Evie, the Baby and the Wife

by Phyllis Rudin

  The computer stood invitingly on his desk in the bedroom. Evie sat down in front of it and flicked it on. She waited while the relic roused itself, enjoying a brief flutter of cheerful expectation. Maybe there was a nearly finished play in there and she could end up being Jean-Gabriel’s literary executrix. Now that had a nice ring to it. All those -ix words sounded special somehow; they were so thin on the ground. Aviatrix, dominatrix. She riffled through her brain’s rhyming dictionary to come up with a couple more examples when the computer finally burped to life. The desktop was as spare as the apartment with only a few documents aligned down one side, the topmost labelled with her initials. It couldn’t be the letter about the bequest. That was handwritten. She clicked to open it.

  Bingo! A play it was. She hovered over Jean-Gabriel’s final project with reverence before dipping in. It was her first privileged insight into the creative mind at work. If he had left it behind on paper, she would have stopped to don archival gloves.

  From the outside-in her professor of contemporary literature had lectured them. Take the satellite approach, he’d said. View every fresh work you come to integrally and only then zoom in on the words. Take care to analyze at every level, not just the lexical. Lucky for her she’d been paying attention that day. It was important that she do this properly. Not only for herself. Posterity was counting on her. Evie squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds to fuzzy up her vision a bit, and then did a whiz-through with the scroll bar from bottom to top, hoping that without the botheration of individual words, she’d see through to the secret pattern of supports Jean-Gabriel used to keep his text from getting fallen arches. It seemed to be at a very preliminary stage, that much she could gather, his draft speckled with a spilled spice jar’s worth of ellipses and asterisks. There were whole clumps of dialogue coloured red, others blue, sections bolded and italicized out of nowhere. Clearly Jean-Gabriel had devised his own idiosyncratic notation style, upclassing him in her esteem, if indeed that were possible, to da Vinci status.

  What exactly had he meant her to do with this, his last opus; more of an opus-let really, considering it came in at just under fifteen pages? Only one idea came to her. He’d always praised her talents as an author, though his lavish compliments on that score, as well as on so many others, were based on scanty evidence. Evie understood that this over-adulatory tic of her late neighbour in her direction was a function of his in-built chivalric style and she let it go. She’d never actually shown him her failed novel and he’d never pushed to read it. The only writing samples of hers he might ever have had occasion to see were the pieces that concluded with survived by, none of them a chef-d’oeuvre. In her writing group, Evie’s partner, that superior bastard, had called her stories workmanlike. She’d been hoping he’d pick a word like muscular to describe her prose. Melodic she would have settled for. But no, he’d gone for workmanlike, an adjective that could only make the heart of a plumber beat pitty-pat. Mr. I’ve-Been-Published-in-the-Iowa Review hadn’t been able to wrap his plow-horse mind around her distinctive style. The oaf didn’t know from experimental. But Evie’s unremitting non-success with literary magazines, agents, contest judges, and publishers brought her around to his way of thinking eventually. Jean-Gabriel couldn’t have seriously considered that she would pick up this fragment from where he left off and finish it. And if she couldn’t finish it, just what could she do with it in its current shaggy state?

  A writer of his stature merited a repository, all of his works, finished and un, collected under one roof, not to mention the manuscripts, playbills, photographs, translations, and correspondence. Probably his computer and his desk thrown in too. Realia didn’t they call that stuff? Or was the proper term memorabilia? Evie’d have to track down every last item, get it assembled, catalogue the lot, and then play referee with all the libraries and universities feuding over the privilege of curating it. Her executrix fantasy was rapidly starting to pall. She didn’t have a clue how to pull all this together on top of her prior obligation to Jean-Gabriel that was already sucking up the whole of her mental energy. But she was getting ahead of herself. Now was the time to cozy up and read what she had before her. She seated her mind in a loge at the theatre and let the drama on the pages unfold.

  Chapter 10

  ACT 1. SCENE 1.

  Small, modern apartment. At c. stage a dining room with ten people squeezed around a rectangular table. It is night. The table is set festively, lit candles, wine bottles. Indistinguishable talk and bursts of laughter. A pullman kitchen stage r. Piles of dishes, pots, pans rise from the counters and the floor. Ellie is shifting them around, deckchair style. She’s thirty-ish, blowsy, with owlish glasses, an old-lady smock apron over her dress. A knock at the front door. She leaves the kitchen to deposit a heaped platter on the table. The guests grab for it like piranhas and then return to their chatter. She heads to the door and yanks it open. Philippe is standing at the door holding a parcel.

  ELLIE. So Eliahu, now you show up? You’re way early. You’re not due for another few pages. We’re only at the afikoman. Your watch running fast?

  PHILIPPE. Eli-who? No, you’ve got it wrong. I’m Philippe, from downstairs.

  ELLIE. (Addresses her guests.) Philippe from downstairs he claims to be. What does he take us for, chumps? Wouldn’t we recognize Eliahu even if he is trying to pass? Who else would come knocking on Passover?

  PHILIPPE. I don’t know this person you were expecting, Madame, but I really am Philippe from downstairs. 101A? This package got dropped in the box at my place by mistake. I thought it might be important so I brought it up. I’m sorry to break in. I didn’t realize you had a party going on.

  ELLIE. Come to think of it, you don’t actually look like I’ve always imagined Eliahu to look. I thought he’d be dressed more desert sheik-y, you know, all turbaned and draped. Like Osama bin Ladn. But shorter. And here you show up at my front door right smartish in Hugo Boss. All right, Philippe from downstairs. I’ll let myself be convinced that you are who you say you are. (She looks at her hands to assess the dirt and wipes them off on the bosom of her apron. She takes the package, sets it down and puts out her hand to shake. Philippe accepts it tentatively.) Ellie Teitelman. Come in. Please. Join us.

  PHILIPPE. (Backing out the door.) Philippe de Niverville. No, no. Thanks, but I don’t want to intrude. I’ll leave you to your company. Au revoir. It was nice meeting you. I hope your friend comes that you’re expecting. I hear the bridges are murder with the construction. Maybe he got tied up in traffic.

  ELLIE. (Grabs Philippe by both hands and tries to pull him into the apartment. He pulls back towards the outer hall. A tug of war ensues at the threshold.) Don’t go, I insist. You’re more than welcome even if you are only a second stringer. On Passover we’re meant to invite strangers to our table. Commanded to. It says so right in the Haggadah: Let all who are hungry come and eat. You wouldn’t want to be the cause of our shirking our religious obligation and damning us to Hell, now would you? Do you really want to have all that on your head Philippe from downstairs? Besides there’s no shortage of food as you can see.

  DANIEL. You’re misrepresenting it to the poor guy Ellie, calling it food. Be honest with him at least.

  DEBBY. Sawdust is more like it. Or sand, if you want to keep to the desert theme.

  ELLIE. I don’t know what you’re complaining about. A few minutes ago you were all clamouring for more.

  DANIEL. They say a starving man will drink his own piss. Even develop a taste for it. The ultimate Appellation contrôlée.

  ELLIE. Stop. You’re scaring him. (She clutches Philippe protectively.) What will he think of us, his own neighbours?

  DANIEL. Ellie, let him escape while the going’s good. Down in 101A he probably has bread. And wine with corks. Come to think of it, why don’t we move the whole enchilada down to his place? It could only improve things.

  MOSE. Dump on the meal all you want, but leave my des
sert out of it. It is magnifico. I guarantee it. Made with my own two little hands. Your taste buds will sing with pleasure.

  ELLIE. Finally. Some encouragement from the peanut gallery. What do you say Philippe? Are you man enough?

  PHILIPPE. I guess I could sit down. Just for a minute.

  ELLIE. Attaboy. We’ll put you right next to me. Scootch over everybody and make room. Find me a chair somebody?

  (Philippe sits down. Ellie overfills a plate with food from the various platters. She serves it to Philippe from behind, leaning heavily against him.) Eat up. Don’t be shy. (She hands him a Haggadah.) And here’s your side dish.

  PHILIPPE. What’s this?

  ELLIE. That’s known as the Haggadah.

  PHILIPPE.The what?

  DANIEL. The Haggadah. The book we read out loud on Passover to put off the meal as long as humanly possible.

  PHILIPPE. At our house we were never allowed to read at the table.

  ELLIE. You obviously come from a more civilized culture than we do. Here we read while we stuff ourselves, we undo our belt buckles to make room for more, we stick fingers in our wine glasses and dribble wine all over our plates. Cloddish, I’ll grant you, but liberating all the same. (She locks arms possessively with Philippe.) So Philippe from downstairs. What do you do in life?

  PHILIPPE. I’m a filmmaker.

  ELLIE. Oh. Yet another artiste to join our little salon. I myself am a writer and Mose here is a master of the flaky arts. A genius of pastry. Trained in Paris no less.

  MOSE. But Passover is a rough time for me. Seeing as how it’s a no-yeast season. Baking soda, baking powder, all those risers. Verboten every one of them.

  PHILIPPE. Oh really? And what’s the scriptural reason behind that?

  MOSE. It has to do with commemorating desert cuisine or some such.

  ELLIE. Desert cuisine he says. Ha! That’s rich. They’ve been hammering the Passover story into your skull for the whole of your thirty years on earth and you can’t answer that simple question? Scratch what I said before, Philippe. He’s not a genius of pastry. What you have here before you is the idiot savant of pastry.

  MOSE. You can never pass up an opportunity to snipe at me, can you?

  ELLIE. Why would I? It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.

  MOSE. (To Philippe.) A writer she calls herself. A published poetess. What do they call that magazine again that accepted your piece and then promptly went under? Remind me? The one where all the poems started with There once was a man from Nantucket?

  ELLIE. Enough.

  MOSE. Or was it a haiku rag? Nah, couldn’t have been. You’d never keep yourself down to ten stinkin’ words. Restraint’s not your strong suit.

  DANIEL. And they’re off! Okay you two, back to your corners. Let’s put our best face forward for the company, shall we? Some more wine Philippe? (Philippe puts his hand over his glass. Daniel lifts it off.) A word of advice my friend. Take it from one who knows. In the absence of an Ativan this deadens things nicely.

  PHILIPPE. (Swigs back the whole glass.) So this book, the Haggadah. Sorry if I interrupted your liturgy.

  ELLIE. No, no. It’s Okay. Actually you’re lucky you showed up when you did. Perfect timing. There’s a pause in the reading action right now. We were just about to go search for the afikoman. It’s a piece of matzo. That’s what we call this overdeveloped cracker that we choke down instead of bread during the week of Passover. See, we wrap it up and hide it at the beginning of the ceremony, and then hunt it down at the end for a prize. Well, it’s the kids that would normally do the hunting, but since we’re lacking any little darlings…

  DEBBY. What it boils down to Philippe is parents incentivizing the kids to pay attention through the whole tralala. In the old days they called it what it was, a good honest bribe. Now they make it sound more entrepreneurial.

  PHILIPPE. A sound economic principle under either name. What do you get paid off for it? Or earn I guess I should say.

  ELLIE. A loonie. A toonie maybe if your family’s flush. High stakes poker it ain’t. (She addresses the whole table.) You gotta admit, though, that there is something fundamentally screwed up here. What kid, especially a kid with the monetary instincts native to our Tribe, shall we say, would be stupid enough to consider a measly buck or two adequate compensation for having to sit still through that shitload of rabbinical hot air? Am I right or am I right? Wouldn’t you think our kids would be savvier? I’m just throwing it out there.

  DEBBY. An interesting ethnographic question. I wonder if the Rothschilds and the Madoffs held out for more back when they were in Pesadik short pants?

  DANIEL. I can Google it if you want.

  ELLIE. Put away your phone. You can save the research for some other time. For now we’re going with the program. Okay everybody. Fan out. The whole apartment is fair game. Search for the afikoman in any room you want. I used all my considerable ingenuity to hide that sucker.

  ACT 1. SCENE 2.

  The bedroom in the same apartment. Philippe is alone in the room. Taps his pockets as if looking for his cigarettes when Ellie enters.

  ELLIE. Any luck?

  PHILIPPE. Not so far.

  ELLIE. Feel free to go ahead and smoke if you want. I don’t mind.

  PHILIPPE. No, I probably shouldn’t after all. One of your guests will surely object. It’s de rigueur these days. I’ll head outside and contribute a few more butts to the courtyard.

  ELLIE. (She plants herself between him and the door.) Come on. What’s your rush to go? Are you sure you’ve exhausted this room?

  PHILIPPE. Pretty much so.

  ELLIE. I don’t think you could have searched very carefully. You haven’t been in here long enough to be very thorough. Tell me where you looked.

  PHILIPPE. Under the bed.

  ELLIE. Under the bed, he says! Don’t you need imagination to be a filmmaker?

  PHILIPPE. Maybe that’s why I’m not a very successful filmmaker.

  ELLIE. Here’s an outside-the-box idea for you. Consider this. Maybe the afikoman’s hiding somewhere on my person. In my pocket, for instance, or down my dress. Did you think of that? A moveable feast. (She shuts the door.) I can crank up the reward, you know. Since it’s my place, I’m entitled. It’s a codicil in the Haggadah. I can show you the page reference if you don’t believe me. Give you the exact line number.

  PHILIPPE. Thanks for the offer, but my nicotine fit is having fits. I’ll have to take a rain check.

  ELLIE. Future Shop this isn’t. I don’t give out rain checks. A no now is a no forever. Weigh that carefully before you go. A once in a lifetime opportunity up for grabs. (Philippe tries to slip past her to the door while she’s unzipping her apron when Mose enters.)

  MOSE. Am I interrupting something? A hot ’n heavy afikoman search perhaps?

  ELLIE. Doesn’t a closed door mean anything to you?

  MOSE. I didn’t see any sock.

  ELLIE. Go crawl around under the dining room table to occupy yourself, why don’t you? Maybe you’ll find the afikoman there and earn yourself an easy dollar. And even if you don’t, you’re sure to find a penny that dropped out of somebody’s pocket so your time won’t be totally wasted.

  MOSE. (To Philippe.) You’ve got to watch out for our Ellie. But I’m guessing you’ve noticed. A fast worker, that one. You’ve been in here together what, two minutes already? And you’re both still upright? She must be slowing down in her old age.

  ELLIE. Ignore him. As usual he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  MOSE. Oh, I know what I’m talking about all right when it comes to your shenanigans. A tiger can’t change her spots.

  ELLIE. That’s a leopard you moron. (To Philippe.) See what fuckwits I have to deal with around here? Is it any wonder I’m craving intelligent company?

  MOSE. You think I don’t know your MO? Let
’s just test it out. Philippe here can be the judge. He’ll tell us if what I say rings any bells. You game Philippe? (Philippe looks longingly at the blocked door, shrugs his acquiescence and sits down on the bed.)

  Okay, so to start, she lines herself up a prospect from outside her usual circle of acquaintance. It has to be that way. See, the rest of us, we’ve been Ellie-proofed. Learned our lesson the hard way. Want me to enter my bruises as exhibit A? (Mose starts to lift his shirt.)

  ELLIE. He’s crazy. I told you.

  MOSE. Hold on. Hold on. You’ll get your turn before the bench. Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Oh right. She finds her mark and she has him between the crosshairs. Right off the bat she tries to bedazzle him with zingy chit-chat, hoping to establish her credentials as a brain, a wit. This is a crucial step. She has to land it just right, because clearly a body built like that can’t be expected to carry the show. I mean I ask you. Isn’t that what they call on Law and Order prima facie evidence? Or do I have that wrong?

  ELLIE. Quit putting on airs. You should stick to Pig Latin, your native tongue.

  MOSE. Withdrawn. So this stage can’t go on for very long since, like I said, her pool of repartee is shallow. Once the yakking dries up, she has to get physical. What else is there left for her to do? That’s when she goes into her patented clinging vine routine, hangs all over the poor sap. All hands on deck. Wraps herself around him as tight as Saran till he can hardly draw breath from under that tarp of flab. It’s usually around now that he’s getting it into his mind to make a run for it.

  ELLIE. Aren’t you tired of this game yet? It must be taxing your short attention span.

  MOSE. Patience, patience. I still have a ways to go. Philippe, you know that sinking feeling you get sometimes when you pick up a girl who’s sitting alone at a bar and before you get to the olive at the bottom of the first drink you clue in to why everyone else gave her such a wide berth? Well it’s like that, if you need me to paint you a picture.