Surrender, Dorothy (20 page)

“I heard they can get baby whiplash,” said Maddy in nearly a whisper.

“Not if you’re gentle.”

Natalie looked at the baby, who was unfinished, blurry, the soft spot on his head apparent under the pale layer of down. Natalie thought of Sara at this age; she remembered a particular sundress, and shining patent leather Mary Janes, and glass bottles that had to be sterilized and filled with warm beige formula poured from a can. The doctor had discouraged Natalie from nursing Sara. “You’ll be overwhelmed,” he had said. But she had been overwhelmed anyway, and wasn’t that the point?

“You don’t think I’ve screwed him up for life?” Maddy asked.

“Not yet,” said Natalie. “But I’d say you’ve still got plenty of time.”

Maddy pressed her face to Duncan’s head and inhaled hard. The scent of Johnson & Johnson products coupled with something caramelized was all over that head, Natalie knew; he was like a
tarte tatin
sprinkled with baby powder. He wasn’t edible, although he seemed it, but he was knowable, he was a person. Natalie watched as Maddy tentatively swung Duncan in her arms. Then, becoming more sure of herself, Maddy swung him again. His little sprig of hair flew up, and his eyes caught onto hers, startled and wide.

10
Golden Boy

Melville Wolf came to take Adam to dinner one night, which really meant that Melville Wolf came to spy. He was staying in the area all week, and he took Adam out to determine whether Adam was writing, and whether what he was writing was any good. Not that he would know. Melville Wolf wasn’t an artist or a critic but a theatrical producer, a thick-chested, sweating man whose shirts were made of striped cotton and were invariably dripping at the end of one of his long, emotional days at the office. He was well-dressed, with the purplish-blue complexion of underlying heart disease, and he loved the theater in a big, wrenching way. He loved comedy—tragedy was great, too. Make him laugh, make him cry; it didn’t matter which.

The producer had taken a chance a few years earlier with
Take Us to Your Leader,
and Adam’s play had made him lots of money. Whenever he saw Adam now, he reached out and messed up his hair, as though to say:
Oh, you kid.
Mel Wolf had produced many hits, and had been attached to productions of great importance and lesser ones which generated immense revenues. If there was money in it, he was your best friend, and would reach out and mess up your hair forever. If it failed but the reviews were favorable, he was gently philosophical about the situation, touching your shoulder lightly, sadly, giving you another chance to prove yourself to him. If the whole enterprise was a disaster, then his entire persona turned as cold and crass as that of a businessman on a bad day—a vinyl flooring manufacturer who has lost millions. This was what Adam feared most from Mel. He wanted the producer to love him forever, to take him out to dinner so they could plot future productions, the boy wonder and his rich, jovial uncle.

This evening Mel was coming to take Adam out to a nearby expensive restaurant called Shoes of the Fisherman, where you could look dreamily out over the bay as you ate lobster with a tiny fork. Shawn wanted to join them, was openly asking to do so, but Adam put him off. “I’m sorry, it’s not appropriate,” Adam said as he got dressed for dinner. Shawn lay across the bed in the small room, fretting and studying something on his arm.

“If you were straight, and I was your girlfriend, then I guarantee you’d bring me in a second,” said Shawn.

“That’s not it,” said Adam. “This isn’t some self-hating homophobia at work.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s not about you,” said Adam. “And it’s not about us. It’s just about
me.
”

“Like everything else,” said Shawn.

“I thought you liked that I’m successful,” said Adam. “I thought you actually liked that fact about me. You certainly liked it when we met, when you came up to me at that playwrights’ thing, and when you sent me your tape.”

“Well, I don’t like it when you flaunt it,” said Shawn. “When you show off about it, and make it seem like it’s the most important thing in the world.”

“I’m hardly sitting in this house thinking about being famous,” said Adam. “I’m thinking about Sara. You didn’t know her, and you didn’t know anything about my friendship with her, but I am suffering, okay? So don’t make me out to be this spoiled person.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” Shawn said after a moment. “I know things aren’t good. I just feel that you get to do pretty much whatever you want, and that I always have to hold myself back.”

Adam turned to him in irritation. “What is it you want?” he asked. “You want to make contact with Melville Wolf, is that it? So you can play him your tape?”

“Yes,” said Shawn. “Would that be so bad?”

“Actually, yes, it would be inappropriate,” said Adam. “I’d rather you didn’t mention it to him. I don’t have this cozy relationship with Mel. Maybe later on, in a year or so.”

There was a silence; both of them knew they might not know each other in a year. “It would be nice,” said Shawn, “if you could demonstrate a little interest in my work occasionally.”

“I do,” said Adam.

“You never ask me how the musical’s going,” said Shawn.

“I’m sorry. So how’s it going?”

“Like shit,” said Shawn.

“Well, welcome to the club,” Adam said. Then he went to the bureau where Shawn kept his belongings, and picked up a yellow folder lying on top, marked
Spinsters!

“Leave that,” said Shawn, grabbing for it.

“No,” said Adam. “I want to look at it. You tell me I don’t take you seriously, so let me prove that’s not true.”

Holding it out of Shawn’s reach, he opened to the first page and read aloud:

“‘Act One, Scene One. A typical Roman fountain quietly burbles in the distance. It is dusk. A woman enters stage L. She is
DIANA ROWLAND,
mid-fifties, American, dressed like a tourist. She sits down on the lip of the fountain and begins to sing the following song, “Meet Me at the Trevi”:

DIANA
Oh, I have no energy
and oh my aching dogs
I sat in the trattoria
and ate like a hog
…

“I said give me that!” said Shawn, and he grabbed the folder back.

“I thought you wanted me to see it,” said Adam.

“I changed my mind,” said Shawn.

“Look,” said Adam quietly, “I have to go. My producer’s waiting.” He left swiftly. All Shawn wanted was a producer, someone who was willing to stand behind him, to read his work as soon as it slid out of the printer, someone waiting to see what he was capable of doing. Which was exactly what Adam had.

Adam drove Peter’s truck to Shoes of the Fisherman, and saw that Mel’s Lexus was already in the parking lot, with its bumper sticker that read “Honk If You Love Strindberg.” Inside the dining room, which was as pink as a nursery, waiters carried trays high above their heads, and the room resonated with the clatter of silverware and spirited conversation. At a table in the corner, Mel had systematically eaten almost the entire basket of bread before Adam arrived, leaving behind a vaguely unappealing pumpernickel roll.

“Adam!” Mel cried, and he stood up to hug him. When they sat down, the two men began an ardent conversation about theater in general and then about Adam’s play in specific. “So tell me about the follow-up to
Take Us to Your Leader.
What’s it going to
be?” Mel asked. “Something equally funny? Or maybe something darker. I know you’ve had a tough time this summer; I heard all about it. My sympathies.” He patted Adam’s hand and there was a nervous moment of silence; Mel Wolf was the last person you would ever want to have console you. But then the moment was abruptly over. “Please,” Mel continued, “promise me one thing.” Adam nodded. “Promise me that you won’t get too dark all of a sudden, you know? Don’t start getting like Woody Allen did in
Interiors.
All serious and self-conscious and trying to be a fucking Scandinavian. You wouldn’t pull a Scandinavian number on me, would you, Adam?”

“Scandinavia? Never heard of the place,” said Adam.

“Good,” said Mel. “Let’s keep it that way. Your strength lies in light, funny, ethnic comedy. That’s where you belong. So tell me, what’s the new play about? Enquiring minds want to know.”

“Death,” said Adam.

Mel smiled a tough businessman’s smile. “You trying to kill me?” he said. “Is that it? Because, you know, I went for a stress test last week and I failed it. So your death play better have a little humor attached.”

“It will, it will,” mumbled Adam.

“Where does it take place?” asked Mel.

“A summer camp in the Adirondacks,” Adam said. “The year that Nixon resigned. Watergate seen through the eyes of a child.”

“I’m loving it,” said Mel. “A backdrop of major upheaval. Who dies? Not a kid, I hope. I’ll kill you if it’s a kid.”

“No, a counselor,” said Adam. “College age, bad skin. You’ll hardly miss him.”

“A counselor’s okay,” said Mel, waving his hand magnanimously. “Just as long as it’s not a kid. Audiences do not want to see that, I’m telling you. There is nothing funny in the death of a kid. We tried to do a musical of
Death Be Not Proud
—couldn’t get backers.”

Despite Adam’s protests, Mel followed him back to the house
after lunch so he could see the place. “I want to see the environment my young star is working in,” Mel said, and Adam blushingly led him inside the house. Mel stood in the middle of the living room and stared. “This?” he said. “This is it? Broadway’s great gay hope is writing his plays in a trailer park?”

“It’s not a trailer,” Adam said. “It’s a house.”

“Theoretically, it’s a house,” said Mel. “I’ll give you that. But Adam, you deserve more than this.”

Just then, Shawn came into the living room, clutching the score to his musical. “Oh, hi,” he said, observing Adam and Mel with wide, innocent eyes. Adam muttered introductions, understanding that from the upstairs window Shawn had seen Adam and Mel coming into the house, and that Shawn was trying, desperately, to make himself appear on Melville Wolfs radar. Shawn sat down at the old piano in the corner, arranging his music in front of him, and softly began to play “Meet Me at the Trevi,” the opening number to
Spinsters!
Adam closed his eyes in embarrassment as Shawn played; the music was as unobtrusive as something heard in a cocktail lounge, but the intensity behind it, the ambition and the desire and the need to be discovered, were so apparent that Adam wanted to apologize to Mel. But when he looked at Mel, he saw that Mel did not seem annoyed by Shawn’s music; he didn’t seem to feel he was being set up. In fact, he didn’t seem to hear the music at all. Shawn kept glancing up quickly from the piano to see whether Mel had any response, but Mel was gazing, transfixed, across the room into the doorway that led to the kitchen.

“Adam, who’s that?” Mel whispered as Shawn began his next number, “Chianti for Two.”

Adam looked into the kitchen and saw what Mel had been staring at: Natalie at the counter, washing a head of lettuce. Her hair was pulled back off her face, but a few strands had separated themselves out, and fell into her eyes. Her face was flushed with exertion, and she looked young and fragile and particularly beautiful.
“That’s Sara’s mother,” he said. “Her name is Natalie Swerdlow.” Mel continued to contemplate Natalie, gazing at her in shy admiration. Natalie sensed that she was being looked at and she turned, brushing the hair from her face. In the background, Shawn played his medley of moody songs.

“Hello,” said Natalie, and she shut off the taps and stepped forward, her hands spattering water to the floor. Adam introduced her to Mel, and she shook his hand with her own wet hand, creating a moment of awkward humor, sealing this introduction in water. “Whoops, I’m sorry,” she said. “I got you all wet.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” said Mel. “Now I’m baptized.”

Behind them, Shawn stood up, done with his attempts to get Mel to listen. He headed outside without saying a word. Adam didn’t go after him, didn’t even consider it; he was mesmerized by watching Mel and Natalie. Flirtation was different between men and women than it was between men. When men and women observed each other, it was as if across a great and wary divide, while men tended to respond to other men with locker-room/pup tent/collegial familiarity. Heterosexuality held real mystery to Adam, and always would. He had never been able to understand what his parents had had to say to each other all those years when he lived in their house, what they discussed in bed at night when he wasn’t there; his imagination failed him on this point, and he finally decided that the only thing his parents discussed when they were alone was
him.
He pictured them lying in their bed with the padded headboard, the television yakking softly across the room, talking to each other about Adam’s report card, or his lack of skill in sports, or the impressive but vaguely disturbing fact that he had memorized all the lyrics from the cast album
of Man of La Man-cha
and would often walk around in a dreamy state, stretching out his arm as he sang, his mouth full of Mallomars, “To love … pure and chaste from afar …” But perhaps there was more to his parents than he had ever gathered; perhaps they had an entire underworld teeming with secret passions and interests.

He used to ask Sara what she liked about men, and she would reel off a list of the qualities that had attracted her to a variety of men over the years. There was no consistency to her list; one man was admired for his long, muscular back, another for his impression of the Beatles singing “Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand” at their Hamburg concert. It wasn’t that Sara felt a commonality with men; she simply liked being around them, liked being touched by them. And Natalie was the same way, Sara had always said. “My mother is totally into men,” were Sara’s words. “She never kept this fact from me. Which, now that I think about it, I kind of wished she had.”

“Look, Natalie,” Mel was saying, and Adam realized that in the few moments that he hadn’t been listening, Natalie and Mel had progressed very nicely into an actual conversation, unassisted by him. “I’m in the area for a while,” Mel continued, “and maybe I could take you out for lunch or something.”