by Robert Ward
Blaustein smiled and shook his head.
“You’ll like Lauren,” he said. He emphasized the last word and then patted Beauregard on the back and went over to some more tuxedoed men who looked nervous. Beauregard recognized one of them as Billy Acton, the playwright. Acton was a big, lumbering guy and he looked ill-clad in a tuxedo. He was sweating profusely and his eyes darted to and fro, over to Marion Mott and Phillip Desmond, the critics for the Post and Times. Tonight, they were his judges, and Beauregard felt pity for the poor guy.
Beauregard watched as more limos arrived and more stars appeared. Each one of them got a special greeting from Morris Blaustein. Beau found himself enamored of the whole scene. Tonight was fun, a good night. Enough of the hospital, the sick, the dying, the hopeless, the stupidity and arrogance of the surgeons. Lord, let him relax and have a good time. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his tickets, and went inside the theater and directly to his seat.
Morris walked down the aisle toward Beauregard and sat down next to him. Beauregard felt both delighted and wary. Blaustein never did anything without a motive.
“I’m really glad you could make the play tonight, Beau,” Blaustein said, in his suede voice.
“Yes, it’s just what I needed.”
“Just what Lauren needed, too,” Blaustein said.
“How’s that?” Beauregard said.
“Well, I don’t have to tell you that she’s become very, very fond of you. She seems a little stage-struck.”
Beauregard managed a laugh.
“Come on. Lauren and I are …”
“Just good friends?” Blaustein laughed. “I know. But she likes you very, very much. She gets so tired of show people. Everybody wants a piece of her now that she’s making it big. And it’s not easy for her to turn them down. She’s a very generous person. But it takes a lot out of her.”
Beauregard got the distinctly unpleasant feeling that he was being led somewhere, somewhere he had been led before. By patients who feared the worst.
“Has she been tired?” he said.
“Very,” Blaustein said.
His voice was grave, and yet even as he delivered the bad news, he saw another theater critic, Joyce Katel of the News, and he managed a sparkling smile and a gay little wave.
“She complains of head pains.”
“Headaches?”
“Well, yes, I suppose,” Blaustein said, “but she calls them head pains. She says she knows what a headache feels like and this isn’t it.”
“Hmmmmm. Depression. I’ll have a talk with her.”
“Good,” Blaustein said. “After the show we’re having a cast party at Sardi’s. It’s probably nothing, Doctor; she hasn’t done Broadway for some time and she is most likely going through that whole footlight trauma … you know … they never outgrow it.”
“Good Lord,” Beauregard said. “I should say not. I wouldn’t want to be up there.”
“No?” Blaustein said, smiling. “I was just looking at you when we were standing outside, thinking how easily you could be cast as a noble, caring doctor.”
Beauregard laughed and Blaustein smiled at him, and then the overture to In Charm’s Way started.
After fifteen minutes of In Charm’s Way, Beauregard understood that it was what Morris Blaustein had once described to him as a “percentage play.” That is, it was a totally commercial enterprise with just the right percentage of sex (not really sex at all, but mere titillation), just the correct percentage of mystery (Who had stolen Lauren’s priceless Degas?), and just the right percentage of laughs, which were mixed with the correct, civilized amounts of empathy. In short, the whole thing was a formula, tried and true, without a striking or original note in it. He propped his head up on the seat, composed his face in the receptive expression he felt necessary, and caught the first act. Lauren entered and he applauded loudly. God, she was beautiful, but he worried about her. She pushed herself too hard. In many ways they were alike. Both of them caught up by their careers to the point of maximum stress overload. That wasn’t good—it made for a constant, gnawing need to work, which in its own way was worse than a gnawing need to make money or achieve power. It hemmed you in, narrowed you. That was what he had really wanted to say to Cross … that you had to have time for people, had to go easy on yourself … then Lauren’s voice, as though it were far away, and in a second, in spite of his best efforts, he fell sound asleep.
“I’m so glad to see you, Beau,” Lauren said, smiling at him and pouring him a glass of champagne. “So very glad.”
He stood at the open French windows of Sardi’s upstairs room and looked down on the glittering lights of Manhattan. He took Lauren’s hand and pressed it tightly. Her hair was jet-black, her eyes beautifully hazel, and her complexion tanned and smooth as a child’s, though he knew she was thirty-five. Her body was firm, her breasts perfectly full and rounded, her waistline so tiny he knew he could pull her to him like a child. Yet, her legs were hard, long, a woman’s legs, and he thought, My God, my God, I’m here with one of the most desirable women in America and yet … Yet, there was something missing, some intimacy that he shared with Heather, that he felt he might never share with anyone else, and it made him feel tense, coiled inside.
“You were terrific in the play,” he said, before she could ask him how he liked it.
“Really, Beau,” she said, smiling at him and kissing him gently on the cheek. “Please don’t you be as sycophantic as the others. We both know it’s utter garbage.”
Beauregard smiled. She was utterly charming and without a trace of self-deception.
“Do you think it will be a hit?” he asked, trying to sound optimistic.
“Of course, darling,” she said. “Of course it will. It has the right blend. Low comedy, bad dialogue, and ersatz romance. It can’t miss.”
“What’s this I hear about romance?” said a voice behind Beauregard.
He turned and stood face to face with the most beautiful redhead he had ever seen. At least ten years younger than Lauren and wearing a dress cut down to her navel, she seemed to pulsate with sex. Beauregard actually felt startled looking at her.
“Oh, God,” Lauren said. “Just when I was beginning to kid myself into thinking I was young again.”
“Oh, you are young,” the woman said. “Younger than springtime …”
She smiled and started to sing the song from South Pacific.
“This,” said Lauren, “is Lynne Carter. She is newly arrived in New York from the Coast. And if the reaction of the men in this room sets any precedent, I would say that she will have Mayor Koch sitting at her feet within twenty-four hours.”
“Just give me some work,” Lynne said, taking Beau’s hand. “Robert Beauregard?” she asked.
“Yes,” Beauregard said, “but how …”
“The papers,” Lynne said. “I have nothing to do between cattle calls but read the papers. Let’s see, this week you were in Liz Smith, Page Six, and Suzy’s column. That’s not bad. You must have hired Morris to do your P.R.”
“That’s terrible of you to say,” Lauren smiled. “Beau doesn’t like publicity, and if you remind him of it, he’ll surely race back to his germs and microscopes …”
“No, no,” Lynne said, grabbing Beau by the arm, “he’s the first male I’ve met all night who doesn’t have a beard, a shaved head, and tight pants. You mustn’t leave.”
“Well, if it’s that serious,” Beau said, “I might be induced to spend a few more minutes with you two poor ladies.”
“Oh, do … please do …” said Lynne, mocking panic.
Lauren and Beau both laughed, and Beau watched as Lauren tilted back her beautiful neck. Like Ava Gardner’s, Beau thought, getting a bit high from the champagne. Then, with no warning, Lauren Shaw began to fall. Her glass dropped from her hand, and she collapsed toward Lynne and Beau. Lynne dropped her own glass and grabbed her arm, while Beau quickly got his arms around her waist.
A crowd started to form, but B
eau moved them back. Lauren had come to almost instantly and leaned between Lynne and Beau.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right … Just this opening-night tension.”
“How do you feel?” Beau said, motioning Lynne toward a chair near the buffet.
“Dizzy … a little dry in the mouth. I’m all right. Just nerves. And my head is aching like hell.”
“Here, sit down,” said Lynne.
She and Beau slowly lowered Lauren to a gold brocaded chair.
“I feel fine,” Lauren said. “It’s just a guilt attack. The artiste feels the pangs of remorse for playing in crap.”
Beauregard looked at her eyes.
“Follow my finger,” he said.
“Really, Beau,” Lauren said. “This is not Dr. Kildare time. You’ll make the backers nervous.”
“To hell with the backers. Just look at my finger.”
She did as he said. He watched her pupils carefully, and they tracked him easily.
“I see a huge ugly octopus,” Lauren said. “I see giant cans of Liquid Plumber …”
“Cut the comedy,” Beauregard said. “How long have you been having these headaches.” He took her pulse, which was up to 140.
“A couple of weeks,” she said. “It’s nothing new … I have had them for years.”
“Morris told me that you felt that these pains were different from ordinary tension headaches.”
“Oh, Morris … he’s the ultimate Jewish mother. No … it’s exactly the same. I feel fine … though it is a bit close in here. Why don’t you get my coat and take me away from all this?”
She blinked melodramatically and waved her arm pathetically as if she were a true damsel in distress.
Both Beau and Lynne laughed and shook their heads.
“You are impossible,” Lynne said.
“Yes,” Lauren said, getting up and smiling brilliantly, “I am, dear … but that is the privilege of stardom.”
So saying, she took the coat Beauregard offered her, flipped it over her shoulder, tossed back her head, took Beau’s arm, and headed for the door.
“Oh, Miss Shaw,” Lynne said, in the voice of a stage-struck little girl, “how you do carry on.”
As the limousine sped past the lights of Broadway, Lauren Shaw moved across the back seat and put her head on Beau’s shoulder.
“You okay?” he said.
“I am now,” she said, looking up at him.
“Fine,” he said, with a slight edge to his voice.
“My, that was a professional sounding ‘fine,’ “ she commented.
“Well … it wasn’t meant to be.”
She reached up and playfully boxed his ear.
“Poor, poor Beau,” she said. “I don’t know why I throw myself at you. You know I staged that whole thing just to get you away from Lynne Carter. I saw you staring at her fantastic body. I heard the wheels turning in your head.”
Beauregard smiled and held her hand tightly. “You are impossible.”
“I suppose I am,” Lauren said. “It’s just that I am so lonely … you know it is terribly lonely at the top.” She batted her eyes like Bankhead.
“Give me a break,” Beauregard said.
Lauren smiled and snuggled up next to him.
“I hope you’ll come in, Doctor,” she said. “I’m beginning to feel faint again.”
Beauregard looked down at her, smelled her perfume. Silently he damned himself for being old-fashioned.
“Heather,” Lauren said.
“Well? I mean …”
“I feel so faint,” Lauren said, snuggling closer to him.
“You’ll be fine,” Beauregard said. “All you need is a good night’s sleep.”
The car pulled up to her home in Turtle Bay. Beauregard thought of her hanging gardens which would be bathed in moonlight … a glass of champagne …
But before he had a chance to weaken, she was up and out of the car.
“I’m not going to ask you again, Beau,” she said, this time in a sincere voice. “Because I know that you can’t deny me three times in one night. However, when you get that woman out of your head … do come and see me.”
Beauregard smiled and shook his head. She reached back down, and he kissed her fully on the lips. He knew that if he was going home at all, he better make his move now.
“My driver will take you home, you dear fool,” she said.
“If those headaches come back,” Beau said.
“I know who to call.”
She squeezed his hand, winked at him, and then shut the door, and Beauregard watched her recede as he sped away into the night.
7
He was cold, and his eyes were filled with crust. He got out of the damp bed, damp from the sweat which had dripped off his icy body, and grabbed his water glass. When he put it to his lips, he suddenly felt them burning, and he jerked it away in horror. Then got up and looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing on his lips and he wondered if he wasn’t losing his mind. “Nobody ever died from insomnia,” was what all the doctors said. But nobody ever talked about going mad from it. Nobody ever talked about waking up and feeling that one of your arms was gone, or feeling that the room was coming in on top of you to smother you like a big piece of dough.
He walked around the bed and slipped on a magazine, almost fell down. Jesus, let this night end … let it end … Why couldn’t he sleep. It had been fine for a couple of days there after Lorraine Bell … It had been fine … But now, now … It was back again. The feeling that the Space was calling to him again. The Space that he could never quite get full … He wandered into the living room, found his bathrobe lying in a heap on the floor. He picked it up, put it on, took out a cigarette from the pocket, and found his matches lying on the TV. He stared down at the TV … the huge eye which you watched all night, over and over, but which might be watching you … Ridiculous thought … calm down … but at four in the morning no thoughts were ridiculous. You were in the land of dreams, even though you weren’t asleep … He looked out the window, heard the wind howling … and saw someone hustling down the street, his raincoat flapping in his face. Yes, he thought, get home—get home fast, where it’s safe … Only he knew that it wasn’t safe anywhere. There was no place you could really get away from what was inside of you.
He turned on the TV, but the light blinded him, and after one minute of a Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman ad he turned it off. Next they would have on Vegematic … It slices and dices. He walked back through the hallway and went into the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator which seemed to be humming abnormally. He stared into it at the butter, which looked like a huge yellow brick, the tomatoes, and the waxy, dead-looking green peppers. He poured himself some grapefruit juice and sat down at the kitchen table. His temples ached and his hands shook. God, he had to stop this. He started to drink the juice when he saw a roach run across the table. He was startled by the bug, terrified by it. It was almost as if he were seeing it in 3-D. It was huge, its brown antennae hanging over the white table like some long, filthy membrane. He wanted to crush it, but somehow was afraid of it. Then he brought his hand down on it hard and watched it squish, and he started to laugh loudly … He hated the sound of his own voice, the laughter was not that of joy but of panic. He heard the Space whirling inside of him, and it seemed to cry out that it needed to be filled … it needed it desperately, and he shook so badly now that he was spilling the juice.
He got up and ran back into the bedroom. Sat down on the edge of the bed and called Debby. He had memorized her number, though he didn’t know why. He hadn’t even thought about it consciously. It just happened naturally, and he let the phone ring three times.
Finally she picked it up … He heard her voice … Yes, it was her.
“Hello … hello … Who is this?”
He wanted to say something. He felt like a fool. It must be three A.M. She would think he was crazy.
“Hello, who is this? Hello?”
He p
ut the phone back on the hook and lay down on the bed, and stared up with wide, blue eyes at the rippling, buckling ceiling.
8
Esther Goldstein got out of the elevator on the seventh floor of the Riverside Apartments. As she stepped into the hallway, she suddenly felt a sharp pain in her left arm—a strange, circulating spasm which shot around her neck and landed like an arrow near her left breast. She put down her heavy suitcase and leaned on the wall. Though she was fifty-eight and had felt the pains twice in the last month, she didn’t panic. If there was one thing she was not going to be, it was a Jewish mother. She was all through with that, had been since Morty died, and she had started analysis. Let people laugh, if they wanted, but her shrink, Dr. Gruenberg, had changed her life. She was a loving, caring, sensual person. Oy gevalt, if Morty could see her now, having an affair with a gentile weight-lifter named Big Ned Malloy. They had met at a YMHA dance and it had been love at first sight. She sighed and headed down the bland white-walled hallway toward her son’s apartment. Barty would never understand this … any of it … her lover or her new look … her fashionable Ralph Lauren hacking jacket and corduroy skirt, her tall Jourdan boots … her wide silk tie … but he was simply going to have to get used to it … After all, this was a new, modern world where people were free to live out their fantasies, and why shouldn’t they? If Barty wanted to stand down by the Big Board and read ticker tape all day, that was his business, but such a life? You might as well be eating stale bagels … and if they thought for one second she was going to let them ruin little Morty’s life … her only grandson … and turn him into a nebbish like his father, well, they just didn’t know Esther Goldstein. As she approached the door, she sighed heavily and felt a little twinge of pain again … probably nerves. With a cocky jab, she pushed the button to her son’s apartment. In a second, the door opened, and there stood a squat man with a head like a cauliflower with hair. His little eyes blinked in surprise and his hand ran up to his chest, where he patted the reindeer which was stitched on his sweater.
“Ma,” he said. “Ma … Hey, Betsy, come here quick. Look who we got at our door. Annie Hall.”
