Lives of the Circus Animals Page 12

  Almost every Chin session ended like this: in a parting volley of unanswered questions and charges. Caleb’s head buzzed like a hive as he stepped out on West Tenth Street, their last words orbiting around him as if they’d just had an argument. He liked Chin, he trusted her. But sometimes, for a minute or so, after a final exchange like the one today, she reminded him a bit of his mother.

  The sun was bright, the air soft, the street deserted. When he arrived here an hour ago, this quiet block had been dotted with men and women in business suits walking their dogs before they left for work, animals of various sizes and breeds, like four-legged ids on leashes. Now the dogs were locked indoors, asleep and dreaming; their owners were out in a useful world of money. Caleb had no chores or duties, only the challenge of spending another day in his own sorry company. Chin was often the social highlight of his week.

  Her suggestion that he wanted to fail in order to test Toby was pure bull. He wasn’t in love with Toby. He probably never was.

  Love, love, love. Why did everyone always want to talk about love? Even psychiatrists. People wanted songs about it, novels, operas, plays. All of Caleb’s plays had been love stories: Chaos Theory was about schizophrenia and love; Venus in Furs was about literary imagination and love; and Beckett in Love was about, well, Samuel Beckett and love. Caleb wished he could write instead a play about quantum mechanics or non-Euclidean geometry. Something pure and abstract, no words, only numbers. There would be no people onstage, only spheres and cubes and tetrahedrons. He wouldn’t have to trouble himself with actors.

  21

  Look at these figures, Frank. Oo-hooo! A Monday-morning sell-off. These clowns don’t know shit. Watch the numbers fall. Dumb rats desert a sinking ship. Churchill here. Davey! No, no, no, man. We’re not gonna sell. Au contraire. I’m planning to scarf up another ten thousand shares when it gets below twelve.”

  John Churchill sat at his computer, talking to Frank, to callers, to himself. The mike cord of his headset was invisible. He had called Frank over for no discernible reason, unless he just wanted someone to see him at full throttle. Anybody hearing his torrent of words would think they were in the noisy hubbub of a trading floor, but Taurus Capital was otherwise quiet, a long white space with a high ceiling and polyurethaned floor. They were off lower Broadway, in a SoHo loft that was probably once the home of an artist and full of wet canvases and loud music. But money moved in and changed everything. Even Frank wore a necktie here.

  “Don’t wuss out on me, Davey. You need balls of brass. The dotcoms are not dead. Take it from me, a real dot-commie. Now what about the other hundred Gs you wanted to throw in the pot?”

  Churchill was a young/old forty, with salt-and-pepper hair and French cuffs. He spoke like a construction worker, but it was only Ivy League macho: Harvard Business School. Frank knew firsthand that real blue-collars save foul language for real anger and pain. All day Sunday, whenever the lunacy of actors mucking around in their psyches had become too much for Frank, he told himself, Thank God I go back to real people on Monday. But an hour of John Churchill was enough to remind him how unreal most real people are.

  “Candy-asses. Sheep. The world is divided between people who lead and people who obey. You’re a smart guy, but you’d rather take orders than give them.” It took Frank a beat to understand Churchill had finished his call and was talking to him. “What do you want?”

  “You called me over,” Frank reminded him.

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. I wanted to ask—” He shuffled through a stack of papers. “We spend way too much on Stein. An arm and a leg for one damned temp, sweetness. Darling. How are you?”

  Another phone call elicited a whole new personality.

  “Oh, baby. You know that’s not my department. Where are you? Sweetness. Don’t call me during class. Wait until recess. You want Mrs. Cutler to confiscate your phone again? We’ll discuss this with your mother. Pets are her department. Love you, darling. This dickhead agency.” He found the bill from Tiger Temps. “You’ve had Stein here four months and you still pay them a percentage? Not smart, Frank. Not smart at all.”

  “Sorry. Yes. We should fix that. We could hire her full-time and give them a finder’s fee.” Which Frank had proposed three months ago, but he knew better than to remind Churchill of that.

  “I hate paying those scumbags another dime. But she’ll stay? I don’t want to buy her and have her quit on us next week.”

  “She likes it here,” said Frank. “You give her a raise, and you still save money.” Frank had started here the same way, hired as a temp, then sold by the agency to Churchill—like a leased Lexus.

  “Do it, do it, do it,” said Churchill. “You should’ve done it months ago. Would’ve saved me a shitload of money.”

  “My mistake,” said Frank. “I’ll take care of it immediately.” He turned and headed back through the white room.

  His official title was “office manager,” but he was only a secretary. There were six employees at Taurus Capital, and all were treated like secretaries. They researched the new companies and processed the numbers, but Churchill made the decisions. The man was right, however: Frank did prefer to take orders—here anyway. It was a nice change from the acting life, where he had only himself to blame when things went wrong. It was good to have a boss who could be the target for all bitching and moaning and complaining.

  He walked past Donald, Kim, Tony, and Pavel clacking away at their computers or mumbling into their headsets. Leslie Stein had the desk in the far back corner, farthest from the windows.

  “Hey, Leslie. For what it’s worth, good news from Mr. C.”

  She didn’t look at him but held up one finger, asking him to wait while she finished whatever was on her screen. Frank stayed on his side of her desk, in case her activity was non-work-related. He didn’t like to embarrass his charges.

  Leslie was not what you’d expect in an investment boutique like Taurus. She dressed in black, wore brown lipstick and red nail polish; her face was full of piercings. Frank wondered if she wore body jewelry downstairs.

  “All right, Frank. Done. What’s the whoop from Church Lady?”

  Frank reported that Churchill was finally hiring her full-time.

  “Big whoop. But good. I need the moola. Now I can pay the printer and get my chapbook out of their warehouse.”

  Leslie was what she looked like, a Downtown poet. But she was good with numbers and not bad on the phone. Her real gift was she didn’t give a damn. She had the jadedness of a woman with too many divorces and love affairs, but she was only twenty-five.

  “Sorry it took so long,” said Frank. “Churchill worried that you might split, but I assured him you were happy here.”

  “Like a pig in shit,” she muttered. “No worse than my other jobs. And here I got another artiste to keep me company.”

  “Or ex-artiste,” he reminded her.

  “Hey, I’m going to a club tonight with friends. You want to join us? We can celebrate my whoop-de-do promotion.”

  “Thanks. But I got rehearsal tonight. Your friends go clubbing on a Monday?”

  She shrugged. “They got their own hours. I usually drop out around one. But we’re going to a performance piece and it starts early. Ten. Leopold and Lois. An anti–kind of nightclub act.”

  “Performance piece,” Frank grumbled. “A fancy name for half-assed theater.”

  “That’s right. You prefer full-assed theater.” She snickered through her pierced nose. “So should I come see your show?”

  “Might be too white-bread for you.”

  “No skin off my ass. Just thought it’d be a good way for me to know you better.”

  “But only if you let me see your chapbook of poems.”

  “I don’t know, Frank. They might be too scary for you.”

  They often flirted like this, in a cool, bored, just-for-practice manner. Under different circumstances, if he hadn’t met Jessie, he might have pursued Leslie. He was her superior, but not that sup
erior. He suspected there was little to gain here except sex. Which was not unattractive. Frank was hornier at the office than he ever was while directing a play or even acting in one.

  “And how’s your kiddie show going?” she asked.

  “Going, going, gone,” he told her. “We did it on Friday and again Saturday. So it’s finished.”

  “Sorry I missed it.” She spoke in a brutal deadpan.

  “It went well,” he argued. “It went very well.” He wanted to defend the show but knew he’d be wasting his breath.

  “Must be a big relief to have it over. No more Mister Rogers, huh? No more visits to Munchkinland.”

  “Yeah. One down and one to go. Then I can have a life again. But congrats on the raise,” he told her. “For what it’s worth. Later.”

  Frank strolled back to his desk, needing to get away from Leslie before he said something stupid and indignant about Show Boat. Because he was proud of what he’d done. But Leslie would never understand. Leslie was way too cool.

  He pulled out his chair and settled into his corner. Yes, one down and one to go. Thank God. It had been totally crazy this past month, jumping back and forth between two shows and this job. Now Show Boat was over. There would be no more breaking up afternoons with two-hour trips to P.S. 41. No more overload of activity, the rush and confusion. Life would be simpler. And Frank was sorry. He already missed the craziness. Which was ridiculous. God knows how he would feel next week when he also finished with 2B.

  He needed to call Tiger Temps but decided to call Jessie first. He wanted to hear her voice. She hated to be called at work, but he had a good excuse today, two in fact: she had left a message on his machine last night, and Allegra had asked him to ask a favor.

  The phone was picked up on the second ring. “Henry Lewse,” a forceful female voice declared.

  “Jessie, hi. It’s Frank.”

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. Rehearsal ran late.”

  “Oh. No problem.” She did not sound happy to hear from him, which hurt his feelings. He was much too sensitive about her.

  “Your visit to your mom went okay?”

  “The usual shit. I can’t talk now.”

  Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

  Then Frank heard music in the background, a Big Band number from the 1940s, and a clank like the banging of a radiator.

  “Henry’s already up?”

  “Oh yeah. Up bright and early today. Working out on his weight machine. So I can’t talk.”

  “Quickly, then. Allegra wants to know if you can bring your brother to the play. She hopes to get a quote from him if he likes it.”

  “That’s so Allegra,” said Jessie. “Well, I already asked him. He said he’d come. But not this weekend. He’s got his party on Friday. Remember? Maybe next weekend?”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll tell her.” Frank was surprised she’d already invited Caleb, but he was more concerned about something else. “Does that mean you’re not coming on Friday?”

  “I’ll try. But Caleb might want help with his party.”

  “I thought we were going to his party together?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. I forgot about your play. So you can’t be there till late, right?”

  “Maybe I can’t be there at all,” he said.

  “Oh, Frank. Don’t be like that. I’ll come to your show. I’ll come Saturday. But come to Caleb’s party. You really should.”

  “I’ll try. Look, I better go.” He was afraid of what else he might say. He couldn’t understand his temper today. “Let’s talk later. All right? We’ll get together sometime this weekend. All right?”

  “All right,” she said uncertainly. “I got to go too. Oh, quickly. Before I forget. How was it Saturday?”

  “It went well. Even better than on Friday.”

  “Oh good. That’s wonderful. They must love you there. Kids and parents both. Sorry. I got to go. But we’ll talk later. Bye.” Click.

  Before he could thank her or stop her or say anything else.

  Frank loved Jessie, and she was worth loving, but she didn’t make it easy. He gripped the receiver like a blackjack, then returned it to its slot, very gently, like he could never harm a fly.

  22

  Oh, Frank, thought Jessie as she hung up. She’d said something wrong but wasn’t sure what. Now he was playing games about whether or not he’d go to Caleb’s party. Silly old Frank. He should know better than to call her here.

  She decided not to think about it and went back to work.

  Henry was around the corner, groaning and grunting at his Nautilus machine. The blacksmith bang of weights was accompanied by old music on the stereo, “String of Pearls.”

  Monday was a dark night, and Henry usually slept until noon. There was a lunch scheduled for two today, with Adam Rabb of all people, and Jessie assumed she would have to wake him. But when she arrived this morning, Henry was already up, bouncing around the apartment in sweatpants and tank top. “Jessie, mon amie. And how are you on this exquisite morning?” Then he put on a CD of 1940s dance music and began his morning workout. She had sniffed the air, but there was no aroma of dope.

  Jessie usually enjoyed Mondays. Henry slept late, she did her chores, and then, when he woke up and found an empty night ahead of him, he hung out and chatted. Today, however, started out all wrong. She couldn’t enjoy anything, not even Henry’s mail.

  She read all his correspondence and answered most of it, except for the more personal letters. Her typed reply was clipped to the original letter and left out for Henry to sign. There had been a flurry of personal notes the week after T & G opened, but they soon dropped off. Now his mail consisted chiefly of bills, invitations to speak—student, theatrical, or gay groups—requests for donations, petitions, and an occasional fan letter or plea for help disguised as a fan letter. People rarely asked for autographed photos anymore, but they did ask for advice. There was one of those today:

  Dear Mr. Lewse,

  I saw you last week when my middle school drama class came to “Tom and Gerry,” your smash hit musical. You were wonderful. I laughed and laughed.

  I myself want to be an actress and think I have what it takes. How did you do it? If I send you a list of questions on how to structure my career, will you answer them?

  Thank you. You are the greatest.

  Sincerely yours,

  Tiffany Benz

  Nowadays even seventh graders were on the make. When Jessie showed Henry the first such letter, he was amazed. “Is this an American thing? How does one respond? And it’s a boy?” The first writer was male. “How old? Hmm. We could tell him I won’t be able to advise wisely until I see his photo. In either Speedos or briefs.”

  He was joking, of course, but Jessie worked out a standard reply on her own: “I regret that my schedule does not leave me time…hard work and perseverance…many good drama schools in this country…best of luck.”

  She wrote this letter to Tiffany and ran it out on the printer.

  The clanking stopped. Henry came around the corner, looking disturbed, staring at a CD case in his hand. He was dripping, his tank top and gray chest hair plastered to his torso, the black hair on his head sticking out in all directions. Trim but grizzled along the edges, Henry looked like an old gymnast.

  “‘Sentimental Journey,’” he said. “I could’ve sworn that was Glenn Miller. But I guess not. I have this inexplicable yen for ‘Sentimental Journey.’ I wonder where could I find it?”

  “I’m sure they have it at Virgin,” she told him.

  “Virgin? Oh, the store. Of course. But what disk would it be on? I suppose they could tell me.”

  He seemed so helpless that Jessie couldn’t stop herself. “If you like, I could stop by and find a CD on my way home. Or I could probably download it from the Net.”

  “Can you do that? No, no. Not necessary.” Henry seemed to think it was cheating to pull music from his computer. “A regular CD wi
ll be fine. I’ll go over to Virgin this afternoon myself. It’ll get me out of your hair and give me something to do.”

  “You can do it after your lunch with Rabb,” Jessie suggested.

  “Oh yes. That producer fellow. What time is—?”

  Just then the phone rang. Jessie looked at the caller ID screen: England. She answered on the next ring. “Henry Lewse.”

  Henry watched eagerly, as if expecting a call.

  “Good morning, Jessie. Has our naughty boy dragged his sorry carcass out of bed yet?”

  “Dolly. Hello.”

  Henry’s face fell.

  “Good morning. Or it’s evening over there,” said Jessie, stalling while she watched Henry to see if he wanted to talk to his agent.

  He waved both hands across his face.

  “No, I’m sorry, Dolly. He’s still dead to the world. Do you want me to have him call you at home when he gets up?”

  “Want and get are two entirely different verbs with Henry.” Dolly Hayes had the most wonderful voice, a throaty Joan Greenwood purr. “He hasn’t returned my last calls. We haven’t spoken in weeks. If I didn’t know his bad habits, I’d swear he was avoiding me.”

  “He’s been very busy, Dolly. Is there a message I can give him?” She took up her pen to write it so that Henry could read it over her shoulder.

  “We have a nice job offer in hand. Voice-overs for a series of very smart detergent commercials.”

  Jessie wrote “Voice-over soap ads.” Henry pulled the pen out of her hand and scribbled beside it “U.S. or U.K.?”

  “Is that for the American or British market, Dolly?”

  “The U.K., but it’s nothing to sneeze at.”

  “British. Uh-huh. I’ll tell him.”

  Henry flipped his right hand backward as if to say “Piffle.”

  “I can understand him turning up his nose at a season in Leeds, but this is easy work for excellent money and wonderful exposure.”

  “I’ll let him know.” She wrote “Good $, big expose.”

  Henry worked his hand like a chattering sock puppet.