Lives of the Circus Animals (28 page)

D
espite the canvas shades, the apartment was not entirely dark at eight o'clock. The amber twilight filled the living room with an audience of soft brown ghosts. The first performance of
2B
began.

Dwight blanked on the first line and Frank had to feed it to him. Boaz screwed up a song cue, so “Losing My Religion” played too soon and too loud. Melissa fell over a chair. Boaz missed another cue, and a mopey Moby song played too long, blasting the room while Chris and Melissa shouted their dialogue. None of the funny stuff seemed all that funny, and the biggest laugh came when Allegra jumped up on Dwight and he went down flat on his butt. Luckily he wasn't hurt. The march back to the bedroom created a traffic jam in the hall. Dwight and Allegra, naked for the first time with strangers, pulled on their clothes much too quickly and efficiently, killing the comedy. Only Toby's scenes passed without mishap.

It was like a classic dress rehearsal where everything goes wrong. Except this was a performance and the catastrophe had witnesses. The audience was all friends and fellow acting students, but Frank wanted their approval, not their pity. Watching it fail, and fail so publicly, he suffered more than he thought was possible. The show was only an hour long, but it felt like an eternity.

Finally it ended. There was applause, but it sounded like desperate charity. Most of the audience cleared out as quickly as possible. Only a few friends lingered to offer condolences, including Mrs. Anderson from P.S. 41.

He was embarrassed to see her here tonight, a wry old black lady with iron gray hair, thirty years older than anyone else in the room. But he was touched too. They had shared a lot on
Show Boat
.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he told her.

“Oh no. I've seen worse. And not always from kids.” A city public school teacher, Harriet Anderson was adept at finding silver linings. “I like how you use this apartment. The blond boy was nice to look at.”

Frank laughed. “You want a date?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Seriously. He's got something. But the rest of it wasn't so bad. It'll get better.”

“It can't get worse.”

“Oh no, it could get worse,” she assured him. “Much worse.”

She left with the last of the witnesses. Only the criminals remained at the scene of the crime. There is nothing sadder than a stage after a bad performance, but this was also an apartment, a home. All joy had been sucked from these rooms. Frank gathered everyone for a postmortem that wasn't entirely post. A second performance was scheduled at eleven.

“I'm not going to beat a dead horse,” he began. “We all know this did not go well. There's little we can do before the next show except eat and rest. So let's think of this as an extra dress. We made lots of mistakes, but we know what our mistakes were and we'll learn from them. Okay? I have just a couple of notes, but you'll already know what they are.”

His chief “suggestions” were that Allegra and Dwight get dressed more clumsily, and that Boaz lower the volume so the songs would not compete with the actors.

“Yeah, our show is about actors,” said Allegra. “Not about your great taste in music.”

Boaz remained by the stereo, on the stool where he had sat during the performance. “My music? My music?” He bared his teeth and gums at her. “This show stinks, so you blame
my
music?”

“Your music's great!” Frank said quickly. “But you created a very complicated set of cues for yourself. We need things simple. K-I-S-S,” he said. “Keep it simple—” He left out the last
s
word.

“So it is my fault tonight is dud?” Anger flattened his English and sharpened his accent. “After all the things
you
did to
my
play.”

“Your play?” said Allegra. “It's
our
play. All of us.”

“No. I wrote it. And it was great. Before you and everyone else
started fucking over my words. People hate this script. They would love mine.”

“Your script,” said Allegra, “was TV dog shit.”

“Guys!” said Frank. “We're not going there. Nobody's blaming anybody. Okay?”

“Dog shit? Dog shit? I'll show you dog shit.” Boaz got up and walked toward Allegra.
“You.”
He pointed. “You and your cheating heart. Your dog shit lies. Your dog shit love.”

“Bo-eeee?” Allegra leaned back in alarm. She shot a worried look around the room.

The others watched Boaz fearfully, all except Dwight, who watched Chris. Frank wondered what they knew that he didn't.

“You never loved me,” Boaz sneered. “You used me. For sex and rent money and my script and my music. I am just a writer to you. Just a man. And you are a man-hating lesbo.”

Allegra let out a gasp like a silent cough. She covered her eyes with one hand, then lowered the hand to her mouth.

“Fuck you with a spoon,” said Boaz. “
Two
spoons. Anything but my meat. Because you're not going to use my meat again!” He stormed over to the door, threw it open, and charged out. His boots banged down the stairs.

Allegra dropped her hand from her mouth. “Wow,” she said dryly. “Wow, wow, wow.”

“Is anybody going to tell me what this is about?” said Frank.

“You don't want to know,” Chris said sadly.

And Frank got it. “Oh shit.”

“It's not like it sounds,” said Chris. “It's not nothing, but it's not like it sounds.”

“Hey. Thanks for the public declaration of love,” said Allegra.

Chris faced her. “I told you. I'm sorry. But I don't feel about you the way you feel about me.”

“You still don't trust me?”

“No! Because I still think you're straight.”

“Didn't that prove anything?” Allegra pointed at the door.

“Yeah. It proves straight girls are trouble.”

“Guys?” said Frank. “Guys? Can we finish this later? We still got
another performance.” But this was more interesting than their crummy little play. Frank wished they could drop the play and reenact the fight for the next show.

“Yes!” said Toby. “Henry Lewse is coming! Remember!” He was eager and enthusiastic, as if he hadn't noticed any disasters.

“Right, right, right,” said Allegra. “I'm cool. First things first.”

Henry Lewse was more important to her than either Boaz or Chris.

“I suppose Boaz won't be coming back,” said Frank.

“I hope not,” said Dwight.

“Okay then,” Frank continued. “I'll do the music. Let me look over the CDs. Why don't the rest of you go get something to eat?”

He wanted to be alone; he needed to be alone. He sat on the stool by the stereo while the others drifted out.

Things could not get worse, he told himself. He wanted to believe in a Zen of failure, that once you hit bottom, things can only get better. But Harriet Anderson was right: anything can get worse.

“Frank? Frank? Do you like the stuff I added? Does it work?”

Toby, of course. He squatted down beside Frank like a farm boy, looking up at Frank, hopefully, needily.

“Works fine, Toby. If the rest of the show worked half as fine, we'd be in great shape.” He continued to shuffle through the clatter of CD cases. Boaz had actually picked out some good songs. He just had too many of them.

Toby was nodding and thinking and nodding some more. “I just hope Henry likes it.”

“If he doesn't,” said Frank with a shrug, “I'm sure he'll understand. I bet he's done his share of turkeys.”

“Henry Lewse? Oh no, not Henry.” Toby thought a moment longer. “You think the show is a turkey?”

A
pplause erupted out front, solid and loud. Backstage in the dressing rooms, it sounded like a hailstorm. The phenomenon never ceased to amaze Jessie: it was weird like people but as natural as weather.

“I wonder if they like it?” she asked the
New York Times.

“Hmp,” went the
Times.

They were in Henry's dressing room, Jessie and Kenneth Prager, the man himself. He sat there, gripping his little notebook, saying little. Jessie had seen him on TV and even in public—last week, in fact, at P.S. 41—but never this close. He was taller than she remembered, more physical, but also paler, drier. One might say he looked more like an accountant than a drama critic, but Jessie had a good friend who was an accountant, and
he
was smart and funny.

“Do you always wear a suit?” she asked.

“Of course not. I just didn't have a chance to change.”

The simplest question seemed to make Prager squirm. She enjoyed needling him.

“So it's not mandatory? You could wear a Hawaiian shirt?”

“Excuse me, Miss—”

“Doyle. But you can call me Jessie.”

“Miss Doyle.” Her last name meant nothing to him. “You don't need to entertain me. I can wait for Mr. Lewse alone.”

“No trouble. And I want to introduce you two.”

It was hard to believe that this long, lean drone in gray was the maker and breaker of reputations, the Buzzard of Off-Broadway. Well, he did look kind of buzzardy.

They heard the actors coming, a growing noise, as if water were pouring backstage. Prager slowly stood up.

Henry swung into the doorway—and stopped.

“Kenneth Prager.
New York Times.
” He held out his hand. And a light snapped on in his eyes. It was a look of love: straight-guy love, a fan's love. Jessie remembered the same spark in her father's eyes whenever he spoke of a favorite baseball player or hero cop.

“If you say so,” said Henry in his dry Hackensacker manner. He shook the hand as his own eyes blinked and darted around. He often came offstage looking like a man on amphetamines. “Jessie? Time?”

“Oh? Right. Ten-forty.” The show had run a few minutes late.

He signaled her out. “You too, my friend,” he told Prager. “We don't want this interview
too
intimate, do we? Family newspaper and all. Be with you shortly.”

Prager joined Jessie in the hall, looking mildly hurt.

“Sorry,” said Jessie. “We have another show to see tonight. And I should warn you: he can be real wired after performing. He's had a full day already. Talk shows and radio and stuff.”

“I've had a full day myself,” said Prager, pretending nothing was wrong. “I'd like to go home.”

Princess Centimillia walked past, glancing at Prager. He gently turned away, as if afraid of being recognized.

The door snapped open and out charged Henry, already fully dressed in work shirt, jeans, and fancy linen jacket. He had not taken a shower but had sprinkled himself with cologne.

“Come along,” he said. “You're the
Times
man? Sorry. We're late. I have another show to see. A friend's show. But you can interview me on the drive over, can't you? It won't be too out of your way.”

They charged out the stage door into the alley. A thick pack of fans stepped forward.

“No!” Henry shouted. “Not tonight! Come back tomorrow. I'll give you everything you want tomorrow.”

And amazingly enough, the fans backed away.

“I'm late, I'm late,” cried Henry with a laugh, and he sprinted away. He'd make a wonderful White Rabbit, thought Jessie.

The limo was parked by the curb. Sasha stood by the open door, welcoming them home. They piled into the back: Jessie on the left,
Henry in the middle, Prager on the right. Jessie noticed
Hamlet
in paperback up front. Sasha must have bought it during the show.

“West 104th Street,” said Henry. “And step on it, my good man. What time is it?”

“Quarter to eleven,” said Jessie. “But they're not going to start without you.”

“You think?”

Prager was playing with a black tape recorder the size of a cigarette pack. He aimed the pack at Henry.

“Mr. Lewse? Shall we?”

“Oh no. Call me Henry. Please. I'm turning more American every day. No more English formality.”

“But he isn't America,” said Jessie. “He's the
Times.
Where they mister and missus their own children.”

“Henry,”
said Prager, firmly and defiantly. “You're one of the most admired actors of our time. You've done everything from Shakespeare to Beckett. Now you're trying your hand at musical comedy. And there's talk of you playing a suave movie villain—”

“Buzz, buzz, buzz,” said Henry. “We like to keep busy.”

“So,” Prager continued. “Do you see yourself as a highbrow visiting low culture out of financial necessity? Or do you actually enjoy trying as many different things as possible?”

A smart version of a tired question, thought Jessie, with a setup for a good answer. Prager might not be a total hack after all.

“Oh I want to try everything,” said Henry. “High, low, middle. I'm a promiscuous slut. A happy hooker of the theater arts.”

Prager looked uneasy. It wasn't quite a
Times
quote.

Henry sounded awfully giddy tonight, goofy. Jessie wondered if he'd snatched a few tokes in his dressing room.

“You don't see yourself primarily as a man of the theater?”

“Oh no. I see myself as—Excuse me. Jessie?” He turned to her. “You've seen this play? Does Toby speak or is it more a walk-on?”

“Oh no,” Jessie assured him. “He has a sizable part.”

“Good.” He turned back to Prager. “Sorry. You were saying?”

Of course, thought Jessie. Henry was goofy over Toby. After a day of fame, Rosie O'Donnell, and big bucks, he was gaga over a large blond bunny. Which was sweet. Kind of.

The car hurtled up Broadway. Prager tried more questions. “Many of your peers from the Royal Shakespeare have gone on to careers that take them far from serious theater.”

“Oh. Like dear old Alan Rickman?” Henry said indifferently. “But he did better work in
Die Hard
than anything else he's done.”

“Do you see any common ground between playing a suave lover of little girls in
Greville,
and anyone you've played in Shakespeare?”

“Hmmm. Hamlet.”

“Interesting. How is he like Hamlet?”

“Damned if I know. Except they're all like Hamlet, aren't they?”

The car turned a corner into a narrow side street. They came to a stop by an old building with a canvas awning.

“This is it?” said Henry. “Where's the theater?”

“There is no theater,” said Jessie. “It's in an apartment.”

“How creative. Let me out, please.”

Jessie opened her door and got out.

“But we're not finished yet!” cried Prager.

“After the show,” said Henry. “Come up and watch it with us. We'll finish afterward. I promise.” He raced across the sidewalk to the front door without waiting to see if Prager followed.

Jessie bent down to speak to Prager through the door. “Hey. He's an artist. They're not like normal people.”

Prager turned off his tape recorder and shoved it in an inside coat pocket. The
Times
was not like normal people either.

“I apologize. Really.” And she was sorry. Not that she felt great sympathy for the Buzzard. She just didn't want to turn the
Times
against Henry. “He needed to see this play,” she explained. “Well, not the play, but someone in it. If you know what I mean.”

“I wish I'd known sooner,” he grumbled. “Before I went out tonight on this wild-goose chase.”

“Sorry,” said Jessie. “You sure you don't want to come up and see the play? It's short. Only a half hour.” Or something like that. She couldn't remember how long it was.

Prager remained in his corner of the backseat, stewing and thinking. “A half hour?”

“Or thereabouts.” What would Frank think if she showed up with the
Times
? Would he forgive her or hate her more?

Prager shook his head. “I'll wait out here.”

“You won't come up?”

“No. I'll wait in the car. I'm sorely tempted to catch a cab downtown and go straight home. But I won't, only because I don't have anything I can use yet.”

“Oh good. Oh thanks. I really appreciate it,” said Jessie. “Downtown? We're going downtown after this. We can drop you off.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“Just so you know. But see you in a few minutes? Sasha will take good care of you.” She closed the door and tapped on Sasha's window. It whirred down. “Don't let him get away,” she whispered.