by Jane Heller
“I think it was a sign,” I told Jack later at my place. “I think I’m destined to quit this acting thing and get a real job.”
“I’m not convinced of that,” he said, trying to comfort me. “Maybe the sign was that you’re a dedicated actress who goes out for roles even when she might be allergic to them.”
I laughed ruefully. “You should have seen the producers. There I was, wheezing and coughing and choking to death, and all they cared about was how long it would take to recast the part. It made me feel warm and fuzzy about this business, I’ll tell you.”
“Look, why don’t you let me help,” said Jack, who helped simply by existing. He and I were growing closer every day, despite the fact that his star had risen and mine had just about dropped out of the sky. “I could get in touch with more directors, to see if they’re shooting anything worthwhile.”
“That’s very sweet, but when you asked Hal Papush to hire me, you and I weren’t a couple yet. We weren’t even speaking, as I recall. I had no qualms about taking favors from you, because you were up there with your own television show and a powerful position in the Hollywood hierarchy and I was struggling to pay my rent. We were strangers to each other then, and the inequities between us didn’t matter. But it’s different now, Jack. They do matter, because you and I are—well—in a relationship. I want you to view me as an equal, as a partner, not as someone who needs you in order to survive. What I’m saying—and I’ve said this to my mother, too—is that if I’m going to make it, I have to make it on my own, not to sound too Mary Tyler Moore-ish about this.”
“But people in this town never make it on their own, Stacey. It’s all about networking here, about picking up the phone and calling everyone you know.”
“I’ve been picking up the phone since I got to L.A.,” I said. “And now all I’m getting is a busy signal. No, I’ve got to do this myself. It’ll be my last hurrah, my final grab for the brass ring. If I don’t make any progress within the next few months, I’ll become the civilian my mother always wanted me to be.”
A few days later, Mickey called about a possible part on the top-rated sitcom Will & Grace. I was so excited I almost cried.
“I can’t believe it, Mickey,” I said, then went on a gushing binge, telling him how much I appreciated his loyalty through the years and how, when the day finally came for me to stand up on that podium to receive my Emmy or my Oscar or even my People’s Choice Award, he would be the second person (after my mother) I would thank.
“Yeah, well. You’re a good kid,” he said. “So. About the audition. You’re gonna read for the part of a lesbo.”
“Oh?” Mickey was loyal but crude, never mind politically incorrect, as I’ve indicated.
“Yeah, a gay girl,” he said, in case I didn’t get it the first time. “You hire Grace to redecorate your apartment, and while you two are yakking about fabric swatches, you’re gonna come on to her.”
“Come on to Debra Messing?”
“You got it, kid. Does Mickey Offerman get you the juicy parts or what?”
Okay, so I would have to flirt with another woman, perhaps even engage in some physical display of affection. I was an actress. I was up to this or any challenge involving my craft. I would tackle a same-sex scene with the same dogged professionalism that I displayed in my scenes playing a straight person. Besides, Debra Messing wasn’t exactly chopped liver.
I did well in the audition with the show’s casting director and got called back for a reading with Debra Messing herself. Apparently, she was a little squeamish about the scene and wanted to feel comfortable with the actress who’d be putting the moves on her. That was the good news. The bad news was that there were six other actresses that were called back, and one of them was my old nemesis, Brittany Madison.
As we all sat in the waiting room, studying the portion of the script we’d been given, Brittany performed her usual stunts meant to break our concentration. She pulled her “ahhhh, eeeee, ooooo” nonsense. She shouted into her cell phone every five seconds. And she paced back and forth, her heels click-click-clicking on the tile floor. So annoying.
When she saw she wasn’t getting a rise out of anybody, she plunked herself down in the chair next to mine and leaned over.
“Well, if it isn’t Stacey Reiser,” she said, her tone mocking. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Oh? And why is that, Brittany?” I said.
“Because the last time I saw you, you were flunking out of Gerald Clarke’s acting class.”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I didn’t flunk out. I walked out.”
“What I remember is that you couldn’t get in touch with your sexuality and Gerald made an example of you in front of everybody. You do know that the part they’re casting today is for a lesbian. A homosexual. A woman who’s totally out of the closet. Doesn’t that scare you, Stacey? I mean, considering how inhibited you are, I can’t believe you’re even giving this audition a shot.”
I smiled to myself as I tuned her out. Yup, she was playing her usual head games, no doubt about it, but I was not about to let her get to me. I knew exactly what she was up to: she was trying to make me feel so inadequate about my acting that I would figure I had no chance of landing the part and leave. That was always her strategy: to discourage the rest of us from staying and competing, so that she would win by default. Well, not this time.
I’ll show her, I thought, plotting my own strategy. I was going to get in touch with my sexuality—or, rather, the character’s sexuality—and push the envelope, go for broke, make edgy, creative choices with the script.
When it was my turn to read with Debra Messing, however, instead of sounding edgy, I sounded cheesy, delivering my lines with a sort of “hey-baby” lecherousness.
Debra: “I’ve been thinking about doing your walls in pale yellow.”
Stacey (with lip curl and eyebrow arch): “I’ve been thinking about you, period.”
Debra (looking surprised): “What do you mean?”
Stacey (moving closer to Debra): “I find you extremely attractive, Grace. I’m hoping you feel the same way about me.”
Debra (looking shocked now): “Uh—no. I’m sorry if I gave you the idea that I—”
Stacey: “Look, Grace. You don’t have to play coy with me. I know you live with a gay man and, while I understand that there are some lesbians, particularly lipstick lesbians, who try to keep the act going, I also understand that you deserve—no, need—to be fulfilled sexually,”
Debra (horrified now): “You’ve really made a mistake here. I enjoy working with you and I’m happy to redo your apartment, but—”
Stacey (standing seriously close to Grace): “But what? You aren’t interested? Are you sure?”
At this point, the script has Grace struggling to talk her way out of the situation. She doesn’t want to insult me, because I’m her client and I’m a wealthy woman with great connections and she’s nervous about losing my business, but she’s not a lesbian, lipstick or otherwise, and she’s freaked out by my advances and she’s dying to bolt out of my apartment. What is not in the script is what I do next: I pull her into my arms and kiss her. Well? I was determined not to be the wimp Brittany had accused me of being, right?
There was bedlam, pure bedlam. The casting director yelled at me, demanding to know why I’d made such an edgy choice. The producers yelled at me, demanding to know why I’d taken it upon myself to touch, never mind brush my lips against the star of their show. And the security guard posted down the hall yelled at me, threatening to have me removed from the building if I put my grimy hands on anyone else. The only person who was nice to me was Debra Messing, who whispered, “I would have done the same thing if it meant getting the part. I’ve been in your shoes.” I thanked her and slunk out of the studio before they had me thrown out.
twenty-two
Now that Jack had met my mother, it was time for me to meet his brother, he decided. I took this as another indication of his as-yet
-undeclared love for me.
On a Saturday afternoon, we drove to Newport Beach, where Tim Rawlins, who was in his twenties and paralyzed from the waist down as a result of a swimming accident when he was only eight years old, resided in a seaside cottage.
“How, exactly, did the accident happen?” I asked as we headed south on the freeway.
“Tim dove into the shallow end of a neighborhood pool and broke his neck. We consider ourselves lucky that it’s only his legs that don’t move.”
“How horrible for a child to have to go through that,” I said. “It must have been a nightmare for him, for everyone in your family.”
“It was, but there are families who are brought closer together by tragedy. Mine wasn’t one of them. My parents, who were remote even under the best of circumstances, drew even further into themselves, barely going through the motions. They got Tim the medical care he needed, but emotionally they were zeroes.”
“You speak about them in the past tense, as if they don’t exist.”
“They don’t, not for me. What kind of people abandon their disabled son to travel around the country? As soon as they saw that I was stepping up to assume responsibility for him, they flew off to the South Pacific, then changed their minds and moved to Maine, then switched gears a third time and settled in Idaho. They’re still there, I think, but I have no confirmation of that.”
“How do they support themselves with all this nomadic behavior?”
“They get jobs, live simply. The irony of their many years of marriage is that they can’t stand each other. At least that’s the way it looked from my vantage point.”
“So they never call you to say how proud they are of you, of what you’ve accomplished in your career?”
Jack scoffed. “My father thinks movies are a waste of time, just another crutch for people who have no lives of their own. I used to lie about how often I went to movie theaters as a kid. Who needed an argument? As for my mother, she’s such a lost soul that my success probably makes her feel worse about herself, about how little she’s achieved. Of the two of them, she was the one with the brain. She just never bothered to use it.”
“I still don’t get how they could have left you and your brother to fend for yourselves, no matter how much money you were making or how vocal you were about taking responsibility for Tim. It’s almost criminal.”
“You’re right. But remember: not everyone has a mother like yours, Stacey. She may drive you insane, but you’ve never doubted for a second that she loves you.”
“Oh, she’s been there for me, that’s for sure. A little too there.”
“Well, when she’s a little too there, remind yourself that it could be worse.”
We arrived at Tim’s cozy beach house just as he was finishing up his exercises for the day. He was a handsome man, with Jack’s reddish-blond hair and blue eyes, but a younger, less cynical version of Jack, more college boy than college professor. He smiled broadly when I entered the living room and teased Jack for keeping me a secret for so long.
“It hasn’t been that long,” Jack said, winking at me. “It’s only been a few months since she threw a drink in my face on our first date.”
“It wasn’t our first date,” I told Tim. “It wasn’t even a date, although it was a seduction. As Jack must have explained, the one he was really after was my mother.”
“I heard the story,” Tim said with a laugh. “And I would have thrown a drink at him, too, Stacey.”
“Aha! An ally,” I said.
“An ally and a fan,” he said. “I’ve seen you on television and I think you’re great.”
I gave Tim a hug. “You have just made my day,” I said. “Just made my year.”
The three of us chatted for an hour or so, then Jack went out to buy us lunch at a nearby deli. While he was gone, Tim took the opportunity to share his insights into his brother.
“He can be a know-it-all,” he said, taking a loving swipe at Jack’s occasional pomposity. “And he’s not the most open person with his feelings. Reviewing movies gives him the perfect distance from them; he can stand back and critique them without having to be involved with them emotionally. And, of course, he gets a kick out of being Mr: Show Business—who wouldn’t. But there’s nobody more fiercely protective of me than he is.”
“He told me about your parents,” I said, “about how they’re, well, absent.”
Tim nodded. “Jack walked right into their role and took it over. He probably hasn’t told you this, Stacey, but he pays for everything here: the roof over my head and the food I eat and the physical therapist who comes over and works out with me. Yes, I have a job, but Jack supported me before I was able to get a job. He’s made huge sacrifices for me to allow me to live as well as I do—sacrifices he’s much too proud to discuss.”
“What sort of sacrifices?” I asked.
Tim smiled. “I’d better keep my mouth shut. As I said, they’re not a subject Jack enjoys getting into.”
I left it at that, but continued to wonder. On the drive back to L.A., I mentioned my conversation with Tim. “He’s very grateful to you, very respectful of you,” I said.
“He’s a good person,” said Jack. “Why wouldn’t I do everything I can to help him?”
“Right, but you’ve made sacrifices to support him. That’s what he told me.”
“No big deal. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
I looked over at him. There was a tightness in his voice when he spoke about the sacrifices, a clamming up, which was unusual for the usually loquacious Jack Rawlins. Tim had warned me that this was a subject Jack didn’t like to talk about, and now I could see he was on target. But Jack’s unwillingness to be more forthcoming only piqued my curiosity. What sort of sacrifices would he have had to make on his brother’s behalf? Clearly, he earned enough money to support a sibling, but that hadn’t always been the case. How had he paid for Tim’s expenses before Good Morning, Hollywood made him the toast of the town? How had he been able to support Tim then, particularly since it didn’t sound as if his parents had left him any sort of financial cushion?
The answer to those questions would have to wait, I discovered, when another issue reclaimed my attention: my mother’s attachment to Victor. I had been trying to reach her at home and getting her answering machine every time. Turns out she was sleeping at Victor’s on a regular basis and had even moved some of her clothes into his house.
“Aren’t you rushing things?” I had the nerve to say, given my own propensities.
“No, I’m following my heart,” she said defensively. “Besides, I’m a grown woman and I can do whatever I want.”
God, she sounded just like I used to whenever she’d boss me around. “But you’re practically living with Victor. What is it you always told me? Don’t give away the store before you get to know the buyer.”
“I know the buyer, Stacey. Now, if you want to see your mother, why don’t you come to Victor’s for dinner tonight. I’ll send Vincent, the chauffeur, to drive to the Valley and pick you up. Oh, and have Jack join us if he’s not busy.”
* * *
Jack said he was busy, so I went off to Victor’s by myself, courtesy of Vincent, who was very soliticious—and smiley. Every time I glanced at him in the mirror, he had a grin on his face. Now there’s a guy who’s happy in his job, I thought.
When I arrived, I observed that my mother was wearing yet another brand-new outfit that revealed more of her than her old wardrobe ever did.
Who kidnapped Helen Reiser? I thought as I checked out her short skirt and skimpy top and strappy sandals.
I also noticed that she had taken on the role of lady of the manor, giving instructions to Carlos and Rosa and the others. “They’re hardworking,” she whispered to me, “but they’re not used to a woman’s touch around the house. So I stick my two cents in every now and then. For instance, Rosa is a lovely cook when it comes to arroz con polio, but ask her to make a nice brisket and she’s lost.”
Perhaps Helen Reiser hadn’t been kidnapped after all. She was still in there somewhere.
For our dinner that particular evening, Rosa had prepared tenderloin of pork with grilled vegetables—a meal so fabulous that I was dying for a second helping. I was about to take my plate into the kitchen when Mom hassled me.
“Sit, Stacey,” she said after I’d gotten up from my chair. “Let Rosa bring it. That’s what she’s here for. Right, Victor?”
“Right, Cookie!” he boomed. “My people are at your disposal. You tell them what you want them to do and, by golly, they’ll do it.”
“Such a knight in shining armor,” she cooed at him.
“Why wouldn’t I be when my lady is the fairest in all the world?” he replied.
“You make me blush with your compliments,” she said.
“You make me float on air,” he said.
You both make me want to hurl, I thought, then said, “There’s no need to bother Rosa. I’d rather get the food myself. I need to stretch my legs.” And escape all the lovey-dovey crap in here.
I was en route to the kitchen, plate in hand, about to push open the swinging door, when I overheard Rosa speaking to Carlos in Spanish. She was saying, “Do you believe she told me that my vegetables were undercooked? Hasn’t she ever heard of al dente?”
“She’s from the Midwest. What does she know,” said Carlos.
“Nothing,” said Rosa. “Not about cooking. And not about cleaning. Did you hear how she told Betty to watch for mold the next time she scrubs the stall shower in the master bath?”
I giggled to myself. Mom was a tireless campaigner to rid the planet of mold. Mold and dust mites. Victor’s caretakers were no match for her, even in her new Hollywood glamour girl mode.
