{"id":5645,"date":"2017-10-30T07:13:56","date_gmt":"2017-10-30T12:13:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=5645"},"modified":"2020-09-04T05:21:40","modified_gmt":"2020-09-04T10:21:40","slug":"glories-last-stand","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/glories-last-stand\/","title":{"rendered":"Glorie\u2019s Last Stand"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div>\n

Patricia Crisafulli<\/a><\/h2>\n

Original Online Fiction<\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n

\n

D<\/span>es cut Glorie off just as she launched into the story again, reminding her that he\u2019d been there, right afterwards. \u201cWell, fine, but you don\u2019t know everything<\/em>,\u201d she said, followed by silence on the phone, neither of them giving in to speak first, until Des broke the impasse. \u201cYou\u2019re still coming, right? Promise you\u2019ll ask Fred to call you a cab?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFred\u2019s not on duty tonight,\u201d Glorie said. \u201cI\u2019ll have to hail my own taxi.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSomebody will get you one.\u201d Des massaged his forehead, loosening the tightness to stave off a new set of wrinkles. The doormen who manned the entrance to the high-rise down the block from the four-story walk-up where Glorie lived were more than happy to help her out, even though she tipped them like Eisenhower was still president.<\/p>\n

Before they got off the phone, Des promised that, as soon as she arrived and buzzed, he\u2019d come downstairs to get her, which seemed to please her. Glorie was featherlight; if need be, he and Jon or Jacques would carry her up the stairs. She\u2019d enjoy the grand entrance\u2014Carole Channing in Hello Dolly<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Des tried to picture Glorie in a beaded gown, long gloves past her elbows, but worry clouded the image. No matter how much Glorie insisted she\u2019d tripped, Des wasn\u2019t so sure. When he arrived at the hospital last Thursday, Glorie had seemed so confused, giving him a blank look as if unsure of who he was. The nurse had to tell him what happened because Glorie didn\u2019t remember: She fell at Macy\u2019s, landing face first on the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cToo bad it wasn\u2019t Bergdorf\u2019s,\u201d Glorie had replied, without missing a beat.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s when Des knew she\u2019d be okay.<\/p>\n

Macy\u2019s was being very solicitous, offering to pay all medical bills, even though three people saw Glorie trip over her own damn scarf that trailed behind her like a bad stage review. Glorie had stuffed that ratty old silk in her pocket because she didn\u2019t want to lose another one. A few weeks ago, she\u2019d left a Hermes on the bus.<\/p>\n

Glorie, Des feared, was losing more than scarves these days.<\/p>\n

\"Glories<\/p>\n

Des straightened the fussy lace cloth that, like the table it was on, had been left to him by his Aunt Gertrude. That old gal had been born in 1880\u2014104 years ago\u2014and married into money in 1899 when New York City was in its prime. If he could pick his era to live in, that would be it. Now New York was falling apart, still not recovered from its near-bankruptcy. Crime was up and the streets were filthy. If the building super didn\u2019t get the garbage in the alley picked up soon, they\u2019d have to invest in leashes to take the rats for a walk. But at $323 a month\u2014Des raised his eyes to whatever angels looked out for old actors in rent-controlled apartments\u2014he wasn\u2019t about to complain.<\/p>\n

Let the Yuppies do the yapping\u2014oh, that was a good one, he smiled. He\u2019d have to tell that to Scott the next time they saw each other. That would have been tonight\u2014baptism by fire at one of the dinners Des told him so much about\u2014except Scott had to work late. Probably better this way, Des decided: It was too soon to involve others that may or may not evolve into something.<\/p>\n

But, just for a moment, Des allowed himself the fantasy of he and Scott living in his apartment\u2014almost a one-bedroom if you considered the separate sleeping alcove. Scott was fifteen years younger, 42 to his 57. Glorie would be apoplectic with jealousy.<\/p>\n

Des focused on the table: six place settings for the dinner he\u2019d hosted every third Monday of the month since 1971. Thirteen mostly uninterrupted years, except for the very occasional tours, rehearsals, and performances. These days, none of them were on a real stage anymore, except for Jon in that awful experimental thing last year, as far off Broadway as could be imagined.<\/p>\n

His own heyday had come and gone before he\u2019d known what was happening. Back in the early Fifties, a good-looking man of twenty-four with a strong and confident singing voice, he\u2019d won a few small parts on Broadway. He still had the Playbills<\/em> from each of those shows, with a listing or even a small bio: Desmond Richards\u2014his real name, for which he thanked his parents who could have named him Archie or Gustav. His father never liked the idea of his son in theater, although his mother used to come into the city from New Jersey to watch a matinee: Her boy, fourth dancer on the right; the singer with three lines; the guy who sweeps the girl into his arms under the lamppost\u2026<\/p>\n

Then the pipes gave out, and his acting wasn\u2019t good enough to land him dramatic roles, though he made a decent living in radio commercials. Even now, he was in demand. Nationwide Insurance loved him\u2014authoritative, yet grandfatherly, the casting director told him. God love them, he\u2019d help hawk their policies until he was cold in the grave.<\/p>\n

Glorie had the longest career of all of them. A dancer in the chorus, with thighs to die for and a perky all-American look with a veneer of sexiness\u2014Doris Day as played by Monroe. She went to Hollywood for a while and tested well for the screen. Then came bit parts, mostly in screwball comedies: the friend, the neighbor, the girl in the typing pool. But she worked with some of the greats. Once, in a department store scene, she said, \u201cMay I help you?\u201d to Humphrey Bogart\u2014or was it Gene Kelly?<\/p>\n

After a spiral of bad men and worse parts, Glorie came back to New York and acted a little, but had to support herself in retail, although she never liked the idea of a job with regular hours. She did radio commercials sometimes when he could get a gig for her.<\/p>\n

The slow fade was the same for all of them: hopes, dreams, and then\u2014Wham!\u2014reality, but it seemed to hit Glorie the hardest. Maybe because she\u2019d made it the farthest, Des thought; but it was hardly far enough for her to have two nickels\u2014How dated that sounded!\u2014two subway tokens to rub together. A little better, Des told himself, always practicing his lines and stories for his next audience, which he hoped would be Scott before too long.<\/p>\n

Des pulled out one of the dining chairs with the curlicue legs and sat down at the table that dominated the apartment. He always pictured having a Park Avenue townhouse where he\u2019d host soirees and dinner parties that sometimes got a mention in the Times<\/em>. Instead he was cooking Cornish hens in a galley kitchen on Thirty-Third Street, for all the world an aging has-been, living on his own.<\/p>\n

The doorbell chimed, cheap and tinny. The intercom was reduced to static, another thing the super ignored, so Des buzzed in whoever it was.<\/p>\n

Jacques blotted his forehead with a square of a white linen handkerchief after walking the three flights up, then handed him a bottle of wine. Des knew Jacques (real name, Harvey) from the old days, when they were in a few productions together and sometimes faced off in auditions. Maureen, Jacques\u2019 girlfriend, arrived a short while later, straight from work in a dark suit and sensible shoes, the uniform of Wall Street where she did something complicated with numbers. She handed yellow daisies wrapped in pink tissue paper to Des.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow was your day, dear?\u201d she asked Jacques with a June Cleaver peck on the cheek that made Des smile.<\/p>\n

At six-forty-five, Jon arrived with Devon. \u201cMy sister\u2019s son,\u201d Jon said, flourishing his hand in the direction of the young man in chinos and a blue shirt\u2014Brooks Brothers, Des noted. A freshman at Columbia University, Devon was staying with Jon in his two-bedroom on Riverside Drive, inherited after Jon\u2019s long-time partner died.<\/p>\n

Des had always coveted that space, imagining what he could do with it\u2014more light, a bigger dining table, sing-alongs around the piano. Jon surely couldn\u2019t keep the place up without his nephew paying something. Who was really helping whom in that arrangement?<\/p>\n

Seeing the boy, who resembled Jon slightly through the eyes and cheekbones, Des gave him an hour tops before he feigned an excuse about needing to be someplace. Who\u2019d blame him for not wanting to spend the evening with people twice\u2014Des corrected himself, the kid was eighteen\u2014three times older than he was?<\/p>\n

Finally, at seven-fifteen, with the mini-crab puffs out of the oven and on a serving tray, and the roasted Cornish heads nearly browned to perfection, Des heard the door buzzer. \u201cThank God!\u201d He tossed the oven mitts aside in preparation for the descent, but Devon was on his feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll go,\u201d he said. \u201cUncle Jon told me about your friend.\u201d<\/p>\n

Des cast a glance at Jon, who nodded, and let the kid go. Glorie would enjoy arriving on the arm of a good-looking young man.<\/p>\n

\"Glories<\/p>\n

She wore a platinum page-boy wig that curled toward her face and covered her cheekbones, and owlish dark glasses like Jackie O\u2019s. Her pantsuit was a modest tan tweed, appropriate for an early fall evening, and her heels were mid-height, not the stilettos Glorie was still known to wear. But the wig and glasses made Glorie look like a caricature of herself, even though Des knew why: the bruises were still bad.<\/p>\n

Des held her lightly, feeling the delicate bones, his kisses landing on air instead of the heavily made-up cheeks. \u201cYou\u2019re going to have to take off the glasses, love,\u201d he whispered. \u201cRemember my lighting? Dim enough to make us all look good.\u201d<\/p>\n

Glorie accepted help to a chair, crossed her long legs, and took a glass of wine, but waved off a crab puff. \u201cMy girlish figure.\u201d Age deepened her voice, like Lucille Ball\u2019s.<\/p>\n

Jon, Jacques, and Maureen leaned in, asking how she was, what had happened. Glorie obliged, sparing no details. Des watched her as she spoke, remembering the old days when she could dance like Cyd Charisse. If only she\u2019d become famous, the trivia nuts would have gone crazy over her name: Glorie Youngblood, after Gloria Swanson and a not-so-subliminal message to youth-obsessed casting directors. But she\u2019d been born Hazel Frumpfmeister\u2014you just can\u2019t make that stuff up.<\/p>\n

Glorie was talking about Bacall. \u201cWe looked a lot alike in those days, although my hair was lighter than hers. Same bone structure, though. I caught Bogie giving me the once-over more than a few times, naughty boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Their laughter was polite, indulgent\u2014even Des, who knew for a fact that none of that had happened except in Glorie\u2019s imagination.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you an actor?\u201d Glorie asked Devon over the rim of her wineglass.<\/p>\n

Devon shook his head. \u201cFinance\u2014my father insists, but it suits me. I\u2019d like to go into investment banking.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, then Maureen\u2019s the one you want to know.\u201d Jacques patted his girlfriend\u2019s knee. \u201cShe\u2019s at Lazard Freres.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWow, do they do internships?\u201d Devon asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cAlways sounded like a funeral home to me,\u201d Glorie interrupted. \u201cWhen I go, Maureen, do you think I could lie in state there?\u201d<\/p>\n

Putting his hand on Glorie\u2019s shoulder, Des redirected the conversation back to Devon and Maureen. Seeing Glorie\u2019s pout, he leaned in closer and lowered his voice. \u201cLove the blond wig, darling. Is it new?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve seen me in it a million times.\u201d Glorie turned away from him and toward the others. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you a secret. I\u2019m really a redhead\u2014cross my heart.\u201d She swiped an X across her chest. \u201cBut I\u2019ve been a blond for most of my career, a brunette on demand, and once a hip length wig that hid the fact I was naked on stage.\u201d She winked at Devon. \u201cI\u2019m sure you can imagine that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"Glories<\/p>\n

\u201cTime to eat,\u201d Des said, derailing Glorie\u2019s train of nonsense thought\u2014she\u2019d never played Lady Godiva. \u201cMy poor birds are wilting, or whatever it is they do.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMolting!\u201d Jacques laughed, \u201calthough I hope they\u2019ve been thoroughly plucked by now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlucked, stuffed, basted, roasted, and ready to be devoured,\u201d Des announced.<\/p>\n

Glorie drank three glasses of wine and ate almost nothing, even though Des plied her with bread, roasted potatoes, and another slice of meat on her plate.<\/p>\n

She was in rare form, and not in a good way, telling tales that had no basis in reality and outrageously flirting with Devon. What the hell part did she think she was playing, Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard?<\/em><\/p>\n

Maureen and Jacques cast glances that stopped being subtle. Devon stared at his shoes. Jon asked and then told Glorie to take it easy. Des served more wine, then brought out the cake and coffee before the dinner dishes were cleared\u2014anything to keep Glorie from making any more of a fool out of herself. Had she become unhinged\u2014psychotic, maybe even a stroke\u2014which would explain the fall, although surely the doctors checked for that?<\/p>\n

When she got up to \u201cpowder her nose,\u201d Des took Glorie\u2019s arm and steered her the ten feet to the bathroom. \u201cYou\u2019re not yourself tonight. I\u2019m worried.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m exactly who I am.\u201d Glorie flung her arms out dramatically, rapping the knuckles of her right hand against the wall. The sound made Des flinch, but Glorie never lost her composure.<\/p>\n

When the bathroom door was shut, Des apologized to the others. \u201cAfter that fall she\u2019s on a lot of medication.\u201d Maureen made sympathetic noises; Jon and Jacques nodded their heads in understanding. \u201cYou\u2019re not seeing the Glorie we know, Devon.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI get it,\u201d the young man said. \u201cShe\u2019s old. Stuff like this happens.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGlorie is two years younger than I am,\u201d Des protested on her behalf\u2014a minor lie, since she was actually older by a couple of years. \u201cShe\u2019s been in more theater productions, worked with more stars\u2014Redford, Bacall, Fonda, Burton and Taylor\u2014than anyone you\u2019ll ever know or hope to meet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Before he finished, Des was aware of Glorie standing behind his chair, gripping the back of it. \u201cI never worked with Burton,\u201d she said. \u201cBut Jane Fonda once asked me how to draw her eyeliner straight.\u201d<\/p>\n

Glorie let go of the chairback, assumed a pose, hands clasped to her breast, eyes fixed on a distant point: \u201cOh, what a noble mind is here o\u2019erthrown!\u2014The courtier\u2019s, soldier\u2019s, scholar\u2019s, eye, tongue, sword\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

Slipping out of character as if shrugging off an overcoat, Glorie looked down and smiled. \u201cStill remember my Ophelia.\u201d
\n\u201cYou played her?\u201d Jon asked.<\/p>\n

Glorie shook her head. \u201cOnly to the bathroom mirror, but I gave myself brilliant reviews.\u201d She sat down. Her eyes watered and tracks of tears mixed with mascara trickled over her bruised cheeks. \u201cI\u2019m moving. My sister and her husband are taking me in. It\u2019s back to Scranton for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo!\u201d Jacques protested. \u201cNew York\u2019s your home.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t be by myself. Macy\u2019s wasn\u2019t my first fall.\u201d<\/p>\n

Des felt the weight of the stare of those angels who looked out for old actors. He shifted in his chair as if dodging their gaze, but knew it was hopeless. \u201cYou can move in with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d Glorie\u2019s voice was small and brittle.<\/p>\n

\u201cUntil your prince comes along.\u201d<\/p>\n

Des knew then that Scott might visit once or twice, but nothing would ever happen between them, not with Glorie here. Perhaps it was better, nip off the chance for another romantic disappointment, even though Scott had made him hopeful, at least for the past ten days.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy prince is already here,\u201d Glorie said.<\/p>\n

Des felt her soft palm against his cheek, knowing this was the part he was meant to play: the hero, the one who saves the day and gets the girl, even though that was never what he wanted when he was a young boy growing up in Matawan, New Jersey.<\/p>\n

Des looked up at his guests. \u201cAnybody want an antique dinner table? I\u2019ll need the space for one of those sleeper-sofa things.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Des,\u201d Maureen sighed. \u201cIsn\u2019t there some other way?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll take it,\u201d Jon said. \u201cGot a ton of space. Hey, you can do dinners at my place. I\u2019ll serve the wine and you do the cooking. Great arrangement.\u201d<\/p>\n

Those angels betrayed him, taking away so much. He\u2019d rather end the Monday night dinners than serve them anyplace else. And the thought of Jon lording over Aunt Gertrude\u2019s table\u2014 Des stopped. What did it matter anymore?<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, let\u2019s,\u201d Glorie said. \u201cWe can sing around the piano\u2014you\u2019ll have to play, Des. Jon doesn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBe fun,\u201d Maureen agreed.<\/p>\n

Des took his cue and rose from his chair. \u201cNo Scranton for you, Hazel,\u201d he said, and leaned down to kiss Glorie on the cheek, lightly, to avoid the bruises.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
\n

Patricia Crisafulli,<\/strong> M.F.A., is an award-winning writer, published author, and founder of FaithHopeandFiction.com<\/em><\/a>. She received her Master\u2019s in Fine Arts (MFA) from Northwestern University, which also honored her with the Distinguished Thesis Award in Creative Writing. She is the recipient of three Write Well Awards for best-of-the-web literary fiction for stories that have appeared on FaithHopeandFiction<\/em>. She is the author of several nonfiction books and a collection of short stories and essays, Inspired Every Day,<\/em> published by Hallmark.<\/p>\n

Image Credit: \u00a9 Viacheslav Iacobchuk<\/a> | Kiev, Ukraine via Dreamstime.com<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Glorie had the longest career of all of them. A dancer in the chorus, with thighs to die for and a perky all-American look. 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