The drowning man is not troubled by rain. Persian Proverb

About a month ago, I found a lump at the base of my neck, above my collarbone, which, Dr. Scissorhands gloatingly told me, was often a sign of Stage IV cancer. Well! That was exciting! Stage IV is, you know, the end, bye bye. So in I went for removal of the lump (my third) and a looksee at my poor, beleaguered breast (surgery #4 for it -- one more slice and it’ll end up being the mastectomy all my surgeons have urged with the tenacity of used car salesmen).

The lump was a lymph node malignant with breast cancer cells, but there was no tumor in the breast. During the previous surgery a year ago, Dr. Scissorhands had left behind some microscopic breast cancer cells when he failed to get a clean margin, so at least this confirms the effectiveness of my alternative methods.

Not one to give up easily, Dr. Scissorhands intoned his verdict that the cancer would travel to my brain, thereby necessitating radiation of my neck and head, plus the usual chest x-ray, bone scan and CT scans, making me wonder if he got a kickback on these tests since he prescribed them with such abandon. At the very least, he covered his ass (at my body’s expense) with my generous insurance coverage.

“Well, thanks for the memories, Doc,” I said, “but I’m done with radioactive milkshakes. I’ll go to Mexico and eat peach pits before I submit to any more mainstream medical practices, so adios amigo.”

This third cancer diagnosis, like a sudden thunderstorm, has brought people out of the woodwork. I know they mean well, I just wish they’d call with something of their own to say. They always breathe, “So how are you?” with an air of pregnant expectation.

The other day, my bi-sexual bartender pal, Billie, called again from California. ”You’re not returning my calls,” she said.

“I just don’t feel like talking about my cancer. I’m not the weatherman,” I added tartly, “where you call up for the weekly report.”

Billie had the grace to laugh. “I’m calling you because I thought we agreed to stay in touch when I saw you in New York.”

Had we? That was before I got cancer #3, and all bets were off. But I couldn’t escape the knowledge that I was being self-centered. There might be another reason that people called other than to talk about me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You remember Tommy Mossbach?”

“The manager at SoHo Grill?”

“Yeah. I run into him on the street once every five years, and he hulks over me while he hems and haws. So when he calls to ask how I’m doing, it’s like hearing from the undertaker.”

_____

Dru, my little girl, brought me a dress she wanted to wear. After struggling to help her get it on, I said, “Dru, honey, you’ve outgrown it. Why don’t we give it to another little girl to enjoy?”

“Cut the sleeves off! Make it bigger!”

“No, I’m not going to do that. It’s too nice a dress.”

“I hate you! I hate you! I wish you were dead!” Dru ran into her room and slammed the door.

I began to cry, big sobs from the gut, like waves after a hurricane. It was all well and good to be the objective disciplinarian, but this little girl had hurt me worse than any adult. Dru quietly opened her door and slunk out to stand before me. She was crying too.

“I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“Come here, sweetie.” I pulled her into my lap and we hugged and cried for a while. After we both calmed down, I said, “I don’t mind when you tell me how you feel, but it really hurts me when you say you wish I was dead.” I paused, considering how much to tell her. “You know the scars you were asking me about -- well, some people die from what I have.”

“But not you,” Dru said, her eyes solemn.

“No, not me,” I said. “Let’s do an art project together.”

_____

I have a much different take on this cancer diagnosis than I did with the first two -- less frightened, but more certain, in a fatalistic, Nietzsche kind of way, that I will die. If it weren’t for Dru, I wouldn’t keep struggling. I can’t bear the thought of my daughter growing up without me. Maybe it’s good for me to be depressed and angry. So far I’ve been the Miss Cancer Is A Blessing Poster Girl. And don’t get me wrong. Cancer is a blessing. Really. It gave me the impetus to do things I’ve always wanted to do. Like exercise on a daily basis, eat healthy, start painting again, take that self-defense class I saw on TV ten years ago, work harder to establish a spiritual connection with God.

Physically, I seem to be fine since there’s no sign of metastasis. Of course, that could change at any time. People tell me I look better than ever, ten years younger, glowing with health. Psychically, however, I’m not doing so well. I can‘t seem to shake the dread that overwhelms me each time some minuscule physical sensation occurs: a mild headache -- brain tumor! -- a muscle spasm -- bone cancer!

I want to die just to get it over with. To shut down the survival machinery of pills and potions at just the right time, six almonds a day and sex twice a week (really!) to boost my immune system, jumping on a trampoline and dry skin brushing to stimulate lymphatic flow, qigong, prayer and meditation, support groups and workshops, shopping for and cooking organic meals, doing all the mom stuff, oh, and work because my husband, Brett, hasn’t been able to land a job since my last diagnosis. Twice now, he’s reached the pinnacle of success, only to be knocked flat by my cancer diagnoses.

I read The Perfect Storm and totally identify with the boats at sea during one hundred mile per hour winds and seventy foot waves. The way you survive one of these storms is to keep riding into it. But get turned broadside to the waves and you’re liable to get hit. One wave tips you over. If you can get back up before the next one hits, you’re okay. Otherwise, you capsize, fill with water and sink. I’m praying that Brett and I get back up before the next wave hits.

“Brett,” I say, “do you think you’d be better off being divorced from me? Maybe then you’d be successful.”

“Maybe you’d be successful,” he shoots back. “That’s crazy thinking.”

Brett turned fifty this year, and even though I’m five years younger, I took it to heart. The glass that has been half full for so long now seems half empty. Middle-age has put us on the downside of the slope. We have no car, no house, no savings. I’d always assumed we would succeed in our artistic endeavors, but now I’m not so sure.

I sit in front of the computer to write. What’s it to be? Start a new book about a serial killer or stick with ye olde tried and true, cancer? I pick cancer even though writing about it still upsets me since I have, after all assimilated over ten years of research and experience. To compensate, I eat a bag of organic toasted rice crisps as I work. They don’t have much flavor, but, boy, are they crispy. Back in the ignorance is bliss days, I used to smoke and drink when I wrote, and now that candy is also a no-no, small, crispy things are what I crave since the chewing and hand-to-mouth motion approximate the sensation of eating M&Ms. So how’m I doin’? Should I have picked serial killer?

_____

Let us imagine that cancer is a man (since most serial killers are men). Let us further imagine that he is like the most unpleasant doctor you’ve ever consulted, in my case, a surgeon, my third, whom I will call Dr. God since that is how he so obviously envisioned himself.

I’d be walking down Bedford Street from Houston towards Christopher, a surprisingly deserted stretch by New York standards, coming from my qigong class, light and airy as a Stage IV breast cancer person can be. Without warning, I’d feel a sting in my butt, my vision would close in and my knees would buckle. A man’s voice would solicitously say, “Kyra, are you all right? Here, let me help you.” He’d put his arm around me and lead me, so disoriented I couldn’t tell whether or not I knew him, to a van. Then he’d pitch me in.

Perhaps I’d black out. Upon coming to, I’d be numb all over and strapped to a gurney in the van, unable to move. I’d hear the drone of the motor forever, and perhaps think I was coming to in the recovery room after my partial mastectomy where I could hear two nurses talking, like the susurration of the ocean. Thinking I was awake when I wasn’t, I’d try to get up with no success. I hadn’t had general anesthesia for this partial mastectomy because I’d talked Dr. Scissorhands into giving me local but he’d insisted on augmenting it with “a twilight sleep.” Finally, after what felt like hours, I must have moved or made a noise because one of the nurses came over to check on me. Then she went back and continued talking to the other nurse. The light was dim -- like sunlight through filmy curtains on an overcast day. The nurses seemed very far away. Trying to wake up was like climbing up a well, only to slide back down again, over and over.

Finally I’d wake up in a room with wonderful accommodations except for the chain on my leg. My abductor, Dr. God, would have excellent taste -- my taste. He would take great pains to ensure my comfort because he would have big plans for me. He would have read my best selling novel, Diary of a Victim, about a woman who undoes a serial killer, and his resulting spiritual rebirth.

“Such a lyrical name, Kyra,” he’d say in a voice like a man twiddling his mustache. “A feminine form of Cyrus, Persian for sun. Cyrus the Great was a fierce warrior.”

“Been reading 10,000 Baby Names?” I’d ask in a tone surprisingly jocular for one who was chained to a bed.

Dr. God would sit beside me with a wonderfully soothing bedside manner. “You’re right, I digress,” he’d say contritely. “I want a witness to my projects, a witness who understands. I think you’re the one, but I can’t share my work with you until I know your stories. I’m thinking of The Thousand Nights and A Night.”

For those of you who don’t know the Scheherazade story, here is a synopsis from Richard Burton’s translation.

The structure of the Arabian Nights consists of the following whimsical plot arrangement: Shahyrar, King of India, is enflamed with jealousy by his wife’s wanton ways, and after executing her, resolves to take revenge on all womankind. Night after night he marries some beautiful girl, only to order her beheaded the next morning. But at last he meets Scheherazade, the beautiful and clever daughter of his vizier. Knowing that Shahyar loves a good story, she begins on the night of their wedding to spin a bewildering number of yarns which she suspends just as the climax is reached. Devoured by curiosity to know the end of each story, Shahyar stays the hand of the executioner and after a thousand nights and a night, and three children borne him by Scheherazade, he is cured of his mania.

So The Thousand Nights and A Night is basically the story of a woman who undoes a serial killer.

“Tell me, Kyra,” Dr. God would say, not unlike a doctor taking my medical history, “something painful about yourself. Something that makes you squirm. If you are successful, it will save me having to inflict pain on you myself.”

“If we’re playing Truth or Dare, I’ll pick Truth every time. I love the truth. It doesn’t scare me.”

“That’s fine. Always tell the truth,” he would say, perhaps not really meaning it.

At the beginning of “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” Flannery O’Connor gives a quote (I adore quotes as you’ll soon see) by St. Cyril of Jerusalem: “The dragon is by the far side of the road, watching those who pass. Beware lest he devour you. We go to the father of souls, but it is necessary to pass by the dragon.”

_____

One day in 1983 I was walking home from work and passed a display of wedding dresses in the window of Chameleon, a vintage clothing shop on Bleecker Street. I was usually too tall for most vintage clothing but something led me to ask the sales clerk if there were any of those dresses I might fit into.

When I emerged from the cramped changing stall and stood before the broad, full-length mirror, the sight that met my eyes -- the culmination of every promise ever made in the Gothic romances I'd devoured as a teenager -- took my breath away. The dress, a fifties confection of lace embroidered with seed pearls and opal sequins over a satin lining, fit me like a chrysalis. The front of the full skirt skimmed the floor, and the back, constructed of tiers of lace, cascaded into a pool behind me. The long lacy sleeves ended in little points that covered the backs of my hands, transforming them into dainty, graceful appendages. With my long, dark curls and cinched-in waist, I looked like a Collector’s Edition Barbie. As I stood transfixed, the sales clerk performed the final bibbidi bobbidi boo when he placed a lace-edged, cathedral veil on my head.

Well! When I discovered that the dress, as pristine as the day it was first worn which might well have been June 8,1954 (the day I was born!), was only seventy-five dollars, and the veil fifteen, it was just too good a bargain to pass up. I had to have it even though I had absolutely no intention of getting married. I'll wear it for Halloween!

The clerk bundled the dress into a large black Hefty bag which I determined to sneak into the apartment since I had an inkling that my boyfriend, Brett, might not respond well to such a purchase.

"What's in the bag?" he asked, as I unwillingly paused in the doorway. He was in the kitchen making soft-shelled crabs for dinner.

"Oh, nothing," I said, as I sidled toward the bedroom like a crab trying to escape the frying pan.

I hid the dress, still in its bag, in the back of the tiny bedroom closet and went to join Brett in the kitchen. But the dress preyed on my mind like Dorian Gray’s portrait. “How about a drink before dinner?” I said.

“Sure,” Brett said.

I made a big pitcher of Negronis, technically two parts gin and one part Campari, but Brett and I preferred vodka. (Gin made me mean.) I’d never liked Campari until Brett introduced me to Negronis. For that matter, I’d never liked bourbon until Brett introduced me to Manhattans. (I was a scotch and cognac girl). The secret ingredient both cocktails shared was bitters.

I took two frosted birdbath martini glasses from the freezer, and rubbed a lemon twist around each rim before filling them with the ruby liquid. I handed one to Brett. “Cheers,” I said as we clinked glasses. The Negronis were cold and bitter and potent, like drinking liquid nitrogen.

Brett peered into the refrigerator. “Damn!” he said. “I have to run down to the deli for some butter.”

As soon as he was out the door, I arrayed myself in my magic dress. I hurried into the living room and positioned myself in front of its one large window, pulling the train of the gown forward so it swirled around my feet. I was adjusting the veil when I heard the front door open.

“I'm in here,” I called. I clasped my hands before me and bowed my head, imitating the chastity of a pre-Jesus Mary. I heard Brett's footsteps reach the living room and then there was a long silence. Finally, I looked up. Brett was standing there, holding his bag of butter, his mouth hanging open like a cartoon character who'd swallowed an anvil. I immediately discerned that Brett hadn't taken this in the Madame Curie spirit of discovery I'd intended, i.e. I wonder if X-rays could help locate bullets and facilitate surgery on the battlefield...

“Don't take it personally,” I said. “I'll take it off right now. I got it for Halloween.”

I put the dress back in its trash bag and joined Brett for dinner. The soft-shelled crabs were delightful. How lucky I was to be living with a man who could cook. Afterwards, we played a game of chess while drinking espresso and cognac as birds tweeted around our heads.

Though I (heroically) never mentioned the dress again, Brett was not allowed to remain completely unaware of its existence, for I could not resist describing the dress to my girlfriends who all insisted on seeing it, necessitating many retreats to the bedroom accompanied by whispers and giggles.

_____

Brett refused to dress up for Halloween, claiming it was because he was an actor and had to do it for a living. But I thought he would like the idea of disguising ourselves so my cousin Dick wouldn't recognize us at the Halloween costume contest he hosted annually at his Trenton sports bar. The final inducement was that we could afford to rent a car as the result of a television commercial Brett had shot for Aetna that was running like crazy. (Whenever Dick called and Brett picked up the phone Dick loved to trumpet his version: “Edna, I’m glad I et ya!” of Brett’s line: “Aetna, I’m glad I met ya!” Everybody in my family was impressed with Brett’s acting career, meager as it was.)

Arriving too early for the party, we decided to surprise my parents as well since they lived just across the river from Trenton in a nicely landscaped condominium. We got on our knees, rang their bell, disguised our voices and hollered, “Trick or Treat!” but they didn’t come to the door, nor peek through the curtains. I was sure they were home so we knocked and rang the bell several more times, finally rising to our feet as I shouted, “Mom, Dad, it's Brett and me! Let us in.”

The front door slowly opened and Dad ushered us in with a sour look on his face. Mom hovered behind a wing chair. It was obvious their hearts were still racing from the fear that they were going to end up like the couple in A Clockwork Orange, ravaged by Alex and his droogs. After vainly attempting small talk, we realized it was a lost cause. “Nice way to endear yourself with the parents you hardly know,” Brett muttered as we headed for Dick's restaurant in Trenton.

While Brett parked the car, I entered the restaurant since we thought we’d be more recognizable as a couple. Unexpectedly, the bar was deserted except for Dick, who sat at the service end reading a newspaper. I didn’t think he’d recognize me since I was wearing a black dress, black wig, black witch hat, black Harlequin mask, and a black veil thrown over the whole thing.

“Aren’t you going to wear your wedding dress?” Brett had asked when he saw my costume.

“Ha, ha,” I said.

I ordered a draft beer as part of my disguise since Dick knew Brett and I never drank beer. Then, like Mr. Micawber, I awaited developments while the draft beer sat untouched and sweating before me. Brett came in, clearly as unprepared for the empty bar as I was. We had planned to sit apart to further preserve our anonymity, but we needed to confer. Brett followed my lead and ordered a draft beer, so now there were two draft beers slowly losing their heads on the bar as we talked out of the sides of our mouths, without looking at each other. We’d anticipated a crowd where we could mingle and then unveil ourselves when we got tired of the game and go home.

“This is terrible,” I said. “The judging doesn’t start for two hours.”

“Yeah,” Brett said, “we need to do something.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ve got an idea.”

En route to the bathroom I pinched Dick’s butt. He didn't react, whether out of politeness or oblivion I couldn’t tell, so on the way back I did it again. Still nothing.

“Your turn,” I told Brett.

Brett was wearing a Marilyn Monroe wig, a cheap brown beard, a red plastic clown nose, aviator sunglasses, and a military raincoat which made him look like Charles Manson moonlighting with the CIA. He slid off his stool and, acting as shifty as possible, began to pocket the cheap silverware that was on the tables. When he returned, Dick was behind the bar waiting for him. “All right,” he said, all huffy and puffy, “I don't want any trouble. Just give me back what you took, drink up, and leave.”

Brett stared at Dick and slowly shook his head. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

“I don't want your money,” Dick said.

Brett shook his head again and proffered his wallet, open to display his Actors Equity card. It took Dick a minute to realize that he was supposed to read the card, and when he did, he guffawed.

“God, Brett, you had me going there,” he said, handing the wallet back. “Now what do you really want to drink?”

Between nine-thirty and ten, the place became so mobbed it was impossible to move. I was surprised to see that the majority of people had put a lot of thought and energy into their costumes and were seriously competing for the three hundred dollar prize. Dick drew out the judging, making the entrants parade around the room again and again. Brett had discarded his costume and looked very comfortable in jeans and a sweater, but I was stuck with my New York witch ensemble. At eleven o'clock, Dick declared a man disguised as a hockey goal the winner. As Brett and I drove back to New York, I tried to find some consolation in the fact that I had finally gotten Brett into a costume.

_____

Brett was going to be gone for three whole months, doing summer theatre in Woodstock where he would play Carl in Serenading Louie, Mitch in Streetcar Named Desire, and Charles the Wrestler in As You Like It. I was always delighted when Brett got work that took him out of town because I then felt free to go barhopping with my girlfriends, stay up late, eat whole pints of Hagen Daz, and abandon the more tedious elements of my personal grooming. It was like taking off an outfit that made me look great but didn’t allow me to breathe. Don’t get me wrong, Brett was dying for me to have a life of my own. I was the one who felt the need to be at his beck and call.

Brett had managed to make it into that small percentage of actors who were able to support themselves solely by acting, but he was at the bottom of the pyramid. He was determined to succeed as an actor, and I, unlike any of his former girlfriends, supported him wholeheartedly. I had absolute faith in his talent, and no fear of financial insecurity.

Every Friday night after work, I took the Peter Pan bus, and at Kingston, the stop before Woodstock, I could no longer read, so great was my anticipation at seeing Brett, who would await me in the beat-up old station wagon that was the company car. When a show was running, one of the young stage apprentices would pick me up.

I never outgrew the magical moment of catching the end of the show (in Serenading Louie, it was Carl -- “Baby, I tell you. I am the prize hamburger!” -- killing his family and then himself), seeing Brett take a bow and the rousing applause that filled the rustic barn that had been converted into the Byrdcliffe Theater. I reveled in being escorted backstage while the audience was still milling about, being privy to all the jokes arising from the play, the things that had gone wrong, like Oliver’s pants splitting during As You Like It, and all the gossip that swirled around the verandah of Deanie’s, bar of choice for the cast and crew. And every Saturday I saw the show. It didn’t take long for me to be able to throw out lines from the play a propos of the conversation, to speak the actors’ language. I often congratulated myself on my luck in picking an actor -- I got all the perks without having to do the hard part.

Woodstock was lush that summer, the trees greenly swollen from the humidity. I, who had never performed an athletic feat (other than sex) in my life, had started running under Brett’s tutelage, and the two of us would negotiate the last steep hill up to Byrdcliffe holding hands, our arrival heralded by the two neighborhood dogs who always accompanied us on our run and then hung out at the theater for awhile before disappearing into the woods.

All of the actors were housed at the Villetta, a dormitory-style lodge next door to the theater, and all evening meals were taken together, engendering a rousing chorus of complaints regarding the content, especially when leftovers were involved. Being an only child, I thought this was the family I’d always wanted -- rumpled, frayed at the edges, sometimes cloying and annoying, but always engaging.

When Brett and I wanted to be alone, we’d sneak off to the Pine Tree Lodge and sit in front of the fireplace sipping single malt scotch. One night toward the end of the summer, I said, “Brett, do you remember how we talked about possibly deepening our commitment?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s been six months, and I was just wondering when we were going to talk about it.”

“Damn it, Kyra, I was going to propose tonight!” Brett was very grumpy. He hated the way I was always pre-empting him. But he was so lackadaisical. If only he was better organized. Why, he didn’t even have a ring to go with his proposal! I was silent for a while, then I began the slow process of cajoling Brett back into a better mood. By the end of the evening, we were officially engaged.

As all good things must, the glorious green summer came to an end. The last show on the last night was Streetcar. My heart was yanked out every time by Stella’s piteous cry of, “Blanche! Blanche! Blanche!” as Blanche was led away by the doctor. There’d be no trip to Deanie’s after the show, because we were striking the set.

Like a reed in a saxophone, I vibrated from the energy given off by the swirl of cast and crew as we set to work. There was almost a hum in the air like that given off by high tension wires. In between trips to the pick-up truck to load the flats, I nipped into Oliver’s dressing room to take advantage of the quart of Chivas he was so generously sharing. As we started to remove the lighting cables, a joint made its way around. Someone decided to swing the cables like a jump rope, Double Dutch fashion. I dashed in and made one jump before landing sideways on my right foot and collapsing. The sharp, wrenching pain seemed to embody the end of Streetcar, the end of the season, the ripping apart of the warm, cozy nest.

They carried me to the Villetta for the cast party. I’d consumed enough Chivas so that the pain in my foot was reduced to a dull ache, and it wasn’t until the next day at the Kingston Hospital emergency room (it being Labor Day), when the doctor began enfolding my foot and leg in a cast that I discovered I’d broken a metatarsal. Not to worry, though, my wedding wasn’t until May.

_____

Against my mother’s advice, I got my grandmother’s wedding ring re-sized so it would fit my larger finger. Mom felt it would be bad luck because the ring had belonged to her mother who had had an unhappy marriage and died at a young age. I, ever thrifty, since I was having to procure my own wedding ring, after all, went ahead with the re-sizing.

When I moved in with Brett, our first major purchase was a TV. As we got out of the cab in front of our Greenwich Village apartment, lugging the big box from Macy’s between us, a passerby said, “Just moved in together, huh?” I was surprised and pleased that it was so obvious we’d upped the ante.

But that was nothing compared to the day we picked up my wedding dress (which I didn’t bother to hide since Brett had already seen it a million times before he even proposed) at the neighborhood dry cleaner’s. It had cost one hundred and fifty dollars to clean and mend the dress, an amount which made me sweat bullets, but boy, was it worth it. The dress was glorious, shimmering and pristinely white as spring snow. Brett and I carried each end like the head and tail of a Chinese New Year’s dragon. Everyone knew we were getting married and shouts of “Congratulations!” and “Good luck!” followed us all the way home.

Brett and I put together a cheap, wonderful wedding, calling on all our talented friends to contribute. The week before the wedding, Brett and I made tons of chicken sate, shrimp balls, and pesto tortellini. One friend loaned us his Tribeca loft, others did the flowers, took the photos, sang some Schubert leider, played the guitar, and read the ceremony which Brett and I had composed with no parts to memorize -- I’d been to a wedding where the couple gaped like fish at each other when the groom forgot his lines and the bride couldn’t help him out.

Brett wanted to include breaking a glass as part of the ceremony, even though it prompted many of the guests (mostly friends of our parents) to inquire in confusion if we were Jewish. I couldn’t bring myself to shell out six dollars for a crystal liqueur glass when the industrial strength one was two dollars. At the end of the ceremony I took a sip before handing Brett the liqueur glass I’d nervously overfilled with green Chartreuse. He manfully gulped it down before wrapping the glass in a napkin and stomping on it. Nothing. He stomped on it again. Nothing. Desperately, looking as crazed as Rumpelstiltskin, he stomped on it with all his might and was rewarded with a shard or two.

“Well,” Dad said, “If that’s any sign, this marriage should last forever.” Not being Jewish, he didn’t know the theory was that the marriage would last as long as it took to put the glass back together, not to break it.

We couldn’t afford a honeymoon, which was just as well because Brett had rehearsal the next day for Joseph Papp’s production of Hamlet (which featured Diane Venora in the title role) at the Public Theater. He had a small part -- one of the Switzers -- but it led to him being cast as the lead in a new Vietnam play called dinky dau, also at the Public Theater. It was Brett’s first big part in a theater that seated more than one hundred and fifty, and we got very excited about his future which seemed to be unfurling before our eyes like the opening of a rosebud captured through time-lapse photography. On opening night, at the cast party that followed, Joseph Papp stood on a chair reading out loud the favorable review in the New York Times to the breathless throng, and thanked Brett for making the show a success.

Night after night, the excitement kept up, unabated. It was like being married to a Studio 54 bouncer -- better yet, Halston! no, Warhol! --  who could get me in any time I wanted. We quickly fell into a routine of my escorting friends to the show or seeing the end by myself. Our entourage went out after every show -- drinking at Lady Astor’s, Indochine, and, closer to home, Giant -- the only way Brett could unwind from the excitement.

My definition of an alcoholic was somebody who made a fool of herself, say, falling off a bar stool or talking unintelligibly while inebriated. It certainly did not include someone like myself, who was able to control her drinking, i.e. who didn’t get dizzy or throw up. Man Buys Woman A Drink. “Would two make you dizzy?” he asks. “Yes, but my name is Daisy!”

But this nightly drinking was beginning to take its toll on one who, after ten years of not drinking tequila -- the result of a ghastly night of shots -- had discovered the joys of frozen margaritas. These enormous, high octane, frozen margaritas -- the ones at Giant where the bartender kept ‘em coming -- were making me drunk before I’d barely finished my second. And the hangovers were severe. Or maybe it was just because I was having to get up before four in the afternoon now that I was no longer a bartender.

I felt that something needed to be done, but what? A life without alcohol could not be imagined. Anyone knew that non-drinkers -- and I had grudgingly served a few in my years of bartending -- were hopelessly out of it. So I muddled on night after night, morning after morning, vainly hoping for a reprieve.

Which showed up in the form of Caroline. Todd was one of the crazy grunts --dinky dau! --in the play, a stand-up guy, and a regular on our nightly jaunts, who was frequently joined by his girlfriend, Caroline. After a while, it became clear that neither one of them drank. Which was odd, because I thought Caroline, dark and fey as Audrey Hepburn, was the coolest woman I’d ever met. She was smart, funny, cynical, and she didn’t drink.

Perhaps I, too, could be smart, funny and cynical without drinking. I decided to give it a try. Just as I had once given up men, I would now give up alcohol. I was an all or nothing kind of gal. When I wanted to lose weight, I stopped eating. When I was mad, I stopped speaking to you. So it should be a cinch for me to quit drinking. I wasn’t an alcoholic, after all.

When dinky dau moved to the Royal Court Theatre in London for ten weeks, I decided to quit my job in order to accompany Brett. Now that he had a steady job, I could pursue my heretofore buried dream of being a writer. But in spite of (or to spite) the reams of blank paper I set before myself, I didn't write a word. I saw lots of plays, I visited Vita Sackville-West’s girlhood home, and I walked all over London taking dazzling photographs instead.

Upon our return from London, I couldn't bear the idea of being financially supported -- or maybe I couldn’t bear to continue failing as a writer -- so I set about bringing in some money in a way that would leave the door open should I ever begin to write. I worked (briefly) as a shared secretary for three people whose occupation was unclear: one dictated his letters, jingling the change in his pocket as I laboriously typed them on the IBM Selectric; another (I suspected he was a CIA operative) had a crew cut and furtive manner, and delighted in finding that one little typo which necessitated my typing the whole letter over again; and the third insisted that I use artful combinations of one through five cent stamps on all her mail, a painstaking process since the woman was a voluminous correspondent.

From there I went to NBC as a temp on The Today Show in reception, a frenetic job due to the enormous amount of incoming calls, mostly people asking about things that were discussed on the show. My job also entailed delivering mail.

"Who's 'Mommy?'" I asked, referring to the addressee on several envelopes.

"Oh, throw that away. That's some crazy guy who's fixated with Jane Pauley."

Sure enough, every day, a letter arrived for Mommy, and finally I had to open one. It was a Hallmark card, designed for a child to send, and inside was scrawled an illegible message, unsigned. Enclosed were two innocuous photographs of a dog show. I opened a couple more and considered saving them as the genesis for a story, but having them in my possession was too creepy so I threw them out.

Then I met a woman who said I should model, a goal I thought I’d laid to rest. Shortly after I moved to New York, Harry Swann, the photographer who shot my biggest claim to fame, an ad in Seventeen, who always told me I should model in New York, called to let me know he was in town.

“I’m in the Big Apple to meet with the stock photography agency I supply,” Harry said. “How about lunch?”

“Sure! I’d love to.” I said.

Harry had taken a photo of me that ended up on Kodak film envelopes all over the country. My hopes of being a model flared up all over again.

Harry was waiting at a table when I arrived, breathless. I had had a hard time getting dressed since I felt Harry would have some judgment about my outfit. If he did, he gave no indication as I sat across from him.

The waiter asked if I’d like a drink.

“Oh, yes, please. White wine.” Too early for a scotch which was what I really wanted. If it had been up to me, though, I would have eaten lunch at the bar. I didn’t like sitting so far away from the action.

“How’s Bunny?” I asked. Bunny was Harry’s athletic wife who did all the stunts, such as water skiing and motorcycling, required for his action photography.

“She’s fine,” Harry said.

We managed to eke out a conversation, but I couldn’t help feeling that Harry had changed his mind about whatever he’d planned to discuss at this lunch.

I scraped my plate, lit a cigarette, and gulped some wine before I blurted out the Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar Question. “Can you still hook me up with a modeling agency?”

Harry was obviously reluctant to answer me. He was a nice guy, the nicest guy I’d met in my modeling career, but he was not a pushover, especially where business was concerned. “I’m afraid you’re not thin enough. New York’s pretty competitive, and it looks like you’ve put on some weight since I saw you last. Do you think you could lose twenty pounds or so?”

Twenty pounds! Forget it! My Metrocal and Fresca days are over, pal.

“Sure!” I said, brightly. “Could I get another glass of wine?”

It was surprisingly easy to let go of modeling. When I lived in Nashville, it had seemed so important. But here was my shameful secret, the real reason I could never be a model. Anything that generated anxiety -- and just about everything did -- caused me to start perspiring. Just the feeling of dampness under my arms was enough to trigger a gush of perspiration so that I had to choose my clothing very carefully in an attempt to camouflage the wetness which could travel as far down as my elbows. Every once in a while I would feel confident and don one of the silky blouses I longed to wear, only to feel the wetness start. And then I would be trapped, unable to raise my arms, having to clench them against my sides, in an agony until I could get home and change. It got to where just the touch of silk could bring it on. So how could I be a model with that handicap? There weren’t enough hairdryers in the world to keep my underarms dry.

It turned out the woman meant I should be a plus-size model, which means you're a normal-size woman who wears tentlike shirts, elasticized pants and mu mu-type dresses for catalogue shoots. No trips down the catwalk. But a dream’s a dream so I had headshots taken, went on go-sees, and Ford asked me to sign (at last!) with the plus-size division. But the same old malaise overtook me. Was it the attention that made me perspire? Or my fear of perspiring that made me dread the attention? It didn’t matter. Ford put me out of my misery, told me they were going with a younger look.

So then another woman said, hey, you should be a fit model. J. C. Penney used sizes petite through tall. I measured out at twelve tall since I had the correct proportions: length of spine, arms, and legs; width of shoulders, bust, waist, and hips. My pleasure at discovering this heretofore unknown attribute -- I was proportional! -- was diminished when I found out that J. C. Penney’s size 12 was a size 14 in designer clothing.

My new job entailed trying on 12T clothing to ensure proper fit prior to mass manufacture. They lined us up by size and I was always at the end, just like in grammar school, always at the back of the row because of my height. I was tired of being defined by my size, by the labels that said LARGE. And back then there was no larger than LARGE unless you went to Lane Bryant.

Forget shoes. Ten was the limit at most women's shoe stores and then the shoes were too narrow for my peasant feet. All the shoes on display were for Cinderella feet -- dainty little size sixes that looked horrific, boat-like, when they brought them out in my size. A teen-aged shoe clerk once laughed incredulously when asked to bring me an eleven in something. Then I discovered men's shoes. I had small feet for a man.

Fit modeling paid one hundred dollars a day and it vaselined my vanity, but it was harder work than one might think. I had to stand around for eight hours in different tacky polyblend dresses while the designers tucked and tugged, then photographed each dress to document how it fit. I still smiled when they took the Polaroid even though I'd noticed that they didn't bother to capture my face, just my body.

Most of the time, the clothes were only on for ten or fifteen minutes. But once in a while they’d put me in a satiny-type dress, and if the shoulders were too tight or the neckline was crooked, I would stand there, drawing my arms in tighter and tighter while the designers argued over the cause, terrified they would ask me to lift them so they could see the side seam and discover that I had started to perspire. The fear of the impending humiliation would really turn the faucets on so that I would be drenched in no time at all. One time my terror was so great that I broke out into a sweat all over my body and almost fainted. I told them I was coming down with the flu and they let my leave early.