He and I whispered backstage about the play and about Boston; he was from New York. His name was Michael, and he was very funny and seemed nice, even though I couldn’t tell what he looked like because of the bodysuit. After a week or two, he asked me out for coffee between shows on Saturday. No one had ever asked me out for coffee; it sounded very intellectual, very New York. I imagined dark-wood-paneled rooms in Greenwich Village, filled with poets and people strumming guitars. I immediately said yes.
I told him I’d meet him outside the stage door, after I’d picked up the laundry. I ran through the dressing rooms, picking up damp socks and T-shirts off the floor. I hurled them at Don and asked him to put them in the wash.
“I have a date,” I said.
“Bitch. Jesus, I hope it’s not with one of the actors. Find out if he’s married!” Don yelled after me.
I ran out the stage door and looked around. People were milling about, waiting or talking. I looked around for Michael. Then I noticed a man standing by himself in jeans and a leather jacket. He was handsome and had a Roman nose. His hair was black and curly and he looked happy to see me. I felt as if we were meeting for the first time, and I suddenly felt quite shy. It had been easier to talk to him when I couldn’t see his face and it was dark. But now I could see he was a man and, as it turned out, ten years older than me—ancient, thirty. We went down the street to this coffee place in a basement, and he did most of the talking. I felt in awe of him; he was witty and smart and very sure of himself. I learned that Michael was a New Yorker and Jewish. His parents had divorced; his mother was dead. I said I was sorry about his mother. I didn’t tell him I wished my mother were dead.
“What about you?”
“Oh, I’m just trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.” I shrugged, suddenly feeling really insipid, like Gidget or something.
“And what’s that?” He smiled and looked at me.
“I guess I’m not sure.” I explained how I had dropped out of college, had worked at a newsstand, and was now working at the theater and liked my job. Talking to him made me realize that I couldn’t talk about my plans or dreams because I didn’t have any. I was amorphous. I had no idea who I was, what I liked or disliked. I had spent so much time as Mother’s warden, and Robbie’s bodyguard, that I had subjugated a large part of myself that was, from lack of tending, small and undeveloped. When I walked into a grocery store, I would walk up and down the aisles, like a robot, aimlessly looking at all the boxes and jars wondering what I should buy. Did I like green beans? Cheerios? Cheddar cheese? I didn’t know. Living my little half-life, I was so used to not thinking for or of myself. I was just going along. Just existing.
On opening night of Midsummer there was to be a big party, a splashy affair, in the theater lobby after the show. The high society of Boston would be there, in addition to all the critics from New York, and the entire cast and crew. Michael would be there.
“What are you going to wear, darling?” inquired Don. I hadn’t the faintest. For the last week, all the crew members had been in technical and full-dress rehearsals, which, for everyone but the actors (who had Equity contracts and had to be given time off), had been virtually all day and all night. There was always mending to do, Puck pants to fluff, boots to shine, wigs to spray, wash to do. The theater was like a factory that was open twenty-four hours a day. I’d been crashing on the ironing board. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen the sun or changed my clothes.
“This?” I said, gesturing to my jeans and ratty T-shirt.
“No, Cinderella, you will not go to the ball in that.” Don raised his hand and shook a set of keys, looking like a gay jailer. The keys were to the private costume collection that was kept locked in a room above the stage. I followed him up the stairs and he opened the door.
“Now let’s see, kiddo.” He disappeared into the racks of clothes. “What color are your eyes?”
“They’re blue.”
Don picked out a midnight-blue sheath dress with netting on the arms and across the back. “Try this on. It’s from the forties, which I think will be a good decade for you.”
I went behind a rack to put on the dress. It fit me perfectly. Don tossed some pumps over to me. I came out from behind the rack and took a few turns up and down the room, modeling for him.
“Not bad. Dramatic but not too pushy. Very Veronica Lake.” He stood looking at me with his arms crossed and a hip jutting out.
“What are you going to wear?”
“Jesus, you must be kidding. This old queen is going home to his bottle of Kahlúa.” He turned and I followed him out into the hallway.
“But you’re my date.”
“You wouldn’t catch me dead at one of those parties.”
I thanked him for stealing something for me to wear.
“Anytime, princess. Now, have fun and don’t turn into a pumpkin,” he quipped, and was gone.
The party was in full swing by the time I got there. I was disappointed to see Michael talking to the actress who played Hippolyta. She was a Nordic-blonde type, pretty and tall, your basic queen of the Valkyries. I wondered what kind of girls he liked. He looked all lit up; he was talking animatedly to the actress. His dark hair was a little wet from his having washed his face, and it tumbled across his forehead, making him look even more dashing than usual. Oh well, I thought, what a waste of a beautiful dress. Maybe I could have a drink and sneak out.
I walked over to the bar, trying not to wipe out in my heels on the waxed wooden floor. I hadn’t had much practice with the standard trappings of womanhood: high heels, makeup, panty hose, perfume. I actually tried to avoid them because they seemed like things my mother used to entice men. Makeup seemed like a trick, a way of attracting attention that was fake and predatory. Even standing there all dressed up made me feel like an impostor. I was pretending to be a woman. Pretending to be sexy.
Suddenly Michael was there behind me when I turned with my glass of champagne.
“I see you have legs.” He laughed. Everyone at the theater, if they had noticed me at all, had only seen me in my work clothes—black pants and shirt.
“Yes, there they are. My legs.” I felt once again like a dumb bunny.
“So you are a girl.” He led me out onto the dance floor.
“I guess so.” His arm embraced my waist.
“But it seems a reluctant one.” He smiled at me and I had to look away because his face was so close to mine. We danced to a few songs, then he lured me into the costume shop, where we made out on one of the cutting tables. I went home with him that night.
I started spending a lot of time at Michael’s apartment. I still felt a bit shy around him; he was older and seemed to know much more than I did. He had friends come and visit from New York. They were all sophisticated and up on current events. We would go out for drinks after the show, and everyone would be laughing and talking about so-and-so’s new book or the presidential primaries. I felt so dull next to his New York friends. I just couldn’t imagine what he saw in someone like me.
When he started to ask me what really interested me, I said the theater, books, movies, art. He asked me if I had ever considered taking photographs. He thought I would be good at it. He encouraged me to start taking pictures and even took me out and bought me a camera. I took photographs of lots of stuff—the actors, diners, trees, barns. I decided to apply to film school in New York. I had loved my film classes at BU, so maybe I would love film school. On the application you could either submit a film or photographs you had taken. I sent in my pictures, thinking I didn’t have a chance in hell.
At Michael’s apartment one morning while he was in the shower, I was snooping around and found some letters from a woman on his desk. I didn’t open them; I was too afraid he might catch me and of what the letters might say. I felt a horrible sense of dread all day.
That evening after the show we were having a drink at a bar down the street and I asked him about the letters, feeling sick. “Who
are they from?”
“They’re from my girlfriend.” He acted as if it didn’t matter that he was telling me now that he had a girlfriend.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah, actually she’s coming up to visit me this weekend.”
“I thought I was your girlfriend,” I said. I felt like I was going to barf.
“Well, Wendy, this is fun and everything, but you’re twenty years old and I’m not interested in anything serious—”
His speech was interrupted by my drink flying into his face from across the table.
I stood up while he wiped his face with a cocktail napkin. He was smiling slightly, looking embarrassed. People were staring at us and my hands were shaking.
“If she comes up here, I don’t want to see you again.” I stormed off.
The next day at work, I saw Michael as usual backstage but didn’t look at him or speak to him. I felt miserable—jealous of this other woman and foolish for throwing the drink at him. I was acting like my mother, and look where it had got me. He probably hated me now.
Michael was waiting for me after I came out the stage door. “Can I talk to you?” He didn’t seem mad.
My face burned and I could barely bring myself to look at him. “I’m sorry I threw the drink at you. I was so angry,” I stammered.
“It’s okay,” he said, half smiling. “I have to say I wasn’t expecting it.”
We started to walk down the street together. It was drizzling lightly and the streetlights shone on the trees that lined Brattle Street. The air smelled like lilacs.
“I won’t let her come,” he said. “She’s not even really my girlfriend. I just said that because I was afraid.”
I looked down at the sidewalk, which was all shiny with the rain. “What are you afraid of?” I didn’t understand.
“I’m afraid of you,” he said quietly.
When we reached his apartment, his message machine was blinking. I dropped my stuff on the couch while he went over and pressed the flashing button. It was my mother’s voice on the machine. She cleared her throat theatrically and then spoke. It was chilling to hear her in Michael’s apartment, where I thought I was safe.
“Hello. I wanted Wendy to know that the FBI just called me and informed me that her sister, Robin, has committed suicide.” Then she hung up.
“Oh my God. Who the hell was that?” Michael started to rewind the machine. He played the message again. I told him it was my mother. He stared at me for a second with his mouth hanging open. “What should we do?” he asked, sounding panicked.
“Nothing.” I picked up the phone and called Robin’s dorm-room number. She answered and I asked her if she was okay.
“Yeah, I’m fine except you woke me up,” she said, sounding cranky.
“Sorry, go back to sleep. I’ll call back later in the week.” I put down the receiver.
“So, your sister’s fine? Is this some kind of a joke?”
“Not a joke exactly, but I’m sure Mother’s having fun.”
“But how did she get this number?”
“She probably called the theater and said it was an emergency,” I said matter-of-factly. Then I gave him the short version of my struggles with Mother. He just listened and didn’t say anything for a while.
“So why didn’t you tell me any of this? I mean, this is pretty huge, having to handle something . . . someone like this.” He searched my face, looking perplexed.
My throat felt all tight as I tried to explain. “Most people don’t stick around when my mother makes an appearance. I guess I was afraid you’d disappear, too.”
“Well, I’m not going anywhere, but I do need a drink.”
We went to the kitchen and sat down at the little dinette table. He poured himself a scotch from a bottle he kept on top of the fridge. He poured me a small one and dropped a few ice cubes into it.
“Thanks.” I sipped the burning flavor.
He sat down across from me, stirring his drink with his finger. “You know, you can’t live your life for anyone else.” He picked up the salt shaker. “You see, this is your mother.” He placed it at one end of the table. Then he picked up the pepper. “And this is you.” He put the pepper down at the other end. “She doesn’t have any power over you really. You’ve given her that power.”
“Me?” I eyed the salt shaker. “Well, first of all, that’s wrong because she would be the pepper.”
“Yeah, okay, I get it. It matches her black soul. You can be the salt.” He switched the shakers on the table.
“That’s more like it.”
“And pretend the salt has a shit raincoat on.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A shit raincoat that protects you from all the crap that she slings at you. She throws her insane garbage at you and it hits the shit raincoat and it falls off.”
“I wish.”
“The shit raincoat takes practice.” He laughed, and it occurred to me that he hadn’t run away yet.
I sort of saw what he was talking about. Not that I was a salt shaker, but that Mother was a separate entity, and a small and inconsequential one at that. She only loomed large in my mind; in reality she was an empty, sad wreck of a person. After spending more time talking to Michael, I began to realize that I had to make a break for freedom or she might just take me down the rabbit hole with her.
One day I was sitting in the wardrobe room with Don, reading the program for the theater’s season, and I noticed that one of the actors, Max Wright, had worked at the Guthrie in Minneapolis, where my father had been for so many years. My face started to tingle and I felt a little queasy. Maybe he could tell me something about my dad.
I hadn’t seen or heard from my father in ten years. Mother had told Robin and me that he had abandoned us for his new family all those years ago. As a ten-year-old girl, I had accepted this as the truth. Why had he found it so easy to walk away from his children? Why had he never even sent a letter or a postcard in ten years? I didn’t have a photograph of him, but Mother told me I looked just like him. If he saw me on the street, would he recognize me?
“You should go ask Max,” Don said. “It’s your father, for Christ’s sake.”
A few weeks went by and I still couldn’t muster the nerve to talk to Max about my father. Before the show, he was always at his dressing table in the corner, reading some heavy book about Brecht or Sartre, and I couldn’t ask him there because so many people were around. After the show, he was always the first one to bolt out the door as soon as he had changed. I knew he was leaving soon to go back to New York, so there wasn’t much time left.
“You better hurry up,” Don warned, hands on hips and arching his eyebrows for emphasis.
The next night during the show, I was crossing through the theater lobby with some laundry and there was Max having a cigarette. This might be my last chance. I walked up to him and blurted out that I was wondering if he had met an actor named James Lawless at the Guthrie.
“Sure, I know Jimmy Lawless.” He nodded.
I swallowed. “What’s he like?”
“He’s a really nice guy. Why are you asking?” Poor Max looked at me like I was one of those freaky autograph hounds who stalked the stage door.
“Well . . . he’s my father and—”
“Jesus, you’re Jimmy’s kid! Omigod, how old are you?”
“I’m twenty.”
“Christ, that makes me feel old.”
“Um . . .” I was about to launch into my tale of woe when Max’s head twitched up toward the monitor.
“Holy shit, that’s my cue!” Max stubbed out his cigarette and ran like hell.
A nice guy. It wasn’t much to go on, but Max hadn’t said he was a monster with two heads. I sleepwalked back to the wardrobe room, where Don was sitting sewing, his mouth full of pins.
He saw my face and almost spit the pins out. “Omigod, you asked him, didn’t you?”
I nodded and smiled.
He took a piece
of paper out of his jeans pocket. “I took the liberty of getting the number from directory assistance.” He gave me the paper and handed me a roll of quarters. “Are you gonna be okay? Are you scared?”
“No, I’m not scared at all.”
The truth was that I felt strangely calm. Suddenly I knew that this was the right thing for me to do, that I had to do it. It had just taken me some time to know it. Ten years.
chapter sixteen
THE FRIENDLY SKIES
This time on the airplane to Minneapolis, rather than getting wings from the flight attendant like the last time I made this trip, I ordered a Bloody Mary to calm my nerves. I had always been afraid to fly, and as the plane hurtled toward its destination, I looked out the window and wondered if my fear was connected to all the tumult I used to experience on airplanes—the tears, the feeling of emptiness when you leave something behind that is still a part of you.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Michael had driven me to the airport in Boston.
“I think I should go on my own. But thanks.”
“God, wait till your mother reads that note.” He laughed maniacally like Dr. Frankenstein when they asked him if he was mad.
I smiled. Since Mother was barricaded in her fortress, I had scribbled a note about where I was going and left it on the kitchen table. I kept playing the movie of her reaction to the note over and over in my head, for fun. I could see her stumble down the stairs into the kitchen, go to the fridge for a quart of ice cream, and on her way back to her room notice the note. She would pick it up, holding it close to her face trying to read it in the dim light. Then her eyes would bulge and she’d throw back her head and scream like the lady in the scary movie when she sees the monster for the first time.
“You should probably turn off your answering machine for a few days,” I told Michael at the gate.
“Good idea. You’d better go.”
I kissed him and got on the plane.
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