by Gigi Blume
I nodded, understanding he was referring to Will, but waiting for an explanation I was anxious to learn. What could be the story between these men who were polar opposites of one another? How could their paths have crossed in life to have triggered such a response? The eager features on my face gave him the encouragement he needed to continue.
“Let’s just say he and I don’t exactly get along very well.”
That was it? No, no. He opened Pandora's box and now, he would show me all the ugly contents inside. I didn’t want to pry too hard. Best to keep the questions neutral. Respectful.
“How do you know each other?” I asked as innocently as possible.
Perhaps I didn’t do innocent very well because he ran his fingers through his hair and apologized, “I’m sorry. If you two are friends, I don’t mean to—”
“NO,” I blurted a little too loudly. “We’re certainly not friends. I had the unique displeasure of being locked in the costume shop with him all night. I could definitely understand your visceral reaction to him today.”
He relaxed into a relieved smile, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head. He was no doubt thinking what I was thinking. There was an agreement between us. Something unspoken but heady in the air. We were very much alike right down to the people we couldn’t stand together. It’s the little things.
Inspired by the confidence he sensed in me, he proceeded to tell me the story—the long story—of his childhood and how he came to be a close member of the Darcy household. To truncate his lengthy explanation, to which I was entirely enthralled but kept us up until almost four in the morning, Jorge lived the first eight years of his life without a clue about his real father. Why his mother kept it from him, I didn’t know. I got the impression she was nervous about getting deported back to Costa Rica and never revealed to her erstwhile lover he had a son. When she fell ill and could no longer care for Jorge, she confessed the truth to a very shocked and overwhelmed Greg Wickham, who was (you guessed it) Martin Darcy’s publicist. The relationship between Greg and Martin was so close to brotherly, Martin himself accepted Jorge as a nephew once the truth was made known. The passing of his mother brought Jorge into a new lifestyle, spending long hours at the Darcy house while his father worked or played golf with Martin. It was a culture shock and complete contrast to his humble beginnings.
Jorge then explained the distance of only a few years between himself and Will, and that they would often play together. But he described Will as a spoiled child and a poor playfellow most of the time and then went on to relate memories of some rather unpleasant pranks Will would play on him, all in the name of some ‘good ‘ol fun.’ He was quite the little brat.
The untimely death of Greg Wickham brought Jorge once again to a crossroads in his unlucky life, and Martin, a single father himself by that time, in the hopes to give Jorge a family, took him in. Although Jorge didn’t find much of a brother in Will, he became like a mentor to Will’s young sister Georgia. She’d follow him everywhere. He was like a hero to her.
“She’s at Juilliard now, right?” I interjected, remembering the conversation Will had with Caroline.
“Yes, she is. She’s a truly gifted musician. They don’t let you in that school if you’re not. But it’s gone to her head. She used to be such a sweet girl. Now she’s almost as bad as her brother. I don’t know where they get that entitled attitude. Martin was such a humble man.”
I was sorry to hear that but not at all surprised. Will and his sister were born into privilege. They’d never know the struggles of people like Jorge—or me for that matter. We were worlds apart, and more often than not, people like that became conceited.
Unfortunately for Jorge, his suffering was only beginning. His studies at UCLA had opened all sorts of doors for him in film production and he was on course to a successful career. But his world came crashing to a halt when Martin Darcy died suddenly.
Jorge’s eyes welled up with tears as the memory flooded into view.
“He was like a father to me,” he said woefully.
Cue the tug on my heartstrings. Imagine the loss this man had to endure—first his mother, then his father, then his foster father and friend—it was overwhelmingly painful to hear. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
When Martin’s will was read, Jorge was left with a considerable sum as well as some sentimental personal items. He didn’t expect anything at all and only wanted a book of poems Martin would sometimes read to him. It was a special item and held a lot of happy memories. But once the dust settled from the funeral and following weeks, Will cut Jorge off completely from the estate. He had found some kind of legal loophole to shut him out. This in itself didn’t bother Jorge half as much as what he did next.
“When I came to claim the book,” Jorge winced at the painful memory, “he flat out refused to give it to me.”
“Why not give you the book?” I asked incredulously.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “At first, he said he couldn’t find it, but then after some prodding and looking around on my part, he finally admitted he had no intention of letting me have it. What would he want with a book of poetry? That was a little petty, don’t you think?”
“More than a little,” I agreed.
If I were a cussing person, I might have chosen a few choice words a little stronger in context than ‘petty.’ But there was even more to the story to add a gruesome cherry to an already distasteful pudding. Just as Jorge was making connections, close to advancing in his career, Will flexed his celebrity muscle and had Jorge blackballed from every studio worthy of working for. Nobody would hire him. All his hard work and Martin Darcy’s wishes wiped away with one sweep of Will’s callous influence.
I could hardly believe my ears, but Jorge was the sincerest I had ever seen in a human being. There was deep misery in his features. It was a fascinating vision to see such a different man than the one who’d been flirting with me all day. He was a broken, tortured man, afflicted with a life of disappointment after bitter disappointment, and here he was in my kitchen, telling me his heart-wrenching story, wearing nothing but boxers and my Hello Kitty bathrobe. I was moved beyond words.
“What a Delilah,” I said. “Why would he do such a thing?”
It didn’t make much sense to me. Then again, the rich and famous were an entirely different breed of human.
“I hate to say it,” he admitted, “but the truth is, Will was jealous of my relationship with his father. I was closer in temperament with Martin, and he loved me like his own son. That made Will blind with jealousy.”
He sighed and dug into a package of saltines on the table. “So here I am, getting odd jobs in stagecraft, trying to keep afloat.” He took a disappointing bite out of a cracker. “I didn’t expect I’d see William at the theatre of all places.”
I noted his use of the long form of Will’s name. Even after what he went through at that man’s hands, he still showed that small gesture of respect. I wondered if it was an ode to the great loss he felt, a wasted opportunity for a brother he never had and now never would.
“What about other family?” I asked. “Do you have uncles or cousins?”
“I never met any of my father’s family. He never spoke of them. And my mother was the only one in her family to immigrate to the United States. All my relations on her side live in Costa Rica. I have no contact with them.”
That was probably the saddest thing I’d ever heard. My own mother was a pain in the Coco, but at least I had a mom.
“So,” he said with finality. “Do you have a secret sofa hidden away somewhere, or do I sleep on the floor?”
I wasn’t sure if his question was laced with innuendo or if he was just sleepy. I hadn’t considered the sleeping arrangements when I made the offer. Now with Lydia on the couch and Jorge in my kitchen, there were more people than my little two-bedroom apartment could accommodate.
“You know what?” I said at length. “Take my room.”
His eyeb
rows shot up. “That was easy.”
I smacked him in the leg. This guy!
“Alone!” I chided. “I’ll sleep with Jane.”
Truth be told, I didn't expect she’d come home at all at this point, but I didn’t want to offer Jorge her room just in case she did.
“Mine’s the master bedroom, so you can have the bathroom in there all to yourself.”
He wagged his brows provocatively. “I don’t mind sharing. I’m a giver like that.”
I could sense a rush of heat flood my cheeks. “You’ve got a one-track mind, don’t you, Mr. Wickham?”
He flashed his ever-so-white teeth, and a twinkle overcame the whole of his expression. “Maybe,” he replied. “But right now, I’m just slap happy. I mean tired. Right now, I’m just tired.”
“I’m sure that must be it.”
“And maybe a little bit slap happy.”
“How ‘bout I slap the happy right out of you?”
“I would like that very much, Beth short for Elizabeth—”
“Yeah. I got it,” I interrupted. “Go to sleep.”
He reluctantly obeyed with a pout to his lips but not before several attempts to convince me to join him. At last, I was rid of him behind my bedroom door, and hoping he wasn’t going through my drawers in search of incriminating baubles, I stole into Jane’s room. I was so worn out by the day’s events, I was almost inclined to take the bed without pulling back the covers. But I knew once the fever from the effect Jorge had on me wore off, I’d be too cold to sleep yet too tired to burrow under the covers. And as I felt my way around the bed in the dark, to my surprise, I found the form of Jane fast asleep and occupying the entire bed diagonally. She’d been home the whole time? At that moment, I wished I did have a secret futon hidden away, but I was so exhausted and my head so full of the words from Jorge’s story, I yanked an extra pillow from Jane’s bed and fell into a hard, fast sleep on the floor.
I woke in the morning to the shrill echo of screams. They were far away at first in the hazy cloud of a half-dream state, but as I shed the weight of sleep, I shot up to find myself alone and wondering if I’d overslept. Strangely, the first thought in my head was pointe shoes I never attempted to buy. Didn’t they have to be custom fitted or something? The second thought in my head was that the scream wasn’t Jane’s, but another woman whose wailings I unfortunately recognized. My mother. I shot up, finding that at some point, Jane had covered my body with her comforter. Always thoughtful, that one.
As I rushed out of the room and into the hallway, I noticed three things:
My mother was screaming my name and pacing in the vicinity of my bedroom door.
My bedroom door was wide open, and a dripping wet Jorge emerged from the master bathroom wrapped in only a towel. A tiny towel.
Lydia was eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen bar, laughing between bites.
When my mother saw me, she scurried down the hallway and cried, “Lizzie. Oh, Lizzie. There’s a naked man in your shower!”
It took all my efforts and Jane’s gentle urging to get my mother to calm down. The half-naked presence of Jorge didn’t help matters. He stroked her back, offering her water—all while she flailed about, waving her arms in the air and gasping for breath. No wonder he thought she was having an apoplexy. Between each labored breath, she would cry about having a heart attack.
“I’ll be remembered for dying on this hideous beige carpet,” she bellowed. “Just like Elvis.”
Jorge valiantly swooped her into his arms and carried her to the couch. There she was, shocked dumb against the bare chest of the Latin demigod, much like I had been yesterday. Did this guy make a habit of scooping up women upon first acquaintance?
“Elvis died in the bathroom, Mom,” I said as Jorge placed her down. “And you’ll be fine.”
“Fine? Fine says you. You who don’t even call your poor mother.”
“Take a deep breath, Mrs. Bennet,” Jane said as she demonstrated, channeling her inner yoga guru. Surprisingly, Mom followed her example. Was Jane some kind of mom whisperer?
“Lizzie…” Mom said after a few calming breaths, “Why was there a naked man in your shower?”
“That’s actually a funny story.” Jorge laughed, his wet thighs just inches from her vision. Her eyes went wide, sweeping over him in open assessment. She turned her head ever so slowly to me like a possessed doll in a horror movie.
“And why,” she said with a strained calm, “is he still HERE?!”
I motioned for Jorge to leave the living room. He wore a surprised expression, clearly clueless to the reason he had to go, and with a shrug, padded down the hall, stopping to retrieve his clothes from the guest bathroom before closing himself in my room.
I then proceeded to explain all the events that led to his current state of undress—the gastro pub, Lydia’s vomit, and the chivalry of Jorge’s assistance to get us home safe. In my new G-rated version, Lydia had fallen ill with food poisoning, not for drinking her weight in tequila. I concluded with the assurance to my helicopter mom that it was all very innocent, and I’d roomed with Jane for the night. She looked to Jane for confirmation, my own mother giving more of her faith in my friend than me. Jane nodded in grave agreement but betrayed me in saying, “Mrs. Bennet, I was just as surprised as you were. But yes, Beth slept on the floor of my room.”
“On the floor?” cried Mom. “On the dirty carpet?”
“The carpet’s not dirty, Mom,” I tried to explain. “It’s just a little stained.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, surely judging my housekeeping skills, and then, as if Lydia had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, looked to her and said, “Who are you?”
“That’s Lydia, Mom.” I sighed. “My friend who got sick, remember?”
Lydia waved cheerily. “Vomit girl.”
A light went off in mom’s head and she nodded. “Oh yes. Nice to meet you, you poor thing. Have you tried apple cider vinegar?”
Mom and her internet remedies. She had new diet and health ideas every week—all contradictory to one another.
“We’ll be late for rehearsal if we don’t get going soon.” I sighed. “I’ll call you and Dad on the weekend.”
She sat upright and patted on the sofa for me to join her. I obeyed but didn’t allow myself to sit comfortably lest she never leave. Jane and Lydia took this as a cue to get dressed for the day and left the room.
“I’m worried about you,” she said like a woeful Jewish mother. “You haven’t had a boyfriend since college.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. “I’ve gone out.”
“But no one serious. What was that boy’s name? Jon?”
“Brett,” I said flatly.
“Yes,” she said with a vague expression. “He was a nice boy. Why don’t you call him?”
“No, thanks. Besides, I don’t want a boyfriend.”
She glared at me for a few moments and deciding something that must have just come to mind, said in a semi-serious tone, “Are you a lesbian?”
“NO! Mom. Seriously?”
She shrugged innocently and threw her hands up, waving them in front of her. “Well, you’re always around those theatre types.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Again!”
“Okay, okay,” she conceded. “Just promise me you’ll try to get a boyfriend.”
I released a heavy, frustrated breath as I rose from the couch. “I have two boyfriends, actually.”
She perked up immediately, poised for the news with an eager expression. “Oh?”
“Yes,” I said as I crossed to the kitchen. “I have a serious relationship with Ben and Jerry.”
She huffed and followed me across the small space that connected the living room and kitchen.
“Please be serious,” she said. “Dad and I want you to come for dinner this Sunday. Bring a date.”
“Can I bring Lydia?”
“Vomit girl? No. I’ve just
had my floor waxed. Bring that naked man if you like. Just bring someone. Preferably male.”
9
Eggs, Pie, and Cheese Wiz
Beth
Part of me wanted to keep the dirt Jorge told me about Will to myself. He had told me those things in confidence. Would he appreciate it if I blabbed about it all over the theatre? When I pressed him about revealing Will’s true character to Stella, he just shrugged humbly and said he couldn’t slander the Darcy name for the sake of his foster father. He said it wasn’t his place to expose Will—something about karma—and he’d get what he deserved. I took this as an open-ended invitation to at least leak a little incriminating evidence to my friends. I had to at least tell Charlotte, who was convinced I was blinded by prejudice toward Will. I wanted to rub it in her face. For the present, I had to content myself by confiding the secret to Jane and Lydia during our carpool to rehearsal. We’d dropped off Jorge at Phillip’s Gastro Pub to retrieve his truck, and Lydia ogled at his retreating backside when I felt compelled to drop a few hints about our heart-to-heart over hot chocolate and saltines. I left out a few of the more intimate details, but by the time we were halfway to the theatre, I had said enough to convince Lydia that Will was a complete Molokov. (It was my Chess day) Jane was less inclined to form such colorful judgments and turned over the information in her head with a good measure of thought before exclaiming, “It doesn’t make sense. There must be some other explanation.”
“What other explanation could there be?” I said. “Will was a jealous, spoiled brat--and probably racist. The things he did to Jorge were plain vindictive. He had no reason for it.”
“I’m sure there are two sides to the story,” she replied. “They were both grieving the loss of Will’s father. It all could be a big misunderstanding.”
“Cutting him out of the will, keeping an otherwise worthless, sentimental object from him and then spreading lies about him around Hollywood hardly can be written off as a misunderstanding.”
