Lives of the Circus Animals (25 page)

A
n alarm began to beep and Jessie woke up.

It was her old travel clock with its hectoring, pulsing chime. Six o'clock. She lay wrapped in a sheet on a sofa. The big window in the next room was full of white sky and orange skyline. She was at Henry's apartment. She instantly remembered why.

She jumped up, went to his bedroom door, and knocked.

“Henry! Show time.”

“Thank you!” he called out. He must have been awake already, lying in bed and gazing at the ceiling.

She went to the kitchen in her T-shirt and panties to start the coffee. They had a very full day ahead of them, a crazy day, which was why Jessie spent the night. They needed to be at the
ET
studio at eight, then
Rosie
at nine-thirty. Then lunch with Adam Rabb at the Royalton at noon—the men would eat alone, but Jessie needed to get Henry there—followed by a photo session and interview with Cameron Ditchley for the
Post.
Then a nap, because Henry still had
Tom and Gerry
to do tonight. And then the show and after the show Caleb's party. Jessie had not forgotten her brother's birthday party.

The shower sizzled in the bathroom. The coffeemaker gurgled like a scuba diver. Jessie poured herself a cup. The bathroom door popped open and out came Henry in flannel trousers and a linen deconstructed jacket, or whatever it was called. “The bath is all yours,” he said and helped himself to the coffee.

You would think they were an old married couple.

Jessie didn't bother with a shower—nobody was going to notice
her today. She pulled on pantyhose and a corporate-butch blue suit, and brushed her hair. She waited until she was sitting on the toilet, when her hands were free, to call Sasha on her cell phone.

“You're downstairs already? Great, Sasha. You're a gift.”

She clicked off; she flushed.

She loved this. She was pure action today, pure activity, the octopus stage manager. It was only a part, of course, a role, but the role consumed everything. There was no time to think, no room to doubt or dither, no space for messy emotion.

They went out to the elevator and Jessie pushed the button.

“I had the most peculiar dream last night,” said Henry. “An examination dream. I'm much too old for school dreams. But I was sitting in a classroom with a lot of young boys. And up on the blackboard was a maths formula. It looked simple enough at first, an
x
-plus-
y
-divided-by-
x
-squared sort of thing. But the longer I looked, the more complicated it became. Like it was growing. Into a maze of numbers. Just to read it was like crawling through a labyrinth. I knew it was only a dream but feared I'd be trapped in the dream, not allowed to wake up until I solved that awful equation.”

The elevator arrived and they stepped on board.

“Are you nervous about these TV shows?” said Jessie. “You shouldn't be. You'll do great today. I know it.”

“I'm not worried.” He laughed. “And I'm not disturbed by the dream. As you see, I
did
wake up. But I do find it curious. I usually forget my dreams.”

The elevator doors opened.

“After you,” said Henry, and he followed her through the lobby to the front door. “What a lovely day.”

The sun was out again, the rain finally over. It was after seven and Midtown was quiet, almost bucolic. Sunlight glittered on the braids of rainwater running in the gutters. A red cage of girders stood against blue sky over the construction site up the street. A sweet song poured from a dinky brown bird perched on the elbow of a yellow backhoe parked at the curb.

“A very lovely day,” Henry repeated, looking at Sasha.

The driver stood by the car, a tall, big-boned, thirty-something
Russian with close-cropped hair. He jumped forward and opened the door. “Good morning,” he announced, grinning at them both.

Jessie had already checked out Sasha when they met last night. She couldn't guess what team he played on. Nobody would call him beautiful, but his bony face was handsomely homely.

“We go to
ET
? I know already.” He repeated the address of the studio, which was only a few blocks away.

“You
are
a gift, Sasha,” Jessie repeated. It didn't hurt to kiss up to the help.

She and Henry slid in, slipping over the soft black leather.

Her cell phone twittered. Jessie answered. “Hello?”

“Good morning. Just wanted to see if you were up and out.”

“Dolly? Good morning. Oh yes. We're on our way.” It must be about noon in England now. “Would you like to speak to Henry?”

“If he's coherent.”

Henry was watching Jessie, not frowning but not smiling either. He took the little phone and turned it, uncertain how to hold it.

“Good morning, darling,” he finally said, much too loudly. “And how are we? I see. What? Yes. That's what we think too. But if Rabb has us trapped, it's a good kind of trapped, don't you think? Like those bodice rippers where women get raped by men they love. Of course. It is all
your
doing. And my own dumb luck. But then my finding you has always been wonderful dumb luck for me. Good-bye.” He lowered the phone and studied it. “How do we shut this off?”

Jessie took it from him and clicked the button.

“The dear cow is pleased with how things are going. As well she should be. Fifteen percent of three mill is—well, a goodly pot of cash.”

“So you're going to keep her as your agent?”

He screwed his eyebrows together. “When did I say I was going to give up Dolly?”

“You were talking to that Rizzo woman. Remember? At ICM.”

“Oh. Her.” He frowned. “I was only exploring. Sniffing around. I can't leave Dolly. We're much too close. Like brother and sister.”

“
Entertainment Tonight
!” declared Sasha and pulled to the curb. He got out to open the door, although Henry had already tugged the handle and was climbing out.

“I don't know how long we'll be,” Jessie told Sasha. “But be back in an hour. If it looks like it'll be later or earlier, I'll call.”

Sasha nodded. “Our boss,” he whispered. “He is a famous actor?”

“Oh yes. More famous in England than here. But he's done
Hamlet
and
Antony and Cleopatra.
Lots of Shakespeare. And Chekhov,” she added.

Sasha nodded, looking impressed.

Jessie caught up with Henry in the lobby. The security desk called upstairs and sent them up in an elevator.

The shiny copper doors reflected him and her: a star and his handler. We look like we belong together, thought Jessie. Then the doors parted open on a sorority girl who was all teeth and hair.

“Mr. Lewse! What a thrill!” She shook Henry's hand with both hands. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I'm Louise Parker Davis. Associate producer here at
ET.
I'll be interviewing you. And this is your—?”

“Personal assistant,” said Jessie. “Jessica Doyle.”

The handshake changed in midshake from warmly effusive to dead-fish. “They want you in Makeup, Mr. Lewse. You look terrif, but these lights?
You
can wait in the greenroom, Jessica. There's coffee and maybe doughnuts. Now, Mr. Lewse—” She led him off.

And Jessie was left alone in a curved corridor whose walls and carpet were hoofprinted in
ET
logos. She walked along, peering into open doors until she found the greenroom, which was gray. She entered and poured herself another cup of coffee. She even took a doughnut before she sat down. They were Dunkin' Donuts.

The idiocy of it all amused her. It did. Was there anything for her in this glittering piffle? No. The success was
his
success, so it was only vicarious for her, pure voyeurism. Henry could toss her away as easily as he'd been ready to toss Dolly. Jessie knew not to trust him any more than she could trust the weather. But it was fun. It was exciting. She should enjoy it like a beautiful spring day.

Her phone twittered again. “Hello.”

“I'm trying to reach Mr. Henry Lewse.”

“He's not available at the moment. This is his assistant, Jessica Doyle.” She wished she had another title. “May I ask who's calling?”

“Kenneth Prager.
New York Times
. I'm doing a profile of Mr. Lewse. I need to talk as soon as possible.”

“Kenneth Prager?” said Jessie. “The critic?”

“Yes. A brief article. For the Week in Review on Sunday.”

Ow, thought Jessie. Kenneth Prager. The man who killed my brother's play. And I have the power of saying yes or no?

“Mr. Lewse has a very full schedule today.”

“There's no time this afternoon? I'd be happy to come to him.”

“Oh no. His afternoon is packed.”

“If I could just talk to him on the phone then?”

“Oh no. Mr. Lewse hates to be interviewed over the phone.”

“Then could I talk with him after his show tonight?”

The
Times
must really want Henry. “He has a party after the show. But maybe he could give you a half hour in his dressing room,” she offered. “After all, you are the
Times
.”

“Yeees,” said Prager in a mildly aggrieved drawl.

“The show ends at ten-twenty. If you come to the stage door, they'll let you in. I'll tell the stage manager to expect you.”

He hesitated, then said curtly, “Fine. I'll be there.”

“But he has this party,” she repeated in a pesky, chiding tone. “He can't wait for you.”

“I said I'll be there.”

Jessie was enjoying this. She knew she shouldn't press her luck, but she couldn't help adding, “You're not writing reviews anymore, Mr. Prager? Have you been demoted?”

“Not at all,” he grumbled. “I'm filling in. We need something quickly and I'm a
big fan.
” He hit the words hard, sounding quite bitter. “I will be there at ten-twenty. Good-bye.”

Jessie clicked off. She began to laugh, tumbling the phone around in her hand as if she were tumbling Prager himself.

The man had no sense of humor. He should've covered his butt by making a joke when she made fun of him. But the man was so proud, so vulnerable, so
New York
fucking self-important
Times.

K
enneth hung up the phone feeling confused. A secretary gave him the runaround, then insulted him. Why? He loved her boss. His review last month had praised the man as the one great thing in a good enough show that happened to be the best new thing in town. He was going to stroke the man even more in a puff piece on Sunday. But the man's secretary mocked Kenneth, and it hurt. He was already in a very delicate mood this morning.

There was a knock on his open door.

Ted Bickle stood there in his red suspenders and bushy white beard, leaning on the cane that he'd used since heart surgery.

“Hello, Ted. Come in. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“I'm fine, Ken. Just dropped by to say sorry. For reducing you to a cub reporter. Jimmy Olson, huh?” He laughed. “But Week in Review said they need something on Lewse for Sunday or we're going to look foolish. And you're the best choice.”

“I don't mind,” said Kenneth. “Be fun. It's time I cross the fourth wall and talk to actors again. I miss it.”

“You do?” said Ted.

“Oh yeah. I love talking to actors. The gossip, stories, and jokes.”

“Good then. Good,” said Ted uncertainly. “I guess I made the right choice. So. Have fun.” And he limped away on his cane, looking mildly disappointed.

Damn Bick, thought Kenneth. This assignment is just his way of putting me back in my place. Kenneth had been a theater reporter years ago, writing up the half page of items that ran every Friday. In those days, people were delighted when he called. He was attention, he was notice, he was Michael Anthony from
The Millionaire,
the old TV show,
changing lives with a certified check. Now he was just the second-string critic, the man who got blamed for everyone else's failures and unhappiness.

The interview was only filler. They could've sent any intern or assistant to talk to Lewse. But Ted gave the assignment to Kenneth. Because he thought Kenneth was getting too big for his britches. And because Ted was going to retire soon. And he would die, and Kenneth would still be alive, and maybe even writing for the
Times.

P
iece of cake,” Henry cheerfully reported in the elevator. “Easy as pie. But all you have to do in this country is purr at people in a posh accent, and you have them eating out of your ass.”

Jessie laughed appreciatively and Henry was glad again to have her here. So long as he could say such things to Jessie, there was less chance that he'd forget himself and say them on American television.

They came out on the street again. Their bulky, boxy Russian was waiting at the curb. Henry assumed Jessie found the fellow as attractive as he did.

“Thank you, Sasha.” He climbed into the backseat and scooted over to make room for Jessie. “Who's next? Rosie O'Grady?”

“O'Donnell,” she said. “She's very important. And popular. Even my mother watches her. She's kind of smart, but a smart-ass too. She acts like a tomboy from Queens, but used to be an actress. She'll josh with you, and you can josh back. You don't have to play any games with her about who you're seeing and why you're not married.”

“I never do.”

“And before I forget: Kenneth Prager called. He needs to interview you. I told him he could have fifteen minutes tonight. After the show. He's the guy who gave you the rave in the
Times
.”

Henry took in everything with a roll of easy, regal nods. He suddenly stopped. “But Toby's play is tonight.”

“So?” She thought a moment. “And after that is my brother's birthday party. You're still going?” Now she looked worried.

“I'd like to,” he said. “Do you think we can do everything?”

“I don't know.”

“Do we cancel the
Times
?”

She laughed. “No, we can't cancel the
Times
. Not in this town. But Toby's play is tonight? You can't see it some other night?”

“I don't know. I could ask. Would it be possible for me to use—” He pointed at her waist.

“Oh. Sure. Yeah. What's his number?”

He patted various pockets until he remembered he carried no phone numbers.

“I know where he lives,” said Jessie. “I have their number.” She took a plump little book from her purse, found the number, and entered it. She handed Henry the phone.

He felt like he was holding a pocket calculator against his ear. “It's ringing,” he told her.

“Hello.” The voice was thick and half-awake.

“Toby?”

“Henry? Oh. Hi. Hey.”

Henry was delighted to hear his live voice. Since Wednesday he had spoken only with Toby's answering machine. He could almost smell warm bedclothes in the boy's sleepy, husky tone.

“Good morning, Toby. Sorry to call so early. You'll never guess where I am. In a hired car on my way to the
Rosie O'Grady
—I mean,
O'Donnell Show.
” He grinned at Jessie and turned away into a corner, making a private nest. “A pity you didn't visit last night. There were paparazzi everywhere. Well, a few. But they would've photographed us together. You'd be known as my mysterious companion.”

“Why were there photographers?”

“Oh, that's right. You haven't heard. I've been cast in a movie.
Greville.
Do you know it?”

“From the novel? The bestseller?” Now he sounded awake.

Henry was encouraged. “I'm the villain. They're paying me buckets of money.” He almost confessed how much, but that would be bragging.

“You're not rich already?”

Henry laughed. “Oh no. Not me. Not yet anyway.”

He was beginning to sound like one of those black rock stars crowing about his bitches and gold chains. To impress Toby?

He cleared his throat. “But I was calling to let you know that there's a chance I might not be able to get to the show tonight.”

Silence. Then Toby's words came out in a rush. “But you got to come! You said you would. They're expecting you. My friends won't believe me ever again if you don't come.”

“I'll do my best. I just wanted to warn you—”

“You gotta be there, Henry. It's a special performance. Just for you. And after the show, remember, we're going to Caleb Doyle's birthday party together.”

“You and I?”

“Yes. He told me to bring you. I told you. Remember?”

Henry looked over his shoulder at Jessie. “Of course you did.”

“And after that,” said Toby, “I thought, well, we could go back to your place.”

“My place?”

“If that's all right.”

“Maybe.” There was a lightness in Henry's chest that went first to his cock, then to his face. “I'd like that. Very much.” He was hoping this was where things would end, but thought he would have to cajole and push to achieve it. This was much better. This was more promising. “All right then. I'll be there.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You're on
Rosie O'Donnell
today? Good, I'll try to watch.”

“I hope you do. I'd love to hear what you think. American television. I do hope I don't make a fool of myself.”

“You won't.”

“That's so nice of you to say. Well then. Until tonight?”

“See you tonight, Henry.”

Henry made a kissing sound at the device. He pressed the off button. He turned to pass the phone back to Jessie.

The car was stopped at a light. Jessie was watching him with a cool, sardonic, disapproving smirk. Sasha in the front seat was also looking at him: Henry saw an amused pair of Russian eyes in the rearview mirror.

“No,” Henry told Jessie. “I cannot get out of going to this show tonight. Sorry.” He began to chuckle under their scrutiny. “So we'll just go from one thing to the other, and if we're a little late, no problem. It's theater. Where people are always late.”

Jessie irritably stuffed her cell phone back into her purse.

“Do you know this show?” Henry asked her.

“Oh yeah. It was directed by an ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh?” So that's why she was unhappy. “You don't have to come, you know. You can go on to your brother's party and I'll meet you there.”

“No. I'll come. I should see it. I'm curious. And I want to make sure you get to Caleb's party.”

“Good. Yes. Excellent,” said Henry. And Toby would “just happen” to be with them, so both Jessie and Toby would think that Henry was taking him or her to the party. Everyone would be happy.

Henry was quite happy himself right now. It was all falling into place. Everything was going well. Maybe sex would click for Toby tonight in a way it hadn't on Tuesday.

Leaning back in the soft leather upholstery, he found himself looking up through the rear windscreen at the sky. A tall white skyscraper slowly swung through a tempera blueness full of plump clouds. Then another skyscraper floated past, and another.

“Will you look at that sky,” said Henry. “All those pretty clouds. Pure Constable. What a beautiful day. What a delicious day.”