Acts of Love
Page 5
She'd be eighteen, Luke thought. Constance would have been—he calculated rapidly—sixty-three. Two years had gone by without a letter—at least, there were none in the box—but in that time Jessica had done everything Constance had suggested. He was touched by the image of a lonely young woman steadfastly following the advice of someone she worshiped but did not see or hear from for two years. And she must indeed have improved, because here she was, appearing once again with Constance. He wondered if Constance helped her get the part.
He returned the letter to its place in the box and took another at random, much farther toward the back.
I know, I know, Constance, of course you're right, but I m so angry I can't think straight. It isn't enough to say that I'm alive and life has so much to offer—I know it does, but it isn't enough! I want what I had . . . oh, God, I want it back and it eats away at me that I can't have it. I'm sorry, dearest Constance, I shouldn't pour all this
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out on you, but I know you understand, Because you're living on your mountain in Italy and tnat isn't enougn for you, eitner, is it?
This must have been after the train accident, Luke thought. It eats away at me that I can't have it. She meant the theater, of course, but why couldn't she have it? What had happened to her?
Holding the letter, he gazed through his tall, leaded windows as the sky brightened, thinking that Jessica Fontaine was turning out to be far more interesting than he had ever thought she was, more interesting, in fact, than anyone he knew right now. A remarkable, mysterious woman. Something drew him to her: perhaps the tragedy of her life and her disappearance, perhaps her greatness before that, perhaps her friendship with Constance. He did not know the reason; he only knew that the box of letters was like a magnet that tugged at him wherever he was. I need a quiet evening, he thought, to start at the beginning and read them in the order she wrote them. He looked at his calendar for that night. Cocktails at Joe and Ilene's. Dinner at Monte's. A late supper with Claudia. He flipped through the pages for the rest of that week, and the next. God damn it, he needed a night at home. Well, tomorrow night. He wrote a note to make his apologies to Joe and Ilene and to Monte, then slipped Jessica's letter back in the box. He had a few hours to sleep before he was due at Monte's office. And that evening he would come back to Jessica, and find out what happened to her: why she vanished from the stage, where she was now, whether she knew about Constance. What she knew about him.
And he realized, as he went to his bedroom, that he was already thinking he might want to see her again. Not for any special reason, he thought; just out of curiosity. And then, at last, he went to sleep.
CHAPTER 3
Dearest Constance, it seems so weird to be tack in hign scnool, spending my time witn all tnese people wno nave no idea wnat I was reeling all summer, now mucn I learned, now dirrerent I am. A boy I met last year, Wesley Minturn, very tall and tnin and stooped (like a stork peering down to see what tne rest or us are up to) asked me to go to a movie. He said he had his lather's car and he even told me what kind—a six-cylinder Alra-Romeo convertible, red, with black leather seats—I guess he thought I'd find that irresistible but actually I thought it was pretty sad that he couldn't trust himself to be the main attraction of the evening. He made me feel old . . . well, older than him anyway, because I do trust myself, maybe for the first time in my life. I think I won't date at all for the rest of high school; I'm just too different from everybody here, I've seen too much of the world, I'm worla-weary (I'm pretty sure I know what that means) and even though I'm an actress I won't act like all the other seventeen-year-olds in my class. I'm sure I'll be lonely, but that's the price one pays for being an artist. If we don't suffer, how can we ever become great? I hope you're fine and please write to me. All my love, Jessica.
Luke smiled. World-weary. Hardly. She was young, charming, full of energy and hope, and dramatic as only a seventeen-year-old could be: acting a role even when writing a letter. Constance probably had seen herself, at seventeen, in that letter. No wonder they'd become friends.
~ 36 ~
He slipped Jessica's letter back in its place and sat back, his gaze moving around the library. It was large and square with a deep green cove ceiling, mahogany shelves lining three walls and a mahogany-carved fireplace within a green marble surround. A red, green and brown Bessarabian covered the floor and the long couches were the same red, starding and dramatic against dark green velvet drapes. "Like a stage set," his grandmother had said with satisfaction, and she had sat like a queen in the center of one of the couches, looking up to the ceiling with its wrought-iron chandelier and down to the vast coffee table covered with stacks of books, most of them brisding with bookmarks. I miss her, Luke thought; those weekly telephone calls, our visits, just knowing she was there, part of my life.
The telephone rang and he reached for it. "Luke," said Tricia, somewhere between annoyance and alarm, "I'm at Joe and Ilene's; why aren't you here.^"
"I decided to stay home and read."
"Stay home? You never stay home! And this playwright you wanted to meet—"
"I called him; we made a date for lunch next week." "Something's wrong. Was it last night? Because I talked about getting married.? I wasn't serious, you know; and anyway, I said I didn't want to, so—"
"It has nothing to do with you. I enjoy being home and I don't do it often enough."
There was a pause. "Are you going to Monte's dinner.?" "No."
"Luke, he's your producer!"
"He's having sixty people for dinner; he won't miss me. I'm sorry I'm not with you, but you'll find plenty of scandals for tomorrow's column and that's the real reason you're there, isn't it.?" "Well, and to be with you."
"I'll call you tomorrow. We'll do something on Friday if you're free. Right now I'm going back to my reading."
When he hung up, he refilled his glass from the botde of Scotch that Mardn had left for him earlier that evening and added ice cubes from the insulated ice bucket. "You'll be having dinner at home ?" Mardn had asked. "About eight," Luke replied. "Something light."
He reached for another letter, and the telephone rang again. "What the
38 ~ Judith Michael
hell," he said, and thought of letting Martin get it, but instead picked it up.
"Luke!" Claudia exclaimed. "Why are you home? You said you'd be at Joe and Ilene's, and then Monte's, and then we had a date!"
Oh, Christ, he thought, remembering, and felt annoyed and resentful as he saw his private evening slip away. But at the same time he saw the humor in it: two women trying to drag him out of his home when all he wanted was to be alone with a third woman's letters.
"It's because you don't want to see me, isn't it? You never stay home; you're just looking for an excuse—"
"It has nothing to do with you." It was amazing how people made themselves crucial to every event, he thought, seeing themselves as the cause of what other people do. He drained his glass and mentally shrugged. "I'll have a quick supper with you. Italia at nine. I'll see you there."
He told Martin he would not, after all, be dining at home and asked him to call the restaurant to reserve a table. He poured himself another drink and took out the next letter. He had an hour.
On, wnat a magniricent girt! Dearest Constance, now wonaer-rul you are, tne necklace is absolutely tne most gorgeous girt I've ever nad. Tne cameo looks so rare ana precious, and I love tne silver cnain, ana I'm going to wear it rorever, starting tomorrow arternoon witn graduation and tnen tne prom. Well, yes, I actually am going to tne prom. I remember I told you I wouldn't date ror tne rest or nign scnool and you said I'd reel as ir I was in a play and got sick and my understudy went on and nobody missed me. You were absolutely rignt, so alter a wnile I started going to parties and things and I even bad a good time. Well, some or tbe time I did; do you nave any idea now young bigb school boys are? Tbey only nave three or rour things to talk about and then tbey start using tb
eir bands. You wouldn't believe it: one minute they're talking about tbe school rootball team or something else I couldn't care less about, and then all or a sudden tbeir bands are all over tne place, poking, rubbing, pawing . . . unbelievably crude! And sloppy! Tney bave absolutely no rinesse . . . they're like puppies, all panting and nuzzling. Tbe problem is, once in a while lately I've started responding—well, my body has, anyway, and I think, ob, well, why not?—which I rind totally embarrassing because there's nothing romantic happening, and then it all seems so dumb, and I tell whoever it is to take me home. But
Acts of L
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wnat nappened about tne prom was tnat a really nanasome guy wno just moved nere, very smootn—lots or rinesse!—asked me to go, and I tnougnt, wnat a cnange, so I'm going witn kim. . . . He just called and asked me wnat I'm wearing so ne could cnoose an orcnid to matcn! I told nim black. It nas lace barely covering my front, very sopnisticated—and can't you imagine now tne cameo will look against black silk? More later, all or it in great detail.
Crude and sloppy, Luke thought. Puppies. He remembered himself in high school, all arms and legs, awkward and uncoordinated the minute a girl approached; his voice unreliable, his penis willfully springing to attention, obeying no master but itself. She doesn't know a damn thing about it, he grumbled. But then he chuckled, remembering that the letter had been written some twenty-three years earlier. Past history, he thought; she's learned a lot since then, and so have I. He opened the next letter and ran a casual eye over it, not interested in descriptions of a high school prom, but suddenly a sentence stopped him.
I'm so asnamed or tne letters I've been sending you, so incredibly cnildisb.
Something happened, he thought; she's changed. And it looks like it's been a long time since the last letter. He went back to the beginning.
Dearest Constance, your letter was rorwarded to me bere, at Yale, where I'm tinisbing up my rirst year. I'm sorry I baven't written, I tbink or you all tne time but I just couldn't write. I'm so ashamed or tne letters I ve been sending you, so incredibly cbildisb. I can't believe I ever was that person, so young and uncaring, never wondering ir you bad time in your lire ror a twittering teenager wbo kept throwing berselr at you, demanding tnat you love ber. I did want you to love me, ror lots or reasons, but partly because I thought my parents didn't. Well, now they're dead and all I know ror sure is tnat I never really knew tnem and that makes me so despairing that I tbink I'll explode with it because there's nothing I can ao about it. I m not sure I ever really looked at tbem, you know; it seems to me I was always looking somewhere else when tney were in the room. So I never saw wbo they really were. They told me they loved me and
means ere,
40 ~ Judith Michael
wanted to protect me, nut tnat meant keeping me in our little town, sately married, doing sometning witk my drawing and painting—like interior design, or something—but I'd told them over and over tkat tnat was just a notby. They never understood tnat New York tne tneater and you and life to me, and all I wanted was to he tk and we quarreled about tnat and now I tnink of tnings I skould kave said, or tkings I skould kave said differently, or not said at all. I know tkey loved me and tkey weren't kad people . . . ok, it's crazy and scary to tkink tkat I'll never see tkem again or tell tkem all tkese tkings I ve figured out kow to say. Tkey were driving to a movie and tkey stopped for a red ligkt and a car rammed tkem from nekind and pusked tkem into tke patk of a truck. I kad nigktmares about tkat for montks, even after I came to Yale, and tken I got sick and ended up in tke infirmary. A psyckiatrist. Dr. Leppard, came to see me, a wonderful man wko reminds me of my fatker, and we talked for montks, tkree times a week, and after a wkile I was able to sleep again. But I didn't care about anytking; I felt like some kind of me-ckanical doll tkat makes all tke rigkt moves and passes tests in class ana talks to people—everybody was so nice, but it was like tbey were talking to me from far away—I felt all empty inside—not alive. Tken one day Dr. Leppard asked wky wasn't I in tke tkeater program? Tkat was funny, because of course it was tke reason I came to Yale and I kadn't even tkougkt about it. So I went over to tke tkeater and tkey were casting a play and I got a part rigkt away. It was small, but it got me back on stage. But tken tke most awful tking kappened. Wken I came to tke first rekearsal and looked at all tke empty seats in front of me and tke rest of tke cast all around me and tke director sitting on tke edge of tke stage witk tke script in kis kand, I started to cry. Because rigkt tken, for tke first time, I really believed tkat my parents were dead and I'd never be witk tkem again and it was as if I'd tkumked my nose at tkem tke minute I walked out on stage. I mean, I'd ckosen tkis otker world tkat tkey didn't approve of and it was like a betrayal. Of course tkey d never know it, but still . . . ok, I don't know, it was tke most confused time in my life. Everybody came to kelp and I finally stopped crying, and afterwards I felt like I d become somebody else. I wasn't my parents' daugkter and I never would be, ever again. And I was alone. I didn't bave anybody
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~ 41
benind me, waiting ror me to come nome, keeping my bedroom ready and leaving tne rront door unlocked and tne living room lamp lit. But arter a wnile I remembered tnat I bave you to write to, and your letters to read—I read tbem bundreds or times, did I ever tell you tbat?—and I knew tbat I really do bave a ramily and a bome and tbat's tbe tbeater. It's tbe one place I know I belong. I'm going to work as bard as I can, and I 11 be tbe best or all—except ror you, or course; but maybe someday I'll be as good as you—because tbat's wbat I want more tban anytbing in tbe world. I don't want a ramily or cbildren or any or tbose ordinary tbings tbat get so messy and burt so mucb. I just want to act. Once I tbougbt tbe tbeater was all I wanted; now I know it's all I can bave. I miss my parents. I miss knowing tbey're at bome, talking about wbat we'll do wnen I visit. I miss baving tbem miss me. I bope you're rine and tbat you'll write to me again even ir I've spent all tbis time talking about myselr. Are you rine? Wbat are you starring in now? All my love, Jessica.
"Luke, what in the world is the matter with you.''" Claudia exclaimed. "We're waiting for you!"
Luke looked up and met the patient gaze of the sommelier, looking as timeless as the murals of Pompeii and Herculaneum on the walls and the antique draperies at the windows. "Sorry." He ran his eye down the wine list he had been staring at, unseeing. "We'll have the Conterno Poderi Barolo if you still have the '90. And ask our waiter to bring us an order of calamari to start."
"What were you thinking about.-^ Or should I say, who?"
"An eighteen-year-old girl whose parents were killed in an automobile accident."
She stared at him. "Who is it.'' I didn't know you knew any eighteen-year-olds. Oh, is it the new play you've just started working on.'' You haven't told me anything about it."
"No." The sommelier brought the wine and Luke sat back and looked at Claudia. She was wearing a dark blue dinner suit, beaded at the deep cuffs and collar and cut with such dramatic angles that it was almost a costume. She wore it with style, attracting glances. But they were brief, because her beauty was the kind that left people feeling puzzled, wondering why they were not drawn to such perfection. Her face was a perfect oval
42 ~ Judith Michael
framed by straight black hair that swung smoothly when she turned her head; her black eyes were spaced perfectly, her cheekbones made gentle shadows in her smooth, lightly powdered skin. Her mouth . . . well, that was one of the problems, Luke thought. Her mouth would have been perfect but for the tiny tug of dissatisfaction at each corner, like a perpetual complaint that the world was not living up to Claudia Cameron's expectations. And then there was something wrong with her perfection itself: she always looked a little as if she were lacquered, her features unmarked by warmth. Even when she smiled, her eyes were watchful and a little suspicious.
Once, Luke had been overwhelmed by her beauty, when he was young and beginning to be noticed. He knew she would help him to be not
iced, and she did: they were such a striking couple that their photographs appeared in magazines more often than couples with greater fame and more impressive credentials. And Claudia helped him in other ways. She was an amiable hostess who followed Luke's directions perfectly in hiring caterers, florists and valets; she tolerated unexpected guests with a bright smile; and she could talk lightly and amusingly at parties often or a hundred for an entire evening without saying one word of significance or making one remark that anyone could construe as controversial.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, having held her pose for several minutes so that he could gaze at her without interruption.
Luke nodded to the sommelier to pour the wine. "What a good hostess you are."
"Oh, was. I don't entertain anymore. There doesn't seem to be any point. Is the eighteen-year-old real, or is she in a play?"
"She's real."
"Who is she?"
"An actress."
"At eighteen?"
"She's in the theater program at Yale."
"And fired up with ambition? That's what you find so attractive about her?"
"Do I find her attractive?"
"Enough to make you forget I'm sitting here."