Beaches Page 3

  Leona started to go to her, but stopped when Cee Cee emitted a piercing cry. “My life. My whole life. Oh, God. It’s over,” she sobbed.

  “Cee,” Leona cried out, “it ain’t ovah. Ye’r a kid.” Leona moved toward her.

  “No!” Cee Cee screamed. “No!” and she jumped to her feet and she ran, into the orchestra pit, fists in the air. When she got to the piano, she stopped and began punching the piano wildly, banging out an eerie, violent tune on the keys. She grabbed her head in her hands for a moment and then pushed her way through the orchestra pit, knocking over folding chairs and music stands as she went, still screaming.

  “My life. Oh, God. Oh, no.”

  She jumped up on the stage, still screaming, took one last, long breath and then collapsed in a heap on the stage, where she sat sobbing quietly.

  Bertie and Leona walked to the stage. “Cee?” Leona said.

  Cee Cee looked up at her mother, her eyes burning, her entire face swollen. “How,” she asked. “How did she know, Leona? How did Lewandowski find out?” Then, screaming, “How, fa chrissake?”

  Bertie looked at Leona. Leona had gone very pale.

  “Look…um…kids. How ’bout a bite? I’ll treat yiz both, you and the kid, to a big meal somewheres.”

  “Leona,” shouted Cee Cee, standing up. “How did she know? How?”

  Leona looked helplessly at Bertie as though Bertie would have some magic answer. When Bertie’s look was equally helpless, Leona turned back to Cee Cee and replied timidly, “Well, um…I did happen to run into her when I was gettin’ the sandwiches and—”

  “Leona,” Cee Cee said quietly. “You told her. It was you. You saw Lewandowski and told her. You were braggin’ to her, weren’t you?”

  “Well, I mentioned—”

  “Leona,” Cee Cee screamed. “Leona!” And with that, the small girl thrust her entire body at her mother, the way football players thrust themselves at the practice bag, and then pulled away and thrust herself at her mother again and again. With each thrust of her body, she cried out like an animal.

  Leona stood there as though the child was making a gesture of love. Tirelessly, Cee Cee fell on Leona until at last she slid to the floor at her mother’s feet. Leona stooped down on her haunches next to the girl and caressed her baby’s hair, and the mother and daughter sobbed together for a long time.

  Bertie turned quietly and walked into the wings to the brown wooden door marked EXIT and left. Standing on the boardwalk, all the directions seemed clear to her for the first time and, unafraid, she walked on the boardwalk toward the place where she knew her mother and Aunt Neetie would be, and down the steps to the beach.

  Neetie was asleep, and Bertie’s mom was under an umbrella reading Reader’s Digest and smoking a cigarette. When Bertie stood next to the umbrella, her mom looked up.

  “Oh, Bert. Hi, honey,” she said. “Ready to go up? It’s getting late, angel. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

  “Yeah,” Bertie said.

  “Neetie,” Bertie’s mom said, poking Aunt Neetie. “Wake up. It’s almost five o’clock, and your back looks like a lobster.”

  Bertie’s mom put out her cigarette and began gathering the towels, magazines and suntan lotion.

  “Have a nice day, Puss?” she asked.

  “Mmmm-hmmm.”

  “Where’s your bucket and shovel?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Lost? Well, we’ll get another one tomorrow.”

  Aunt Neetie, Bertie’s mom, and Bertie each carried some of the beach stuff and headed for their hotel room. They had just enough time to take a shower and dress and stop for an early dinner before the dinner crowd got there.

  BERTIE DECIDED THAT THE new bucket and shovel set was better than the old one. To begin with, the shovel said “Atlantic City” on the handle, so when she took it back to Pittsburgh, she could show the other kids where she got it, and the new bucket was deeper than the old one, so when she filled it with wet sand and then turned it over, the bucket-shaped piles it made were very impressive.

  “Hiya, kid,” said a voice.

  Bertie looked up. It was Cee Cee Bloom. She was wearing white pedal pushers and a pink printed shirt. Her eyes were a little puffy, but her smile was big and warm.

  “Been lookin’ all over for ya. Me and Leona are goin’ home today. I miss my dad…so I quit the show. Leona says after we get home, maybe I could go to summer camp for a few weeks. You know, like the real kids. So here’s my address in the Bronx,” she said, handing Bertie a little white piece of paper. “Maybe we’ll be pen pals or somethin’.”

  “Thanks, Cee,” Bertie said, then hoped the familiarity was okay.

  “Thank you, kid,” Cee Cee said as she turned to walk up the beach. Bertie watched her go.

  When she reached the steps, before she walked up to the boardwalk, Cee Cee turned back to where she knew Bertie was watching, and she smiled and blew Bertie a kiss. Bertie recognized the gesture. It was the kind of kiss Cee Cee blew to the audience when the show was over and she was taking her bows. Bertie held the little white piece of paper tightly in her hand.

  DEAR CEE CEE,,

  I KNOW THAT YOU CANNOT COME TO MY PARTY BUT I THOUGHT YOU WOULD LIKE TO SEE MY INVITATIONS ANYWAY.

  RAGGEDY ANN AND RAGGEDY ANDY ARE JOINING US FOR CAKE AND CANDY. HOPE THAT YOU WILL COME TO SAY HAPPY TIMES ON MY BIRTHDAY.

  BERTIE WHITE

  REMEMBER ME FROM

  A.C.?

  DEAR BERTIE,

  IN SCHOOL WE ARE WRITING LETTERS TO PEN PALS. SO WILL YOU BE MINE, OKAY? THE BEST NEWS IS THAT MY MOM’S GOING TO GET ME A BRA. IT HAS ELASTIC SO IT COULD FIT AND I WON’T NEED AN UNDERSHIRT ANYMORE.

  LOVE,

  CECILIA BLOOM

  DEAR CEE CEE,

  MY MOM SAID I SHOULD SEND YOU A COPY OF THIS DUMB PICTURE. EVEN THOUGH I HATE IT. YESTERDAY WHEN WE GOT THEM SHARON WHITMAN WHO SITS NEXT TO ME AND GOT MINE BY MISTAKE SAID I AM SO SKINNY I LOOK LIKE OLIVE OYL WHICH IS THE SKINNY GIRL IN POPEYE AND I CRIED.

  MY MOM SAYS SHARON WHITMAN IS ONLY JEALOUS AND SHE SAID THAT POPEYE AND THE MEAN GUY WHO HAS THE BEARD BOTH LOVE OLIVE OYL SO SHE MUST BE PRETTY GOOD EVEN IF SHE’S SKINNY.

  MOM HAS PUT THIS PICTURE INTO A FRAME AND EVERY TIME I COME HOME FROM SCHOOL I TURN THE FRAME TO THE WALL AND SHE GETS MAD. HA HA.

  DO YOU HAVE ANY PICTURES?

  BERTIE W. XX OO

  P.S. SEND ME ONE.

  DEAR BERTIE,

  I NEVER ASKED YOU IF YOU HAVE ANY BROTHERS AND SISTERS. I DON’T. DO YOU?

  SOMETIMES I PRETEND I DO AND I LEAVE ROOM FOR HER IN MY BED AND SLEEP ALL THE WAY OVER ON ONE SIDE.

  HERE’S A PHOTO OF ME AT SCHOOL. IT IS YUCKY BUT LEONA TRIED TO IRON MY HAIR LIKE A TABLECLOTH AND I LOOK REALLY DRIPPY. ANYWAY, I AM FINE. ARE YOU? MY MOM TAKES ME TO DANCING SCHOOL EVERY DAY. OTHERWISE I WOULD HAVE MORE TIME TO WRITE YOU.

  CEE CEE

  P.S. I AM SAVING YOUR LETTERS IN A SHOEBOX. THEY ARE THE

  FIRST REAL MAIL THAT EVER CAME TO ME.

  DEAR CEE,,

  GOT YOUR LAST LETTER ON FRIDAY AND IT WAS ALSO A SPECIAL DAY FOR ANOTHER REASON BECAUSE I HAD MY FIRST REAL DATE!!

  IT WAS SORT OF DUMB BECAUSE HIS FATHER DROVE US TO THE MOVIES AND THEN WE WALKED TO WEINSTEIN’S (A DELICATESSEN) FOR A SANDWICH AND THEN HE CALLED HIS FATHER AND WE WAITED OUTSIDE OF WEINSTEIN’S FOR HIM TO PICK US UP, BUT, BOY, DID I HAVE FUN!!! HE PUT HIS ARM AROUND ME AND EVERYTHING. (MY MOTHER WILL KILL ME IF SHE FINDS THIS!!!!)

  MY MOTHER SAYS THIRTEEN IS TOO YOUNG TO HAVE DATES BUT IF WE DIDN’T GO ON HAYRIDES OR ANYTHING, ONLY MOVIES, THEN IT’S OKAY.

  OH! THIS BOY’S NAME IS SANFORD GLASS. HE HAS RED HAIR. BUT I DON’T LOVE HIM. (YET!!!)

  LOVE,

  BERTIE

  Dear Bert,

  I am so relieved. Today my dad agreed with Leona that I don’t have to go to college. It would be a waste of time and money for me since I’m going to be a star and that’s something you can’t learn about in school. Right?


  Anyhow, I hate school. I am a moron in math. I got a D in algebra, and that was just lucky. In English I’m better, because I like reading the stuff we have to read there, but I can’t write good papers. The only time I like to write is these letters to you because I know you better than some kids in New York. I mean, I know more about you. Maybe it’s because when someone writes things down, they don’t have to look you in the eye, or have you look them in the eye or something.

  I am so glad I’m almost graduating. Not just because I won’t have any more homework ever again in my life (YAY), but because I don’t like the kids in my school very much. The girls are all snobs and think they’re real big if they’re pretty or if their dads have money or nice cars. I don’t care about them. In fact, I hate them, so it will be nice to never have to see their snobby faces again.

  Leona bought me this dumb stationery with ballerinas on it for my birthday. I think it’s kind of jerky. Do you? Oh yeah. Thanks for that key ring you sent me for my birthday. How did you know I like Elvis? I guess I told you one time. Some of the girls in my school think he’s filthy, but I think he’s soooo gorgeous, and even though I don’t drive a car I put my key to the apartment on it and get to look at Elvis every day when I get home and take my key out of my purse.

  Anyway, it’s really late at night, and if Leona comes out to go to the bathroom and sees my light on, she’ll brain me ’cause I have an audition tomorrow for some children’s show in Greenwich Village, so I’m going to put this in an envelope and go to sleep.

  WRITE MORE, I LOVE YOUR LETTERS.

  C.C. BLOOM

  CECILIA BLOOM

  CEE CEE BLOOM

  SEE SEE BLOOM

  SI SI BLUE M.

  LOS ANGELES CALIFORNIA

  1983

  Within an hour, Cee Cee was getting out of the car at LAX. She’d asked Jake, the limo driver who usually drove her to an exercise teacher’s studio at lunchtime, to drive her home instead. While he waited, she packed and called the airlines. Shit. There were no seats available to Monterey. Not that afternoon, or that evening.

  “How ’bout outta Burbank?” she asked.

  Why had she let her lousy secretary take the day off to go see her goddamned parents in San Diego? And there was no way she could call her pain-in-the-ass business manager to try and get the airlines to bump somebody and give the seat to her. Because then her business manager would know she was leaving town, and he’d try to stop her. She had to get on a plane. Had to. Now. She’d never tried this before, but maybe it would work.

  “Hey, this is Cee Cee Bloom, for chrissake,” she yelled into the telephone, “and I gotta get to Monterey. Today. Now.”

  “Sorry, Miss Blue,” the dumb bimbo on the other end of the line said. Blue. The vacuum head didn’t even get who Cee Cee was.

  “But sometimes people change their plans and don’t show up, so you could come to the airport and stand by, or—”

  “The name’s Bloom, you stupid dipshit. Bloom,” Cee Cee said, and slammed down the receiver. A cigarette. She lit a cigarette and paced. What could she do? Connections. She needed connections. Who were her connections? Cee Cee dialed the number at Burbank Studios.

  “Burbank Studios.”

  “Ray Stark,” Cee Cee said.

  “Ray Stark’s office.”

  “This is Cee Cee Bloom.”

  “He’s in Europe, Miss Bloom.”

  “I need to borrow his airplane.”

  “Why don’t I have him call you when I hear from him?”

  “When will that be?”

  “Tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “Thanks anyway.” Cee Cee slammed the phone down. Jesus Christ. She started to shuffle through her address book for more ideas, but finally slapped it shut in frustration. “Ahh, why not,” she thought and grabbed the small overnight suitcase she’d packed and ran down the steps.

  “Hey, Jakee,” she hollered out to the limo driver. “Let’s hit the road, pal. I’m gonna pretend I’m a real person and fly standby.”

  Jake, he was okay. She’d make him swear he’d never seen her leave CBS. Say that she’d gone out a back door and that he didn’t know where she was.

  “There’s five hundred bucks in it for you, Jake-o,” she said just as they were driving onto the San Diego Freeway going south. “Buy somethin’ for your kid.”

  “Fuck you, Cee Cee,” Jake said. “You think you have to buy my loyalty? I never saw you since I drove you in this morning at eight, even if they cut my balls off.”

  Cee Cee’s eyes filled with tears of embarrassment. Why were people so nice to her even if she was such an asshole? How could she be so stupid to offer Jake money? God, she was a klutz.

  “I’m sorry,” Cee Cee said, and she was silent for the rest of the ride. Thinking about how dumb she was. So friggin’ dumb and crass, and all the money and clothes and chauffeurs in the world couldn’t take that away.

  It took her till she was twenty-one, for chrissake, before she figured out why, when you ate in a restaurant, they put all those forks next to your plate. Who needed more than one fork? She always figured the forks were there to give you a choice of what size you liked the best. God knows Leona never taught her stuff about forks, and J.P., well he didn’t know much more than Cee Cee did. Even though he always pretended he did, the phony.

  And tipping. Christ, she never knew anything about tipping. She always gave too much or not enough, or gave it to the wrong people. Once she got off an elevator. She was with Bertie that time—where the hell were they? maybe in Hawaii—and when they stepped off the elevator, Cee Cee handed the elevator girl a quarter. When the elevator door closed, Bertie said, “I must be going crazy. I could have sworn I saw you tip the elevator girl.” And Cee Cee said, “You mean you’re not supposed to?” And Bertie laughed so hard at that she had to lean against the wall in the hallway just to laugh. Of course, Cee Cee laughed with her, pretending it was a joke, pretending she’d never done that before, but the truth was she really didn’t know one thing about manners or politeness, especially when it came to money.

  Well, who was gonna teach her? Nathan didn’t know and Leona sure as hell didn’t know, and once when her business manager was telling Cee Cee about payment for a certain club date he told her she was gonna be paid in increments, and before she looked it up and found out that increments were a series of payments, she thought they were little gold coins or something like that.

  Anyhow, even now, even though she had a secretary and a maid and a business manager and a driver and a cook and a gardener, when it came to knowing rules about life, she was a lox. Like her mother. Leona, the poor cow. Cee Cee felt like laughing and crying at the same time when she thought about it.

  “Chawmed I’m shuwah,” Leona used to say to some dopey shoe salesman wearing a bad rug when he told Leona what attractive feet she had so she’d buy the patent leather pumps from him. Cee Cee would die of humiliation. Wish for one day, even one hour, she could have a pretty mother, a thin mother, a mother who didn’t look at television and eat popcorn and laugh so loud with her mouth open that pieces of chewed popcorn flew across the room.

  But you couldn’t pick your mother, and Cee Cee was stuck with Leona saying, “Chawmed I’m shuwah,” and elbowing people out of the way to be the first on line wherever she went. That was Cee Cee’s teacher about life. Leona.

  “Thanks a lot,” she said as Jake opened the door for her at the curbside check-in. She was embarrassed to look at him. “I just have this one little bag, so I’ll carry it on and—”

  Jake took her gently by the arm. “I’ll walk you up, Cee Cee,” he said.

  She knew he must think she looked silly, because she was wearing that dumb outfit she always wore when she didn’t want to be recognized by anybody, and every time she wore it everybody recognized her anyway. Even with the hat, the scarf, and those dumb sunglasses.

  “I’ll walk you up ’cause you’ll be less noticeable with me,” Jake offered. Cee
Cee bought it.

  “S’go,” she said.

  The PSA flight was leaving for Monterey in fifteen minutes.

  The check-in area was filled with people. Everyone was so busy with their crying children or saying good-bye to loved ones or reading Newsweek that no one even looked at Cee Cee, who sat on a bench while Jake went to get her a standby number.

  “Think I’ll make it?” she asked Jake when he got back.

  “You’re on,” he said.

  “No other standbys?”

  Jake patted her on the back.

  “You’re on,” he said again, with a look that meant he had somehow used influence to push her through.

  “Thanks, Jake,” she said, more embarrassed than ever about offering him the five hundred dollars.

  The stewardess recognized her right away. Cee Cee could always see it in people’s eyes. Even though the person was trying to act like Cee Cee was just some regular woman from off the street, their eyes gave it away, got fogged up or something in that way that Cee Cee had once described to Bertie, “As if I’m the Pope and they’re an Italian shoemaker. Ya know?” Bertie had cracked up at that. Cee Cee was always cracking Bertie up. They were the cracker and the crackee. Titles that Bertie made up, and when she told them to Cee Cee she cracked Cee Cee up and Bertie said, “Thank God. For once I made you laugh.”

  “Did you want anything to drink?” the stewardess asked.

  That’s when Cee Cee realized she was hungry. But shit, this was a goddamned forty-five-minute flight and there wasn’t any food.

  “Just a Coca-Cola…and…could I have some extra peanuts?”

  The stewardess smiled. “Sure. If you give me your autograph for my daughter. Right on the napkin would be okay. Her name’s Sharon.”

  Cee Cee nodded. “Right.” The stewardess handed her a pen. To Sharon, Love, Cee Cee Bloom. That signature. She’d spent years practicing it, and it still looked stupid. Childish.

  “Thank you. She’ll be thrilled,” the stewardess said as she put three packs of peanuts on Cee Cee’s tray.