Miss Gracie stops, breathing heavily.
As if on cue, as if she triggered a silent alarm, Roger dashes in and hands her a handkerchief. She accepts it without looking up, without acknowledging Roger at all, like the handkerchief magically appeared in her hand. Roger exits swiftly, silently, the same way he entered. His movements are precise and perfect; he’s done this a million times before. Like Benny and Agnes, everyone here seems to move with a sort of muscle memory—they’re in a familiar matrix, they’ve seen everything, done everything, know every ending of the choose-your-own-adventure that is this lifestyle.
Roger, a lifer.
“I was so moved,” Miss Gracie whispers, dabbing her eyes. “I thought you could be lovers, but then I learned you were homosexual, and, well, I’m still getting used to it. But it told me you’re smart and you’re not afraid to connect, and I like it and also I’m watching you.”
“Thank you?”
“I’m concerned, however, that the episode may have been your fault. Are you confident you gave Kathi all the proper medications? Did you see her take them? Do you have proof?”
“I’m—no—” I stutter. “I’m not sure. It may have been my fault, and I’m very sorry.”
“Watch yourself,” she says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m familiar with your types, you know what I mean?”
“Gay people?” I ask.
Miss Gracie reaches down and pulls a bottle of chardonnay from a Brookstone wine cooler on the floor beside her. Like magic, like a second act, Roger appears again, putting a wineglass down on a coaster on the coffee table, and vanishing again. Without breaking eye contact with me, Miss Gracie unscrews the bottle, pours a sip of wine, swirls it, smells it, tastes it, nods approval. “It’s fine,” she says to herself, then pours more into the glass.
“I’ve seen many secretaries and helpers and whatnot come and go,” she says. “Mostly go. Almost always, they go.” Miss Gracie shakes her head, shakes it off. “Well, they don’t call it show business for nothing. That said, you need to know I like our help loyal. I once had a limo driver who worked for me for decades—always picked me up, always—and then one day I call the limo company to schedule him and he’s not there and I ask, ‘Where the hell is he?’ and they say, ‘He retired.’ Retired! Can you believe the nerve?! Why would anyone want to retire? What are they going to do all day? I’m never retiring. I’m working until my last breath, believe me. And that’s what I expect from the people around me. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.” I blush, not because I’m lying but because I’m embarrassed that I’m telling the truth. Why would anyone ever want to leave this show, The Kathi and Miss Gracie Hour—eight hours, actually, daily, Monday through Friday—playing on repeat, forever? Does Miss Gracie judge me for not having a life, for wanting to be a part of hers? She stares at me a moment, studying the slightest movements of my face, then continues.
“Additionally, you should memorize all important phone numbers. Our lawyers and agents and whatnot. You can get a complete list from Roger. He memorized all of them with flash cards. Oh! And in case of an emergency,” she says, closing her eyes and shaking her head, “do not ever call 911. First, call our plastic surgeon, Dr. Felton. He’ll know what to do. Roger has his number, naturally. And if Kathi or I have to go to the hospital, insist it is Cedars, no matter what, even if you must wrestle the ambulance steering wheel from beneath the driver’s steely fingers. I give Cedars so much money what else is it good for? You’re getting all this?”
I nod yes.
“Is that a yes? I can’t hear you, dear. I’m not psychic, though I did once play an extraordinary supernatural medium on Murder, She Wrote and was nominated for an Emmy, despite Angela being a shrew.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand. Thank you.”
“And I suppose you know about vegetables?” Miss Gracie asks, sipping her wine.
“The existence of vegetables? Yes—”
“Don’t be smart. I give money to Agnes each week to buy fresh vegetables, and now I’m going to start giving that money to you to buy the vegetables, because Agnes is a crook. I once saw her stealing a television from Kathi’s house. Just putting it in the trunk of her car. I could do nothing, because Kathi likes her, says she gave Agnes the TV. Can you imagine? I can’t for the life of me get rid of her. I’ve fired her many times, but Kathi rehires her because Kathi, who is mentally ill, likes her, and so I allow it because I love Kathi unconditionally. You understand?”
Therapista says unconditional love is a condition.
Therapista says judging others is really judging yourself.
Therapista says qualities you see in others are qualities within yourself.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
Miss Gracie puts her wine down on the coffee table and opens a leather-bound ledger, pulls out a thick envelope, and hands it to me. I reach for it, but—
“Not so fast,” she says, pulling the envelope away. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Sign here.” She pushes the ledger and a pen toward me. On the paper is written, in her scratchy, elderly handwriting, “I acknowledge receipt of two thousand dollars cash for vegetables.”
I sign. “Two thousand dollars? That’s gonna buy a lot of vegetables.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Miss Gracie says. “It all comes out of Kathi’s inheritance.” She takes the pen and ledger and theatrically turns page after page after page, revealing a long list of other signatures—Kathi, Agnes, other secretaries—all marking other withdrawals from the Miss Gracie Bank and Trust.
“Did I mention Kathi is mentally ill?” Miss Gracie asks.
“Yes, ma’am. A couple times.”
“Well, it’s important. And you know Kathi is a drug addict, don’t you?”
“Well, former drug addict,” I correct boldly, suddenly seeing the whites of Miss Gracie’s eyes as her gaze widens, consumes. “I mean, as in, like, I’ve heard ‘once you’re an addict you’re always an addict,’ you know. I’ve never seen anything.” I fidget.
“She’s had overdoses and nearly died many times. Do you think that’s funny?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all. I take all that very seriously. And I won’t be an enabler, if that’s on your mind. It’s not me at all. And like I told Kathi, I want to be the best assistant she’s ever had, and that means respecting her health and safety.”
“Dear, I have some advice,” Miss Gracie says, leaning forward only a few centimeters, but she may as well have come nose-to-nose with me, she’s that engaging. “You’re family now, so I can share this with you. You know the story about the man who wanted to fly, so he made wings out of wax, but he flew too high and the sun melted the wax and he fell back down to earth and landed flat on his ass in front of Jesus? It’s in the Bible.”
I’m thinking, That’s not the Bible. I’m thinking, Do not correct her.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say cautiously, worried she may ask follow-up questions I’m not academically qualified to answer.