“Homosexual?”
“That’s what it looked like. But, by itself that wouldn’t be the main issue. It’s that he has a wife and family, and a gaudy reputation that would be sullied if it came out.”
Not appalled by the news, Harry found himself feeling compassion for Galen. “To find out your dad is gay, must be a shock. Galen has always been such a Casanova, in fact he might qualify as a lothario, always on the make.”
“Now, don’t be hard on him.”
“I’m not. I feel bad for him. He sees himself as a manly man. Kind of out of his comprehension for his father to be…well, what he is.”
“I don’t think he’s let on to his family that he knows. He sort of intercepted the pictures.”
“Think I ought to talk to him?”
“I’d say no, not now. He’d realize we’d been gossiping about him.”
“Yeah.”
“Come on, Mr. Star. Let me buy you some coffee.”
As they strolled out of the library alcove, Harry did a double take at one of the gentlemen mounted on the wall. He could have sworn he saw, on the old boy’s flat, acrylic face, a lascivious smile.
SEVEN
I t was time for a benevolent sun to shine its light on Juliet, and, in doing so, chase away the envious moon.
An irony, not lost on her classmates and friends, was that her opportunity would turn out to be grander than any of theirs; in an inexplicable twist of fate she leapfrogged them and landed a part that had the potential to make her, at once, a bona fide actress and celebrity.
The Geffen Playhouse, in Westwood, under the general auspices of UCLA, but with a wholly professional ensemble, probably the second most recognized theater in Los Angeles, put out a casting call for their upcoming production of Buried Child, Sam Shepard’s Pulitzer Prize winning drama originally produced in 1979. The part of Shelly, girlfriend of the grandson of Dodge, the family patriarch, is a role that demands much of a young actress. Juliet heard about the audition and decided to give it a try.
Later, when she got the news that she won the part, she was told that she was appropriately youthful, physically appealing, and that her reading represented the “…proper embodiment of terror, confusion and smarts.”
As a true student of theater, she had not entered into the competition unprepared. One review she had read had noted that the play “…blended modernistic touches of absurdity and magic realism, with ancient depths of emotion and artfully mingled humor and gloom.” Another cited the drama’s “brutal” humor.
With her researched awareness of the playwright’s mission, she worked herself into a semi-mystical trance so that her reading would be authentic. To her way of looking at it, she got the role because she knew the role.
The director, Evelyn Kay, was a seasoned Shepard veteran, having directed three of his plays in the past, including one on Broadway. She was a hard-nosed taskmaster, tolerating few frills, allowing no thespian to stray from the writer’s intent. For no obvious reason, with Juliet she was particularly stern, but possibly, and later to be proven, that she detected something in the young actress she did not want to see wasted.
“No, no, no, Juliet! You don’t smile when he insults you. You rage inwardly, but you nod affably. We don’t want you to be phony, but you must be complex, and, where appropriate, inscrutable. Now, try it again.”
For Juliet, it was an educational maelstrom; she was overloaded with new insights, stunned by how she was soaring into new theatrical territory. Who knew it could all be so thorny? School—and she meant no disrespect to Garth Benjamin—was trivial by comparison. On the front lines is how she thought of it, the real thing, head-to-head combat, a glorious challenge!
The opening received solid reviews in the Times and even in the radical protest paper, The LA Weekly. While the main plaudits always go to the central characters, Thomas Turan, the reviewer in the Times, widely celebrated for being a tough sell, also wrote: “The newcomer, Juliet Marsh, who was brought on for the key role of Shelly, young girlfriend of Dodge’s grandson, was more than adequate; in fact, she may have delivered the most radiant performance in what was, overall, an extraordinarily fine cast.” He concluded his review with, “Try to catch this one. And pay particular attention to the youngest actor on stage.”
Juliet was ecstatic. Harry effervesced. Katy was enthusiastic. The university classmates organized a theater party and fourteen young thespians attended, honoring Juliet afterwards with drinks and high praise. Galen showed up, not for the performance—his excuse was that he had a shoot—but for the celebration.
When the commotion settled, Harry said softly to Galen, “You look down, old buddy. The movie business getting to you?”
“Lots of things getting to me.”
“We can go off in a corner if you’d like to talk.”
“Too obvious. I don’t want anyone concerned about me.”
“People already are. If they look at you the way I do, they’ll see the upset.”
“Not now, okay? I’ll let you know when I want someone to butt in.”
“All right. You got it.” This was Juliet’s night; Harry understood that it was not the place to get into a clash of any kind that might detract from her achievement. Better to let it go. There would be another time.
“To Juliet,” he said, lifting his mug of Millers Light, “for a brilliant beginning to a long and gratifying career as an actor!”
His words were prophetic. Before the spring was over, before Harry went through graduation ceremonies, Juliet began to get calls from agents.
“You’re on your way,” Harry said to Juliet.
“I can’t believe my good fortune.”
“No such thing. Ability, talent, that’s what got you here.”
“There are lots of people with talent. You have to be in the right place at the right time.”
“There’s some synchronicity involved, but fifty people are probably considered for any role, and they gave it to you.”
“They told me they wanted a fresh face.”
“You’ve got that.”
They were in Juliet’s hospitable bed, their regular rendezvous in full swing, the sexual part just over, what Harry found wanting—the intimate part—inching awkwardly along. At least this time there was an up-beat agenda. He half-realized that Juliet stayed more animated, more into the present, when the conversation concerned her career.
“I’ve got to get an agent now. Who would think there’s an agent named Tyrone?”
“There was an adventure actor years ago named Tyrone Powers.”
“That’s when people cashed in their real names for screen monikers.”
“You know the guy who played Music Man, Robert Preston? His real name was Preston Miservi. He went to high school over on the east side of L.A.”
“This guy is Tyrone Angel. He handles about a dozen Hollywood stars. Tells me I’m a ‘can’t miss,’ and he wants in on my conquests.”
“How much? Fifteen percent?”
“For my first two movies, twenty, then it drops to fifteen, the idea being by my third film I’ll be in big money and he’ll make out like a bandit. I have to admit that Evelyn Kay, my director for Buried Child, cautioned me against this Tyrone guy. Said he was a shark.”
“So?”
“Well, he showed me his portfolio. Handles Sophie Marceau, Jessica Biel, Amanda Peet, and even Johnny Depp. That was enough for me. Pretty elevated company.”
“Keep your guard up. Remember, you’re the one riding the comet. He only wants to hook on for the trip.”
“I’ve got to get going. A lunch appointment.”
Their Friday morning tryst was over. That’s how it went, her agenda, her timing. For Harry, painful, alienating.
His parents came for the graduation ceremony. Harry was named to Phi Beta Kappa, the honor society. Katy, who had a year to go, was there, beaming. Juliet was filming a scene in Colorado.
SEVEN
I f he were prone to mysticism, Harr
y might have offered up a potpourri of inevitabilities about the events that cluttered his life in the next few months. They were meant to happen, in the scheme of things, part of a master plan. Inevitable.
Youthful as he was, he held no truck with destiny. One had to make one’s own way in the world. Lives, he would say to anyone who cared to listen, are what we make them, no more, no less. How facile to ascribe a happening to fate! In private moments he attributed his practical philosophy to the influence of his distant and un-affectionate parents.
The first aberration to the established order of things came a couple of weeks into the summer, when he read in the newspaper that a man named Cody Marsh, a convicted murderer, had escaped from prison. Juliet’s father, the itinerant musician and big-time loser, obviously had learned of his daughter’s successes, and was intent on also becoming a passenger, though a clandestine one, on her rocket-ride to fame and fortune. He may have sorely miscalculated his daughter’s family loyalty.
When a capital crime prisoner escapes, the entire, complicated police machinery is assembled to track him down. It is a blow to their function, a scar on the efficiency of the penal system, and a swift re-capture becomes the only way to restore order, to broadcast the futility of the event to other would-be escapees.
The authorities pored over computer data, uncovered the Juliet connection, contacted her at once, and admonished her to report any contact from her father. She hardly needed the prompt—on stage she never forgot her lines, in life she had a tenacious capacity to hold on to resentment. This father killed her mother; she would not be cajoled into being his ally.
Without her awareness, since it had been a federal penitentiary, the FBI, citing jurisdiction, set up an observation point near her apartment.
On his part, Cody Marsh presumed too much. His daughter, he had discovered, was prospering, and of course she would share the wealth. He would be cautious, having learned much about operating clandestinely in his months in prison, would try to contact her through a mutual friend, and would plead his case for a gift of enough bread to, “…help a poor musician get the hell out of the country.”
What her father being on the loose caused for Juliet was tension, not something she wanted at this jumping off point in her life. She despised him and she despised having to be on her guard.
“Think he’ll get in touch with you?” Harry asked over the phone.
“Sure. He’s an idiot. Sociopaths never linger on old trespasses.”
“So what will you do?”
“Call the cops. He belongs in jail.”
“You’re not afraid of him?”
“He’s afraid of me. What I remember from childhood was him always being gone somewhere, pursuing his musical career, a druggie, a self-centered sicko, an insecure dude who was scared of my mom and me because he couldn’t understand us.”
“Still, if he wants something badly enough…”
“We all want some-thing badly enough. We don’t all get it.”
“Just be careful. Remember, he’s desperate.”
She smiled, though Harry couldn’t see it, a grim smile spreading then fading, as she replied: “The one positive thing I got from my nomadic father was his passion for success. No way am I going to let his survival desperation squeeze that part out of me.”
Neither heard the slight, distant click at the end of their conversation.
The second occurrence was an accident that turned out to be a tragedy for Katy Bloom. Her intimacy coefficient was fragile, lacking in consistency, Harry’s fixation on Juliet thrashing any hope she might have entertained for an escalation of their closeness. She took from him what she could get: trust, support, a solid friendship, and the knowledge that she could count on him in time of need. The couple of girlfriends she hung out with had full lives of their own, would make time for Katy, but were only sporadically available.
Of course, she had Gus, the African grey parrot, and therein lies a baleful tale of pain and loss, a hit on her already thin support system.
After her success in subbing for Amanda Detmer in The Glass Menagerie, there was an inexplicable lull in her career. Ms. Florida Berry, her professor, several times had suggested that Katy do something about her appearance.
“Junk the glasses,” she had said. “Get contacts. Drop your hair down—you’re not a British lady—let it flow, let it blow.”
When she told Harry this, he replied, “Oh, well, she could have a point. But, after all, you’re not trying to be a Marilyn Monroe type. You’re an actor not an object.”
In line with his view of Katy, Harry told Brian De Genera at the Odyssey Theater about her, finishing with, “She’s perfect for our group, can do a variety of roles, is deeply skilled, and a lot prettier than she lets herself be.”
De Genera asked for her number, called her in, interviewed her, and sent her home with the words: “I think we can use you. Our next piece will likely be another revival, a woman’s play, the Heidi Chronicles, by Wendy Wasserstein.”
It was soon after Harry’s graduation, with its attending honors for him, and now Katy was exhilarated for herself. It meant waiting for a few weeks, but since no other role was on the horizon, nothing would be lost.
She went home, took a risk, called Harry, and asked if he’d come over so she could make him a delectable dinner—her specialty, chicken picatta, which she knew he liked—to show her appreciation. He had just finished his conversation with Juliet about her father, and was feeling curiously off balance, and to Katy’s delight, he readily agreed.
“What can I bring?”
“Yourself. Oh, if you want, a red wine.”
“You got it.”
Ten minutes after he arrived, Harry heard Gus squawk loudly and say, rather distinctly, “Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow.”
He laughed. “Katy my girl, you’ve been talking to yourself. No secrets in this house.”
“It’s my mantra lately. Miss Berry’s been on me to loosen up my appearance, my hair, my whole attitude.”
“And you seem to have gotten the message, along with your parrot.”
“She’s a dear, brightens up the place. I tell friends I don’t live alone. I have a roommate.”
He lifted his glass. “To Gus.” It was the second toast he had made in the past few months, the other saluting Juliet’s professional theatrical debut.
As if he were the third member of the dinner party, Gus echoed, “To Gus!”
“And,” Harry added, “I suspect we’ll be toasting a part for you at the Odyssey before long.”
“Thanks to you.” She placed her hand on his.
He would have denied that the thought ever crossed his mind, but any show of affection would be a clear challenge to his love for Juliet, and he extracted his hand, saying, “Let’s be thankful you don’t have an escaped convict father to harass you, like Juliet. It’s driving her crazy.”
“I’m sorry,” Katy said softly, her face, completely missed by Harry, a mask of disappointment, her private moment with him once again detoured by his obsession with Juliet.
The chicken picatta, capered and salty, along with angel-hair pasta, was a success, one of the few semi-gourmet foods Katy ventured to cook. Her living situation did not lend itself to culinary experimentation; on the run, she often ate standing up, despite intermittent stomach upsets and occasional acid reflux symptoms. Harry was complimentary.
“Great food. Another of your talents.”
“Hardly. Ask for anything else and I’ll plead ignorance. Not that I couldn’t learn.”
“When people ask me if I can cook,” Harry said with an impish smile, “I tell them, ‘I can read, so I can cook.’”
“But the most exalted cooks are creative and go beyond the written recipes, blending novel flavors and spices.”
“Okay, I agree. So I can cook standard fare. I’ll leave the exotic stuff to the master creators.”
They had been entertained, off and on during the dinner, by Gus mouthing back the e
nd words of their sentences, but now she was subdued.
“Look,” Harry said, pointing toward the peg Katy had installed outside the cage. “I think she’s asleep.”
“She does that. Scares me. Her previous owners had clipped her wings so she can’t fly. I keep thinking when she goes to sleep she might tumble off her peg, but I’m told birds have remarkable balance.”
Indeed, her eyes were closed and she perched still as a statue, claws wrapped around the wooden rod, which spanned the area between the cage and a tall bookshelf.
They watched her for a moment, and Harry said, “No teetering, no imbalance, and anyway, if she fell she probably would flutter to the floor, not like a stone but like a feather.”
“I guess you’re right. So far, she seems to make out okay. No slips, no falls.”
“You’re a good mommy.”
“More like a sister.”
“All right, a good sister.”
When he left her apartment an hour later, closing with a knees-to-knees hug and Katy holding on extra long, all was well, the celebration gratifying for both.
Gus slept soundly on her wood perch.
As he entered his own apartment, Harry’s phone was squealing, to him more than a ring, rather, since it was so late, like the whine of emergency. He answered with some trepidation.
“Oh Harry,” Katy was sobbing. “The earthquake…”
“What earthquake? I was in my car.”
“It wasn’t huge,” she halted, caught her breath, and poured out her words in palpable agony, “but enough to shake Gus off her peg. She tumbled backwards, hit her head on the bookshelf, fell like—what you said—a stone. Harry, she’s dead. Gus is dead. It broke her neck. She’s dead.”
**********
It is said that troublesome news comes in threes; certainly in the influences on Harry’s life—and the lives of his theater companions—what occurred next was a nettlesome confirmation, and by far the worst.
It is a complex scenario that takes some tunneling. It begins with Galen Thurston and his father-discovery.
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