Tears began to trickle from her eyes again. “But—but these are my special pancakes, Ted. What am I going to do with them? What am I going to do?”
“Eat them,” Ted said. “You could use a few extra pounds. Jesus, you look terrible. You look like you haven’t eaten for a month.”
Melody’s face screwed up and became ugly. “You bastard,” she said. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”
Ted sighed. “Take it easy,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m fifteen minutes late already. I’ve got to go. You eat your pancakes and get some sleep. I’ll be back around six. We can have dinner together and talk, all right? Is that what you want?”
“That would be nice,” she said, suddenly contrite. “That would be real nice.”
“TELL JILL I WANT TO SEE HER IN MY OFFICE, RIGHT AWAY,” TED snapped to the secretary when he arrived. “And get us some coffee, willya? I really need some coffee.”
“Sure.”
Jill arrived a few minutes after the coffee. She and Ted were associates in the same law firm. He motioned her to a seat, and pushed a cup at her. “Sit down,” he said. “Look, the date’s off tonight. I’ve got problems.”
“You look it,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“An old friend showed up on my doorstep this morning,” he said.
Jill arched one elegant eyebrow. “So?” she said. “Reunions can be fun.”
“Not with Melody, they can’t.”
“Melody?” she said. “A pretty name. An old flame, Ted? What is it, unrequited love?”
“No,” he said, “no, it wasn’t like that.”
“Tell me what it was like, then. You know I love the gory details.”
“Melody and I were roommates, back in college. Not just us—don’t get the wrong idea. There were four of us. Me and a guy named Michael Englehart, Melody and another girl, Anne Kaye. The four of us shared a big old run-down house for two years. We were—friends.”
“Friends?” Jill looked skeptical.
Ted scowled at her. “Friends,” he repeated. “Oh, hell, I slept with Melody a few times. With Anne too. And both of them fucked Michael a time or two. But when it happened, it was just kind of—kind of friendly, you know? Our love life was mostly with outsiders, we used to tell one another our troubles, swap advice, cry on one another’s shoulders. Hell, I know it sounds weird. It was 1970, though. I had hair down to my ass. Everything was weird.” He sloshed the dregs of his coffee around in the cup, and looked pensive. “They were good times too. Special times. Sometimes I’m sorry they had to end. The four of us were close, really close. I loved those people.”
“Watch out,” Jill said, “I’ll get jealous. My roommate and I cordially despised each other.” She smiled. “So what happened?”
Ted shrugged. “The usual story,” he said. “We graduated, drifted apart. I remember the last night in the old house. We smoked a ton of dope, and got very silly. Swore eternal friendship. We weren’t ever going to be strangers, no matter what happened, and if any of us ever needed help, well, the other three would always be there. We sealed the bargain with—well, kind of an orgy.”
Jill smiled. “Touching,” she said. “I never dreamed you had it in you.”
“It didn’t last, of course,” Ted continued. “We tried, I’ll give us that much. But things changed too much. I went on to law school, wound up here in Chicago. Michael got a job with a publishing house in New York City. He’s an editor at Random House now, been married and divorced, two kids. We used to write. Now we trade Christmas cards. Anne’s a teacher. She was down in Phoenix the last I heard, but that was four, five years ago. Her husband didn’t like the rest of us much, the one time we had a reunion. I think Anne must have told him about the orgy.”
“And your houseguest?”
“Melody,” he sighed. “She became a problem. In college, she was wonderful; gutsy, pretty, a real free spirit. But afterwards she couldn’t cut it. She tried to make it as a painter for a couple of years, but she wasn’t good enough. Got nowhere. She went through a couple of relationships that turned sour, then married some guy about a week after she’d met him in a singles bar. That was terrible. He used to get drunk and beat her. She took about six months of it, and finally got a divorce. He still came round to beat her up for a year, until he finally got frightened off. After that Melody got into drugs, bad. She spent some time in an asylum. When she got out, it was more of the same. She can’t hold a job, or stay away from drugs. Her relationships don’t last more than a few weeks. She’s let her body go to hell.” He shook his head.
Jill pursed her lips. “Sounds like a lady who needs help,” she said.
Ted flushed, and grew angry. “You think I don’t know that? You think we haven’t tried to help her? Jesus. When she was trying to be an artist, Michael got her a couple of cover assignments from the paperback house he was with. Not only did she blow the deadlines, but she got into a screaming match with the art director. Almost cost Michael his job. I flew to Cleveland and handled her divorce for her, gratis. Flew back a couple of months later, and spent quite a while there trying to get the cops to give her protection against her exhubby. Anne took her in when she had no place to stay, got her into a drug rehabilitation program. In return, Melody tried to seduce her boyfriend—said she wanted to share him, like they’d done in the old days. All of us have lent her money. She’s never paid back any of it. And we’ve listened to her troubles, God, but we’ve listened to her troubles. There was a period a few years ago when she’d phone every week, usually collect, with some new sad story. She cried over the phone a lot. If Queen for a Day was still on TV, Melody would be a natural!”
“I’m beginning to see why you’re not thrilled by her visit,” Jill said drily. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Ted replied. “I shouldn’t have let her in. The last few times she’s called, I just hung up on her, and that seemed to work pretty well. Felt guilty about it at first, but that passed. This morning, though, she looked so pathetic that I didn’t know how to send her away. I suppose eventually I’ll have to get brutal, and go through a scene. Nothing else works. She’ll make a lot of accusations, remind me of what good friends we were and the promises we made, threaten to kill herself. Fun times ahead.”
“Can I help?” Jill asked.
“Pick up my pieces afterwards,” Ted said. “It’s always nice to have someone around afterwards, to tell you that you’re not a son-of-a-bitch even though you just kicked an old dear friend out into the gutter.”
HE WAS TERRIBLE IN COURT THAT AFTERNOON. HIS THOUGHTS WERE full of Melody, and the strategies that most occupied him concerned how to get rid of her most painlessly, instead of the case at hand. Melody had danced flamenco on his psyche too many times before; Ted wasn’t going to let her leech off him this time, nor leave him an emotional wreck.
When he got back to his condo with a bag of Chinese food under his arm—he’d decided he didn’t want to take her out to a restaurant—Melody was sitting nude in the middle of his conversation pit, giggling and sniffing some white powder. She looked up at Ted happily when he entered. “Here,” she said. “I scored some coke.”
“Jesus,” he swore. He dropped the Chinese food and his briefcase, and strode furiously across the carpet. “I don’t believe you,” he roared. “I’m a lawyer, for Chrissakes. Do you want to get me disbarred?”
Melody had the coke in a little paper square, and was sniffing it from a rolled-up dollar bill. Ted snatched it all away from her, and she began to cry. He went to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet, dollar bill and all. Except it wasn’t a dollar bill, he saw, as it was sucked out of sight. It was a twenty. That made him even angrier. When he returned to the living room, Melody was still crying.
“Stop that,” he said. “I don’t want to hear it. And put some clothes on.” Another suspicion came to him. “Where did you get the money for that stuff?” he demanded. “Huh, where?”
Melod
y whimpered. “I sold some stuff,” she said in a timid voice. “I didn’t think you’d mind. It was good coke.” She shied away from him and threw an arm across her face, as if Ted was going to hit her.
Ted didn’t need to ask whose stuff she’d sold. He knew; she’d pulled the same trick on Michael years before, or so he’d heard. He sighed. “Get dressed,” he repeated wearily. “I brought Chinese food.” Later he could check what was missing, and phone the insurance company.
“Chinese food is no good for you,” Melody said. “It’s full of monosodium glutamate. Gives you headaches, Ted.” But she got to her feet obediently, if a bit unsteadily, went off towards the bathroom, and came back a few minutes later wearing a halter-top and a pair of ratty cutoffs. Nothing else, Ted guessed. A couple of years ago she must have decided that underwear was no good for you.
Ignoring her comment about monosodium glutamate, Ted found some plates and served up the Chinese food in his dining nook. Melody ate it meekly enough, drowning everything in soy sauce. Every few minutes she giggled at some private joke, then grew very serious again and resumed eating. When she broke open her fortune cookie, a wide smile lit her face. “Look, Ted,” she said happily, passing the little slip of paper across to him.
He read it. OLD FRIENDS ARE THE BEST FRIENDS, it said. “Oh, shit,” he muttered. He didn’t even open his own. Melody wanted to know why.
“You ought to read it, Ted,” she told him. “It’s bad luck if you don’t read your fortune cookie.”
“I don’t want to read it,” he said. “I’m going to change out of this suit.” He rose. “Don’t do anything.”
But when he came back, she’d put an album on the stereo. At least she hadn’t sold that, he thought gratefully.
“Do you want me to dance for you?” she asked. “Remember how I used to dance for you and Michael? Real sexy…you used to tell me how good I dance. I could have been a dancer if I’d wanted.” She did a few steps in the middle of his living room, stumbled, and almost fell. It was grotesque.
“Sit down, Melody,” Ted said, as sternly as he could manage. “We have to talk.”
She sat down.
“Don’t cry,” he said before he started. “You understand that? I don’t want you to cry. We can’t talk if you’re going to cry every time I say anything. You start crying and this conversation is over.”
Melody nodded. “I won’t cry, Ted,” she said. “I feel much better now than this morning. I’m with you now. You make me feel better.”
“You’re not with me, Melody. Stop that.”
Her eyes filled up with tears. “You’re my friend, Ted. You and Michael and Anne, you’re the special ones.”
He sighed. “What’s wrong, Melody? Why are you here?”
“I lost my job, Ted,” she said.
“The waitress job?” he asked. The last time he’d seen her, three years ago, she’d been waiting tables in a bar in Kansas City.
Melody blinked at him, confused. “Waitress?” she said. “No, Ted. That was before. That was in Kansas City. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember very well,” he said. “What job was it you lost?”
“It was a shitty job,” Melody said. “A factory job. It was in Iowa. In Des Moines. Des Moines is a shitty place. I didn’t come to work, so they fired me. I was strung out, you know? I needed a couple of days off. I would have come back to work. But they fired me.” She looked close to tears again. “I haven’t had a good job in a long time, Ted. I was an art major. You remember? You and Michael and Anne used to have my drawings hung up in your rooms. You still have my drawings, Ted?”
“Yes,” he lied. “Sure. Somewhere.” He’d gotten rid of them years ago. They reminded him too much of Melody, and that was too painful.
“Anyway, when I lost my job, Johnny said I wasn’t bringing in any money. Johnny was the guy I lived with. He said he wasn’t gonna support me, that I had to get some job, but I couldn’t. I tried, Ted, but I couldn’t. So Johnny talked to some man, and he got me this job in a massage parlor, you know. And he took me down there, but it was crummy. I didn’t want to work in no massage parlor, Ted. I used to be an art major.”
“I remember, Melody,” Ted said. She seemed to expect him to say something.
Melody nodded. “So I didn’t take it, and Johnny threw me out. I had no place to go, you know. And I thought of you, and Anne, and Michael. Remember the last night? We all said that if anyone ever needed help…”
“I remember, Melody,” Ted said. “Not as often as you do, but I remember. You don’t ever let any of us forget it, do you? But let it pass. What do you want this time?” His tone was flat and cold.
“You’re a lawyer, Ted,” she said.
“Yes.”
“So, I thought—” Her long, thin fingers plucked nervously at her face. “I thought maybe you could get me a job. I could be a secretary, maybe. In your office. We could be together again, every day, like it used to be. Or maybe,”—she brightened visibly—“maybe I could be one of those people who draw pictures in the courtroom. You know. Like Patty Hearst and people like that. On TV. I’d be good at that.”
“Those artists work for TV stations,” Ted said patiently. “And there are no openings in my office. I’m sorry, Melody. I can’t get you a job.”
Melody took that surprisingly well. “All right, Ted,” she said. “I can find a job, I guess. I’ll get one all by myself. Only—only let me live here, okay? We can be roommates again.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Ted said. He sat back and crossed his arms. “No,” he said flatly.
Melody took her hand away from her face, and stared at him imploringly. “Please, Ted,” she whispered. “Please.”
“No,” he said. The word hung there, chill and final.
“You’re my friend, Ted,” she said. “You promised.”
“You can stay here a week,” he said. “No longer. I have my own life, Melody. I have my own problems. I’m tired of dealing with yours. We all are. You’re nothing but problems. In college, you were fun. You’re not fun any longer. I’ve helped you and helped you and helped you. How fucking much do you want out of me?” He was getting angrier as he talked. “Things change, Melody,” he said brutally. “People change. You can’t hold me forever to some dumb promise I made when I was stoned out of my mind back in college. I’m not responsible for your life. Tough up, dammit. Pull yourself together. I can’t do it for you, and I’m sick of all your shit. I don’t even like to see you anymore, Melody, you know that?”
She whimpered. “Don’t say that, Ted. We’re friends. You’re special. As long as I have you and Michael and Anne, I’ll never be alone, don’t you see?”
“You are alone,” he said. Melody infuriated him.
“No I’m not,” she insisted. “I have my friends, my special friends. They’ll help me. You’re my friend, Ted.”
“I used to be your friend,” he replied.
She stared at him, her lip trembling, hurt beyond words. For a moment he thought that the dam was going to burst, that Melody was finally about to break down and begin one of her marathon crying jags. Instead, a change came over her face. She paled perceptibly, and her lips drew back slowly, and her expression settled into a terrible mask of anger. She was hideous when she was angry. “You bastard,” she said.
Ted had been this route too. He got up from the couch and walked to his bar. “Don’t start,” he said, pouring himself a glass of Chivas Regal on the rocks. “The first thing you throw, you’re out on your ass. Got that, Melody?”
“You scum,” she repeated. “You were never my friend. None of you were. You lied to me, made me trust you, used me. Now you’re all so high and mighty and I’m nothing, and you don’t want to know me. You don’t want to help me. You never wanted to help me.”
“I did help you,” Ted pointed out. “Several times. You owe me something close to two thousand dollars, I believe.”
“Money,” she said. “That’s all you care about, you bastard.” r />
Ted sipped at his scotch and frowned at her. “Go to hell,” he said.
“I could, for all you care.” Her face had gone white. “I cabled you, two years ago. I cabled all three of you. I needed you, you promised that you’d come if I needed you, that you’d be there, you promised that and you made love to me and you were my friend, but I cabled you and you didn’t come, you bastard, you didn’t come, none of you came, none of you came.” She was screaming.
Ted had forgotten about the telegram. But it all came back to him in a rush. He’d read it over several times, and finally he’d picked up the phone and called Michael. Michael hadn’t been in. So he’d reread the telegram one last time, then crumbled it up and flushed it down the toilet. One of the others could go to her this time, he remembered thinking. He had a big case, the Argrath Corporation patent suit, and he couldn’t risk leaving it. But it had been a desperate telegram, and he’d been guilty about it for weeks, until he finally managed to put the whole thing out of his mind. “I was busy,” he said, his tone half-angry and half-defensive. “I had more important things to do than come hold your hand through another crisis.”
“It was horrible,” Melody screamed. “I needed you and you left me all alone. I almost killed myself.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
“I could have,” she said. “I could have killed myself, and you wouldn’t have even cared.”
Threatening suicide was one of Melody’s favorite tricks. Ted had been through it a hundred times before. This time he decided not to take it. “You could have killed yourself,” he said calmly, “and we probably wouldn’t’ve cared. I think you’re right about that. You would have rotted for weeks before anyone found you, and we probably wouldn’t even have heard about it for half a year. And when I did hear, finally, I guess it would have made me sad for an hour or two, remembering how things had been, but then I would have gotten drunk or phoned up my girlfriend or something, and pretty soon I’d have been out of it. And then I could have forgotten all about you.”