by Joseph Glenn
“No, I guess you wouldn’t know him. A theater critic in New York. At the Times forever.”
So Sybil had not changed much, Meredith sadly surmised. She had been in her home less than two minutes and Sybil was already emphasizing that she had been a serious stage actor. Undoubtedly, she had chosen to open with this comment to establish the chasm between a “TV actress” like Meredith and a “real” actor like herself. Meredith smiled, but mentally folded her arms, steeling herself for the onslaught that was sure to follow. It was inevitable that Sybil, her career killed by her confinement, resented Meredith’s freedom. And however reserved she was here or at her former park, it was an entirely different matter to be in the presence of another professional. Quite likely Meredith’s very presence stirred up hostile feelings about her enforced retirement, and subjection to, or immersion into, the world of non-celebrities, or what Sybil in her folksy way would call “common folk.”
“The guy used to hate me,” Sybil continued. “Just loathed me and every play I ever did. The day he found out I was institutionalized—”
Meredith sat up at this word. “Don’t call it that,” she objected.
“Why not? This is an institution, isn’t it?” Sybil smiled at this statement. She held the question out, as though satisfying herself that Meredith had no comeback, before she continued, “The day I was imprisoned without a trial in one of these hell holes—I was at Chester originally—for the inexcusable infraction of being myself, for being the person God or whoever made me, Wyatt sent me two five-hundred dollar bottles of Chablis. The card said, ‘congratulations on your long overdue retirement.’ He’s sent two bottles every Christmas ever since. I should be insulted, but the wine’s good. Maybe I should get that bottle.” She attempted to pull herself out of the couch, a clear struggle, and Meredith realized this was more than an empty gesture. She fell back with an old-lady sigh. She then used both hands, one on the armrest, one on the back of the couch, to successfully bring herself to her feet. She continued to hang on to the corner of the couch back.
“No, Sybil, really, I don’t want any. It would be a pity to waste it.”
“Alright, Merry, I’m not gonna argue,” she stated as she again eased herself back into the sofa. “Gee, it’s great to see you!” Sybil was watching Meredith’s face closely. “Ha! Bet you never expected to hear me say anything like that!”
“Oh, it’s great seeing you,” Meredith added after a moment. Sybil’s enthusiasm caught her off guard. And Meredith knew the woman well enough to know her words were genuine. Sybil saved her theatrics for the stage, and for audiences worthy of viewing her craft. This was no act.
“Liar,” Sybil corrected her with a shake of her head, but without a trace of resentment. She appeared jovial about catching Meredith in what she clearly considered to be a deceit. “You were too slow on the uptake!” she explained. “That’s okay, kid. I know I gave you a hard time.” Sybil looked down at her hands, weathered and folded in her lap. “Probably deserve whatever you think of me.”
And then the tone, the whole mood of the encounter, changed for Meredith. Suddenly it was great to see Sybil. How she had not changed! If it can be said that some people change for the better, it could be said of Sybil that she had stayed the same for the better. And she seemed to have physically aged into her personality. Her years had caught up with her crotchety demeanor. That was precisely it: Sybil was born to be a cantankerous old woman. Now she finally was! Physically she had aged, of course, as the liver spots on her hands attested. Her crows’ feet were now deep creases. The white hair was actually more pleasing than her former drab light brown. It was cut short, but skillfully styled. Meredith guessed a considerable amount of time was spent preparing it every morning. It was hard to imagine her doing this; in their Pots of Luck days, Sybil had never made such an effort with it.
And she was letting her guard down, too. It seemed fantastic, but she was actually inviting Meredith into her world, inviting her into her head. Meredith had never been permitted such access when they were colleagues. Some people had been, she recalled. Sybil had not been universally cold on the set, but she seemed to make a point of being rude to Meredith and the other lead actors. And if this was to be a real conversation, why not see where the conversation could go?
“Why didn’t we get along, Sybil? Because you didn’t want to do television?”
“I ‘spose I took that out on you. You know, when the Pots of Luck pilot sold I cried. No, I’m serious. I literally cried; I was inconsolable. I hated being financially dependent on that show, but how could I turn down that kind of money?”
“I remember. You told TV Weekly. You got a cover story out of it,” Meredith reminded her. She reached for her water and noticed that the cubes were now round and fuzzy. But hadn’t she just walked in? Meredith resisted the temptation to look at her watch, fearing Sybil would think she was putting her on a schedule.
However warm Sybil had been thus far, Meredith had been burned enough times by this woman to know she had to handle her delicately. She treaded carefully with, “I always wondered if our differences were partly because I lacked the training and the stage background you had, that I hadn’t paid the kinds of dues theater-trained people have to pay.”
“Well, there was that, of course. I was just the queen of the leprechauns, or whatever the hell I was supposed to be. It was your show. Mind you, I certainly knew that going in. But, yes, there was some frustration watching a kid who had advanced in the business as much because of her looks as her ability becoming a big huge star while people like me, with more, to paraphrase your words, training and experience, felt like we were your support staff.” Sybil nibbled on one of the cookies and Meredith wondered if some reply was expected.
“Ha!” Sybil suddenly said, chewing and talking at the same time. “I remember the day! The turning point—sort of. The incident that turned me against you. First season—early, third, fourth episode. The crew, really just me and two or three others, shooting the breeze, talking about having to fart but not wanting to ruin a take. Because, you’ll remember, if they catch that on film, it ends up on Shameful Camera. We weren’t having a private conversation, but it wasn’t exactly an open forum either. You walked into the conversation.” She was now pounding the arm of the sofa. Her enthusiasm seemed to produce convulsive, manic gestures; it was as though she were unable to control her actions and had to express herself through physical acts as much as the tone and speed of her speech. “Do you remember the day?” she demanded. She started to cough on her cookie, but waved Meredith back as she leaned towards her with concern. Sybil gulped down two swallows of water and cleared her throat until her composure was restored.
“No I don’t remember,” Meredith confessed with a smile, infected by Sybil’s tone, despite the vulgar nature of her reminiscence. “Not a bit, thank goodness. I’ll bet I was ‘teddibly’ Lady Jane and above it all.”
“Were you ever!” Sybil took two lungs full of air and held her breath. An uncomfortable period of time passed before she was able to continue. “You said—now wait, I wanna get this just right.” She paused briefly this time, straightened her back as though preparing to deliver a recitation, then took on a highly cultured manner: “‘I have had the misfortune to pass gas only twice in my life. And on both occasions random strangers approached me and said the very same thing: ‘We are reminded of rose petals floating on a mint julep.’” Her imitation of Meredith’s voice was uncanny to Meredith. “And then you sailed away like the Enola Gay or somethin’; dropping bombs and then flying away unscathed.”
“Oh, my God!” Meredith laughed out loud. “I forgot about that line. I used to use it all the time. I was a bit too prissy back then, wasn’t I?”
“Eh, you were young,” Sybil said without much energy. This too was a surprise; Meredith had given her an opportunity to criticize her by merely agreeing with her statement. She had not risen to the bait. “Too famous too fast,” Sybil added flatly, so flatly that Meredith had no reason to tak
e offense.
“I realize now I was scared to death, and I went to great lengths to hide it.”
“We knew it. We were all there once.” Sybil sat up some more, or at least attempted to, though after a few moments of shifting about she was in the same position as before. “Say, when are they going to be here?”
“The crew? Ten, fifteen minutes yet.”
“Do me a favor; put that cane in the bedroom. Never use it around the house. Just keep it by the door for when I go out.” With what Meredith read as false bravado, Sybil added: “And then I usually forget to take it. Don’t really need it, you know. I’ve just picked up a bit of a limp. Just the bad weather I’m sure.”
Meredith obliged. As she walked towards the back of the apartment, she noted the remnants and mementos of Sybil’s career, the framed reviews and photographs that covered much of the wall space along the short hallway to the bedroom. There were a handful of awards on the bureau in the bedroom. At least she had her memories, Meredith thought. She suspected they would mean more to her if she had someone, some kind of an audience, to share them with. It occurred to Meredith that Sybil was completely alone. She had not been at this park for long, it was true. No more than a matter of months, she believed. And she had left her ex-partner behind, Tyler had told her. It seemed unlikely she was making friends, given her limited mobility. Nothing of their conversation led Meredith to think she had any kind of a social life. Perhaps Sybil’s shift in demeanor towards her was fueled by nothing more than loneliness.
“Do you want to change or freshen up before they get here?” she asked when she returned to the living room.
“Hell, no. I’m a character actress. I get to look this way. It’s the former ingénues and the ex-cosmetic spokeswomen who have it tough at my age. By the way, on that point, I gotta tell you I didn’t think you would age well. And you have. I owe you that.”
It was a pleasant note on which to end the conversation, and Meredith suppressed her wish to say more out of fear she might say anything to spoil the moment. “Alright, I’m going to go and come back. They want to film us meeting at the door—acting as if we haven’t seen each other for years. So we’ll have to act like this meeting hasn’t occurred.”
“Acting I can do. I’ll see you in a few.”
Chapter Nine
“This is the bi-club,” Alex, the intern, said dismissively and with the particular brand of smugness and self-righteousness unique to a young adult. He held the door for Meredith as they entered Building K, but he followed immediately after her, rather than holding the door for the others. Meredith heard one of the technicians yell, “Hey,” as the door dropped on him. The man held a tripod and had a spool of electrical wire over his shoulder. Alex was oblivious to his plight, having passed on and proceeded to a first floor apartment. Meredith had paid little attention to either of the interns up to this point. Both, she knew, were UCLA students. The other, Holly, was a woman of no more than twenty. This fellow, this Alex Falconi, was almost twenty-four, looked older than that, and by his own admission had bumped from experience to experience and school to school without direction. How he finally wound up in one of the best film schools in the country Meredith had not ascertained. His focus and talents apparently laid in the areas of excessive alcohol consumption, scoring drugs for the crew (which meant that he must have brought a hefty supply with him), and ingratiating himself to every female on the crew under thirty. Bill had told her the crew was placing bets on when the two interns would consummate their blatant flirtation. To Holly’s credit, no cash had changed hands among the crew members, but Bill was convinced it was just a matter of time. This was only Wednesday; Alex had three more days to ply his charms and contraband on poor Holly.
“Not like ‘by the book,’” Alex continued, “or ‘by and by,’ or “By the Light of the Silvery Moon.’ This is ‘by—I’m actually gay, but I want to fit in in the straight world.”
Alex, Meredith suspected, had “connections.” And his Very-Important-People were presumably the reason he dared act without the degree of deference expected of interns. This kid was more than just cocky; he was rude and full of his sense of entitlement. He failed to understand he was not possessed of sufficient clout or credibility to pull off insolence. He cut a sharp contrast to Holly—the people pleasing, eager to make herself useful type. Sadly, Holly was helping set up tomorrow’s shoot at the hospital and Meredith was saddled with Alex.
“This,” Meredith corrected the young man in her sternest voice, “is a bisexual support group. We are very lucky that they have consented to let us meet with them. And while we’re here, we will show nothing but the utmost respect for the members and their organization. And interns will keep their mouths shut. Knock on the door,” she snapped to the intern, making no bones about how pleased she was that she could command him to do things.
Austin and the crew had caught up with them and Austin moved to the front of the pack to stand flush with Meredith.
Alex complied by rapping on the door with unnecessary force. She suspected he was burning with rage at her sharp words. He was humiliated in front of the director and crew. Nothing burns deeper to a young adult than being called out on his immaturity. It was a pity, she thought, that Holly was not here to witness his humiliation; he would have been further enraged to be put in his place in front of her; in fact, the scene might have brought an end to his prancing about like a peacock. What a great blow it would have been to his ego for her to see him as he was now, red-faced with embarrassment, looking down at the floor as he shuffled to the back of the group. Meredith cared not one little bit.
An attractive person of approximately thirty-five opened the door.
“Ms. St. Claire?” the greeter asked as a hand was extended.
“I’m guessing you’re not Dr. Waldren?” Meredith said as an opener. She was expecting the host to be a man of at least fifty.
“No,” the bemused Fallow Park resident laughed. “I’m Dale. I’m a,” Dale stopped abruptly, as though considering how the sentence should be finished. “I’m a friend of Brad. Come in. Brad—Dr. Waldren—is expecting you. I should say, we’re all expecting you.” Dale smiled and made eye contact with those closest to the open door. “We’re all so glad you’ve come to see us. All of you.”
Dale opened the door widely to accommodate Meredith and the anticipated television crew she had brought with her. As the door was opened, the living room was exposed. In addition to Dale, there were two men and two women assembled on a pair of couches and a single armchair. A man got out of the armchair and approached. He was the most casually dressed of the group; he was wearing shorts, a print button-down shirt open down to three buttons, and sandals. His salt-and-pepper hair, buzzed short, gave him a look of distinction, as well as what Meredith called, “the virility of an astronaut.” She kept this comment to herself, along with the observation that meeting this self-declared bisexual under different circumstances might have resulted in a most entertaining conversation. There was wisdom in his eyes and Meredith was certain this was Bradley Waldren, Ph.D.
“Ms. St. Claire,” he said, warmly grasping her hand.
“Dr. Waldren. Thank you for meeting with us. People call me Merry. I don’t know why; I prefer Meredith. But either is preferable to Ms. St. Claire.”
“We’ve looked forward to your visit, Meredith,” he said with a degree of sincerity that touched her. His voice, deep and rich like a voice-over actor, was full of authority, but was employed in a gentle manner that conveyed warmth and respect. “As I told your Mister Green and Make-, uh, Dr. Makepeace, the group does not want to be filmed, but is happy to talk with you. Afterwards, your people can film you and me; that is, if at that point you’re still interested in an interview.”
“I’m sure I will be,” she said, taking his hand for a second time. “My Mr. Green, as you call him, will introduce everyone and then the two of you can figure out how we proceed. I understand Dr. Makepeace is not participating this afternoon.”
“No,” Dr. Waldren told her, “because of confidentiality issues—the same reason we don’t want you to film this portion—we made it clear to the administration that they are not welcome. They’ve never been privy to our meetings, although they’ve made a point of noting who attends them.
“You’ve met Dale,” he said of the first person she had met, who had since reclaimed a seat on the couch. “This is Terry, Morgan, and Don…” Meredith lost track of the names before Dr. Waldren finished rolling them off. He waved at the group as he said this, failing, Meredith noted, to indicate which name went with which face. “Don,” she noted could have been one of the women and, if so, perhaps he had said “Dawn.” Hopefully, this would become clear as the conversation progressed.
Meredith, followed by Austin, shook hands and said the usual pleased-to-meet-yous. After the initial introductions, the rest of the crew, eight members of the full crew, including Alex, stood aside from the support group and smiled pleasantly. Even Alex, Meredith pleasantly noted, was able to assume a degree of professionalism. He wisely kept to the back, perhaps because he was less likely to incur Meredith’s wrath from that vantage point.
Dr. Waldren’s apartment was identical to Sybil’s and Tyler’s and all the other homes Meredith had visited. There was a main room that served as a living room and dining area, a kitchen with a counter that separated it from the main room, and a hallway that led to a bathroom and bedroom. He had configured his living space differently, forgoing a dining set for extra chairs and a second couch. Nevertheless, sitting space was at a premium.
While Austin and Dr. Waldren consulted, Meredith squeezed on to the couch between Morgan and a man who might be Don, or perhaps this was Terry and the woman on the opposite couch was Dawn. Meredith briefly contemplated drawing out a seating chart on her tablet, but decided against it in favor of staying in the moment. Bill, standing behind the couch to her left, was taking copious notes; she would figure out who was who when they spoke after the meeting. Dale graciously rose to sit on the sofa’s arm. She allowed the group a few moments to adjust to the stranger in their space and, for those who needed it, a period to familiarize themselves with a celebrity who behaved like an ordinary person. She noted, “It’s a tight room for group therapy. Don’t they give you space at the hospital?”
