakly, “that crazy doctor. When he came to the house, he said I was having an ‘episode.’ I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Episode?’ I said. ‘When it happens to you, we’ll call it an episode. I’m pretty sure what I just had was a heart attack!’ Big mistake on my part, acting all dramatic, because the next thing I know, he’s rushing me here with the cavalry and Jimmy Stewart and everything. Never, Delilah, never tell a physician you just had a heart attack.”

  “You mean you didn’t really have a heart attack?”

  “Of course I had a heart attack! In fact, I’ve been having episodic heart attacks since I’ve been here. It’s just that if I’m going to die of them, I’d just as soon be at home. True, I’d have to face Lottie rubbing her hands together as she awaits my demise, but at least I’d be surrounded by my own things, I could kiss my Oscars one last time. But once you start the medical machinery rolling, it’s tough to get them to stop. Forget, ‘First, do no harm.’ It’s more like, ‘If we have the technology to keep you alive indefinitely, we’re going to do it simply because we can.’ Crap. But never mind that now. How did Atlantic City go?”

  “I won,” I said. “Big-time.”

  “Yippee!” She half rose in her bed to embrace me, but that “Yippee!” must have sapped what little strength she had, because she immediately subsided back down into the pillows, unembraced. “Does this mean you’re getting the Ghosts now? Will you order them today? You can use my phone…”

  It was then that I had the idea.

  “I decided I really don’t want the Ghost after all,” I said.

  “You don’t want the Ghost?”

  “No, they’re too flashy. Who ever heard of a window washer wearing Jimmy Choos? I’d get laughed out of The Golden Squeegee Club.”

  “You all have a golden squeegee club?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted, “but we should. Of course, if we did, I’d be the only member. Anyway, the point is, I really just don’t have the kind of lifestyle that would justify such a purchase.”

  “But with shoes like that,” she interjected, “you don’t wait for the occasion. You create occasions.”

  “Well, I just don’t even see the possibility for creating such occasions happening in this lifetime, so I just figured I’d—”

  “Oh, no. No, you don’t.”

  Had she read my mind?

  “You can’t,” she said. “You simply can’t not buy a pair of Jimmy Choos.”

  “Oh, I’m going to buy a pair all right,” I said, “just not for me. I’m going to buy a pair of the Parson Flats for you.” True, they were the Choos that Hillary wanted, but Hillary already had the Momo Flats that she’d given to me after I bought them for her, so she’d had her chance. Plus, the Fayres Elizabeth Hepburn originally wanted had a slight heel that was just big enough to be impractical, should she survive her current ordeal, and the Parson Flats were the only ones I could remember the price for, thereby being sure I could afford them. “Don’t you remember the Parson Flats?” I asked. “It was a gold leather traditional thong sandal with a big red jewel at the center, surrounded by green stones with more jewels suspended from gold threads.”

  Jimmy Choos may have been known for their simplicity and elegance, but it was definitely the snazziest of the Choos that appealed to Elizabeth, Hillary and me.

  Her eyes were misting up.

  “They were gorgeous,” I added. “Really, once we get you back on the red carpet, I’m sure you’ll knock Bacall’s socks off in them.”

  The activity level on her heart monitor speeded up.

  “Are you okay? Are you having another episode?” I asked. “Should I get a nurse?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, “I am having another episode, but it’s a good episode. Aren’t you just the sweetest thing that ever lived?”

  I didn’t know about all that, but I did know that the Parson Flats would set me back six hundred and thirty dollars before tax, meaning that if I still wanted those Ghosts—and I did; I’d lied about not wanting them—I was going to need to do a lot more in Las Vegas than just be Billy Charisma’s talisman. I was going to need to win, too.

  And I knew something else: that if Elizabeth
Hepburn could just hang on long enough for me to phone Jimmy Choo’s in Manhattan and order the Parson Flats, and then waited long enough for them to be delivered, that even if she died then, she’d die with happy feet.

  When I got back from the hospital, Hillary still hadn’t arrived home from Biff’s yet, but there was on the machine my first ever message from Billy Charisma.

  “Ready to go to Vegas, Baby?” he asked.

  Was he serious? I phoned him back at the number he’d left.

  “Not just yet,” I said.

  “Oh?” He sounded surprised.

  “I have other responsibilities,” I said, thinking of Elizabeth. “Besides, I don’t know you well enough to just hop on a plane with you and fly off to Sin City.”

  Shit! I couldn’t believe I’d just said that last out loud. Why couldn’t I have just said “Las Vegas” and left it at that, like a normal person?

  But he graciously ignored my faux pas, choosing instead to focus on something else.

  “Oh, that’s right,” he said, “you always need a little bit of foreplay first, don’t you? Very well, then. How about if you come to my cottage for dinner next Friday? I promise not to bite.”

  I allowed as that dinner at his cottage would be very nice, but neglected to comment on the lack of biting.

  14

  Usually, when you are waiting for something good to happen, it seems to take forever for the big day to arrive, but that week before my date with Billy Charisma just sped by.

  Life may have been fast, but work was slow. Window washing sometimes runs like that: perfectly gorgeous weeks where not too many people call for help, but then Thanksgiving hits and all of a sudden everyone wants their windows sparkling in time for the holidays, despite that the cleaning fluid sometimes freezes in the frigid temperatures if you don’t put antifreeze in the mix. So we had mostly half days, which even allowed us enough time to stop off for a visit to see Elizabeth Hepburn. Having received the Parson Flats I’d had Jimmy Choo’s overnight to her, she was recuperating nicely at home, her happily Choos-clad feet propped up on her 1600-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

  “These are the best medicine anyone ever invented,” she said, admiringly twinkling at her own toes.

  “That was really generous of you to buy Choos for her instead of for yourself,” Stella said as we were leaving. “But did you get a load of that awful Lottie person she employs as her companion?”

  I had. If Lottie had been a weapon of war, she’d have been a Sherman tank—big, mean, deadly.

  “A great lady like that,” Stella said, “deserves better than that in this life.” Which was saying a lot coming from Stella, who similarly had something of a Sherman tank about her personality.

  “Maybe someday,” I said, “she’ll get the better companion she deserves.”

  And we’d both noticed, Stella and I, that The Girls From Brazil were subdued all week long.

  “What’s up with that?” Stella asked when they were out of hearing range.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Usually they just get nasty with me, but never with each other as they’ve been doing.” I shrugged. “Maybe they’re just upset about the scant work schedule? Maybe they’d rather have fuller days and make more money?”

  “Nah,” she said. “That can’t be it.”

  If things at work were slow and odd, meaning the strange sullenness Conchita and Rivera were exuding, my more domestic life was fast and odd.

  Having blown off our fairly regular Monday-night get-together, Black Jack was not very forthcoming about his reasons why when I called him about it.

  “Let’s just say there may be some surprises in your future,” he said.

  “What surprises?” I asked.

  “Just some surprising stuff,” he said.

  “Stuff?” Well, that was very illuminating.

  “Never mind that now. How did Atlantic City go for you?” he asked.

  “I won! I even got dealt the twin Eights you prophesied!”

  “That’s great! And did you split them like I told you to?”

  “Of course. But then when I tried to split them when another Eight came up—”

  “Crap, you didn’t get my message in time.”

  “No, I did not.” He could probably tell from my tone that I was still miffed at being made to look like a piker. Then I shouted, “But I won! So I’ll get over it!”

  “That’s great, Baby. So, are you going to retire now? Did you win everything you needed to win?”

  “Well, yes and no.” I explained how, yes, I’d won everything I’d needed to win (“You’re my little girl!”), but that, no, I wasn’t going to retire yet, because I’d given a good chunk of my winnings away in aid of buying a little-old-lady fading Hollywood movie star a pair of ridiculously expensive shoes. (“Oh, right. Why didn’t I ever think of that? Of course a gambler should use winnings to finance the wealthy.”)

  I tried to explain that, somehow, it wasn’t like it sounded at all.

  “Save it, Baby,” he said. “I’m glad you’re doing good works with your winnings. Who knows? Maybe if I were more like you, I wouldn’t be where I am now. Speaking of which, are you really sure you need to go on gambling? Haven’t you had enough already?”

  What did he mean?

  “What do you mean?” Surely, this couldn’t be my dad talking. This was not the Black Jack Sampson I’d always known and loved. “Actually,” I said, “I was just about to ask you if, since we couldn’t get together on Monday night because you were busy, if maybe we could get together on Thursday night instead so I could practice a little bit more, maybe learn some new strategies.”

  I figured that with my date with Billy coming up on Friday, whatever else we might discuss, we would surely be discussing gambling and I wanted to be prepared. I also figured Dad wouldn’t pass up the chance to play a few hands of his favorite game, even if it was with me.

  “Sorry, Baby, no can do. I’ve got another meeting on Thursday night.”

  “What’s with all these meetings all of a sudden?”

  “Sorry, but it’s still a surprise.”

  “What surprise?”

  But no matter how many times I asked, he wasn’t saying.

  “I’ll tell you when the time is right,” he said, “and we’re not there yet.”

  And then there was my roommate–best friend: the woman formerly known as Hillary Clinton who could now best be described as Hillary In Love.

  “Biff is the smartest man I’ve ever spent time with!” Hillary had said, finally breezing in on Sunday night.

  “That’s wonderful,” I’d said, “I’m very happy for you.”

  “Biff is the funniest man I’ve ever spent time with!” Hillary had said on Monday night after what was technically their second date.

  “What more could a woman want?” I’d said.

  “Biff is generous to a fault,” she’d said on Tuesday, just before midnight. “Even though I make as much as he does, he wouldn’t let me pay for dinner…and, afterward, he didn’t even want sex! He said we should wait at least until the technical fourth date!”

  Was something maybe wrong with Biff?

  And then came the technical fourth date, which I wasn’t privy to the recap of until Thursday morning when she burst in on me somewhere between my Cocoa and my Krispies.

  “Omigod!” she said, back pressed against the door and looking like a blond-haired version of a starry-eyed Natalie Wood in just about any movie Natalie Wood had ever made. “Biff Williams has the absolute biggest—”

  “I don’t need to know about that!” I said, picking up my bowl and thinking to take it into my room so I could eat in peace.

  “He’s just so dreamy,” Hillary said, following me.

  “Dreamy?” I asked. “Does anyone ever really say dreamy?” My mom used to say it about my dad, but that was two decades ago. Next thing, she’d be launching into “I Feel Pretty,” in which case I’d be compelled to put on a poodle skirt and play Rita
Moreno to her Natalie.

  “Oh, but he is dreamy, Delilah, plus he’s got the biggest schlong—”

  “I said I don’t need to hear about that,” I said, holding up a defensive cereal spoon.

  She appeared crestfallen. “Look, Hill,” I said, “just because I don’t want to hear all about Biff’s schlong, it doesn’t mean I’m not happy for you. Of course I’m happy for you. I’m beyond happy for you.”

  And I was happy for her. The fact that she was out with the same guy every night, the fact that they always spent their time at his place rather than ours meaning that for the first time since we’d moved in there I came home to an empty home every night—maybe I should get a cat? None of that bothered me. It didn’t even bother me in the age old tradition of female relationships everywhere, you know, the tradition that firmly states, “I would be so happy for you that now you have someone were it not for the fact that I have no one and now your never being here only serves to highlight my I-have-no-one-ness. Really, once I have someone, too—if I live that long—I’ll be nothing but happy for your happiness. Of course, you may have broken up with Mr. Wonderful by then.”

  But it wasn’t necessary for me to experience any of that internal unpleasantness. Because Hillary having someone in this instance made me free to sort of have my own someone, Billy Charisma, and to have him without fear of what she might have to say about him or how I conducted my budding relationship with him because, thankfully, she was otherwise occupied.

  So Hillary wasn’t on the scene when I was fine-tuning the plans with Billy.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said. “You just need to give me directions.”

  “How about if you give me directions?” I said. “I’d rather drive myself.”

  Hillary wasn’t there to point out how combination defensive-offensive I sounded, which was great since I was determined to do this my way. The way I figured it, if I drove myself, there’d be the twin bonuses of being able to bail on the evening if it was a washout, and keeping me from drinking too much, thereby saving me from falling into bed with him on a drunken whim, because I’d need to stay sober enough to drive myself the long way home.