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EIGHTEEN

C ookie’s room is quiet again. She is looking at the young woman in the bookshop doorway again, but her eyes are heavy now. She tucks the photograph into the pocket of her polka-dot dressing gown, adjusts her beret, and fiddles with her spit curl, getting it just so. She looks around the room, taking in the gathering: Dottie, Tallulah, Rudy, Ramón, Elsie, Monty, and Mae. So many others. They sip sherry, trade lipsticks, chatter, gossip, spat, mingle, joke. The room pulses with the patter of her old friends, and their laughter warms her.

She puts on a Cole Porter record, “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye,” and her friends all pair up to dance. She conducts from her bed, her back scratcher her baton, marking the key change from major to minor, savoring the melody to the very last note. When the music ends, and the only sound left is the needle scratching across the final vinyl groove, she sits up, straightens her dressing gown, tilts her head, coquettish. They turn to face her. Everyone smiles.

Cookie looks at each of them, lingering on their lovely faces, before she speaks. Her voice is strong now, rich with satisfaction and gratitude and clarity.

“I’m ready for my close-up.”