Soap Bubbles Read online

  “Whose car?”

  “Mine. The back seat.”

  “You must be talking about my sister.”

  “Your sister and I never did it in a car.”

  “Where,” Delly asked softly, “did you do it?”

  “Backstage. During My Fair Lady.”

  She burst out laughing.

  Artie looked bemused. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t you remember my red Chevy Impala?”

  “Vaguely. I was sort of drunk. I remember standing in your driveway and crying, just before you drove me home.”

  “Yeah. But first we—”

  “Wait a sec. Hold that thought.” Delly stood, then submerged her body in the water, up to her chin. “It’s hot, isn’t it?” She stretched out on the chaise again. “If you don’t mind, you’re blocking my sun.”

  He sat on the cushion’s edge. “Can I take you out?”

  “May I?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. When?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Sorry. Busy.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Busy.”

  “How about the Labor Day pool party?”

  “The lifeguard invited me weeks ago.”

  “Are you booked for New Year’s Eve?” he asked, sarcastically.

  “Silly Artie.” Turning sideways on the lounger, she slathered lotion between her thighs again.

  Two weeks later, they dined at an expensive restaurant. Delly nibbled a couple of appetizers and an entree flamed table-side by a waiter with a fake French accent. “I can’t decide,” she told Artie, then selected an éclair and chocolate cheesecake from a strolling cart. She took three small bites and finished her second glass of Sterling Chardonnay, poured from a bottle that cooled inside an ice bucket. Artie didn’t like wine so he drank a beer, wolfed down her desserts, then excused himself and headed toward the restrooms.

  “Would you care for a doggie bag?” asked the waiter.

  Who just happened to be the best looking man Delly had ever seen. “I don’t have a dog.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Seven. One for each night of the week.”

  “Anybody special?”

  “Nope. What about you?”

  “They call me The Monk.”

  “Doesn’t a monk swing?”

  “This monk swings through vines.” He nodded toward the bottle. “Your vine was sour, liebchen?”

  “I thought you were supposed to be French?”

  “That wasn’t French?”

  “The vin tasted merveilleux, mon cher monsieur,” she said, thankful for her good memory and her A in high school French. “It’s just that this dinner date’s the result of a bet. I’m not a swinger.”

  He winked. “Tarzan swings. So does Jane.”

  “So does Cheetah.”

  “Cheetah’s what you do when you play solitaire.”

  “I never cheat,” said Delly. “I scheme. Doesn’t solitaire mean alone? A recluse, like Tarzan was before he met Jane? If he hadn’t been raised by solitary monks, Tarz might have become a swinger.”

  “Touché. God, you’re smart. What’s your name?”

  “Smarty-Pants.”

  “No, really.”

  “Jane.”

  “Of course.” He quirked one eyebrow. “Where’s Boy?”

  “Here he comes now. How much was dinner?”

  “A hundred dollars, more or less.”

  Artie glanced down at the tab, then placed some bills on the table. “Keep the change.”

  “Don’t be so stingy,” said Delly, gesturing toward the tip tray.

  “Christ, baby, I left him five bucks.”

  “Cheapskate.”

  “Cheapskate’s what you do in a public park, on thin ice,” said the waiter.

  “Ice,” said Delly, “is what some people call a diamond solitaire.” She looked at Artie. “You’d better add another ten or I’ll phone for a cab.”

  “That’s fifteen bucks!”

  “That’s fifteen percent. Goodbye, Artie.”

  “Okay, okay.” He reached for his wallet.

  “Mercy, sir,” said the waiter, surreptitiously pressing something against Delly’s palm.

  “Merci, mon cher monsieur,” she said.

  While Artie retrieved his Impala, Delly opened her clenched fingers and sneaked a peek at the piece of paper. Jon Griffin, followed by a telephone number. Wow! Samantha was the one who collected phone numbers. And the waiter was gorgeous. A sexy Tyrone Power, except his hair was lighter than Tyrone’s and his eyes—what color were his eyes? Cobalt? Smoke? The Impala’s horn tooted. Startled, Delly dropped her small slip of paper down the gutter’s grate. Rats!

  Artie parked on top of a wooded hill overlooking Little Neck Bay, then turned the radio’s dial to an all-music station.

  “I love listening to music,” Delly said. “It puts me in the, you know, mood. Could we keep the radio on while we . . .” She paused, lowering her lashes.

  “Sure. You look beautiful tonight, baby.”

  “This old thing? It’s a hand-me-down, Samantha’s prom dress. Orange isn’t really my color.”

  “Well, I think you look beautiful.” Artie shed his jacket and tie. Leaving his keys in the ignition, he extricated a blanket from the back seat.

  Delly gazed at the starry sky, where a sliver of pale moon smiled sideways. Stepping from the car, she said, “Gosh, Artie, all that food made me sleepy.”

  “All what food? You hardly ate a thing.”

  Yeah, but I ordered enough to make the fifteen-dollar tip legit. Bet you won’t bet again, buster.

  She stretched out on the blanket, unbuckled Artie’s belt, and removed his shoes, socks, slacks, shirt and underwear.

  He fumbled at the small buttons on the back of her gown.

  “Here, let me help you.” She wriggled free from the clinging orange taffeta. Standing, wearing panties and high heels, she carried her dress and Artie’s clothes toward the car.

  “What are you doing, Delly?”

  “I’ll be right back. The radio’s playing my favorite song and I want to turn up the volume.” She slid onto the front seat, hit the lock, gunned the motor, and leaned her head out the window. “It’s a new song by the Carpenters,” she said, releasing the emergency brake. “ ‘We’ve Only Just Begun.’ ”

  “Wait! What the hell are you doing? You can’t leave. My clothes! I’m naked!”

  “I’ll park the car in your driveway, Artie. You remember your driveway, don’t you? I remember your driveway. It has an echo that sounds like Munchkin laughter. It’s not a long walk home, only seven, maybe eight miles. Gosh, seven and eight equals fifteen. What a coincidence. I called Micki Bloch, Patsy Lash, Peggy Adler, and a whole bunch of other kids. I told them to watch out for you, just in case you got lost or something.”

  Unfortunately, Cornelius McIntyre had already left for Notre Dame on a basketball scholarship. Delly thought about traveling to South Bend but dismissed the notion as impractical. Instead, she fervently prayed that Neely would get bitten by a rabid dog.

  Oh, yeah, she thought, we’ve only just begun.

  * * * * *

  “Keep your tongue in your pocketbook,” Delly said, and burst out laughing.

  “All right, all right.” Madame Sourdellia scowled. “What’s the problem, Augustias?”

  “Nothing, Madame.” Delly tried to control her giggles. “I had an image of a tongue poking around in a pocketbook. Mine is so filled with junk . . . my purse, not my tongue . . . rats!”

  “It’s a literal translation, Miss Gold. The House of Bernarda Alba is by Frederico Garcia Lorca.” The name ran smoothly from Madame’s mouth, perfectly accented. “Your line is translated from Spanish and means—”

  “I know what it means. I’m sorry, Madame.”

  “You are always sorry, Miss Gold. If you cannot treat my class seriously, you will be dismissed. Take it agai
n from your entrance.”

  Two hours later, Delly turned her face toward Jon Griffin. “I really pissed off Madame this morning,” she said. “Do you think she’ll drop me from class?”

  “What month is it?”

  “February. Why?”

  “In a few short weeks, Madame does her taxes. She won’t drop you, Delly, not if you keep paying her for lessons.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  “Neither am I. If Madame took students for their acting ability alone, I wouldn’t be allowed in her class.”

  “Are you saying I don’t have ability?”

  “No. You’re very talented. But you won’t treat Madame’s class seriously. For instance, take your clothes.”

  “Off? Inside a Manhattan coffee shop? Well, okay, if you insist.” She tugged at the bottom of her T-shirt, lettered SUPERSTAR. The musical, Jesus Christ, Superstar, had been attracting large audiences and Delly knew a member of the chorus.

  “Take your clothes,” Jon repeated. “Madame has a dress code which you blatantly ignore.”

  “Everybody wears jeans.”

  “Everybody does not wear old, faded jeans, especially when they’re shredded up the thighs to the crotch.”

  “You said my jeans were a turn-on.”

  “Not to Madame. You’re purposely defying her.”

  “I know. I’ve been doing that for months now, ever since graduation. Testing people. Trying to make them accept me despite my flaws.”

  “Floss? You don’t floss in public, honey. You floss at night when you brush your teeth.”

  “Flaws, you nut. Imperfections, shortcomings, cavities.”

  “That’s my point. If you floss, you won’t get cavities.”

  “What were we talking about?”

  “Jeans. Listen, Delly, if you want to wear faded jeans to class, why don’t you audition for the Actors Studio?”

  “I’m not good enough.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “No, I’m not. I’ve been to hundreds of auditions, practically made it over to Jersey, but I’ve never gotten one call-back.”

  “You have to crawl before you can walk.”

  “Oh, that’s good, Jon, really original. It must be your writer’s creative mind. Crawl before walk. I’ll have to remember that, write it down.”

  There, I paid him back, she thought. Paid him back for what?

  Jon shrugged. “I give up. Speaking of giving up, I don’t know how long I can stay with Madame. I’m running out of money.”

  “Why stay? You don’t want to be an actor.”

  “A script writer should be involved with actors, learn by watching them perform.”

  “You’re involved with me.”

  “I meant the classroom.”

  “What classroom? It’s a loft. Truthfully, Jonny, you’re a lot better than some of those Marlon Brando clones.”

  “Not really, except when I perform love scenes with you.”

  She felt her cheeks bake. “How’s your play coming along?”

  “Duck Pond Sonata’s coming along fine, just fine. All I have to do is figure out how to finish Act Three without killing everybody off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like an opera. When things get sticky, characters die.” He sipped his coffee. “This stuff’s cold. Where’s the waitress?”

  Delly studied Jon above her open menu. He was a shade under six feet, with a muscular body. His eyes were a smoky bluish-green. Natural streaks of blonde mingled with the brown strands of his hair.

  He was even better looking than Tyrone Power.

  They had finally met again three months ago, when he’d signed up for Madame’s class. He didn’t remember the girl in the marmalade gown, the dopey kid who insisted “Boy” tip him fifteen bucks, but Delly immediately recognized her handsome waiter and chased him shamelessly.

  After their first night together, ten hours rather than ten minutes, she finally learned what home plate meant.

  “Is there a part in your play for me?” she asked, placing her menu on the table.

  “The part is you. I’m writing it for you.”

  “Then why can’t I read it?”

  “Duck Pond’s not ‘flossed’ yet,” he said, “and maybe I’m afraid you’ll laugh at the dialogue.”

  “You have lines like keep your tongue in your pocketbook?”

  “It wasn’t all that funny, Delly.”

  “Can’t you visualize a better use for a tongue?”

  “I suppose. How about licking ice-cream cones?”

  “Too fattening.”

  “Stamps?”

  “Okay. While I’m licking stamps, you can lick envelopes. Gosh, I’m getting hot. Visualization is the one thing I have learned from Madame Sourdellia. Let’s vamoose to your apartment, Jonny.”

  “A vamoose is an antlered mammal, a member of the deer family, probably the Hispanic branch of the family.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You said you were hungry.”

  “I am.” She tried a leer. “But if I eat one more bowl of cottage cheese, I’ll turn into a curd.”

  “Don’t you mean turd?”

  “Turd is what you’ve done when you finish a vacation in Europe.”

  “Europe,” said Jon, “is what they yell during baseball games.”

  “Very good, smarty-pants. C’mon, let’s watch the soaps on your TV.”

  “Since when do you like soap operas?”

  “I don’t.” She tried another leer. “But if we stop watching, it won’t matter.”

  “We can’t watch soaps. We have the rest of Madame’s class, and afterwards we’re supposed to find you a new name, although Delly Gold would fit great across a marquee.”

  “I know. But my twin, Samantha, always called us the Gold sisters. How does Delilah Griffin sound?”

  “Perfect. I thought you didn’t want to get married.”

  “I don’t. Not yet. I just want to borrow your name.”

  “The word Griffin means a fabulous creature with an eagle’s head and a lion’s body.”

  “What’s wrong with my body?”

  “Why do you always take everything I say as a negative? You have a lovely body. Sinuous. Sensuous. Even, to a certain extent, carnivorous.”

  “Aw, it’s not that great,” she mumbled. “What do you mean, carnivorous?”

  “You don’t have an eagle’s head, thank God. I don’t hanker to kiss an eagle, ma’am.” Leaning sideways, he pried her lips apart with his tongue. At the same time, he ran his hands underneath her T-shirt. “Where’s your bra?”

  “Country boy! In Manhattan a lady never wears a bra with shredded jeans. Rats! Until you touched me, you didn’t even notice, and my nipples have been puckering all morning.”

  “Isn’t Puckering a character in a Shakespeare play?”

  “Enough already.”

  “More than a mouthful is a waste,” he teased, staring at her T-shirt, giving her an honest-to-God leer.

  “Speaking of mouthfuls, let’s explore new name possibilities while we lick stamps and envelopes.”

  They paid for their coffee and exited the restaurant. Delly peered through the window of the jewelry shop next door. “If we really did get married, which one would you choose?” She pointed to a display of engagement rings surrounded by Valentine hearts.

  “The biggest one, Jane, right there in the middle. The solitaire we could never afford.”

  Delly grinned like an idiot. He did remember the marmalade kid. “We’ll afford it someday, Tarz, when the movies buy your play and I’m starring in my umpteenth Broadway smash.”

  “Nothing like being positive. Where are you going?”

  “To reserve my ring. I’ll tell the jeweler to put a sign next to it. Delly’s diamond. Jon, that’s it! My new name. Delly Diamond.”

  “I don’t know, honey. Diamonds are hard. They cut glass.”

  “Let’s cut class.”

  “Wasn’t it Marilyn Monroe who sai
d something about diamonds being tacky for a woman under forty?”

  “No. Audrey Hepburn. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey doesn’t have big breasts either, so maybe I can be a superstar.”

  “Let’s christen your new name while we lick stamps and envelopes.”

  “You want to waste your tongue on envelopes?” Had she possessed bushy eyebrows, Delly would have Groucho’d them.

  * * * * *

  Samantha’s kitchen smelled of garlic.

  “Was that Jules on the phone?” asked Delly, thinking how a vampire wouldn’t be caught dead lurking outside the Perry residence.

  “Yes. He should be home soon.” Samantha nursed six-week old Samuel William, nicknamed Will. “Jules and his father kept the store open late. Valentine’s Day is the best time of the year to buy furs retail, except maybe Christmas. Did I show you the mink jacket Jules gave me for my birthday?”

  “Yes. It’s lovely. Wow, it must be fun breast feeding.”

  “Not really, but they say you get your figure back quicker. Damn, my milk’s just about dried up. I think I might be preggers again.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish.” Samantha burst into tears, joining her new son’s wails. “Jules is gonna kill me.”

  “Why? You didn’t do it alone.”

  “I know, but I haven’t taken off the weight from Will and now I’ll get even fatter. I’m so tired all the time. I can’t cook worth a damn and—”

  “Dinner was fine.”

  “Canned spaghetti, and you hardly ate a thing, even though you’re so skinny you could give Olive Oyl a run for her money.” Samantha wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Mom says you spend most of your time in the city. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yup. His name’s Popeye.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I sort of have a boyfriend.”

  Samantha smiled through the last of her tears. “I remember when you said you sort of wanted to be an actress. You know, Delly, you should think about getting married and having kids. It’s really the best thing. I mean, you wouldn’t have to sweat all that acting crap. Rejection, rejection, rejection. I hear Jules. Hold Will.” She ran to the door, threw her arms around her husband’s neck, and rubbed her body against his.

  He pushed her away.

  While Jules ate his spaghetti, Delly bathed the baby and put him down in his crib for the night. Samantha sang a lullaby.

  She may have lost her figure, thought Delly, but she sure hasn’t lost her voice.