Lives of the Circus Animals

by Christopher Bram

  48

  The audience for Tom and Gerry was in a peculiar mood that evening. They were too responsive. They laughed at everything. Henry enjoyed it at first, but it became confusing, annoying, like making love to someone who was ticklish.

  “You’re sure full of beans tonight,” the Princess told him in the wings while they waited for the curtain call.

  “Am I?” But then he remembered that he had cause to be full of something. Nobody knew his good news, of course, but he was reluctant to tell it, for fear that he would gloat.

  They took their bows and quickly dispersed backstage. Henry opened his dressing room door and found Jessie sitting there, talking on her cell phone. She signaled hello at him with her index finger.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. At what time? Fine.”

  He squeezed past her and sat at his dressing table. He was not entirely sure that he wanted Jessie here. He’d like to be alone—for a few minutes anyway. He covered his face with cool, smelly cold cream and watched the highly competent woman in his mirror. She looked so tickled, as if she were laughing at him or herself or the world, he couldn’t tell.

  She finished and snapped her phone shut. “So how did it go? You must’ve felt distracted by your big news.”

  “I forgot. Believe it or not. But I always forget everything except the show.” He wiped his mouth so he could speak without tasting cold cream. “You didn’t have to come get me. You put in a full day today. I’d think you’d like some time to yourself.”

  “Not me. And it hasn’t stopped. Not even while you were onstage. I got a big surprise for tomorrow. Do you know who Rosie O’Donnell is?”

  He thought he’d heard the name.

  “She wants you on her show tomorrow morning.”

  “I thought I was doing that ET thing.”

  “Entertainment Tonight is at eight. Rosie tapes at ten. Somebody canceled. She jumped at the chance to get you. And we can fit her in. Oh I went ahead and hired a car and driver for tonight and tomorrow. And one last thing. Can you wait until you get home to take a shower? They’re waiting outside.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see. Here. I brought you your tweed coat. It’s nattier than your ratty old denim.”

  She went out into the hall while he changed his clothes. Henry wondered what was up but was too fried to think clearly about anything. He rejoined her and they started down the stairs. There was a curious brightness below, as if a car were parked outside with its headlights aimed at the door. They stepped into the glare.

  Two white lights mounted on tripods steamed in the aerosol drizzle. Below were a handful of video cameras, a few journalists, and forty or fifty fans. “Oh fuck,” said Henry.

  “There’s the car,” said Jessie. “Parked by the curb. The driver’s name is Sasha. I’ll wait for you there.” And she hurried off, abandoning him to the jackals.

  “What’s this?” cried Henry in mock surprise. “My autograph? If you insist.” He scribbled his name on one program, then another and another. These weren’t anachronistic autograph hounds but “normal” people, regular theatergoers. He hadn’t seen so many since the first week after they opened.

  “Mr. Lewse?” a male reporter called out. “Is it true you’ve been cast as the lead in the movie of Greville?”

  “I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything. But I’ve been approached.” He continued to sign his name, pretending not to notice the cameras, feigning indifference to the large woolly object thrust in his face like an angora phallus.

  “Are you giving up theater for the movies, Mr. Lewse?”

  “Do I have to choose? I’d like to have it all. Wouldn’t you?” He was pleased by how smooth he sounded, neither flippant nor earnest.

  “How do you feel playing one of the most hated villains in popular fiction?”

  “Dee-lighted.”

  And he was delighted. He was giddy, he was high. Everyone was smiling at him. Three million dollars was nothing compared to this public adulation. The money wasn’t quite real. This wasn’t real either, but it was more familiar, immediate, and fun.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much,” he called out as he backed toward the car. It wasn’t a gaudy stretch limo, but large, tasteful, and black. He jumped inside and gave one last wave to the crowd as the car pulled off. He found himself happily breathless, like a younger man who’d just had a very nice quickie.

  “How strange,” he claimed. “But I didn’t do too badly, did I?”

  “Not at all,” said Jessie with a laugh. “You take to this like a duck to water.”

  49

  They were all on television: Allegra, Dwight, Henry Lewse, and Bette Midler. They were in a sitcom about a family of shadows left behind in a suburban house when the real family moved to Maine. A silly premise for a sitcom, but not surprising for the WB network.

  Toby sat at home, watching the show with his parents. He was hurt that his friends were stars and he wasn’t. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be on the show tonight, a guest star.

  “Good grief. I’m late.” And he ran out the door without explaining to Mom and Dad.

  The show was filming in New York, of course, and his parents were in Milwaukee. But Milwaukee was now in New Jersey. If the bus came soon, he could get to the show in time.

  The bus arrived, the door opened, Toby jumped on. “The WB and make it snappy,” he told the driver and flung himself into a seat.

  “Toby?” It was Caleb, and he was sitting by the window. “What are you doing here? Where have you been? I miss you.”

  Toby was overjoyed to see Caleb again but knew he shouldn’t show it. “I’ve been busy with my career. I’m going to be in a TV show.”

  “That’s wonderful. I am so happy for you.”

  “Are you? Really?”

  Caleb was so pleased that he took Toby in his arms and kissed him, right there on the bus, a warm, deep kiss. The kiss was so strong that their clothes evaporated. The whole bus applauded the two nude bodies locked in tender embrace.

  And Toby woke up. Alone in his dinky room in the apartment on West 104th Street. There was no bus, no Caleb, only his own dick sticking out of blue flannel pajama bottoms decorated with penguins.

  It was sad to wake up alone after such a beautiful dream. Plus he needed to pee.

  He tucked his rod back in and got out of bed, which was a baggy futon on the floor. He padded down the hall toward the toilet. They were doing the play here tomorrow, in this very space. He wondered if Henry would come; he wished it were Caleb. What a stupid, corny dream to dream the night before a show.

  His erection had gone down enough for him to pee. He aimed at the side of the bowl so he wouldn’t wake anyone. He didn’t flush for the same reason, but he remembered to lower the seat for the girls.

  Out in the hall he heard a hissing in Allegra and Boaz’s room. It sounded like Boaz was arguing. He heard Allegra sobbing.

  He lightly knocked on the door. “Are you guys all right?” he whispered.

  Silence followed.

  Then Allegra said, “We’re fine, Toby. Go to bed. You didn’t hear anything. You’re just dreaming us. Good night.”

  “Right,” he whispered. “Sorry. Good night. See you tomorrow.”

  FRIDAY

  50

  An alarm began to beep and Jessie woke up.

  It was her old travel clock with its hectoring, pulsing chime. Six o’clock. She lay wrapped in a sheet on a sofa. The big window in the next room was full of white sky and orange skyline. She was at Henry’s apartment. She instantly remembered why.

  She jumped up, went to his bedroom door, and knocked.

  “Henry! Show time.”

  “Thank you!” he called out. He must have been awake already, lying in bed and gazing at the ceiling.

  She went to the kitchen in her T-shirt and panties to start the coffee. They had a very full day ahead of them, a crazy day, which was why Jessie spent the night. They needed to be at the ET studio at eight, then Ros
ie at nine-thirty. Then lunch with Adam Rabb at the Royalton at noon—the men would eat alone, but Jessie needed to get Henry there—followed by a photo session and interview with Cameron Ditchley for the Post. Then a nap, because Henry still had Tom and Gerry to do tonight. And then the show and after the show Caleb’s party. Jessie had not forgotten her brother’s birthday party.

  The shower sizzled in the bathroom. The coffeemaker gurgled like a scuba diver. Jessie poured herself a cup. The bathroom door popped open and out came Henry in flannel trousers and a linen deconstructed jacket, or whatever it was called. “The bath is all yours,” he said and helped himself to the coffee.

  You would think they were an old married couple.

  Jessie didn’t bother with a shower—nobody was going to notice her today. She pulled on pantyhose and a corporate-butch blue suit, and brushed her hair. She waited until she was sitting on the toilet, when her hands were free, to call Sasha on her cell phone.

  “You’re downstairs already? Great, Sasha. You’re a gift.”

  She clicked off; she flushed.

  She loved this. She was pure action today, pure activity, the octopus stage manager. It was only a part, of course, a role, but the role consumed everything. There was no time to think, no room to doubt or dither, no space for messy emotion.

  They went out to the elevator and Jessie pushed the button.

  “I had the most peculiar dream last night,” said Henry. “An examination dream. I’m much too old for school dreams. But I was sitting in a classroom with a lot of young boys. And up on the blackboard was a maths formula. It looked simple enough at first, an x-plus-y-divided-by-x-squared sort of thing. But the longer I looked, the more complicated it became. Like it was growing. Into a maze of numbers. Just to read it was like crawling through a labyrinth. I knew it was only a dream but feared I’d be trapped in the dream, not allowed to wake up until I solved that awful equation.”

  The elevator arrived and they stepped on board.

  “Are you nervous about these TV shows?” said Jessie. “You shouldn’t be. You’ll do great today. I know it.”

  “I’m not worried.” He laughed. “And I’m not disturbed by the dream. As you see, I did wake up. But I do find it curious. I usually forget my dreams.”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “After you,” said Henry, and he followed her through the lobby to the front door. “What a lovely day.”

  The sun was out again, the rain finally over. It was after seven and Midtown was quiet, almost bucolic. Sunlight glittered on the braids of rainwater running in the gutters. A red cage of girders stood against blue sky over the construction site up the street. A sweet song poured from a dinky brown bird perched on the elbow of a yellow backhoe parked at the curb.

  “A very lovely day,” Henry repeated, looking at Sasha.

  The driver stood by the car, a tall, big-boned, thirty-something Russian with close-cropped hair. He jumped forward and opened the door. “Good morning,” he announced, grinning at them both.

  Jessie had already checked out Sasha when they met last night. She couldn’t guess what team he played on. Nobody would call him beautiful, but his bony face was handsomely homely.

  “We go to ET? I know already.” He repeated the address of the studio, which was only a few blocks away.

  “You are a gift, Sasha,” Jessie repeated. It didn’t hurt to kiss up to the help.

  She and Henry slid in, slipping over the soft black leather.

  Her cell phone twittered. Jessie answered. “Hello?”

  “Good morning. Just wanted to see if you were up and out.”

  “Dolly? Good morning. Oh yes. We’re on our way.” It must be about noon in England now. “Would you like to speak to Henry?”

  “If he’s coherent.”

  Henry was watching Jessie, not frowning but not smiling either. He took the little phone and turned it, uncertain how to hold it.

  “Good morning, darling,” he finally said, much too loudly. “And how are we? I see. What? Yes. That’s what we think too. But if Rabb has us trapped, it’s a good kind of trapped, don’t you think? Like those bodice rippers where women get raped by men they love. Of course. It is all your doing. And my own dumb luck. But then my finding you has always been wonderful dumb luck for me. Good-bye.” He lowered the phone and studied it. “How do we shut this off?”

  Jessie took it from him and clicked the button.

  “The dear cow is pleased with how things are going. As well she should be. Fifteen percent of three mill is—well, a goodly pot of cash.”

  “So you’re going to keep her as your agent?”

  He screwed his eyebrows together. “When did I say I was going to give up Dolly?”

  “You were talking to that Rizzo woman. Remember? At ICM.”

  “Oh. Her.” He frowned. “I was only exploring. Sniffing around. I can’t leave Dolly. We’re much too close. Like brother and sister.”

  “Entertainment Tonight!” declared Sasha and pulled to the curb. He got out to open the door, although Henry had already tugged the handle and was climbing out.

  “I don’t know how long we’ll be,” Jessie told Sasha. “But be back in an hour. If it looks like it’ll be later or earlier, I’ll call.”

  Sasha nodded. “Our boss,” he whispered. “He is a famous actor?”

  “Oh yes. More famous in England than here. But he’s done Hamlet and Antony and Cleopatra. Lots of Shakespeare. And Chekhov,” she added.

  Sasha nodded, looking impressed.

  Jessie caught up with Henry in the lobby. The security desk called upstairs and sent them up in an elevator.

  The shiny copper doors reflected him and her: a star and his handler. We look like we belong together, thought Jessie. Then the doors parted open on a sorority girl who was all teeth and hair.

  “Mr. Lewse! What a thrill!” She shook Henry’s hand with both hands. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice. I’m Louise Parker Davis. Associate producer here at ET. I’ll be interviewing you. And this is your—?”

  “Personal assistant,” said Jessie. “Jessica Doyle.”

  The handshake changed in midshake from warmly effusive to dead-fish. “They want you in Makeup, Mr. Lewse. You look terrif, but these lights? You can wait in the greenroom, Jessica. There’s coffee and maybe doughnuts. Now, Mr. Lewse—” She led him off.

  And Jessie was left alone in a curved corridor whose walls and carpet were hoofprinted in ET logos. She walked along, peering into open doors until she found the greenroom, which was gray. She entered and poured herself another cup of coffee. She even took a doughnut before she sat down. They were Dunkin’ Donuts.

  The idiocy of it all amused her. It did. Was there anything for her in this glittering piffle? No. The success was his success, so it was only vicarious for her, pure voyeurism. Henry could toss her away as easily as he’d been ready to toss Dolly. Jessie knew not to trust him any more than she could trust the weather. But it was fun. It was exciting. She should enjoy it like a beautiful spring day.

  Her phone twittered again. “Hello.”

  “I’m trying to reach Mr. Henry Lewse.”

  “He’s not available at the moment. This is his assistant, Jessica Doyle.” She wished she had another title. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Kenneth Prager. New York Times. I’m doing a profile of Mr. Lewse. I need to talk as soon as possible.”

  “Kenneth Prager?” said Jessie. “The critic?”

  “Yes. A brief article. For the Week in Review on Sunday.”

  Ow, thought Jessie. Kenneth Prager. The man who killed my brother’s play. And I have the power of saying yes or no?

  “Mr. Lewse has a very full schedule today.”

  “There’s no time this afternoon? I’d be happy to come to him.”

  “Oh no. His afternoon is packed.”

  “If I could just talk to him on the phone then?”

  “Oh no. Mr. Lewse hates to be interviewed over the phone.”
>
  “Then could I talk with him after his show tonight?”

  The Times must really want Henry. “He has a party after the show. But maybe he could give you a half hour in his dressing room,” she offered. “After all, you are the Times.”

  “Yeees,” said Prager in a mildly aggrieved drawl.

  “The show ends at ten-twenty. If you come to the stage door, they’ll let you in. I’ll tell the stage manager to expect you.”

  He hesitated, then said curtly, “Fine. I’ll be there.”

  “But he has this party,” she repeated in a pesky, chiding tone. “He can’t wait for you.”

  “I said I’ll be there.”

  Jessie was enjoying this. She knew she shouldn’t press her luck, but she couldn’t help adding, “You’re not writing reviews anymore, Mr. Prager? Have you been demoted?”

  “Not at all,” he grumbled. “I’m filling in. We need something quickly and I’m a big fan.” He hit the words hard, sounding quite bitter. “I will be there at ten-twenty. Good-bye.”

  Jessie clicked off. She began to laugh, tumbling the phone around in her hand as if she were tumbling Prager himself.

  The man had no sense of humor. He should’ve covered his butt by making a joke when she made fun of him. But the man was so proud, so vulnerable, so New York fucking self-important Times.

  51

  Kenneth hung up the phone feeling confused. A secretary gave him the runaround, then insulted him. Why? He loved her boss. His review last month had praised the man as the one great thing in a good enough show that happened to be the best new thing in town. He was going to stroke the man even more in a puff piece on Sunday. But the man’s secretary mocked Kenneth, and it hurt. He was already in a very delicate mood this morning.

  There was a knock on his open door.

  Ted Bickle stood there in his red suspenders and bushy white beard, leaning on the cane that he’d used since heart surgery.

  “Hello, Ted. Come in. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”