Lives of the Circus Animals Read online

  “Is that all?” he said and resumed his sweet, friendly, stupid look. “Feels longer than that. Much longer.”

  39

  Hello, Henry? Jessie? Somebody? Please! Dolly Hayes again. I’ve been calling and calling. Nobody calls back.

  “Adam Rabb has rung up five times in the past two days. Arrogant twit. He talks like a man who thinks he’s done the world a favor by living in it. Which is no hair off my dog. But he’s given us a twenty-four-hour ultimatum. I told him I can’t reach you, Henry, but he says he’ll withdraw the offer if we don’t respond by ten tonight. Your time.

  “It’s a sweet deal, Henry. If you truly want to sell your ass for a high price, here’s your chance. But if we don’t get it, you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself.”

  40

  Like their namesakes, Leopold and Loeb, the musical couple of Leopold and Lois are murderers. Their victim, however, is not poor little Bobby Franks, but the pop culture of their parents’ generation. This show, a parody without laughs, a ninety-minute tantrum, is probably more in need of therapy than a review. Even so—’”

  Dwight lowered the Times. “Leave it to a straight man to not get it. I saw that show. And it was funny. I mean, get-a-heart-attack-and-die funny.”

  “I feel no sympathy for them,” said Allegra. “They got a Times review. We won’t.”

  “Be grateful for that,” said Frank.

  “‘Even so,’” Dwight continued, “‘your pleasure or exasperation or probable boredom will depend upon your memories of the forgotten worlds of nightclubs, Las Vegas and Merv Griffin…’”

  Rain continued to drip and drool outside. It was only six o’clock but felt as dark and dreary as a six o’clock in November. All the lights were on at West 104th Street. Frank was sunk in an armchair in the corner, trying to think himself into the right mood for work. Tonight was Wednesday, the first show was Friday, but he didn’t care if this thing lived or died. He was in a foul mood tonight, a dangerous indifference.

  “‘The lack of feeling for this deluded couple is chilling. Yet the audience treated the show as howlingly funny.’”

  “Enough!” cried Frank, and he forced himself out of the chair. “Let’s go. We got tons to do tonight.”

  “But Toby’s not here,” said Allegra.

  “Screw Toby. Boaz, can you read Toby’s lines?”

  “No,” Boaz said flatly.

  “Bo? Sweetie?” said Allegra. “Darling?”

  Boaz too was in a bad mood. His squashed good looks looked more squashed than usual. “Music,” he said. “I must burn a CD with all the show’s music.” He showed them a shopping bag full of CDs. “I am out of here,” he said and left.

  “What’s going on?” said Melissa. “Is it the weather or moon or did everyone get up on the wrong side of the bed today?”

  “Fuck it,” said Frank. “I’ll read Toby’s lines. Come on. Move it.”

  They all got up, shuffled into positions, and began their first scene, the leisurely opening.

  Chris and Melissa marched back and forth between the kitchen and bathroom. They passed each other without speaking. Frank sat in a folding chair in the middle of the living room and watched.

  “Great day,” grumbled Melissa, the first line of the play.

  “No, it’s not,” said Chris.

  “I was being sarcastic,” said Melissa.

  “Sorry. It’s too early to appreciate your dry wit.”

  I luf you like a pig lufs mud, thought Frank.

  Except he didn’t. Not anymore. Never again.

  Ingrid Bergman’s words had come out of nowhere. Frank’s mind was like ice and his attention kept sliding off in all directions.

  He had woken up this morning feeling like whale shit—which, as his father used to say, is at the bottom of the ocean.

  “I won’t be your fucking consolation prize because you failed as an actor.”

  There is nothing crueler than being naked with a woman you love—doubly naked with an erection—and getting chewed up and spit out.

  “It must make you feel good. To love somebody who’s an even bigger loser than you are.”

  Sometimes when Frank replayed the scene in his head, he concentrated on the wrong things he said—“You are so hung up on your gay brother.” But most of the time he treated the fight as all her fault. Never fall in love with someone who’s permanently wounded, he told himself. They cannot love you back.

  He could not tell Allegra and the others what had happened. They knew too much already. He did not want to have a flock of actors cackling about his love life like a ditzy Greek chorus.

  Dwight came out from the bedroom—they were already at his first scene—half humming, half singing “Losing My Religion.” In his exchange with Allegra he overdid the gloom, but Frank didn’t stop him. He didn’t trust his instincts enough to criticize anyone today.

  Toby’s first monologue with Chris followed. Chris sat in front of the television and Frank read Toby’s lines. Remembering how much time and attention he had given the boy last night, he was furious with the dweeb for being late.

  “‘Hey. How are you? You have a good day? I had a great day,’” said Frank.

  Under the smart-ass banter and jokes, all three stories were about people who were depressed. Which was supposed to be darkly funny, but Frank today found depression only depressing.

  They came to the scene where Allegra and Dwight pounce on each other. It could be—it should be—wonderful. Two friends are sharing troubles, swapping sorrows like a pair of Eeyores, and suddenly they’re all over each other. But instead of striking the moment like lightning, Allegra and Dwight muddled around it, knocking into each other and bumping noses.

  “What are you guys afraid of?” said Frank. “Go for it. Give the line. Pause. Then suck face.”

  Dwight and Allegra paused, looked into each other’s eyes—and broke into giggles.

  “You are such babies,” Frank grumbled. “What’s the big deal? You’re depressed and horny.”

  “But we’re also good friends,” said Dwight.

  Frank stood between them. “The scene’s not about friendship!” he said. “It’s about fucking!”

  “You think it’s so easy,” said Allegra. “You do it.”

  “All right then. Like this!”

  And he grabbed Dwight by the collar, pulled their faces together, and jammed his mouth into Dwight’s. Teeth clicked against teeth; his tongue plunged into warm wetness. Frank kissed hard and deep, even as he thought, This is Dwight’s mouth. What am I doing in Dwight’s mouth? Why is my kiss so angry?

  He released Dwight, turned to the side, and spat the kiss out. “There,” he told Allegra. “And people call me homophobic.”

  He noticed everyone staring.

  “Jeez,” said Dwight with a nervous laugh. “I never knew you cared.” But his face was bright red; he looked disturbed, unhappy.

  Frank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry. I got carried away in the moment. Your moment. So give yourself to the moment. Both of you.”

  They did the scene again. And again. The moment still eluded them—they lacked the anger that had driven Frank—but they mastered the logistics.

  Frank was starting the next Toby monologue when there was a knock on the door. Frank automatically opened it and Toby entered, tiptoeing and making sorry-I’m-late faces. Yet he looked oddly pleased with himself. He tossed his coat at the corner and promptly took over from Frank.

  “‘What are you watching? Good show? I think I have an audition for a cop show. Not that one, but another…’”

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said when they finished the scene.

  “Where were you?” said Dwight.

  “Kinko’s. My shift ran late.”

  “Let’s keep going,” said Frank. “We’re rolling now.”

  They continued, but they weren’t rolling, not really. Everything felt muffled and half-there tonight, underwater, except for Toby’s scenes. There was a new c
onfidence and precision in his monologues. He actually remembered what he and Frank had worked out. Frank noticed the surprised looks of the others, then sensed them giving their scenes a bit more concentration, as if to catch up with Toby.

  Chris and Melissa stumbled around each other in the kitchen, and Frank had an idea. “Think Laurel and Hardy,” he said.

  He was afraid Chris might be insulted—she would know which of them was Hardy—but no, she loved the idea. “Lesbo Laurel and Hardy? Yeah. I can work with that.”

  Her hint of slapstick and touch of graceful pomposity gave the scene more life, made it flow just a little better.

  Then Toby performed the fourth monologue. He had his big breakdown and threw his arms around Chris exactly as he’d thrown his arms around Frank. Chris knew how to play that too, hesitating, then timidly hugging him back.

  The trashing of the kitchen followed. It was lame, not only because the cast held back but also because tonight’s flashes of life made the thing look more clunky and mechanical than ever.

  They finished and Frank said, “We’re getting there. It’s not completely shabby.” And he no longer felt completely like whale shit. “Let’s take a break.”

  People scattered, windows were opened, cell phones were turned back on. Allegra came up to Frank.

  “That was some kiss you gave Dwight,” she said.

  “I was just illustrating.”

  “That’s what I thought. But you hurt his feelings.”

  “What?”

  “He thinks you’re making fun of him for being gay.”

  “For crying out loud.” Frank couldn’t believe this. “Why does everyone suddenly think I give a damn who does what with—?”

  “Talk to him,” she said. “We don’t need another bad mood/loose cannon around here.”

  Frank saw Dwight and Chris leaning out the windows and smoking their cigarettes: Chris’s rear at one window, Dwight’s at the other. It was too wet for them to climb out on the fire escape.

  Frank came up beside Dwight. He quietly stuck his head out. “Hey, friend. Sorry if I spooked you back there.”

  Dwight did not even turn to look. “It was like you don’t take me seriously, Frank.”

  “I take you very seriously.”

  “If I frenched you, you’d be howling bloody murder.”

  “I wouldn’t,” he insisted. But they were standing so close that it was uncomfortably imaginable.

  The fire escape formed an iron cage around their heads and shoulders. Contact lenses of water glittered on the rail. Chris leaned out her own window five feet away, up to her elbows in room light.

  “Look. I wasn’t thinking,” said Frank. “But I wasn’t frenching you. I was Allegra’s character frenching your character.”

  “Now I know how girls feel when they get felt up. You and I are friends, Frank. You can’t get your jollies by doing stuff to me.”

  “Dwight! I got no thrill out of kissing you.” The kiss was not without emotion, but the emotion had nothing to do with Dwight. “Look. I apologize. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Allegra thrust her head through Chris’s window. “Hey! Toby has some really interesting news.”

  It was getting crowded out here. Frank was set to withdraw his head and continue this in the living room. But Toby’s head popped out beside Chris’s and Allegra’s.

  “Uh, Frank?” he began. “I was asking Allegra—what are the chances—? Could we put on an extra performance on Friday? For, um, a friend of mine who can’t come to the nine o’clock show?”

  Dwight and Chris groaned together.

  Frank said, “Sorry, Toby. If they can’t make it, they can’t make it. We may be small potatoes, but we’re not so small we can give a command performance for anyone who asks.”

  “No, no, Frank,” argued Allegra. “You should hear this. Toby, tell him who your friend is.”

  “Uh, Henry Lewse.”

  “Henry Lewse!” cried Dwight. He turned to Frank, wide-eyed, then back to Toby. “Mr. Eve Harrington! Yo!”

  “Eve who?” said Toby.

  “Dwight, shut up,” said Allegra. “What do you think, Frank?” She drew herself back inside.

  Frank came back in too, blinking at the bright room after the darkness of the fire escape. They all returned to the light.

  “Henry Lewse,” repeated Allegra. “He comes to watch and he loves the show. And we get a quote from him.”

  “What if he hates the show?” said Dwight.

  “How can he hate it?” said Allegra. “His buddy’s in it.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Toby assured them. “He’ll want to help us.”

  Frank couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Henry fucking Lewse. He couldn’t escape him. And the others all turned into performing dogs who couldn’t wait to do back flips for the guy. He looked at Chris, trusting her to see things differently.

  She only shrugged. “I don’t mind doing an extra show.”

  “Me neither,” said Dwight. “For Henry Lewse. Wow. It’d be like being watched by Michael Caine. And you’re dating him?”

  “Nooooo,” Toby softly mooed, lowering his head. He looked guilty, but proudly guilty, triumphantly guilty. “We met and had coffee. Twice. He’s really interested in young actors. In their careers.”

  “Their ca-whats?” said Dwight.

  “Look,” said Allegra. “I don’t care how we know Henry Lewse. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. What do you think, Frank? Extra show on Friday? What do we have to lose?”

  And they all turned to Frank, curiously, expectantly, hopefully.

  41

  Hello.”

  “Toby?”

  “Oh. Henry. Hi.”

  “Good. You’re still up. I didn’t want to call too late.”

  “I never go to bed before one. Hey, I asked my friends about Friday night? And we are putting on an extra performance. And there are tickets. So can I give you one?”

  “Of course. Yes. That’d be lovely.”

  Silence.

  “Are you free tonight, Toby? Would you like to come over?”

  “It’s awfully late. It’s almost midnight.”

  “I know. I just thought you might want—Oh. Never mind.”

  “But I enjoyed last night.”

  “Did you now?”

  “I did. Honest. It was cozy. Like a sleepover.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t give you more, Henry. Can you deal?”

  “Would you like another sleepover tonight?”

  “Sorry. I need my sleep.”

  “You seemed to have no trouble sleeping last night.”

  “I have this play. Remember? Like you have yours. But you will come see it on Friday? You promise?”

  Pause. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  THURSDAY

  42

  The sun was up, the sky was blue—the powder blue of skies in children’s books. Jessie walked in a green, green cornfield, glad to be out of the city, pleased to have escaped her obligations, wondering what to do about the little hippopotamus. Roughly the size of a baby pig, he waddled behind her like a private remorse, a pet regret.

  There was a strange knocking in the sky, a rapping like the old-fashioned thumps of a cane signaling the start of a play in The Children of Paradise. All at once, blue sky and green landscape pulled loose and flew up like a curtain. It’s the end of the world, thought Jessie, terrified. The painted canvas of earth and sky vanished overhead. All that remained was a vast starry darkness. And an audience.

  She stood onstage in a theater as big as the cosmos, as infinite as outer space. Her hippo remained beside her. Boy, do I have a witty unconscious, she told herself. Because she was beginning to suspect that this was only a dream. She hoped it wouldn’t be one of those silly actor dreams where you forget your lines or don’t even know what play you’re in.

  She looked out at the audience. It was all men, an ocean of men in tuxedoes. Wh
ich pleased her. She always enjoyed being the only girl at the party. She saw Caleb sitting in the front row. And Mr. Copeland, their high school drama teacher. His eternal boyishness was gone, and he looked as old as their father would be if Dad were still alive. Beside Mr. Copeland sat Frank, in a scowl of folded arms, disgusted with her for appearing in public with a hippopotamus.

  But where was Henry? She could not see Henry. He hadn’t taken the trouble to come. The shit.

  The little hippo at her feet abruptly cleared his throat. He was looking up at her with soft, kind eyes. He slowly opened his wide pink mouth. He was going to speak: he would tell her everything.

  But before he could explain the meaning of it all, the cane resumed knocking. Thump, thump, thump. As if the play had still not begun. There was another play behind this play, the real play, God’s play, and God was losing His patience.

  Jessie suddenly woke up in her bed.

  Knock knock knock. Someone was banging at her door.

  “Wha? Huh? Who?”

  A muffled male voice replied, “It’s me. I’ve come to apologize.”

  She was sitting up. She lifted and pulled at her blankets, but it was gone. The hippopotamus of wisdom was nowhere in sight.

  “Minute. Just a minute,” she croaked at the door. Her voice was hoarse and dry. She started down the ladder. Someone had come to apologize? But so many people owed her an apology.

  She unhooked the chain and opened the door.

  And there in her hall was the long, unshaven face of Henry Lewse. He held a wet umbrella in one hand and a large paper funnel in the other.

  “Here,” he said and gave her the funnel. “I’m sorry about yesterday. That was very stupid and uncalled for.”

  Jessie wondered if she were still dreaming. She folded back the paper; the funnel was full of flowers. Not dream flowers, but real ones, plain white daisies with dusty yellow centers.

  So this was the real Henry Lewse in her shabby hallway. He looked as incongruous here as a rose in a bowl of brussels sprouts.