Storytelling

Heeb‘s critically acclaimed Storytelling series presents Jewish stories from an ever-changing crew of performers across the country. We now give you Heeb _Storytelling in its online incarnation. Check back here each Thursday for a new story. This week’s feature_ _is the first installment of “Behind Closed Doors” by Alix Strauss. Be sure to come back next week for part two._

I watch the ladies parade into the bar of the Four Seasons hotel. They look like a pack of tourists following a guide, who, unfortunately, in this instance, is my mother, Rose Tierney.

“Morgan, we’re here!” Acting as if she’s Norma Desmond descending the staircase, my mother signals to me from across the room. She’s both breathtaking and distancing. A-list in the looks department, Wicked Witch in the nurturing arena. I want to run to her, open-armed, ready for her embrace, and I want to run away as reality sets in that she will never be the person I hoped she’d become.

I smile like a good daughter and fall, rather slip, easily into the role I’m expected to play. I excel at this. My whole family does. By 34, I had assumed a curtain would have dropped, followed by several adoring minutes of applause, and an award would have arrived on my doorstep: Best Acting in a Family Drama. But it didn’t, and the ovation hasn’t started, and from what I can tell, intermission isn’t coming for years.

I’m accosted by the smell of several flowery and sweet fragrances making me think I’ve entered a stale perfumery. I glance at my mother’s friends, their faces already embroidered in memory. They’re as familiar to me as the conversations that take place in the hotel’s lounge every Wednesday after they’ve played bridge at the club next door. Somehow the Four Seasons has become a halfway house for wayward Upper East Siders.

Usually I can find a way to escape, a reason to be M.I.A. It’s a large hotel with over 368 rooms. I could be anywhere: in a budget meeting, speaking with housekeeping, planning a corporate event, showing a room, dealing with a celebrity in crisis… the list of excuses for a general manager of a hotel is endless. But today I’ve been caught. Today I’ve been inducted, or abducted, into my mother’s ritual tea hour.

It takes several minutes for them to settle in. Shopping bags are stacked noisily on the unoccupied banquette, recently completed bridge score cards are removed from pockets and purses, fur coats, hats and wool scarves are draped over the backs of the mahogany chairs. The sound of the wooden legs scraping against marble floor, the snap of white cloth napkins, of water being poured into glasses, of bangle bracelets clinking and scratching against the fine china plates all seem to converge. It’s a musical ballet, rhythmic and smooth. Dramatic and entertaining. The only way to tell my mother’s friends apart is by their drink order; White or Red Wine, Cosmo, Martini, Gin & Tonic.

“The food is good here,” White Wine says.
“Yes, the food is good here,” agrees Martini.
“Marvelous,” announces Cosmo.
“I just love it,” my mother contributes, winking at me before taking a swig of watered-down scotch. “And having a child who runs the show doesn’t hurt either.”
“I tell Robert he can’t take me anywhere else for my birthday, it’s always here.”
“I know,” says Red Wine, slapping the top of the table. “I love high tea. It’s absolutely charming.”
“Best in New York.”
“And there’s so much food.”

I watch them eye the traditional three-tier holders. Two have been set in the middle of the table, each filled with warm berry scones and mini lemon poppy seed muffins, egg, tuna and cucumber finger sandwiches, quarter-sized salmon and cream cheese on toasted brioche, cookies and coconut macaroons. They reach for the snacks, rings on appropriate fingers, a rainbow of nail colors flash. What the hell am I doing here?

“I wouldn’t dare eat this by myself,” continues Gin & Tonic.
“Nor I.”
It’s bad Mamet no matter how you look at it.
“You know, honey,” my mother says, leaning forward, her hand shooting towards my head, “You could really use a shaping. And perhaps some fresh highlights. You’re looking a tad dull.”

As I attempt to dodge the oncoming fingers, they somehow arrive at my ear and push thick, blondish-brown strands of hair behind it. My quick head jerk surprises her and I can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or hurt. She pulls her hand back, and as she does, her ring gets caught. There’s a slight tug, the momentary throb of pain, the holding still while she tries to untangle her wedding band. White Wine and Cosmo attempt to help, but only make things worse.

If I don’t break free, if I don’t get myself out of here, I swear to God my head will explode.

A sharp yank releases both of us, and I excuse myself from the table stating I need to check tonight’s reservations, the _New York Times_ food editor is supposed to be having dinner here. This causes a collective “Ohhhh” from the group, which fades as I head deeper into the restaurant and push through the swinging doors that open into the kitchen. Moist heat hits me like a humid, summer day. The banging of pots, the steam from the scorching water and the wet heat from the dishwashers is overwhelming. The chef is yelling while slamming down a bowl. There’s the clanking of plates and glassware. Everything sounds extra loud, and the light, ultra blinding as the bustling culinary area moves to its own rhythm.
My eyes eventually rest on Renaldo, the busboy. He’s cute and young and innocent, and he likes me. I know this because he blushes whenever I’m around and always asks if I’d like a muffin or coffee or one of the freshly squeezed juices when I pick up my morning paper and fruit cup.

I slide up to him, whisper into his ear that I need help reaching a jar of jam kept in the dry pantry. Would he lift it down? I pull him by his untied apron, the universal sign for the end of a shift, and lead him into the back room where the economy bottles of condiments and baking ingredients are stored.

He flips on the light and walks directly to the oversized bottle of raspberry preserves. The room is small but well organized. Large plastic containers, bottles, and packages of spices are stacked high on a shelf above a sink and cutting table. On the opposite side are racks and racks of cooking paraphernalia; soy sauce, salad dressings, oil and vinegar. Cans of teas and jams. On the floor are the super-size boxes of flour, sugar, rice and wheat.

He’s in mid-reach when I shut the door behind me. He spins around, smiles sheepishly. His skin is tan, his face smooth. His lips look soft, eyelashes full. His cropped black hair has too much gel in it, giving off a bristled appearance. I dim the light to just a bare hue, his face almost glows. I glide over to him, lean in close and rest a hand on his right shoulder blade. It feels strong and narrow and I wonder what’s going through his mind at this very minute as I do something I’ve never done before. I don’t have one-night stands. I don’t have inter-hotel relationships. I slide my hand down until I reach the belt loops of his pants, place myself up against the cutting board and kiss him. He tastes salty and smells of olive oil and sweat and a hint of Old Spice, which remind me of the commercial with the kid and the father who’s dressed in a blue turtleneck at Christmas time. A wife and golden retriever are at his side, a sailboat is in the background and everyone seems enormously happy in a fake sort of way.

At first, Renaldo doesn’t return the kiss. He is uncomfortably quiet. Seems frozen and confused, and I must lead him though this, find a place to put his hands on my body.
“It’s okay. I want to do this,” I whisper into his ear, breathy and warm, like on TV, like in a porn video.

His light brown skin is darker in here, and I can barely make out his facial features. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I undo my belt, unbutton my slacks, search for his small, callused hands and place them on my hips, help him feel in the dark for my underwear. I reach for his belt and remember he isn’t wearing one. Instead I undo his pants, push them down, hear them drop to the floor, feel the elastic band of his briefs, no, boxers. Renaldo’s fingers are lingering at my waist. They seem lost in the lacy fabric and I shove his hands away and take off my underwear for him. Frustration is building inside my chest, like a balloon receiving air, the inner pressure pushing on my ribs.
“Please, it’s fine. Really.”
There’s an uncomfortable stillness, followed by the breathing through nostrils. Then something takes over inside him, male hormones, the understanding that this is actually happening settles in, and he becomes all man. He hurriedly undoes my shirt, pulling at the buttons and lifting it up over my head. Then he reaches for my breasts, cups his hands over my bra while brushing his face up against mine.

“Yes,” I think. “Keep going,” I mentally encourage him. I grasp his face, hold his chin, feel for his cheeks and lips to see if he is smiling. He twists his face to the left and kisses my hand on the palm side. His lips are moist and soft, like wet cotton. He is so gentle, so kindly I want to cry.

His body is narrow and slight and it almost feels as if I’m fucking a child. “I swear,” I murmur into his ear, “I will never be one of them.” He pauses for a moment, tightens his grasp and brings me close to his body. I would rather spend a lifetime alone than become one of those ladies at the table having tea and wearing rings and spending their husband’s money.
When I return to the table, my damp face has been patted dry, hair restyled, make-up reapplied.

“Morgan, what took so long?” my mother asks.
Sweat is running down my back. I’m slightly winded and a little disoriented. I can feel my face contort into a smug smile. As hard as I try, I can’t remove the grin, and I must restrain myself from leaping onto the table shouting, I just fucked the busboy. I fucked the busboy while you all sat on your asses and ate.

I take my seat. “I was following up on some reservations. We have a divisions dinner next week…”
“There must be a lot of them, you were gone for 20 minutes.”
“Was I?” I say, head tilted to one side, an innocent expression on my face. “There was small crisis in the kitchen.” I reach for a salmon tea sandwich and a raspberry scone.
My mother turns to Cosmo and Martini, “Who would have thought,” she beams.
“And the Four Seasons is such an established hotel,” adds White Wine.
“I don’t know how you kids do it,” says Cosmo.
My mother extends her hand from across the table, rests it on mine. This time I stay still, remind myself not to pull away. “She’s the youngest the hotel has ever had. Such responsibility.”
“Not too shabby,” Martini adds.
The women nod, their recently Botoxed eyebrows not arching, their collagen lips full and pressed into a closed smile.
“I barely see Lindsay. Miramax works her like a dog,” states Gin & Tonic. “You really have no idea. And James stays at the office sometimes till 10 or 11 at night, can you imagine?”
I look at my watch. This is good for another 5 to 8 minutes of work stories. I bet my mother is wishing she had more children so she’d have something else to contribute to the conversation and I calculate in my head how long it will take for people to remember my sister. How long until they switch subjects.

It only takes a few minutes for the acknowledgment to happen, for memory to register. Red Wine shoots a look to Cosmo who, in turn, nudges Martini who is quick to add, “Anyway, it’s really wonderful. Your mother is so very proud.”

Everyone nods as a check is placed close to me. My mother starts to reach for the leather billfold but I arrive at it first. “I got it, mom.”
“Nonsense,” the women say at once.
“Really, ladies. Please. My hotel, my pleasure.”
“You’ll be able to write it off?” Cosmo asks.
“Yes, we don’t want you paying for it,” White Wine adds. And with that, an outpour of wallets surface; LV and Prada and Gucci all make an appearance, their accoutrements as signature as their liquor choices. But I’m already up, the bill in my hand, a smirk on my face. “Really, I’m happy to do it.”

My mother is radiant. Now they won’t pity her. Sure one of her daughters is dead, but the living one has clearly made up for the loss.

_Alix Strauss is a trend writer who has been published in_ The New York Times, Time Magazine, Esquire, Marie Claire, Self, Elle _and_ Time Out. _Her novel,_ The Joy Of Funerals _(St. Martin’s Press) has been optioned by Stockard Channing who is set to direct the film version. “Behind Closed Doors” is excerpted from_ Based Upon Availability, _her new collection of interwoven shorts which she is currently writing._

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