I'll Love You When You're More Like Me

by M. E. Kerr

  “Is it all right?”

  “Have her in by nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Mrs. St. Amour said and let out a hoot. “No, no,” she said, “you have my permission. You’re a nice young man, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a nice young man,” I agreed. Sabra was already on her feet.

  I could feel everyone watching us. I could hear Mrs. St. Amour shouting, “They met on the beach! That’s news to her mother!”

  “Is Mr. Orr the one who gave you the gold bracelet?” I said.

  “Do I look desperate?” she said.

  I was imagining Lauralei Rabinowitz and Maury Posner sitting at a table getting an eyeful of me with her, even though experience and common sense told me that anyone who knew Lauralei Rabinowitz for less than three months was somewhere down in the dunes with a blanket, murmuring “I love you, I love you” into her soft black hair.

  “Lamont’s out here on business,” Sabra said. “He’s a writer for our show.”

  “Then who did give you the bracelet?” I said.

  “Someone wonderful,” she said.

  “Oh I know him,” I said.

  Way back by our table I could see Harriet and Charlie standing on chairs so they could get a better look at us. Every few seconds someone glided past us and purred “Tell me more.”

  “I suppose this happens to you a lot,” I said.

  “I don’t go out a lot,” she said. “The only thing that happens to me is the neighborhood hand laundry asks for an autographed picture, to put up beside the sign that says ‘Not responsible for articles of clothing left after thirty days.’ ”

  “If you don’t go out a lot, what do you do a lot?”

  “Work,” she said. “I work a lot.”

  Duffo Buttman, one of the Seaville High quarterbacks, stopped us so he could get Sabra’s autograph on his lobster bib. “Just say ‘To remember a dynamite evening,’ ” he said, handing her a Pentel.

  After she signed the bib for him, she asked me, “What do you do a lot?”

  “I go to school a lot.”

  “College?”

  “First grade,” I said.

  “I just finished high school,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m going to take any college courses or not. What are you going to do when you get out of first grade?”

  Myra Tuttle and Louise Rand appeared with paper napkins and a ball-point pen. “Just say ‘Loved seeing you,’ ” Myra said.

  Louise said, “You can say something like ‘Good luck, Louise.’ ”

  I stood there grateful that they’d come along and interrupted the conversation. I knew where the conversation was leading. It was leading right toward BEAMS.

  My father is a Son of Beams. He has a black-and-white cap up in our attic with SONBEAM stitched across it. Everyone in my father’s family for generations has gone to BEAMS. BEAMS is the reason my Uncle Albert ran off to join the Navy, age seventeen.

  Albert is my father’s older brother. He went from the Navy to working as an apprentice printer, to teaching dancing at Arthur Murray, to managing a McDonald’s, to teaching canoe at a boy’s camp in the Adirondacks, to exterminating rats in Chicago, to playing at a roadhouse and living in a trailer camp. My mother calls him The Flop of the Two Families, and Uncle Albert signs all his postcards and letters “No regrets, Albert.”

  “Everybody makes jokes about BEAMS”—my father had variations on the same remarks five or six times a year—“but I’ll bet Albert would give his right arm to be able to do it all over again and go to BEAMS.”

  “I doubt that Albert could do it all over again without his right arm,” I said.

  “Don’t always wisecrack, Wallace,” said my father. “I enjoy a good joke or two myself about the profession. Why when we get together at conventions, you should hear the kidding around that goes on. We have picnics with Casket Casseroles and all that sort of thing. But I’m trying to tell you where Albert made his mistake.”

  “He always signs his mail ‘No regrets,’ ” I’d point out. “It doesn’t sound like he thinks he made a mistake.”

  “People who have no regrets don’t have to sign things ‘No regrets,’ ” said my father. “Do I sign things ‘Happily married and settled down?’ I know what Albert’s life is like. No security. Living in a trailer camp with the kind of people who live in trailer camps. Albert’s been all the way around the world and he ends up playing ‘Blue Moon’ in a roadhouse and calling a trailer home. Do you know why?”

  “He didn’t want to be an undertaker,” I said.

  “A man without a profession is a man without more than about two hundred dollars in savings his whole life.”

  “Maybe Uncle Albert doesn’t want a big savings account,” I said.

  “So long as his health lasts, maybe he doesn’t,” said my father. “But what about the day sugar shows up in his urine, or the old ticker gives out, hmmmm? Both things run in the Witherspoon family. Albert ran out on his old age when he ran away those many years ago. He spit in the face of Fate.”

  Fate, for the Witherspoons, according to my father (and my mother), is BEAMS.

  BEAMS is Broadhurst Embalming and Mortician School.

  “If you were ever so foolish as to consider running out on your old age,” my father always added, “I hope you’d realize that you’d be running out on me, your mother, Ann Elizabeth, the whole family, its tradition and its livelihood.”

  Sabra finished autographing and turned back to me. “What were we talking about?” she said.

  “I don’t remember,” I lied.

  “I remember. We were talking about what you were going to study after you got out of first grade.”

  “It’s too early to know,” I said.

  “I knew what I was going to be since I was old enough to walk,” said Sabra.

  “Some people are just lucky that way,” I said.

  That was the point when Harriet sent Charlie over to cut in.

  When I got back to the table, Harriet said, “Who’s the couple she’s with?”

  “Her mother and a writer for the show,” I said. “Did we look stupid dancing?”

  “Good,” she said. “You didn’t look any more stupid than you used to look when Lauralei Rabinowitz towered over you.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” I said. “Why did you say good?” “Charlie’s going to ask her to join us,” Harriet said. “We’ll save four dollars.”

  10. Sabra St. Amour

  When Charlie asked me to join them, I shook my head and rolled my eyes to the heavens and said Mama would just never hear of it. I said if Mama had her way I’d have tattoos all over me saying “Fragile,” “Keep Your Distance” and “No Trespassers.” Charlie persisted, saying I was almost old enough to drink, vote and get married, and I kept replying, “You don’t know Mama!”

  By the time Charlie asked Mama, all the Chartreuse she’d been drinking must have caught up with her. “I think that’s a swell idea,” she said. “Why not? You go ahead, honey. Charlie, you see that she gets home safely, hear?”

  I leaned down and whispered to Mama, “I can’t stick you with Lamont.”

  “I’m going to ditch him at The Seaville Inn in about ten minutes,” said Mama. “Then I’m going to sit out on the deck and watch the moon with my old pals Frankie and Perry and Tony and Andy, while they sing to me.”

  Lamont pretended to cut something with an imaginary pair of scissors.

  When I asked him what he was doing he said he was cutting the umbilical cord.

  I don’t know why I ever started discussing Lamont’s stupid play when we got to Dunn’s Drive-In. If the leading critic for The New York Times reviewed it with nothing more than a series of Z’s, why did I think I was going to come off any better telling Charlie, Wally and Her the plot? (Right from the start I sensed that I was going to have trouble with Her.) I was nervous, that was part of the reason I started on it. The only kids I’d ever been around were kids like me, who went to Professional Children’s School in Manhattan.

&
nbsp; I know you’ve probably all read and heard interviews with kids who do what I do for a living, either on T.V. or in the movies. There’s always a line in those interviews about “offstage little Blah Blah is just another youngster, no different from other children.” If you believe that, you believe that rain is dry and the sun is wet. All of us little Blah Blahs are about as much like ordinary kids as Volkswagens are like Rolls-Royces. Ordinary kids don’t have agents who take ten percent of their earnings; shrinks who charge fifty dollars an hour to listen to their problems; wardrobe people who help them dress and undress; makeup people who hide their blemishes; and fans who try to telephone them, write them, wire them and send them everything from chocolate layer cakes to bus tickets to Cincinnati. Most of us little Blah Blahs have huge scrapbooks, too, filled with press clippings.

  Mama was my agent and my manager, so I was different from some kids: We kept it all in the family. But sometimes I wondered what it would be like to have one of those mothers you see on soaps or series who come out of the kitchen in an apron, asking how your school day went and warning you to wash up for dinner because it’d be served at six-on-the-dot. Those kind of mothers never spill green liqueurs down their cleavage, then call for another round in a loud voice, waving a fifty-dollar bill.

  I suppose when we got to Dunn’s, I was trying too hard to act like just another normal teenager without having a clue what that really meant. There was a strong wind blowing, too, as we parked beside the other cars at Dunn’s, and that was the way Lamont’s play began, with this enormous wind.

  I’ve known a lot of gay actors, so it was easy being with Charlie. I knew he was gay without anyone telling me because Charlie was the type we’d say came out of the closet without even a hanger trailing after him. He was all the way out. It was Wally and Her I was having trouble with. Wally had this defensive, wise-guy pose that made me want to forget I’d ever asked him to go to a movie with me, and She was what Mama would call a bitty and a half. When I got in the Fiat while we were leaving The Surf Club, She said you must be having a divine time seeing how the other half lives, and when I said you’ve got me all wrong, I hardly know how anyone lives, She said in this snide tone, “Tell me more.”

  The moment I started on The Wind of Reluctant Admissions, I had the feeling there was a balloon over Her head with SNORE written inside it, and Wally kept acting as though he was afraid of what I was going to say because of what it would inspire Her to say back.

  “Okay.” Charlie finally took over and tried to sum up what I was describing. “There’s a mythical kingdom somewhere, and when the wind blows very strong like this wind tonight, people have to make reluctant admissions.”

  “You have to admit whatever’s on your mind,” I said, wishing I’d never started the whole thing.

  “Reluctant Admission,” She said. “This game is stupid.”

  “Oh you’re sweet,” Wally said to Her. “You’re known for it.”

  “Reluctant Admission,” She said. “I’d like more mustard.”

  Charlie bit into his hot dog. Then he said, “Reluctant Admission.”

  “Well?” Wally said.

  “I was going to try and make out with Easy Ethel tonight.”

  “Reluctant Admission,” Wally said. “I’m a full-blooded Cherokee Indian.”

  “I was,” Charlie said. “I thought I could use the experience.”

  “Use it for what?” She said.

  I bit into my hot dog. Then I said, “Reluctant Admission.”

  “What is it?” Charlie said.

  “I’m going to send back this hot dog,” I said. “It tastes like a piece of cooked inner tube.”

  “They’re always like this,” She said. “This is the sticks.”

  “They’re always awful,” Wally agreed.

  “They’re just tacky old Dunn hot dogs,” She said, eating hers with more enthusiasm than ever.

  “It wouldn’t do any good to send it back,” said Charlie.

  “I always send something back when it’s terrible,” I said. I got that from Mama. Mama likes to say if you give your best you have a right to expect the best, and you should never settle for less. Mama is always sending something back: forks because there’s a spot on them; rolls because they’re not warm; whipped cream because it’s not real; salad dressing because it’s bottled; orange juice because it’s not squeezed fresh. Mama says an important lesson is never be had, by anyone!

  Harriet said, “What do you eat in New York City at the end of an evening?”

  “That depends on where we go,” I said. “If we go to the Brasserie, I order onion soup with the thick cheese crust. Or quiche Lorraine. If we go someplace like the Algonquin, I order chicken crepes.”

  “This must be a real downer for you,” Harriet said.

  “I just wouldn’t pay for it,” I said.

  “Charlie’s paying for it,” She said.

  “Harriet!” Wally said.

  “Send it back, Charlie,” Harriet said.

  “Drop it, Harriet,” Wally said.

  “Would you like me to get you something else?” Charlie asked me.

  “Forget it,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Reluctant Admission,” Harriet said. “We’re fresh out of quiche Lorraine and chicken crepes. How about a sour pickle?”

  “Their hamburgers aren’t too bad,” Charlie said.

  “I’m not really hungry, anyway,” I said.

  “A dollar and a quarter later she tells us,” Harriet said.

  “A dollar and a quarter for these?” I said. “Hey, let me treat,” and I reached for my purse. Mama had shoved two tens at me just before I left the table.

  Charlie put his hand down on mine. “Don’t,” he said gently.

  “Let her if she wants to,” Harriet said. “She won’t exactly have to pawn her fancy gold bracelet.”

  “My, how the time passes when you’re having fun,” Wally said.

  “When does curfew ring tonight, Harriet?” Charlie said.

  “One o’clock as usual, Charlie,” She said. “We won’t have time to make the Algonquin, I fear, what a pity! . . . Reluctant Admission: One o’clock won’t come soon enough where I’m concerned.”

  All the way to Harriet’s house, She and Wally didn’t talk. Charlie made small talk compulsively, the way Fedora runs off at the mouth on the set, when an actor does something to displease her and she can’t wait to get him alone and chew him out. Fedora always keeps up appearances, while she’s seething inside.

  Harriet didn’t bother saying good night. She ran ahead of Wally while he was walking Her to the door.

  “She’s just jealous,” he said when he climbed back into the back seat.

  “Of what?” I said. “Of me?”

  “Of everything,” Wally said. “Of you because she doesn’t have dates who pass out thick gold bracelets, or send back her food because it’s terrible, or take her to the Algonquit for quiche Lorraine.”

  “The Algonquin,” I said, “for chicken crepes.”

  “The Waldorf Astoria,” Charlie said, “for creamed caviar over smashed brains.”

  “The Astor,” Wally said, “for stuffed rooster under plexiglass.”

  “The Paris Continental,” I said, “for asses’ ears in green sauce.”

  “Waiter!” Wally said. “Take back this aardvark nose, it’s running.”

  “Garçon!” Charlie said. “Remove this camel’s eye, it’s crying.”

  It was my idea that the evening shouldn’t end. Charlie and Wally and I were just beginning to loosen up and laugh, and I didn’t want them to remember me as this spoiled Superstar-Creep who told old play plots in detail and wanted to send back a Dunn’s hot dog because it tasted like a piece of cooked inner tube.

  “Nightcaps at my place!” I sang out, the way Mama always invited people back to our place at the end of an evening. On the way I told them how Lamont came to visit our apartment in The Dakota and called it a lovely little pied-à-terre. I told them
how we called him Lamont Bore on the set, and how he did this little dance of rage when anybody changed his lines, like old newsreel clips of Hitler’s jig of joy when Germany invaded another country.

  I didn’t tell them anything about my ulcer. I doubted very much they knew many kids their age with ulcers; I didn’t want to come off that far out or neurotic. I might have been able to tell Charlie about it because I had the feeling I could tell him anything, but there was something really laid back about Wally, where I was concerned. He seemed to answer all my questions with some wisecrack; I got the feeling he thought I thought I was Miss Grand from Videoland.

  I suppose my shrink would point out that I didn’t have anything to fear from Charlie because he was gay. My shrink didn’t do a lot of pointing out—they don’t, they mostly listen, which is why analysis goes on for years—but she wasn’t above hinting at the fact that my infatuations were with fantasy figures; I never let myself get involved with anyone who could threaten me. Threaten me! I’d say; yes, threaten you, she’d reply: Move you. I’d quoted Bette Davis once: “You can’t have a career and a love life.” Dr. Mannerheim said, “Wasn’t she married several times, though?” (If you know anyone who’s ever won an argument with a shrink, send me her name. I’d like to frame it.)

  “Congratulations on not smoking for the whole evening!” Wally said as we roared down Ocean Road toward the beach house.

  “Congratulations on not knocking Harriet Hren’s teeth down her throat,” said Charlie.

  “That, too,” Wally said.

  “I’ve given up vice and violence,” I said.

  “When are you going to give up men who pass out expensive gold bracelets?” Wally said.

  “Will you forget the man who gave me that gold bracelet?” I said.

  “If you will, I will,” he said.

  “Oh it sounds like love,” said Charlie.

  Mama had forgotten to put on the outside light, so Charlie had to get his flashlight out of the glove compartment. He went first, shining the light back on the wooden steps we had to climb to get up to the beach house. I was in the middle, with Wally behind me.