Michael's Secrets

by Milton Stern

  “If you’re so goddamn sick, go upstairs instead of prancing out here like some queer sissy telling me you missed me. NOW!” Hannah yelled as she stepped out of the car.

  Michael went back into the house and into his bedroom, closing the door. He lay there on the bed, staring at the ceiling. An hour later, he was called down to dinner by Bart.

  “Do you still have a sissy stomach ache or can you eat? We got some Chinese,” his mother said as she put the food on the table.

  Michael sat at the table and looked at Bart. He was a tall man with brown hair and a mustache. Michael never liked him, and Bart, who was no charmer, never liked Michael, either.

  “Maybe he missed football practice because he would rather be a girl,” Bart said laughing, and his mother sat down laughing at Bart’s remark.

  Michael started to cry, and his mother slapped him.

  “We will have none of that. You hear me!” she said, staring at him with her cold eyes and holding his chin. Michael shook his head yes between sobs.

  They ate silently for most of the meal. When they were done, Hannah told him to look at her as she had something to tell him.

  “Michael, Bart is going to live here now. We were married this weekend. He’s your new father,” she told him as if she were discussing the weather.

  “But, I don’t want a new father,” he replied.

  “Get out of my sight! Go to your room and think about what you just said you selfish little brat!” Hannah yelled at Michael as he left the table and returned to his bedroom for the night.

  * * * * *

  “Michael, what are you thinking about?” Dr. Mikowsky asked, breaking his silence.

  “Oh nothing,” he replied. “So, Doc, you think I choose to be in lousy relationships?”

  “To be frank, Michael, yes,” he replied. “We cannot be forced into a relationship. We choose whether to be in one, and I think you choose to be in relationships with distant men who use you and treat you poorly.”

  “How do I stop doing that?” Michael asked raising his eyebrows to the doctor.

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later, Michael attended a birthday party in Beverly Hills for his good friend, Dr. Sylvia Rose. She had arranged for valet parking, and Michael always enjoyed the look on the valets’ faces when he pulled up in his car. They spent most of their time parking Rolls Royces, Bentleys, and Mercedes, and the occasional Lincoln or Cadillac. He always worried they could not drive a stick shift and would always instruct them before handing over the keys.

  As he pulled up to the front of Sylvia’s home, one of the valets opened the car door as Michael shifted into neutral and pulled the parking lever located under the left-side of the dash of his 1965 Corvair.

  “Welcome, sir, leave the keys in and the engine running, please,” a rather handsome young man who looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties said to Michael. He was around six-feet tall, with dark hair, thick eyebrows, piercing dark brown eyes and full lips. Michael guessed him to be of Mediterranean descent and was positive the valet had at least a dozen headshots on his person waiting to hand them out to the first guest who looked like a producer.

  He stepped out of his car and gave him a knowing look, wondering when he would be done for the night, but as he figured the valet was around ten years younger than he, Michael toned down his usual flirtiness. The valet handed Michael a ticket stub and sat down behind the wheel, closing the door with the window still rolled down. He eyed the floor shift and the dash and gave the usual look of confusion Michael encountered with young valets, as no shift pattern was etched on the knob.

  “Do you know how to drive a stick shift?” Michael asked as he leaned on the door frame and smiled, bringing on the charm after all, as if the valet were a potential trick he met at a bar.

  “Yes, sir,” the valet said nervously as he put his hand on the gear shift.

  “It’s a three-speed,” Michael said as he pointed to the valet’s hand on the knob. “First is down and to the left, where second is found on a four-speed. Reverse is up from first. Second is up on the right, and third is down from second, lower right. Be careful, I don’t know how many valets have gone backwards in my car thinking they were in first gear or took an hour to retrieve it unable to find reverse in the first place.”

  The valet still looked confused, so Michael walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and sat down next to him on the bench seat. He told the valet to depress the clutch, and Michael put his left hand on the valet’s right hand to guide him as he showed the valet the H-pattern of a three-speed, floor shift. “Here is first, then second, then third, and over here is reverse,” Michael said as he guided the gear-shift through the shift pattern. Michael couldn’t imagine him trying to drive a three on the tree, which was how he learned to drive a stick when he first came to Hollywood and dated a man with an old Ford truck. The valet’s hand was sweating, but Michael was sure he would get it. Michael removed his hand from the valet’s, once he mastered the pattern.

  “The key is in the dash,” Michael said pointing to the ignition. “And, the parking brake is over there under the left side of the dash – that large, black, curved and tubular handle. Just squeeze it and push it back to release it, and pull it when you park,” Michael said with a wink. The valet smiled at Michael with a perfect set of gleaming white teeth. “Oh, and when you start it, give it some gas. This car has two carburetors instead of fuel injection, and the transmission is not fully synchronized.”

  “Synchronized?” the valet asked.

  “You have to be at a complete stop to shift into first, or you’ll grind the gears,” Michael said as if it were obvious, while he opened the passenger side door.

  “Are you an actor or something?” the valet asked before Michael stepped out of the car.

  He walked around the front of the car and over to the driver’s side window, looked right at him and said, “I’m not an actor, and frankly, I’m not sure I’m something anymore.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you should be because you are really good looking,” the valet said as he released the parking break and smiled seductively at Michael.

  Michael smiled at him and said, “You, too, but I think I’m old enough to be your father, and so is my car.”

  “Sam!” Michael heard someone yell behind him, “Quit bugging the guests and park that damn car.”

  “OK, Sam, I don’t want you to get fired, so go park my car and maybe I’ll see you when I leave,” he said with a wave.

  He waved at Michael and struggled with the unsynchronized clutch before lurching down the driveway to park his precious car. Michael turned around to walk into the house, and Sam’s boss nodded to him.

  “Be nice to Sam,” he said. “With his looks and charm, some day, you’ll be parking cars at his party.” The boss huffed, and Michael thought about what Sam said about being an actor or something. With his looks, Michael often got that reaction when he said he had no desire to be in front of the camera.

  * * * * *

  Every year, the Rodef Sholom Sisterhood put on an annual fundraiser called “Cabaret,” which was a variety show performed by synagogue members, followed by a dance and a midnight breakfast buffet. In 1980, Michael was helping with the lights, and Arlene was performing in the show with his mother, Rona, Doreen and Florence in a medley of songs about New York. They wore tuxedo tops, with large white ruffle shirts and black leotards, a la, Judy Garland in Summer Stock, one of Michael’s favorite movies.

  During one of the rehearsals, Arlene sat next to him. He liked Arlene as she looked like a heavy Lucille Ball, and she, like his mother’s other friends, was always nice to Michael. She had also known both his grandmothers very well. Grandma Rose ran the men’s department at Feld’s Department Store for almost twenty years. When Arlene and William were first married, they lived above Michael’s maternal grandmother, Nana Mary, in Stuart Gardens.

  “Michael, how would you like to do a number wit
h me?” she asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Aunt Arlene,” Michael said, knowing what his mother’s reaction would be.

  “It’ll be fun. They want me to do that ‘Cuban Pete and Sally Sweet’ number from I Love Lucy. You would be a great Ricky,” she insisted. “They want Shlomo Katzenheiman to do it with me, but he’s such a dry fart.”

  Michael laughed at her assessment of Shlomo, a nebishy accountant whom Doreen always referred to as ‘Katzenfartsenheimen.’”

  Doreen joined them, kissed Michael on the cheek and said, “Hi, Mr. Perfect.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Wonderful,” he replied back.

  “Doreen, tell Michael he should be in the number with me,” Arlene insisted.

  “I think that’d be great!” Doreen replied. “You should do it instead of Katzenfartsenheimen.”

  Rona then walked over, never wanting to miss a thing, and sat down in front of them lighting a More cigarette. “What’s the big secret?” she asked as her bright pink lipstick coated the cigarette.

  “Arlene is trying to convince Michael to be in the number with her instead of Katzenfartsenheimen,” Doreen told her.

  Michael knew he had to get out of this, and he could see his mother eyeing them as she was always nervous when Michael talked to her friends. She walked over with the usual frown on her face.

  “What are you three girls up to?” Hannah asked.

  “We’re trying to talk Michael into doing that number with Arlene,” Rona told her between drags of her cigarette.

  “No,” Hannah said.

  “Oh, Hannah, let him do it. He’ll be great,” Doreen said.

  “No,” his mother said again.

  “Hannah, why?” Arlene asked.

  “I don’t want him flitting on stage like some queer. He’s too young to be in the ‘Cabaret,’ and my decision is final,” Hannah answered.

  “Too young?” Rona asked. “He’s almost eighteen. Untie the apron stings, Hannah.”

  That remark really pissed his mother off, and everyone could see that on Hannah’s face.

  “Rona, I would appreciate it if you would mind your own business. Michael, I want to talk to you,” his mother said as she walked away from the girls.

  Michael got up and followed her, passing his godmother, Florence, who gave him a knowing look. Florence walked over to the other girls, and Michael could see they were whispering.

  When Michael and Hannah were far enough away that they could not be heard, his mother said, “Michael, how dare you embarrass me in front of my friends.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “You know I don’t want you on stage. I don’t like that. Do you want people to think you’re queer?”

  “Arlene asked me,” Michael said. “I never volunteered.”

  “I don’t give a shit who asked you. You’re not to be in the show. Is that understood?” He didn’t answer as he looked at the floor. “Michael, did you hear me? You’re not to be in the show!”

  “Fine, I won’t be in the show. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you,” he answered as he looked up at her and walked away.

  * * * * *

  Michael walked toward the front door to Sylvia’s home, satisfied that if he didn’t meet anyone there, he at least had a chance with the kid who was probably stripping the gears in his car. As he walked into the house, he also wondered if Sam was taking his car for a joy ride. If not, Michael would offer to take him for one after the party, if he was still in the mood.

  The living room was crowded, and most of the guests at the party were over seventy, but Michael was perfectly comfortable in this setting having grown up an only child and a loner around his mother and her friends. Old Jewish women were his favorite people, and Michael often acted like one himself. There were a few A-list celebrities there and many of Dr. Sylvia Rose’s colleagues from her days as Hollywood’s leading psychiatrist, specializing in stage fright and panic attacks. Of the few people there who was Michael’s age was Dr. Mikowsky, who was dressed in a blue suit with a blue oxford shirt and yellow tie. He was sexy in his own intellectual way, and after all this time Michael still had not met his partner, Brian, the attorney, who did not seem to appear in public with Andrew. Sylvia recommended him to Michael when he had sought out therapy a year earlier.

  Sylvia looked elegant as usual. Still standing tall at six feet, with her gray hair perfectly coiffed, her large white framed glasses with the pink lenses, bright red lipstick and the endless Benson and Hedges dangling from her mouth, she was wearing a knee-length black sequined dress and her signature black stilettos.

  “I hear your show has been cancelled, Michael,” Sylvia said in her smoky voice as she walked up to him. “Chin up. You have a great future ahead of you. It’s about time you did something other than write for television.”

  “Sylvia, this is your night. I’m just here to have a good time,” Michael said as he kissed her on the cheek and handed her a present.

  “Of course, darling. How often does one get to be eighty-five? I’m just beginning to live,” she said as she kissed Michael, leaving a lip-print he knew would last a day or two.

  He mingled around and talked to Stanley King. Michael had been calling him weekly, but promised to stop as Stanley assured him everything was right on schedule and reminded him again that the writer has nothing to worry about once filming has wrapped. As a matter of fact, they had not seen each other since filming ended in North Carolina the previous spring.

  Michael also talked with a couple of older actors he had admired for years and always wanted the opportunity to write for, knowing that roles for them were almost nonexistent, and with each passing day, his chances at writing their lines were dimming.

  At around eleven, they wheeled out an enormous cake from the kitchen. All of the guests were stunned not only by its size, but also the fact that there were actually eighty-five candles on it!

  “I think they should dial nine-one,” Michael said to Dr. Mikowsky, who had walked up to him. “Then once she blows out the candles, dial one.” They laughed as they watched Sylvia. She snuffed out her cigarette in one of the many ash trays in the room and walked over to look at the cake.

  “Oh my God!” Sylvia shouted. “How the fuck am I supposed to blow out all these candles?”

  “Pretend it’s a cigarette,” someone shouted from the back, while the guests laughed and clapped.

  Sylvia took in a deep breath, and with one try, she blew out every candle. She then looked up and smiled, while everyone applauded and began singing Happy Birthday. Michael smiled at her, and as she looked back at him and smiled, she brought her right hand up to her chest, rolled her eyes up and paused.

  Sylvia then fell face first into the cake.

  Everyone stopped singing. An older man, whom Michael knew to be a doctor, rushed over to her, pulled her off the cake and with the help of a couple of the waiters, who had just wheeled out the cake, placed her on the floor. Her face was still covered in frosting. After what seemed an eternity, but was only a couple of minutes, the doctor stood up and shouted, “Sylvia’s dead.”

  What a way to go, Michael thought. There goes my Wednesday night Mah Jongg game.

  Guests were crying, and a few of the more crass celebrities grabbed their gifts from the table in the foyer and left. After the hysteria died down, Sylvia’s body was taken away, and most of the remaining guests had already left, not wanting to be there when the paparazzi arrived.

  Michael was among the last to leave, and as he walked out, he noticed Sam was the only remaining valet. Michael handed him the ticket stub, not laying on the charm as he did when he arrived. Within a minute, Michael could hear Sam destroying his clutch before delivering the car. Michael tipped him $100, making Sam’s eyes light up as he thanked Michael profusely.

  “Use that for driving lessons,” Michael said, retaining a bit of his humor in light of his dear friend’s death. Sam unfolded the $100 bill, and Michael’s card dropped to the ground as he shut the car do
or. Sam was clearly embarrassed as he picked up the card, and Michael said to him before shifting into first and driving off, “If you want to make it in Hollywood, kid, you’ll need to be a lot smoother than that.”

  Michael drove home, and after parking in his driveway, he checked the glove compartment, and as expected, he found Sam’s headshot with his resume printed on the back. Some things in this town never change. Poor kid probably thought I was an agent or a producer, Michael thought.

  He entered his house, but he did not see Aunt Clara sleeping by the front door as she often did on the rare occasion he left the house without her.

  “Aunt Clara,” he shouted, knowing she couldn’t hear him. “Aunt Clara.”

  Michael walked into his study and found Aunt Clara sleeping in her favorite chair. It had been a while since she had been able to jump up on the chair by herself. Michael thought she must have really been determined. He also noticed she wasn’t snoring as usual. Michael nudged her, but there was no response. “Aunt Clara, wake up.” She didn’t move. Michael leaned in to see if she was breathing.

  Aunt Clara was dead.

  Although it was after midnight, Michael went into the garage and grabbed a shovel and an empty box. He dug a grave in the back yard for Aunt Clara and buried her with her favorite stuffed rabbit and her blanket. After he covered the grave, Michael mumbled Kaddish to himself and sat down next to her eternal resting place. He walked back into the house, reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator for his emergency pack of cigarettes, and returned to where he had just buried Aunt Clara and sat on the grass. He pulled a cigarette out of the pack, lit it and took a drag while he began to sob hysterically. He must have cried for over an hour. He sat beside Aunt Clara’s grave until sunrise, when he slowly walked back into the house and sat at the kitchen table just as the phone rang.

  “Who’s calling me at 7:00 am?” he said rather than hello.

  “Michael, it’s Sharon. Oh, I forgot about the time change.” Sharon Gorman worked as a writer on Los Angeles Live during the first two seasons. She and Michael hit it off immediately and had stayed in touch even after Sharon moved back to Washington, D.C., to write fiction. Her books had sold well, and she enjoyed her life in the nation’s capital away from all the Hollywood bullshit.