Molly was at the zoo. The animals were having cocktails: martinis and highballs and manhattans and sidecars.
A sudden banging drove the animals away. And a door opened, letting in an angry bright light. “Excuse me! Sorry!” said a man. He instantly pulled the door shut.
Molly lay in the dark, wide awake now. She’d been dreaming. Of course. She had fallen asleep. But where was she? There seemed to be a party in the next room, not animals but people. This was not home. Was she still dreaming? Was she drunk? There was a mild ache in her head, but she did not feel tipsy.
She slowly sat up. A big window hung over the bed. Outside the window hung an enormous building full of more windows, most of them dark. And she remembered: she was in Manhattan, visiting her son Caleb for his birthday party.
What a night. What a pack of chatterboxes. She felt like she’d been talking to people ever since she arrived. She rubbed her jaw to make sure it was still there. Well, they did the talking. All she had to do was listen.
She was reluctant to go back outside, but her daughter should be here by now. Once she said hello to Jessie, she could say good-bye and go home. She hoped it wasn’t too late.
She opened the door and peeked out. The party still sputtered and fussed. She slipped around the corner into the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face and freshened her lipstick, so she wouldn’t look like an old souse. She was confused by the heaviness of her purse until she remembered why. She felt silly for keeping the purse with her, as if someone would steal it. But you never knew who might show up at a New York City party. Not that she didn’t trust Caleb’s friends, but what about friends of friends?
She came back out to the living room. There were no familiar faces left, except for Jack, the bartender with pirate earrings.
“Molly. Where have you been?”
“Hello, Jack. Just needed to rest my eyes. I was going to help clean up before I went home, but this thing isn’t over yet, is it?”
“Oh no, it’s going to go for a while. Irene left two hours ago.”
“Two hours ago?” Molly said worriedly. “What time is it?”
“After one.”
“Oh for pete’s sake.”
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” teased Jack. “This’ll probably go on until four or five.”
Caleb came over. “Mom. Hi. You feel better after your nap?”
“Do you know what time it is?” she scolded. “Why did you let me sleep? Why didn’t you wake me? I got to get home.”
“It’s too late to go home. You can spend the night. It won’t kill you,” he pleaded. “Oh, Jessie’s finally here.”
“Jessie?”
“My sister. Your daughter.”
“I know who she is! Don’t be a smart-aleck. I’m still half asleep.” That’s right. She needed to see Jessie. To prove to her daughter that she loved her as much as she loved Caleb. Or some such nonsense. So now she was trapped for the night in this godforsaken city.
“I’ll go get her,” said Caleb. “Right back.”
“Would you like something to drink?” asked Jack.
“I’d love something, Jack. But I better not. My daughter’ll think I’m a lush. Just give me some seltzer.”
Jack poured her a glass of cold, bubbling soda water. Molly took it to the sofa and sat down. It was silly to worry that Jessie might think she was drunk. She couldn’t understand why she feared her children’s judgments. Was she such a terrible mother? Just because she never came into town to see her kids?
She impatiently waited for Caleb to return with his sister. Was Jessie refusing to come? What had Molly done wrong now?
“Excuse me? Do you mind if I sit here?”
A tall scarecrow of a man in a trim gray suit stood over her.
“It’s a free country,” she said.
But as soon as he sat she wished she’d said no. She did not need to have her ear talked off by another damn actor. And she should be saving the seat for Jessie.
“Nice party,” said the scarecrow.
“Very,” she replied.
And he said nothing more. Which was a wonderful change from all the other chatterboxes. She looked around for Caleb and Jessie.
A heavy, hairy fellow stood in front of the scarecrow. “Prager?” he said. “Kenneth Prager. You don’t remember me? Michael Feingold. The Voice? We keep meeting at previews.”
“Oh yes. Hi,” the man mumbled.
“I can’t believe you’re here. After you trashed Doyle’s play.”
“Doyle? What Doyle?”
“Caleb Doyle. Who wrote Chaos Theory.” He broke into a hearty laugh. “You didn’t know where you were? That’s a good one! Well, don’t worry. I won’t tell him.” He walked away, still chortling.
And the scarecrow just sat there, screwing his eyebrows together like a man trying to thread a needle, only there was no needle and thread in his hands.
Molly stared. It was him. The critic. The know-it-all critic who had destroyed her son’s show. Who had made Caleb so unhappy.
“You?” she said. “You write for the Times?”
He slowly faced her. “Kenneth Prager,” he said wearily. “Pleased to meet you.” He wore a small, pinched smile. He didn’t bother to hold out his hand or even ask her name.
“You,” she repeated. “You—!” Words tumbled from her brain to her tongue, so many words that she couldn’t begin to speak. She had to open her mouth wide just to make room. “What gives you the right to say a show is bad or a show is awful? Who voted you God?”
He lifted his chin and lowered two tired eyelids at her, as if she were an insect telling off an exterminator.
“You think Chaos Theory was awful? I know people who loved it. And I should know, because my son wrote it.”
“You’re the playwright’s mother?”
“Yes!” she said proudly. Now he would have to show some shame or guilt.
But his weary smile widened into a grin. He squeezed his eyes shut, then snapped them back open, as if he couldn’t believe this. The grin became a chuckle. He thought she was just a harmless old lady.
She opened her purse and reached inside. She would show him the service revolver that she’d tossed in there with her Kleenex and lipstick on her way out the door this afternoon. Just show it to him. That’s all. It would be enough to let him know she wasn’t harmless. Nobody in the world is harmless. You must always behave well and speak well in this life, because you never know who might be armed.