Valerie Martin Read online

  However, as there’s no such thing as a reclusive actor, after a brief nap, I rejoined the party on the porch. The men were playing cards and the women were in the kitchen torturing vegetables and the dreaded tofu into a casserole. There was no pairing off and no music, just general bonhomie until after dinner when we heard the band strike up “The Star-Spangled Banner” in the bandstand at the nearby park where, Teddy told us, there would soon be an impressive fireworks display, well worth “toddling over” to see. Off we went.

  It was too American for words, this Jersey shore. The grilling hot dogs, the ice-cream cart, the stand purveying that strangest of all confections, cotton candy; gossiping oldsters, darting children, a bevy of sweating young parents dancing under the cover of an open tent near the bandstand—the scene was so innocent and good-natured it warmed my anxious heart. I sidled up to Madeleine, who, with Peter Davis, was admiring the singer, a middle-aged Mafioso with a voice as smooth as olive oil. With mock politesse, I asked if she would give me the honor of a dance.

  It worked; she smiled, held out her hand, and in a few moments she was in my arms under the tent. I swelled with confidence. I’m an excellent dancer and, it turned out, so was she. We whipped through a brisk number and then I held her close as the band segued into a surprisingly soulful, languid arrangement of “Blue Moon.” She rested her cheek against my chest, her hips brushed my own, but I was careful not to introduce into this public embrace anything resembling erotic play She’d surprised me with her reaction to the admittedly poor joke I’d made at Mindy’s expense, showing me a prudishness and respect for the proprieties that was unusual in young women of my acquaintance and completely at odds with her frankly provocative behavior on the beach the night before. She was complicated, and I liked her better for that. When the crooner hit the line “Please adore me,” I whispered the words into her ear. She chuckled, looking up at me. “This is nice,” she said.

  “It is,” I agreed. “Let’s dance all night.”

  And we did. When the music stopped and the dancers abandoned the tent for the lawn where the fireworks were about to begin, we ambled over to our group arm in arm. Teddy and Mindy, kneeling on a blanket, handed out beers from the cooler. It was a clear, hot night, the sky a perfect blue-black canvas for a pyrotechnic display. Without warning the first volley sent a white streak heavenward and all were riveted by a fountain of sparkling diamonds raining harmlessly down upon us. Madeleine stood in front of me, her head resting against my chest. “Oh look,” she said as a diaphanous red flower blossomed overhead. The booms of the rockets crackled in the air and the displays grew more complex. I slipped my arms around her waist and joined in the soft exclamations of the crowd. A collective “Aaaah!” greeted a spectacular burst made of bright ribbons, red, white, and blue, of course, which exploded into half a dozen concentric rings inside of which more ribbons shot up to another level of shimmering rings. Everyone knew the end was near. The pauses between explosions extended, giving the designers time to coordinate their missiles. It’s like sex, I thought, glancing about me at the raised faces, all bright with expectancy. The air over the firing station was flushed with hellish red smoke. I could hear the ratcheting of the machinery and the boom and hiss of multiple shots as a dozen streamers rippled past. Not far off, literally by the light of the rocket’s red glare, I spotted the only spectator besides myself who wasn’t closely attending the grand finale. He was standing apart from the crowd, his gaze fixed purposefully on me, and I had the sense that he had been watching me for some time. Our eyes met and I lifted my hand in a diffident salute, but Guy made no gesture in response. Then, just to unsettle him, I nuzzled Madeleine’s neck with my lips, tightening my grip on her waist. “Oh, look,” she said again, softly. The sky seemed to be raining stars into a tide of blood steadily rising to meet it. I looked back at Guy, who hadn’t moved a muscle. There’s something wrong with him, I thought, but I got no further than that, for the show was over, and Madeleine, who had turned in my arms, brought her lips to mine.

  Phebe’s is spiffed up these days, and surrounded by other buildings, but in the ’70s it was a glittering oasis in the desert of the Bowery, the haunt of panhandlers, drug dealers, and actors. At Phebe’s the beer was cheap, the food wouldn’t kill you, and the proprietor was actor-friendly I went there two or three nights a week. Sometimes Teddy came with me, but he preferred the more literary scene at the Cedar which was closer to Fifth Avenue and the world of his heritage.

  I’d never seen Madeleine at Phebe’s, but that Monday night when I went to meet Guy and give him the fifty dollars in exchange for my life, there she was at a corner table, dragging fried potatoes through a pool of ketchup and biting off the bloody-looking ends, while Mindy rattled on across from her. They spotted me and beckoned me to join them, but their table was a two-top and pulling up a chair would have put me in the aisle to the peril of the waitress. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks, but I’m meeting someone.” Madeleine swallowed more potato, somehow managing to smile around it.

  We had returned to the city separately with no particular understanding, but I had her phone number and had promised to call, which I had every intention of doing. I wanted to get the Guy matter over with first. I could tell by her smile that she assumed the someone I was meeting was another woman and that, should this prove the case, she would affect indifference. Mindy had some gossip about an actor who’d been sacked at the behest of the leading lady, who said she couldn’t stand kissing him, and we laughed over that, though actually it wasn’t funny. The power struggles that go on backstage can be brutal and destructive, and I couldn’t help imagining how I would feel if something like this happened to me, which naturally led to some thoughts about the quality of my kissing. “Couldn’t they just get the poor guy a kissing coach?” I suggested and got not only the laugh I was after but an unexpected and deeply reassuring compliment from Madeleine, who said, “You could hire yourself out for that.”

  “Do you think so?” I said lightly, disguising the deep seriousness I felt about her answer. Mindy was silent, looking from one of us to the other, her eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Oh yes,” Madeleine said. “And I’m a good judge of that. I’ve had a wide experience.”

  “I’ll bet you have,” I said.

  She took up another potato and wagged it at me. “On the stage of course,” she said.

  “That’s the only place it really matters,” Mindy added.

  We all laughed at this and then Madeleine announced much too cheerfully, “Look, it’s Guy Margate.”

  “He’s coming to meet me,” I said.

  He passed inside and stood near the door, surveying the room critically.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the girls, leaving them to cut him off at the bar. The last thing I wanted was witnesses to the money exchange. When he saw me, his expression changed only slightly. Fortunately the room was crowded and we were forced to take a seat at the bar.

  “So how are you?” I said after we’d ordered our beers.

  “Pretty good,” he said. “I have a callback. I just found out.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I said. “That’s something to celebrate. Where is it?”

  “Playwrights Horizons.”

  Playwrights Horizons was an impressive venue for a callback. It was an Equity house, they did new edgy plays, the directors were generally up and coming, and they got reviews. But, I reminded myself, a callback wasn’t a part. “That’s great,” I said. “Good luck.”

  “I think I’ve got the job,” he said. “The director really liked me.”

  This was an incredibly foolhardy and naïve thing for an actor to say, a certain jinx on his chances, and I marveled that he didn’t seem to know it. But I wasn’t going to set him straight. “That’s great,” I said again. He was looking around, ready to change the subject. “This is a nice place,” he said.

  “It is. I come here a lot.”

  He studied the brick wall behind the bar. “Do you have th
e money?” he asked.

  I dug the carefully folded bills from my back pocket. “Sure,” I said, handing them over. He took the money, counted the bills, and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. “This is an actors’ hangout,” he observed.

  No word of thanks, no acknowledgment of any kind, surely the proper reception of repayment by the debtor. Why would you thank someone for that which is owed? It wouldn’t make sense. Do bankers thank you when you pay exorbitant interest on a loan? Does city hall send a thank-you note when you pay a parking fine? “Where do you live, Guy?” I said, hunkering down over my beer.

  “Chelsea,” he said. “Great, Madeleine and Mindy are here.” I looked up and there they were, moving through the tables to the bar.

  “What a surprise,” I said.

  “Hey, Guy,” Madeleine said as she sidled between us. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “That’s because I didn’t know you came here,” he said.

  Not bad. Not exactly wit, but quick. Madeleine’s eyes softened as they do when she receives compliments. It’s hard to tell if she’s taken in or just letting the moment pass. “Have a drink with us,” I said. Guy was already pulling up a stray barstool and in a moment the girls were perched between us. Madeleine chose the seat next to Guy, which I took to be bad news. The bartender plunked down the glasses of red wine they requested. Guy announced that he had a callback, which focused the attention of the women nicely. They wanted to know all about it. This time, playing to his audience, he was self-deprecating—it was a small part, he probably wouldn’t get it. The women affirmed that auditions were hell, rejection was more likely than not, and a callback meant you were doing something right. Mindy had heard of the playwright, an Italian from Brooklyn, he’d had a play at Yale Rep a year ago that did pretty well; she couldn’t remember the title. The talk turned to other plays; who was casting what and where. We were all non-Equity at that point, so we had the option to work for little or no money. If Guy got this job he would be able to join the union and be guaranteed a minimum wage. The old chestnut “Get your Equity card and never work again” was passed around, though we all knew it was just a variety of sour grapes. Madeleine had already applied for the group auditions in April, a cattle call for summer stock companies. It was a good way to get into the union as well as spend the hot months out of town. Guy hadn’t heard of this and vowed to do the same. I had a vision of Guy and Madeleine sporting on a green lawn in Vermont or the Berkshires next summer, which sickened me. “You’re quiet, Ed,” Madeleine said. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m depressed,” I said. “I’m working double shifts three days this week.” This was true. I’d agreed to work overtime because I needed money to pay Guy and my rent. The worst part was, by Friday I would be exhausted and broke, so I couldn’t invite Madeleine to dinner or a movie. Guy shot me a chilly look and said something to her I couldn’t hear. She turned away to answer him, effectively closing me out. Mindy finished her wine and set the glass on the bar, slipping two one-dollar bills under the base. “I’ve got to meet Teddy at La MaMa,” she said. “He’s got tickets for a new show.” As she kissed my cheek and slid from her barstool, a flush of fragrance rose from her bosom, baby powder mixed with sweat, not unpleasant but not enticing, either. I pictured Mindy après shower, dowsing her breasts with baby powder while she sang “Don’t Rain on My Parade” at full blast. “Take it easy,” she said kindly. “Don’t work so hard.”

  “Right,” I said. “Tell Teddy I’ll call him.” I watched as Madeleine and Mindy hugged and cooed. Guy accepted the same cheek busses I’d received. As Mindy flounced out the door, Madeleine and Guy went back to their conversation. For what seemed like a long time I sat drinking my beer and admiring Madeleine’s back. What were they talking about? I found Guy’s conversational mode peculiarly deadening, but Madeleine seemed both engaged and amused; her soft laughter rustled her shoulders and she nodded her head now and then in agreement or approval. I could see Guy’s lips moving, his dark eyes fixed on her face with a sinister, distant interest. Now and then his sudden grin flashed; something unnerving about it, I thought, something menacing. Christopher Walken had a similar death’s-head grin. I’d seen him in Caligula at Yale. It was amusement provoked by the apprehension of weakness, and I didn’t like to see it leveled at the unsuspecting Madeleine. I shifted to Mindy’s stool and leaned into the bar. “That’s hysterical,” Madeleine was saying.

  “What is?” I asked.

  She turned her bright eyes upon me. “Have you heard this? They’re rehearsing a musical of Gone With the Wind in Los Angeles. Guess who’s playing Scarlett?”

  “Julie Andrews,” I suggested.

  “Lesley Ann Warren!” she exclaimed.

  “Not far off,” I said.

  “And guess who’s playing Rhett?”

  Because I had been thinking of him, I said, “Christopher Walken.”

  “No, he would be good, actually. It’s Pernell Roberts.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Bonanza,” Guy said. “Adam.”

  “The strong, silent one,” Madeleine added.

  “Good God,” I said.

  “Tell him about the songs,” Madeleine insisted.

  Guy nodded. “There’s one called ‘Tomorrow’s Another Day,’ and ‘Why Did They Die,’ and ‘Atlanta Burning.’” This really did make me laugh.

  “It’s a huge cast,” Madeleine said. “More than fifty parts.”

  “How do you know about this?” I asked Guy.

  “I have a cousin who’s in it. He plays one of the Tarleton twins.”

  “Is that where you’re from?” I asked, though I knew he wasn’t.

  “No,” Guy said. “I’ve never been to L.A. Have you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you want to go?”

  “No,” I said. And then we talked about L.A. and how different film acting was from stage acting and how little work there was in New York, unless you happened to be British or Italian. It was banal conversation and Guy held up his end well enough, though, as we were both entirely focused on Madeleine, there was a competitive edge to it. Then, abruptly, Guy stretched his wrist out to check his watch and pretended surprise. “Gotta run,” he said, kissing Madeleine on the cheek. “Friday, six thirty.”

  “See you there,” she replied.

  He turned to me extending his hand for a gentleman’s parting. “Ed,” he said. “Good seeing you. Get my beer for me, would you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?” Madeleine smiled upon us, pleased to see this amiable exchange between friends. When he was gone I pulled my stool closer to Madeleine and said, “Friday? Six thirty?”

  “He’s got tickets to Jacques Brel.”

  I snorted. “That old rag?”

  She regarded me coldly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Jacques Brel is great. I’ve been wanting to see it.” She finished her wine while I pictured the inside of my wallet. What a jerk Guy was to take my hard-earned money and then stick me for the price of a beer, especially since he was flush enough to buy tickets to a popular musical revue. My chance with Madeleine was at hand and I determined to take it. I signaled the bartender to refill her glass and when she demurred I insisted. “On me, please. I haven’t had a minute alone with you since—”

  “We went night swimming,” she finished.

  “Yes,” I said. “You were right. That night was definitely magic.”

  “It was,” she agreed. The bartender set a full glass before her.

  Two hours later we were hand in hand, climbing the narrow stairs to my apartment, pausing on each landing for long embraces. The next morning when I opened my eyes to find her arm draped around my waist, her soft breath oscillating against the nape of my neck, I sighed with satisfaction. Guy could have the money. I’d beat him to Madeleine a second time.

  Like most actors I worked for tips in restaurants that I couldn’t afford to eat in. Three days a week I did the lunch shift at Bloomingdale’s, where stylish ladies w
ho had just maxed out their husbands’ credit cards picked at cold chicken salad and vowed to economize, beginning with the tip. On Thursday and Friday nights I served dinners to artists and gallery owners at a trendy bar and restaurant in SoHo, which was a good gig because artists have often worked as waiters themselves, so they’re sympathetic; also, not being good at math, they tend to round up the percentage. This gave me Monday and Wednesday nights free for my classes with Sandy, Thursday and Friday all day to pursue auditions. Doubling up meant losing audition time as well as Saturday night. So I spent the week resenting Guy Margate, though I was perfectly conscious that if not for him I wouldn’t be working at all, I would be a waterlogged corpse tossed up after a thorough pounding on some rocky beach in New Jersey. Friday night I had the additional pleasure of imagining Guy and Madeleine out on the town on the money I was working my ass off to replace. It was midnight on Saturday when I hung up my apron and counted my take, which was unusually good. I decided a nightcap at Phebe’s was in order and set out across the cultural divide of Houston Street with a firm resolution: no beer, straight whiskey.

  The traffic was light, only the occasional yellow flurry of cabs and a few delivery trucks. The streetlamps hissed and buzzed overhead, shedding a blue metallic light. Phebe’s glowed like a golden spaceship dropped down in a grim future world; the sound of voices and music ebbing and flowing as the doors opened to exiting aliens. As I crossed Third Avenue, a panhandler appeared from the shadows and planted himself on the sidewalk so that I couldn’t pass without getting his pitch. He was a gray, wizened fellow, with hair like a mudpack, wrapped in a combination of blanket and plastic sheeting that served as both his attire and his lodging. “Jesus,” I said, as he stuck out his grimy hand. “Aren’t you hot?”