My volume raises another octave as I describe once again my vision for the decor theme to be implemented for tonight’s Golden Golden Gala to Blanche Adams.
While I do appreciate her last-minute idea to transform the event into a Jane Austen tribute, it is giving me a mental seizure. I find myself doing Rae’s “you give me a migraine” hand to temple motion before sending Blanche on an important mission to retrieve electrical tape. This will occupy her for hours, but it also means I am left to complete the last-minute details by myself. Rae conveniently trundled out of here at two for a hair appointment and will not reappear until everyone is in attendance so she can make a regal entrance in a radiant gown that supposedly once belonged to Oprah. She bought it online and made a big to-do about its level of luminance. We all have our doubts but will praise her nonetheless. And I have my special glasses just in case it is indeed a ten on the scale of brightness.
In my arms I hold reams of gold lamé. It is the volume and style of fabric that would incite fear in any woman who has ever been a bridesmaid. But as a table covering and a display draping, it turns out to be perfect material. Only two more of the dining tables need to be covered, and then I plan to affix some to the exhibit table, where I have arranged large photos of Golden Horizons and its residents during each of its decades of existence. Beside each main black-and-white image, I have placed a photo album containing more images, menus, activity programs, and other paraphernalia from that time period.
The large black-and-white photos had been Angelica’s idea. She had just returned from a conference where they had displayed large images of people before and after taking the newest medication. Though I found this disturbing, I was able to envision how it could work perfectly for this event.
I have not yet called Angelica, though she left a couple of messages. Just the thought of replaying the incident at Majestic, to Angelica no less, was too much to bear. I needed to throw my thoughts and energy into this event. Prior to my on-site spasm, I secretly dreamed that the Golden Anniversary party would be my send-off…I could go out with a bang before transitioning into my new life. Now the success of this event is necessary because it is all I have. The perspective shift leaves me flat.
I look around at my surroundings and can plainly hear a line from a favorite movie…Jack Nicholson leaves his peers in the psychiatrist’s waiting room with poisoned food for thought. “What if this is as good as it gets?”
“Mari dear, I’m ready for a hand here.” Tess is at the far end of the grand room, where she has agreed to display some of her finest garments from the 1950s. As I approach her and her work, I am utterly in awe. It is breathtaking. The entire expanse of the wall is decorated with dresses pinned to look captured mid-dance, shoes dainty and intricate dangle from nylon thread anchored to the ceiling, and several mannequins I borrowed on a whim from Caitlin have been transformed either into tiara-adorned princesses or sophisticated figures clutching sequined clutches, umbrellas, and dog leashes with stuffed toy poodles attached.
“Oh, Tess…I do believe you have saved me from certain mediocrity tonight.” I praise the lovely woman still hemming a Bob Mackie gown the color of raspberry sherbet. “I had no idea you could do such things.”
“Darling, haven’t I ever told you that I was a window dresser for Saks?” She bats her made-up eyes and grins the smile that only cherished secrets can inspire.
“You left that out of our many conversations. I don’t know why I just assumed—”
“I was a spoiled debutante turned spoiled housewife?”
“That would be it. Well, except you forgot the ‘turned spoiled resident’ part.”
“I’m ashamed of you, Mari. You know me so well and yet you really thought I was among the idle rich? Me?” Tess bites off the bit of string remaining after the knot has been secured. “I was rich, but never idle.”
One of the biggest joys in this job is discovering who these people have been and what they have accomplished in a lifetime. Against popular opinion, this place is not a place of lamented regrets. Except perhaps that there is not more time to live good lives. Just when I thought Tess couldn’t surprise me anymore, she silences me with her still-agile hands and creative flair.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are one classy dame?” I help her hang the last gown and adjust it to look as though the wind has caught the hemline. A fan on the far left side of the display oscillates and catches the edges of various garments from the poodle skirt to the evening ball gown. It is as if they are dancing to a song not yet written. I tell her this.
“Actually, I’ve been told that I’m the classy dame.” Her frail hand rises to cover her mouth as she laughs. “I love that idea…about the song not yet written. Every display I have ever created always had an element of whimsy. An unknown that was meant to invite the viewer into the scene with their ideas and interpretations. In a way, I have always invited people to offer a bit of their personal, evolving song to accompany the visual. I do love how you think, Mari.”
We both stand and face her creation, mesmerized and transported to a time when elegance was incorporated into a lady’s lifestyle, no matter how rich or poor. I know the event is going to be enjoyed by all the residents, and I cannot wait to tell Rae that I did not use one idea from Beau’s file. In fact, after tonight, I do believe that talk of Beau’s great feats will be no mo’. There is room for only one of our songs…and this chorus is mine.
Tess’ eyes still sparkle as she turns to face me directly for the first time this evening. “Mari, you look beautiful. Didn’t I tell you that dress was made for you? If Rudy Mangione were alive, I’d be sending him a picture of his dress finally on the right person. Gisele insisted that we get a photo together before the night is through.”
“I’d love to.” I twirl once so the dress mimics those on display. “It is an honor to be wearing this, Tess. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Just think how I would feel if one of my evil stepdaughters discovered that I have this collection.” Trouble passes over her face as quickly as a cloud in the breeze. The sun shines brightly on the other side of her unhappy memory. “You have given me happiness by accepting a few items this past year.”
We both tear up some. Then she says, “Are you trying to ruin my freshly applied mascara? Now stop that. I have to go get my dress on so I can show you up.” Gathering her sewing kit items, Tess heads toward her corridor. Before she is too far away, she turns with a look of hope on her face. “Please tell me that a gentleman friend will be here to accompany you tonight. I see you dancing with a special boy in that dress.”
I blush, more from personal disappointment than embarrassment. “No. You know me, Tess…I’m waiting for just the right one to deserve me and this dress.” I say this as a flip fill-in comment, but as I finish the sentence, I know it is exactly how I feel.
“Good girl. When it comes to love, it really is hip to be square. Waiting for the real thing will never go out of fashion.”
Her words give me comfort and hope. It is the real thing I am after. The kind my parents have. I think of them for the first time since my social intervention. I check my watch; there isn’t time to call them. It seems I only think to communicate with my family when it is not convenient to do so. It is convenient for excuses, however.
A loud cymbal clangs and sends thunderous echoes down the hallway. I’m pulled from my guilty thoughts gladly. Running as quickly as my floor-length dress allows, I have a near collision with a man and his runaway cymbal.
“You rang?” I try to lighten the mood as I can see he is feeling foolish.
“Hi. I’m Rick…with the band. We’re here to set up, if that’s okay. Actually, we are not really a band, just guys who love playing jazz. It’s our buddy who has the contact here.” He straightens his jacket, which looks three sizes too big.
Great. They aren’t even a real band. “That would be Rae.”
“No, his name is—”
“Rae is my supervisor and the one who apparently thought a love for jazz was a good enough résumé.” I interrupt him with my attitude. Thankfully he is still flustered from his trip down the hallway, so I have a chance to snap out of my mood. “Over there you’ll see a small stage behind the area marked off as the dance floor. If you need any additional cords or outlets, let me know. I’ll be finishing up some last details here before I go check on the catering staff. I’m Mari.”
Rick nods, shakes my hand, and gives me a thumbs-up. I sense he is about as comfortable with social gatherings as I am. With a cymbal under each arm he makes his way over to the stage. As I finish my work I notice the arrival of the three other members of the band—a pianist, saxophonist, and base guitarist.
In between warm-up songs I am about to request “Moon River,” but as I look their way, Rick is very blatantly pointing me out to the pianist. The pianist happens to be quite cute. His dark curls, brown eyes, and olive skin are just my type. No wonder I was fine with surfer-blond Peyton’s friendly rejection of me.
My face grows warm, this time from embarrassment, and I hurry off to check with the caterers. One more glance at my watch reminds me that it is almost showtime and there is still no Rae to be seen. On my way to the kitchen I spot several eager beaver residents who are dressed and migrating toward the grand room.
“Sorry, folks. I need you all to remain in the commons area or your rooms for another half hour. But I must say, you make for quite a dazzling crowd. If I didn’t know better, I would think this was your prom.” They smile and begin to reminisce about past occasions and events as they reluctantly about-face.
Pretty piano boy crosses my path on his way from the drinking fountain. I want to ask him if he would like a pitcher of water for his band, but when I see his face, I forget the word for water…and pitcher…and that leaves little to work with.
He stands and dabs his tie, which has a few raised droplets on the silk. The watermark is soon obvious. He keeps smearing the water, so now large streaks are evident.
I reach into my matching clutch and remove a handkerchief. “May I?” This sentence requires two words I am able to recall in the presence of cuteness. Now, if my hands will stop shaking, I can help the man.
“Thank you. Good thing they hide me behind the piano, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I would.” I laugh and keep dabbing at his chest. “Whose the leader of this non-band anyway? I’d like to thank him for this. I mean, for hiding you behind the piano.”
“That was a self-imposed sentence. I’m the sort-of leader of the sort-of band. I got the guys together as a favor to Rae.”
I’m shocked by this, though I shouldn’t be. Rae is good at networking with handsome men. Often they are pretty boys (case in point) but are usually much more petite. I stop dabbing at him, and he takes the cloth from me to give it a try.
“Rae?” I squeak out. I quickly try to recall if I have said anything derogatory about her in his presence.
“When she told me about this great night, I was more than happy to make the trip. I’m rather fond of it here.”
“Oh, are you a Phoenix band?” I consider asking him if he knows the Doo-Wops, but I think better of it.
“I’m a Tucson boy who has relocated to Phoenix. For now, anyway.”
“What is it that you do? I mean, when you aren’t a sort-of band leader.”
“Mari!” I hear Lysa calling from the kitchen. She has begged me not to leave her alone with catering-related decisions, and I have clearly abandoned her.
“I’m sorry. I must go. You’re nice. Your band…I mean, it’s nice. Thanks for being here.”
Piano man watches me as I back up down the hall and then finally duck into the kitchen to save Lysa from difficult dilemmas, such as arugala vs. iceberg or spiced red potatoes vs. mashed. After much convincing, I persuade the chef that when you are serving people over the age of seventy, bland is haute cuisine. He looks insulted but instructs his staff to follow this advice.
By the time Lysa and I have finalized all last details, the musician is gone. But Rae is wobbling down the hallway toward me. Her brisk steps on stiletto heels is comical. As she steps out of the hall shadows and into the brightness of fluorescent lights, we are able to take in the dress in its full, glittery glory.
“Uh-oh. She ordered Oprah’s comforter by mistake.” Lysa giggles this into my ear before the unfortunately dressed woman is within earshot.
Rae glances into the grand room on her way toward us. “Are you going to finish decorating?”
This is a perfect Rae kind of comment. She makes her dislike known without blatantly putting a person down. I’m sure this has saved her from many former-employee lawsuits over the years. There is never enough solid evidence of abuse, only the lingering sock-in-the-gut feeling of disappointing a person over and over.
“Wow. Some dress, Rae. Some dress.” I am as polite as possible. “Your musician is here…what’s his name? Your friend?”
Rae bares her teeth at me. She is braying like a mute mule. Lysa looks at me and then we both smile at her. “Pretty smile…for a pretty dress,” I offer in a tone like Cruella the Gruel Slogger.
Her lips close like a steel trap. “No. I want you to check for lipstick on my teeth.”
She stretches her lips once again; this time Lysa looks away. I nod in the affirmative and Rae smiles pleased as punch. She walks fitfully away from us.
“So just to be clear…a nod can mean ‘yes, your smile is clean.’ Or it can mean ‘yes, in fact you do have maroon smeared across your jagged front teeth.’ Right?”
I bray at her and largely mouth, “Thawt wooold be cawrect.”
My feisty good mood could be inspired by “the boy” or the fact that I sent Rae out into the limelight with purple teeth. But I believe it is a bubbling sense of faith that tonight is going to turn out just as it should.