An hour later, the clothes were stacked on the bed and she was lost in a sea of crumpled newspaper she had used for packing. A key turned in the front door.
Gary.
No time for a cursory look in the mirror. She brushed back her hair and pinched her cheeks before realizing her hands were covered with newsprint. Now her face probably was as well.
Gary walked in and laughed. “Very cute.”
“I’ll go wash up. Give me a minute.” She ran into his—their—bathroom and quickly scrubbed her face and hands.
Gary followed her in. “Don’t you want to hear how the pitch went?”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“They loved it. I’ll tell you more when you get dressed. Dinner out, okay?”
“Sure.” She went to her stack of clothes. “I hope you don’t mind. My clothes are all on the bed right now.” She found her favorite pants suit.
He followed her into the bedroom, looked around the room not only at the mess on his bed, but also the stack of empty boxes. Then he noticed her sampler. “You have to be kidding. Naomi, I’m a grown man, I can’t have something like this in my bedroom.”
Instantly she removed it from the wall and asked, “Where should I put it?”
“I don’t know. How about your favorite store? You know, the Salvation Army.”
She slid it under the bed. “This okay for now?”
“Sure. C’mon, can’t wait to tell you about today.” Gary grabbed her hand and whoosh down the stairs they went.
Naomi gasped as Gary hailed a taxi. “Wow, you’re kidding,” slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it. Never before did he spring for anything like this. Always they took the subway.
“Not kidding, news too good for a subway.” A taxi pulled to the curb and the cabdriver opened his window. Gary leaned in and said, “Junior’s Restaurant. The one on Flatbush.”
They slipped into the back seat and Gary asked, “How’d the move go?”
“Tony—” The car swerved frenetically to the right and Gary slammed into Naomi. “Uh, as I was saying—.” This time she was stopped midsentence because both she and Gary were tossed to the left.
Gary tapped on the plastic window dividing the front from the back of the car.
The driver slid the partition open and eyed Gary’s reflection in his rearview mirror. In a heavy Russian accent, he asked, “What you want?”
Gary squinted his eyes to read the name on the identity plate. “Hey, Anatoly, ya wanna take it easy? My lady friend’s gonna get a concussion you keep this up.”
“Yes, sir,” the man nodded, sliding the partition shut once again.
“Do I have to wait till we get to the restaurant? Gary, please tell me, are they interested in our idea?”
“Our idea?” He arched his eyebrows. “Whoa. Our idea?”
“Well, I contributed.”
Gary brushed his lips across her neck and breathed into her ear. She knew what he was doing, and it worked every time. For whatever reason he might have to distract her, she enjoyed it—way too much.
He again asked, “How’d the move go?”
“Good. Except I don’t know where to put my clothes. I’ll have to squeeze all yours over to one side to fit mine in.”
“So, what’s the problem with that?”
“I felt bad, you know, smushing all your—”
“It’ll be fine. I’ll move some of my summer stuff into the closet in the office.”
“And we need my name on the mailbox.”
“No problem once again. What else?”
“Your answering machine. The message. Can we record something that has my name on it, too?”
Suddenly his easy agreement to everything halted. “Hmm. Something about that doesn’t seem . . .” He stroked her cheek and played with a curl dangling off her forehead. “Honey, it wouldn’t be professional . . . we need to keep our personal and our professional lives separate.”
“What am I supposed to do? Get my own phone number?”
He withdrew his hand from her face and snapped, “Why shouldn’t you?”
Her upper body tensed and her eyes began to blink involuntarily.
“Stop looking like that, Naomi. You can still get rid of that silly answering service. Tell you what, I’ll help you pick out a machine like mine. But our names need to be kept separate.”
She desperately wanted to ask why, but held back. Thankfully, at that very moment the cab came to a stop in front of Junior’s Restaurant.
The popular glorified diner bustled with activity. Gary put his arm around Naomi’s waist and escorted her to a booth by the window. “I’ll treat tonight. They make great steakburgers.”
Their orders soon taken, London broil for him and a steakburger for her, Gary was ready to tell her the events of his day. “Just like Rhonda promised . . . she is such a super agent—”
“You still have to get her to see my work.”
“Yeah, I’ll get to that.” Gary pursed his lips together and said, “When you interrupt me, I lose my train of thought.”
“I’m sorry. Rhonda got the producer?”
“An associate producer, but not just any associate producer. This guy’s big in Hollywood. He’s found projects for Norman Lear himself. The guy’s name is Sid, and he loves the idea of doing it as a soap opera parody.”
“Ahem, my idea.”
“That’s not how I remember it exactly—more like a collaborative effort. But wait til you hear this. He says we’ll do it without a laugh track and with a live studio audience. Outrageous, huh?”
“Why?”
“It’ll look more like a soap opera that way. Okay, and one more thing: he wants to change it to I Love Chloe. Sid said it’s catchier.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?”
“As long as I still get to play Chloe, it’s fine with me.”
The waitress placed their food before them. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, I love your half-sour pickles,” Naomi said.
“Better bring a big bowl of them,” Gary said as he looked at Naomi and winked.
Naomi laughed. “Somebody would think I’m pregnant, huh? I love my pickles.”
“Good way to keep your figure,” Gary said. “The TV cameras add something like ten or fifteen pounds. Hope you know that.”
She bit into a bright green crunchy pickle. “Umm. These are great. So, you’re saying, yeah, I’ll definitely play Zoey or Chloe or whatever we call her. Right?”
He jabbed a fork into the largest pickle he could find in the bowl and bit into it. “Naomi, who else could play the neurotic housewife? You’re a natural. Look how neurotic you were about where to hang your clothes. Now since I’ll be playing the oblivious husband, mine will take a stretch of the imagination.” He paused. “Uh, sweetie, that was your cue, you were supposed to say something like, ‘Oh, but, Gary you’re such a good actor you can do it.’”
“Guess I was being the oblivious one. Sorry.”
“You know what? You say ‘sorry’ a lot. That’s good. That shows a neurotic personality. We’ll use that in the script.”
Their dinner arrived. Naomi reached for the salt at the same time Gary did. “Sorry,” she said.
He shook his finger at her and smirked.
Both ate in relative silence until the decision for dessert. “Since I have to watch my figure, you wanna share one of their giant slices of cheesecake?”
“Depends which one.”
“Could we get the brownie marble?”
“As long as you eat less than half. Think how many calories must be in it.”
Soon the luscious slice was divided between the two of them. However, she did not enjoy it. Awareness of the calories overshadowed its taste.
“Sounds like a done deal the way you’re talking. Gary, I can’t believe it. We should be jumping up and down.”
“Ain’t over till the fat lady sings.”
Her eyes popped open and the dessert sat in her mouth unchewed. �
�What? Fat?”
“Man, you really are neurotic. The fat lady . . . it’s an expression like saying ‘the game’s not over yet,’ or even better ‘don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’ You’re not fat, so would you please chew your food?”
On their way out, she thanked him for treating her to dinner. Again, he hailed a cab. Several blocks before home, he said, “I might need to go to California to pitch this to the big guys. Hope you’re prepared for my being gone for a little while. I’ll divvy up my parts between Tony and even you and Julie. A girl can play some of them.”
“California? But I just moved in—”
“Stop with the neuroses, okay? It shouldn’t be for long, and then hopefully they’ll agree to film the show here in New York. If not, we’ll move to California. My lease here in Brooklyn will be up in July, so either way it’ll work out. We move or we stay. Meanwhile, you’ll keep our apartment warm for the both of us.”
Naomi’s mind buzzed, trying to grapple with all the rapid changes in her life. Since they sat in silence until reaching their brownstone, she assumed Gary was preoccupied as well
On their way up the stairs, Naomi said, “You know, Tony’s a really great guy, carrying all my boxes up these stairs, but he got kinda weird when he saw Zoey. He said she was Francine’s cat.”
“It’s no big deal. I told Francine I’d take care of her until she got settled in California. Don’t know why Tony got weird. Probably your imagination.”
Gary turned the key but before opening the door, he gave Naomi a passionate kiss.
Our new life together. He loves me.
Once inside, they threw their coats onto the sofa. Zoey grabbed onto Gary’s leg and whimpered. “Better feed her.”
“I’d do it, but she doesn’t seem to like me.”
“Give her time, she will.” He walked into the kitchen, Zoey following close behind. Soon he returned to the living room, sat on the sofa and pulled Naomi onto his lap. “Speaking of Francine, you know Rhonda’s the agent who got her started in L.A. I told her all about you and she wants to meet you.”
“Really?”
Gary nodded. “I told her to give you maybe another few weeks, then she should catch your performance in the show.”
“Aren’t I good enough now?”
“Another few weeks, that’s all.”
Later that night, Naomi lay in bed listening to Gary’s ragged breathing. It might have been ragged, but he at least was sleeping. Of all the nights she had slept over in the past, this was the first time sleep evaded her. Shouldn’t it have been even more blissful now that this was her home, too?
Then why this sense of dread? When would Gary leave for California? Would she soon be sleeping alone in this big bed? Why did he think she wasn’t good enough for Rhonda to see her perform? And why couldn’t they have the same phone number and its answering machine? And why hadn’t he mentioned the lease of her new home would be up in July?
He’s right. I really am neurotic.
CHAPTER 3
Being Passed Over
“To My Best Daughter, Your father will not relent as much as I plead with him. I have told him you are our child, and our love can’t relent either. But, darling, you were not raised to live like this. Please forgive your father for calling you that name—you are not a tramp, but to live with a man, you know this is not right. How will this end? Even if you marry him, I don’t know if your father, even then, will relent. Will I ever see my little girl again? Soon it will be Passover. Will it be our first Seder without you? I think about coming to visit you, but, sweetheart, your father forbids me. Love, Your Best Mom.”
Naomi dropped her half-eaten candy bar on the coffee table, slipped the handwritten letter back into its envelope and ran to the bathroom. With a handful of toilet tissue, she wiped her eyes and nose. It was now after 4:30 p.m—too close to the time Dad would be coming home from work. If she called Mom, and Dad walked in . . . Naomi hadn’t the heart to do that to her mother.
Pee-eww. Zoey’s litter box, ensconced behind the bathroom sink, called for cleaning again. Why don’t we ship the cat off to Francine already?
The front door opened and Gary called out, “Naomi, where are you?”
“Coming.” When she returned to the living room, Gary waved the candy bar at her.
“I told you, the camera adds up to ten pounds.” She opened her mouth to object, but he interrupted. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I need to call Gwen and set up some auditions.”
“Why? What—”
Gary put his finger to his lips. “Shush.” He flipped through his address book until he found what he needed, then dialed. “Gwen, it’s me, Gary. We have to schedule auditions and find someone to fill in for me.”
Naomi gasped.
Again Gary put his finger to his lips. “I’ll be going to California in three weeks, not sure for how long.”
Naomi nibbled on her candy bar as Gary gave Gwen the time and place for the casting call.
“Glad I can always count on you, Gwen. Bye.” He hung up the phone. “Give me that candy bar.”
With a pout, she walked over and handed it to him. Gary tossed it into a nearby garbage can, keeping his eyes fixed on Naomi. “As for the phone call with Gwen, you knew this was coming, so can we please be grown-up about it? I had another meeting today with Rhonda and Sid. He has a couple of producers already lined up in L.A. for me to meet, and he’s working on getting more.” He took her by her shoulders. “This is big, Naomi.”
“Who? Who are the producers?”
He scoffed. “Oh, like you’d know their names.”
“No, I guess not. But isn’t it possible I could go with you?”
Gary sauntered into the bedroom, discarding his tie and belt on the way. “I have a lot to do, including airplane reservations.”
“Why can’t I go with you?” She followed, picking up his clothes along the way.
“I already told you, I need you to stay here—you’re the best one in the cast now.” He changed into a pair of running pants and a sweatshirt. “I need you to hold it all together while I’m gone.”
“But, Gary, the show’s run might be about over. Let’s face it. The audiences are shrinking, especially on the weeknights. And you know Tony got a callback for that soap opera.”
“Get serious, Naomi. Tony is not soap opera material. And I’ll write him a new skit. That’ll make him happy.”
“You haven’t written anything new in a while . . . for any of us.”
“Oh, so now you’re joining all the backstage back-stabbers.”
Her heart raced and her throat muscles clenched; what if she’d been caught? Backstage last weekend she had joined the others in a complainers’ klatch. Had he overheard any of it? “Gary, it’s just that they asked me if I could talk you into writing some new stuff.”
“And you said?”
She chuckled. “I told them they gotta be crazy if they think I can talk you into anything. But it’s kinda true. I mean, they’re getting restless. Why not close the show and let me—”
“I know what I’m doing. When I speak to all these big shots in Hollywood, don’t you think it’ll be good for them to know I still have a show running off-Broadway? And that I can keep it running even when I’m out of town? I know what I’m doing.”
“I realize that. I’m sorry.”
Brushing past her, he said, “I’m going into the other room and type up some notes from today’s meeting.”
“I’ll make dinner.”
After seasoning the chopped meat that had been thawing all day, Naomi molded it into a meatloaf. Earlier in the day she had planned to use the heart-shaped casserole dish she had found in a consignment shop the week before. After staring at it momentarily, she shook her head and hid the dish in the hinterlands of the pantry. Out came the plain old Teflon loaf pan.
Meat slapped into the pan, oven preheated and ready to go, she set the timer. And sat, staring at the clock.
I
better do it now and get it over with. What if he never does it? Like he promised . . . I could wait and ask him over dinner. But what if . . .
She steeled herself and with determination walked into the spare bedroom Gary used for his office. “While you’re still in the show, would you call Rhonda so she can see my work? You said you would and I’m sure I’m good enough by now, but she has to see me working with you.”
“You’re breaking my concentration. Later, okay?”
Suddenly an unpleasant feeling at the back of her throat, followed by the sense of her stomach muscles contracting, stole her attention from the current situation with Gary.
“Sure.” She hurried to the bathroom and turned on the tap water before leaning over the toilet bowl. The last thing she needed right now was for him to hear her retch.
After Friday night’s curtain call, Gary drew the cast together. Naomi had already shared the dreaded news with Julie, who referred to it as “the death knell for the show.”
“Okay, announcement everyone. I’m leaving in two weeks for California. I’ve got a chance to pitch a new TV show. Can’t expect me to give up something like that, right? We’ve been auditioning for a replacement for me. Found a guy. Don.”
Don? He’s picking Don?
“You’re all going to have to do double duty for the next two weeks while we rehearse with him.” Gary held up a stack of papers. “Here’s the schedule I made up.” He handed the papers to the stage manager who then dispersed them to the cast.
Boy, they’re like the walking definition of disgruntled. And no wonder. The house was only half-full tonight. The show is dying. And Don? That’s like the final nail in the coffin
Gary grabbed her hand. “I need a drink. Hurry up and get ready, okay?”
She nodded as she hurried off to her dressing room. Julie was already sitting in front of the mirror, slapping on the makeup remover. “Here.” She slid the jar of cold cream to Naomi.
“Thanks.”
“So did you audition with this Don guy?”
“Sure did. Julie, he never once made eye contact with me. It was like working with a cold fish. I even told . . . oh, never mind.”
Naomi, The Rabbi's Wife Page 4
