Someday, Someday, Maybe (32 page)

James picks up my sweater from the floor, revealing my missing shoe, and takes a step closer to hand them both to me. His face still looks so open and wounded, I’m afraid I’ve hurt his feelings. “Look, I’m going to L.A. tomorrow and the weekend is wide open. Why don’t you come with me? I can probably get production to …”

“My cousin’s wedding is this weekend.” My face gets hot again and my stomach tightens. He could have come if he wanted to, I think to myself. He just didn’t want to.

“Oh, yes, right. Look, when I say the weekend is open, I mean I have a lot to do to get ready for the scenes with Hugh in the desert on Tuesday, so I left myself time to work, you know. But if you were there, we could grab a bite and, you know, be together.” James starts to come closer, but I pull back, not yet ready to be appeased.

His work is important. I know that. That’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for not going to the wedding. It doesn’t exactly sound right somehow, but then I don’t know what it’s like to be in a big movie with big movie stars.

“So—you can’t come because you’re working on Tuesday? You’re not working on Monday?”

“Well, I’m not scheduled right now, but I’m rain cover.”

“I understand,” I say, though I can’t help but consider how likely a day of rain in the desert might be.

“Look, we’ll be shooting in the middle of the desert like I told you, but we’ll talk soon—I just don’t know when exactly. I hate that I won’t see you until then, but please come to the premiere with me. And after that, I hope we can put this behind us. You’re really, really special to me.”

I go through the motions of an affectionate goodbye, but my heart isn’t really in it. I feel detached, as if I’m watching myself from a few feet away. Out on the street, under the bright sunlight, my head starts to clear a bit and a wave of embarrassment hits. But maybe he was just trying to give me what he thought I wanted. I’m muddled and disoriented, as though I just woke up in a strange house and, for a minute, can’t remember where I am.

But there’s one thing I’m suddenly sure of.

I need a pay phone, but one that’s not on James’s street. I want to get farther away from here first. I half-jog the two long blocks to the corner of Seventh Avenue and Union Street. I’m only a few blocks from home, and though I could just use the phone there and not have to compete with traffic sounds, I don’t want to wait another minute.

“Franny Banks for Joe Melville, please.”

The receptionist said “one moment please,” but it seems to be taking forever for Joe to pick up. The hold music is that same classical station but today there’s some strange static interference, so the music keeps fading in and out, which hurts my ears, and I want to pull the receiver farther away, but I’m afraid I’ll miss Joe picking up. To distract myself, I fix my eyes on the door of The Muffin Café, a ramshackle little storefront directly across the street. One person enters, then a second, then a third. When the first person exits, now with coffee and what looks like a bagel wrapped in white paper, I realize I’ve been on hold long enough for a bagel to be toasted and spread with cream cheese and wrapped, and for pleasantries and money to have changed hands, which has just become my new definition of forever.

“Franny?”

It’s Richard instead of Joe, which is disappointing, but I’m also relieved not to have to explain what I’m about to say into the calm, silent abyss that can sometimes be Joe Melville on the phone.

“Richard. Hi. Listen, I feel bad, I’m sorry, but I can’t do the movie.”

“The movie?”

“The movie. I can’t do
Zombie Pond
. I’m really sorry. I’ve thought a lot about it and I’ve realized that I’m just not the nudity type. Not that that’s a bad type to be, necessarily. And it’s not because of the zombie thing, either—it’s no offense to zombies or monsters or man-eating sharks. In fact, I wouldn’t even do this if it were
Jaws
, which is one of my top ten favorites. Although, actually, I take that back, since if Steven Spielberg—no—you know what, even if Steven Spielberg were calling, I’d have to say no. To being naked, I mean. And I’m sorry. I know that’s not
artistic
of me or whatever, and I know this is my first real job and I hope Joe won’t be mad—or maybe it’s something he’d want to discuss, right? So, sorry, anyway, I’ll just call back when he’s back, which is when?”

“When …?”

“Sorry, when’s Joe back? So I can call him back. When he’s back.”

There’s a long pause, and then Richard clears his throat.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Franny, but Joe’s not here.”

“No? Oh, yeah, look at the time. He’s probably at lunch, right? That’s okay, I’ll just call back tomor—”

“No, Franny, I mean Joe’s not here at all. And listen, this has nothing to do with—even if you’d decided to do the movie it wouldn’t have changed anything. You should know that.”

“What wouldn’t have changed anything? Sorry, I’m confused …”

“He was supposed to—I’m sure he’ll call you to explain. As of yesterday, Joe Melville doesn’t work here anymore.”

24
 

You have three messages
.

BEEEP

Frances, it’s your father. I hope you’ll still recognize me when we see each other at the Finnegans’. You’re still coming, right? With Jane? Call me back, please. I’d like to—there’s something—call me, please. Also, one of my students says there’s a show called
E.R.
? I think that’s the name of it. About doctors, I suppose? Anyway, that’s supposed to be a good one you should apply to
.

BEEEP

Frances, Joe Melville calling. I’m sorry to leave you a message, but I’m not going to be reachable for a few days, during the, uh, transition. I want you to know that I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working with you, but I’m moving on to a more exclusive, er, a smaller agency, and I’m only able to take a very few of my clients, who are the, uh, top—well, only bigger names, you understand, are making this transition with me. I want to thank you, and wish you luck in all of your endeavors
.

BEEEP

Franny, it’s Richard, from Joe’s office. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed working with you. I really tried to convince one of the other agents to take you on, but everyone’s freaked out about Joe leaving, and no one’s taking new clients right now. I’ll still just be the assistant at the new office, or I’d represent you myself. Take care and keep in touch, okay? I wish I could be more helpful. Maybe someday in the future? Anyway, good luck
.

“
Pinkeye?”
I keep repeating the phrase as if that will somehow make it disappear from Jane’s face. “Pinkeye? You have pinkeye? How can you be sure?”

“Well, by looking in the mirror, for one thing.”

“But maybe you just have something in your eye? Or allergies?”

“Sorry, Franny. I’ve had it before. This is what it looks like. It’s really contagious. There’s no way I can go.”

Jane was going to be my date for Katie’s wedding. Jane had arranged the rental car in her name. Jane has pinkeye.

“If you can’t go, I can’t go. Metro-North is on strike, so I can’t take the train. I have no wallet, no driver’s license. I can’t pick up the rental car.”

Two nights ago on the way home from James’s, I arrived at our front door just as our downstairs neighbor was leaving, and Dan and Jane were home with the door to our place already open, so it wasn’t until I went to get bagels the next morning that I realized in my rush to leave, I forgot my purse at James’s apartment. I left him a message, but he must have already taken off for Los Angeles.

“Shit. I forgot about the license thing,” Jane says, her good eye widening in sympathy. “I know. Maybe I can give you my I.D. and you can pretend to be me?”

“Good thinking. Where can I get colored contacts, an olive complexion, and darker, straighter hair in about an hour?”

“I’m just brainstorming here.”

“It’s fine. Forget it. I just won’t go.”

But it feels terrible to even speak that possibility out loud. I’ve never missed a Finnegan wedding. I haven’t seen my dad in months, haven’t even really spoken to him. His messages have had a strange sound to them lately. I think he’s lonely.

“I can rent the car. I can take you.”

I look over to see Dan hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, and I blush at the thought of him escorting me to the wedding. “Oh, thanks. Really. But this is a very crazy, giant wedding. It would be awful for you. This family is insane. And there’s no time to get you a tux.”

“All families are insane. And I have a tuxedo. In my closet.”

I’ve only ever seen Dan in a T-shirt and jeans. He has no coat or blazer that I know of. In the winter he wears this sort of windbreaker-type blue jacket that can’t possibly be warm enough, but if you ever ask him if he’s cold, he says no, he’s fine. He has one white-collared shirt and one blue-collared shirt that he used to alternate when he went out to dinner with Everett. I’ve never seen him wear a belt or a tie or socks that aren’t white tube socks. Yet, Dan owns a formal tuxedo?

“But there’s only one, ah, room, you know, in the motel,” I stammer. “Just the one. So …”

I can’t imagine bringing him into this party. The thought of it makes me unaccountably nervous. Our lives have gone back to normal: back to simply co-existing here in this apartment, the three of us going out occasionally to the upstairs Chinese place, or sitting on the couch and guessing who the killer is on
Law and Order
. The daily routine of being roommates has almost eclipsed what happened that one night out after the theater. I don’t want to go outside these familiar surroundings, don’t want to leave Brooklyn let alone spend a night with him in a motel—even one with two beds. But the thought of missing Katie’s wedding, and not seeing my dad, makes my heart ache.

“This is silly,” Jane pipes in. “We already got a double room for the two of us. So, what’s the big deal? It’s not like you two aren’t already used to sleeping under the same roof. Make a wall out of throw pillows or something. It’s Katie Finnegan’s wedding, for Chrissakes! You’re going! Yay, Dan!”