Four Blondes

“Well, um, thank you. Thank you very much,” I say.

“Oh. And watch out for Maurice Tristam. That actor? He’s at your table too. He’s married, but he cheats on his wife. Constantly.”

I nod and move away, making my way into the theater, passing more photographers (one of whom lamely lifts his camera and takes one picture, in case I might be someone important they don’t know about), and I cross over knees and ankles to my place, Row C, seat 125, in the middle of the third row. The seat next to me is empty, and a man nearby smiles at me as the lights dim and I nod imperceptibly, and the music starts.

I begin to drift away.

I’m thinking.

About days and days of lying on a dirty sleeping bag on a dirty mattress on the floor, staring out the window at the bare branches of trees turned black from the endless drip, drip, drip of rain. It was Maine and the sky was always steel gray and the temperature was always 33 degrees with 100 percent chance of precipitation and the insulation was coming out of the walls. There were too many people in the house or too few, there was no food or too much—bags of potato chips and cans of chicken soup and ice cream in paper cartons—and I had a rotten tooth that someone pulled out by tying one end of a string around the tooth and the other end around a door handle and then slamming the door. I was six years old, and we were making an important political statement. We were rejecting society, we were rejecting Mother’s family and Mother’s husband’s family and the kind of person they expected Mother to be. We were rejecting false values and the evils of capitalism (although we didn’t reject the tiny bits of money when they came), and we were running, running, running, but all we were running away from was clean linens and blue water in the toilet bowl and Sunkist oranges in winter.

But Mother never did figure that out. Not even after she “reformed” and we went to live in Lawrenceville. Where we tried to act “normal.”

The ballet en

ds.

I sit.

Long after the audience has leaped cheering to their feet, the champagne has been poured, and the cloud of balloons has descended on the crowd, I remain seated in the theater. Row C, seat 125. The crowd swells then falls back, thins out, and eventually disappears for dinner. Ushers shift through the theater, picking up discarded programs.

“Are you all right, Miss? They’ll be starting dinner soon. Lobster quadrilles. You don’t want to miss that.”

“Thank you,” I say. But I remain, thinking about my dirty Barbie doll, stained and naked with matted hair, which I took everywhere, crying once when someone’s dog tried to take it away. “She’s a little princess, isn’t she,” people had said as they picked me up in my worn flowered skirt, and I howled even louder, tears streaking my face.

Even back then I couldn’t believe that I’d never have a pony.

I look up and am not astonished to see the beautiful boy from my dream threading his way through the rows until he stands above me, smiles, and sits down.

“Memory is just an alternate version of reality,” he says.

We stare at the empty stage.

They are serving the foie gras with mango slices on the mezzanine level of Lincoln Center as we stand at the top of the stairs. It could be my imagination, but it seems there is a tiny, perceptible hush, and people swivel their heads to look at us as the boy takes my arm and we make our way slowly down the steps and across the floor to my table. The photographer, Patrice, is squatting next to Nevil Mouse, the Australian media wunderkind who once tried to hire me but then rejected me when I wouldn’t go on a date with him. As the boy pulls out my chair, he whispers, “Your table looks as bad as mine,” and winks just as Patrice whispers to Nevil, “Who’s that girl?”

Nevil, who is nervous and high-strung, stands up awkwardly and says, “Excuse me, but I think that seat is reserved for Princess Cecelia Luxenstein.”

“It is,” I say calmly, adjusting the shoulders of my dress. “But I’m afraid Cecelia couldn’t make it. She’s sick. I’m her cousin, Rebecca Kelly.”

“Well, I suppose . . . it’s all right then,” Nevil says.

I put one elbow on the table and lean toward him. “Are you in charge of this event?” I ask demurely.

“No. Why should you ask that? It’s just that . . . the committee works so hard to get the tables . . . just right.”

“I see,” I say. “So it wouldn’t be unfair to assume that your greatest preoccupation is . . . being seen at the right table with the right people.”

Nevil looks for help from Patrice, who kicks Nevil under the table and slides toward me, taking the seat that I suddenly realize is reserved for D.W.

“I didn’t realize Cecelia had such a beautiful cousin. Do you mind if I take your picture?”

“Not at all,” I say, smiling as Patrice leans back and fires off several shots. “You look so much like Cecelia, you know. But Cecelia hates to have her picture taken. I can’t figure out what’s wrong with her.”

“She’s . . . shy,” I say.

“With me? I’m one of her oldest friends,” Patrice says.

“Are you? I’ve never heard her mention you, but that must be because I’ve been in Paris for the last five years.”