Cate had agreed to perform a cabaret act each Wednesday at the Carlyle. This was what she termed her “fun” night. Her audience was hers entirely; she was not at the behest of a director or a critic. She could embody the characters in the songs she covered based on her classical training. She was entitled to self-indulgence, and, taking advantage of this, she would refuse to speak from midnight until six o’clock in the evening each Wednesday.
On this particularly “fun” day, she was nagged by the neglect of Thalia. She had called her to the point where she felt she was on the verge of receiving a restraining order. Cate wanted her to watch the show from backstage, to provide her with support and tension relief, idealizing that she could be the antidote to her lifelong anxiety. But as with any antidote, Cate was suffering withdrawal. Was she kidnapped? Had she died? Cate didn’t know why she was suddenly panicked It certainly was not the first time someone had disappeared from her life. Since that day many years ago in the park, the emotional connections that she presumed she had with both friends and lovers proved to be nothing more than an orgy — pleasurable, cathartic, yet ultimately perfunctory.
She had thought Thalia was different. She had daydreamed about her pink, thin lips and nubile body. Until now, their connection had seemed unmatched and unparalleled to any prior lover or ex-spouse. That day at the diner when Thalia seemed so uncomfortable was the last day Cate saw her eyes — brown like those Tiger’s eye gemstones one would find in a dollar store — peer over her glasses with the oversized black rims. She wanted to make a gesture of affection towards her, but how could she when she didn’t know where she was?
An obvious solution had occurred to her. She should pursue the guest lecture at NYU, although it was not the class with which Thalia assisted. She could simply ask what the other dramaturgy classes were or ask if they knew her. Oh, what a plan! Although it was nearly time for her vocal warm-up, what were a few additional seconds of conversation? She sifted through her clutch from the opening night party for the contact information for one Doctor Richard McAdams, PhD?
Cate dialed her phone hungrily, tapping her fingers against her desk as she waited for her future. Her door buzzed; it was Jonathan, who was immediately shushed upon entry. Half-relieved, her call went to voicemail.
“Hi Dr. McAdams. It’s Cate Barnes. I’m not sure if you remember me, but you asked if I would be interested in doing a guest lecture for your dramaturgy class. I just wanted to let you know that I am very interested, and I would like to set aside a time to talk to you about the details. Please call me on my cell phone. It’s 212-957-5232.”
“So you love dramaturgy these days, huh?” Jonathan asked, wryly.
“Let the kids ask their questions,” Cate said with a flippant smile, “Is the car waiting downstairs?”
“Of course,” replied Jonathan, “Are you ready?”
“As ever,” Cate replied. Jonathan left to assume his reserved seat at a clearly marked cabaret table.
Cate placed her cell phone prostrate as she attached each eyelash. It was palpable that her relationship with Thalia was not meant as more than a brief catharsis, the equivalent of a three-day juice cleanse without the dissatisfaction from imbibing liquified kale. There was a pain in her right temple, however; it was a pain that always touched her when forfeiting too quickly. She checked her wallet again to be sure the professor’s business card was still there.
When her cheeks were flushed to what she remembered as a post-coital glow, she dropped her robe to the floor and adjusted her hosiery in the long mirror. 900 calories a day for twenty years, was all she could think. Of course, there had been some variations: morning-after brunches, holiday parties, anywhere there were other people around so they could be envious of the figure she retained by being endlessly self-indulgent. “Where does she put it?” they asked, “it” being carbohydrates.
Her eyes were consistently directed to her cell phone placed on the vanity. She was in a situation she could not control; she hated that. Cate gripped the long mirror with both of her hands and began a staring contest with herself; with her plump red lips and dark, heavily-lined eyes, she convinced herself she was valuable, maybe not to someone whose charisma clearly outshined her wisdom, but to those who remained loyal to her despite not offering them more than her artistry. Her red dress wrapped around her like a silken bed sheet. A knock on the door welcomed her to what she defined as true friendship: an audience.
She walked confidently through the familiar cheers and applause after her name was announced; the tears that filled her eyes had become twinkles. Relief exuded from inside of her, resulting in laughter as she scanned the room. The women appeared trim and glittering as it was apparent they had the wherewithal for gratuitous self-care; the men were homogeneous, shaking hands with social convention but not daring for greater intimacy. The knowledge that her price was a food and beverage minimum of fifty dollars per person had become a comfort to Cate. The piano continued her introduction, and she began her opening act, a standard to match the rest of the standards in attendance.
“Once upon a time,” she began, wringing her hands with her eyes closed as if in prayer. Her lips were closer to the microphone than she realized, and the amplified sound jarred her senses causing her eyes to widen and the audience to giggle slightly. She slyly smiled as if humor was her intent and continued, her eyes still expressive, tears forming.
“A girl with moonlight in her eyes
Put her hand in mine
And said she loved me so
But that was once upon a time
Very long ago.”
The crowd’s silence was her cue to persevere with her story, fifty odd therapists holding cocktails instead of pens. She warmly opened her arms in an embrace because she needed it; she needed them, her transient friends. Their faces didn’t matter for they would be replaced with new ones tomorrow evening and the next, replenishing themselves like cut skin.
“Once upon a hill
We sat beneath a willow tree
Counting all the stars and waiting for the dawn
But that was once upon a time
Now the tree is gone
How the breeze ruffled through her hair
How we always laughed as though tomorrow wasn’t there
We were young and didn’t have a care
Where did it go?”
Cate’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment. She hugged her arms to her chest as if to cover her nakedness. She was certain her secrets were revealed, and she feared the conclusion of the song. Nevertheless…
“Once upon a time
The world was sweeter than we knew
Everything was ours
How happy we were then
But somehow once upon a time
Never comes again.”
She was supposed to repeat the last six words, but she had emphasized enough. The pianist played on, confused, as Cate resumed her original startled expression. Staggered applause was her reward. In a sharp reversal of tone, Cate laughed a guttural chuckle, affecting a wide smile as she removed the microphone from the stand like a game show host.
“Thank you, thank you,” she bowed as the applause rolled away.
“You know,” she rationalized, “the character that I inhabit eight times a week leaves me a little sad. This poor woman, this poor mother… past her prime, haunted by her illusions. Wait a minute. That’s what the Post wrote about me last week.” She paused strategically as the laughter dissipated.
“Anyways, this lady. She leaves me feeling sad. But then I come down to this night spot on my days off, and seeing all you people. I just…”
The piano keys tinkled an introduction.
“When you’re alone, and life is making you lonely, you can always go…”
Cate proceeded with her second song, “Downtown,” fully immersed in and distracted by her routine.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 