Cleopatra and Frankenstein(54)

*

I’d like to sneak out unnoticed, but my mother is in the living room, poured over one of her gardening books, waiting for me. She looks up with her glasses hooked on the end of her nose.

“Oh,” she gasps. “You look beautiful.”

I smooth the front of my dress.

“Not like a Jewish man in drag?”

“This nonsense you speak,” tuts my mother. She gets up and gives me a kiss, squeezes my waist. “Go have fun. And remember to suck in.”

*

I take the PATH train into the city. There are two college students sitting in front of me talking loudly about the club they’re going to. Something about bottle service. The ends of their sentences all flip up, like whale tails, into questions.

Still, it must be nice to have the company. I’m carrying my mother’s tiny satin evening bag, which could barely accommodate the Lip Smacker, let alone something to read. Sometimes it does not pay to make an effort, I’m learning.

*

The elevators doors open to reveal Jacky teetering on a stepladder, holding a disco ball above her head.

“Whoever that is, help me!” she yells over her shoulder.

“It’s me, Jacks,” I say, holding her steady as she pushes the pin into the spongy ceiling tile. She steps down and brushes glitter from her hands onto her red sweater dress. She is wearing a large pair of reindeer antlers.

“We had an extra, so I thought—” She scans me up and down, lets out a long whistle. “Wow. Look who decided to show up for the party.”

*

Frank is talking to everyone but me. Somehow I get stuck in conversation with one of the suits from the real estate company. Clearly they’re not planning on dropping us before they’ve enjoyed the open bar.

“Do you have any plans for the holidays?” I ask.

“I have to fly to fucking Ohio to see my ex-wife and our kids.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, I’ve heard Ohio is—”

“I could have gone to Hawaii,” he says. “But instead I’m going to nightmare.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, casting around for Jacky. “And will you be in nightmare long?”

“No,” he says, grudgingly. “We have a schedule: milk, cookies, presents, fuck off.”

I’m about to tell him I’d like to implement the last part of that schedule right now when I see Frank, like an archangel, descend upon us.

“Are you telling one of my writers to fuck off, sir?”

The client laughs uncomfortably and reaches for his drink. Frank makes an excuse for me and pivots us away. He puts an arm over my shoulder and leans his face next to mine. His breath smells of vodka and orange juice.

“Sorry about the other night,” he says. “’Tis the season to embarrass yourself in front of your coworkers, apparently.”

“It was nothing,” I say. “It was fine.”

“Well, you’re a champ,” he says. “And thanks for handling that guy. He always looks like he just walked into a bad hotel room. Have you noticed that?”

I look at Frank. That was the thing about him. He noticed that. He noticed people. It was his gift. Or really, it was the gift he gave you. To be seen.

“What?” says Frank, looking at me.

“Nothing,” I say. “You look nice.”

“Look who’s talking,” he says.

*

“You having fun?” one intern wearing a Rudolph nose asks another.

“The only place I want to be at a party,” the second intern says, “is under the coats asleep.”

*

I am dancing slowly, arms outstretched, to Wham’s “Last Christmas.” This is my favorite song of all time. It is full of pathos and insight. Perhaps the real tragedy here is not that George Michael’s heart was given away, but that this beautiful song is relegated to only one month of the year, when its message of unrequited love leading to a deepening resolve to choose more deserving partners is undeniably relevant year-round.

“You don’t usually drink much, do you, hon?” is what Jacky says when I tell her this.

*

Myke and I are bouncing up and down, and I cannot stop laughing. His impression of an Irish jig is hilarious. We have both wrapped tinsel around our necks, and it is also hilarious, as well as hot and itchy. I feel a kindling warmth toward all mankind. There is no one I would not kiss on the mouth right now. Myke and I grab each other by the wrists and swing around in a tight, giddy loop. The room is an ecstatic cotton-candy machine swirl.

And then I see her. The pearl. Her hair is a golden curtain falling down her back. She is wearing what appears to be a silk jumpsuit and gold slippers. Beside her is an impossibly slim man wearing a mohair sweater and shiny vinyl pants. I drop Myke’s hands and stop spinning. I look at her. All the light in the room reflects her. Myke looks at Frank, who is looking at me, who is looking at her. She is turning and saying something that makes her friend laugh.

Well, I think, this is a terrible blow to us all.

*

I am trying to make it to the bathroom when it happens: we are introduced.

“Hon, have you met Frank’s wife, Cleo?” Jacky grabs my arm. I notice her antlers are askew, and a handful of hair has gotten caught in the top prongs. I fumble to unwind the tinsel from around my neck. “Lee’s a godsend. Such a talent, and she’s a woman.”