Her Backyard - Excerpt -
Chapter One
“Typical”, Audrey Beane grumbled, glaring out the window. “Another New York City downpour and no umbrella,”
she said to the taxi driver.
He shrugged.
A mover’s truck was jammed into the parking loop in front of her building. Cardboard boxes marked, Fragile, or,
This Side Up, littered the sidewalk. A drizzle from moments earlier had turned to a sudden hard rain. The light
tan color of the boxes quickly turned a darker, wet brown.
“Ain’t no room, lady. Youse gotta get out here,” the scruffy driver said.
“What about pulling...”
” Maybe you din’ hear me. Youse gotta get out here.”
Audrey checked the meter, pawed through her purse, and found the exact change. She opened her door and
tossed the money to the driver, who immediately noticed the lack of tip. She quickly slid out, slamming the door.
The yellow cab peeled away, its filth and smoke behind it, along with a retaliatory wave from a puddle that
splashed up just enough to get her strappy leather shoes soaked.
Ruined. No sense in running now. She refused to place her Gucci bag over her head - saving the purse instead
of her hairstyle by wrapping her coat around the bag and holding it tightly to her chest.
As she walked nearly half a block toward home, her new shoes squeaked, flopped and sloshed, their leather
straps wet and stretched. She noticed her breath was heavy, either from the unnatural gait, or simply from
steaming anger and irritation. Home might as well be a mile away. What a pathetic sight I am - hobbling around
like this. All right, what else today? It’s bad enough that the boss makes me go to lunch with that seedy auditor
so we’ll get a good report. Sexist pigs, both of them. Now this - the grand finale to a really bad week.
At the building entrance with a big awning overhead, she opened the door but was blocked from entering. A tarp-
covered piano was being moved out and she’d just have to wait in a tiny dry corner under the awning until it
passed through. Not! Could this burly Italian move any slower? Jesus.
“Come on, brain boy, figure out the right angle to wheel it out - I gotta get through here. Think you can handle
it?”
The mover glared at her for a long moment and looked away without responding.
“Look, Mister - I’m soaking wet, my shoes are ruined, and I’m freezing my ass off, and now you won’t let me in to
my own goddamn building. Move that thing!”
He looked at her, saying nothing. Shook his head.
“Do - you - MIND?” What is he, retarded?
He said something in Italian, under his breath - deadpan. Then he smiled at her, crookedly, slowly, showing off a
gold tooth. His curly wet head and hairy, tattooed arms - just everything about him - gave her the willies. Is he
making some sort of a threat? Bring it on. New York cops would love this.
“Back atcha, Guido.” She would have flipped him the finger if he turned to look.
Standing on the steps. Waiting. Waiting. Her watch said seven thirty five. She let out a deep sigh, hoping the
mover would hear it and catch a clue. No hurry. La-dee-dah. She watched. She waited.
The cell phone rang. Fumbling in her purse, she didn’t get to it on time. Too much crap - can’t find anything. She
threw her bag on the stoop and dumped out her cosmetic bag, cigarette pack, and checkbook to find the damn
thing at the bottom. So much for saving the bag from the rain, she thought, as the drops blew past sideways on
the steps and onto her beautiful bag. She flipped the phone open to see the caller ID. Her neighbor’s home
number appeared. Jesus, why does she do this to me?
She hit “call return” and Bella picked up.
“Well, it’s about time! You didn’t call me to tell me what I’m supposed to bring, Aud.”
“Bella, I get busy - you just have no idea. Besides, you’re not bringing anything. I told you - it’s no big deal. I
ordered something for delivery. Anyway, I’m right outside the building. Who’s moving out? I’m blocked getting in,
damn it.”
“The guy from 3C, you know, the cute one except for the sleepy eye. His sister works on the same floor as Mike
and she told him he got some record deal and he’s moving. It didn’t work out for him in Manhattan. Mike was
telling me they’re going this weekend to their cousin’s place in Lindenhurst until...”
Ugh, that thick, annoying New York accent again. What is that? Is she chewing gum, too? She goes on and on
and on. Doesn’t she know I don’t care? Who ARE these people she’s talking about?
“Mmmm hmmm. Right. Sorry, I gotta go,” Audrey interrupted. “I’m fighting this rain and can barely hear you. Let
me call you later.”
She scooped up her bag and all its contents and then turned her attention to the piano pushing Italian. “How
much longer?”
”Whoa lady - step aside and we’ll be through in no time,“ he said as he moved to the front of the piano to
straighten it out. He put all his hugeness into it. The piano inched diagonally. The opening was a tight crack, but
enough. Audrey squeezed through sideways between the door jam and the piano. She sprinted on her
barefooted toes, wet shoes hanging by their straps off her index finger. Half way down the corridor she heard
him call out, “Hey you! You got some hell of a nerve, Lady!”
She ignored him. Asshole.
Audrey turned the key in her mailbox in the lobby. Junk. And more junk. Disgusted, she dumped it all into the
hall trashcan, and dragged herself upstairs to her apartment.
Standing in the doorway, she dropped her shoes at her feet, and shuddered as she took in the sight. How the
hell will I fit a party in here? Two grand a month for a living room the size of a shoebox. And the kitchen - it’s like
being in a phone booth.
From the entrance to her apartment, every room was visible - the kitchen just a few steps inside, had a very
small refrigerator and old gas stove in plain view. The sink was filled with dishes, as usual. Visible atop the dirty
plates and glasses was a crusty pot that still had remnants of last night’s macaroni and cheese dinner.
To the right of the kitchen was the living room, with its eclectic decor of traditional family antiques and treasures,
elegant stained-glass lamps, and her large watercolor paintings on the walls, matted in spring colors behind
glass and ornate, brass frames. A side of Audrey was art-deco, so her living room also contained modern black
leather sofas, and a metal entertainment center with the finest stereo equipment, and a wide theater-style TV
set. The windows were decorated with burgundy, bold window treatments that criss-crossed over them.
Decorator vertical blinds covered in a matching floral fabric set off the curtains.
At least I try, she thought.
The apartment overlooked the gardens of the neighboring brownstones one street over. From her bedroom
window, she viewed someone else’s carefully pruned and blooming rosebushes, a container garden of green
plants, a chaise lounge chair on the brick patio, and a birdhouse in a maple tree - collectively a pretty scene she’
d painted in a watercolor picture the past summer.
Audrey was an artist. She painted as early as the days when she had a rubber-tipped baby spoon in her mouth,
and a yellow stain in her diaper. Somewhere in a box, high on a dusty shelf in a closet somewhere, are photo
albums of pictures that show a little girl with blonde curls and big blue eyes, smiling in a high chair, finger-paint
all over a page. Circles of blue, red, and yellow are mixed to make brown - the same brown all over that baby’s
nose, cheeks and ears. There’s a smile on her, like a Cheshire cat, except for no teeth, in a picture that tells the
story of a natural-born artist.
“Artists don’t get rich,” her father always told her. “Use your smarts and make a lot of money.” His mistake in life
was not finishing college, and he didn’t want Audrey to struggle as he had. Painting, for Audrey, became a
hobby, not a career.
She looked across the backyard to the brownstone and its lush garden. It’s an obviously better place than where
I’m living. Her herb garden on the fire escape was pretty pathetic looking, by comparison. Not a garden worth any
amount of paint on a page - not her backyard. But that glorious garden over there, looking beyond hers, now
that’s something I should aspire to have.
Shaking her head, Audrey turned and looked herself over in the full-length mirror. Look at me! Black goop
dripping down my eyes. She grabbed a handful of her long, blonde hair. Sticky, smelly hairspray - a stringy, wet
mess. Her jacket was wet all the way to her blouse and to her bra. Appalling.
In the mirror, she saw the reflection of the back of her room - the unmade bed, four pairs of shoes - Monday
through Thursday - left scattered wherever she was when she kicked them off at day’s end.
It was Friday now. The place was a wreck and there was a party to prepare for less than 24 hours away. She
slumped on the bed for a minute, hoping to muster some energy.
I’m not good at this. What was I thinking - a party here? She placed her hand atop her head and shut her eyes.
Gotta clean. Gotta call Bella back. No, no time. Too tired for chitchat. Sometimes, I can be a real shit to her. A
real shit. She lay there a few minutes, condemning herself for cutting short Bella’s call, then deciding she was
hungry and tired, and needed to refuel her body to get motivated for party preps.
Somehow, the world always seems brighter after rest, something she knew she could use right now. Audrey
reflected back to her time in college over a decade ago. It used to be that her sweet love, Roger, would give her
a back massage on days like these. His hands, rough from physical work, were strong and powerful against her
slight build and smooth skin. She remembered those hands -- that touch. He would stroke her hair and gently
kiss her neck. Sometimes he would whistle a tune quietly or hum as he touched her. Nice, safe, sleepy and
sweet.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember what he looked like. She could see Roger in her mind’s eye-- his
wavy, sun-streaked, brown hair -- always a little too long in the back. She loved to run her fingers through it. The
way he bounced when he walked - he’d had not a care in the world. Just thinking about him, made her want him.
God, that was forever ago.
Twelve years ago, it was August,1992. Roger Hollingsworth arrived on Florida College campus as a transfer
student from Tallahassee. He was a senior, she - a sophomore. Audrey first noticed him behind the cafeteria,
playing frisbee with Mark Anderson, a guy in her Western Heritage class. The smell of fried shrimp carried from
the vent of the kitchen, and a warm sea breeze blew gently against her face. It was still summer and the new
school year was filling up with new blood. Her heart felt the excitement. Who was this Greek God? New boyfriend
material?
It might take some planning, she figured. Mark was a cut-up and a flirt; he chatted with Audrey before and after
class often. He was open to anything, it seemed. She smiled, remembering how cleverly she hatched her plan to
meet Roger, telling Mark he had to go to the Renaissance Fair at the end of the month. Her art was going to be
on display and she wanted him to see it. Surely, he’d bring his pal along.
The night of the fair, she managed to casually bump into Mark and his new friend at the beer concession. She
remembered Roger’s first words to her after their introduction, “Aren’t you the artist of those paintings over
there?” he said, pointing to the clothesline hanging between two trees, a dozen or so paintings clipped to it. She
blushed and nodded. “You’re good,” he told her.
It was two months until, at a Halloween party, they actually hooked up, romantically. Roger was shy; they’d only
exchanged a few words between classes, but Audrey could tell he liked her by the way he leaned into her just a
bit closer than casually, his voice a little softer than its normal volume, flirting so subtly. For a masculine guy, he
had an asexual quality about him. A bit rough on the outside. Inside - tender, yes, tender would be a word to
describe him. It was a contrast of the two qualities she was drawn to - in her dreams, in her thoughts.
Who knew we’d ever get together? Who knew I’d screw it up so bad? She sighed. That was a lifetime ago. I just
need to forget it all, take a bath, soak, forget.
She turned the faucet to its hottest setting. The tub wasn’t filling up fast enough, so she jumped in anyway, just
as she had done when she was a kid - feeling the stream on her feet, as hot as she could stand it.
Audrey leaned back in the steaming, perfect, strangely erotic, slightly too-hot water. The bath oil softened her in
more ways than just her skin; it made her feel and smell like a more sensual woman. She felt warm inside and
out - different from that thick-skinned, hard-ass New York City business manager she was by day.
Her big toe fit into the tub faucet opening perfectly and she extended her leg out straight to check for any
bruises, moles or missed spots from shaving. Her leg was long and lithe and tightly muscled from her hours at
the gym. All good, she thought, a proud smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. Unfortunately, her Florida
tan was only a memory now, and the pastiness of her light Irish skin troubled her. Brown fat is better than white
fat -- that used to be her motto in Florida, and also her excuse for needing to spend at least one day a week
basking in the sun with a good book. Not enough time for tanning these days.
She drew in more water to rinse her hair and noticed that she was getting less limber than when she was a bit
younger. As she struggled to curl her body forward to reach her head under the stream, it hurt her neck. She
wondered if it was her age or just getting fat that caused her trouble maneuvering. Although she was feeling
fresh, clean and anew, there was a twinge of fear within - fear about getting older and falling apart - fear of her
35th birthday arriving soon.
The big white fluffy robe she wrapped herself in was the kind seen hanging on hooks in rooms at the Ritz-
Carlton. It was heavy and warm and was made of the thickest, softest cotton in the world. It came from “The Blue
Victorian Inn,” a bed and breakfast in Canada. She had stayed there overnight on business. She snuggled in the
terrycloth, sniffing the wonderful powdery scent from the fabric softener, sorting through memories.
She was new to Manhattan in 1994. Traveling used to be exciting when she was in advertising sales. Venturing
to major cities, carrying a laptop, strutting in sling-backs and short skirts through airports to meet clients -
Boston, Seattle, Atlanta - it was all good. She was young; she was special and different, and the world could see
it -- a woman who could talk it up like the boys, smart, but whose body was worthy of any man’s consideration.
But after a while, men in suits all start to look alike, and the scent of Aramis starts to stink.
Men were in their forties, some married - some not, and she, in her twenties. Maybe it was a compliment then -
but they wanted her. Now, things were different. The thought of old farts after a young chick made her nauseas.
What a sad, sad cliche -- some dumb blonde gives a blowjob to get an account. She never did it. That shit goes
on everyday. The corporate world is fucked up.
Travel days were behind her now after being promoted to department head three months ago. The executives
did promise that much. Good. Travel would lessen and the money was substantially more, but she’d be
accountable now for P&L. She could do it.
*****
It was getting late. Audrey’s bedroom was dark except for the computer monitor that gently lit her pathway to the
mound of clothes hanging over the desk chair. On the top of the chair were her red plaid flannel shirt and gray
sweat pants, which she slipped into. She put on some crocheted slipper-socks her sister hand made for her, and
smiled as she did so. Her sister called them “cozies” and they surely were cozy. Ah.
She fixed supper in the kitchen and made her way back to her room, thinking that being single certainly had its
benefits. She looked down at her dinner -- a cup of tea with lemon, sliced strawberries and a corn muffin. No one’
s judging whether dinner is going to be a balanced meal. The after-supper cigarette or two that would follow? Ah,
no one home to snarl that I should quit and be thinking about my health. The apartment was Audrey’s private
happy place, at least, at that moment.
Several new emails appeared in her personal email inbox. One was from Bella -- some long poem about friends
in which the words were the outline of a picture of an angel. It was corny as hell, but worse was the note at the
end of it to forward this email to five friends and something special would happen. Good God - a chain email.
Audrey deleted it.
Next was a note from Avaleen, her sister in Florida. Avaleen and Audrey always corresponded or called each
other by referring to the other as simply, “sister,” instead of by name.
“Subject - We’re Not Sisters Any More!
Sister, we never talk any more. I haven’t heard from you all week and I’m dying to know if Macy’s had the same
sale there as here and if you bought yourself the thong to try it out. Let me know. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Beasley
had a litter of six today. One tri-color and the rest sable. I can’t figure out the new digital camera but I promise to
send you some shots as soon as Jeff figures it out for me. The kids are ecstatic about the puppies. Should I
save one for you? Ha. Ha.
Sister”
Audrey longed to be on the farm with her sister. Avaleen and Jeff had a big old-fashioned wood framed house
painted white with black trim. It had a porch that wrapped around the house and there were lots of wooden
rocking chairs. The property was in Pasco County, Florida, and surrounded by a white stockade fence. A couple
of horses decorated the back forty, and a big, old-fashioned red barn served as a picturesque backdrop -
something like in a photo calendar or in a coffee-table, picture book. It was a place Audrey longed to paint in
watercolor.
Avaleen, a stay at home mom of two little boys (Sammy, aged four and Josh, two) was a breeder of Welsh
Corgis, dogs whose long stout body and short legs reminded Audrey of little pigs.
Audrey sent her email reply to Ava:
“Sister,
I’ll call you on Sunday and we can talk for hours. The new cell phone plan the company bought gives free
weekend minutes. But first, on important matters (the thong thing), you owe me $14.99 for a bum deal. Yeah, I
got it. It was soft and pretty in the lingerie department. I wore it Tuesday with my new Anne Taylor gray pants,
which lay low on the hips and tend to show panty lines. I figured this would be a good test. It looked good from
what I could see in the mirror before I left for work. Then the day wore on….
Ava, I cannot believe chicks pay the price of a wad up their ass all for smooth butt lines. There's only one way I
would ever continue this torture - if someone told me my ass looked fantastic that day. As you probably guessed,
I got no feedback despite that I strutted around the place shakin' my boot-ay. Nobody noticed, damn it. It was
nearly torture. Sheer Hell, I tell ya. Did a man invent these? I'll bet! If you wear 'em - you've got to be kidding. I'll
take men's Hanes briefs any day over this shit. I’m back to my three pair for $7.99 bikinis. I’ll buck the trend.
Glad to hear Mrs. Beasley survived her first delivery. I know you were afraid if she’d make it after the vet said
she had hip problems. Kiss the boys for me. God I miss the family. Tell Daddy I’ll call him soon. Love, Audrey
P.S. I’m having a party tomorrow night at the apartment for the team. We got the Essential Earth account!
Anyway, as you might imagine, I have crap everywhere to clean up and I need to check on the menu. Gotta run!
Sister”
Audrey closed her personal email account and then went to Smith Anderson’s website and logged on to enter
the secure site to check the office email. There was something from her boss asking for an update on the City of
Glenn Park annual report project.
“Like this can’t wait til Monday, Loser-man-with-no-life?” she said out loud.
She lit a cigarette. The City of Glenn Park job was a cakewalk -- fourth year in a row the team did their annual,
and most everything was a template. They could drop in new photos, new charts and update the text and it
would be a done deal.
“You want to play with me on the weekends, Bucko? Well, I ain’t playing this time,” Audrey said. She got offline.
No reply.
She put Nora Jones on the Bose. It was mellow, so New York, so adult contemporary. She sang the only parts of
the song she knew, “New York City, such a beautiful disease. New York City such a beautiful, such a beautiful
disease.” She took a drag and leaned back.
It is a disease, she thought, living here. Big job and making money - lots of it. It’s addictive. Make daddy proud
for what he always wanted for himself, but didn’t get in his own life. I do it good!
George Beane had never had the son he always wanted. But he did have Audrey, the first born child, his strong
girl who was taught to be self-sufficient. “You can’t rely on men today to take care of you. You’ve got to have a
plan. Be the best. It’s a different world out there today. You’ve got to be strong,” he’d tell her in her teen years.
“Go to college, Audrey. Be smart. You’re strong. You don’t need anybody.”
And so I learned. Daddy’s got to see it happening for me and be proud. I earn in the top 6% of the United States
population, she thought. She smiled. She knew her Pappa was proud of her. No place better than New York City
to make it big. I’m doing it.
Ah! That Nora Jones -- At least it wasn’t that shit the kids played at the office. What do they call it, house music
or techno-something? Come on, whatever happened to quality music? The bluesy sounds got her sashaying
about. It inspired her to clean. Volume a bit higher -- polish, mop, wipe, rearrange.
She worked until midnight getting the apartment ready for Saturday night’s party. When she was done, she
stood back, hands on her hips, looking around. Her lips were tight. She bobbed her head in approval. “How feng-
shui,” she said, beaming. The exertion was a good workout, especially since she hadn’t been to the gym in a
couple of weeks.
Audrey plopped on the sofa to watch the Late Show and puffed on her last Newport Light. Her head finally let go
of all the spinning thoughts that drove her crazy - the many lists of things to remember, who to call, what needed
doing. It was all gone now. The workweek was wrapped up, and she was finally settling in, enjoying the whirr of
the ceiling fan above, and the soft volume from the TV set. That was her last memory of Friday night.
Audrey could doze off practically standing up. It was one reason she didn’t like to drive a car. Her mind would
drift, she’d get into her own world, and could easily nod off. As intense as she was by day, Audrey could let it all
go when sleep finally did come. So when the clock on the stereo shone 7:03 A.M. Saturday, and Audrey’s eyes
opened to the slit of sunshine peering through the blinds directly on her face, she wasn’t completely surprised to
find herself where she was, that the TV was still on from the night prior.
A siren blared outside. Sirens are certainly not uncommon in Manhattan, but Audrey personalized this one.
Maybe a baby was being born. Maybe a grandma was dying. She made it a habit to offer the sign of the cross
and say a quick prayer. ....What the heck, and, Lord, if I could add one request... Help me get through tonight
with grace and dignity. Amen.
Audrey had a little crick in her neck - no pillow syndrome. It’s always something to get the day started off pissy.
Which reminded her, Better call Bella. Make nice.
She felt it again, the guilt, thinking Bella was a much better friend than she deserved. A petite girl and pretty,
Bella was in her mid 20’s with black-as-night hair flowing long down her back. She wore it most times twisted into
one braid draped to the front over a shoulder. Bella was Peruvian, bi-lingual, with a thick New York accent.
In the tradition of many Peruvian women, Bella was a loyal friend and lover to her husband, always supportive,
and a doting mother who never complained. Incurably optimistic, happy and good, perhaps Bella’s only fault was
that she was overly sensitive and easily hurt by people. Bella sometimes felt scoffed by strong, smart career
women, and that’s why Audrey and she had their spats. Bella was a high school dropout. They had their battles,
but they truly liked each other. In most cases, Bella could rise above her feelings of inferiority, and even showed
empathy for the office challenges Audrey frequently complained about.
She was Audrey’s best friend. Bella had a unique way to look at what seemed like a complex work problem to
Audrey, and break it down into smaller parts. Bella helped Audrey see clearly on many occasions, that Audrey
had a nasty habit of personalizing minor incidents, then blowing up as an overreaction to them. You’d think I’d
learn, but I never do.
“Hello”, Bella sang when she picked up.
“It’s only me”,
“Oh. Hi. So. What’s up?”
Audrey gave a quick run-down of her busy evening the night before, “….you know, tidying up things for the party
tonight followed by getting tied up online -- that it became too late to call.”
It seemed to be a good enough excuse.
“I called to ask if I could borrow some of those crystal things in your china cabinet? You know, for the shindig.”
Bella had many sets of beautiful glasses, dishes and tabletop décor items that were either heirlooms, or received
as wedding gifts five years ago. Audrey thought it was silly - Bella registering at Saks for all that fancy shit. What
Bella and Michael really needed was furniture, electronics, or appliances. They had nothing. “What about bed
sheets and towels?” she had asked her when she was registering. Audrey remembered one time going over
there and washing her hands in the bathroom. No towels to dry off with. When she looked into the cabinet under
the sink, all that was there was a bottle of Draino and a roll of toilet paper.
Audrey thought about it, though. Perhaps Bella wasn’t so stupid, after all. By now, the towels would have become
ragged from years of use, and the electronics outdated. Besides, who remembers the name of the person who
gave a bride a toaster? The expensive crystal in the cabinet would, more likely, serve as mementos of their
wedding, with great sentimentality attached to the person who gave them. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
“Come over. Bring a box or something. Take what you like,” Bella offered.
After hanging up the phone, Audrey threw on some shorts and a Florida College sweatshirt. No need for shoes,
though. The cozies are thick enough to walk the hallways. She grabbed her Smith Anderson mug filled with tea
and cream, and brought a laundry basket to collect the crystal in.
Bella answered the door in a pink running suit and her hair in her usual braid. The baby was active in her walker,
cooing and babbling, as she tried hard to cross the wood floor over the thick plush area rug, through the neat,
organized apartment to where they were standing.
“Come in,” Bella said.
“Hi, Shandra. How’s my baby girl?” said Audrey in a little girl voice, kneeling to the baby’s level. “She’s getting
big. Her hair is finally growing. I’ll bet soon you can make braids.”
“I can’t wait til she’s got enough even to put a bow in it. People still ask me if she’s a boy or a girl, unless she’s
wearing something pink.”
“Hey... I owe you an apology for being short with you yesterday,” Audrey said, stepping further inside. “Boy, was I
a case for the men in white coats last night,” she said, taking a sip from her mug and setting down the laundry
basket with the other hand.
“Naw, don’t worry about it. We all have our days.”
“Did I chap your ass? I gotta learn to get a grip on shit - stop overreacting to everything. I sometimes wonder if I
have a real problem.”
“Oh shut up,” Bella laughed. “You make such a big deal about everything. You know me - I don’t stay mad long.
Sure, I got a bit peeved when you cut me off yesterday, but I understand. Don’t you know that after all these
years? C’mon.”
“Yeah, I do. I just know how I come across to folks. I don’t mean to. I don’t mean it at all. Sometimes the brain and
the mouth aren’t on the same page, ya know?”
“You’re a trip, girl,” said Bella. “Just quit it. Now come see my beeee-u-tee-ful treasures for your table...” She led
Audrey to the china cabinet.
Bellas’ husband, Michael, slid past the two women in his gym clothes. “Hi and Bye,” he said, grabbing a duffel
bag by the front door. “Morning workout. See you in an hour, Bell.” He blew a kiss to the baby who was now
pulling all the magazines off the coffee table.
“Good morning to you, too,” laughed Audrey, but he was gone, the door shutting tight behind him.
They spent the next twenty minutes looking over all the crystal pieces and deciding what would go with the other
pieces. They carefully wrapped the serving dishes in paper towels, placing them gently in the basket. Audrey
slugged down the rest of her tea, then wrapped up the dirty mug with a paper towel and set it on top.
“Why you making this such a hoo-ha? Aren’t they just your staff? Are any big wigs coming?” asked Bella.
“No big wigs.” Audrey shrugged. “I dunno, I guess I feel like, I want to show them that I have a nice place, and am
well-rounded with a life outside of the office. It’s silly. I’m stupid. I guess I’d like them to see me a little more down-
to-earth. You might not guess it, but I think I give off an air of, oh, I dunno, maybe being a tough boss lady,”
“NO! Really?” said Bella, laughing. “Not you?”
“Whaddya mean by that?”
“Oh Audrey. You’re so good at playing Top Dog that it’s who you are. But anyone who knows you deep down,
knows you’re the biggest spoofer ever. Don’t you think that your employees see through you?”
“I know they don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to shake up the mirage. I like the power. But, well, I guess I
need to get them to warm up a bit. Be a bit friendlier. So I’m nervous about this party because I have to balance
the image and let them in only a little. Not too much. Does that make sense?”
“I won’t let you make an ass of yourself tonight, if that’s what you’re worried about,” said Bella.
“Exactly. That is your assignment for tonight. Geez, I should pay you for this.”
“Silly. Here, let me help you with that. It’s heavy.”
“I got it. Thanks again,” Audrey said, holding tightly to the basket and squeezing out the door. “Bye, Shandra.”
She turned back to Bella, “Oh, and now don’t forget, you need to be over before anyone else. I’m too nervous if
you’re not there. OK? Six-ish. That’ll be enough time for you and me to do a shot of liquor to kick it off, and take
the edge off my nerves. Kay?” She giggled.
“Kay. See ya. It’s all gonna be fine. Don’t worry so much.”
Later, Audrey placed all of Bella’s things on the dining room table on the red tablecloth. She kissed her fingers
and spread them out - the Italian signifier of approval. She called the Delicatessen on 48th Street to see if her
order was ready.
“Yes Ma’am. Butch will be there with the delivery within the hour.”
It was to be a spectacular feast, which would start with original buffalo mozzarella, a house specialty flown in from
Italy. It would be served with roasted tomatoes. The main course was also ordered from the deli, a few pounds of
Scaloppine di Pollo with Marsala sauce. The Deli made killer canoli, and she’d ordered two dozen of them.
Audrey started a large pot of spaghetti sauce to cook all day. She used a homemade recipe given to her by her
mother many years ago. As she stirred, she drifted back to 1983 in Florida, when her mother was still alive.
A girl of only 13 then, Audrey was learning to cook. They had a small kitchen decorated in a retro 50’s theme.
Her mother always loved Elvis Presley. A clock hung on the kitchen wall that was Elvis playing the guitar. His
metal hips swung left to right - right to left, to move the hands on the clock.
That kitchen was one of Audrey’s favorite places as a child. Her mother was always in it, baking cookies or
making food so sweet in its aroma, that Audrey would sit at the table, slouched on one of the metal stools with
red vinyl covering with her chin in her palm, to watch her mother cook while she sang Irish love songs.
“The secret to excellent spaghetti sauce is three things,” her mother once told her. “One, the ground beef goes
into the pot raw and cooks into the sauce and seasonings for several hours, two, a bit of wine is added in
always, and three, a tablespoon of sugar goes in, maybe two.”
They would both laugh as Audrey’s mother sipped wine, more than what she would add to the sauce, no matter
what time of day she was cooking it - even in the morning.
Last week, Audrey saw an apron at the Crock Pot, a shop in the mall that carried unique kitchen items in it. The
apron was embroidered, “I cook with wine. Sometimes I even add some to the recipe.” She bought it. Her mother
would have loved the humor in the saying. Mom’s been gone for over twenty years and I still pick out gifts I want
to give her. Those longings just never went away. She put the apron on and hugged herself, feeling her mother
was with her, in some small way.
She had been a lady, Audrey’s mom - a real feminine, polite, attractive, woman with an Irish brogue, and
hypnotizing green eyes. Her name was Renny, which means grace and prosperity. A traditional Irish Catholic
from Ireland, Renny was named after the patron saint of Kilkenny. She was devoutly religious, and a positive
influence on both Audrey and Avaleen, who both adored her.
Men wanted Renny. It wasn’t hard for Audrey to see that, when friends came calling, or even at the grocery store
or beach when they were together, and men whistled. After all, Renny was kind and beautiful. Fucking men - all
of them after a piece of ass they can’t have. But Renny was loyal and committed to her marriage, even though
Audrey’s father had become a bit portly and balding over the years. That kind of love was rare.
While chopping some onions, Audrey sniffed and wiped her eyes. She wasn’t sure if the onions were causing a
reaction, or if she was feeling melancholy. She tried to snap out of it.
“Jesus, Audrey,” she said aloud to herself. “Get a grip.”
Over the years, Audrey modified her mother’s spaghetti sauce recipe, once she learned how to use herbs and
spices. Her herb garden on the fire escape always produced enough basil and rosemary to give her Italian
dishes just the right fresh taste to make it excellent. It was cold and wet on the terrace, but she braced the
weather to snip off a few sprigs and rush back to the pot on the stove.
Audrey pulled out a few more ingredients from the fridge -- some mesclun greens, goat cheese, walnuts and
fresh pears. She made raspberry vinaigrette dressing, which she would drizzle over the salad mixture to make a
second course for her guests this evening. The colors, the textures of the foods inspired her. She loved getting
creative with fresh foods and seasonings. It made her relax.
Butch from the deli arrived. He carried the platters to the kitchen. Audrey tipped him and went back to party
preps. Music. Would the group have a clue who Elton or Bruce were? She decided she would simply play her
Italian dinner music on low volume to set the mood. Anyone who enjoyed a fine restaurant would expect to hear
background music like it. She couldn’t go wrong with that.
Time was getting close. She fixed her long hair in a casual up-do and used the curling iron to place wisps around
her cheeks and around the nape of her neck. She put on her make-up -- a bit more than her usual look, on
account of it being a special occasion, she thought, smiling. She slipped into a new figure-fitting, black jumpsuit
made of stretch micro-fiber and cotton. Black onyx earrings that dangled - A perfect match. She checked herself
out in the full-length mirror.
Hair, check. Turning around to view the back, Panty lines, check. Boobs not hanging out, check. Outfit, good.
Trendy, tight but not too, low cut but not too, soft and casual. Ballet-style, black flats gave it that look of, ‘Oh this
old thing? I didn’t realize it made the whole outfit look complete, silly me.’ The goal is always to look like you’re
not trying, even if you really are.
She’d pulled it off. She smiled at her reflection.