Read Farewell, Dorothy Parker for Free Online Page A

It’s all a blur.”
    “It was you, my dear.”
    “Me?” Violet closed her eyes, trying to remember. “God, I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I guess that was rude.”
    “Not at all,” Mrs. Parker said. “It was at my request. I finally found the perfect remedy for a hangover. I disappear, and when I return, I’m new again.”
    “Neat trick.”
    “Nevertheless, I don’t recommend it. Death can be so”—she paused to blow across her hot coffee—“
inconvenient.
And yet it still beats living in Hollywood.”
    Violet laughed, remembering that Dorothy Parker had spent a number of years on the West Coast, writing movie scripts and fighting with studio heads. Once, in a snide reference to the power wielded by one of the most imperious moviemakers, Dorothy Parker had quipped that the streets in Hollywood were paved with Goldwyn.
    Still later, she referred to another studio as “Twentieth Century Fucks.”
    Violet asked Dorothy Parker if she wanted something to eat.
    “No need,” she said. “That’s another thing about death. Digestion becomes a mere nuisance.” She looked hard at Violet. “Forgive me for not inquiring sooner, but were you ever married?”
    “I’m divorced. Why do you ask?”
    “Trying to figure out if I should call you
Miss
or
Mrs.
”
    “I prefer
Ms.,
which doesn’t signify either married or single. But you can just call me Violet.”
    “I shall call you Ms. Epps. And you may call me Mrs. Parker.”
    Violet bit her lip to hide her disappointment. She thought they would be friends.
    “Oh, don’t look so glum,” Mrs. Parker said. “Some of my closest friends called me Mrs. Parker their whole lives. It’s one of those customs that keeps the world a civilized place. And when you’re as beastly inside as I am, you need all the civilization you can get.”
    The explanation appeased Violet, who related to the notion of feeling beastly inside. Perhaps it was one of the reasons she had always feltconnected to this great lady. “Mrs. Parker,” she said, trying it out, and decided it did indeed feel civilized.
    Later, when Violet told her new houseguest that she had to leave to pick up her niece, Mrs. Parker insisted that the guest book remain open.
    “So many books in this room,” she said, “and it’s been a long time since I’ve read.” Violet couldn’t see what harm it would do, especially since Mrs. Parker was confined to the study, so she agreed.
    Now Violet sat in her parked car in front of the Webers’ house, where her niece, Delaney, was currently living. She tapped twice on her horn, hoping Delaney would rush out so they could make a quick getaway. Any time Violet could pull away from the curb without having to face Sandra, she felt like throwing confetti.
    Otherwise, she felt like throwing up.
    The front door opened and Delaney ran out, backpack hooked over one shoulder, hair flying around her face. It was the same dark brown as her Aunt Violet’s, but thick and wavy like her mother’s. Violet’s shiny hair hung straight and thin. And while she knew many people envied the silkiness of her long tresses—or at least said they did—Violet always coveted the full-bodied mane her sister had passed on to beautiful Delaney.
    “Hurry up,” Delaney said, lowering herself into the passenger seat and slamming the door, “before Lady Munchausen and Lord Sunkist come out.”
    The girl came up with new nicknames for her grandparents every few weeks. The current pair referred to her grandmother’s neurotic hovering and her grandfather’s newly acquired orange complexion—the result of an apparent addiction to self-tanning products.
    The nickname habit had materialized after the accident. Delaney simply stopped using real names. For anyone. Her cardiologist,Dr. Nichimov, became
Dr. Knock ’Em Off.
Her impulsive friend Ashley became
Rashly.
Others were less clever but just as steadfast. A close pal named Cynthia Chu became
C.C.,
and her Aunt Violet was simply
V.
    The only