Never before seen Short Story: Diva

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DIVA

Camilla always returned home promptly by 6:00 for dinner. Maryann preferred eating at 7:00, as she and her ex-husband Jeffrey always did. But it hadn’t occurred to her to voice this preference to Camilla.

Twenty-five years before, Maryann and Camilla had been roommates at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta, and they now resided in Asheville. They had not been the most genuine of friends back then, nor were they even now that they were housemates. Camilla owned the house. Maryann’s things stayed in the attic. At best, they were familiar to one another, as family is familiar. Family that you don’t quite care for, but put up with anyway.

Camilla’s car keys hit the brass bowl in the hallway. Maryann jumped. She hadn’t heard the Lexus come down the driveway. Maryann was to keep the house locked, even when she was inside. If she didn’t, Camilla would scold her and remind her of home invasions.

​“I hope dinner’s ready.” Camilla glanced into the dining room and lifted her nose for scents.

​Maryann confirmed that dinner was ready, sounding meeker than she meant to. Camilla hated meekness and had accused Maryann of not having enough backbone.

Maryann stepped back to make room for Camilla’s presence. “How was your massage?” she asked.

Camilla huffed her displeasure and adjusted a pearl earring that appeared too delicate in her hand. She wore her usual outfit: khaki pants, white blouse, and a loose double strand of pearls. Even though she’d just had a massage, she maintained her rigid stance.

Camilla made her way into the formal dining room and straightened a framed playbill on the wall next to several awards and newspaper clippings. The photographs in the newspaper showed a much younger, yet formidable, Camilla.

Ten years before, she had been nominated for a Tony award for a play that ran for a season off-Broadway. She had not won the Tony but had won a couple of smaller awards and been hailed at the time as one of the most promising playwrights of her generation, a modern-day Tennessee Williams. Her next play, however, had only meager success, and she hadn’t had a hit or even the possibility of one since.

Camilla and Maryann sat on opposite ends of the large mahaghony table. The mealconsisted of baked chicken, roasted potatoes, steamed pea pods, and salad. It was delicious, Maryann decided, even though Camilla had not thought to comment on it.Maryann aligned the potatoes and pea pods on her plate into bite-size offerings.

​Minutes later, Camilla wiped her mouth and placed the cloth napkin on the table. “I have a new idea for a play,” she said, smiling. “It came to me while I was on the massage table.”

​“How interesting.” Maryann speared a pea pod and its companion potato and chewed it thoroughly.

​“Well. Don’t you want to hear the idea?”

Was it Maryann’s imagination or was Camilla’s voice more shrill than usual.

“Of course,” Maryann said, and pretended to listen. Not all of Camilla’s ideas were good ones. Not that Maryann would tell her. Maryann nodded occasionally and hoped the meringue on her lemon pie had stiffened while cooling. There was an art to making a good meringue.

Camilla finished outlining various plot points and waited for Maryann’s response.

Maryann made a mental note to add more dill to the potatoes the next time she made them.

“Are you even listening to me?” Camilla asked.

​Camilla reminded Maryann of Jeffrey sometimes. Both required a constant audience for their real or imagined greatness. “It’s a fascinating idea,” Maryann said, attempting to sound enthused.

Maryann had learned early on not to question any of Camilla’s ideas, or she would be admonished for interfering with Camilla’s creative process.

“Oh, your agent called while you were out,” Maryann said.

Camilla grimaced. Whenever her agent called, it was rarely good news. It oftenput Camilla in a bad mood that lasted for days. Rejection and Camilla mixed like oil and vinegar.

​“For God’s sake, Maryann, sit up straight!” Camilla said.

Without thinking, Maryann jerked her back straighter, as if still in boarding school, being called down by the headmistress. Now off balance, she dropped her fork onto her plate, causing a potato and pea pod to fly in opposite directions. The sharp noise startled them both. Maryann quickly gathered the vegetables from the floor and tucked them into the pocket of her jeans.

​“Sometimes I wonder if you’ve got a brain cell left in your head,” Camilla said. “Surely Jeffrey didn’t put up with this kind of behavior.”

​Jeffrey could have cared less, Maryann thought. She turned her attention to a lone slice of mandarin orange in the bottom of her salad bowl. Maryann balanced it on her fork with a remaining piece of walnut. Waiting for Camilla’s storm to pass, he chewed methodically, grinding the orange slice into pulp. She often counted the seconds between Camilla’s thunderous outbursts to determine the closeness of the danger. A tacticMaryann had used with her mother and Jeffrey.

For a brief moment, she recognized a pattern. Why did she always end up with controlling bullies who needed an unending amount of attention? Oddly, it was comfortable, like her childhood. A known in a world of unknowns.

Camilla shared the story of her massage therapist’s unhappy marriage, periodically laughing at the woman’s misfortune. Sweetly and seductively, Camilla lured people’s stories out of them in case they might be of use to her.

Camilla had never married and, if asked, she would say she was married to her career. Maryann smiled as she imagined the type of man willing to stay in Camilla’s shadow. Maryann thought of her grown children, who rarely called or visited. She had become a footnote in their busy lives, an afterthought. At least living with Camilla had given her someone to take care of. She ignored a brief thought of how pathetic she was.

​A group of artists met at Camilla’s home on the third Thursday of every month. These artists were not anywhere near Camilla’s status, a kind of Bloomsbury Group, with Camilla playing the role of Virginia Wolfe. Even though Maryann was not a writer, but a failed opera singer, she was allowed to sit in on these groups mostly so Camilla would have someone to compare notes with afterward.

Camilla ripped these beginning writers to shreds after they left , commenting on the naiveté of so and so, the delusions of grandeur of another. The harshest art and literary critics seemed docile in comparison. She decided the fate of everyone’s career like a professional hitman with a silencer.

Luckily for Camilla, she lived in an area with a high concentration of writers and artists—many mice for one cat.

​Abigail arrived first. Abigail was always early, her promptness calculated to catapult her into Camilla’s good graces. Though in her fifties, she still acted childlike, giggling at inopportune times and gossiping freely about other writers she knew. She wrote children’s novels and had sold one to a small press about 10 years ago.

Joan arrived next. A lesbian, Joan wrote screenplays for independent films. Maryann had been surprised at first that Camilla had included her. But lesbians posed little threat to Camilla, having already been put in their place by society.

Maryann greeted the two women at the door and directed them to the expansive living room where Camilla would make an entrance later after everyone was seated. Two more women arrived, both new members. One was a portrait painter named Maggie, who had a small studio in town and wanted to write a memoir. The other was a poet named Hope. Hope was young and attractive, and Maryann didn’t anticipate she would last long in Camilla’s group, given her automatic likeability.

Men were not invited, which Maryann found unfortunate. Camilla changed when a man was around. She softened and became more agreeable. But as it stood, Camilla asked only those who appeared impressed and dazzled by Camilla’s success, and drawn to her like mosquitoes to those awful bug-zappers.

Many never knew what hit them when they were suddenly thrown out of the group for breaking the unspoken rules.

They sat on the plush sofa and chairs meant to showcase Camilla’s exquisite taste. Mary Ann served iced tea and the lemon meringue pie she’d made earlier. Several minutes later, Camilla entered as if stepping out on stage after a curtain call. She smiled and held her head regally, a touch of flair added to her khaki appearance.

“I trust Maryann has given you everything you need,” she said.

The group emitted an affirmative mumble.

Abigail and Hope sat forward in their chairs, already drawn in by Camilla’s presence. Maryann sat slightly removed from the circle, close to the kitchen, in case anyone needed anything. Camilla commanded the room from a plush wingchair. A chair even the new members knew instinctively not to sit in.

“Welcome to those of you who are new,” Camilla began. She introduced herself, giving her a well-practiced resume sans humility. This endeavor took the better part of an hour with antidotes thrown in. It seemed to Maryann that Camilla’s accomplishmentsgrew with each telling.

Camilla paused, radiant with the attention given her. “Now I’d like to hear what each of you are working on,” Camilla said. “And perhaps, if you’re lucky, I’ll share some of my latest ideas, too.” Camilla aimed a smile toward her self-appointed audience.

The unspoken rules dictated that members only spoke when called upon. A rule Camilla’s guests also seemed to know instinctively.

Maryann stifled a yawn. She periodically offered refills on the tea, while Camilla offered lukewarm acknowledgment of the other artist’s creative pursuits. At every opportunity, she shared stories of the famous people she knew from the New York stageand what they’d said about Camilla’s work.

The portrait artist, Maggie, appeared to be the only one who hadn’t fallen under Camilla’s spell. Maggie fit the stereotype of an artist: she wore jeans, sandals, and a simple, purple shirt that perfectly fit her thin, mid-thirties frame. Long earrings in silver and turquoise dangled close to her shoulders. She appeared a bit messy, like someone who might live alone, with no one to insist that she comb her hair or wear makeup.

“Excuse me,” Maggie said thoughtfully, interrupting Camilla’s lengthy dissertation on artists and writers today.

Camilla leaned back, startled by the interruption.

All movement ceased. The room fell silent. Maggie didn’t realize she had committed a cardinal sin in Camilla’s papacy. Or did she?

“I’m afraid I don’t agree,” Maggie continued. 

Moments before, Camilla had commented that she knew as a young child after attending a performance of Annie that she would be a famous playwright. She concludedthat all artists of significance are aware of their greatness in childhood.

Maryann lowered her head, glancing at her hands folded in her lap. She would miss Maggie.

“I’m sorry, but that’s such a blanket statement,” Maggie continued. “Not everybody knows in childhood that they will be an artist. Some people happen upon it later in life.”

The young poet, Hope, nodded her agreement.

Camilla glared at her. Hope lowered her eyes.

The color in Camilla’s face changed hues from a pinkish flush to the look of someone who’d just run several laps around the house.

Maggie continued her reasoned argument, giving examples of artists who had discovered their craft later in life, sometimes much later. As much as Maryann was drawn to the scene, she wanted Maggie to stop. She didn’t know what Camilla was capable of in this situation. She wondered if she should put away the knife she’d used earlier to cut the lemon pie.

Abigail laughed nervously and then stopped herself. Even Joan, no stranger to adversity, shifted uneasily in her seat. Camilla cleared her throat and glanced in Maryann’s direction.

“Would anyone like more tea?” Maryann asked.

The group collectively muttered, while their eyes remained focused on Camilla.

Maryann moved forward in her seat. She felt suddenly frightened for the portrait painter yet also exhilarated. But she knew never to underestimate Camilla.

A few seconds later, a slight smile crossed Camilla’s lips. She sat erect and ready, a lynx spotting a snowshoe hare.

“Dear, dear Maggie,” Camilla began. She offered a smile that conveyed pity for Maggie’s ignorance. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand,” Camilla said.

Maggie’s cheeks flushed red. “Did I say something wrong?” Maggie appeared genuinely confused.

“Of course now,” Camilla said to Maggie, her condescension thinly veiled.

Camilla had won with one carefully delivered blow. In a matter of seconds, she had returned to full strength.

“Before we leave for the night, I have an important announcement to make,” Camilla said.

Maryann’s eyes darted in Camilla’s direction and Camilla batted the gaze back as if a tennis serve. No important announcements had been spoken of before dinner. What was Camilla up to?

“I received wonderful news from my agent today,” Camilla continued.

Maryann, who, in her nervousness, had begun to clear the dessert plates, stopped. She had not realized how much the portrait painter had affected Camilla.

“Did I say something wrong?” Maggie appeared genuinely confused by what had transpired.

“Of course not,” Camilla said to Maggie, with thinly veiled condescension. “I have a new play opening in New York soon.” She paused for the well-wishing of her fans, in which Abigail was the most vocal. “But unfortunately, I’ll be indisposed for the next few months,” Camilla continued, “so our little meetings will have to be suspended indefinitely.”

The group let out a collective sigh. Pleased with their disappointment, Camilla stood, placing a hand on her chair. “Good luck to everyone.” She waved her arm as if to dismiss them.

“I think you upset her, highness,” Joan whispered to Maggie.

Abigail giggled and then covered her mouth.

“I thought you had a good point,” Hope said.

Maryann walked the four women to the door, all somewhat stunned by what had occurred. Even Maryann had been surprised by Camilla’s swift severing of the group. She watched from the kitchen window as the group members, whom she imagined she’d never see again, said further goodbyes. As soon as the last car had left the driveway, Camilla strode into the kitchen.

“Those fools!” Camilla’s eyes narrowed as the volume of her voice increased. “Have they no idea who I am, for Christ’s sake?”

Maryann flashed on a similar scene with Jeffrey the evening when he was turned down for full partner at the law firm. They both had a dramatic flare for being indignant.

“I don’t think Maggie realized . . .” Maryann began.

“Of course, she realized,” Camilla interrupted. “She purposely set out to embarrass me.” Camilla paced the kitchen, her arms folded tightly against her chest. “She’s a nobody, for God’s sake,” she added. “What gives her the right to question me?”

“I don’t think she was questioning you, exactly,” Maryann said with unpracticed boldness.

Camilla turned to face Maryann. She often forgot how petite Camilla was. Maryann stood several inches taller. “Were you even paying attention?” Camilla asked. “Of course, that woman questioned me. Who does she think she is? Georgia-fucking-O’Keeffe?”

Maryann followed Camilla into the living room. She sat on the end of the sofa where Maggie had sat. For the first time that evening, she realized how tired she was. Keeping Camilla happy was exhausting work.

Camilla squinted in Maryann’s direction as if remembering the scene. “That’s the last time I take fledgling writers under my wing,” Camilla fumed. “And did you hear that silly poet? Who in the world can be a poet at twenty-five? I thought I’d laugh in her face when she talked about her little chapbook.”

Maryann sighed and stopped herself from saying what she really wanted to say, which was that Maggie was right. There were many paths for writers and artists. And who was Camilla to insist that her way was the only way.

“I wanted to throw them both out,” Camilla ranted. “They’re just lucky I’m sophisticated enough to see their immaturity.”

Maryann coughed to subvert a giggle. Camilla would never see the humor in this.

“I don’t think Maggie meant any harm by what she said,” Maryann said softly.

“How would you know?” Camilla’s voice boomed into the spacious room.

Maryann paused. It was impossible to reason with Camilla when she felt righteously wronged. Intermittent ranting would go on for at least another hour, where every bad review and misinterpretation over the last twenty years would be exorcised.

Maryann listened, nodded periodically, and glanced at her watch. Finally, she announced that she needed to go to bed.

Further insulted, Camilla walked down the hallway and into her office, slamming the door behind her.

Maryann resisted her desire to telephone Maggie and congratulate her on confronting Camilla. But if Camilla ever learned of Maryann’s disloyalty, she’d be looking for a new place to live.

Four years before, Camilla had visited Maryann and Jeffrey at their home in Charleston, South Carolina. Her play, “Pelican’s Promise,” had opened at The Dock Street Theatre to less than glowing reviews. Camilla had come to the house for dinner and had immediately proceeded to get on Jeffrey’s wrong side, her injured ego unable to soften in his presence. He had never played second violin to anyone, and Camilla had been name-dropping from salad through dessert. He had taken a call in his study after dinner and hadn’t returned.

“How can you let him treat you like that?” Camilla had asked.

“Like what?” Maryann said.

“Like a servant,” she said. “You put on this fabulous meal, and he doesn’t make a single comment.”

“That’s just Jeffrey,” Maryann said, pouring them both another cup of decaf.

“You deserve better,” Camilla said. “Besides, you know he’s in his study talking to his latest bimbo. Why do you pretend you don’t know?”

Maryann had regretted telling Camilla anything about her personal life. For someone as disinterested as she appeared, Camilla never forgot a detail.

“For Christ’s sake, just leave the bastard,” Camilla insisted.

“But where would I go?” Maryann had said. She had known for years that Jeffrey cheated on her. But her parents had a marriage of convenience, too. In a way, it was all Maryann knew.

“You’ll live with me,” Camilla decided. “After all, we were roommates in college. And I could use someone to care for the house while I’m working.”

When Jeffrey had asked for a divorce six months later, Maryann had called Camilla, who had been happy to hear her prediction had come to pass.

In a way, living with Camilla was a marriage of convenience, too. Maryann’s role varied little from being with Jeffrey except for sleeping together, which she imagined would be just as unpleasant with Camilla. Maryann had left Charleston and received a good-sized alimony payment each month, of which Camilla took half for “household expenses.” Maryann saved the rest, anticipating someday she might travel if Camilla. didn’t need her.

Through the wall in her bedroom, Maryann heard Camilla’s filed nails clicking violently against her keyboard late into the night. Anger often inspired her and fueled her desire to show her detractors just how talented she was.

The following day, Camilla arrived for her usual breakfast of half a grapefruit, one boiled egg, and a slice of whole wheat toast, buttered lightly.

“I have half a mind to write that portrait artist a letter,” Camilla’s anger had diffused only slightly from the night before. She tapped against her boiled egg with her spoon. “Better yet, I’ll go to her studio and tell her what a fool she is.”

Maryann rose from the dining room table and poured Camilla a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice from the carafe.

“Are you working today?” Maryann asked.

“Of course, I’m working,” Camilla said, taking the glass. “But I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.” Camilla spread a veiled layer of orange marmalade on her toast. “How long has it been since you had a physical?” she asked Maryann, not giving her time to answer. “You really should take better care of yourself.”

Camilla prided herself on being in good health. She exercised daily, ate well, maintained her weight at college-aged thinness, and had no patience for anyone who didn’t have the willpower to do the same.

That evening, Maryann anticipated Camilla’s arrival for dinner. She had made a nice pot roast and green beans. But Camilla never came. Maryann ate by herself at seven and kept glancing at the clock. It wasn’t like Camilla to be late.

At half-passed nine, Maryann reluctantly called Camilla’s cell phone. It went directly to voice mail. She hung up quickly, remembering too late that Camilla would see her missed call.

Maryann went into the den and turned on the television. A device rarely used because Camilla disapproved of the medium. It was midnight before Camilla finally returned.

“Where have you been?” Maryann faintly remembered asking Jeffrey the same question.

“I went to a movie.” Camilla stood in the doorway, still holding her keys. The color had drained from her face, making her appear small and awash in beige. It was as if the dragon Maryann had always thought to be of the fire-breathing variety was suddenly made of paper.  

“They found something,” Camilla said, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Maryann took Camilla’s keys and placed them in the brass bowl in the entryway. She helped Camilla off with her coat and led her into the living room. Maryann could see Camilla’s silver Lexus parked partway in the yard through the window. She had missed the driveway by several feet and triggered the automatic lights.

“What did they find?” Maryann asked.

Camilla sat in the chair that had been her throne on group nights. She rubbed her temples. “A shadow on an x-ray. Then they did an ultrasound.”

“Do they know what it is?”

“I’m supposed to know tomorrow. But it looks like cancer.”

Maryann hesitated. Despite this news, she felt calm.

“What kind?’ she asked.

“Ovarian,” Camilla said.

The little bit of family history Camilla shared with Maryann was about her mother, who had died of ovarian cancer when Camilla was fourteen. Camilla looked tired, her middle-aged plainness highlighted in ashen clarity. She closed her eyes and leaned her head into her hands. Maryann stepped closer and touched Camilla’s hair, half-expecting Camilla to snap at her like a terrier protecting a bone. But instead, Camilla leaned into Maryann’s touch.

Camilla’s hair felt much softer than it appeared. It was the first time Maryann had ever touched Camilla like this, and with the lateness of the hour, it felt almost dreamlike.

Camilla Westwood is human after all, Maryann thought.

“What do we do now?” Maryann said. She hoped Camilla realized how she’d included herself in the situation.

“Just wait and see,” Camilla said.

The clock in the dining room chimed midnight. Camilla stood as though her pumpkin coach had suddenly disappeared.

Maryann had imagined Camilla to be indestructible, a presence that could repel even cancer. Later that night, she heard Camilla weeping. Maryann found this display of emotion disorienting. It was like the sun had suddenly risen in the west and set in the east.

Test results confirmed it was cancer, a very aggressive kind. In the following weeks, Camilla took all the traditional treatments to no avail. When she had the energy,she worked on her current play. Her laptop rested on a pillow in her lap as she sat up in bed.

Maryann became her full-time caretaker. Besides the usual things, Maryann also read Camilla’s daily pages of a play that, in Maryann’s view, was mediocre at best. But when the manuscript was finished, she packed it off to Camilla’s agent anyway, whom, as far as Maryann knew, Camilla had not told of her illness.

As her cancer progressed, Maryann helped Camilla get her affairs in order and planned funeral arrangements. Her body would be shipped back to her small hometown of Beaufort, South Carolina, where her mother was buried. She picked out a grave marker and ordered the inscription Beloved daughter, friend, and award-winning playwright.

The whole time Camilla was ill, no one visited her. Oddly enough, when word got around their community, it was Maggie who called.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Camilla,” she told Maryann. “Is there anything I can do?”

“She’s resting comfortably,” Maryann said, her voice a little too animated. But Maggie had become somewhat of a folk hero to her, as the first person to stand up to Camilla.

“I was wondering if she’d like a portrait done. No charge, of course, and I could come there,” Maggie said.

“I’ll ask, but I’ll be surprised if she agrees,” Maryann said. “But it’s very kind of you to offer.”

After the phone call, Maryann returned to Camilla’s room. The faint smell of sickness had gathered there, even though Maryann ensured the linens were promptly changed. Camilla’s brown hair had faded into gray over the months as she stopped having it dyed.

“Who was that?” Camilla asked, looking over her reading glasses at Maryann. She put down the copy of Middlemarch she’d just started. Maryann doubted she’d have time to finish it.

“Maggie,” she said.

“That damned portrait artist?”

“Yes, she offered to do a portrait.”

Camilla smiled, reflecting a glimmer of her old self. “I hope you told her it was a ridiculous idea. She undoubtedly feels guilty for being such an ass to me.” Camilla opened Middlemarch again, breaking the book’s spine with one crisp snap. “Of course, no one truly gives me the respect I deserve.” Camilla narrowed her eyes at Maryann. But like a cat that had been de-clawed, Camilla’s phantom motions left no marks.

Later that afternoon, Maryann carried Camilla’s bedpan into the bathroom. Perhaps she would go to Paris after her duties were over. She’d only been once, shortly after she and Jeffrey were married. Maryann smiled and emptied the bedpan into the toilet. Maybe she’d ask Maggie to come along.

The End

I hope you enjoyed Diva! Please feel free to comment! xoxo

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