31
It wasn’t 15 minutes after Sam had gathered up her notebook and her bag and scooted out like a scalded cat that Big Gloria crossed her arms across her ample chest and narrowed her eyes at another woman tripping down the hall. Well, looka here. At least Miss Kewpie Doll had the right floor this time if she was going to drag out that tired story about being a hostess looking for Miss New Jersey.
“May I help you, ma’am?” Big Gloria put on her Southern accent like it was a Sunday-go-to-meeting frock. She wasn’t above camping it up to keep herself amused.
Miss Kewpie Doll opened her mouth. She was wearing the same pale lipstick as before, outlined dark, and a flowing purple silk shirt above skintight black pants and black catch-me do-me pumps. All of a sudden she recognized Gloria from their earlier encounter on the 18th floor, and her mouth fell shut.
It crumpled at the corners, and big tears filled her eyes.
Big Gloria had seen that look more than once. This woman’s heart was broken. Oh, shoot. As if Big Gloria didn’t have enough on her plate. But she found herself reaching out for Kewpie. “Sugar pie, what’s wrong with you? What has that old booger gone and done?”
That was all it took. Miss Kewpie Doll, who actually was and always had been Darleen Carroll, dissolved in Big Gloria’s arms.
“Every time I turn around, he’s gone, and when he’s there, he’s whispering on the phone,” Darleen sobbed. “It makes me feel like dog doo-doo. He’s screwed around before, but never right in my face. He doesn’t even have the common decency to hide it anymore. And I’m embarrassed that I even care.”
Darleen’s black mascara tracked lava flows down her cheeks. She reminded Big Gloria of Tammy Faye Bakker, the wife of that TV evangelist.
Big Gloria took Darleen by the arm and led her into a maid’s room, plopped her down on a big trolley of clean white cotton sheets, and said, looking at Darleen closely, “Didn’t I see you that day at the pool?”
“What day?” Darleen wailed.
“Tuesday, when my Junior almost drowned.” Darleen’s tears had made Gloria forget she was never going to remind anyone of that incident again.
“Oh.” Darleen stopped her sobbing and gave Big Gloria her full attention. “That was your son?”
Gloria handed her a clean washcloth with Monopoly embroidered on it, white on white. “Junior. Uh-huh. He’s a good boy really, but half the time I want to kill him. Be glad you got yourself a girl. Girls are easier.”
“That’s what you think. That was your son at the pool? Rachel Rose can’t stop talking about him.”
“No, don’t tell me. The pretty little blond girl who was at the pool?” The one who Junior said he’d been with Tuesday night. This woman’s daughter was Junior’s alibi.
“That’s the one,” said Darleen, and the two women sat and stared at one another for a long moment.
“My son and your daughter,” Big Gloria said finally. “Oh, Lord.”
“Oh, Lord is right.” Darleen, smiling a little now, reached over and gave Big Gloria’s arm a squeeze. “I think Rachel Rose is showing her mom’s good taste, but her daddy—”
Big Gloria still didn’t have a clue who Darleen’s husband was, had no idea that he was the emcee of her favorite game show. “He’s gonna kill her, right?”
“Right.”
“And you want to kill him?”
Darleen ran her cat-pink tongue along her teeth as if to test their sharp edges. “I want to cut his liver out and eat it for breakfast.”
“Over this Miss New Jersey? Is that really who you’re looking for, honey?”
“Over lots of Miss New Jerseys. She’s just the latest in a long line.”
“God, I hate that. My husband, Junior’s father, was famous for his tomcatting.”
“And you married him anyway?”
“Well, you know how it is. You don’t think he’s gonna be slipping around on you.”
“Isn’t that the truth?”
They both stared off into the distance for a few minutes. Then Big Gloria reached into the pocket of her uniform and pulled out a pack of Kools. She offered one to Darleen.
“No, thank you. I stopped a long time ago.”
“Me, too,” said Big Gloria, lighting up.
“Though maybe…”
Gloria lit one, handed it to her, and they smoked and thought about the men in their lives. Then Big Gloria blew a series of three perfect smoke rings.
“Neat.”
“I know lots of neat tricks.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Oh—I’m real handy.” Big Gloria held her cigarette out at arm’s length and studied its tip, considering—“I’m good at painting, plumbing, plastering. I do dry wall, a little electrical. What I really love is fine cabinetry.” Just saying the words brought the feel of the smooth wood to her hands. That’s what she was going to do, the first thing, when she got to New Orleans. Buy herself some wood and build Aunt Beautiful something. Then see about setting herself up in some kind of building business. Not have to ever talk to crazy people again. Just saw and hammer and glue and plane, that clean smell of wood filling her head, get Junior in some kind of program, teach him a skill, too, he’d have something to fall back on, help him get himself through college. Now that was an idea.
“Dear God,” said Darleen. “Do you really?”
“Really what, honey?”
“Do you really know how to do all those things?”
“Sure do. I don’t get much of chance around here, except at my own house.”
“I’m an interior designer,” Darleen said brightly. “In Newport Beach.”
Big Gloria nodded. She didn’t have a clue where Newport Beach was or that it was inhabited by thousands of Republicans with more money than good sense whose second or third wives had lots of time on their hands for things like nail wrapping, body sculpting, and—when they finished with their bods—redoing their houses.
“I have a terrible time finding good people to help me,” said Darleen carefully.
“Really?” Big Gloria lowered her chin and exhaled through her nose.
“The weather’s nice in southern California all year long,” said Darleen. “So there’s hardly ever a day a person—a person who wants to work—can’t.”
“You don’t say?” It was beginning to sound to Gloria like all of a sudden there was more than one option in this world for a person who was handy.
“Especially a talented person.”
“What about an especially talented person who has the keys to Miss New Jersey’s room?”