Good Days Bad Days: A Novel, page 11
“I was a camera operator and your mom was kind of a Renaissance woman, you could say.” He releases another pile of belongings into the garbage pile and then moves back toward the house.
“Like, in what way? In front of the camera, crew, or more like production?” It’s a link to my parents I didn’t expect, like those identical twins separated at birth who each had become nurses, had three children, and married a man named Bob.
“You make it sound so official. It was a tiny local station,” he says, heading up the front steps, not answering the question. I had already Googled WQRX and learned everything Wikipedia could tell me about it, which was one paragraph and a link to the parent network Epistle Broadcasting Network that ended up rebranding in the mid-seventies and moving to Texas, leaving WQRX to a small public access station. The Wikipedia page had a few names and dates, and so I found as many people as I could, former producers mostly, and sent them emails, but they all bounced back.
I think I could ask my dad a million questions and they’d get me nowhere. He doesn’t want to tell me about his past, my mom’s past, the roots of my nearly rotted-out family tree. Why??
I let him leave without asking more questions, not willing to have an all-out confrontation with my dad in front of my professional colleagues, who I’m sure see me more as Charlie McFadden than Lottie Laramie, daughter of a hoarder. He’s off the hook for now but not forever, that’s for sure.
My phone buzzes. I step away from the sorting area and glance at the screen. It’s a text from Cam. We’ve exchanged a few messages every day since we ran into each other at Thumbs. He asks if he can buy me dinner at least once in each conversation, and every time I nearly say yes. As I peel off my gloves to open my phone, Tina calls me back for one last query, pointing to the sealed boxes I’d been questioning my father about.
“So, these boxes. Toss ’em for sure?”
“Probably. Let me look.” Out of curiosity and a little stubbornness, I rip off the decaying tape in one tug and the flaps gape open. Lifting one side with the tip of my ungloved finger, a familiar set of eyes meet mine. They’re my mother’s eyes—my eyes. I spread the beleaguered flaps wide, and now four sets of eyes look back at me. My mother’s headshots. Hundreds of them. There’s only one reason someone would have this many headshots—the same reason I’ve had stacks of similar shots in front of me with a black Sharpie in my right hand. She had fans, and those fans wanted her autograph.
“I’ll throw these out,” I say, balancing the stack of boxes in my arms. As I pass Dino, I tell him there’s a new exception to the auto-toss rule—anything with the name Betty Laramie or the call letters WQRX needs to come to me immediately. Not my dad, not the garbage, not a pile to be sorted—me.
“Yes ma’am,” he says, touching the tip of his baseball cap before digging another armful of clothing from the laundry trolly. I say my goodbyes and rush away from the chaos of my parents’ front yard.
However, I don’t stop at the industrial-sized garbage bin as I’d promised Tina. Instead, after making sure no one is watching and seeing that the coast is clear, I use my knee to prop the boxes open and pop the trunk of my car by pressing a button. I cringe at the beeping sound, but thankfully, no one is close enough to hear it. I shove aside two other cardboard boxes containing my mother’s belongings and drop in the new boxes. My mother’s stiff smile and sparkling eyes seem to peek back at me through the unfastened flaps of the box.
I know where I can get answers without reaching into my father’s throat and forcing them out. I can’t put it off anymore. I have to go see my mother.
Chapter 12
Greg
November 7, 1969
Playboy Club-Hotel, VIP Room
Lake Geneva, Wisconsin
Mark and I are escorted to the table by a curvaceous woman in a black satin corset, a white collar with a black tie, wrists encased in shirt cuffs, a grapefruit-sized white poof on her perky rear end, and a pair of drooping bunny ears on her head. Mark raises his eyebrows and whispers something untoward, which I pretend not to hear. The petite brunette wears a ribbon name tag pinned at her hip at the top curve of her high-cut leotard that reads “Jessica.” A warmth floods through me that makes me keep my eyes to the floor.
“Where are you from, sweetheart?” Mark asks her as we dodge between tables filled with mostly middle-aged men and a few younger guys who likely think the Bunnies will ignore the strict rules and hand over their number if they show up enough or tip well.
“You know, around,” she says, and I can tell it’s a question she answers often.
“Well, that’s fun. I’m from around, too.”
Jessica giggles demurely, and I think he actually caught her off guard with his humor. “Maybe I’ll see you there next time I’m in town,” she teases.
“Sure hope so,” Mark says, approaching the table of seven men and one woman.
“You two get settled and I’ll send Tammy over to get your drink order, OK, hon?” she asks as she wiggles her Bunny tail back to her hostess station.
“My God, I love my job right now,” Mark says, eyes locked on Jessica until she disappears into the dim, crowded room.
“Behave yourself,” I say, pulling out the chair next to Martha where she’d saved me a seat.
“I’ll do my best, but no promises,” Mark agrees, locating his seat on the opposite side of the large round table, next to Hollinger, a representative from the EBN head office, and another man in a boss suit too busy chain-smoking to say anything.
Martha doesn’t acknowledge my arrival at first. She’s already in conversation with Jerry Bartholomew from Jerry’s Shoes. He’s in his fifties and his bloodshot eyes and reddened cheeks make it clear that the drink in front of him isn’t his first. Martha is laughing, tossing her head back like she’s learned how to be a socialite overnight. A twinge hits between my shoulder blades when I watch her interact with the businessmen.
To my left is Tony Caveola, owner of a chain of Italian restaurants. He’s already a sponsor for The Classy Homemaker. It’s on me to get him to expand his advertising dollars to the sinking ship of Janesville Presents . . .
“My God, these women are gorgeous,” he says, taking a sip of his whiskey neat. His voice sounds raspy, like he smokes more than a few packs a day. I try to follow his eyeline to see which of the Bunnies he’s staring at, but the air is thick with cigarette smoke, and the dim lights turn every Bunny into a runway model. “Ever been before?”
“To the club? No. I . . .” I don’t tell him the truth—that I’ve never enjoyed this kind of joint. “It’s a bit of a trek.”
“What, an hour from Janesville? You’re a single guy. What do you have keeping you at home?”
I’m happily a homebody, but that image won’t do for impressing the men here tonight. I glance at Martha, sipping on a glass of pink champagne and looking nearly as lovely as the Bunnies. If she can play a part tonight, so can I.
“Mark and I have been meaning to take a trip. He’s thinking of applying for a key.”
“That’s great. Why not, you know? My wife would kill me, otherwise I’d be right there with you two. But as for tonight—what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?”
A new Bunny in a blue satin corset and matching ears drops off my drink. The busty auburn-haired waitress takes Tony’s order for the next round with a slight southern accent that leaves him tittering.
“That accent,” he says, shaking his head like he’s heard the voice of God. I take a sip of my scotch and the nip hits me almost instantly. I’ll need it tonight. I take a deep breath and ask the first question that comes to mind.
“How do you like WQRX’s programming this fall?”
Tony raises his eyebrows and gulps down a mouthful of whiskey.
“It’s all right. Local TV is its own breed. No one hustles to get home in time for local news, or what is that show with all the losers from the town? My wife and I saw it the other night and laughed our guts out.”
My shoulders stiffen and I take another drink, knowing he’s talking about Janesville Presents . . . I hold still, hoping Tony won’t notice my irritation. My God, I hope Martha didn’t hear that.
“But there’s one show she won’t shut up about. The one with the hot blonde making food and cleaning house. I saw it when I got the flu last month and had to stay home from work. My wife loves that girl, and I gotta say—I didn’t mind watching her on the TV either. Sweet thing. Was hoping she’d be here tonight . . .”
“She’s just talent,” I say, a protective twinge hitting my shoulders again, this time over Betty. Behind us a jazz trio starts to play their version of Patsy Cline’s waltzy “She’s Got You.” Some of the men from the other tables wander onto the parquet floor with their companions.
“Yeah, makes sense. She’s definitely too sophisticated to be in a place like this. Was already surprised the one next to you was here. Is she someone’s younger sister?”
“Martha is my producer, actually.” When I say her name, she turns in my direction. She’s smiling and seems to be pleased to see me.
“Greg! There you are. We were just talking about you.”
“So were we,” I say, gesturing to asshole Tony.
“Well, look at that,” she says, putting out her slender hand. “I might as well introduce myself since I already know who you are, Mr. Caveola. I’m Martha Smith. Greg and I produce The Classy Homemaker and Janesville Presents . . .”
Tony’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s been shit talking my show right to my face, and then he laughs and hits me in the shoulder as though I’m in on the joke.
“Damn fine shows you’ve got going on.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Caveola.”
“Tony. You should call me Tony,” he says, taking Martha’s hand and squeezing it. “Wanna take this conversation onto the dance floor?” Tony asks Martha as she’s trying to tell him about all the changes we’re making on Janesville Presents . . .
Martha looks at me like she’s asking my advice. I’d rather choke on my drink garnish than dance with that asshole, but I get why she’s considering it. Dancing with Tony could get him on our side. Then, the other advertisers might consider sponsoring us, too.
“Why you looking at this guy? Is he your boyfriend or something?”
“No,” we both say in unison. “No,” she says again.
“Then what do you say?” Caveola puts out his hand, the song changing in the background. She takes it and doesn’t look at me this time. Damn. This is unfair to Martha.
I finish my drink and watch as Martha sways to the rhythm of the band’s rendition of “I’ve Been Loving You Too Long” while Tony shuffles from foot to foot. I glance around the room at the half-toasted businessmen in various levels of formal dress and the few tagalong women who came with husbands or lovers.
At our table, Mark looks bored but locked into a conversation with Hollinger and Quinton Florence from EBN. I’m sure he wishes he was on the dance floor or trying to flirt with one of the Bunnies. The room has a different vibe than I expected. The Bunnies are friendly and beautiful but nothing more than that.
A short blond Bunny in a pink satin corset catches my eye. She has her back to me, taking orders from a table in the far corner of the dim room. A man wearing a dark suit keeps taking advantage of his seated position, her Bunny tail right at eye level. He flicks it every time she looks away and then winks at the man to his side. She stays professional and cool, ignoring his behavior as she makes notes on a napkin. Then, when she turns away, the older man grabs her ass cheek with a rough squeeze, the flash of an expensive golden watch peeking out from under his shirtsleeve.
The Bunny doesn’t yelp like I expect her to, which is telling in and of itself. How often must she put up with this sort of violation? The rules must be strict on keeping quiet and not insulting the patrons. Though she doesn’t verbally protest, she does move away smoothly and swiftly, like it’s a step in a well-practiced choreography.
The two men elbow each other, and the older one reenacts the grab in midair as the woman walks away. She seems cool and collected, but maybe it’s a sign of her nerves that she drops her pen. She bends at the knees and dips to the ground, snagging it, then stands, smoothing the fabric at her abdomen and scanning the room to see if anyone noticed.
I should avert my gaze, look away so she doesn’t think I’m ogling her like the rest of the men, but I’m so far across the room and it’s dark, so it’s not likely she can see me. But then she tilts her head over her bare shoulder, revealing her face. She looks directly at me, as though I’m the only man in the entire room.
My heart stops.
I know that girl.
The lashes and blue eyeshadow are different, the ears and the black tights as well. But her eyes, those I can’t forget, literally cannot no matter how hard I’ve tried.
“Betty?” I whisper to myself, half rising from my seat, wondering if I’m seeing things. She rushes through a curtained exit, leaving me in a state of puzzlement.
“You owe me a dance,” Martha says, tugging at my bicep. Tony is back at the table with another drink in hand. Hollinger orders another round as the music slows.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” I say, looking past Martha toward the mystic partition where the girl who looks like Betty disappeared.
“I don’t really care,” she says, yanking on my arm.
“You gonna make her drag you?” Tony looks at me as though something’s wrong with me.
“No, no. I . . . I would love to.” I offer Martha my arm as we make our way onto the dance floor. I try to keep my feet in time with the beat, enjoying the playful rhythm of the pianist.
Even the liberal strain of improvised jazz gives the musician no more than eighty-eight keys on the piano, twenty-four musical keys, three or four instruments playing together in an attempt to make something not only good but also worthwhile. In jazz there are rules and then freedom within those rules. But not so with the rest of life. Don’t murder, but go to war. Don’t lust, but don’t be a prude. Protect women, but also hunt them. Money isn’t everything, only it absolutely is.
Martha knows how to dance, and though as a man I should be the one leading, I follow her guiding movements. Even in her heels, her head reaches no higher than my chest, and my long, gangly arms awkwardly encircle her waist. She’s not shaped like the women who work here, but she has a womanliness to her figure, pliable and enticing, especially when she leans in closer to whisper in my ear.
“That man has hands like an octopus. My lord.”
“Are you kidding me?” I whip around, my mind flooded with hot words heated not only by Tony’s brazen womanizing but also by what I saw happen to the girl I’m fairly sure is Betty.
“Shhh. It’s OK,” Martha says, regaining my attention, her lightly boozy breath caressing my neck. “Not sure what kind of business will get done here tonight. It’s all so . . . distracting.” She gestures to the dolled-up women in the room. “They seem to forget I’m not one of these laughably desperate girls, shaking my ass for attention. But I’m not. I’m a producer, dammit.”
I think of Betty, that man’s hand, how she looked like a wild creature stuck in a trap rather than a woman in a costume. But Betty isn’t desperate, or at least she doesn’t seem to be when I watch her through the camera’s lens at work.
Martha can’t know about Betty. She already despises our daytime show, and to find out our host is a Playboy Bunny . . . I’m not sure she’d recover from it. Does Hollinger know? Is that why we came here tonight?
I check the rear table again and see the outline of a Bunny. She’s not standing anywhere as close to the old man as before, a wise decision no doubt. But is it Betty?
“You OK?” Martha checks my line of focus. The Bunny turns her head, laughing at something one of the men at the table said.
It’s not her. It’s not Betty. Was the whole thing a trick of the shadows and scotch?
Then the velvet curtain to the kitchen sways for a moment before a redheaded Bunny explodes out from behind it. A form stands in the darkness, blond, wearing pink satin. Then, the figure is gone.
Martha glares in the redheaded Bunny’s direction, noticing my preoccupation with the back of the room.
“Ugh. Men.” She huffs and rolls her eyes, and as the song ends, she rushes back to her seat, where she gulps down a full glass of freshly poured champagne.
The rest of the night she has no interest in talking to me. The men at either side of us have swapped positions, and we both dive into the same conversations we had earlier. Where are you from? What show are you working on? Oh, the cooking one? That little blond girl—she’s great.
As the night rolls on and Martha starts to slouch beside me, the room blurs with each drink. And it becomes clear—and no one, not even Martha can deny it—that Betty is our star. She’s the reason WQRX is making a dime. She’s the pure, charming model of what a woman should be like.
And as Mark and I escort Martha to her room, keeping her upright as she trips up the wide-set stairs, my arm around her waist for the second time this night, she stares up at me while Mark works her lock.
“We have to give them what they want, don’t we?”
“Yeah, I think we do,” I say, hoping she remembers at least some of what she’s saying in the morning because Martha has to bury her resentment toward Betty if we’re going to find a way to move forward.
“Damn it,” she says, her green eyes glistening from a gathering of tears. A drop escapes and slides down her cheek. I catch it with my fingertips and brush it away, wishing I could do the same for all of the problems with our show—her show.
“Got it,” Mark says as the door pops open.
I attempt to help Martha over the threshold, but she pats my chest, slips her feet out of her dressy shoes, and picks them up. Stepping into her room, she retrieves her key from Mark, thanks us both, and promptly slams the door in our faces.
“Well, that wasn’t exactly how I thought the night would go,” Mark says, blinking rapidly, staring at the closed door.
