Part 12 (1/2)

”Are you sure you want to let it out of the family?”

”You're my family now, baby. You're my future.”

Chapter Thirteen.

If nothing came of Helen's proposed cavalcade of stars, at least she'd made friends with Marty. They were almost inseparable when Cory was away. Shopping, dining, and even an occasional night of just two girls sitting around and shooting the bull over c.o.c.ktails. Marty was fun, but brutal with her exercise, especially when she needed to burn some calories.

In Marty's living room, Helen dropped to the floor, exhausted from their tyrannical workout. She panted and coughed. Her hair was plastered to the sides of her face. Sweat streamed down her back, between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, down the back of her shorts. Vast wet spots soaked her underarms. She wiped her face with a towel, coughed again, and stared at the hardwood floor. Marty stretched onto her back and continued with cool-down exercises.

It took all her remaining energy for Helen to ask the big question. ”Are we sweating or glistening?”

Marty laughed. ”We smell like the Bronx Zoo. My guess is sweating.”

”Thanks,” she mumbled and watched Marty, who was obviously not sharing Helen's near-death experience. ”How can you do this day after day?”

”It's my life, sweetheart.” She lifted both knees from the floor toward her chin, lowered them, and repeated the exercise several times. ”Gotta do it to dance.” She stopped and took a deep breath. ”What do writers do to keep their fingers in shape?” She made crawly spider motions with her hands.

”h.e.l.l, I still don't know how to type.” Helen wiped her face again. ”My eyes dart around that keyboard like I'm watching a miniature tennis match.”

”Really? Tiny Martinas and Gabriellas battling from A to L. Come on.” She grunted, pushed herself up, and yanked Helen to her feet. ”Let's get some fluids back into us.”

Helen plopped onto the kitchen chair and chugged her gla.s.s of orange-pineapple juice. She then dangled her arms, resigned to exhaustion. ”Just shoot me now.” She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. ”I must have a death wish. I've been doing this for three weeks with you. This isn't a friends.h.i.+p. This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

”You'll live. Besides, we need you.” Marty took a Salem from the pack on the table, lit it, and inhaled deeply. ”Do you mind?” she asked and blew out the smoke.

”No. What do you mean? Who needs me?”

She dragged again. ”People listen when you talk. Do you realize that?”

”Well, yes, otherwise I wouldn't have a column. What people are you referring to?”

”The gang. Us. That group of dummies you sliced your wrists for. We're selling our souls for you, sweetheart. Hasn't anyone called you?”

”No,” she said, dumbfounded from the sudden news.

”It figures. They think everybody can read their minds. Stardom does it.” Marty scratched vigorously at her scalp. ”I need a shower.”

”I can see that. Now tell me what's going on!”

Marty tapped ashes into the ashtray. ”We figured you would take care of all that.”

Helen threw her arms into the air. ”All of what? I didn't even know-” The phone rang.

”I'll be right back.”

”I don't believe this,” Helen said with disgust to the empty kitchen. Then she sighed. ”I seem to spend a lot of time lately talking to empty rooms or condiments. Or myself.”

Marty returned, in a flurry of excitement. ”I have to run out.” She shoved a towel and facecloth into Helen's hand. ”Grab a shower. I'll be back soon.”

”Marty!”

”Later,” she said while trotting down the hallway. The front door slammed shut.

Helen found the bathroom, stripped, and studied her body in a mirrored wall. Sideways, definitely her favorite angle because she couldn't see the width of her hips, which weren't so bad except in her own mind. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were still firm and her thighs were holding up well.

A light birthmark, the shape of a quarter rest, near the top of her right thigh reminded her that Cory would return from Atlanta tomorrow. She touched the mark and smiled. Cory often rested there. Helen missed her with her constant traveling, but if the symphony decided to accept her as maestro, she would settle in or around Boston and then they would deal with how to be together. At least she wouldn't be gallivanting all over the world.

During her shower, Helen remembered one of the many discussions they'd had concerning Cory's relocation.

One particular conversation had taken place in the music room, when Helen had quietly opened the door and carried a tray inside. Cory, who was deep into practice, had been at the piano for two hours and Helen had decided it was time to break.

Cory's nose suddenly twitched. She raised her head to the aroma of fresh-baked bread. She continued playing but the delicious smell grew stronger, too strong to blow off as the neighbor's air escaping into her apartment. Helen knew what Cory was thinking: Had her Helen, her non-cooking, potato-nuking Helen, actually broken out the flour and eggs? Helen carried the lip-smacking, mouthwatering snack closer. Cory stopped playing, turned, and her eyes lit up like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Plaza.

”Yes!” She squealed when she saw a tray that bore freshly baked bread tucked snugly into a wicker basket. Fresh orange slices nestled with kiwi and b.u.t.tery morsels of Swiss and Cheddar cheese.

Helen remained straight-faced. ”Yoko dropped this off,” she said, and Cory smiled. ”She said to fatten you up.” Helen placed the tray on the back of the grand piano and Cory followed.

”Did Yoko send any messages?” Cory asked nonchalantly and then tore into the steamy loaf.

”Yes.” Helen thought. ”Something about a walrus and an egg man.” She watched Cory struggle to control a laugh. ”And then she pointed to the kiwi and said 'Give these a chance.' What do you suppose it means?”

Cory sighed, nodded, and fed Helen a creamy chunk of Swiss cheese. ”The first part is top secret, but the second part”-she swept her eyes over Helen's face-”means you have flour all over your pretty little cheeks.”

Helen looked at her reflection on the piano and saw nearly enough flour to make a small pretzel. ”Before Yoko left she yanked a huge powder-puff out of her sleeve and slammed it into my face.” She brushed off the flour with a napkin. ”It was the strangest thing. She likes slapstick, is my guess.”

Cory was beside herself with laughter. She raised her finger to the air in emphasis. ”Ah, yes. That's Yoko's 'You gotta move to Boston' powder-puff slamming.”

”You'll have to relocate,” Helen said.

Cory munched an orange slice. ”I wouldn't mind supporting you if you wanted to get back to your book.”

”I love you, but I'm not so sure I want to move to Boston. My life is here.”

”You could change that.”

”So could you. Stay in New York.”

And so it would go each time.

Rejuvenated by a cool shower and donning fresh clothes, Helen wrapped a towel around her hair. In her search for Marty, she checked the living room and kitchen, but Marty was nowhere in sight. Back down the hallway, she headed toward an open door and peeked into a bedroom.

”Marty?” No answer.