“So, when were you going to call me back?” says Olive.
“How was dinner?”
“Great. We talked about the play all night. He’s really smart.”
“All night?”
There’s a pause.
“All evening.”
“So, who went to dinner? You or Yelena?”
She doesn’t reply.
“Because if it was her, you probably fucked him.”
“Is this in the form of a question?”
He doesn’t reply.
“First of all, you’re wrong about Yelena. Maybe you don’t know her so well. There’s a lot of show in Yelena; a lot of show and no dough, if you know what I mean. Secondly, I went to the dinner as Olive. As myself. That’s the way I go everywhere.”
“As yourself?”
“Yep.”
“And who might that be?”
There’s a pause.
“You mean who am I?”
“Yeah. Who is this person that’s in my life all of a sudden? I’d like to know.”
“Is this coming from a cold place, Herbie? Because I’ve been getting a lot of coldness from you this morning and I don’t want to…”
“No. Not from a cold place.”
She’s silent for a while, thinking. He listens to her breathe and the phone connection turns intimate.
“Well I’m not who I was yesterday. Maybe that’s the best answer to your question.”
He just listens.
“Everything’s changing—so fast I can’t believe it. And once it started I can’t stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Well… I’m a girl, a woman that… all my life…”
Herbie listens.
“I held myself back; I hid my best self, you know?”
He knows.
“But I’m not doing that anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I met an amazing person a few weeks ago,” she says, suddenly emotional. “And she told me I couldn’t do it anymore.
She wouldn’t let me. She told me there was no time for that.”
“Ah. Annie got to you, did she?”
“Oh my God. It was the night of my life, Herbie. Everything changed that night. What an incredible woman she was.”
He doesn’t disagree.
“She saw right into you.”
“What did she see?”
She sighs a big one. “That I was afraid to outshine my mom. Really terrified of that—like life and death. So I kept my head down and I did okay, but I didn’t shine. And Annie told me that wasn’t going to work anymore. That if I wanted to play with the big boys I had to be my whole brilliant self.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Annie.”
“She told me about her pirate—you know when she discovered her past life as a pirate? Did she ever do the pirate for you?”
“Are you kidding? I lived with that pirate. He scared the shit out of me.”
“When she was telling me, she transformed into him—right there in her hospital bed. It was terrifying.”
“Yeah, she could act.”
“I was the captain of my own ship,” imitates Olive in her pirate voice. “And wherever I chose to sail, that’s where we’d sail. When I was hungry, I tore into a side of beef with my bare hands; when I was thirsty, I downed a whole keg of ale; when I was horny, I fucked whoever I wanted—right there on the deck in front of the whole crew; and when I was tired, I just lay down where I was and went to sleep. That was the best part.”
“She lived it, too. That pirate was a big part of her. There aren’t many women who go after what they want—and just take it. She was rare.”
“I’m going to be that kind of woman. I mean I am that kind of woman.”
Herbie is smiling. “Are you?”
“I’m working on it.”
“But you’re scared to death about starting rehearsal.”
“Well…”
“That’s all right. If you’re not scared, how are you ever going to be brave? That’s even true of pirates.”
“Are you gonna coach me, coach?
“Yeah. You ready? Go out today and buy a great outfit for the first rehearsal. You should walk in there feeling like a million bucks.”
“Okay. Like it should look like I just tossed something on without thinking but I look great in it?”
“Perfect. If I was there I’d go with you to pick it out.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Then just remember to take your time and keep your eyes open. There’s an actor named Bob Frankel who’s playing Uncle Vanya. He’s really good. Watch him; watch what he does. Watch how he goes about it. Then watch everybody else. And you’ll notice everybody’s doing something different. They’re all trying to find their way into the play—just like you. There’s no one way.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m going to back off. You have a director. You like this guy, right? Let him direct you. If I try to tell you things behind his back, it’ll just fuck you up. Work with him.”
“I want to keep talking with you.”
“Work with the director—and the other actors. That’s where the play’s going to come alive. Then if you have something you want to kick around—good or bad—I’m here. You know where to find me.”
“Yeah, at the bar at some golf course in Myrtle fucking Beach.”
“You got it. Good luck, baby.”
He hangs up and thinks that he just called her baby—in that way—and it kind of shakes him up—like his interior balance mechanism tips to a weird angle. He sits down on the bed and waits for the room to steady itself. Then the phone jingles.
“Oh shit, Candy?”
“I’m glad to see you got that flash thing down.”
“Sorry.”
“Who was that, Olive?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I’m having lunch with her today.”
“Ah. The women’s club. She’s a good kid.”
“She’s a oner, Pops.”
“You think?”
“Mom knew.”
He chews on that. He still doesn’t quite have his balance back.
“So, Maurice is taking me to Venice tomorrow. The one in Italy.”
“Venice,” he says, impressed. “Be careful. It can get very romantic.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say.”
“In his jet?”
“Sure.”
“Keep me posted.”
He showers and shaves and then gets his suitcase out of the closet and starts to throw everything into it. It’s eight thirty in the morning, he thinks. I’ve got sixteen more hours before I can go to bed again. What am I doing down here? His breath starts to get panicky, so he sits on the bed and waits it out. I’m not doing anything, he thinks. He punches in the number for the golf teacher that Don gave him.
“Billy Stiles,” she answers.
“Oh, I thought I was gonna get your machine.”
“You want me to hang up?”
He laughs. “My name is Herb Aaron and I got your number from Don, the teacher at St. Andrew’s?”
“Don’s a good kid.”
“Yeah. He said you took problem students.”
“He called you that?” He could hear the laugh in her voice.
“No, actually. He wanted to, but like you say, he’s a good kid.”
“You a problem, Mr. Aaron?”
“Yeah, I’m a problem to me.”
“Ha. Aren’t we all? Where you from?”
“New York.”
“Ah. So you haven’t played all winter and your game’s rusty. You need a little rehab.”
“No, rehab won’t do it; I need an intervention.”
“Tell you what: I’m working today but I can meet you at six this evening and we’ll talk it over. How’s that?”
“Good.”
“You know the Fleetwood Golf Course in North Myrtle?”
“I’ll find it.”
<
br /> “I’ll be at the bar—third stool from the left, in front of a vodka stinger. You can’t miss me.”
Sometimes—as Blanche DuBois famously said—there’s God so quickly.
He calls the pro shop and tells them to bring his clubs up to the drop-off in front of the lobby and he calls for his car—he switched to valet parking after he couldn’t find the car that night in the parking lot. Then he calls for a bellman. He feels better. He’s in motion again. He has an appointment—six o’clock. Jesus, I only have nine hours to go find another hotel; better get cracking.
He heads down to the ocean, where a lot of the cheap motel chains are lined up a block off the beach. The first one he tries is just fine—clean, decent bed, decent shower. And there are bars of every variety in both directions. You could trip over the bars. He checks in and takes himself for a walk, looking for that good crab cake he had back in the seventies. A good crab cake is one of the glories of American cuisine, he lectures to the ocean. A bad crab cake is a crime against nature. People look at him as he passes by but he doesn’t care. Golfers and shag dancers. What makes a great crab cake, he continues, is that it should give the appearance of being only crab—nuggets of sweet, buttery, sea-salty back fin crabmeat with a shake of Old Bay seasoning mixed in for spice— and that’s it. It should seem to be held together by nothing more than its own innate desire to be a perfect crab cake. Then it should be sautéed in oil with a nice dollop of lard melted in. The lard gives the oil a nice bottom. Then, just before you serve it, one more sprinkle of Old Bay on top—so that the first thing that hits your tongue wakes up your taste buds and starts your juices going. Now he’s hungry. He’s talked himself into lunch.
He finds a place called the Crab Shack that touts its “Famous Crab Cakes.” He goes to the bar and orders two of them and a bottle of beer. His hopes are not high. The bar still smells like last night’s party—that faint mélange of sweat, urine, and sandals in desperate need of odor-eaters. When the plate appears he can tell immediately that the crab cakes are an abomination. Somebody took the mixture—made with God knows what—formed it into two balls and then rolled them in storebought bread crumbs; then they deep-fried them in old, smelly oil. He cuts one open with a fork and tries a bit. It has the texture and taste of an old, rotted-out bird’s nest. He drains the beer to get the taste out of his mouth and heads back to his car. He’ll go to the driving range, he thinks; hit some balls. Stay in motion, Herb. Stay in motion.
At the stroke of six, Billy Stiles is right where she said she’d be—third stool in, curled around a vodka stinger. She’s a nice-looking woman, almost certainly a lesbian, in her mid-fifties. Her hair is salt and pepper, cut simply like athletes do, and her eyeglasses—blue-tinted with rectangular lenses—show some style. Her face has seen a lot of sun and has more wrinkles than it should, but they all seem to smile instead of frown, so the effect is nice.
“I thought it was you,” she says shaking his hand. “I’m a big fan. I loved your show.”
“Thanks.”
“And I’m sorry about your loss. I was an even bigger fan of your wife.”
He nods. “Let’s drink to her.” Herbie gets a martini— up—and tells the barman to keep shaking. He and Billy clink their glasses without a word and take each other in.
“So, Mr. Aaron. How’d you spend your day?
“I changed hotels and then I tried to find a decent crab cake, but no luck. I thought this town knew how to do that.”
“The best crab cake in Myrtle Beach—or anywhere else for that matter—is made by my sister. No contest.”
“How does she make them?”
“I have no idea—I don’t cook. But they taste like there’s nothing in it but crab.”
“And how does one get to your sister?”
“Ah.” And she raises her eyebrows inscrutably.
Herbie’s shoulders drop about a foot. She gets his jokes; he gets hers. She’s been around but she doesn’t have to tell you about it. Billy Stiles, he thinks. Okay.
“So, tell me,” she says with a good smile.
“People keep saying that my practice swing and my regular swing are completely different. And the implication is that one of them is good and the other bad. And I don’t have to tell you which one is which.”
“Uh-huh,” she says.
“So what should I do about that?”
“Tell ‘em to mind their own business.”
“It’s some kind of fear, right? I don’t trust what I’ve got so I have to fuck with it some way.”
“Yeah,” she says, sounding bored, “that’s probably it.” She signals the bartender for another stinger. “How ‘bout we play tomorrow—you and me? Right here at Fleetwood—it’s an easy track, no hills; we won’t keep score; we’ll just hack it around and have some fun.”
“Okay.”
“Then we’ll talk. If I try to get into that kind of stuff before I know you, I’ll just be shooting blanks, you know?” “Okay.”
“So, what else? When are we going to see you on the screen again?”
“I don’t know. I think maybe I’m done with all that shit.”
“C’mon, Herb, give yourself a break. You just lost your life partner. You’re still in shock, no?”
“Shock is too good a word for what I’m in. But even before Annie died—I just don’t have the zest for the acting anymore. It all just seems like so much crap to me.”
Herbie signals the barman. They sit in silence and watch him do his work.
“So, how do I pay you? We should work out the deal, no?
“Okay. How about two hundred for the day and you pick up the expenses.”
“That’s fair. How’s your time? Because I’d like to do this for a couple of weeks, maybe.”
“That’s fine; I’ll book out the afternoons. This is really still off-season anyway.”
“And then you’ll have to tell me how to get those crab cakes.”
“Whoa, Herb. One thing at a time.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OLIVE’S OUTFIT FOR THE FIRST REHEARSAL—WELL-WORN jeans and a drop-dead top, a white V-neck Indian lacy thing that frames her face and gently hints at the rest of her body—hits all the right notes but doesn’t help quiet her nerves. Some of the actors know each other and they’re gabbing away, catching up. Others grab a chair at the table and start filling out Equity forms about their health insurance and pension fund. Olive is one of these, keeping her head down. Take it slow, she thinks. Just watch and wait. And don’t try to give a performance in the first read-through, Herbie said. Just try to hear the play.
The producer of the theater gives a welcoming speech, the designers show the model for the set and renderings of the costumes and then everybody excuses themselves except for the actors and Sam Harding, the director. They settle themselves around a large, round table and it’s time to begin.
“I’d like to start off in what may seem to be an odd way,” says Sam, who has clearly put some thought into his first rehearsal clothes, as well. “We’ll read the play—as usual—but I’m going to have each of you read someone else’s part. Not your own.”
“Oh God,” moans Bob Frankel, who’s slumped down in his chair to Sam’s left in the circle. He has his hand on his forehead like a man with a migraine.
“Problem, Bob?” says Sam cheerfully.
“Spare me this, Sam. Please tell me you’re not going to get into this kind of crap. I’ve got three weeks to do Uncle Vanya. Can’t we just, you know, rehearse? Like we’ll act and you’ll direct?”
“No, Bob, we can’t. Not until we do this first. But thanks for your input.” Again, there’s no rancor in Sam’s voice; but the message is clear—the play is going to be rehearsed his way. “I’ve written all the characters names on these little bits of paper. Just pick one out the bowl and that’ll be your part for today’s reading.” He starts around the table with the bowl. “The only catch is if you get your own character, you have to toss it back in and take another.”<
br />
Bob is now sighing, making no bones about the fact that he’s suffering tragically. When the bowl gets to him—Sam went the other way around the table so that Bob is last to pick—he mutters, “Nursery-school shit,” and takes the last paper.
Olive feels the blood coming up in her cheeks. She can’t believe this guy. Herbie had warned her that Bob was weird, but if an actor in a musical talked to the director like this, he’d be fired; he’d be out on the street in a second. This is my first rehearsal, she thinks, and this guy is making it all about him. She takes a deep breath to steady herself but her anger won’t go away.
“All right, everyone,” says Sam. Let’s see who’s reading what.” Olive looks at her crinkled scrap—“Vanya.”
Bob, who has picked the role of Marina, the old nanny, is now slumped even lower in his chair. His migraine has reached stage four. He’s almost inaudible as he reads the lines of the first scene with no emphasis or interpretation. The other actor— reading Astrov—tries as best he can to make a scene of it, but he has an uphill climb. Then it’s time for Vanya’s entrance. Olive slumps down in her chair in close parody of Bob’s body language. The she puts her hand on her forehead, wrinkles her brow and deliver’s Vanya’s first line. She’s not exactly doing an imitation of Bob, but she nails his attitude—that of disdain for all the others and utter despair for himself. For a moment the rest of the cast watches in stunned silence; then some smiles appear around the table; then a giggle or two. Sam is beaming. Bob peers up from his victim posture and after a moment of surprise, smiles and shakes his head. Even he has to grudgingly admit that Olive’s portrayal is right on the mark.
“Keep reading,” says Sam. “Stay focused on the play.”
And they proceed with Olive playing Vanya as Bob Frankel, and Bob, jostled out of his peevishness, joining the cast in a spirited reading of the play.
To say that Olive’s heart is pounding is an understatement. She feels like she’s soaring above the room, looking down. She has that sense of time slowing down. It’s like when your car skids off the road in a snowstorm, she thinks, and you’re calmly watching yourself having an accident.
After Annie (9781468300116) Page 10
