The Man Who Cancelled Himself

by David Handler

  “Did you make that yourself, too?”

  “No. Ben and Jerry did.”

  “All right. If you’ll join me.”

  “I’m watching my figure.”

  “So am I,” I said, grinning at her.

  She wrinkled her small, upturned nose. “Now you do sound like most men.”

  “I have to sometimes. We’re an endangered species.”

  The apartment that Marjorie Daw had received as payment for sleeping with Lyle Hudnut was a vast, airy penthouse with high ceilings and a terrace overlooking the Hudson. Her taste in decor ran to barren. There was a tweed sofa all by itself in the center of the living room. A black lacquered side table against one wall of the dining room. There was nothing else. No dining table. No chairs. No rugs on the floor. No art on the walls. No flowers or books or magazines or letters. It was as if no one lived there at all. Our footsteps echoed on the parquet floor.

  “I haven’t had much time to furnish it yet,” she explained.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked, as Lulu went prowling about, nose to the floor.

  “Two years,” she replied. When she caught me staring she added, “My taste isn’t totally defined. So I’m sort of waiting.”

  She was waiting, all right. For Mr. Right. It would be their place. They would furnish it together, holding hands in the display rooms at Bloomies. There would be flowers then, and books and life. I found that incredibly sad. I also found the bare walls starting to close in on me. I went out on the terrace while she sliced the pie. There were a couple of canvas director’s chairs out there under an awning. The rain was running off it in sheets. The river was barely visible below, enveloped by the storm clouds and the glow of lights on the West Side Highway. It reminded me a little of a Hopper nightscape. Or maybe it was just the mood I was in. The air was starting to feel a bit cooler and fresher, though not much. Marjorie came striding out a few moments later with two peach pie à la modes on a serving tray and Lulu on her heel.

  “Tropical depression,” she observed, sniffing at the air. “It drifted up the coast from the Carolinas, brought all of this moisture with it. An Alberta Clipper is on the way though. Jet stream will send all of this packing in the morning. We can sit inside if you’d rather.”

  “No, I like it out here.”

  She smiled. “Good. I like it, too.”

  She sat, crossing her uncommonly long, slender legs. Lulu stretched out between us, watching us carefully. I tasted the pie. The crust was flaky and light, the filling juicy and flavorful. The ice cream did it no harm either. Altogether superior. I told her so. Then I said, “So why did I?”

  She ate in small, delicate mouthfuls and spoke only between bites. “Why did you what?”

  “See you on TV. If you’re not an actress.”

  “I used to do the weather on Channel Five news.”

  “Wait, you’re not the one who had the hand puppet, are you?”

  “No, no. She was on Channel Nine.”

  “You’re a meteorologist?”

  “Not exactly. I studied botany at Wisconsin. I wanted to save our virgin forests. Still do, for that matter. I used to earn money for my tuition by entering these, well, contests, and …” She broke off. “I made us coffee. Would you care for some?”

  “What kind of contests?”

  “Beauty contests,” she replied uncomfortably. “See, I was …” She took a deep breath. “I was Miss Teen U.S.A. when I was sixteen. My strengths were congeniality and the environment.”

  I stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid.”

  “It’s not so hard. I’ll teach you how.”

  “Wait, it gets even more ridiculous.”

  “It generally does.”

  “I was also Miss Wisconsin. I represented my state in the Miss America Pageant and—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a former Miss America.”

  “Third runner-up,” she confessed sheepishly.

  That explained the poise, the polish, the practiced voice. That explained plenty. Everything except for Lyle Hudnut.

  “I think I’ll have some of that coffee now,” I said. “May I …?”

  “No, I’ll get it,” she said, leaping nimbly to her feet. “But thank you for offering.”

  She went inside with the tray, returned with two bone-colored mugs, cream and sugar. I had mine black. A slug of calvados wouldn’t have hurt it, but she didn’t offer me any. She used cream, no sugar.

  She took a sip and continued with the story of her brief life. “After I graduated I didn’t know what I felt like doing next. I drifted out to Los Angeles to visit friends, and one of them suggested I go on Star Search. I ended up winning—in the spokesperson category—which led to my landing a feminine hygiene spray commercial. I also filled in for Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune for two weeks when she was out sick. But that didn’t exactly engage me intellectually. I mean, I already knew the alphabet. And the clothes—they were practically Saran Wrap. From there I got a job as a weather bunny on a station in San Diego. They also made me ride the elephant.”

  “Ride the elephant?”

  “When the circus came to town. Every station has one girl who they make do all of those puff pieces with large animals and small kids. That was me. After two years there I got the job here in New York on Channel Five. Lyle saw me on the air one night doing live updates on Hurricane Al. Remember Al? The winds topped out at one hundred forty miles per hour on the Sound? Anyway, he—Lyle, that is—hired me to do a bit as a weather girl in one of the early episodes of Uncle Chubby. And he and I got to talking on the set and he was so thrilled to discover I had a brain that he convinced Godfrey to hire me as the network’s production and development person here in New York. I’ve been with the network for two and a half years now, mostly supervising Uncle Chubby.”

  “Lyle’s pretty hard to supervise.”

  “I can stand it,” she said bravely.

  “Plenty tough, are you?”

  “I have to be. That’s my job. And I’m darned good at it.”

  “I understand the two of you were lovers.”

  Marjorie stiffened. “He told you about us?”

  “I heard something about it.”

  She was silent a moment, her eyes on the rain. “He’d scream, I’d cry. We’d kiss and make up. He’d scream some more. That was our entire relationship. He berated me, tormented me, saw other women behind my back. Once, I walked in on him and that—that bitch Amber going at it together right there in the control booth. His pants were down, his thing was out—it was horrifying.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Lyle Hudnut practically destroyed me,” she said, her voice flat. “I was a complete mess. I had colitis, hand tremors, T.M.J. spasms from clenching my jaw in my sleep.” Her big green eyes searched my face for a moment, then darted back out to the rain. “I also miscarried during my seventh week. From stress, my doctor said.”

  “You were pregnant with his child?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. A couple of them spilled down her cheeks, shimmering in the soft light from outside. She nodded briefly. “He didn’t know about it at the time. He still doesn’t know. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Promise me you won’t ever tell him.”

  “Of course not.” Though I couldn’t help from wondering why she’d told me. I handed her my linen handkerchief. “Were you planning to have the child?”

  “I was seriously considering it,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes. “I was so madly in love with that man.”

  “May I get personal?”

  She turned her gaze on me. “What is it?”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why were you in love with him?”

  She thought about it a moment. “He’s exciting. There’s just this incredible buzz around Lyle, this appetite for life. He’s alive. Most of the men I’ve ever known are so …”

  “Nonalive?”

  “Guarded,�
� she replied. “Careful. They hold themselves back. Not Lyle. He’s ill-mannered, but he’s real. He comes right at you. Plus, he happens to be very sexy.”

  “He does?”

  “Oh, my, yes. Talent is very sexy. At least I think so. I’ve always been much more attracted by talent than by looks. Of course, like most funny men, he’s very sad.”

  “Me, I’m happy all the time.”

  Marjorie glanced at me curiously. “You like to flirt, don’t you?”

  “It’s still the ultimate definition of safe sex.”

  She took a sip of her coffee. “He was also very edgy and unpredictable. Disordered, almost. The cocaine was a big part of that. He was stoned a lot of the time in those days. I wanted him to get help. I felt he needed it. He felt he didn’t. Not then, anyway. And you can never, ever make Lyle do something he doesn’t want to do. When you’re with Lyle it’s very much his life on his terms. And you simply hop aboard for a while. Or not.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about his childhood?”

  “Never. Other than to say his parents were horrible people and that he hated them. I go home to Rhinelander every Christmas to be with mine. We all do—my sister, my two older brothers, their wives, all of their kids … I look forward to it. We’re all very close. Since Lyle was the man in my life, I invited him to come with me.”

  “He refused?”

  “He wigged out. He not only wouldn’t go but he didn’t want me to go either. He insisted I fly down to St. Bart’s with him instead. I wouldn’t. So he dropped me cold. From that moment on, he treated me like the enemy. All because I’d tried to include him in my family.” She shook her head. “I thought he needed me. I thought I could—”

  “Change him?”

  “Sounds a little pathetic, I guess,” she said ruefully.

  “No more so than most relationships. Are you still in love with him?”

  She pursed her lips primly and glanced down at her coffee mug. “I don’t think people ever get over something like that. They simply move on.”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  Her eyes flashed at me. “Because Uncle Chubby is my shot. If I can keep it on the air, Godfrey promised he’ll make me a vice president.”

  “That means a lot?”

  “That means everything. Vice presidents are taken seriously.”

  “And that means a lot?”

  “It does if you want to develop your own projects, which is my ultimate goal in life.” She put her mug down on the tray and folded her lovely hands neatly in her lap. “It used to be that finding a man was. My traditional upbringing. But I’ve gotten over being a woman who defines herself by the man she’s with. See, I don’t have particularly good luck that way. My first boyfriend, Curtis, who is employed by the Securities and Exchange Commission, decided after two years and much soul-searching that he preferred having sex with his secretary, Gerald. My second boyfriend was Lyle. I’ve dated a lot of men, but I’ve only been involved twice in my entire life. Curtis and Lyle.” She glanced at me nervously. “I suppose to a feelings specialist that doesn’t sound like a lot.”

  “It does to a feelings specialist who’s only been involved. once.”

  “Are you still?” she asked me, more than casually.

  Lulu didn’t care for this at all. She got up and sat on my foot with a grunt, glowering at Marjorie.

  “Merilee and I are finished, if that was your question.”

  “It wasn’t,” Marjorie said, watching Lulu carefully.

  “How soon are you easing Lyle out?” That was mine.

  “How soon am I what?” She was shocked, or giving a very good impression of it.

  “Look, I know the network brought in Chad Roe so you can drop Lyle. You’ll have The Boys run the show and Amber direct it.” Not that Marjorie sounded like a major Amber fan. But Lyle had gone on to dump Amber, too. Maybe the two of them were allies now. A common enemy, as Tommy had pointed out, can do a lot to unite people. “My question is, when? Is there a specific time frame?”

  “I’m not at liberty to comment on anything as speculative or conjectural as that,” she replied. Quite the official spokesperson. Star Search wasn’t wrong.

  I tugged at my ear. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Her eyes widened. “It most certainly was not a yes.”

  “It wasn’t a no either,” I pointed out.

  She went silent on me. At least she didn’t lie. I’ll give her that much.

  “Dumping him from his own show will be a nice, sweet bit of revenge for you, won’t it?” I suggested.

  “I’m not a vengeful person,” she said curtly.

  “Don’t kid yourself—we’re all vengeful people. Some of us just don’t get the opportunity to prove it.”

  “And you’d call this an opportunity?”

  “Of the twenty-four-karat variety.”

  “You’re not being very nice,” she scolded me with prissy disdain, as I’ve been getting fresh with her in the front seat of my car outside the sorority house.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Then it’s not a very nice job.”

  “It’s not a very nice world.”

  “It can be,” she asserted, vintage Doris Day.

  “Not as long as people are living in it.”

  Her brow creased fretfully. “Are you always so negative? Or is it just some kind of act?”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I follow you.”

  “The secret is not to think too much.”

  She narrowed her green eyes at me coolly, then looked back out at the rain.

  “Lyle is convinced someone tried to push him out last spring. He claims the Deuce was a setup.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment, just stared out at the night, as if her mind were on something else. Slowly, she turned her head to me. “I really wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said with weary resignation. “As for the show, I honestly don’t know what will happen in the long run.”

  “As John Maynard Keynes once wrote, in the long run we are all dead.”

  “Was he a comedy writer?”

  “Economist. Same thing.”

  She stared at me blankly.

  I was starting to understand how The Boys felt around Lulu. Also to realize why Marjorie Daw had looked so familiar to me. It wasn’t because I’d seen her on the news. It wasn’t even her looks, per se. It was her personality, or lack thereof.

  “You remind me of someone I was married to a long time ago.”

  “Merilee Nash?” she asked, surprised and pleased.

  “I’m afraid no one reminds me of Merilee. I was referring to my first wife, Patrice.”

  “I didn’t know you were married before.”

  “It doesn’t come up very often. The subject, I mean.”

  “But … you just told me you’d only been involved once.”

  “I didn’t say Patrice and I were involved. I said we were married. Just out of college. She thought she could turn me into someone serious. I thought I could turn her into someone fun. We were both wrong.”

  “I can be fun,” Marjorie Daw insisted, her chin stuck out defensively.

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t. I just said you reminded me of her.” I stood up, smoothing my trousers. Lulu stirred. “I’ve had a long day at the laugh factory. That sound I keep hearing is my brains oozing out my ears. Thank you for the pie. It was excellent.”

  “Let me gather up the rest for you.”

  She scampered to the kitchen like a bat out of heck. Lulu dashed eagerly for the front door. She didn’t like being there. I stood there in the empty dining room and looked around at the bare walls. I decided I didn’t like being there, either.

  Marjorie reappeared, pie box in hand and a sparkly smile on her young face. It was as if she’d inhaled something in there. She led me to the door, where Lulu waited.

  “Do you like Harry Connick, Jr.?” she asked.

  “I th
ink he should be stuffed in a trash compactor. Preferably while in the act of singing.”

  “Oh.” She reddened. “Then I guess you wouldn’t …”

  “I wouldn’t what?”

  “Nothing.” She lunged for the door and opened it. “Good night. See you at tomorrow’s run-through.”

  “I wouldn’t what?”

  She swallowed. “I happen to have these two tickets to see him at Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. And I thought that now that we’re working together, if you were a fan of his we could …”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “Oh, heavens, no,” she gasped, horrified. “Like I said, I simply thought that if you liked him we could … but since you don’t … oh, never mind. Good night, okay?” She bit her lip, supremely stung.

  I sighed inwardly. I’d left her hanging out to dry. A gentleman doesn’t do that. At least he’s not supposed to. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid Lyle occupies most of my nights these days. I’ll have to let you know, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said coolly.

  “If you get a better offer, take it.”

  “I will, believe me.”

  I smiled at her. “Good night, Marjorie.”

  Grudgingly, she smiled back at me. “Good night, Stewart.”

  “My mother calls me Stewart.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want me to?”

  “I’ll let you know about that, too.”

  Lulu glowered at me the whole way down in the elevator.

  My phone was ringing as I came in the door. Tommy Meyer. “You don’t want this shit, man. Don’t want it.” His voice was thick, his words slurred. He was drunk. “Don’t go near it. Stay away, y’hear?”

  “Stay away from what, Tommy?”

  I heard shrieks of laughter in the background. Raucous, dirty laughter. Women, two or three of them. A glass shattered.

  “Where are you, Tommy?”

  “My wife …”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s so ugly I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick.”

  “Especially if you got a good, close look at it.”

  “Stay away, Hoagy,” he warned. “Stay away.” I heard a muffled noise, then the phone went dead.

  I undressed. The phone rang again a few minutes later.