Say Goodnight, Gracie Page 2

  “So?”

  “Look, can’t we just forget about this and go home?”

  “No, we cannot.”

  “But you can’t afford—”

  “Shut up, Hackett.” He pointed to some beautiful gold heart-shaped earrings in a showcase. “How about these? Do you like these?”

  “How much are they?”

  “Do you like them?”

  “How much are they?”

  “Miss?” Jimmy said to the salesclerk. “We’d like these earrings, please.”

  “Cash or charge?”

  “Cash.”

  “Let’s see . . . that’s thirty-seven fifty plus tax—”

  “Jimmy!” I said. “I will not allow you to spend that much money on me!”

  “I want to do this. When you’re a famous actress, I’ll be able to say, ‘I bought her her first pair of earrings.’ You can wear them to the Academy Awards.”

  “I can’t let you do this.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you just to smile and say thank you?”

  “I don’t want you to spend all your money on me! I don’t want—”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Just say goodnight, Gracie.”

  “Goodnight, Gracie,” I said.

  When we got to the hospital it was around dinnertime, so there wasn’t much traffic in the halls. My aunt’s floor was practically deserted, and the only person at the nurses’ station was a student nurse, a girl who looked just a year or two older than us.

  “Hey,” Jimmy whispered. “Do you know her?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Good. Wait here.”

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I grabbed his arm. “Jimmy, you’re going to do something crazy, aren’t you? You’re going to go up to that girl and do something crazy and embarrass me—”

  “Oh, come on. I’m just going to have a little fun—”

  “Fun? This is the psychiatric floor! If you start acting weird around here, they’ll lock you up!”

  “Excuse me,” the girl called from the desk. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said. He walked over to the counter and talked to her in a low voice: “You see that girl I’m with?”

  The student nurse looked at me and nodded.

  “She’s a patient here,” Jimmy said. “This morning while no one was looking, she sneaked out. I found her down on State Street talking to herself.”

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  “I don’t know how that happened,” the girl said. “Who’s her doctor?”

  “Dr. Hackett,” Jimmy said.

  “She is not my doctor!” I yelled.

  Jimmy leaned closer to the girl. “She’s hysterical—”

  “I see,” the girl said.

  “You don’t see!” I said. “Look, my friend here has a warped sense of humor. Dr. Hackett’s expecting me. She’s going to pierce my ears—”

  The student nurse just stared at me. “Your psychiatrist is going to pierce your ears?”

  “She’s not my psychiatrist! She’s my aunt!”

  “Uh, of course she is,” the girl said. “I’ll go get her. Don’t go anywhere.” She went off down the hall, and Jimmy laughed and leaned back against the counter.

  “Don’t forget the straitjacket!” he called after her.

  “God, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Morgan . . . you take things entirely too seriously. You’ve got to lighten up a little.” He jammed his fingers into my side and started tickling me.

  “Stop it!” I started laughing. I tried to tickle him back, but he kept out of reach so effectively that by the time my aunt and the student nurse appeared, Jimmy was the one in control and I was the one doubled over and laughing like a hyena. My aunt stood there quietly, her arms folded over her white coat.

  “Dr. Hackett,” Jimmy said, “you look beautiful. Like a Freudian bird in a guilted cage.” (My aunt really is very pretty, but she has this sharp-eyed intelligent look that keeps her from being beautiful. I have this feeling when I look at her that there are about a million things going on in her head all at once.)

  “Rosalie,” said my aunt. “This is my niece, Morgan, and Jimmy here is a friend of hers. I wouldn’t want to swear to it, of course, but I’m reasonably sure neither of them is crazy. All right, you two,” she said, “follow me.”

  “Catch you later, Rosalie,” Jimmy said.

  “Uh-huh,” Rosalie answered.

  We followed my aunt down the hall, and she opened the door to her office. “Why don’t you go on inside,” she said. “I’ll get the equipment and be right back, okay?”

  I followed Jimmy into the office. “She said ‘equipment,’ “I whispered. “But she meant ‘needles.’”

  “What did you think she was going to use to pierce your ears?” Jimmy asked. “Polo mallets?”

  My aunt’s office didn’t look like what you’d think a psychiatrist’s office would look like: It was small and sunny and comfortable. There was a lot of original artwork on the walls. Some of it my father had painted. He’s a professional artist and he paints these terrific scenes of things within his everyday grasp: old buildings around Glen Ellyn, people shopping in the village, front porches of our neighbors’ homes.

  “When did your dad do this one?” Jimmy asked. He was looking at a painting my father had just finished of the antique horse trough on Main Street.

  “It’s from his new collection.”

  “Hey, doesn’t your father ever get a little nervous that one of your aunt’s wacko patients might walk off with some of his valuable artwork?”

  “They’re not wacko, Jimmy. Just a little disturbed. Like you.”

  He walked over to the bookcase, where there was a coffeepot and a stack of Styrofoam cups. “You want some coffee?” he asked.

  “Uh, no . . . I’m jumpy enough.”

  “Maybe your aunt’ll give you a general anesthetic—”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I said. I sat down on the couch. “You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.”

  “Who says I don’t want to? You don’t think I’d let you go through major surgery alone, do you?”

  I tried not to smile. I didn’t want him to think I needed him, but I was glad he was there. He was always there when I needed him.

  My aunt came in with her hands crammed full of medical-looking things.

  “Don’t do anything too drastic, Dr. Hackett,” Jimmy said. “A frontal lobotomy will do just fine.”

  My aunt smiled and set her equipment on the bookcase. “It’s not going to be as bad as you think,” she said, touching my face. “Do you have your earrings?” I took the earrings out of the bag and handed them to her. Jimmy sat down on the edge of my aunt’s desk and took a packet of peanuts out of his jacket pocket and started munching them.

  “How can you sit there eating peanuts?” I asked.

  He looked at me. “What do you want me to do with them?”

  “I can think of a suggestion or two,” I said.

  My aunt pulled my hair back with a rubber band. “Do you want to lie down or sit up?” she asked.

  “I think I’ll sit up,” Jimmy said.

  “Listen,” I said, “you’re not helping any. You’re driving me nuts. Go talk to Rosalie or something.” My aunt was cleaning off one ear with an alcohol-saturated cotton ball. “Aunt Lo, aren’t you going to give me any Novocain or something?”

  “I don’t think you’ll need it, honey.” She pinched my earlobe, and it went numb. “This might hurt a little, but you can handle it. You’re allowed to holler if you want to.” Whenever my aunt does anything medical, she works very quickly. I never got a chance to see if the surgical needle was long or not. I never saw it at all. Before I knew what was happening, the first earring was in.

  “You okay?” She handed me a wad of cotton. “Here. Hold this against your ear till the bleeding
stops.”

  Jimmy leaned forward and watched with great curiosity. “What does it feel like?”

  “Just peachy,” I said. “You should try it sometime.”

  “Thanks. I live dangerously enough by carrying my ballet shoes through a tough neighborhood.”

  “Hold still now,” my aunt said. “I’m almost through.” I felt the second earring slip in. “There you go. . . . That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “I guess not.”

  She put her hand under my chin and looked at me. “You know what? I think you better lie down for a few minutes.”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Just for a few minutes. Come on.” My aunt has the kind of face where her eyes alone can do the smiling. I lay back on the couch and the three of us talked. I told her about being paranoid at Second City and Jimmy told her about his audition on Friday for Oklahoma!

  “How long would you be on the road?” my aunt asked.

  “Five months.”

  “Morgan will be lost without you—?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, I will not. The only difference I’ll notice is I won’t have somebody around razzing me twenty-four hours a day.” I was about to say more, but my aunt very matter-of-factly took a cigarette out of her coat pocket and lit it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Aunt Lo . . . when did you start smoking again?”

  “Hmm,” she said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “Some days are better than other days. This is one of my weaker days.”

  “Don’t you remember what you went through when you quit? You bit your fingernails—”

  “I know.”

  “You bit mine!” I turned to Jimmy. “Do you believe this? And she’s a doctor!”

  “All right, sweetie, all right. Your point is well-taken.” She ground out her cigarette in the ashtray, but not until she’d taken one last puff. “Okay? Let’s see how you’re doing.” She took the cotton away and looked at my ears.

  “Dr. Hackett,” Jimmy said, “why don’t we take you out to dinner? I’ve got enough money with me to swing an expensive meal as long as it’s in the cafeteria.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Come on, Aunt Lo, it’ll be fun.”

  “Thank you both, but I have a dinner date.”

  “Who is he?” I asked. “Anybody I know?”

  “No—he’s a doctor here. His name is Dan Petrie. He specializes in emergency medicine—”

  “How long have you known him?” I asked. “Is it serious?”

  “No,” my aunt said. “It’s fun.”

  “Ha ha. . . . No, really—are you just dating . . . or . . . well, you know—”

  “That’s right, Morgan,” Jimmy said, “go right ahead and dig into your aunt’s personal life—”

  “She doesn’t mind,” I said. “What’s he like?”

  “Very nice and he laughs a lot,” my aunt said. “I want you to meet him sometime.”

  “Why not now? Jimmy and I’ll stick around and see if we approve of him.”

  “No, we won’t,” Jimmy said. “We’re going to dinner, remember?”

  “But I want to meet him,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”

  My aunt smiled. “Yes, you are,” she said. “You’re starving.”

  3

  Jimmy and I ditched school for his audition. Our teachers didn’t seem to appreciate it when we missed class for things like auditions or workshops, so on days when we had something special to go to, our mothers called us in sick. My mother and I took a bag of preaudition sweet rolls over to the Woolfs’ that morning, and while Jimmy and I split a jelly doughnut, we sat back and watched our mothers call the school and do a little acting of their own:

  “This is Mrs. Hackett,” my mother said. “Morgan won’t be coming to school today; she’s got a touch of the flu. Yes, again. I’m sure she’ll be back on Monday. . . . Thank you.” She hung up and handed the phone to Jimmy’s mother. “You better be convincing, Enid—I think they’re beginning to catch on. . . .”

  “Do you realize, Fay,” Mrs. Woolf said as she dialed, “that we’re committing perjury for this young man? I wonder how many years we’ll get for lying to an attendance office. . . .”

  My mother smiled. “It’ll be worth it when he’s on Broadway.”

  “Hi, this is Mrs. Woolf,” Jimmy’s mother said. “Jimmy’s not feeling well today; he won’t be in school. . . . Oh, just the flu. He’ll be back Monday. . . . ’Bye.” When she hung up, she said, “They seem to think there’s a lot of flu going around.” She looked at my mother. “Must be an epidemic, wouldn’t you say?”

  My mother took a bite out of an almond sweet roll and nodded. “Absolutely,” she said.

  “Come on, Hackett,” Jimmy said. “Let’s get going or we’ll miss our train.”

  “What’s the hurry?” I asked. “We have twenty minutes—”

  “We could have a flat tire, you know. Can we please get going?” He picked up his jacket and walked out of the kitchen.

  I took a last sip of coffee. “Your son’s impossible before he auditions for something, Mrs. Woolf.”

  “I know,” she said. “You’ll have to talk to him; knock some sense into him.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Come on, Hackett, will you?” Jimmy yelled.

  I grabbed my sweater. “See you later. . . .”

  When our train pulled out, it went past the tennis courts across the street from the school. My gym class was out chasing after lost balls and swinging their rackets in midair.

  “Ha ha,” I said. “It gives me such a good feeling to be going away from the school.”

  Jimmy was being uncharacteristically moody. He slumped in his seat and stared into space and didn’t seem to hear a word I said.

  “Did I tell you Mrs. Klein kept me after class last week?” I said. “She wanted to know why I didn’t ‘participate in class’ more. Can you believe that? Wouldn’t you think she’d appreciate having one quiet student in class?”

  “You know something, Morgan,” Jimmy said quietly, “you and I are too dependent on each other. We should try to make other friends at school—”

  “We have friends,” I said. “Well, maybe not close friends. But it’s more important to have one good friend than it is to have a bunch of friends who don’t mean anything—”

  “We should try harder to fit in at school.”

  “Jimmy . . . what are you really trying to say?”

  He looked at me and smiled. He held up his hands, and they were trembling. “I’m terrified.”

  “It’s stage fright,” I said. “You’ll get over it. You always do.”

  “This is different. If I lose this, I’m losing much more than a part in a dinner-theater show—”

  “Jimmy, you have to pretend you’re in dance class or something. Forget who you’re dancing for. You’ll make it. You’re the best dancer I’ve ever seen.”

  “Do you know the kind of dancers I’m up against?”

  “Do they know the kind of dancer they’re up against?”

  He smiled and shook his head and looked out the window.

  There must have been a couple of hundred dancers lined up outside the entrance to the Shubert.

  “God, look at that,” I said.

  Jimmy nodded. “See? What kind of chance do I have?”

  “Jimmy, get going. Go on. What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation from the choreographer?”

  “Thanks, Morgan. You’re a real comfort. A source of inspiration.”

  “I try,” I said.

  Inside the theater, I had to catch my breath: The size of the place was enough to knock you over.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Maybe someday, Hackett, we’ll both do a play here, huh?” He took off his jacket and tossed it to me. “Hang on to that, will you?”

  “Hey, Jimmy,” I said. “You better not mess up. . . .” He grinned and went down to the front of the theater with the other dancers. I slid onto an aisle seat in one of the back rows and waite
d for it all to start.

  “Thank you all for coming!” the choreographer shouted. He stood in the middle of the stage with a clipboard in one hand. “Please leave your résumés and eight-by-tens on the piano as you’re called up onstage to dance. You will be dancing in groups of ten. The producers and I will then get together and decide if we want any of you to remain onstage and dance solo. Are there any questions? All right, then . . . let’s get started.”

  It took a while for the actual auditioning to begin. First the clothes went flying. Jimmy and everybody else peeled down to tank tops and dance shorts, leotards and tights. During the warmup I understood why Jimmy had been so nervous: These dancers were probably the best in their schools, just like Jimmy was the best in his. I sat there and watched the auditioning start, and I wondered: How good do you have to be in order to beat out excellent?

  Twenty minutes. Forty minutes. Group after group was called, with only a handful of dancers being asked to stay and dance solo. Finally it was Jimmy’s turn. The choreographer shouted out staccato instructions: “STEP! KICK! TURN! STEP! KICK! KICK! Thank you!” And it was over. The choreographer and the producers got together in a huddle and talked. I held my breath. I crossed my fingers. Jimmy was trying to act very calm, but whenever he acts like he doesn’t have a care in the world, I can be sure he’s petrified. The choreographer walked over to the edge of the stage and looked at Jimmy. “You, step forward. The rest of you, thank you.” I was jumping up and down inside. I watched Jimmy leap and twirl. Everything that was strength and grace seemed to be packed into those long legs of his. What a long way he had come from our porch-swinging days! When he finished, the choreographer thanked him with a noncommittal “Very nice. We’ll call you.”

  I didn’t wait for Jimmy to come back up the aisle. I flew down to the front of the theater and found him going through a pile of clothes, searching for his shirt and jeans.

  “Not bad,” I said. “Not bad at all.”

  He turned and looked at me. “What are you referring to? My audition or my legs?”

  I threw his jacket at him. “What do you think?”

  “Take it easy—even if I get the callback, that just means I made the finals. I’ll still have another audition to pass.”

  “You drive me crazy the way you’re so overcautious about everything!”