“I see,” said Henry. “I suppose it’s all me then.”
“No, I didn’t mean—” said Caleb. “I just—I’m surprised. By your honesty.”
But Henry noticed a pleased look on his face, a relieved look. The playwright was human enough to enjoy hearing that his ex wasn’t spraying the walls in bliss with another man. Henry didn’t need to tell him about the purely symbolic blow job on his roof.
“He liked sex well enough,” Caleb finally said. “But in a dutiful, deliberate manner. Like he was a little afraid of it. Maybe he was just afraid of me not loving him back.” He made a face. “I’m not still in love with Ben. The dead boyfriend. Toby has no reason to think that. Except that I don’t love him but I did love Ben.”
“Grief and love are not exclusive,” Henry agreed.
Caleb looked over, surprised he understood. “Except this isn’t grief grief,” he explained. “Ben died six years ago. I don’t violently miss him. But I miss missing him. Do you understand? Especially now. I wrote a new play and it bombed. Which hurt. It always hurts. But afterward I began to think more about Ben. Like I needed real hurt, real pain, to put the silly pain of bad reviews and a closed show into perspective.” He snorted at himself. “But Toby doesn’t get it. He thinks it means I’m in love with Ben. But it’s more like I’m in love with my loss. Just temporarily. Just for now.”
“What was Ben like?” asked Henry. “Was he in theater?”
“No. Which was one of his best traits.” He laughed. It was a willed laugh, but he clearly enjoyed talking about Ben. “He taught math in high school, a private school here in New York…”
And he described a man who dropped out of grad school to teach kids, who was eight years older than Caleb, who was with Caleb for ten years, who was hardly a saint: he liked to fool around and sometimes used it against Caleb. But these few facts did not mean as much to Henry as the way Caleb spoke about the dead, with warmth but no sugarcoating, an affectionate realism.
Caleb was still talking about Ben when they came out of the side street into a wide, empty boulevard: Seventh Avenue. A solitary bread truck hummed past. The bars and cafés were closed. The only place open was a fruit and vegetable market on the corner. A tall Korean in a chef’s hat made of paper stood in the spill of light out front with a golf club, practicing his putt. The night sky in the east was paling into a pretty powder blue.
Caleb pointed to the left and they turned up Seventh. “He was sick for three years,” he said. “In and out of hospitals.”
“You were his caregiver the whole time?”
Caleb nodded.
“Isn’t it a bitch?”
Caleb looked over at Henry.
“I lost Nigel ten years ago,” said Henry. “I was his wet nurse. His doctor, cook, and bum wiper.”
He smiled at Caleb, then faced forward again.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? Moonbeam that I am.” He shook his head. “I don’t like to talk about it. People look at you funny. They treat you as special. Not good or evil, but as damaged, different. I can tell you because you’ve been through it too. You already know. How exhausting it is. How boring. How helpless you feel.” The old choke of anger came back into his voice. “So when Nigel finally died—and he was younger than I, fifteen years younger. But when Nigel died, I told myself: That’s it. I’m done with being unhappy. I’ve paid my dues. I will not suffer unnecessarily. Not for love. Not for art. I will suffer no more than is absolutely necessary for my acting.” He smiled again, almost sneering, daring Caleb not to believe him.
“You’ve had no lovers since Nigel?”
“Many lovers, no boyfriends. Young fellows like Toby. Who are wonderful company for a few months. Before they move on. They always move on. And when they do, my heart isn’t broken. I don’t have the emotion for it. All emotion goes into my work. Actors need low-maintenance boyfriends anyway. Which might explain why I turned in so many bad performances during Nigel’s illness.”
Henry had wanted to walk with Caleb so that he might know Caleb better. But no, it seemed that he wanted Caleb to know him.
“But I’m not entirely certain what I want anymore,” he continued. “As implied previously, sex with Toby was not totally successful. But here’s what’s strange. I didn’t care. I still enjoyed being with him. Sometimes. I don’t know if it’s age or him or hormones. But it’s more than that. Part of me wants to find another way to express love besides fucking.”
He noticed the confused, cold twist of Caleb’s mouth.
“Listen to me,” he scoffed. “Your mother just shot a man, and all I can talk about is my changing libido.”
“Not at all,” said Caleb. “I was just thinking about my life. And about Toby. He should be having fun at his age. Not wasting his time pining after an old coot like me.”
“Like us, you mean,” said Henry. “I agree. When I think of how I wasted my twenties. London in the seventies. I went to the parties, but I didn’t partake. I was always working. I was so damned earnest. A gloomy sort of boy. I wasn’t terribly out, either. I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. Too late. Is this it?”
They were approaching a huge redbrick structure with rounded corners, an enormous building out of scale with the row houses across the street.
“Over here,” said Caleb, who clearly knew the place.
He led them past an ambulance loading dock into a waiting area for the emergency room. A plate-glass window faced the street. Inside were molded chairs similar to the chairs in the police station. They had walked from the metaphor of a hospital to a real hospital. A dozen people sat in the chairs; most of them were black, but a few were white, and one was Toby.
He didn’t see them come in. He was too busy talking to the man sitting beside him, a handsomely thuggish white man with a crew cut. Henry did not recognize the man until he stood up.
“Mr. Loooz. You are here. Good.” It was Sasha, his driver. “I get late to the party. I hear what happened. So I come here. I find Toby. We talk.” He twisted around to grin at his new friend.
“Hello,” said Toby. He remained seated, looking very solemn, very grave. He gave no special notice to the fact that Henry and Caleb were together. “They’re treating his wound. I think he’s okay, but they won’t let us in. They let his wife in, but not us.”
Sasha set a hand on Toby’s shoulder. “This is some man. He is a hero, I think.” He jostled his shoulder. “A big hero.”
He was obviously taken with Toby. And why not? They were roughly the same age. They shared the same beefy blond pinkness, two muscular cherubs, though Sasha was more muscular. His arms were like leg-of-mutton sleeves. Henry couldn’t guess what Toby thought of Sasha, but he’d have to be a fool not to be interested.
Caleb was warily eyeing the Russian.
“Sasha, my driver,” said Henry. “Caleb Doyle.”
“Your mother shot the man!” He eagerly shook Caleb’s hand. “Very sad story! So sad!”
Caleb glanced at Henry, as if to ask if Henry suspected what Caleb suspected, and why did they suspect it? Only then did Henry feel it: a tiny stab of jealousy, like a splinter in his pride.
“We should find Prager,” Henry declared and hurried over to the receiving window. “We’re here to see Kenneth Prager.”
“Are you family?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He smiled his wittiest smile. “We’re in theater and he’s a critic. He gave me a rave notice and my friend here a bad one. You could say we’re bound as close as any family.”
The nurse was not convinced. She said they could fill out a message card, however, and she’d take it in to him. “Or you can speak to his wife. That’s her coming out now.”
A confused-looking woman in a man’s windbreaker slipped through the swinging door.
“Mrs. Prager?” said Henry. “We’re friends of your husband. We came down to see if there was anything we could do.”
She looked up, squinty and red-eyed. “Yes? Who? Sorry. I absolutel
y need a cigarette right now. Can you talk to me outside?”
They followed her out to the sidewalk. She didn’t seem to know who Henry was, which was just as well. She lit up a cigarette, filled her lungs with smoke, and gratefully exhaled.
“How is he?” asked Caleb. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened. Really.”
“He’s fine. He was scared out of his wits, but he’s fine now.” She sounded remarkably calm. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. That it doesn’t happen all the time.” She shook her head. “It shows how civilized the world really is.”
“There is nothing like being shot at to make one appreciate the rest of one’s life,” Henry offered.
She automatically nodded. “So who was this crazy lady anyway? An insulted actress? A failed writer?”
“Uh, no. She’s my mother,” said Caleb. “I’m the failed writer.”
Gretchen Prager stared at him. “Your mother. Your mother?” And she burst out laughing. She bent forward and it spilled out, hard little cackles of mirth.
Henry and Caleb looked on in disbelief, Caleb openmouthed like a fish.
She abruptly recovered. “Sorry,” she said. “Not funny. No.” She straightened up, blinking and gasping, trying to catch her breath. “I know it’s not funny.” She faced Caleb again. “But your mother?”
73
The police station remained quiet. It somehow felt both eerie and drab, like a spook house with fluorescent lights. Jessie looked back at the clock. It was just after five.
“Want something to eat or drink?” said Frank. “I could go out and look for an open deli.”
“No. But if you want to go get something for yourself, go ahead,” said Jessie. “Or you can go home if you like. I’m fine. Really.”
“No, I’ll stay. I’m fine too.” He leaned back and folded his arms.
“I really liked your play tonight,” said Jessie. “I liked it a lot.”
“Thanks,” said Frank, but in a dry, automatic manner.
“I’m not just making small talk,” she said. “I do like it.”
He looked at her more closely. “Thank you very much then.” It didn’t sound terribly different from his first thank-you.
“Frank? Why’re we still angry with each other? We have so much in common. We should be real close. Especially now.”
His sleepy eyes opened a little wider in his round face. His face looked rounder than usual, the muscles slack with fatigue.
“This should be a lesson to us all,” he said, sounding lightly sarcastic. “There’s no telling when someone’s gonna pull out a gun and start shooting. So don’t sweat the small stuff.”
Jessie narrowed her eyes at him. “We’re not small stuff.”
“Not us.” The sarcasm vanished. “Our pride. Our egos.”
“Yours or mine?”
“I was thinking of mine. But you’re not innocent either.”
Jessie drew a deep breath, tempted to argue. Then she said, “No. I’m not. But you need some pride to get along in life. Some ego.”
“But our egos have gotten all tangled up in our affection.” He looked away for a moment. “We feel we don’t deserve to be loved unless we’re successful.”
“I told you back at the party. I’m a loser too. Remember?”
“You don’t really believe that.”
She hesitated. “No. Not really. I’m having a great time playing Octopus Lady. And I’m good at it. But I have no illusions about Henry needing me or keeping me. No, when he finishes here and heads off to Capri or wherever, he’s going to forget about all of us. Which is fine.” Was it? She hoped so. “Working for him will make a good story. But it’ll be small potatoes compared to this one.”
Frank was looking at her, surprised, concerned. “We said some really vicious things to each other the other night.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.” His sorry sounded almost as dry as his thank you. He frowned. “But I am in love with you.”
“You love me like a pig loves mud,” she told him.
“Yes,” he said flatly. It wasn’t a pretty phrase. “Which leaves me naked. I have a harder time forgiving you than you must have forgiving me. Because you’re not in love.”
“No,” she admitted. “Not like you.”
He did not look hurt. He wasn’t being manipulative, merely factual.
“But I don’t want to lose you,” she told him. “I don’t want us to have to be all or nothing.”
“Me neither. But I might have no choice. It’s hard to be friends with an unrequited love. It can make you crazy. It can make you act like a real shit.”
“It’s no picnic for the beloved either,” she argued. “Feeling guilty all the time. Getting sick of seeing puppy-dog eyes.”
They looked at each other, frowning, squinting, swallowing. They were nothing like puppy dogs now.
“Jessikins!” a gruff male voice called out. “My God. Will you look at you. Little Jessikins ain’t so little anymore.”
A stocky red-faced man in his sixties strode into the room, holding out his hand, necktie flapping against his belly.
“Remember your Uncle Jimmy? I’m Captain Murtagh now.”
“Oh my,” said Jessie. She jumped up and shook his hand. She did not remember him—he must be one of the cops who regularly visited them in Beacon when she was a toddler—but she played along. “I can’t believe you’re not retired yet.”
“Not dead, you mean. You and me both, sister. Good thing I was here tonight, though. No telling what might have happened to your dear old…”
Jessie saw her behind the captain: Mom, walking very slowly, uncertainly, looking somewhat miffed.
There was no other word for her expression. The face was pinched and proud, like that of someone who was embarrassed but refusing to show it. Jessie was confused. She had been so full of fear for her mother that she didn’t know what to think when she saw Mom looking so, well, like Mom. Nothing was changed. Her blouse and skirt were clean, her beige hair neatly waved, her purse still at her side.
“Now, Molly,” Captain Murtagh was saying. “You have to be at court on Monday. Like with a traffic violation. Except here there’s hell to pay if you don’t show. As of now you’re charged only with illegal possession and reckless endangerment. But a judge in a bad mood could change it all to attempted murder. So you better be nice.”
“Thank you. You’ve been a big help, Jimmy,” said Mom in a surprisingly perfunctory manner.
“I’m just glad I was here to pull a few strings. It’s the least I could do for Mrs. Bobby Doyle.”
Mom gave him a nod and a pained smile and hurried outside.
The captain turned to Jessie. “Don’t worry. She’s a cop’s widow. No judge in his right mind will throw the book at her. But right now she needs sleep. That’s why she’s a little wacky. Take her to your brother’s place and put her to bed. Oh, and don’t forget this.” He gave Jessie an official form, the summons or citation, like a doctor handing over a prescription for an elderly patient.
Jessie joined her mother outside. She stood on the sidewalk with Frank.
“Did you want me to get you a cab, Mrs. Doyle?”
“Not at all. I can walk,” she said crisply. “Where’re we going?” She stared at Frank. “Who are you?”
“This is Frank,” said Jessie. “My boyfriend.” It just slipped out, but nobody seemed to notice. “We can go back to Caleb’s and you can get some sleep. Before you go home to Beacon. You want to walk?”
“Yes, I’d like that. I need the air.” She started walking, Jessie and Frank joining her on either side.
The sun was not yet up, but the street was full of light, a soft wash of color. The birds were singing, always a nice surprise in the city. The sweetness of the sound made Jessie feel sadder, more tender. She took her mother’s arm.
“Don’t be silly.” Mom tugged her arm back. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. You don’t have to fuss over me
. I just thank my lucky stars I don’t live here and nobody knows me. Because God knows what they’d think seeing me being let out of jail at the crack of dawn.”
Frank gave Jessie a worried look, as if this were strange behavior, but Mom was only being herself.
Sooner than expected, they were crossing Seventh Avenue to Sheridan Square. Caleb’s building was closer to the police station in daylight than it had been at night. Jessie used her keys to get in the front door. There was no answer upstairs when she knocked. She went ahead and opened the door, dreading the mess inside.
But the apartment was neat and orderly, the rooms full of early-morning shadow, nothing more. You would never know there had been a party here last night, much less a shooting.
“Mom? Why don’t you go lie down in Caleb’s room. Get a little sleep. You’ll feel better.”
Her cell phone rang. It was Caleb at the hospital. Frank walked Mom over to the bedroom while Jessie talked to Caleb.
“Only a flesh wound,” he reported. “Prager’s fine. The shot ripped his arm like a knife, but nothing was permanently damaged.”
Jessie told him her good news.
“You’re kidding. They just let her out? No bail or nothing? Jimmy Murtagh? I remember him. He was Dad’s partner in Pelham Bay, a bachelor cop who lived with his mother. All right, I better call Irene and tell her we won’t need a lawyer today. I’ll be home in an hour or so. Henry? Oh yeah, he’s still here. See you shortly. Bye.”
Frank returned from the bedroom and she relayed the news.
“Good,” he said. “One less thing to worry about.”
“I should tell Mom too, before she falls asleep.”
But she found Mom just sitting on the bed, feet on the floor, hands balled in her lap. “I can’t sleep in a strange bed,” she said. “And I don’t have any pajamas.”
“Oh, Mom. It’s Caleb’s bed. A family bed. Here. I’ll find you something to sleep in.” She knelt at his dresser and began to open drawers. “That was Caleb on the phone. He said Prager is fine. The bullet wound is no worse than a nasty cut.”
“Thank God for that.” She remained seated upright on the bed, as rigid as an Egyptian statue.
Lives of the Circus Animals Page 34
