Night Night, Sleep Tight by Hallie Ephron

Couches and ottomans that had once been covered in a floral brocade were now cream-colored linen. The white grand piano was still there, but many of the other furnishings Deirdre recalled—carved and inlaid Versailles-inspired credenzas, tables, and chairs; massive bucolic landscape paintings—were gone. She wondered if the odd combination of opulence and minimalist elegance was some interior designer’s vision, or whether the furnishings had been sold off to pay bills.
    One of the pieces that did remain was a towering portrait of Bunny, still hanging in an elaborate frame over the marble fireplace. She was sitting in one of the missing chairs and wearing a pale blue, diaphanous Greek goddess dress. Her black hair was brushed to the side, curls cascading over one shoulder. Standing at her knee was a very young Joelen looking like a stiff little soldier in a starched white eyelet pinafore.
    Still there too, looking marooned in the half-empty room, was a white lacquered credenza that had held a stereo system. After school, Deirdre and Joelen used to hang out here and hope Tito would show up and demonstrate the fine points of tango. He’d been agile, electrically handsome, and he’d smelled of sweat and cigars and a musky cologne. Before he’d take Deirdre or Joelen in his muscular arms, he’d turn the stereo up so loud that Deirdre could literally feel the floor vibrate as the violin bow struck the strings. Then he’d stand tall, even though he wasn’t all that tall, and stick his chest out, his silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal a large medal hanging from a thick gold chain against a field of dark chest hair. His stance reminded Deirdre of a toreador addressing a bull. He’d offer her his hand, and she’d let hers float down to meet it. When it did, he’d twirl her once, twice, and then whip her close in time to the musical flourish, his palm anchored firmly against her lower back and his thigh pressed hard between her legs. “Eess not about the es-teps,” he’d whisper, his voice deep and intoxicatingly accented, his breath hot in her ear. “Eess about the co-NECK-shun .”
    Later, the memory of him pressed against her had been enough to make her go all tingly. Deirdre wondered if there were still tango records stored inside the credenza on the shelf below the sound system.
    “Bunny,” Joelen called out again.
    The door at the far end of the living room opened, and Elenor “Bunny” Nichol entered, regal in a gold caftan, her black hair piled high on her head. At first she appeared tall, but as Deirdre got closer she seemed to shrink. Face-to-face, she was actually shorter than Deirdre.
    “My dear!” Bunny held Deirdre at arm’s length and took in her leg, her crutch. Like Joelen, she hadn’t seen Deirdre since before she was crippled, but her gaze didn’t linger. She reached for Deirdre’s hand. “I heard the terrible news. I am so sorry about Arthur.” Her voice was low and resonant and there was real emotion in her eyes.
    “Thank you. I—” Deirdre choked and the words caught in her throat. She swallowed. “Thanks, Mrs. Nichol.”
    “Bunny, please. You know, your mother and I were pals. We were both chorus girls at Warner Brothers. We used to play hearts in full makeup and costume during our lunch breaks on the set.” Deirdre’s expression must have betrayed her because Bunny said, “Does that surprise you?”
    “A little. My mother didn’t have many friends.” Deirdre didn’t add that although her mother had once aspired to act, she had come to dismiss actresses as self-indulgent narcissists. Talking to one, she used to say, was like getting trapped in a mirror.
    “Your mother was whip smart,” Bunny said. In other words, never made it out of the back row whereas Bunny had quickly moved front and center. “And your father was a charmer. He made friends for both of them.”
    Friends? Deirdre cringed. Like the women he’d photographed up in his office? Joelen saved her from a response