Chapter Text
May 13, 1977—New York City
It was a day like any other, the day Charley got a Pulitzer. Mary had laid in bed for most of it. The weather felt lovely but, unfortunately, she did not. When afternoon came she decided that wallowing in public—rather than private—would be a far less depressing use of her time. She was right.
'Who knows,' she thought as she walked down her street, 'maybe I'll get inspired'. The idea was hysterical. She laughed, probably longer than she should have. A young boy stared at her as he walked past. 'It's New York, buddy, you better get used to it.'
She walked up to Robbie, a young man who sold newspapers and magazines on a nearby corner. He was sweet, she liked to think she'd taken him under her wing.
"Hiya Robbie, how's it going?" she plastered on a smile.
"Very good, Ms. Mary, very nice. You have a friend, Mr…Greengus, was it? Kringus?"
"Kringus. I'm shocked you remember him."
When Take a Left was finally completed, Charley invited Mary over for a 'surprise'. He'd presented the final script to her, trying and failing to seem coy. She flipped through the first few pages, then she found it.
'To Mary,' it had said, 'the friend who saw me through it all.'
It was a not-so-subtle jab at Frank and technically didn't mean much at all. She cried anyway. A lot. She gushed to Robbie all about it as soon as she could, and apparently, he remembered.
"I didn't, not until today," Robby explained, "he's in the paper."
"You're kidding. Where?"
Robbie grinned and rushed to grab the nearest newspaper. He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for, and he presented it with flourish.
THIS YEAR'S PULITZER PRIZE WINNERS—#13 CHARLES KRINGAS, PLAYWRIGHT, FOR HIS WORK ON 'TURN LEFT'
Next to the listing was a picture of Charley that was at least 7 years old. The paper continued to list winners in the same format, it was more like a playbill than an article. An innumerable amount of emotions coursed through Mary, each more complicated than the last.
She bought the paper on autopilot and quickly said her goodbyes—faster than she should have. She then hurried to Charley's apartment. Gone were the typical worries of bothering her old friend, all she knew was that she needed to see him immediately. 15 minutes later she was there, knocking on the door.
One of Charley's kids—Clara, only 7—whipped open the door in a flash, like she was waiting for someone, or something, to arrive. When she saw Mary, she gasped.
"Aunt Mary's here! Aunt Mary's here!" she did a little dance, "Aunt Mary's here! Aunt Mary's here! Hey! Haven't you noticed how big I've gotten?"
"Oh yes," Mary nodded sagely, holding back a smile. Oh, how she missed this.
Luke, the oldest, was the next to enter. "What is it now?" he said, then gasped, but cut himself off halfway through. "Oh. Hi aunt Mary." He had reached the age where kids pretend nothing phases them. "Dad! It's for you!"
"Yes, yes, I'm coming!" Said Charley, accompanied by the shuffling of shoes. Despite everything, the man still wore his shoes inside the house.
He arrived in the doorway with yet another gasp. It's funny, Mary didn't remember being shocking at all.
"Mary…what are you doing here?" he almost deadpanned.
"She's come to play with me Daddy!" answered Clara.
"Of course I will! But first, your dad and I need to have a little talk, okay?"
"Okay!"
Luke ushered his three younger siblings—two of which Mary hadn't even noticed—out of the room, taking the hint. Charley looked at Mary like a kid who got caught doing something he shouldn't have. A very tired, very old kid. He grasped the hems of his pants subconsciously, a little habit Mary was glad he hadn't grown out of.
"Charles Finnegan Kringas." She puffed out her chest, "Did you think I wouldn't find out what you've done?"
His ears turned pink, but his eyes narrowed like he'd been challenged. "And what is that?"
Mary held the paper straight up in front of his face, Charley tried to make a run for it, but he was no match for her. She rolled it up and smacked him on the head, then picked him up and twirled him around while squeezing him within an inch of his life, giving Charley no time to react.
"You got a fucking Pulitzer!"
"Mary," he chided, "the kids."
"The kids are fine, old man, their dad just became a legendary playwright."
"Can you…put me down…please," he wheezed. Mary hadn't realized she was still holding him.
As soon as released, Charley erupted into a coughing fit. Mary murmured some apologizes and rubbed his back until he stopped. They stood there for a minute after, just looking at each other. Charley looked thinner than when she last saw him, and worked to the bone. He'd begun to go a bit gray and—though she'd never admit it—the salt-and-pepper look suited him. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy—weighed down by the same thing all their conversations were. The same hole in their hearts.
Mary decided to be kind.
"Let's go celebrate with the kids, yeah? I've missed 'em"
He laughed. "And they've missed you!"
The next few hours were filled with card games, laughter, and one-sided scheming on how Charley should use his prize money ("No, Mary, I do not need a pool"). Evelyn caught her up on recent neighborhood gossip and Clara showed Mary all her writing projects she'd made at school, which were really quite clever.
"I see the Kringas writing dynasty is in good hands," she had said. Charley shoved her. It was the lightest she'd felt in years.
Unfortunately, like all good things, Mary's visit had to come to a close. It was dark out and Evelyn had volunteered to put the kids to bed. Mary and Charley were stalling at the door. The weighted emptiness from before had returned.
"You know Charley, I really am proud of you," she smiled sadly.
"I know."
"Like, super proud."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it."
He whipped his glasses, a bit bashful.
"And you know, I bet he is too."
Charley coughed, the sound coming from deep within his chest.
"Why would he?" he sighed, "I 'ruined his life'!"
"You were his life, Charley." Mary worried at her lip.
"Yeah, I was. He was mine too."
His eyes began to water, Mary thought it best not to point it out.
"He went to see it, you know."
"See what?"
"Take a Left. He told me so, in his letters. He went 4 times."
He coughed, it sounded sticky.
"He said his favorite scene was when Jasmine and Mark decided to rekindle their friendship, but that the original song would've been better."
"Mary, I don't need you to lie to make me feel better. I know he hates me."
"I'm not lying, and I don't think he ever could." Mary pulled Charley in for one last hug, he pretended he didn't want it.
"Goodnight, Mary."
"Goodnight Charley, I love ya."
"And I love you."
She grinned, a real one, despite herself, "who's like us?"
He grinned back, a fragile thing, "damn. Few."
As she walked down to the lobby, Mary heard another series of coughs. 'Poor guy, must be coming down with something,' she had thought.
It was all so obvious, in retrospect.
August 15, 1977—Los Angeles
The party was shit, just like she knew it'd be. Ever since she visited Charley 4 months ago, everything had gone downhill. There were few things she wouldn't do for a good bottle of wine, but she was beginning to think flying out just wasn't worth it. She had no clue why Frank had invited her in the first place, and she didn't care.
She arrived early, not because she was feeling particularly excited for some catching up, but because she couldn't check into her hotel until 11, and her plane landed at 6:30. Frank was waiting for her. He seemed stranger than normal, which was a feat.
Frank had always taken pride in his appearance, even back in '57, but he was never particularly vain. Current Frank—Franklin Shepard Inc. as Charley would say—had taken that pride and turned it into an obsession. He wore a suit that fit him very well, "custom made," he bragged. His shoes were freshly shined and…
"Are you wearing makeup, Frank?" she cackled. He lost his composure for a second, practically flinched, and then resumed his 'I'm-king-of-the-jungle' shtick, even though Mary was the only one in the room.
"Just a bit of concealer really, you should try it—doubles as a sunscreen."
"It's night and we're inside, Frank."
"Better safe than sorry." he shrugged.
Eventually, Frank's actual 'important' guests began to arrive, so Mary was left to her own devices, which suited her just fine. She got more and more drunk, listening to a chorus of "Oh that Frank! That Frank's really something! Frank Frank FRANK frank Frank Frank Franklin!"
She couldn't recall most of the night if she tried. All she knew was that she was honest, like she always was, and felt like shit, which she always did.
She did remember storming out and hiding in the closet after remembering she still wouldn't be able to enter her hotel room for another hour. It would've been humiliating if she wasn't so pissed.
After everyone else had left, Frank stayed, and because he knew when her hotel reservation was, he looked for Mary.
He found her after she let out a big ol' belch. It felt good, and she started giggling. Frank did not find it half as amusing, he just swung open the closet door.
"Mary. It's time to go."
"Come onnnn, old friend" she giggled, "You gonna shove me out of your life too?"
"I didn't…I don't shove anyone." He gazed down at Mary, sprawled out on the floor, drunk off her ass, and felt something in his heart soften. His walls rose accordingly.
"I'm not kicking you out Mary, I love you, but you need to go back to your hotel. Let me get you a cab."
"You know what I think Frank? I think you hate yourself more than you love anyone else."
Frank sighed, seeming more empty than ever. "Can we not do this now, please?"
"Then when will we ever do it, Frank? You can't keep putting me on hold like a fucking intern."
"Mary—"
"Don't you 'Mary' me, you bastard. I'm tired of this shit too. You know what? I think I'll call my own cab." She made to stand on her wobbly legs, holding the doorframe for support. Frank stepped out of the way.
"That's fine."
"Is it, Frank?"
"I don't care what you do Mary."
"I don't care what I do either, I guess we still have that in common."
She stumbled out the door and wandered around Frank's oh-so-fancy neighborhood, wishing it was raining.
'It'd just be so much more thematic.'
Eventually, she did find a cab, though it wasn't on account of her actually looking. A kind driver with old eyes found her walking along and rolled down his window.
"Would you like a ride, ma'am?"
She said yes, she would.
The driver must've sensed that she wasn't in a talking mood, he didn't attempt conversation, just silently turned on the radio. Smooth jazz, it would've been nice if her head wasn't pounding. Just when she'd been dropped off at the hotel (the driver was given a generous tip, Frank had given her some spending money) she received a call to her room. She answered it with a sigh. It began to rain.
"Look, I don't know who you think you are calling me at 12 in the goddamn morning but—"
"Mary, thank god I've been trying to reach your hotel for hours," said Evelyn through the phone.
"Hours? Evelyn, what's going on? Is it the kids?"
"No, Mary…I'm sorry I just thought you should know—"
"Know what?"
"It's Charley."