“Could everyone just give us a minute?” Dewey begged.
“We don’t need a minute,” I said. “We’re done.”
And with that I stormed out of the theater. It was a bit dramatic. Even for me.
* * * *
Of course, Mac was with me the whole way home. He did, however, have enough sense to keep his mouth shut. When we got inside the house, I turned to him and said, “Go ahead. Say it. Say you told me so.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly tell you so...but I was in the neighborhood. I guess I can take credit. Or at least partial—”
“I can’t believe I’m such a bad judge of character.”
“Of course you can...when it comes to men you haven’t made a reasonable decision since you were with me.”
“I’m not sure I’d call you a reasonable decision.”
“I was the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“I think that’s debatable.”
“Well, if I wasn’t the best thing that ever happened to you, then what was?”
“Mac I don’t want to talk about that right now. It’s been a very disappointing evening. Which, if you think about it, is actually your fault.”
“My fault? How is it my fault?”
“You’re the one who gave them money in the first place. If it weren’t for you they probably wouldn’t exist and if they didn’t exist they wouldn’t be asking me for money.”
“Are you going to give them any money?” Mac asked.
“Do you want me to? I mean, you’re the one who funded them in the first place. Speaking of which, why didn’t you leave them money, Mac?”
“I supported them because I found them amusing. I wasn’t expecting to find them amusing after death. Besides, I wanted to leave my money to you.”
“You didn’t have to leave me every last penny. You could have split it up.”
“I didn’t...it would have diluted...I didn’t want you to think...” For the briefest of moments he was speechless, then he asked, “Are you going to give them money then?”
“Of course I’m going to give them money!” I yelled. “At least enough to get through Heaven Sent.”
“You’re not going to continue with that, are you? You’re so much better than this.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t decided.” Actually, it hadn’t even occurred to me to quit. Yes, Grady could step back into the part and they’d be fine. But I liked the part and wanted to do it. And if I was going to pay for the run, then I should get something out of it. Shouldn’t I?
Of course, it was Grady’s part originally. I wondered if I should feel bad about taking it from him. He had lied to me and attempted to get money out of me under false pretenses. They all had, though. I couldn’t hold it against just Grady. He’d agreed to give me the part without any pressure from me. I mean, I’m an actor. Why would I turn down a part? Most actors wouldn’t give it even this much thought.
The bigger problem was that I was paying to work. I’d never paid to work. That would be a new low. And with a community theater, too. Not that footing the bill for bringing A Rock and a Hard Place to New York wasn’t the same thing on a grander scale. Oh shit, I thought, I’ve become the kind of actor who has to pay to work. On top of that, my romantic life was an even bigger disaster than my career. I wouldn’t know a nice guy if he came up and bit me on the ass.
As though reading my mind, and I wasn’t convinced he couldn’t do just that, Mac asked, “Don’t you think it’s time?”
“Time for what?”
“Time to come with me.”
I have to admit, for a tiny moment the idea didn’t seem so bad. I mean, Mac was dead and he seemed to be having the time of his life. Spending eternity with him meant that I wouldn’t be disappointed by any more losers like Dewey. I’d also get to skip the whole unpleasant aging process that was threatening my future like a bad debt.
“I can’t,” I said. “As appealing as it might be, I just don’t want to die now. I hope you understand.”
He said he didn’t and disappeared in a huff. Or rather a puff. A lavender puff.
Chapter Fourteen
Another Fish in the Sea
Cal refused to speak to me for more than a week. I called repeatedly and left messages. I got in the car and drove over to Mac’s twice, only to turn around and come home before I reached the driveway. Of course, I could have simply shown up at rehearsal, but it seemed unfair to interrupt his artistic process. The Barnyard Players were shocked when Cal showed up the next night, no one more so than Grady who’d had his cast removed and was ready to resume playing the part. Wendell was thrilled, even more so when Cal presented him with a check for five thousand dollars which was enough to take them to the end of the run. It wasn’t the endowment they were hoping for, but they were smart enough to be grateful. The reports I got were that rehearsal was going well and that the show would be a delight. But still, I stayed away.
Rather than spend another night sitting in my house obsessing about Cal, I decided to go to one of the few remaining video stores on the planet over in Skyler and get visual aids. One of the things that had kept Skyler Video and Games open was that they had a vibrant foreign and independent section. They even had a gay section, so I was able to rent a DVD copy of Lust/Anger/Joy. I stopped at a market and bought myself Fritos, whipped cream cheese, and root beer—a guilty pleasure.
I got home, slipped the DVD into the player, poured a root beer, dipped my first chip into the cream cheese, and began to watch. The movie was...well, interesting. It was experimental, or at least I hoped it was, and didn’t have anything resembling an actual plot. Time seemed to be of little interest to the director; on the other hand, sex was. Cal’s character seemed to be exploring his sexuality as though it was some place large and unruly, like the American West. By the time I was thirty minutes in, I’d lost track of how many people he’d had sex with.
Part of me wanted to be mean and decide this was who Cal was deep down, but I knew he was acting and this was not his life story. Another part of me wanted to sit back and enjoy the pure sexiness of Cal with all these different guys... Beyond that, about halfway through I began to realize how good he was in the movie. His performance could have been vapid or mechanical, he really didn’t do much but have sex with random guys so it could easily have been meaningless. But slowly I began to see his character’s deep depression, the pain he was trying to cover by having sex, the desperation hovering just beyond each orgasm. My body had begun to quiver a bit with so much sugar and sex running through my veins, when the doorbell rang. I had the fleeting hope that it might be Cal, but when I opened the door I found Scoot on my doorstep.
“Good evening Scoot, what can I do for you?”
He was drunk. He cocked his head and said, “How ya doin’?”
“I’m fine, thank you. Do you need a cup of coffee?”
“I heard you and the pretty actor broke up.”
Broke up implied a committed relationship and we’d hardly had that, we’d just been having a nice little affair, which had apparently ended. I was tempted to explain that to Scoot but I knew better than to split hairs with a drunk. “Yes,” I said.
“That’s so sad.”
“Isn’t it? Thank you for stopping by.” Gently, I tried to close the door.
“That’s it? You’re not going to invite me in?”
This posed a dilemma. I had offered him a cup of coffee and obviously he shouldn’t be driving around as drunk as he was. “Why don’t you come in,” I said.
He practically stumbled into the entry hall. I closed the door, then walked back to the kitchen. Scoot followed.
“What do you have to drink?” he asked.
“Coffee,” I said, and got about the business of making it.
“Coffee! I don’t think I want coffee. Unless you put a little...”
“No, I’m not putting anything into it except cream and sugar.”
“Oh. Maybe we should just fuck then.”
“We’re not doing that either.”
“Oh. Maybe it was a mistake to come here.”
“Maybe, but I’m not letting you leave until you sober up.”
“This isn’t working out at all. I knew I should have gone after the other one.”
“The night is young. Sober up and you can go hit on Cal.” Of course, I knew Cal wouldn’t give him the time of day so it wasn’t the nicest thing to suggest. The coffee was partly brewed so I pulled the carafe out and poured half a cup to get Scoot started. I didn’t want to spend the entire night with him.
“I would do that, but he’s having a little party after rehearsal tonight. Won’t be able to get near him with Wendell and the rest of them swarming all over him.”
That made me feel like low hanging fruit.
“Did you want cream and sugar?”
“No, I’ll take it black.” He broke up a little and added, “Like my men.”
I didn’t get it. There weren’t a lot of African-Americans in the area and none in Marlboro. If he liked his men black he was going to have even more problems dating. Not to mention, Cal and I both were far from black.
Obviously, he picked up on my confusion. “It’s from a movie. I always wanted to say it.”
“Well, you got to. Good for you.”
He took a sip of his coffee and set the cup down. With a very somber look on his face, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“So it was all your fault. Just like people are saying.”
“People are saying it’s all my fault? But they’re the ones with the plans and the plots. It wasn’t my idea to give Cal a part in the show. That was Wendell. It wasn’t even my idea to sleep with him. That was Constance.” And Cal’s. And, yes, mine too, eventually.
“They can’t tell him that. They’re afraid they’ll lose the money for the show.”
“So he’s mad at me and everyone’s encouraging it?”
“You’re just a sacrificial goat.”
“Lamb.”
“Lamb. Thank you. You’re a sacrificial lamb.”
For moment I thought I should go and tell Cal exactly what happened. But then I thought, I still did the things I did. Just because someone else had the ideas first didn’t mean I hadn’t gone along with them. I was hardly a helpless victim. I wondered if I should apologize. I wanted to. I’d tried to, actually. Maybe he’d calmed down enough to accept an apology.
He couldn’t really think I only slept with him to get money for the theater. That would be silly. And if he didn’t really think that, then why wouldn’t he accept an apology? I mean, really the whole thing was no big deal. Since I was able to convince myself of that, then why not at least try to convince him? I’d have to figure out the best time to approach him. Obviously not while he was having some kind of a party, but perhaps the next night. Right after rehearsal. I wouldn’t want to do it before rehearsal and throw off his performance, no, afterward was best. Now, what exactly would I say? I wondered.
Abruptly, Scoot stood up and said, “You’ll have to excuse me.” I looked at him blankly. I’d almost forgotten he was there.
He stepped across the kitchen and threw up in the sink.
* * * *
Nearly two hours later, after I’d managed to sober Scoot up enough to drive himself home, I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat at my dining room table, and asked myself an important question. Why was the whole thing with Cal bothering me so much? It was just an affair. He was leaving in a few weeks to move to the city. Sure, I might go down for a weekend or two, but that would probably be it for us. The relationship had an expiration date. I’d always known that. It would have been nice if it had gone on a bit longer, but what was the difference whether it ended now or in a month? Well, yes, I was missing out on a very nice month but...I felt like I was losing more than that.
Had I been harboring hope that this fling with Cal would develop into more? I could honestly say I hadn’t been directly thinking about it; but indirectly perhaps I had been. It might be that his being angry at me, his not wanting to see me, had brought this into sharp focus. I wanted more with Cal Parsons. As unworkable as that seemed, I wanted it.
But wanted what, exactly? Would I move to New York City with him? That was unlikely. Even the Metro area was too big for me. But then, thinking about the weekends in the city, well, I’d been excited by the idea of going. Maybe it wouldn’t be as terrible as I thought. Who knows, I might like it? My God, what would I do there? I was a country lawyer. A jack-of-all-legal-trades. I’d have to start over if I moved to New York with Cal. But even that had a hint of excitement. Starting over might be what I need. Or maybe I was trying too hard to talk myself into it. But even that was something I had to find out and I’d only know for certain if I could get Cal to start talking to me again. If I could get him to...well, to like me again.
I had to come up with some kind of plan.
Chapter Fifteen
Biography of a Spector
Having had the cast over for drinks after rehearsal, I was a little fuzzy the next morning when I heard the doorbell ring. At least, I thought it was the doorbell. It could have been the ringing in my ears. Gingerly, I crept down the stairs as the bell rang again. Mac sat on the sofa reading Daily Variety. He glanced up at me and before he could say a word, I said, “What are you looking at?”
“Your phone keeps ringing.”
I glanced over to the dining table where I’d somehow managed to leave my phone. Empty glasses surrounded it. I have to say I was terribly confused.
“Oh. I thought the door bell was ringing.”
“It is.”
“You said my phone—”
“They’re both ringing.”
I picked up my phone and saw that my ex, Matthew, had called me. I was wondering exactly what he wanted as the doorbell rang again. I turned around and lurched toward the door.
“It was a lovely party,” Mac called after me. “We should give parties more often.”
“You didn’t give anything. I gave a party. You crashed a party.”
“I behaved. I think I should get credit for that.”
I rolled my eyes, which hurt terribly. When I got to the door, part of me hoped I was about to open it and find Dewey there. The other part of me was too hung over to deal with him. When I did open the door, I was hit by a wall of ice cold air. Even though I was wearing pajamas I suddenly felt naked. In front of me stood a young man of about twenty-five wearing a secondhand overcoat and a long white scarf. Attractive in a nerdish way, he had dark hair and very pale skin. He began to introduce himself but I interrupted him. “It’s not a good time of year for door-to-door sales.”
“No, I’m not selling anything. I’m—”
“Please don’t tell me you’re here to convert me. I don’t want to be converted. It sounds painful.”
“No, not that either. I’m—”
“Then why are you here? For heaven’s sake, get to the point.”
“My name is Timothy Dorner,” he said, then paused as though that should have explained something. It didn’t.
“You’re going to have to give me a clue, what’s a Timothy Dorner?”
“I’m a writer. I’m interested in writing McCormack Williams’ biography. Didn’t your lawyer mention me?”
“He mentioned biographers. It sounded like something I’d have to deal with in the distant future. Is it the distant future already?”
“I felt I should come and make my case. I’m a PhD candidate at the University of Wisconsin. I’ve been studying McCormack Williams for years. He’s my favorite playwright. I’ve written numerous papers about him and even published two articles on his work. One in Theater Scene and the other in Contemporary Gender Studies. My dissertation is on Mr. Williams’ private life and its relationship to his work.”
“Really? You think people are going to be interested in Mac’s private life? I’m not interested in Mac’s private life and I was part of it
.”
“Yes, I know,” he said and blushed so hard I figured he’d seen Lust/Anger/Joy at least three times. “You’re Cal Parsons. Oh, and let me say I’m really, really sorry for your loss.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I have to make a phone call. Could you come back some other time? Like, next summer maybe?”
Timothy’s face fell. He obviously didn’t enjoy rejection. From behind me, Mac said, “Oh, be a sport. Invite him in.”
“Why don’t you come in,” I said, too weak to fight.
“Really? Oh my God that would be great.”
I stepped aside so he could come into the house. He walked into the living room, eyes wide, mouth open. The look on his face showed the kind of reverence normally reserved for the Sistine Chapel.
“It’s so amazing to be here. I can’t get over the idea that McCormack Williams looked out those windows, ate at that table, sat on this sofa.”
“I can’t get over the idea that he’s sitting on that sofa.”
“Ha-ha,” Mac snarled then turned the page of his newspaper.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” Timothy asked.
“Don’t pay any attention to me. I have a hangover.”
“Yeah. Since he died I’ve been drinking a bit too much, too,” the boy said solemnly.
“Wait. Did you know each other?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen him before in my life. Or my afterlife.”
Timothy shook his head. “I have loved McCormack Williams since the moment I read his first play.”
Mac put down his Daily Variety and began to pay closer attention. “Charming boy, don’t you think?”
“I think I was eleven when I read Daily Specials,” Timothy continued.
“Precocious, too.”
“And that was it. I was hooked. I’ve read every word he’s ever written.”
“Mac used to write me grocery lists and send me out to the store,” I said. “You haven’t read those.”
“Do you have them?”
“No.”
Timothy bit his lip and then launched into his pitch, “I know that you might be able to find someone with more experience, but you won’t find anyone with more enthusiasm.”
The Ghost Slept Over Page 15
