Confessions Of A Falling Woman And Other Stories (15 page)

"Okay." Her voice registered that, yes, she had heard me but she wasn't about to be taken in by a word of this malarkey. "I'm on another line. Can we talk about this tonight?"

"I'm working tonight, but, yeah, sure. Actually, I was just calling to say that if you want me to, I'll weasel my way out of the first refusal thing. We'll just go ahead and go."

She sighed audibly. "I don't want you to 'weasel' out of anything, Dan." And she hung up before I could backtrack and substitute the word "weasel" with something less, I don't know what, less weasely.

We never actually did talk about it. When I got home from work, she asked me how the audition went, showed polite interest when I told her that it went well, and then moved seamlessly into a laundry list of instructions on how to survive her absence – when to water and feed the various plants, which of the vets to speak to about Puck's medications, what was still at the dry cleaner's – instructions that might, it occurs to me now, be intended to keep the place running without her indefinitely. Her manner was pointedly casual and gracious.

I repeated my offer.

"I can call Zak in the morning and get out of this commercial thing. Honestly, I don't mind." And suddenly I didn't. Go figure.

Robin turned, and for a moment there I thought she might haul off and belt me, that or burst into tears. Whatever emotion she was struggling with, though, she managed to suffocate.

"No, it's probably best this way after all."

I don't know exactly what that means, except that it's the kind of line they used to give to Olivia de Havilland all the time. The wispy bravery of it was supposed to make you admire her gentle courage. But Robin is not the Olivia de Havilland type. She's more like Bette Davis, sarcastic and plucky and not about to let anyone step on her, thank you very much. This quiet restraint is unsettling.

So she's going up to Maine tomorrow where she'll spend the week with her family, kayaking, dining on lobster and mussels, generally lounging around the beach. I'm going to stay here, hunker down in front of the air conditioner and watch TV and maybe, if I'm lucky, spend a day dressed up in a rodent suit. Mulling it over, I'm having a hard time pinpointing exactly what is in this for me. Of course, there's the money I stand to make if I book this commercial. But Robin is right: if I said that my choices were motivated by money, you'd take one look at my life and conclude that I was just about the stupidest person on the planet.

Garland and Kelly are doing a rousing finale, their arms locked, legs kicking, smiles beaming. It has nothing to do with being happy. It's not about making good choices. Everyone knows that about Garland, but it's no less true of the rest of us. Actors act because we don't know what else to do.

While Robin was in the shower this morning, I took a peek in her suitcase and attempted to determine by its contents if she is leaving me for a week or for good. There was no conclusive evidence either way, at least not on the top layer, and I knew better than to dig for clues, because I could never hope to reassemble the careful still life she had constructed: shirts stuffed with rolled socks, sweaters carefully folded, shoes wrapped in paper and tucked into the corners. One might wonder where in the wilds of Maine she anticipates wearing her red silk kimono. But, I consoled myself, if my ultimately practical wife had decided to leave me, surely my things would be packed, not hers.

Of course, I could have asked. But then she would have told me, and I just couldn't bring myself to tempt fate like that. So, instead, I pretended that everything was fine. I walked her downstairs to the waiting car service and put her bag in the trunk. I told her to have a good time. She gave me the pressed lip, indulgent smile I've seen her give store clerks or waiters when she decides it's not worth making a fuss. "You, too."

I got back up to the apartment and checked the answering machine, in case Zak had called while I was downstairs. Nothing. Then I went back to bed. I haven't done this in years, slept during the day. It is one of the many little disciplines, the seemingly inconsequential rules I made up for my life as an actor. They are the things that distinguish me from a bum. I don't sleep during the day. I don't drink or watch TV before five. I get up at a reasonable hour, do half an hour with the weights or go for a run, shave and dress, and then leave the house. I do something productive, preferably career-related, but if not, then anything concrete and improving, even if it's as small as picking up the groceries. I tell myself that all this matters, that even more than the rent money I bring in bartending, these habits are what keep me from being a nothing.

But I was so tired. It was as though the sleep I have been losing for the last several weeks caught up with me all at once. I was suddenly and completely exhausted. I made some pretense of reading the paper, sitting upright at the table and jerking awake every few minutes when my chin dropped. What the hell, I finally told myself, you're supposed to be on vacation. You can do whatever you please. Who's to stop you? No one. Puck followed me into the bedroom, and I hoisted him up with me. It's been some time since he's been able to leap up on the furniture. When I lifted him, I was careful to cradle his haunches. He remained gingerly stiff in my arms. It may not have been worth the bother for him, but I wanted his company.

Sometime later, I am swimming to consciousness in a groggy panic, dragging the empty lake of the mattress for a body. Gone. I don't know what I am missing, but it is critical. I try to recall the last fragments of a dream, but they are drifting back beneath the surface. The room is still and stuffy, the late afternoon light oppressively bright behind the blinds. From the park, I pick out the sounds of children. They are chanting something – duck, duck, goose? – and, inexplicably, I am weepy and nostalgic for my life. I have the conviction, I couldn't tell you why, that my life is shifting underneath me, changing radically, right this minute. I can't even say for better or worse. It could be that Robin is working herself up to leave me, or already has, and I'm just too thick to know it. Or perhaps my career is about to really take off and I'm going to reap the rewards of years of patience and hard work. And this, oddly, is almost as terrifying.

Everyone has these moments, I suppose, when you feel you're on the cusp of something big, that any minute now the wave you're riding will crest and you'll be able to see into your future. In my limited experience, the expectation is misguided – you reach that peak and what you see is a trough and beyond that another big wave obscuring your vision. The message here is probably more mundane, something along the lines of "Avoid afternoon naps."

I check the answering machine. Just in case I didn't hear the phone ringing. Nothing. Nothing from Robin, who promised to call when she got in, nothing from the agent. Nothing. Today is Wednesday. I auditioned yesterday. There's no reason why I should hear from Tribeca before Friday. Even next week. They may still be seeing people. Certainly not before Friday. It's ridiculous to worry until then.

The commercial is a different kettle of fish. I definitely should have heard something by now, if they need to do a fitting, sign contracts, whatever. It's what, four-thirty, so Zak probably won't call today. I can't completely rule it out yet, maybe in the morning. If I don't hear tomorrow, then I'll have to assume they went with someone else and this whole fracas with Robin was completely pointless. They could at least call, put me out of my misery. I mean, they have to know by now. Unless the person they want to use is dick-ing them around. Who knows? This whole thing is so last-minute, cast and shoot the same week. But definitely, if I don't hear by tomorrow afternoon, then I don't have it.

I stare at the phone for a bleary stretch of time, as though it may ring if I just sit here long enough. So what, if Robin said she'd call? Who am I, some prickly teenager that I should care who calls whom? And the answer here would have to be yes, because I don't pick up the phone right away. Instead, in a precise imitation of adolescent angst, I rehearse variations on an imaginary phone conversation. I try on the indignant role and discard it because, even in my own ears, I sound petulant. I try casual, just ringing up to see how you're getting on, hot enough for you, blah, blah, blah.

I pick up the phone and dial out the number Robin has left in case of emergency. It rings four times, and then a robotic female voice announces the number and suggests I leave a message. "Robin, it's Dan." I wait, hoping that maybe someone will pick up. "Okay, when you get a chance, give me a call. No big deal, I just want to know you got in okay."

It's five o'clock, and the evening looms empty in front of me. The movie channel is showing
On the Town
at eight, and I'm not knocking it, it's a good movie, even with Ann Miller, but there's only so many times you can watch even the good ones, and I've seen it a few more times than that.

What I need to do, I tell myself, is to get off my duff. Get out of the house, call up some friends, do a guys' night out. Having a plan invigorates me. I dial up my buddy Keith and get his machine. "You've reached the home of Sarah and Keith. There's a beep coming up and then you're on." "Keith, it's Dan. Are you there? Okay, well, it's about five, and I'm thinking it's a good night to do a little carousing. Call me for further details." Then I call Mike Hardin, whom I haven't seen in a long time but have been meaning to call, who, his message informs me, is in Vermont doing summer stock until Labor Day. Then Stuart Hoffman, who is away from his desk, and Barry Ingles, who can be a real jerk sometimes but whose name is entered right beneath Stuart's in my address book. Barry's answering machine has one of those endless musical selections preceding the beep. I wait out the first minute but then hang up. I'm half tempted to call the operator, just to confirm that it's not faulty equipment, that in fact every person on the planet but me is occupied.

When the phone rings, the sound startles me. Before I pick up the receiver, I take a deep breath to collect myself and I repeat in my head a brief incantation-slash-affirmation: you deserve good things.

"Dan-O." Stuart's rumbly bass booms over the line. "Got your message. You okay?"

"Sure."

"What's going on?"

"Oh, nothing much." The master of understatement. "I was just thinking about coming into the city, and I wondered if you were up for a little libation and conversation."

"What, now?" He pauses, then asks again. "What's up?" His voice is quietly insistent, as though I have bad news to spring on him, and I may as well cut to the chase. I suspect this is a habit he developed from years of talking with doctors.

"Nothing's up. Robin's up in Maine for a few days, and I'm just not in the mood to sit home."

"She went up there alone?"

"No, not alone." I'm trying to remember if I said anything in my message that would put Stuart on high alert like this. "She's with her dad and his wife. I was going to go, but I'm on first refusal for a commercial, so I have to sit tight until Friday."

"So you're all alone in the city, huh, big boy?" Apparently satisfied, Stuart reverts to the banter we established years and years ago, when he played Falstaff to my Prince Hal at the Dallas Shakespeare festival. The play more or less set a tone for our friendship in that he still likes to pretend that his job in life is to corrupt me. That he is gay supposedly makes him privy to all kinds of depravity; the fact that I am straight and, better yet, from Oklahoma makes me forever the innocent rube.

In fact, he's always led a very conventional and quiet life. Even when he was still acting, he was the designated adult in our group, the only one with a steady partner, dental insurance, matching glassware, all the markers of responsible living. When Andre got sick, Stuart stopped taking out-of-town jobs and gradually got hooked into this company that does books on tape. He started off just reading the books, but gradually slid over to the production side, too, because they needed the insurance coverage. Now he goes to work every morning and is probably home and in bed by nine most nights.

I take the subway in, and when we pull into Wall Street, the car fills with a swarm of worker bees heading home. It's probably still in the low eighties on the street and a good ten degrees warmer in here. A hundred upraised arms perfume the tired air. At each stop, the doors open and more bodies squeeze in. One Wall Street hustler uses his briefcase as a battering ram, letting the doors bump open and shut until he can press himself into the last inch of open space on the inside of the car. I am wedged against a young woman with plump bare arms. Behind her, a man with his suit coat flung tiredly over his shoulder holds up a wilted copy of the
Post
with his free hand. We are all immodestly close, and each time the train lurches around a curve, slows or speeds up, we are flung against the warm flesh of our neighbors. The woman and I are both pretending mightily, she that her breasts are not pressed into my stomach, I that the Yankees' win over the Angels is gripping reading.

Stuart and I have made plans to meet at McLeary's, one of the old hangouts on Amsterdam. It's a typical Irish bar, sawdust on the floor, greasy sausages in a warming tray for happy hour, cheap and friendly and one of the few reminders that the neighborhood was working class not too long ago. The owner has hung some ferns in the window and put out a few tables on the sidewalk to siphon off the yuppies who now stream up and down the avenue at night, but the clientele seems unchanged from twenty, thirty years ago. A half-dozen grizzled old men watch the Yankees game at the bar; a couple younger ones flirt with an orange-haired woman in a thigh gripping miniskirt. They are like Eugene O'Neill characters in
The Iceman Cometh
, preserved in the smoky amber tar that coats every surface of the bar. I don't recognize anyone except Stuart, sitting at a table near the jukebox. He grins and leaps to his feet, arms open to embrace me.