Chapter 4

I would give my fame
for a pot of ale and safety.
William Shakespeare

“Harpo’s Production schedule for the Oprah Show goes from August to November and then tapes again from January to April,” Kari says. We’re meeting during Bette’s break at the assisted living site, where soft couches invite visitors who often don’t come. The air conditioning blasts its way into the room. Each of us brought hoodies even though it’s close to ninety degrees outside. Mrs. Johnson lift-rolls by with her walker. She waves at us, and the hot pink flag at the top of a stretched-out coat hanger bobs before her as she turns the corner.

“I just love Mrs. Johnson,” Darlien says. “When I’m that old, I want to be that active too, walker or not.”

“You’ll have to eat more than burgers and fries,” Bette says. “They’re all pretty self-sufficient. And you wouldn’t believe some of the things they’ve done in their lives. A former trapeze artist, teachers, policemen, bricklayers. It’s a pretty cool place to work. If I were forty years older I’d have a ready-made matchmaking site for myself.”

“You ought to sign up for a finance class or something,” Darlien says. “You could meet men there.”

“I meet men at church and some of the grandchildren of residents here, but there haven’t been any bells and whistles.”

“When the time is right,” I tell her. “It’ll happen.”

“Some of these residents could be featured on one of Oprah’s shows—they’re that interesting. Speaking of which, we better sign up for tickets now,” Bette says.

“What would be the value of being in Oprah’s audience?” Misty asks. Misty’s son, Norton, is with her today, and he’s in deep discussion with a man as slender as a nail, with silver hair and arthritic knuckles. His fingers hold Norton’s toy truck as though it’s a human heart. Norton points out various parts to Silver Nail’s interest. Children are so intensely attentive.

“We’ll see how the show works and get inspired. Maybe during the commercial space we’ll talk with a producer, give them Sentence, maybe link it quickly to the dog in prison program,” Bette says. “Producers stand off to the side during cuts. I’ve seen them on camera sometimes when they slip back just as the program returns to live.”

“I don’t think what we see is live. They tape it, I’m sure,” Misty says.

“Ambush a producer?” Darlien asks. “They must have security people. I bet they won’t even let us out of our seats. Arrest us as we walk forward or remove us. I would.”

“Why?”

“Have you looked at us in a mirror? We’re pretty scary looking,” Darlien says. “Even if we leave the algae mask at home.”

“If you have to leave to go to the bathroom,” Misty says, “I hear you can’t come back in to the studio. And no photographs. They might even confiscate our cell phones.”

“I don’t see how they could do that,” Bette says. She wipes her hands on her apron. It must be one of her mother’s, with the little strawberry blossoms faded to pale pink. Or maybe one of the residents gave it to her. It’s right out of the 1940s. “Imagine getting the right cell phones back to people at the end of the show. A nightmare!”

“Look,” I tell them. “I’ve decided to go about this the same way I go about preparing to write a book. First I ask myself, what’s this story about?”

“That’s good,” Bette says. “I ask myself a version of that whenever I try a new recipe. It’s a good way to settle nerves from trying new things. So what is this whole affair with Oprah about would you say?”

“My intention is for Oprah to mention my book. It’s not a personal thing. I don’t really care if she knows who I am. I only want what her recognition of my story could do for the story and for the many readers who would be … nurtured by my work. They’d be encouraged and uplifted by such a gift.”

“Your intention is strictly selfless,” Misty says.

“Benevolent,” Bette agrees.

“I’ve written The Long Bad Sentence and Miranda as hopeful stories about love—sisterly love, young love, and the love of profession, which Miranda would have to leave behind if she chooses to remain with Jaime, in Barcelona. Can she trust him? He’s a policeman, yes, a noble profession, true, but even rogues are attracted to the passion of rescuing and saving others. They too love the limelight, the risk of the moment. He might not be the kind of man a steady preschool teacher like Miranda could keep happy, not to mention whether she can be happy in a country where she barely speaks the language. Change would be Miranda’s middle name if she stayed in Spain. Miranda isn’t good at change. Oprah’s readers understand a woman’s struggle with decisions. She triumphs with her readers when a character comes to terms with life as she knows it when a love affair dies. Miranda would be good for her readers. How’s that for a pitch?”

“I’m impressed,” Misty says. “But you skipped right over The Long Bad Sentence.”

“Right. Ok. It is my intention to get my latest book into Oprah’s hands so she’ll discover this wonderful story that could bring joy to her audiences. It’s not a healing story of abuse and broken hearts that Oprah is so known for, but a story about taking risks for love. But not just the love of a lover, but the love of occupation, of oneself. I mean, even Oprah chose her profession over a love life.”

“Yes!” High fives all around, our cheers wake a resident dozing by the window. He shouts, “Ice cream!”

“I’ll get you some, Benny,” Bette tells him.

“Both stories have happy endings, even if the boy doesn’t get the girl. The nurse in Long Bad lives a good life, even if it isn’t with the prison guard. And my story has a happy ending for Miranda, even if it isn’t a traditional ending. I can’t let Irving the Editor change Miranda’s final decision.”

“I’m glad we can help you with those revisions,” Bette says. “You’re sounding much firmer. You’ll be able to negotiate better with your new editor now. I was able to ask for a raise a few weeks ago after I thought about what my job contributes to the health of the residents. I’m not just a cook. I’m a nutrition consultant, maybe even a queen, with important subjects who need my guidance to make their way through The Kingdom of the Elders.”

“They accepted that argument?” Darlien asks.

“I didn’t share the queen part or the part about the kingdom. Catchy sound though, don’t you think, Annie? The Kingdom of the Elders. It could be the title to a book.”

“A kid’s book,” I agree, imagining the lovely illustrations that could go with such a title. “But I’m not so sure about the content.”

“Believing in the importance of what I’m doing made it much easier for me to make my request,” Bette said. “They didn’t grant the raise, but they said they’d consider it at my next evaluation, so I made progress. That’s all we really have control over, right? What we put forward?”

“And our attitude,” I add.

One of the assisted living center’s small dogs trots through the reception area, a red bow hanging askew from her little Pekinese neck. “We need to tell Kari to get tickets for the five of us, right?” Misty says. We nod agreement. “Okay. And Kari’s also thought of another plan. It has to do with dogs, Annie.”

“ ‘I will not go there,’ says the cat. ‘I will not go there, that is that,’ “ I say in my best Dr. Seuss voice.

“Live with risk,” Darlien opines.

“Dogs are always so busy huffing about and sniffing,” I say. “And John won’t like it. He’ll cough up more bezoars.”

As though prompted, the Pekinese trots over to me and puts her little paws up on my thighs. I stroke her fur. It reminds me of something … someone. Ah, Jaime’s mustache. The dog’s fur is as soft and dark as my Spanish paramour’s.

“I will not go there,” says the cat, “I will not go there, that is that.”

“It means you need to go to Chicago now,” Misty says.

“Bette’s still got time on her break.”

She nods, looking at the big clock on the wall. I wonder who here besides the staff cares about the time.

“Not right this minute, but by the end of the week,” Darlien says.

“I thought we’d all go down together for the show,” I say.

“That’s too long to wait. Kari’s got an idea that you can do now,” Bette says.

“Norton, please don’t ride on Mr. Benton’s wheelchair,” Misty says. “You can take the ball into the courtyard if you want, or you and he can read together. You decide.” Norton chooses Mr. Benton time. “Good job,” his mother tells him.

Good kid.

“Kari knows someone who works for someone who used to live next door to the artist who has painted portraits of all of Oprah’s dogs. The artist knows her former groomer, who has his own salon now. Oprah sometimes stops in there even though her current groomers come to her home. Kari says that’s a perfect way to meet up with Oprah … with a dog. All you have to do is get a pup and bring it to Chicago,” Darlien says.

They must have all been talking to Kari, since it didn’t sound like news to any of them.

“You’ll need a few days to get used to your dog, before you appear at the groomer’s. That’s what Kari thinks,” Darlien says. “You’ll acclimate well to canines, Annie. Managing a dog will be good practice for when you marry again and have kids.”

The Pekinese snaps at my fingers, unwilling to be the canine I rent for Chicago.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Bette says. “Here’s the We Care maintenance shirt. You can use my ID tag too —you’ll look more official.”

“For what?”

“For your foray into TMJ4 studios. The TV station. Remember? You’ve been called to fix a leaky toilet.”

I may as well get it over with before I have time to consider all the consequences. I’ll pretend I’m a fictional character with my blue shirt plus badge and black pants. I’ll return Bette’s lavaliere and ID when I’m done. I hope the receptionist is like me and rarely looks at the picture on the ID or the name, for that matter.

Darlien drives me to the studio but won’t come in with me. “I think it’s illegal for a cop to impersonate someone else,” she says, “unless they’re undercover. And maybe a little stupid.” When my eyes get large she says, “But I’ll come rescue you if they hit the alarm.”

“Right,” I say, picking up the pail with plunger and scrub brush that Bette loaned me. I have five paperback copies of The Long Bad Sentence in the bucket too.

I press the buzzer near the door and, instead of a voice asking me who I am and who I’m there to see, the door opens, and I approach the reception desk that’s surrounded by another set of locked half-doors, which makes the receptionist look like she’s sitting behind a jury box. I notice a man with a white cane tap-tapping his way to leather lounge chairs, talking with a friend. They apparently just signed in. I do that too.

“I’m here in response to a call about a broken toilet?” I say in my perfect up-end voice.

“Oh? Gosh, I guess I didn’t get that call. But go ahead. It must be the one at the end of the hall. It’s always giving us trouble.” She presses another buzzer and the gate opens and I walk through.

I can’t believe I’m in! It’s so easy. Two people in front of me chat as the one who appears to be a guide tells the other, “Here’s the green room. They come and mic you before you’re on.” I slow my walk down the corridor lined with signed photographs of the famous people and the news anchors and the hosts of Positively Milwaukee. I open that door on the left where guests wait to go on the air, smile at the waiting guest. I wipe down the coffee table with a rag, listen to the programming on the small television, and leave a book behind. The waiting guest doesn’t seem to notice me. A man rushes past me, introduces himself to the guests, and tells them the procedures and when they’ll be “miked” and on the air as I make my way down the hall to the next door. I’ll leave another book. Since I’m supposed to be fixing a toilet, I locate one and decide to use it.

“Hey,” a male voice says. “This is a pretty snazzy outhouse.”

“How’s that?” his comrade says. I hear a strange tapping and then the stall next to mine opens up. I lift my feet and sit as undisturbed as an empty toilet paper roll in a bachelor’s loft.

“All they’ve got is stalls. No urinals in sight. Feel that? Doors on ‘em. Privacy all the way. Here, let me help you with that.” Some clunking sounds, then, “Just hang it on the door.”

The second man thanks him amidst the clunking.

“Not the same as urinals,” he tells his friend. “I’ll be next door here.”

He pushes against my door held shut with both a latch and my raised feet. “Humph. Stuck.” He moves to a stall on the other side of his friend.

I’m in the men’s bathroom!

“When you can’t see a dang thing, everything’s an adventure.”

“Have to go see my doc when I get back home,” the voice coming from the stall on the other side says. “Check out my waterworks.”

This is what men talk about in the bathroom? Who knew?

I’m finished but I don’t dare move. Nor can I step out now and admit that I was in the wrong bathroom and that I’d been in here this whole time, eavesdropping. I can only hope they’ll hurry so I can get back out, leave the rest of my books and brochures, and disappear.

“Who do you see then? Doc Hutchins?”

“Naw. His associate. That new guy doesn’t look old enough to drive, but they say he’s good.” He starts to hum.

Will they be in here all day?

“Finished?” Clunking sounds again. “Let me help you out there. Oops.” I hear banging. Flushing sounds. A door opening and then action at the sink. “They got big mirrors and nice sinks in here too. Kohler faucets. Have you seen those commercials? Oh, sorry.”

“I listen to ‘em. Don’t always get the point though, unless someone tells me. But I hear there’s one with a blind guy in it kind of massaging the fixtures.”

“You ready to head back? You’ll be going on the air soon.”

I hear them open the door to the hallway and sigh in relief. I stand to finish up, then hear a woman’s voice, strident. “What are you two doing in here? This is the women’s bathroom.”

“It is? Well, I’ll be. No wonder it smelled so good,” one of the men says.

“So that’s why there were no urinals. Should have figured,” the other man says and they laugh.

“I can’t believe you didn’t figure that out,” the woman says. “Can you find your way back to the green room?”

“Oh yes,” they say. They’re still laughing while the woman takes the stall next to mine.

Again I lift my feet, squatting on the seat now so she won’t know I’m here because then she’ll know that I’ve been here the whole time while the men tended to their business! What would she think of me? I have to wait until she’s finished.

“Mom? It’s me, Ruth. Yes.” Pause. “Ok.” Pause. She’s on her cell phone! “Well, let me tell you. It’s quite a story. It started on Saturday.”

She might be in here forever. I have no choice.

“Maintenance!” I shout, flushing the toilet and making as much noise as I can. Then I slam through the door, spray water over my hands, run back into the stall to grab my bucket, and tear out of the restroom, where I run headfirst into an official-looking man in a beige shirt and dark, pressed slacks.

“Oh good,” he says. “I was looking for you.”

“You were? Did you see my book? I’m Annie Shaw.”

“Book? No. I need you in the men’s room. There’s a plugged toilet in there.”

I trail him to another men’s room, knowing I shouldn’t be allowed out on my own and definitely not in pursuit of a bestseller.

Darlien’s asleep in the car when I finally come out—toilet unplugged. I tell her what happened and she agrees that maybe it’s not a good idea to try the other stations in town, just send them a book and brochure instead. “You need to focus on getting to Chicago now anyway, to follow up on Kari’s connections.”

I return my costume and Bette’s ID and spend the rest of the day recovering from my bathroom repair work, writing down ideas that sink, don’t swim. I wonder if I should call Irving. I go on Facebook, then torture myself by reading the Amazon reviews of my books. I waste an hour.

My call to the Sunday school director telling her I have to be away for awhile leaves me feeling sad. “You’ll be so hard to replace,” she tells me. “The children really love you.”

“I love them back,” I say, and I try to think who I can ask to step in for me. Bette usually works on weekends; Darlien does too. Misty, maybe. “I’ll see what I can do about getting someone to take my place,” I tell her.

I call the school where I volunteer to tell them I’ll be gone for several weeks and write a letter to Buster, assuring him I’ll be back. I arrange when I can be in classrooms to help with writing projects once I return. It looks like the second half of the year will work best for them.

I call the site coordinator for the Reading Ready program.

“You always bring in such interesting children’s books,” Gracie tells me. “Your suggestions have certainly expanded our library collection. Some of the parents have asked for your recommended reading list.”

“Really? That’s nice.”

“You have a good eye for stories,” she says. “But I suppose that’s why you’re a writer. Maybe you ought to write a children’s book.”

She has no idea how difficult that would be.

I talk to my neighbor when I put the garbage out, and I pay my monthly bills. Through it all, Gracie’s words filter into my scattered brain, sticking tight as dental floss. A children’s book. It’s just another distraction.

John arches his back beneath my fingers as I sit once again before my computer. His purr soothes as he drapes across my lap. Tiny cat hairs lift into the afternoon sun.

I’ll miss those kids too. Even more than getting emails from happy readers, those children make me glad that I’m someone who loves words and books and wants to share them. I just couldn’t make Jaime understand. My Jaime, the real Jaime of Miranda of La Mancha. Maybe I should have used another name for him as the character in my book but somehow he will always be Jaime, the man I fell in love with and almost changed my life for.

It’s said that a publisher knows if a book will become a bestseller before it’s even released. This influences the size of the press run and how a publisher decides to promote that title ahead of time. Is it fate or happenstance or good writing that characterize the books that Oprah picks? “Maybe I should research all the past Oprah picks and see what they have in common,” I tell John. “You don’t think that’s a grand idea? No? I guess you’re right. I’m procrastinating. I’m being slothful. It will get me nowhere.”

John leaps from my lap and hunches over on the floor, coughing up yet another bezoar.

“I see you agree.”

From: Website Contact Form
To:Annie Shaw
From: Jessie Bennet
Wildman220@AmalgaU.edu

Dear Miss Shaw. I recently discovered your books on a cross-country flight. I’d finished the tome I’d brought along, re-read the scholarly journal I’d packed at last minute and, eschewing the in-flight movie, noticed instead what the woman sitting next to me was reading. It was Sweet Charity’s Rose. She laughed, cried, and smiled a lot. So when she finished it, saying, “Now that was a satisfying and fun read,” I asked if I could borrow it. Fortunately, I knew no one else on the flight so didn’t have to be embarrassed reading a woman’s novel. Much to my surprise, I loved the book. Moreover, my seat companion and I discussed the book and your clever use of gardening metaphors and we discovered a mutual interest in botanical things. We also commented on the number of other people reading your book in the airport and on the plane, which is certainly good publicity for you. I hope the book continues to do well. We’ll look for others. Oh, and my seatmate and I are now seeing each other on a steady basis, so you see where your fine literary piece has taken us.

With gratitude,
Jessie Bennet, Associate Professor