The Actor and the Housewife

by Shannon Hale

  “Never, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “If you were alone in a big city and he was kind to you and offered to buy you dinner so you could chat—”

  “No. No! Maybe . . . no. I don’t know. Never mind. That’s all.”

  Diana hurried away without a backward glance.

  Wow. Tom Cruise. For Diana, that was like admitting she’d killed a puppy for fun. Becky put down the ice cream, much less interested in dessert than in finding Mike. She had news to share.

  In the end, Felix took care of “The Blind Love Affair”—they’d defamed him as well, and he had a lawyer on payroll. There was no suit, but the cable show agreed to never re-air the exposé and published a retraction, which no one paid the least attention to.

  The brouhaha died more quickly than Becky could have hoped. A singer was implicated in the murder of an ex-girlfriend, and Becky Jack, husband stealer, was forgotten. Besides, as it turned out, the public at large had never taken the story seriously. They looked at Celeste Bo-dine, they looked at Felix, they looked at Becky—it was obvious who belonged with whom.

  “You okay about all this?” Becky asked Mike.

  “No way. Stupid tabloid journalists. I’d like to hit someone.”

  “If you and Jerry are both threatening physical violence, this really is Armageddon.”

  “You should watch out. I’m unpredictable.” He pretended to look away then hurled a small, plush duck at her butt.

  He was okay about all this.

  And Becky was left with the memories, some expensive outfits, and a chunk of change. She decided to get rid of the money right away. Her cut for acting and screenplay combined was a fraction of Felix’s paycheck. Of course he offered to split his share fifty-fifty, and of course she refused.

  She and Mike created college funds for the kids, replaced the fritzy air conditioner, and paid their mortgage down to a nice manageable sum. They wanted to include their families in their windfall, so they shelled out the remaining cash for a four-day vacation at a large cabin in southern Utah, inviting the entire extended family. There were high points—all her kids had a blast with their cousins, her mother organized a family talent show that was a sidesplitting good time, and each evening Mike’s sister Virginia supervised a simply glorious dinner.

  And there were low points—on day one, a few nephews, a brother, and a sister-in-law began to murmur. On day two, the murmurers whined, and by day three . . .

  “You must’ve made a buttload of cash on that movie, and all you can buy for breakfast is cold cereal?”

  “Bunch of ingrates,” she told Felix on the phone. “Did they think I’d waste my kids’ college money on caviar?”

  “Can’t stand caviar,” he said. “Lumpy balls of salt. They pop between your teeth, and you know you’re killing baby fish.”

  “Ew.”

  “Yes.”

  “I should go back.” She was on the porch, cradling her brother’s borrowed cell phone against the wind.

  “Aunt Becky,” shouted one of her nephews out the window. “Can we have some cash to go rent a few movies?”

  “Oh for cripe’s sake,” she muttered, storming back into the house. “Listen up, people. Can you hear me in the kitchen? Pipe down, I’m giving a speech! Thank you all for attending our family bash. There’s been some misunderstanding about the state of our funds, so let’s clear it up. We are not wealthy. I did not get a million dollars. In fact, the money is depleted. I’m going to give each one of you five bucks, and that will dry me out. Use it for video rentals, pizza orders, or save it to pay your phone bill. Complain about what we eat for breakfast or ask for more money, and I’m giving Mike permission to throw you in the lake.”

  The room was tense. Even the toddlers stopped toddling. Mike seemed capable of tossing any one of them a respectable distance, and the expression on his face promised he might enjoy it. For a moment, the only sound was muffled, tinny laughing, and Becky realized that Felix was still on the phone.

  “Did you catch all that?” she asked, holding the receiver back on her ear.

  “Bravo, my lady. And I’ll let you go to deal with the aftermath.”

  He hung up. Everyone was still quiet.

  “Any questions?” she asked.

  Matt, her eighteen-year-old nephew, raised his hand. “So, are you going to give us a fi ver or can I get mine in ones?”

  Becky very slowly walked out of the room.

  “Money’s a curse,” she whispered to Mike, who was at her side.

  “You’re my hero,” he said.

  And basically, that was that. Polly and Fiona gave her a Blind Love scrapbook for Christmas, with frames from the movie and publicity shots, as well as family photos of their summer in California. It was the best thing she got out of the experience—except for the time with Felix. To be honest, the way you can only be honest late at night and in your own head, the whole thing had been pretty cool. She’d been in a movie. She was Felix Callahan’s bosom friend. She was painfully in love with her husband, and her kids were awesome. Life was very, very good.

  This time she didn’t even stop to wonder if everything was going to turn ugly, so when it did, she was unprepared—her spiritual windows weren’t boarded up, her emotional sandbags weren’t in place. But perhaps the unexpectedness of this tragedy was a gift in disguise; preparation for something far worse.

  In which Becky receives a midnight call

  The phone woke her, and she was too bleary-eyed to read the clock, even though its huge orange numbers were so bright she often considered wearing an eye mask.

  “Hello?”

  Felix’s voice. “Are you asleep?”

  “Hold on,” Becky whispered.

  Mike rolled over and muttered, “Something wrong?”

  “No, just Felix. Go back to sleep.”

  “K . . .” and he snored.

  Becky crawled out of bed, walking the familiar path to the family room with her eyes closed, feeling for obstacles with her feet. She hadn’t bothered to stick on her glasses, since she was too sleepy to focus anyway. She dumped herself onto the couch and asked, “What’s up?”

  He sighed. She heard a lot in that sigh, and she realized with a jolt that opened her eyes that she was lying in the exact spot as the last late-night call. The night Mike had said he was having a hard time. The night Becky had said good-bye to Felix. It was still the same couch, pale beige with embroidered flowers, which had been a thoughtless choice for a home with four children—with any children, really. Colorful splotches created by spilled food and careless markers had become permanent features of the design. Upholstery stain removers were the biggest scam since snake oil.

  “Are you going to ask me to try to be gay?” she asked.

  Felix didn’t laugh. It was a bad sign.

  “Oh no. It’s Celeste?”

  “She said seeing us in the movie, seeing me and you together on the talk shows, she said I looked so happy. She said it made her realize that she can’t make me as happy. And that I’m not making her . . .” He choked on the words.

  “Was it that exposé—”

  He cleared his throat. “No, no one takes those seriously. She said . . . she said something is missing between us, that it’s always been missing. That we haven’t been growing together for some time. That we need some space. Those very words—we need some space. I never imagined that our relationship could be so poorly written.”

  Becky lay down, resting her head on the stained armrest. He was saying good-bye. Her heart curled into her chest like a snail in a shell.

  “I need . . .” He paused as if gathering strength. “I need to not talk to you anymore. Or see you. To show Celeste that there’s no one more important. More important than her.”

  “Of course. Good for you.” And she meant it, though her voice faltered.

  “I need to go now,” he said. “I can’t linger. I’m . . .” His voice cracked again.

  “Okay, sure, I’ll . . . I mean . . . take care of yo
urself, Felix. Bye.” She spoke quickly and hung up.

  She lay on the sofa for an hour or more, still clutching the phone, still holding the hang-up button. She only knew she was crying because there were warm lines of sensation running sideways down her face. After a time, the armrest felt a little wet.

  This is silly, she told herself. You’re forty-one. Buck up. You’ll survive losing your friend again.

  Putting down the phone, she folded her arms and, still prostrate, said a prayer for Felix and Celeste, for their marriage, for his pain, for her understanding. And while she was at it, she prayed for her family—that Mike could land a new position at work where he’d be happier, that Fiona’s heart wouldn’t break over her current boy love, that Polly could be bold with her manipulative little friends, that Hyrum could feel more confidence in school, that Sam would be spared the life-threatening accidents he seemed determined to tumble into. She didn’t pray for herself.

  When she returned to the bedroom, she could tell Mike was in his delicate stage of sleep, where the least disruption might wake him and spark insomnia. She gently closed the door, went back downstairs to the kitchen, and stayed up until three making pies. She couldn’t send one to the person who needed comfort the most, but at least the world didn’t feel as heavy and hopeless when there was pie.

  Months crept by without a word from Felix. Becky avoided reading Internet entertainment sites. She didn’t see his new film, even though it was rated PG-13. Mike knew the whole situation of course, but she didn’t tell anyone else, which made it awkward when she got the common “How’s Felix?” inquiry.

  “Fine,” she’d say. Lying wasn’t her cup of herbal tea, but she couldn’t very well divulge Felix’s private business to anyone who happened to ask.

  “Hey, how’s Felix?”

  “Fine, he’s fine.”

  From what she could see of the magazine covers in line at the grocery store, his marriage trouble hadn’t yet hit that fan. That was good. Maybe they were working it out. She wrote Celeste a letter illustrating how much Felix loved his wife and no one else, then spent a week agonizing over whether or not to send it, going back and forth with Mike on pros and cons. In the end, they decided she’d be wise to hang back, be invisible.

  It wouldn’t have made a difference. Celeste’s mind had been made up for months.

  “Hello?”

  “It wasn’t you and me,” Felix said, his words slurring together. She could nearly smell the whiskey wafting through the fiber optics. “It wasn’t me. It’s not me . . .”

  “Tell me,” she said, walking into the kitchen to put some distance between herself and the rowdy pounding that was Hyrum’s piano practice. Felix’s voice after all this time, mixed with the wild music and the fact that all she’d eaten that day was a bowl of Yogurt-Zapped Breakfast Rings, was making her head spin.

  “Celeste is seeing someone else. She’s in Florence. His name is Alfredo. Alfredo!”

  Becky’s breath was yanked out of her. She squeaked, “Is it serious?”

  “Someone sent me an Italian tabloid. That’s how I found out. There was a photo. They were in their bathing costumes on the beach, kissing. On a beach. Kissing on a beach. I don’t have—isn’t there a list of the top ten worst clichés? And that’s one? That has to be one. Apparently he’s a musician, though he looks like a complete drip. I called her. She didn’t deny it. She’s in love, she said. She’s sorry she didn’t tell me first, she said. That’s the bit she regrets, she said, but she can’t regret being in love. With Alfredo. Alfredo the Italian musician.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In New York. Doing a play. I took the rest of the week off from rehearsals.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming out.”

  He paused. “Okay.”

  It wasn’t until Mike came home from work that Becky realized what she was about to do.

  “Could you come with me, honey?” she asked.

  “I’ve got a client meeting tomorrow. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Sort of, but I think he needs me. He sounded horrible. I booked a seat on the red-eye. But . . . but we’d be alone, and he’s separated from his wife, and I can’t remember where the lines are anymore”

  Mike stared at her as if trying to determine her species. “What do you mean, ‘lines’?”

  “I’ve been trying to keep track of all the lines that abhor a crossing, you know, since Felix is a guy and he’s not gay and doesn’t smell strongly of kimchi. And it was the night before I went on a trip alone to meet him that you had a hard time, and I don’t want to worry you.”

  He still hadn’t figured out her species. “Bec, it’s Felix.” He said “Felix” like he might’ve said “Twinkie” or “miniature golf.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So . . . I’m not worried.”

  “The airfare was steep last-minute.”

  “That’s a bummer, but if he needs his best friend, I wouldn’t expect anything less of you.”

  “Thank you.”

  He was right, and she knew she should go, but she still felt a heavy ball of unease in her belly. She dismissed it as sorrow for the end of one of her favorite marriages. Celeste—how could Celeste . . . it didn’t make sense. They were so much in love. She was such a genuine, warm person. How could she do this? How could she hurt Felix, allow herself to fall in love with Alfredo, break apart their marriage, toss away something so sacred?

  The thoughts hounded and scorched her. Becky didn’t sleep on the plane.

  Felix wasn’t waiting at the airport. When the Jack family had first arrived in Los Angeles for the movie summer, he’d been waiting at baggage claim in his chauffeur’s hat, holding a sign that said “Jack,” scanning the crowd as if he didn’t recognize them. Of course now he was navigating some rough seas. He wouldn’t be in shape to get up early and haul out to the airport. But as she watched the baggage carousel rumble by, a wave of something dark rushed over her. She called it foreboding, but it might have been exhaustion. The spinning carousel was hypnotic in her sleepy state and it took her several minutes to remember she hadn’t checked a bag. All she had was a carry-on, her purse, and a homemade apple pie.

  She took a taxi to his apartment on the Upper West Side, the pie perched on her lap. One of her weekly give-away pies had been claimed already when Felix had called. But another had been waiting patiently on the counter for an unknown sad soul who needed comfort, and she hadn’t hesitated to find a box and bring it along. Two thousand miles she’d schlepped it, careful not to let it get smooshed through security and turbulence. Then she set it on the cab seat while she paid.

  She was standing on the curb watching the taxi drive away when she realized aloud, “Felix’s pie is in that cab.” She was too tired to wave or shout or run after it. Maybe the cab driver was having a lousy day. Maybe he really, really needed a homemade apple pie.

  Twenty minutes later, Becky was still on her feet, standing in the building’s lobby while the doorman tried to reach Felix. He buzzed, he rang. No answer. Becky tried Felix’s cell phone. She tried the apartment phone. Finally Felix came off the street through the glass doors, a bag from the corner drugstore in hand. He stared at her for several seconds before seeming to recognize her face.

  “You’re here,” he said blankly.

  His under eyes were purple, his face pillowcase pallid. He was wearing shorts and one of Celeste’s sweatshirts. It was too small, and he reminded Becky of a growing boy, last year’s shirt rimming his belly, cuffs a couple of inches from his wrists. He’d never looked more pathetic, or frankly, adorable.

  “Hi Rufus,” she said.

  She held out her arms. He blinked again, and a little life returned to his eyes. He stumbled over, wrapped his arms around her, and lay his head on her shoulder. She heard him sigh.

  “Thank you,” he said into her hair. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  They stayed in all day. He didn’t
smile, but a glint of his normal self would occasionally catch in his eye. He’d had Chris Isaac’s “Wicked Game” on repeat, which was making matters worse in these circumstances, so Becky took possession of the CD and hid it in a book when his back was turned.

  He hadn’t been eating well—her well-trained eye could spot that in a moment—so she put Aretha Franklin on the stereo (“because the Queen of Soul knows heartbreak and makes it feel good,” Becky said) and made a big breakfast. Biscuits, bacon, poached eggs with cheese, chunky hash browns—she scavenged what ever she could find in the kitchen and transformed it into comfort food. It was her motherly superpower, and she wielded it obscenely well.

  He ate, and that seemed to help. Then she pushed him into the bathroom, forcing him to take a shower by threatening a sponge bath if he didn’t comply. He came out, red faced and glistening in his bathrobe. She turned on the ocean-sounds machine and tucked him into his bed. While he napped, she puttered around, taking anything that might remind him of Celeste and stowing it in the closet.

  When he emerged from the bedroom a couple of hours later in pajama pants and a Boston Marathon T-shirt, she was cleaning the fridge, throwing out soft carrots and spinach that had begun to leak a brown liquid.

  Becky beamed at him. “Good morning, bedhead.”

  He put a hand to his hair, feeling the postmodern mess that sleeping on wet hair had done to him. “It’s fashionable.”

  “So I hear. But I think I’ll stick to the suburban mother look that’s such a rage with all the kids.”

  He didn’t quite smile, but his face softened. Then he saw Celeste’s protein shakes in the fridge door, and he put his hand over his eyes.

  She led him to the couch, tucked a decorative throw around his legs, and let him talk. He seemed ready to spill it out, though his voice carried the slow, monotonous heaviness that characterize the zombified or extremely bored. He spoke about how he and Celeste had met, he spoke about the promises they’d made, how he’d never been unfaithful, how he’d always told her everything, even the time he’d kissed a woman at a pub in Ireland. He talked about how much he hated Italy. The entire country—it’s history, culture, food, and street names.