CHAPTER NINETEEN
"You look incredible, dear!" Mrs. Bartle was just about to knock on Diana's door when she opened it to leave.
"Oh, Mrs. Bartle, you scared me! I was just about to leave."
"I can see that. It looks like you've sure got someplace to be!"
Diana knew that in all the time Mrs. Bartle had known her, she'd never seen her sparkle like this. In fact, she'd never seen her sparkle at all. Unfortunately, Diana didn't know how to tell her ninety-three-year-old friend that she was going out to try her luck at picking up a man she'd seen playing pool at a bar so that she could bring him home and have sex with him and then write about it in her diary. But thankfully, Mrs. Bartle wasn't the nosy type, and Diana knew she wouldn't even ask where this "someplace" was, let alone what she was planning to do once she got there. She could always count on good old Mrs. Bartle not to put her in an awkward situation.
"Where are you going?" Or maybe she couldn't. Apparently, that bit of prying practice the other day regarding Diana's lunch with her mother had emboldened the once angelically unintrusive Mrs. Bartle.
"I'm just going out for a drink."
"Oh, that sounds like fun, dear."
"Yeah, well, I figure it's a Saturday night, you know, something to do." Why was she making excuses? It wasn't as if she were doing anything illegal. But somehow she felt like a teenager in a TV show who was lying to her parents about going to the library when she was really sneaking off to some wild, out-of-her-league party that home audiences already knew from the previews would be busted by the cops. "Why don't you come in?"
"Oh, no, that's all right, dear. Ruthie Silverman is coming for dinner. We rented Where the Boys Are, and I was going to ask you to join us. But that was before I saw you. Now, as your friend and elder, I will not permit you to waste that outfit and that hair on an evening watching television with two old ladies. You get out there and have a good time. Here, let me walk you downstairs."
Diana smiled gratefully, closing the door behind them. When they reached Mrs. Bartle's door, she wanted to throw her arms around her friend and rave about how hot this guy from Scott's was. She wanted to ask her what she thought of the new Diana. She wanted to tell her how their friendship had saved her life. But all she said was, "Have a great time with Mrs. Silverman tonight."
"You have a great time, too," Mrs. Bartle said, twitching her nose a little as she leaned closer to Diana. "You smell delicious! What perfume is that?"
"It's called Siren," Diana said proudly. "Supposedly, it smells like the fragrances that Hollywood's great screen sirens used to wear. You know, like in the thirties."
"Well, that's lovely," Mrs. Bartle said. "Did you know that in Greek mythology, a siren was one of a group of sea nymphs whose voices were so intoxicatingly sweet, they lured sailors to destruction just by singing their songs?" Diana shook her head, impressed. Mrs. Bartle seemed to know so many things, and she always found such a timely way of sharing what she knew. "Anyway," her friend continued, "you have a great time tonight. You deserve it."
"Thanks, Mrs. Bartle," Diana said. But she hoped her eyes said a lot more. As the two women stood there, looking at one another with an almost psychic kind of understanding, Diana knew that Mrs. Bartle had an idea of what she was up to. And she wanted her to know that she couldn't be more thankful for her blessing. There was a tremendous sense of comfort—and, admittedly at times, a little eeriness—in the way this woman knew her. It was an amazing relief to realize that someone cared enough about her to really know her, someone that paid attention to her inner struggles and aspirations in a way her own mother never had.
"And don't go singing to any drunken sailors while you're out, my little siren," Mrs. Bartle teased as her slight form disappeared behind door 101 A.
Diana stood there for a few seconds thinking about how lucky she was to have such a wealth of wisdom and understanding in her life—all bundled up into one tiny package that had proven itself on countless occasions to be her very best friend. She had just turned to go when the voice of the bundle bellowed out, desperate and concerned, from behind the closed door.
"Diana?"
"Yeah, Mrs. Bartle? Are you all right? Did you need me?"
"No, I . . ." The muffled little voice on the other side of the door faltered beneath the excited, Saturday-night rantings of the fresh-faced twenty-somethings that had just entered the building, each of them armed with at least one six-pack of beer.
"Mrs. Bartle, I can't hear you. Should I come in?"
"I said . . ." Her voice was audible now, probably because the twenty-somethings had caught a glimpse of their elder, namely Diana, standing by the stairwell, and out of what was likely an attempt at respect, had reduced their brash enthusiasm to a refined racket. ". . .these are dangerous times," Mrs. Bartle continued as the racket grew even softer. "So make sure your gentleman friend wears a rubber. And if he says, 'I forgot it,' you tell him to forget it. It's as simple as that."
Diana could feel a dozen pairs of twenty-something eyes peering into her from every angle, but for what was probably the first time ever, she really didn't care what other people thought. "Other people" weren't as lucky as she was anyway. These kids didn't have a Mrs. Bartle in their lives. Door 101 A didn't filter precious pearls of advice for them.
"It's like my mother used to tell me," the voice behind the door continued, "if you're going to let snakes roam around in your garden, at least be sure they're wearing their raincoats . . . And, Diana?"
"Yes," Diana said. "I'm still listening."
"If he gives you any trouble, you tell him to come see me."