NoHo Noir Short Fiction: 'Flavor of the Month'

Maggie Hamilton had been back home for nearly a month when she got the call telling her that Mary had been found. Ethan was the one to call her and when she heard his voice, she was sure he was calling with bad news. He’d rushed to reassure her that he wasn’t and then listened patiently when she started crying.

He told her he’d been to see Mary in the hospital and that she was going to be fine and that she was asking for Maggie.

The relief sandbagged Maggie, who felt like her whole body had been clenched for a very long time. “She’s really fine?” she’d asked him again.

There was a slight pause and then he said, “She’s going to be fine Maggie.”

Tim had been in the living room watching Rachel Maddow and Maggie had hesitated in the doorway, knowing he didn’t like to be interrupted when he was watching television.

“Oh for God’s sake,” he finally said, “stop hovering.”

“They found Mary,” Maggie said.

“Oh God,” Tim said, “oh no.” His tone of voice matched his words, but Maggie was looking right at him and the expression that flickered over his face was not grief or shock or even surprise. What she saw was a smile.

Except, from what Tim said, he thought Mary was dead.

So why was he smiling? Maggie wondered.

“She’s alive,” Maggie said. “Some whackjob do-gooder kidnapped her.”

“She’s alive?” Tim repeated, and then added, just a beat too late, “That’s wonderful.” He rose to embrace Maggie but she had already turned away and started upstairs to their bedroom.

He followed her in. watched as she pulled out her suitcase and began packing.

“Maggie,” he said.

“Tim,” she answered with that sing-song voice she knew he hated.

She didn’t even have to look at him to know that he was furious with her.

“Where is she now? In jail? Rehab?”

“She’s in the hospital,” Maggie said. “The woman who kidnapped her fell down and died while she was out and no one knew Mary was in her house.”

She turned to face her husband.

“She nearly died.”

Maggie kept staring at him, waiting for him to say something that would make her believe she hadn’t seen a smile on his face when he thought their daughter was dead.

“You don’t have to go out there,” he said. “If she’s in the hospital, that’s the best place for her.”

That wasn’t what Maggie wanted to hear.

Instead of replying, she folded up the Washington Redskins jersey she slept in and looked around for the flip flops she used as bedroom slippers.

“What, you’re leaving right now?”

Maggie wrapped the flip flops in a t-shirt and slotted them into the suitcase. She added a handful of panties and a bra and then stood back, thinking about what else she needed to bring.

“You’re not being logical,” Tim said. “You don’t even have a reservation.”

Maggie elbowed her way past him to gather the toiletries from the master bath. She didn’t bother to excuse herself like she usually did.

In the end, Tim had driven Maggie to the airport, haranguing her all the way. She had tuned out, instead thinking about their daughter and how grateful she was that they were going to have a second chance with each other.

She’d been so sure that Mary was dead that she’d been ready to die too. Now everything had changed.

Tim had not kissed her goodbye at the airport.

He hadn’t even gotten out of the car to help her with her bag. Instead he’d popped the trunk.

She’d walked around to the driver’s side of the car with her suitcase and leaned down to the window.

“I’m bringing our daughter home,” she said to him. “Be glad or be gone.”

And then she turned and walked into the terminal.

***

Maggie had been doing a lot of reading since Mary left. She’d been logging onto forums and scanning sites and generally trying to figure some things out. She’d found an organization called “To Write Love on Her Arms” that had offered her the first glimmer of hope she’d found. They’d shared her joy at finding Mary alive and offered them both their assistance and resources.

It had been after 2 a.m. when Maggie got off the plane at LAX. Even in the middle of the night there had been heavy traffic on the 405 freeway. She’d taken a cab to her hotel in North Hollywood, wincing at the cost of the fare. She checked in, took a shower and then took another cab to the hospital.

Everybody in the hospital knew Mary’s story; Maggie hadn’t had a problem getting up to her room.

Mary had been sleeping when Maggie got there and it had taken everything she had not to wake her up. She knew there would be time to talk in the morning, but she couldn’t bear to leave her alone, so she bent herself into one of the visitor’s chairs and kept watch.

Mary woke up at 7 when a nurse came in to check on her and saw Maggie sleeping in the chair next to her.

“Mom?” she asked in a whisper, as if half-afraid she was having a drug dream.

Maggie came awake with a start, the way she’d always come awake when Mary was a child and stirring in her crib.

That had been a week ago and in that week, Mary and Maggie had talked. Helen Parrish’s home-grown detox had actually worked, and since Mary hadn’t been using hard drugs that long, her counselors and doctors were pretty confidant that she had kicked the habit. She was painfully thin, though, and told her mother she had no appetite except for sweets.

Maggie knew this was pretty common among recovering addicts, so she bit her tongue and let her daughter subsist on milkshakes.

The last thing she wanted to do was damage the fragile bridge they were building to each other.

After Mary got out of the hospital, she came to stay with Maggie in her hotel. She craved physical contact like a puppy and would sleep in her mother’s bed, snuggled up to her and hogging the covers.

She was always cold.

And then one night, as Maggie ate a room service chicken sandwich and Mary blew bubbles in her room service chocolate shake, Mary told her mother about her father’s visits to her bedroom. They had started, she told Maggie, around the time she turned 13.

Maggie had not wanted to believe it but realized she did.

“I’m not going home with you,” Mary had told her mother.

“We’re not going home at all,” Maggie told her daughter. The next day she’d opened a bank account at Wells Fargo, transferred half of the household checking account into it and then done the same with the savings account she shared with Tim. She asked her sister to find her a divorce lawyer to deal with the other accounts. That same day she and Maggie started looking for an apartment to share.

She asked Mary’s opinion about everything, careful of the new bond they were forging, desperate to let her child know how much she loved her, how much she appreciated getting her back.

Mary tried hard too. There were moments of anger, furious outbursts that came and went like summer lightning. Maggie just weathered the storms, determined not to abandon her again.

The first time they realized that something was up was a call from the front desk telling them that there were paparazzi in the lobby and that they might want to go out of the hotel the back way.

Maggie had turned off her phone to avoid getting calls from Tim and when she turned it back on, there were messages from People Magazine and Us and Nancy Grace. They all wanted to talk to Mary; they all wanted to plaster her gaunt face on the covers of their publications. Piers Morgan called. “What happened to Larry King?” Mary asked.

“He retired,” Maggie said. “While you were gone.”

They talked to a lawyer who suggested they should sue the Parrish estate for a lot of money. Mary and Maggie talked about that.

“I just want the house,” Mary said.

“Some money might be nice too,” Maggie said. “You could put it away for college.”

Mary shot her mother a look. College was a hot button topic.

“Or whatever,” Maggie added hastily.

And then there was the call from the agent. The agent wanted to represent Mary.

“I want to be the one selling the Mary Hamilton brand,” he said.

Mary started laughing at that and gave the phone to her mother.

Maggie had told the agent they would call back.

“What do you want to do?” she asked Mary.

***

The agent’s office was in a building with the ugliest corporate art Maggie had ever seen. She’d worked at an insurance company for years, and her office had been decorated with furniture from a catalogue and art from Sears.

“Can I get you something to drink,” the agent’s assistant asked.

“I’d like a milkshake,” Mary said.

The assistant didn’t bat an eyelash.

“Chocolate? Banana? Date? We can crush some Oreos up in there if you want.”

Mary stared at the assistant. It was too much choice for her. Mary turned to her mother with a panicked look.

Maggie turned to the assistant.

“Chocolate.”

She glanced at Mary to make sure that was fine. Mary gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Chocolate would be great,” she said. “And I’d love some water.”

***

“So, I’m thinking creative convergence here,” the agent said. He turned to Mary. “How about Lindsay to play you?”

Mary frowned.

“Lindsay?” Maggie asked. “Lindsay who?”

The agent and his assistant exchanged glances.

“Lindsay Lohan,” the assistant said.

“Lindsay Lohan from Freaky Friday?” Maggie asked. “Isn’t she a little young?”

“Um, mom, we saw that movie when I was like 10 years old,” Mary said.

“Oh, okay.”

“Then there’s Mischa,” the agent said.

“But Mary’s not Russian,” Maggie said.

The agent looked at his assistant again and rolled his eyes, not really trying to hide it.

“I’m talking about Mischa Barton,” he said.

Maggie turned to Mary, who shrugged. “Chick from a television show,” she said.

“Sorry,” Maggie said. “I don’t really watch a lot of television.”

“Well, she was on The O.C.,” the assistant said, “which is really a show for younger viewers. Teens, I mean,” she added hastily as she saw Maggie’s reaction.

Her boss glared at her.

“We see a movie of the week,” he said, “but we’re thinking a book’s a good idea too. We can get the writer who ghosted Snooki’s novel.” He turned to Mary.

“What do you think?”

“Who’s Snooki?” Maggie asked.

Mary slurped on her milkshake.

“This is really good,” she said to the assistant.

“I make a good milkshake,” the assistant said.

“I will drink your milkshake,” the agent said and he and the assistant started to laugh. Maggie and Mary exchanged perplexed looks.

“I’ll drink your milkshake,” the agent repeated.

“This is my milkshake,” Mary said, “have her make one for you.”

“No,” the assistant said. “He doesn’t mean he wants to drink your milkshake.”

“But he said ...” Mary started.

“Jesus,” the agent said. “It’s a quote from There Will Be Blood. Don’t you people go to the movies?”

“Well, not very often,” Mary said. “My husband doesn’t like movies very much.”

“He likes porn,” Maggie said.

“So, we really think a television movie,” the assistant said. “Something like the Amanda Knox movie.”

“But we need a feel-good ending,” the agent said.

“Mary was rescued before she starved to death,” Maggie said.

“Yeah, that’s a good start,” the agent said. He looked at Mary.

Mary was looking out the window.

“I understand you’re suing the estate.”

 “Yes,” Mary said, turning her attention back to the agent.

“And that you want the house?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do with that big house, live there all alone?"

Mary stared at him for an uncomfortably long time. Maggie had to fight the impulse to jump in and answer for her.

“I’m not going to live in the house,” Mary said at last.

“So you’ll sell it.”

Mary shook her head. “I’m going to burn it to the ground.”

There was a brief pause.

“Perfect,” the agent said. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

***

As Maggie was getting their parking ticket validated at the reception desk with the two receptionists, Mary suddenly announced that she felt like getting pancakes.

“Can we get pancakes Mom?” she asked.

“Sure sweetie.” Maggie turned to receptionist number one.

“Where’s a good place to get pancakes?”

The girl looked Maggie up and down, clocking her Super Cuts hairstyle and her mail order ensemble and replied snottily, “IHOP.”

The other receptionist, who knew where Maggie and Mary had been for the last half-hour, leaned across the desk and said, “The best pancakes in L.A. are at Dupars in the Valley. It’s on Ventura just a little east of Laurel Canyon. They make them with buttermilk.”

“What’s your name?” Maggie asked.

“Carole,” the second receptionist said.

“Thank you Carole,” Maggie said. “I appreciate the tip.”

She gave the other girl her best death stare and it was the receptionist who dropped her eyes first.

Maggie and Mary turned away and headed for the door.

“Mom, you so busted that girl.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Maggie said and they giggled together like BFFs.

NoHo Noir artist Mark Satchwill will be back Sunday. Today’s guest artist is Joanne Renaud. Joanne Renaud, who earned a BFA in illustration from Art Center College of Design, has been drawing and painting as long as she can remember. She went to college in a variety of places, including Northern Ireland and Southern California, and enjoys history, comics, children's books, and cheesy fantasy movies from the '80s. She currently works as a freelance illustrator. Her clients include Simon & Schuster, Random House, Houghton Mifflin, Macmillan-McGraw Hill, Harcourt Inc., Zaner Bloser, Astonishing Adventures Magazine, and Trillium Publishing.  She is art director of Dark Valentine. View her work at: www.joannerenaud.com