Megan Bergman: Almost Famous Women: Stories

Ed cried afterward, laid his mangled face on Violet’s chest.

I cried too.

When the agent comes, I said to Violet, let me do the talking.

We were taking a sponge bath in front of the kitchen sink, naked as blue jays. It was too hard getting in and out of a shower these days.

A cicada hummed somewhere in the windowsill.

Do you need more soap? Violet asked.

This is my plan to get us out of here, I said. We’ll offer him the rights to our life story. We can get by on a few thousand.

I dipped my washcloth into the cool water and held it between my breasts.

Violet touched the skin between us.

We’ll be okay, she said. I don’t want you to worry.

Martin had never stayed the night. He had a wife. I wondered what she was like, what she’d think of the things we did.

Normal people don’t do what you do in bed, Violet said.

Since when are we normal? I asked.

You could keep your eyes closed, I said.

And my ears, Violet said, blushing.

Martin is a man’s man, I told her. He knew what he wanted.

He was rough, sometimes clutching my neck or grabbing my hair. Afterward he’d talk about the movies we’d get into, how he’d be our agent.

The Philadelphia Story , he said, but instead of Hepburn, there’s Daisy and Violet.

Then he’d wash his hands, rinse his mouth, wet his hair down, and leave.

One month my period was late.

Jesusfuckingchrist was all Martin would say.

In bed at night I asked myself what I would do with a baby. What Violet and I would do. I convinced myself we could handle it. We had many hands.

Ed slept over those days. I watched Violet stroke his hair, trace the shape of his strange ears with her fingertip. She slept soundly on his chest.

One night Martin dragged us to an empty apartment around the corner from McHale’s.

Stay here, he said, backing out of the door.

A man came in — my body aches when I think of it. He opened a bag of surgical instruments, spread a mat onto the floor.

Lie down, he said. Put your legs up like this.

I wanted to do right by Violet, keep Martin happy.

There was blood. Violet fainted. I no longer felt human. I felt as if I could climb out of my body.

We’re done here, the man said. You shouldn’t have this problem again.

We didn’t leave our bed for weeks.

Martin disappeared.

He found the straight and narrow, Ed said. That operation of yours cost him two months’ salary. He’s somewhere in Cleveland now.

Ed brought us soup and old bread from the bakery while I recovered.

He continued to drink at the corner table nights when Violet and I sang. He was anxious, protective.

One night, after we’d performed “Tennessee Waltz,” the bartender waved me over.

We’ve got leftover birthday cake, Daisy-girl, he said, pouring me a gin and tonic.

I ate half a sheet cake between songs.

Daisy, Violet said. That’s disgusting.

I pushed my empty glass forward for a refill.

The great Houdini told us to retreat to an imaginary shell when we got tired of each other, I said to the bartender, rolling my eyes at Violet.

We never met Houdini, Violet said.

Next thing I knew, Violet was wrestling my finger out of my mouth in the bathroom stall.

Stop it! she said.

You drink too much and you never eat, she said. What did you have yesterday? Half a peanut-butter sandwich? An apple?

We sank back against the wall of the bathroom stall. I still remember the pattern of the tile. Mint-colored rectangles with black squares. Ice cream, I thought. Tile like ice cream.

And the lying, Daisy, she said. The lying.

I watched ankles and shoes walk by the stall. Some women had beautiful ankles. Some women moved on two feet instead of four.

I still had icing on my fingers.

I need to stay here for a while, I said.

Violet held her hand underneath the stall door and asked a pair of ankles for a glass of water.

She had chutzpah when I least expected it.

Two weeks later, she surprised us all by dropping her panties into the church time capsule.

Did I ever tell you about our big break? I asked the agent.

I pulled out a stock photo Violet and I had autographed.

Violet and I might be broke and we might be strange but we were not ordinary.

Why do you have that old thing out? Violet asked. What are we — seven or eight?

She was eating saltines out of a dented tin box.

Can’t whistle now, she said, smiling.

I pinched her bottom.

The agent is here, I whispered.

I’d once seen Violet cover my half of the photo with her hand to see what she looked like alone. We’d both wondered.

Here’s how we ended up back in Carolina. I’d been in talks with a man who said he needed us for some public relations work.

It’s like this, he had said. You show up at the theater and do an introduction for my movie.

We have to take the risk, I’d said to Violet.

But we don’t, she’d said. We’re old. We’re retired.

We can’t live on what we have, I’d said. Not for long, and I plan on living a long time.

We fronted him money for travel arrangements. He promised a hefty return. But what he did was leave us stranded at the bus station. We had no money, no car, only our suitcase.

I’m tired of trusting, Violet had said.

We’d cried that night, propped up against the brick station wall. A minister had taken us in, fed us hot dogs, said he knew of a local grocery that needed an extra pair of hands.

We have those, I said.

One night Violet shook me awake. Ed was in the bathroom with the door closed.

Get up, she said, switching on the bedside lamp. Get up.

Your eye, I said.

Violet had a red handprint across her face.

We stumbled to the dark kitchen.

He’s drunk, she said.

Doesn’t matter, I said.

I picked up the silver pot we used to boil noodles in one hand, grabbed a paring knife in the other.

Ed came into the kitchen crying.

Get out, I said.

I shielded Violet with my body, backed her up to the sink.

I flipped on the kitchen light. We all winced.

Leave, I said.

You’re crazy, he said, sinking to his knees. Violet?

He’d said something else. What was it that he said?

I slung the silver pot into his crooked nose.

I can’t picture what the agent looks like, I said to Violet.

Violet was reading the jokes in Reader’s Digest and eating outdated yogurt.

There was the one in Texas, I said. And then the one in the city. The one with the Buick.

We’re in Carolina now, she said. Why don’t you rest?

When the agent comes back, we should do a number, I said.

There hasn’t been an agent here, Violet said. You have a fever.

The one in the blue sports coat, I said. With gold buttons.

Do we have health insurance? she asked, the cool back of her hand against my forehead.