Best to Laugh: A Novel

by Lorna Landvik

  “There are still a lot of tenants left.”

  “You’re right.” He took a cookie off the plate. “I just get a little disheartened sometimes.” Taking a bite, he grunted his pleasure. “You make these for the troops, Candy, and no one’ll want to leave.” He took another bite, and another, and after he’d eaten two cookies, he handed me a flyer on which he’d drawn Cupid holding a house key. The hand-lettered words said, “Love Peyton Hall? Then Don’t Give Up On It! Meet by the pool Sat. morning at 10!”

  And then my kindly neighbor, who liked nothing more than to talk, told me it was time to go—didn’t I know I had a show to rest up for?

  50

  Little Women! HAD A FINISHED SCRIPT, a finished libretto, an all-drag cast, and unlike Waiting . . . for Godot! was ready for production at the Swan Theater, and although we still had great box office, Melanie had a contract to honor.

  There are some closing night parties in which the prevailing emotion is relief (whew, this dud is over!), but ours was filled with a mixture of pride, affection, and of course laughs.

  “To the most fun I’ve ever had as an actor!” said Harry Jansen, raising a glass.

  “Although I can’t say I’ll miss his Harry Chest character,” said his wife, Eve. “That’s a role I told him he’d better never bring home.”

  “Shut up, woman,” he said, cupping her behind, “and get me a beer!”

  After the final curtain, a catering company had set up tables bearing the kind of food that would earn Michelin stars, if caterers were included in Michelin ratings.

  “I thought your song with Mike was my favorite thing of the night,” said Maeve, “until I bit into this.” She held up a half-eaten crab dumpling.

  “Try the steak Diane,” said Solange, pointing her fork at her plate. “Before they’re all gone.”

  Mac joined our little group, and my grandmother greeted him by asking, “Where’s my pipe?”

  “Candy told me you had it,” he said in his stoner’s voice. “So let’s fire it up and have a toke!”

  “Oh kid, you kill me.”

  The groups kept shifting; the party was a true mixer in that everyone kept moving, grazing at the tables, telling stories, reminiscing, and laughing.

  At one point I joined my agent Eric and Mike’s mom by the desserts.

  “I was just telling Betty here that I’ve never been on a farm before, and she invited me to the fall harvest,” said Eric.

  “Yup, it’s about time you get out of your three-piece suit and into some overalls,” said Betty. “See how the real world lives.”

  I had been nervous about meeting Mike’s parents, but their kindness—and Betty’s irreverent humor—had put me immediately at ease.

  “And you,” she said, giving me the once-over. “You’re awfully good onstage, but I’d like to see what you can do in a cow barn.”

  Mike’s dad, John, was talking to Sven, Ed, and Lowell about UFO sightings.

  “Uh oh,” I said, sidling up to Ed. “Don’t scare them with your Roswell stories.”

  “My Uncle Leon never set foot in New Mexico,” said John. “But he was in France during the first war, and to his dying day he swore he saw a UFO hovering over the Vesle River.”

  “I don’t know,” said Sven. “Seems in a war zone you might get confused about a lot of things.”

  “I’m writing a screenplay about aliens,” said Lowell. “Only they don’t arrive in UFOs, they infiltrate cereal boxes and multiply in bowls of cornflakes.”

  Bell-like clinks rang out as Claire and Melanie, standing on our set, tapped spoons against their glasses.

  A “Shhhh” traveled across the stage until there was silence.

  “For a group that’s hard to shut up,” said Claire to Melanie, “they did pretty good.”

  “They probably think we’re going to hand out cash bonuses,” said Melanie.

  “Sounds good!” said Harry.

  “Sorry, all we’ve got for you tonight is our gratitude.”

  “Doesn’t sound quite as good!” said Harry.

  There was more back-and-forth and more laughter before Claire said, “Seriously, you guys, this was one of the most fun adventures in my entire show business career, and I want to thank all of you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Her voice wavered a little, and Melanie, draping her arm around Claire, said, “That goes double for me. It might be closing night, but who knows, with a show like this there might be another opening night.”

  A frisson of excitement zipped around the room.

  Melanie raised her hand. “I’m not making any promises: the Swan’s booked up for the next eighteen months, but I’d be surprised if this was the last of The Sorta Late Show.”

  Cheers flew up to the rafters.

  “And now,” said Claire, “I think we need to bring up the person who every night brought everything together: the best host in sorta late-night entertainment, Candy Ohi!”

  As I moved through the crowd, I smiled—hard—hoping the effort would rein in my emotions. Up on the platform, I took a seat behind my desk, gesturing for Claire and Melanie to sit down on the couch. I took a deep breath.

  “I want to thank everyone for all the fun we had—the writers”—I nodded at Lowell and PJ and Mike—“the actors, Harry and Gwen and Mac and Rose, the band—” The composure I thought I had captured darted away and my voice cracked. “Whoo!” I said, fanning my face.

  “We love you, Candy!” shouted Mac.

  “Love you back,” I said. “And if you’re looking for your pipe, I gave it to the police officer waiting for you in the lobby.”

  The laughter soothed me, but when I saw my grandmother and Mike standing close to each other, I about lost it all over again. Mike scrunched his face and flexed his muscles in a be-strong gesture.

  “Hey,” I said, “you guys don’t want to hear me talk—you’ve listened to me talk through this whole run. Everything I feel about this show is in the song Mike and I sang tonight.”

  That was the only cue Mike and the band members needed; they hustled over to their instruments and after an intro full of fancy trills and runs, Mike set down his trumpet and began singing our rewritten lyrics to the tune of the song Bob Hope and Shirley Ross sang in The Big Broadcast of 1938:

  Thanks for the Memories,

  Every night at eight, it’s magic we’d create,

  and if it wasn’t magic, still the levity was great,

  How lovely it was . . . .

  When we sang it during the show, I had stayed seated at my desk, but now I got up and went over to Mike, and he and I stood inches apart, singing to one another stanzas about gaffes and laughs, wit that bit, taking chances and knowing glances. When we got to the last refrain, we waited after each line, allowing people to sing it back. Finally, everyone onstage sang the last verse together:

  So thanks for the memories,

  There’s Ibsen and Shakespeare, their dramas have no peer,

  But as for laughs we outdid Hedda Gabler and King Lear.

  Thank you . . . so much.

  AS THE VOICES faded, Mike put his arms around me, dipped me backwards, and laid a big juicy kiss on me.

  “Okay, people,” he said, lifting his head to take a breath, “move along, there’s nothing to see here.”

  “That’s right, go about your business,” I said, clinging to Mike in a horizontal hold, “so we can get back to ours.”

  51

  AFTER THE CLOSING of The Sorta Late Show, I was sorta in a funk. Grandma and Sven went back to Minnesota; Betty and John went back to Nebraska; Lowell went back to work at Book Soup; and PJ picked up more waitressing shifts at the Cock ’n Bull.

  “Actually, I don’t mind it,” she said. “I like the hustle of a restaurant. And I steal stuff from the customers all the time.”

  “Remind me never to sit in your section.”

  “You know what I mean. Character traits. Tics. Sometimes whole lines of dialogue.”

  I missed our writers�
� meetings, the way we’d crack each other up as we threw out lines. I missed going to the theater in the late afternoon for our preshow rehearsals, missed getting show notes after curtain each night, missed our postshow dinners at Canter’s or Denny’s or Barney’s Beanery.

  While Mike had kept up a twice-a-week late-night booking at the Improv during the run of the show, my performance lust was pretty well satiated by what we did at the Swan Theater. But I had booked a spot that Friday night at the Comedy Store, knowing, as one of Solange’s cowboy singers counseled, it was time to get back in the saddle.

  On the fifth day (I was still counting) after The Sorta Late Show closed, I took a long morning swim. Normally, I could expect a few regulars to be lounging around the pool—I mean, it wasn’t dawn or anything—but Robb and Bruce had moved to Beverly Hills, Sherri Durban found an apartment in the Valley, and even Robert X. Roberts had packed up his velour robe and was very likely snoring under his newspaper tent beside some other (definitely dinkier) apartment pool. His departure had unsettled Melvin.

  “Robert X. Roberts has been here as long as I have! It’s like all the officers are abandoning ship!”

  By now almost half the tenants had moved out, and resignation was beginning to seep into the complex, although Melvin and I kept busy convincing one another that the cavalry, in some shape or form, was about to swoop in and rescue us.

  Back in my apartment after my swim (forty laps), I checked the movie listings, and debating between The French Lieutenant’s Woman or Mommie Dearest, I called Mike.

  “You want to join me on the Boulevard for a movie?”

  “My audition’s at two.”

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. For that new sitcom, right? Pete’s White?”

  Mike snickered. “It’s Pete’s Wife.”

  “Well, break a leg.”

  “I’ve only got three lines. How can I screw that up?”

  Knowing there were a million ways, we both laughed.

  “Okay,” said Mike, “How about if I come by tonight? I’ll bring dinner.”

  “Only if you get the part.”

  “Even if I do, they won’t tell me today.”

  “Excuses, excuses.”

  “So what time?”

  “How about seven? And don’t bring anything—I’ll cook. And I’ll ask Maeve and Ed. And maybe Solange can come. We’ll have a little dinner party.”

  “Sounds good. Should I bring my pajamas?”

  “Do you plan on wearing them?”

  Mike’s chuckle was lascivious. “No.”

  BLINKING MY EYES against the bright sun, I left the movie theater, lonesome for Madame Pepper and thinking how much she would have illuminated my viewing experience of Mommie Dearest. An autographed picture of Joan Crawford, had, after all, hung on her wall, and the seer had confided, “Joan was only star to write me regular thank you notes for my services!”

  Across the street, clots of tourists stooped in front of the hand- and footprints at Grauman’s. I walked east with no particular destination in mind, inviting the melancholy of missing Madame Pepper to settle into my already blue state. In her last letter, she had talked about living near the Freyung, one of Vienna’s old squares, and while it had many charms, it couldn’t compete with the Boulevard.

  “You can take the old Romanian out of Hollywood,” she had written, “but you can’t take Hollywood out of the old Romanian.”

  “Hey, Slim,” I said to the white-haired man shuffling toward me. Slim nodded but as usual didn’t make eye contact. As he passed, however, I was struck by something different about him.

  “You smell good,” I said reflexively.

  “British Sterling!” he barked, without turning around.

  A laugh blurted out of me. These were the first words Slim had ever spoken to me, and I received them as I would a surprise bouquet of flowers. I ambled down the street and by the time I had positioned myself in front of the Frederick’s of Hollywood window, gaping at its latest display of lingerie that played peek-a-boo, my low spirits had climbed out of the basement and were on their way to the second floor.

  I’ve got to hustle, I thought. I’ve got people coming over tonight.

  Turning around, I made my way west on Hollywood Boulevard, past a clarinetist squeaking through “My Way,” past a wild-haired woman who was babbling about Jesus’s imminent return at four-thirty-three that afternoon, past a young couple studying a map of Hollywood and arguing in southern accents about the best route to take to the Farmers’ Market on Fairfax. I paused for a moment, ready to offer directions, but they looked resourceful enough, and they might discover something unintended—and extraordinary—by finding their own way. Hollywood was like that.

  At Ralphs I bought ingredients for a dinner I had a particular hankering for: a hamburger hot dish (and there would be no skimping on either cheese or sour cream), drop biscuits, and a nice green salad. Dessert would be a yellow cake with my special fudge frosting.

  When I got home I saw the red light of my answering machine blinking twice.

  “Candy, Candy, is that you?” came my grandmother’s voice when I played back the first message. “Are you home? Listen, Candy, I just wanted you to know how much fun Sven and I had out there . . . can you hear me? Kid, I hate these things, I can’t tell if—”

  The second message came from someone more accustomed to answering machines, and as I listened to it, my hands flew to my mouth. I played it again and my hands repeated the gesture. Listening to it the third time, I hugged myself, my body thrumming. Then I called my grandmother.

  The pirate songs that accompanied my cooking were sung with extra verve and volume as I measured and sifted, chopped and browned, boiled and baked, and by the time the doorbell rang, the apartment with the Tiki hut rattan-wallpapered ceiling and the interior and exterior palm tree views smelled like a quarter of all Minnesota kitchens at suppertime.

  I was glad I had thought to include Melvin, who was in a mood similar to mine earlier in the day, depressed by having heard the news that the petition to have Peyton Hall declared a historical landmark was denied.

  “I fear there’ll come a day when the unique and individual will be trampled by the same and the standard,” he said as we entered the dining room.

  I picked up a plate and hurled it against the wall. He stood gaping at me.

  “Be my guest,” I said, handing him one. “They’re unbreakable.”

  THE TOSSING OF THE DISHES went a long way in cheering up Melvin.

  “I’m not saying there’s no chance for Peyton Hall,” he said, when we were all seated at the table. He buttered a biscuit. “It ain’t over ’til it’s over.”

  “Candy, this smells so good,” said Ed, helping himself to the hamburger hot dish.

  “You’ve got to give me the recipe,” said Maeve. “This is the sort of food Egon loves.”

  “And how is Herr Egon?” asked Ed.

  “Wunderbar. Fabulous.” She sighed. “Far away.”

  Solange had had a long and tiring day at Beat Street, having had to console Danny Day, whose latest single had failed to make it to the top of the Hot 100 list the hour it was released.

  “He came into the office ranting,” she said. “He had a whole list of people he wanted Neil to fire, including Neil.”

  “Who owns the record company,” I explained to the others.

  “So is he going to fire himself?” asked Mike.

  “Yeah, but then he’ll rehire himself at double the salary,” I said and laughed at my own joke.

  Ed reported that he had had an excellent day in ninth grade civics.

  “We’ve been studying our founding documents, and I’ve been having the kids write additional amendments to the Constitution, and my third-hour class—oh my god, some of their stuff was priceless.”

  “Give us an example,” said Solange.

  “Congress shall make no law respecting school lunches and the serving of vegetables, particularly of the green bean variety,” said Ed. “And then
there’s this boy Sean—he’s smart as a whip—for extra credit he takes it upon himself to rewrite the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence, and he begins by writing that ‘All men and women are created equal’ and proceeds to turn it into this completely wild feminist tract.”

  “Go, Sean,” said Maeve.

  “It’s kids like that who make me want to teach full time,” said Ed. “Which I’ve decided to do next year.”

  We toasted Ed and the certain jump in IQ scores lucky junior high kids would soon experience.

  Mike told us about his audition for a three-line part as a beleaguered library patron.

  “First they say, ‘Pretend you’re really mad, so with my mouth like this—” Mike clenched his teeth—“I say, ‘But it was shelved in Nonfiction! It’s a novel! What’s this world coming to?!’”

  “That was a pretty good Kirk Douglas impersonation,” said Melvin, nodding.

  “That’s what I was going for. Then they ask me to do it in a foreign accent.”

  “So how’d you do that?”

  “But eet wus shevlt in noun-feekshone,” said Mike, in a broader-than-broad Scandinavian accent. “Eet’s uh no-fel! Vhat’s da verlt co-ming to?”

  “Oh, so you went with Spanish,” said Ed.

  We ate and drank and joked and left the table with exaggerated groans of satisfaction, and after everyone had settled themselves in the living room, I asked Mike to help me serve the coffee and cake.

  “Candy, what’s going on?” he asked in the kitchen. “You’re so . . . giddy.”

  “Am I?” I said, laughing.

  He’d been the last to arrive, and I hadn’t had a chance to share my news with him. Now I did.

  “Candy, that’s sensational!” he said, grabbing me in a hug that lifted me off my feet.

  “I didn’t want to tell anyone—well, except my grandmother—until I told you,” I said but he swallowed up the last few words when he planted his mouth on mine and gave me a loud, lip smacker of a kiss.

  “Hey, young lovers,” said Solange, leaning against the door frame, her arms crossed. “Any chance of us getting that cake?”