No, their mother was not without spirit. She had humor and wit, a sharp Irish tongue directed at others, usually the neighbors but sometimes at her own. One of the reasons that Caleb and Jessie visited home together was to avoid jokes at the expense of the absent party.
“Meanwhile, Mrs. Gag keeps going back for face-lifts. I think she’s on her third, but who’s counting?” Mom smiled and cut off another piece of chicken. “Her eyes get any bigger, they’re going to pop right out of her face.”
14
Mom cleared the table, then brought out the cake, a chocolate cake from ShopRite with no words written on top, just six candles. The tiny flames were invisible in daylight.
There is nothing sadder, thought Caleb, than sitting in front of a store-bought cake while two people in delicate moods sing “Happy Birthday” at you. He blew out the candles without making a wish.
“Oh. Almost forgot,” said Mom. She left the room again. She returned with a gift-wrapped item shaped like a book. “Just a token.”
Caleb undid the paper. It was a book, one he’d seen in stores, an anthology titled Stupid Reviews, a collection of bad notices given to great novels and famous plays.
“I thought you’d get a kick out of it,” said Mom. “See? You’re in good company.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” He was stunned—not over the book but by the thinking behind the book, the awareness. He was surprised she had noticed. She could seem so oblivious, so lost in her own world. Then, in a gesture or question or gift, she’d reveal that she really did understand. In her fashion.
“I saw that awful man in the Times yesterday,” she said.
“What man?”
“The critic. The one who attacked your play.”
His mother never saw Chaos Theory, but she read the review.
“He’s there almost every day, Mom. He’s a regular.”
She clicked her tongue and bared her teeth. “Makes me angry just to see his name. What gives him the right to say such things? So high and mighty.”
“He’s a critic, Mom. It’s his job.”
“How do you know he wasn’t right?” said Jessie. “You never saw the play.”
She stared at her daughter. “I know your brother. He doesn’t write bad plays.” She studied Jessie, suspecting a trap. She shook her head. “Pffft. You two. You take everything I say so seriously. I should never have brought up that man. Why’re you defending him?”
“I’m not defending him,” said Jessie. “He’s an idiot. But I know that because I saw Cal’s play.”
Mom took another breath. “Jessica. You just want to contradict me. Let’s change the subject.”
They ate their cake: Click-click-click went the forks.
The trouble with their mother, thought Caleb, is she has no performing self, no social skin to put between herself and the world.
“I guess you’re looking forward to your party on Friday,” she said, starting over again. “That’ll be your real birthday.”
Caleb clenched his teeth. “This is just as real,” he muttered. He could use a thicker social skin himself.
“Will there be lots of people?”
“Tons,” said Jessie. “And famous people too.”
“Like who?”
“Oh, Cherry Jones. Kathy Chalfant. Victor Garber. Who else, Caleb?”
He knew this was futile. “Claire Wade said she might come.”
“Sorry. I don’t know any of these names.”
“Claire Wade!” cried Jessie. “She’s a movie star! She was in Cal’s play. Venus in Furs made her famous. Her name’s everywhere!”
“If they’re not on Rosie O’Donnell, how do you expect me to know them?” She looked both sheepish and annoyed. “But that name sounds familiar. If I saw her face, I’m sure I’d recognize it.”
“So come to the party,” said Caleb. “You can meet her and see if you recognize her. You can meet all these people.”
She became flustered. “Thank you, dear. But I can’t. I’ll feel out of place with so many famous people who I’ve never heard of.”
“Come to my party,” Caleb commanded. “I want you to. Please. Why can’t you?” He turned the invitation into a challenge, a dare. He was suddenly angry with his mother. He couldn’t understand why. There were so many reasons to be angry with her—but why now, why today? He tried to stuff his temper back in.
Jessie was staring at him. “Caleb. She hates the city. Remember? She won’t come to town. New York scares her.”
“It doesn’t scare me,” Mom declared. “I’m just not comfortable there. It’s big and noisy and—I don’t like the element it attracts. But I’m not scared of it.”
“Forget it,” said Caleb. “I just thought you might like to meet my friends. And see where I live.” She’d never even been to his Sheridan Square apartment.
He wolfed down his cake, cursing himself for giving in to her, just as he’d cursed himself a moment earlier for losing his temper.
“Do you still have Dad’s old revolver?” he suddenly asked.
“What? What’s your father have to do with this?”
“Not him. His revolver. His gun. A snub-nosed .38? You used to have it in the drawer by your bed.” That was another absurdity here: this timid woman owned a gun.
She quizzically tilted her head, wondering what he meant. Jessie was staring at him as if he’d gone nuts. Did she think he wanted to use it on himself?
“If you’re so afraid of the city,” he said, “you can visit us armed. It should fit in your purse. Or bring Mace. Or some pepper spray.”
“I get it. You’re being funny.” And she laughed lightly, without conviction. “I never understand your sense of humor. You’re being silly. But I’m not afraid of New York. It’s a young person’s town. I’m not young anymore. Since I don’t have any reason to go, I don’t.”
“I’m giving you a reason. Come to my party.”
“Jesus, Mom,” grumbled Jessie. “You’re so scared of the city that you’ve never even seen one of Caleb’s plays.”
“That’s not why. The timing just never worked out. I meant to go but didn’t want to go alone. My friends were always busy, and then the play was gone.”
“Venus ran for two years,” said Jessie. “Your friends were busy all that time?” Caleb and Jessie wondered how many friends their mother actually had.
She was flustered now, confused and angry. “Back off! Both of you! I can’t think with you ganging up on me.” She tapped two fingers against her mouth, like a memory of cigarettes. “Let me think about it. Can’t I think about it? Before I make any promises. Is that fair? Maybe I’ll come early, while it’s still light. Just for a little while. I would like to see Cal’s new apartment.”
“It’s not new anymore. He’s had it four years.”
Caleb jumped in before Jessie made things worse. “Yes, Mom. Do. Think about it. I want you to come. I’d love to see you there.”
He wanted to be kind now. He was ashamed of himself for opening up such a can of ugly worms. We all have our phobias. Hers was the city. He should not take it personally. He should let her enjoy what peace she had.
“I appreciate the invitation, dear. I do. I’ll think about it. More cake? Both of you. There’s plenty. I’m wrapping up what you don’t eat and you can take it with you. I don’t need cake around the house.”
15
Passive-aggressive be thy middle name,” said Jessie. “What’s she fighting anyway?”
The light over the river was fading from orange to gold. The train was packed. The other passengers appeared rested and content after their weekends in the country, but Jessie felt totally fried.
“We can’t do anything right. Even if I got remarried tomorrow, and started making grandkids, she still wouldn’t take me seriously. She doesn’t take even you seriously. She feels no pride in being mother of a successful playwright.”
“Formerly successful,” said Caleb. “But she doesn’t know that either.” He did no
t sound bitter, only tired, resigned, sad. “We should look at things from her point of view,” he added. “She has this nice, quiet, suburban life. And we come barreling up there, like two creatures from Mars, wanting her total attention. We need her more than she needs us.”
“I need her like a hole in the head. Why’re you defending her?”
“I don’t defend her.”
“You indulge her. You play along in all her little games.”
“She doesn’t know they’re games.”
Caleb didn’t get it, but Mom didn’t get under his skin like she got under Jessie’s. Sons are tone-deaf to mothers.
“Mom doesn’t take your work seriously, you know.”
“Thank God for that,” he claimed. “It keeps my shit in perspective.”
“She won’t come to your party.”
“I know that too.” He shrugged. “Inviting her was just my way of fighting back.”
“Do you really want her there?”
The corner of his mouth pinched itself into a smile. “Noooo.”
Jessie smiled too and shook her head. “She is so repressed.”
“And we’re what she’s repressing.”
Jessie burst out laughing. Perfect! She didn’t know if it were true, but it gave a nice twist to their mother’s stony chill, and an important role that she could share with her brother.
She felt very close to Caleb now. They understood each other better than most sisters and brothers. Feeling good about him made her feel good about herself. The edges were gone, the frayed ends burned clean. No, there was nothing like a day with their mother to bond them together.
They could be quiet now, they could stop talking. Then Caleb said, “You’re right about my apartment. It’s probably worth an arm and a leg now.”
She made a face, a “say huh?” look.
“What we were discussing this morning?” he explained. “My lost million? I could sell my place and use the money to do something real with my life. Law school. Grad school. Peace Corps. Something.”
She’d heard him talk this way before and was never sure how to take it. “Peace Corps,” she said. “You could teach Chekhov on the Amazon. Uncle Vanya in mud and war paint. Or better, you could start a new religion there. Where Kenneth Prager is Satan.”
“That’s funny,” he said. “I like that.” But he didn’t smile. “No, I wish there were something I could do. Or wanted to do.”
“Give yourself time. You’ll start another play and get lost in that and won’t do anything else.”
“No. I probably won’t,” he said sadly.
Poor Caleb, she thought. He’d achieved what he wanted in life and felt trapped in it. She’d achieved nothing and felt trapped in that. It was hard for her to feel sympathy. She tried, but she couldn’t make sympathy flow.
“Excuse me,” she said and took out her phone.
Caleb did not look annoyed. In fact, he seemed relieved that she didn’t pursue their topic. “Checking for a Henry message?”
“Screw Henry. He’s already at the theater. I want to see if Frank’s free.” She turned toward the aisle, her back to Caleb, and entered numbers. This was a sudden impulse, a surprising idea—she didn’t know where it came from—but it was as if a space had just opened in her head and she wanted to put Frank in it.
“Frank Earp here. I cannot take your call. But if you’ll leave your name and number, I promise to get back to you.”
There was no smart-ass message or clever recorded music, the thirty-second shows that most of their friends put on their machines, only a plain message and a beep. Which was so Frank.
“Hey, Earp. Jessie here. Just did the Mom thing. Was wondering if you’re free for dinner.”
She waited for him to pick up. He didn’t.
“But I guess you’re off rehearsing tonight. Sorry. Forgot. But I hope it’s going well. Talk to you later. Bye.”
She was quick and dry and matter-of-fact, even though she was surprised by how disappointed she felt.
“Not in,” she told Caleb as she put away her phone. “I forgot about his rehearsal.”
He was watching her, studying her. “I noticed you didn’t mention him to Mom.”
Jessie frowned. “He’s none of her business. Or yours either.”
“True.”
She said nothing for a moment, then, “I like Frank. I do.”
“He must like you.”
“Like a ton of bricks. I don’t deserve to be liked the way he likes me.” But she did not want to talk about Frank. “You must’ve felt something similar with Toby.”
Caleb twisted his mouth at her, then surrendered to the topic. “Uh-uh. Frank’s smarter than Toby. He’s got better judgment. He likes you for you. Toby liked me for other reasons.”
She shook her head. “Frank can’t be all that smart if he likes me for me. I don’t see what he sees there.”
Jessie waited for Caleb to contradict her, or better yet, point out lovable traits that she forgot. Instead he was quiet, disappearing back into his own thoughts, dwelling on Toby or Chaos Theory or the Amazon, she couldn’t guess.
16
Thinking white thoughts, blank thoughts, null thoughts, Henry stared at the figure in flannel pajamas and pince-nez specs in his dressing room mirror. The orchestra began the reprise of the Ale and Quail Club song, his cue. And his innards became a tangle of snakes. It was ridiculous. He’d already done the show once today, yet his stomach still went bonkers, his hands turned ice cold.
He made his way through the submarinelike hallway lined with intestinal pipes to the high, dark factory space directly behind the stage. A stagehand wearing a headset helped him into the lower berth of the sleeping compartment that would be rolled out so he could meet Gerry, the runaway wife. It was like getting into a coffin.
What a ridiculous life. You do nothing all day, then your mind rages like a burning house for three hours, leaving you exhausted, useless, stupid. He was getting too old for this. Thank God he had tomorrow off. Tonight he should do something, go somewhere, visit bars, meet people, something.
The machinery whirred, the coffin moved, the music changed. He squeezed his dick for luck.
Gerry’s foot kicked the curtain.
Henry stuck his head through the cloth—into the blinding light. He remained stone-faced while the darkness beyond the glare recognized and applauded him. There had been no instant applause until the Times told the world that he was the best thing in the show.
He turned his head so that Gerry could plant her foot on his face. And the play took over. He responded to Gerry’s foot, the audience’s laughter, the illusion of crushed specs in his eyes, the audience again. All the gears of the world engaged: his mind with his body, his body with the world. And he did it instantly, without time for thought. He could stop thinking. Or no, he thought without thinking, swinging from line to line, gesture to gesture, laugh to laugh. Like Tarzan flying through the trees, carried along on waves of fear that were indistinguishable from joy.
It was heaven.
17
I am not nothing. I am not nothing. I am not nothing.”
Toby Vogler sat alone in the locker room during his break, studying his monologues from 2B before he went back to work. His lines were written in pencil on one heavily creased sheet of paper.
“I am. Not nothing. I am not. Nothing.”
Frank had told him at rehearsal today that this single sentence was the key to his role. He delivered it only once, but he decided to use it as a kind of mantra, planting it deep in his subconscious where it would secretly color everything his character said or did.
“Not. Not. Not,” he went. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
It was almost midnight and he’d changed his clothes again—for the third time tonight—and was back in sailor whites: baggy blouse, loose black kerchief, bell-bottoms. He wore a white cap on his head and red flip-flops on white sock feet. Out front he could hear the spastic zap of hip-hop, Raoul’s music. He came a
fter Raoul. He should be getting out there.
As soon as he stood up, his hands turned cold, his stomach filled with icy flutters. It was stupid to suffer stage fright here, but he did. Toby shook out his arms, trying to shake away his jitters.
There was no mirror backstage. There was not even a real backstage at the Gaiety Theatre, just a locker room like a walk-in closet. Toby went down the narrow hall littered with cigarette butts to a corner by the curtain where Tubes, the sumo-fat emcee, sat on a stool, just out of sight of the audience.
Raoul’s number ended in a light smatter of applause. Hands here were usually too busy doing other things.
Toby passed his home-burned CD to Tubes; he carried his music with him for fear that Tubes would lose it. Raoul came through, a boilersuit and jockstrap bundled in his hands, as indifferently nude as a horse. “All yours, schoolboy. It’s one big wrinkle room tonight.”
Tubes took his microphone. “Wasn’t that nice? Yes. Pride is a deeper love.” He spoke in a sleepy velvet monotone. “And with a tool like that, Raoul can love even deeper. But now, for something real nice, let’s take a sentimental journey with our boy in uniform, Bud.”
The music started, “Sentimental Journey,” a Big Band number from the 1940s. Completely different from the other music, the song always got the audience’s attention, which meant only that the quiet grew quieter. Nobody here ever talked much anyway.
Toby eased out onstage, strolling into the bright light. He didn’t look at the men, but he could feel their stares. It was like a roomful of laser pointers and his body was covered in a chicken pox of dots.
He was a drunk young sailor, full of beer and testosterone, all alone in the big city. He smiled, he turned, he wagged his butt. He shifted from foot to foot like a man who needs to relieve his bladder. With his back to the audience, he unbuttoned the thirteen-button fly, rocked on the balls of his feet, and pretended to take a leak.
Lives of the Circus Animals Page 9
