The Actor and the Housewife

by Shannon Hale

  “Is that what it seems like?” she whispered. “My relationship with Felix—is that what it seemed like to you?”

  Mike glared at his menu. “I don’t trust men. Felix might be in a bar somewhere with his pals swapping seedy stories about his Utah girlfriend.”

  “Felix doesn’t have pals. Or seedy stories. At least about me.”

  “And there’s a girl somewhere who thinks she’s struck up a pleasant and completely innocent friendship with a married co-worker.”

  “No adult woman who regularly dons tight sweaters is that clueless.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “It’s not like . . . well, for one thing, my sweater collection is woefully baggy.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I can completely see why you were worried—”

  “Disturbed.”

  “Right. Disturbed. But you know I don’t think that way about Felix, not at all, and he’s never given me reason to wonder.”

  “Except when he thought he was falling in love with you and asked you to kiss him.”

  “Yeah, except for that snafu. But he didn’t mean it. He was seriously confused.”

  “I just don’t think—” Mike paused while the server placed ice water on their table. “I don’t think men are ever really innocent. They always have some other plan when it comes to women. I don’t think you can trust Felix.”

  That silenced her, and wanting to enjoy their night out, she dropped the topic until they were home again. With the kids in bed, they sat on the floor in the basement, drinking chocolate milk and watching the local news.

  “You know, the root of your worry is your undying sweetness,” she said. “You are attracted to me so you think all men must be. But the truth is, Felix doesn’t think of me as a woman. I have no gender to him—or species, I’d wager.”

  “Then he’s an idiot.”

  “Thank you. And I won’t argue.” She kissed Mike, then lay her head on his shoulder because she felt a little shy as she said, “I’m ashamed of myself, how I hurt you, how I was unfaithful in a way.”

  “Becky . . .” Mike said, meaning she was being too hard on herself.

  “No, I was,” she straightened up, her voice getting passionate, “because being unfaithful is ultimately about betrayal. I thought my friendship with Felix was fine, but you weren’t so sure, and I should have seen that. I should have been more careful. I betrayed your love and your trust and—”

  “Don’t keep worrying it over, Bec.”

  “I need to. Because I need to be sure. There are no rules about this, so we have to figure out our own. My mom and sister think such friendships never work, so that’s true for them. And Celeste and Felix . . . well . . .” She made a crazy gesture by her temple. “Still, I don’t think Felix was being unfaithful to Celeste at the Valentine’s Ball, because she knew his thoughts and was okay with it—though I totally wouldn’t be, by the way, just in case you think you’re in love with some other woman and want to test it out.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “But it’s up to us to figure out what’s betrayal and what isn’t in our own marriage. Is having Felix as a friend betraying you? Is it wrong when my heart fl utters for a character in a movie? Do I shut myself off from any romantic thoughts or any kind of intimacy with others and make the whole world just you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  “No? So . . .”

  Mike sighed. “How do you feel about it? The Felix part.”

  Becky was vaguely aware of the newscaster warning about Y2K trouble and she muted the television, this conversation more important to her than all the news in the world. “I’ve been mulling and praying and thinking, and I still feel like there was a reason Felix and I met. In some way, I think he needs me. Besides, with him as my friend, I’m a little happier, calmer . . . I can be more.”

  “You haven’t seemed all there lately,” Mike said.

  “Lately?”

  Mike smirked. “Is there something . . .” He took a breath. “Is there something I’m not doing? That I should be doing?”

  “No! Heavens, sweetheart, you’re perfect, almost annoyingly so. You are my eternal companion. I want to be with you in this life and the next. Felix is . . . it’s like he’s my long-lost conjoined twin or something. Conjoined twins can still fall in love and marry other people, can’t they?”

  “In most countries,” Mike said.

  “Right, everyone knows it’s no picnic being a conjoined twin in Myanmar. So I’ve heard.” Becky smiled at her husband. “None of my friendships should get within miles of threatening our family. If you feel remotely wrong about it, then I won’t hesitate to shut that bloke out of our lives forever.”

  Mike kissed Becky’s forehead. “It’s okay, Bec. It really is. I am fully prepared to support your friendship, or what evership, even though he’s skinny and pompous. But Celeste is great and she chose him, so he must have some admirable qualities that I just can’t see.”

  Becky brightened. “Celeste is great, huh?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  Becky raised her eyebrows.

  Mike groaned. “Don’t even try it.”

  “You know she totally digs you.”

  “She does not.”

  “She does too! And I love it. Let’s both be on this marginally slippery slope together and hang on to each other for support. Really I’m in no danger of slipping. I had a chance to kiss that man and it almost made me dry heave. But you and Celeste . . .”

  “Celeste is some kind of model, isn’t she? And she’s French, and she doesn’t—”

  “Why shouldn’t she dig you? You’re sexy and muscular and charming and kind too, and you’re so taken, so that’s just too bad, Ms. Celeste Bodine.”

  She kissed Mike, and they found that they had more kisses than words. Fiona came downstairs in her nightgown, rubbing her eyes.

  “Mom, I can’t find . . . ew. Were you guys kissing? You’re so gross. Now I’m going to have nightmares.”

  In which Mike gets kissed a lot

  The next morning Becky was going to call Felix, but Mike had a better idea.

  “I haven’t bought you a Christmas present yet. If you don’t mind getting it early, I thought we could fly to L.A. and surprise Felix.”

  Becky gaped.

  “Good,” Mike said, “because I already reserved the tickets.”

  Through Celeste, Mike had learned that Felix was in Los Angeles.

  “You should go see him at the studio,” Celeste said. “I’ll call in your names. How I wish I could be there to see his face! This is a wonderful thing. Next time I see you, Michael, I will kiss you. You should warn your wife.”

  “I should warn myself,” Mike said.

  Becky could hear Celeste’s warm voice coming over the phone, and saw Mike’s neck flush. When he hung up, he said defensively, “She was being nice. She does not dig me.”

  “She’s going to kiss you.”

  His neck flushed darker. “She won’t. She was kidding.”

  “She will. She’s French. Kissing for her is like a genetic tic.”

  Mike’s parents came to stay and watch the kids. They were sporting folk, both pleasant individuals who once drove past a burning twelve-car wreck without stopping to help because they hadn’t noticed any commotion. That made Becky ner vous, but Fiona was a keenly observant girl who was trained in dialing 911. At least the elder Jacks would be at her house—Becky couldn’t in good conscience send the kids to her in-laws. Mike’s mother had selected her countertop and linoleum patterns by how good they were at camoufl aging spills and didn’t change bedsheets until they emitted a noticeable odor. But, hey, they were family, and most likely they wouldn’t let their own grandchildren die.

  So with the grandparents in place, Becky and Mike hopped a flight, taking a bus from the airport because the taxi fare was a
ppalling. Becky loved that bus—she felt she was having a genuine Los Angeles multicultural experience, and made sure to engage in friendly conversation with everyone around her. Mike groaned, though his fears of disaster were unwarranted until near the end of their ride when Becky spied an abomination—a little girl of about six sitting with her mother, the girl’s off-the-shoulder shirt reading in sparkling ironed-on letters, flirt.

  As a rule, Becky could not approve of children’s T-shirts touting witticisms. If a little girl has to wear a shirt that says i’m so cute, then how cute can she really be? Shouldn’t it be obvious without the declaration? Maybe T-shirts should stick to something obvious, like i’m a girl or 80% water or likely to breathe. Of course Becky didn’t get irritated with the textualized children themselves—them she pitied. Their parents, on the other hand, she had to scan for possible brain damage, in the way you glance at the bozo in the car next to you to see if they look as dumb as they’ve been driving. But . . . flirt? On a six-year-old girl? That was child abuse.

  “You want to talk to that mother, don’t you?” Mike whispered.

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re wishing you had the local number for Child Protective services handy.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Just take a deep breath and pretend it’s all a bad dream.”

  The textually abusive mother and child got off at the next stop, and soon after Becky and Mike arrived at the hotel. After a quick check-in and luggage drop, a second bus took them to the studio. They approached the vehicular entrance on foot. Mike put out his hands, pretending to drive an invisible car up to the guard booth. Becky slapped his hands down.

  “Don’t give them any reason to throw us out,” she said, but there was no problem. The guard had apparently admitted stranger folk than carless Becky and Mike from Layton, Utah. He gave them directions and they were off , weaving through the maze of warehouse-like buildings.

  They passed a man in Regency attire, a troupe of teenage girls dressed as fairies, a cowgirl with extraordinarily long braids, and someone in a buzzard suit who was smoking a cigarette through the beak hole.

  “Nasty habit,” Mike muttered. “That’ll kill him.”

  “He’ll be buzzard meat,” Becky said.

  “I was going to say that next.”

  “Sorry, go ahead.”

  “Nah, you said it better. I was still trying to figure out the right wording.”

  “Keep that up, and he’ll be for the birds.”

  “Okay, that’ll do.”

  They came to building #14. Becky stood outside, her hand on her stomach.

  “I’ve got a bellyful of ice pixies performing a number from The Nutcracker.”

  Mike rubbed her back. “We don’t have to go see him. Or we can come back tomorrow.”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s a good kind of fear. Besides, it’s just silly. I mean, I’m not sure what I’m afraid of.”

  She could feel Mike’s other hand rest on her shoulder. “Maybe that he won’t want to see you?”

  “Okay, yes, that happens to be precisely what I’m afraid of.” She sighed gruffly. “That he’ll see me and he won’t care. That I’ve been feeling forlorn for six months because I was worried that he needed me, but he’s just fine and I’ve been fooling myself and making a big deal out of nothing. That I made you take me to California when you would’ve rather gone to Dinosaurland in Vernal, Utah.”

  They stared at the door. The small square window had been papered over from the inside. The knob was stained with white paint. The door really wasn’t interesting enough to keep staring at.

  Then she noticed Mike was smiling.

  “You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

  “A little. You’re never afraid of anything.”

  “What do you mean ‘never’? You know I’m terrified of egg slicers and sharp paper.”

  “And stampeding sheep, and animatronic presidents, and Captain Stubing from—”

  “Enough.” She shuddered.

  “What would be worse, that he’ll be annoyed and ask you to leave, or that you’ll never see him again at all?”

  Becky considered. “The latter.” She took a breath and put her hand on the doorknob. “Okay, shape up, Mommy. Here we go.”

  She turned the knob, took Mike’s hand, and entered the dark. They followed the noise and came upon a set built like a studio apartment. About fifty crew members were milling around, some intensely busy, others bored and waiting for their turn. Filming was paused while electricians lit the set.

  A woman with an earpiece and a clipboard was on them within seconds.

  “Yes?” It was not a polite question. It meant don’t-waste-my-time-I’m-not-paid-enough-to-be-nice.

  Mike explained, showing the pass Celeste had arranged. Becky was searching the crowd, her hand still on her stomach.

  “Ease up, nasty little frigid pixies,” she muttered.

  Then she saw him. He was leaning against one of the false walls, looking over a script, his lips moving slightly as if trying to memorize. She stared. She willed him to look up.

  His mouth twitched, his eyes rose, looking not at her but past her, his face expressionless.

  Don’t look, don’t look, she pleaded now, afraid beyond reason. She took Mike’s hand again, was about to suggest that they flee, when the clipboard woman was suddenly at Felix’s elbow, whispering in his ear. She pointed in Becky’s direction, and his eyes followed the woman’s hand. He saw Becky, and he didn’t smile. The cold in her stomach heaved upward and froze her heart.

  The script slipped from his hand and fluttered to the ground.

  “Becky,” he mouthed.

  She smiled hopefully.

  Felix looked at Mike, seemed to take in the fact that he was there as well. Then he was running. He ran the most direct route, through the middle of crew members, past the director and the gaggle of director’s assistants, leaping over a sofa. Everyone looked up. Everyone was watching as Felix sprang at Becky, stopping just short of her. He grabbed both her hands. He looked back and forth between Becky and Mike, his expression wildly hopeful.

  “Does this mean . . . is it over? Everything is all right?”

  Mike shrugged. Becky nodded. Felix performed a brief jig, spun around, looked about to explode, his hands twitching as if not sure what to do, finally settling on grabbing Mike’s face and planting a kiss on his lips.

  “Alrighty.” Mike took a couple steps back. “That’s enough of that.”

  “Come here, Felix,” Becky said, holding out her arms. They were shaking, she was so excited and eager and crazy to get her arms around him.

  He looked at Mike. “It’s okay? If we hug?”

  “Yeah, of course,” Mike said, embarrassed.

  Felix took Becky into his arms. He shut his eyes, sighing again as he squeezed her. “I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. Also, I missed you.”

  “That was just icky, wasn’t it?” she whispered. “We should be together, just like we decided under that skinny little moon.”

  “I felt that way before, but now I really know. Though I’m not happy about it.”

  “Me neither. Darn you.”

  She wondered if she should push herself away. She’d never hugged Felix like this, for so long, so tight. But Mike was right there, and it really did feel like hugging her brother. She watched Mike for any sign of his discomfort, but he put his hands in his pockets and smiled as if they were an amusing sideshow at a carnival.

  “I haven’t laughed well for months,” Felix said, still holding her. “Say something to make me laugh.”

  “On demand? Not likely.” She didn’t let go. “You feel skinny. Are you eating?”

  “No. I’ve been on a hunger strike until you came to your senses.”

  “Hunger strikes are mostly good for making you hungry.” She looked around. “Everyone’s staring at us.”

  “Let’s stare back,” Felix suggested, turning his head so their cheeks touched.

&nbs
p; Still hugging, they stared back at the crew.

  “Now let’s look angry,” Becky said.

  So they stared angrily.

  “Try curious,” Felix said.

  They stared curiously.

  “Now be alarmed,” Becky said.

  They stared alarmingly. This finally made Felix laugh and Mike mutter, “You’re a couple of little kids, I swear.”

  Felix had a few more hours of shooting that day, so Becky and Mike sat back to watch. It didn’t take long to prove their presence wasn’t going to aid the process. In between takes, Felix kept stopping to smile at Becky or to do some goofy pratfall to make her laugh or to cozy up to Mike and express his undying affection for him and for all men everywhere bearing the name of Mike. Finally the director approached Becky’s chair and in a hushed voice offered use of the studio’s limousine if she would just leave the set for the day. So Becky waved good-bye, and Felix waved good-bye, and they kept waving and smiling coyly at each other until the door shut between them.

  Becky squinted at the sudden sunlight. “That went pretty well.”

  “You two are the goofiest—”

  “I know, I know. It makes no sense.”

  Mike put his arm around her shoulders. “It was fun for me, like reuniting two little girls after summer camp.”

  “And I guess it doesn’t hurt for you to think of Felix as a little girl.”

  “It helps a great deal.”

  A limo pulled up, and Mike and Becky stood still, staring at their reflections in the shiny windows.

  “That director was serious,” Mike said.

  “That director “I guess.”

  The driver opened the door, and there was nothing to do but settle into the leather seats, play with the radio buttons, and mutter, “We so don’t belong here.”

  “Where can I take you?” the driver asked.

  “Uh . . .” Mike said.

  “Uh . . .” Becky countered.

  They looked at each other.

  The driver adjusted his hat to shade his eyes. “You want to sightsee? I could take you anywhere. There’s lots to see in Los Angeles. America’s cultural center west of the Mississippi.”