A Posh Shop in Westport

A week after you were diagnosed with breast cancer, you walked into a posh shop in Westport, Connecticut—the kind where your shoes sink deep into plush carpeting and gentle music graces the background. When you entered, your heart was pounding. You were afraid that by simply walking in you stood out—an obvious, though invisible, imperfection inside you was certain to be detected.

But the store owner, a thirtyish woman, with dark hair and eyes, was unfazed by your entry. She simply smiled and said hello.

You looked around with your friend Molly, who had accompanied you for moral support. Short mannequin heads with big hair were everywhere, one after the other, in probably 200 different shades of brown, blonde, black, and red.

For a moment you thought about surprising Mike, Dana, and Scott by coming home a glamorous blonde or maybe a redhead. Instead, you began to search for a wig that matched your own frosted brown.

Molly helped you try one on. Your heart sank.

“It looks so much like—a wig,” you told Molly.

“I know. It just seems like so much hair,” she said.

The store owner intervened at just the right moment. She assured you that they did, in fact, have hundreds of shades so they would certainly find one to match your color perfectly. Then, a hairdresser would cut the wig to exactly match your hairstyle so, after you lost your hair from chemo, you would continue to look just like—you.

She encouraged you to pick out as many beautiful or fun scarves and hats as you wanted. The cost of the hats, scarves, and wig would be covered by insurance as medical prostheses.

Amazed, you and Molly actually began to have fun. You tried on so many things and eventually picked out a baseball cap, a silk scarf long enough to wrap around your head three times, and a wonderful straw beach hat with a wide brim.

You were ready to face losing your hair.

It happened at your mother’s house. The kids were inside. You and your mom were lying in the back yard on chaise lounges, feeling the summer sun on your faces, murmuring in conversation. You reached up and scratched your head. A clump of hair came out. You did it again. Another clump.

Your mom hurried inside returning with a plastic zip lock bag. Together, you filled it. When your hair was half gone, you called the kids to come outside and see you so they could get used to the transition. They didn’t think you looked too bad. You and your mom continued to pluck out your hair until you looked like a fuzzy baby bird.

Finally, your mother took a step back, looked at you, and said, “I wonder how many other mothers and daughters are doing this today.”

Letter to Al Pacino

Dear Mr. Pacino,

You walked into Joe Allen’s, moving faster through a restaurant than anyone I had ever seen. Your fast stride made me notice you. Your oversized black coat also made me look. I knew right away that you were wearing the same coat that enveloped you on the beach in the movie, The Insider. Your eyes stared intensely yet appeared not to see anything. Was it really you?

I asked the waitress, “Isn’t that Al Pacino?”

“I’m not supposed to say, but it is.”

“Sue,” I said to my sister-in-law. “Get up. Leave your stuff. C’mon let's go.” I don’t know why I felt the urge to hurry. It was instinctual, kind of like an adrenaline reaction.

As we approached your table, Mr. Pacino, I became painfully aware that you were not only a celebrity, but a man, like any other man and that I had made a terrible mistake. When you saw us striding toward you, your head jerked to the side and your face grimaced as if you were in pain. Despite what I interpreted as your anguish, it was too late to turn back. We were already standing at your table and I had already thrust a used cocktail napkin and pen at you, which you seemed to accept automatically.

“Mr. Pacino,” I said, “we just wanted to tell you…how much…we have enjoyed your movies…”

“We don’t get out much,” Sue said, trying to explain our behavior.

When the corners of your mouth turned up in a perfunctory half smile and you looked like you might vomit, I tried to take the napkin back. “Oh please, Mr. Pacino,” I begged. “You don’t have to sign that—really! Really, PLEASE DON’T SIGN IT. We just wanted to tell you we are great fans…”

For the first time, our eyes made contact. You began to laugh and your whole body seemed to relax. Mine did too. You signed my battered napkin, then reached out to shake our hands—a firm, friendly handshake offered with a wide grin. Even though I cannot read what you wrote on the cocktail napkin (hopefully, it’s not an obscenity—that’s not why you were laughing, is it?) I will cherish it always because it reminds me that celebrities are human beings and that fame is only a perception.

At first, we thought that nothing could be more memorable than meeting you, Mr. Pacino. But we were wrong. There were more memorable moments during this rare visit to New York City.

A man died on the sidewalk in front of our eyes. Minutes earlier, he had been laughing at a table next to ours in Charley O’s Restaurant. But on the way to the theatre, we passed his body on the sidewalk. People just walked by as two firemen pumped on his chest. His blonde companion stamped her spiky black high heels, repeating, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” But he continued to lie there unresponsive.

We went on to Edward Albee’s play The Goat, about a man who was having an affair with a goat named Sylvia. The wife, played brilliantly by Sally Field, spent much of the play enraged, breaking dishes and vases and talking and yelling about love and hurt and pain and—how could he be having an affair with a goat? The story stunned us with grief and hysterical laughter and we craved a chance to read or hear the lines again.

Okay, I’ll admit it. I spent $95 on a black velvet scarf with red, green, and gold flowers that change colors with the light. I’ve never bought anything so extravagant, but hey, it was New York City and it was Saks.

I saw my best friend from law school who has breast cancer and no hair. I got to wrap my arms around her and hug her like I’ve wanted to everyday since she started chemo. I returned home to my husband and daughter who I am rarely away from. Getting home was the best part of the trip.

So Mr. Pacino, I just wanted to tell you that I understand now what Anna Scott was trying to tell Will in Notting Hill when she said, “The fame thing isn’t real, ya know.”

Life and death are real. Love is real. New York City is real. And you are real.

It was nice meeting you.

Sincerely,

Robyn Ringler

Published in "Women's Letters: America from the Revolutionary War to the Present" edited by Lisa Grunwald and Stephen J. Adler, The Dial Press (2005)

Hanging with Horses

At twelve years old, my daughter, Lily, wanted a horse. As a trial, we rented a beautiful red chestnut with a white blaze named Dan. The first day, Lily saddled and bridled Dan, slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung her body up with ease. They jogged, cantered, and raced around barrels. Then she slid off and handed me the reins.

I never rode before but—how hard could it be? I had watched every lesson since Lily was five. And watching lessons paid off. With just a flick of the reins, Dan turned left and right and walked in circles. Riding a horse was thrilling—until it was time to get off.

When I thought about getting down, my breath left me. It seemed as if the horse’s legs had grown taller. Lily tried to talk me through it: “Mom, just hold the saddle horn, lean forward, then swing your leg over and slide down.”

I grabbed the horn with both hands and laid my chest against it. It felt safer to have my body close against Dan’s. I swung my leg over, slid down, and tried to jump to the ground.

But I only landed on my toes. Something kept my feet from touching the ground. I realized then that the front of my bra had gotten hooked around the top of the saddle horn. Holding the reins with my right hand, I tried to pry the bra up with my left. It wouldn’t budge.

My breath quickened as I imagined Dan running away with me suspended at his side. I looked for Lily to help. But, when she saw me dangling by my bra, she took a step back and scanned the ring to see if anybody was watching. No one was there.

“Mom…stop it, get off the horse.”

“I can’t,” I said, “come here and help.”

An image flashed through my mind of what I must look like pinned to the horse by my undergarments. I was hooked at the sternum, frantically pulling at the bra with my left hand, clenching the reins with my right. My shirt scrunched into a midriff exposing my belly. The tips of my toes barely touched the ground.

Laughter overtook me with silent, involuntary gasps. Lily’s furrowed eyebrows and entrenched feet only made me more hysterical.

“Mom, c’mon—get down.”

“I’m telling you, I can’t. Lily, you have to help me—please.” I could understand Lily’s embarrassment. At twelve, the sight of my mother hanging from a horse by her bra would have embarrassed me too.

Dan began to walk forward. With each step, the front of my bra slid further down the saddle horn. I tried to say an authoritative “Whoa” but I was helpless with laughter. As Dan galumphed forward, my shirt inched higher and, one by one, my breasts popped out of the bra.

I learned then that an adolescent girl will not help a half naked mother hanging from a horse. When she saw my bare breasts, Lily turned her back and started walking toward the door.

“Lily!” I called. “Don’t go! You have to help me!”

Tears streamed from my eyes, my body shook, and I could hardly breathe but, despite the laughter, I was starting to panic—more so now that Lily was leaving.

The barn door rumbled open. A woman in riding gear strode in. By the time I called for help, my shirt and bra were bunched up around my neck—I was completely naked from the waist up—and still dangling at Dan’s side. She hurried over, struggled to release my bra, and set me free.

Dan stood unfazed.