Some Kind of Angel

by Larson, Shirley

  “Got it, Leslie.”

  “Eight o’clock is perfect. Thank you.”

  In the kitchen, Jerome cornered me. Like me, he was an aspiring actor, but unlike me, he was also a talented dancer. I also liked him because I wasn’t his style. His lovely blue eyes glowed with curiosity. “Did you snag an audition with the great Melville?”

  “I did, yes. I think he felt sorry for me.”

  “Melville hasn’t felt sorry for anyone since Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote Oklahoma.”

  “I don’t think he was born then.”

  “My point exactly. If you get cast, could you mention my name?”

  “I doubt very much if I’ll get cast. And if by some miracle, I did, my mentioning your name would have about as much effect as a snowflake in July.”

  “Will you try anyway?”

  “Of course.” It was amazing what one bit of good fortune could do for a person. I made it through my shift without forgetting, or entering an order wrong, or spilling food on anyone. Now all I had to do was make it through the audition without disgracing myself in some unknown way I hadn’t yet thought of.

  At the theater, the working lights above the stage were on, rather than the spots. I was grateful for that, particularly when Melville didn’t give me a script. Instead, he called me to the center of the stage, and asked me to tell him something about myself. I supposed the other candidates sitting on chairs at the table behind me had already done this.

  I tried to remember what my sister-in-law, Lynne told me about this part of the audition process. ‘Pretend they are your good friends. Look above their heads. And try to make it interesting or funny.’

  “I grew up on a ranch in Florida. I can ride a horse, rope a calf, and shoot a gun, talents which are of little use on Broadway.” I waited, hoping to hear a little chuckle. Nothing. I could feel the perspiration gathering in my arm pits. “I have two brothers and one sister. My mother was a Native American princess until she married my father. I have always been interested in musical theater, but when Lynne Cameron came to Florida and married my brother, my interest level went way up. Lynne took over our community theater, and I was cast as Laurey in her production of Oklahoma.

  I work at Monikers and make it a practice to spill food on people’s laps. I also work at Antiques for Today and have not broken an expensive vase there yet. It’s probably only a matter of time.” At that point, I thought I had embarrassed myself enough.

  I went to the table, sat down and looked out into the auditorium. One of the women sitting next to Melville leaned over to say something in his ear.

  “Leslie, we’d like you to read from the top of page eighty eight to the bottom of ninety two. You’ll be reading with John. John, skip the kiss.”

  A man rose from the other side of the table and came to center stage to stand next to me. He was tall and dark haired and reminded me of Michael. That thought helped me relax a bit and I scanned down the script pages. It appeared I was playing the part of an innocent girl and John was trying to seduce me. This scene followed the kiss Melville told him to skip.

  “You liked it, didn’t you? You liked me kissing you?”

  “Yes, of course, but…”

  “Sex is so much better than kissing. Sex is…wonderful.”

  I stared at him. I’d heard these words before. Maybe Adam hadn’t said it quite the same when he was convincing me to go to bed with him the first time, but it was close. This poor girl was headed for the same predicament I was in. Darn it, I should have been smarter. This woman should be smarter. “Sex makes babies. Will you stay with me if I become pregnant?”

  John stared at me and then directed his attention to the casting committee. “She’s going off book. I don’t know how to answer that.”

  “It’s simple enough,” I said. “Yes or no?”

  “Harvey?”

  I looked out into the auditorium and said, “I’m sorry. No woman would look at a man and say “How wonderful is sex? A woman would look at a man and say exactly what I said. Or at least she should.”

  Harvey Melville sat there, thinking she was expressing his own feeling about the script. This scene in particular was unrealistic. Even a girl as innocent as this character was purported to be would be wary of having sex and getting pregnant, even if the man did vow to protect himself.

  Harvey was known for his photographic memory when it came to faces. He was also known for his ability to instantly shift gears in placing people where they would do his production the most good. If he’d slated a woman for one role in an audition, and she delivered a line and got a laugh from his cast and crew, he’d shift her to another more comedic role. “Leslie, would you come down here for a moment?”

  I’d blown it. He was going to toss me out on my ear. Who did I think I was, rewriting the script? Reluctantly, carefully, I descended the stairs into the auditorium.

  “Leslie, I’d like you to do me a favor. I’d like to bring you on my staff as an assistant writer.”

  “Charlie will blow his top,” Helen said.

  “Let him. I had the feeling this script was off from the get go. If you would be willing to take this puppy home and give me suggestions on how we could tighten it up and make it more realistic, I’ll pay you five hundred dollars a week. If you’d rather be on stage, I understand and you can continue through the audition process, but if my offer interests you, I think you could be of much more use to me in the assistant writer capacity.”

  Assistant writer. Five hundred dollars a week. Steady income. No more working at Monikers. No more worrying about auditioning while I was pregnant.

  “Do you really think I could be of some use to you?”

  “No question about it. Do you accept?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. We’ve just said our vows, and now we’re married. Here’s the script. Can you work on it tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll expect some suggestions by Friday. Maybe not for the whole script, but at least for Act I.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  “A woman I can trust. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. See you on Friday here at eight o’clock so I can look at what you would change.”

  “Eight o’clock in the morning?”

  “Oh, my dear girl. I didn’t even know there was an eight o’clock in the morning. No, Friday evening.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  He watched her scurry out of the auditorium, the script clutched tightly under her arm. He felt better than he had in a long, long time.

  He turned to his assistant. “How did you spot the fact that she was pregnant?”

  Helen smiled at him. “I wasn’t sure at first. But when she turned around, I could see the mask of pregnancy. She tried to hide it with makeup, but these working stage lights are brutal. They show everything.”

  “I’ve had three wives and I’ve never heard of the mask of pregnancy. What the hell is it?”

  “Not all women have it. It’s a slight discoloration around the mouth, forehead or cheeks. Pregnancy causes a steep rise in estrogen and that in turn stimulates excess melanin. The clinical name for it is chlosma. It goes away after delivery.”

  “The things I’m learning all because I got onion soup dumped in my lap.”

  “See? Never an ill wind. I bet Leslie Rutledge is believer in that, just now.”

  “You think I’m crazy, making her my assistant script writer?”

  “I think you’re a genius. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my boss. I’ve seen you in casting and I think if Raymond Burr had been a candidate for the district attorney, you, too, would have been smart enough to cast him as Perry Mason.”

  Chapter Three

  That night

  Knock, Knock, Knock. Oh, no. I was on a roll with this script. It wasn’t a bad script, but it was written by a man who obviously had an oversized ego and thought that anything a man said, a woman would just sigh and say,
yes dear. He’d obviously watched too much fifties television with those perfect mom’s, Donna Reed and Mrs. Cleaver. I glanced at my watch. One o’clock in the morning. Definitely not going to the door.

  Knock, Knock, Knock. Whoever it was could just go away.

  When the third set of knocks came, I realized if I didn’t answer the door, Marian would stagger out of her bedroom and grumble, “Who the hell is at the door and can I kill him?” I threw my pencil down and went to look through the peephole.

  Michael. Of course.

  I opened the door a crack with the chain lock in place. “Michael, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see how your audition went.”

  “How did you know I had one?”

  “Marian told me. I saw your light was on, and I thought I could stop in for a second so you could tell me what happened.”

  I was perfectly respectable in my robe and pajamas and he stood there radiating that beauty that seemed to say, “I’m harmless,” so what could I do but let him in?

  As soon as he walked through the door, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. He had on jeans that looked well-worn and a crew-necked polo shirt in a shade of blue that made his eyes look iridescent and his muscles look yummy. He was just too darn delectable to be real.

  “So. How did it go?”

  I hadn’t been able to share my good news with anyone. Marian had been asleep when I came in, and there was no one else, really. Or there had been no one else until Michael.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “A cup of coffee sounds good. I have become quite addicted since I…came to America.”

  “I thought they drank a lot of coffee in Ireland.”

  “They did. I did not.” He got that look on his face again, that too-innocent-to-be-for-real look.

  I led him to the breakfast bar and pulled out a stool, indicating he should sit down. With the coffee maker turned on to heat the water, I asked him what flavor he would like.

  “You have flavors?”

  “I have Hawaiian Blend, Santa’s White Christmas, Café Mocha, that’s a really chocolatey one, and…”

  “Café Mocha. I love chocolate.”

  “That’s…” I wanted to say odd, but stopped myself just in time, “different. Most men don’t like chocolate so much.”

  “I am not like most men.”

  “I had noticed that,” I said, and smiled at him. Something about this man made you want to smile at him every chance you got.

  “Is that good or bad?” he asked.

  I tilted my head to one side, giving him a considering look. “Good, I think. I came to New York thinking most men would be like my brothers. Upright, honest, truthful.”

  “Did you discover how wrong you were?”

  “Yes.” What had made him say that? Was he a mind reader? I didn’t want him reading my mind. I turned away from him and in my case-closed voice said, “Your coffee’s almost ready. Would you like cream and sugar?”

  “No, I’ll take it black. I do not like to dilute the caffeine.”

  I started the coffee machine to drizzle water into his cup, and turned around to lean against the counter. “How about you, Michael? You’re an attractive man.” To say the least. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “The opportunity never arose.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “So. Are all the girls in Ireland blind?”

  “No. Is there a reason you’re not telling me about your audition?”

  “I’m not going to be considered for any part.” I handed him his coffee.

  “Leslie, I’m sorry.”

  “No, wait. It’s all good. Melville offered me a job as his assistant writer. I’ve just been going over his script and making suggestions for changes. I’m on a weekly retainer. This is a wonderful opportunity for me. The only down side is, I’ll have to stay two weeks to give my notice at Monikers.”

  Michael was silent for a moment. He took a sip of his coffee and then set the cup down on the island. “I have an idea. I don’t have a job. Let me step in and work your two weeks while I’m looking for something else.”

  “I couldn’t let you do that.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Do you have any experience as a waiter?”

  Michael braced himself for the ping. “Back in O’Reilly’s pub I was known quite well for my ability to keep the ale orders straight.” Ping.

  “It would be wonderful if I didn’t have to go back to Monikers again. Are you sure?”

  “I am sure. And I have interrupted you in your work. I should go.”

  “No, stay, talk to me. I need a break. Tell me about your day. Did you find some furniture for your apartment?”

  “Yes. They’ll deliver it in a couple of days.”

  “You’re not…sleeping on the floor, are you?” I felt horrified at the thought of that beautiful body waking in the morning with cramped muscles everywhere.

  He shot that amazing smile at me. “I thought I might try the bathtub.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll sleep right here. We have a pullout couch. That is…if you don’t mind sleeping in your clothes.”

  “I do not mind that at all. But Leslie, are you sure that Marian…”

  “She’ll be fine as long as you remain fully clothed.”

  “Scout’s honor.” He held up two fingers.

  I got him a blanket and a pillow and got him settled on the couch. Thank goodness it was long enough for his endless legs.

  As he stretched out and pulled the blanket up, he said, “You are not going to tuck me in, are you?”

  He had such a wonderful smile. It was beatific and impish all at the same time. “Of course I am.” Acting on impulse, I leaned down and kissed his forehead.

  He did not know whether the jolt he got was from the touch of Leslie’s lips on his face or the gigantic ping he got from Gabriel, but the combination nearly brought him up off the cushions.

  “Goodnight, Michael,” she said in that beautiful soft voice of hers.

  “Goodnight, Leslie.” He closed his eyes and as was his habit, went to sleep instantly.

  I tried to concentrate on the script, but all I could think about was as long as I sat there working at the breakfast bar, the light shone in Michael’s eyes. It didn’t seem to disturb him, but he was the kind of man who would think about my need to work and pretend to be asleep so I could go on working. I wasn’t sure how I knew that, but I just did. I didn’t really need to revise the script tonight as long as Michael was going in for me tomorrow. That man had to be some kind of angel.

  Maybe Michael was too good to be true because he was working up to taking me into a dark basement and torturing me before he killed me. Ye gods. Now I really was thinking like a New Yorker. Never trust anybody.

  I should have had that wariness when I met Adam. Too late now. As I went into my bedroom and got ready for bed, I let myself do something I hadn’t done for a while. I remembered my time with Adam. I met him last autumn at a cattle call. He was funny and charming. He was a native New Yorker who came from a wealthy family. He took me places I never would have seen otherwise. We spent a beautiful fall day at The High Line Park, a park built on the elevated section of a disused spur of the New York Central Railroad. It was filled with wildflowers and trees, a green oasis right in the middle of the city. He took me to the top of the Empire State Building. I told him this played a vital part in the movies, Sleepless in Seattle where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks finally find each other and An Affair to Remember, where Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr finally find each other. He took me to the Statue of Liberty and I told him about Saboteur, the Alfred Hitchcock movie where Robert Cummings is trying to save the villain by holding on to his coat sleeve, but the stitching gives way and Norman Lloyd falls to his death from the top of the statue.”

  “Is there anything I can show you that you won’t associate with a movie?”

 
; “Probably not,” I’d said, laughing.

  He’d made love to me for the first time that night. He’d been gentle and caring and he’d used a condom. After that, I’d gone on the pill. I was beginning to think Adam was the man I would spend my life with. Then I got a sore throat. I had several auditions scheduled and I couldn’t risk losing my voice. I went to an emergency clinic and the young intern prescribed antibiotics but forgot to give me the caveat about birth control meds. I hadn’t known antibiotics suppressed estrogen and counteracted birth control pills. I do now.

  Funny. Since the advent of Michael in my life, I’d hardly thought of Adam.

  With the two jobs, I barely stayed afloat financially. Melville’s salary was a godsend. My bank account would show a definite improvement.

  I climbed into bed feeling quite at ease for the first time since I realized I was carrying a child. All because of a spilled bowl of onion soup and a man named Michael.

  That easiness of mind lasted until nine o’clock the next morning. I was still in bed when my cell phone buzzed.

  “How’s my favorite Broadway actress?”

  The last person’s voice on this earth I wanted to hear, my big brother Jake. My surrogate father and protector. If he knew about Adam, he’d get on the next plane to New York and plant several punches on my erstwhile lover’s jaw. I fought the morning nausea by lying back in bed and cradling the phone to my ear. “I thought that spot was reserved for Lynne.”

  “She’s not on Broadway anymore. You are.”

  “Yes, well, about that…”

  “I’m not wishing you any bad luck but I’m hoping you’ll keep Thanksgiving weekend open.”

  “That’s a month and a half away. I don’t know what I’ll be doing.” Except getting bigger with this baby.

  “I’m going to send you a plane ticket. Your mother wants you home for Thanksgiving. Dorian will be here, too.”

  “Dorian’s coming home? Oh, it will be wonderful to see him.”

  “You can come, then?”

  “I…I don’t know, Jake.” I’d be three and a half months along by Thanksgiving. There was no way I could go home if I were showing. If Jake found out I was pregnant and the father of my baby told me he wasn’t going to marry me, Jake would come to New York with his rope, hog tie Adam and march him to the altar. What a lot of fun that would be. Jake brought Lynne home to install in his bedroom before they were married, but my brother would have a completely different set of rules for his adored little sister.