Woodlawn Walk of Fame
an excerpt

Marta answered on the first ring. That usually meant she was having one of her days—those days when energy dominates reason, when emotion controls thought, when movement rules over pondering, and when Marta in a red dress would be prone to charging into any situation without due consideration of the damage she could do.
“Hi, what are you doing?” Ella asked.
“Oh, I just finished calling Greg. I asked him if he needed anything for the funeral, or any kind of help at all. He said no, but the sound of his voice told me a definite yes. He needs everything and I am just the woman to provide every kind of assistance possible.”
“Oh, so that’s the lay of the land,” Ella’s smile came across in her voice. “I get it. One woman dies, the other buys new lingerie!”
“Well, wouldn’t you? I was married to Greg for eighteen years, and I know how to make him happy.”
“It’s too bad Deb made him happier,” Ella pointed out.
“That’s what you think. All she knew about was the sexual part, though I suppose that was very important to him. In every other area, I would beat her no problem. Anyway, maybe I need to update my action in Deb’s specialty; there’s a shop on Broadway called ‘Pleasures, His and Hers’ that I think I should visit in the near future. Maybe if I snag him again, I can keep him this time. You can come with me if you want. You can pick up some helpful gifts for the library ladies while you’re there.”
“Ever the practical woman, aren’t you? Have you ever been to the shop?”
“Not yet. I think it’s new. Years ago, I went, actually Greg and I went, to a place called the Love Shop downtown. What a laugh we had that time! It was run by a vegan, I think, because there were some crazy items in there. For example, a harness used to strap on a, let’s not mince words, a dildo, and it came in the leather and in the vegan version, since they won’t use anything made of leather. What a riot! I’m surprised we weren’t kicked out for laughing too much.”
“People do laugh when they’re nervous. Maybe you two needed all the help you could get, vegan or otherwise. It didn’t seem like Deb had that much trouble grabbing Greg away from you.”
“Wow, did you get your tongue caught in a pencil sharpener or something? Anyway, you can’t dampen my enthusiasm, I’m on top of the situation, and ready to mount an all-out attack.” Clearly Marta was feeling very confident.
Marta continued, “So what are you up to, Ella? Did the library ladies predict you will live another week or two, or will you fall prey to some dreadful flesh-eating disease in the near future?”
“Very funny. Anyway, I just had to call you. Can you get to your computer? There’s something on there you have to see!”
“Okey dokey, I’m there. Just a second, I have to boot her up. What is this I’m looking for?”
“It’s the website www.torontostarobits.ca. Basically a site for the obituaries in the Toronto Star. Type in the last name, Dyer, first name Deborah, and be amazed. I’ve got mine up and running, you are in for one big surprise!”
“Okay, just a sec. Enter surname, enter given name, yeah, okay, here we go. Obituary for Deborah Dyer—in the Toronto Star. Let’s see. It’s not the same wording as the one in the Star Phoenix.” She began to read the obituary out loud on the phone.
“Last Friday night, the world lost one of its most brilliant lights. A woman of beauty, an actress, a wife, a mother, someone whose star had barely reached its brightest when it was suddenly snuffed out. People who knew her will always remember her sparkle and her wit. Although born in a city where nothing ever happens, in a province known for its wheat, my mother was extraordinarily talented in a way that was yet to be recognized by the world around her. This is the tragedy of her passing.
When I was born, my mother found herself in a situation that even she, with her legendary resourcefulness, could not handle by herself. For this reason, I was sent out to be adopted at a tender age. Thus, in fact, I have never met my mother. I had recently obtained her name and a file of clippings about her career, but did not have time to contact her before she died—and thus she is forever lost to me, unless I can be reunited with her in the great hereafter.
Despite her lack of input in my life, she has made me what I am. Recently I graduated from LaSnutie School of Acting in Toronto with the highest marks in the school’s history. I am presently fending off offers from several large theatre companies in Canada, the States, and Europe. I was voted ‘Miss Congeniality” by my peers without much money changing hands. Makeup artists have thrown up their hands and declared that the scheduling was excessive as I required only a few minutes to add one or two brush strokes to enhance nature’s genius. That is a quote, by the way.
I owe my success to my mother, who set the standard higher than anyone else could ever do. I will strive all my life to become as great as my mother, and I thank her for the exceptional genes that she has given me.
Cremation and memorial service will be handled by Woodlawn Funeral Home in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. All donations, in lieu of flowers, can be sent to LaSnutie School of Acting, Bloor Street, Toronto, Canada. “
“Holy crow! I didn’t know she had a daughter! Chip off the old block, it seems.”
Ella was triumphant. “I knew you’d be surprised. I suppose Greg must know about this long lost daughter, at least.”
Marta thought about that one for a few moments. “I doubt it, as I’m pretty sure I would have heard about it—from Jean, if not from Greg himself. Having an ex-sister-in-law who loves you is a real asset. There wasn’t actually that much happening that I didn’t know about. Anyway, you know what this means, the daughter is likely to crawl out of the woodwork, looking for an inheritance. But I’ll be there, to lend support.”
Ella knew exactly what Marta was talking about. “You mean, you’ll be there to make sure she doesn’t get too much, especially considering that your daughter is still struggling to put herself through college and Deb wasn’t exactly helping her with that.”
“You got it. You’re a true friend. I wonder if anyone in Saskatoon has seen this obituary, there’s no reason why they would. It takes a librarian to uncover these obscure details—I owe you one, girl, and you will not be disappointed.”
“Just invite me to the wedding—the re-wedding--between you and Greg, that is. Seeing you happy again would be super, and maybe you can invite some eligible male types to the reception.”
For once, Ella wasn’t moaning about how she couldn’t get a guy. Marta was pretty sure that Ella could get a guy, it was just that she didn’t have a clue what to do with one when she had him alone. She remembered Ella saying that she had subjected her old boyfriend Mark to over twenty chick flicks and a long list of documentaries about war, disease, and child abuse, all in just a few months. What a patient man! But where was he now? Obviously, Ella needed some help in the romance department.
“Eligible types? Maybe I can find a couple younger guys for you in Greg’s family or some of the guys from his office. There’s no shortage of men over there. But I thought you were still pining for Mark?” Marta fished for information as always.
“I was—I am—but I don’t think I have a chance with him anymore. He wasn’t exactly excited when I kept putting him off, trying to be sure of my feelings, and then he found out that I had had an affair with my previous boyfriend during the very same Christmas season that I took him home to meet my folks.”
“But you did date him after that for a while?”
“All of five minutes. He was willing to forgive me, and to tell you the truth, he was pretty hot for me, oh yeah! But I felt so guilty over what I had done, and I was secretly hoping that Rick was coming back to me. So I was a little mixed up. That’s why I said no to Mark and I haven’t seen him since.”
“As I suspected, you haven’t got a clue. You have no idea how to capitalize on the moment! What’s the matter, memories of the convent were standing in your way?”
“I guess so,” Ella confessed. “I always go through a little hell on my way to paradise.”
“I know the nuns always told you to bathe in your bra and panties so you wouldn’t have impure thoughts. But I didn’t know you fell for their lines. Surely you noticed that when the priests or brothers came over to your convent school to give talks or bring communion, the nuns would titter and fly around like little blackbirds—probably having some impure thoughts of their own. Possibly acting on them too, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“What do you know? You weren’t even a Catholic,” Ella protested.
“Thank God for that! Hey, put it this way. If Bill Clinton can have sex without calling it that, surely those clever nuns could find satisfaction some way—I know, by going straight from intense sexual feelings to execution of the act, without having to resort to the nasty experience of having impure thoughts.” Marta sounded smug.
“What’s so nasty about impure thoughts? I find them a good substitute for the real thing,” was Ella’s response.
“Good point. And when you’ve been married as long as I was, the real thing gets that tedious, a woman would never get through it at all, if not for some impure thoughts for inspiration—thoughts of Richard Gere, for example.”
“Yeah, well, if sex is so tedious, how come you’re thinking about it while reading the obits?”
“There’s something you’re missing here. When the man you love, and have loved long enough to be bored of him, gets snatched away from you by some hussy,” Marta’s voice began to wobble, but she rallied, “I missed him so much. I think if I ever had a chance with him again, it’s even possible that it would be him I’d be thinking of while making love. If you can imagine that!”
That was a mind-boggler, having a sexual fantasy about your own husband. As Ella wrapped her brain around that one, the two women ended their conversation, agreeing to meet at Tim Horton’s the following morning at ten.