by Bob Proehl
Secret Origin of Valerie Torrey
Val checks the time on her phone and again on the clock in the kitchen, hoping maybe they’re different. There’s no rush, yet. At the little table, Alex eats a heap of Annie’s mac and cheese, watching her the whole time.
“What time’s the play?” he asks.
“Not for another hour and a half,” she says. She tries to sound casual.
“If you need to go, I can be by myself till Debra gets here,” says Alex. Lately he’s been more strident about his independence. She tries to pinpoint when it started, but it seems like it’s been since she took this role. The prospect of a babysitter every night for a month convinced him that supervision is no longer necessary. But there are still nights he wakes up, upset about a dream or just lonely. She can’t stomach the thought that he might wake up and find no one there.
“It’s all right, Rabbit,” she says. “She should be here any minute.”
“Are you all warmed up?” he asks. A baseboard heater wheezes to life. The kitchen is the only room that’s stayed warm this winter. They’ve abandoned the living room entirely. Alex has put all of his Arctic-themed toys in there: a stuffed woolly mammoth on the couch, a tribe of plastic Inuits stalking the cold hardwood floor.
“Not yet,” she says, checking the clock again. “You want to help?”
Alex stands up and answers by taking the neutral stance and pursing his lips. His feet hip distance apart, his hands limp at his sides. Val mirrors him, trying not to grin. The minutes running down toward equity call are forgotten.
“I know New York,” she says, over-enunciating each sound.
“I know New York,” he says.
“I need New York,” she says.
“I need New York,” he says.
“I know I need unique New York,” she says.
“I know I need unique You Nork,” he says and busts out giggling. With some effort, he brings himself under control and resumes his proper stance. Val begins to hum, a light buzzing that shakes her teeth. She moves the sound around in her mouth, vibrating molars and incisors. Then the mirror trick, where they move in synchronicity with each other, neither of them leading the other. The decision to open their mouths, to expand the hum into a low “maaaah” that resonates through the hard palate, is made together; one set of lips pulls almost imperceptibly apart, and the other follows and cracks a little further until they are both making gaping lion yawns, jaws stretching muscles in the neck and along the temples. The sound slowly morphs into “meeeee,” teeth nearly together, the breath forced through the nose.
Before they can move into the chest and stomach, the buzzer goes off and Alex shoots away to ring Debra in. He likes his usual sitter fine, as much as a kid can like someone whose primary role in his life is putting him to bed. But he loves Debra. She lived next door to the first apartment Val had gotten for them when they came to New York six years ago. She was finishing a law degree at NYU and would come over to watch Alex when Val was teaching acting classes. Sometimes she’d read him long passages out of whatever textbook she was studying, and for a few months when he was five, Alex would spout off in a weird form of legalese, informing Val that his decision not to clean his room was based on established precedent, or that, because it was based on a magical story, the Alice statue in Central Park was ipso fatso magical.
“I’m so sorry,” says Debra as she takes her boots off in the hall. “I should admit to myself that it’s impossible to get out of work on time on a Friday night.” There are snowflakes perfectly arranged on her black coat that twinkle like stars as they melt. When they were neighbors, Val had thought of Debra as a bit of a little sister. She’d been in a constantly harried state, usually in pajamas by the time she came over to watch Alex. But this woman she sees now is so poised and composed, Val feels self-conscious about the salty footprints on the hallway floor, and the dishes in the sink, and the fact that she’s about to leave the house wearing leggings. By some measure of maturity, Val has been surpassed.
“It’s fine,” says Val. “You’re saving my ass.”
“I told my car service to wait for you,” she says, hanging up her coat. “He can get you into Manhattan in like fifteen minutes.”
“You don’t have to do that,” says Val.
“Please,” Debra says, “it’s like the only thing I can expense. I call the service when I go out for coffee now. I’m never taking the subway again.”
“Why don’t you like the subway?” asks Alex. He’s been leaning against the wall, watching Debra go through the process of arriving.
“I’m kidding, kiddo,” she says.
“Oh,” says Alex.
“He’s eaten,” says Val. “And if you want to watch a movie, it’s fine, but the living room is freezing. There are blankets.”
“We’ll be fine,” says Debra. “You should get going.”
“You need to pick a night to come see it,” says Val. “I’ll get comps for you and your boyfriend.”
“I think it might be a little over his head,” says Debra.
“It’s a little over my head,” says Val, pulling on her heavy coat. “Rabbit, come here.” Alex runs to her and presses his face against her cheek.
“Maaaaaahh,” he says, and it rings through her whole skull.
“You be good?” she says.
“He’s always good,” says Debra, and Val smiles because it’s true enough. She grabs a knit hat from off the hook on the wall, the one with mittens tucked into it, and, trying not to look as if she’s rushing, rushes down the hallway, down the stairs to the sleek black car collecting snow out front. She climbs into the backseat.
“Miss Torrey,” says the driver, with an accent that sounds like a tropical beach and feels out of place in the snow and the dying January light.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m going to West Forty-third.”
“Okay, Miss Torrey,” he says. The car is warm, and Val begins to take off all of the accessories she just put on.
“Oh, sir?” she says.
“Jacob,” he says.
“Jacob,” she repeats. “I should warn you, so it doesn’t weird you out. I hum.”
“Like a little song?” he asks.
“More like a beehive,” she says. “It’s a warm-up exercise. I’ll probably hum and moan the whole drive.”
She watches him smile in the rearview. “I’ve driven in this city ten years,” he says. “Humming and moaning’s no big deal.” He pulls the car into traffic, and Val leans back into the leather seats, tilts her head back, and begins to buzz, lips together, teeth apart.
When they arrive at the theater, Jacob refuses a tip, insisting it’s included in the billing. Val can remember when her life was like this, the few years in L.A. when she floated in a moneyless world. All cash transactions were handled elsewhere; cars and drinks and food appeared and were consumed and everyone was properly compensated as if by magic. It always struck her as funny how having money made money obsolete.
She checks her phone one last time as she opens the stage door. Forty-five minutes until curtain, fifteen until call. She’d hoped for more time, but the part requires minimal makeup, and anyway, she’s here and there’s no point regretting minutes that are already gone. The stage manager, Miller, greets her with a gruff “Valuables?” before her coat’s even off. She checks her pockets and hands over her keys, phone, and purse. He nods and huffs at her. An hour after the curtain’s closed, he’ll be the friendliest drunk in the city, but before the show Miller exists in a state of constant inconvenience.
“Should I still sign in?” she asks.
“I’ll sign you in,” he says, making it sound like a great imposition.
“I’m going to have a lie-down,” Val calls after him. “Ten minutes, maybe?”
“We’re about to test the rotation,” he says. “Try not to get seasick.”
Val throws the rest of her things in the dressing room she shares with the Angel. It’s too big for the two of them, but they’re the only women in the cast. The Angel plays a half-dozen roles throughout the night, made up and costumed differently enough each time to be barely recognizable. It gives the play a feeling of claustrophobia and coincidence, which is especially important because they’re only doing the first half, and many of the storylines don’t pull together until the second. Val’s got it easy playing Harper. There’s not an overwhelming amount of stage time, and she’s in house clothes throughout. Three makeup girls are busying themselves with the Angel already, attaching a scraggly gray beard and a fake nose that could be considered anti-Semitic. The fishy odor of spirit gum hangs in the dressing room.
“Cutting it close,” says the Angel. It’s not a reprimand, exactly.
“My babysitter was running late,” says Val. “I’m going to go have a lie-down. Finish arriving.”
“See you in a bit,” says the Angel, straining her chin upward so the makeup girls can attach strands to its underside.
The stage has already begun to rotate slowly like a drugged carousel. She sits on the floor in the section of the set that will be her apartment. It has a table with two chairs and the fridge that Mr. Lies will step out of. Mr. Lies is also playing Belize in this staging, but that only means throwing a nurse coat on over his slick travel-agent suit and adopting an accent similar to Jacob the driver’s. Val lies down, easing her head back onto the plywood. “You have time to run one-seven?” she asks Prior, who’s lying on the floor nearby.
“You mean because you flubbed it last night?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she says.
“I’m arriving,” says Prior, drawing out the word, “but I’ll be happy to help with your shortcomings once I get here.” Prior got an absolutely glowing review in the Voice and since then has been pretending to be insufferable. He can be very convincing at it.
By thirty out, the makeup girls are done with the Angel and can fix up Val. She’s always relieved that they have to dull her down. One day she’ll come in already looking like a Valium-addicted shut-in housewife, and the makeup girls will look at her and shake their pretty young heads. But tonight, they paint bags under her eyes and adjust her costume to give the impression it’s been slept in.
Miller pokes his head in the door. “Twenty minutes, ladies,” he says.
“Thank you, twenty,” says Val.
“So who’s coming out with me after?” says Louis, the baby of the cast, plopping into their couch. The men have their own dressing room, but they’ve decided it’s too crowded, so they spend their pre-show in the women’s.
“How can you even think of going out after?” asks Mr. Lies. “I’m exhausted already. I’m still working through exhausted from three days ago. I’ll never catch up.”
“That’s because you’re ancient,” says Louis. “The theater’s no place for relics.”
“Dear, did you want to go through one-seven?” Prior asks Val. He seats himself on Louis’s feet.
“What are you doing in my hallucination?” says Roy Cohn, who knows everyone’s lines by heart. Last night Val said, “What are you doing in my dream?” It botched Prior’s next line, which should have been “It’s not your hallucination, it’s my dream.” Prior made a quick recovery, but for the rest of the scene they both sounded wary each time they used the words hallucination and dream, not sure which was which.
“I’m fine,” says Val.
“You were great in three-three last night,” says Mr. Lies.
“She always hits her stride in the third act,” says Prior.
“You know Lookingglass in Chicago’s going to do the whole thing this summer?” says Louis. He’s paging through his script.
“Fifteen minutes,” says Miller from the door.
“Thank you, fifteen,” they all chant.
“Christ, how long is that?” says Mr. Lies.
“Six and a half hours,” says Roy Cohn. “Seven with the intermission.”
“Speaking of the whole thing—” says the Angel.
“Don’t start,” says Val.
“Has someone not signed on for ’Stroika?” says Prior, making a face of mock horror.
“Someone has not,” says the Angel.
“Oh, now, Valerie,” says Prior, “you can’t leave us. Don’t you know Grant has a vision?” He says this word so its second syllable thumps down onto the floor like a dead body, exactly the way Grant, their director, says it. “How could you abandon Grant’s vision?”
“I’m not sure I’ll be up for leaving Alex alone for another run,” says Val.
“Bring him to the shows,” says Prior. “We’re all excellent role models for a kid.”
“They run too late,” says Val. “He’s in bed.”
“He could sleep on the couch in our dressing room,” says Mr. Lies.
“Er,” says Prior, “maybe not on that couch.”
“You’re disgusting,” says Roy Cohn.
“You’re jealous,” says Prior.
“Ten minutes,” says Miller.
“Thank you, ten,” they chorus.
“Anyway, you can’t leave it half-finished,” says Prior. “Imagine your Harper forever in the freezer at the end of three-three.”
“Or some other actress getting her grubby fingerprints all over your Harper,” says Mr. Lies.
“And you’d miss us,” says Louis.
“Terribly,” says Prior.
“I’ve got the contract,” says Val. It’s been on the kitchen counter all week. “I just haven’t signed.”
“We’ll forge her signature while she’s on stage,” says the Angel.
“We’ll kidnap her and lock her in the theater forever,” says Prior.
“’Stroika lasts about forever,” says Roy Cohn.
“Whatever,” says Prior. “I’ll play Harper, too. I’ll do the whole play on my own, all seven hours.”
“Calm it down, boys,” says Mr. Lies.
“Five minutes,” says Miller.
“Thank you, five,” they say. The five-minute call serves as the death knell for horseplay. Louis and Prior lean over each of Val’s shoulders and check themselves in her mirror. Mr. Lies stands and smooths out the creases that have formed in his pants.
In the low thrum of these last minutes of prep, Val lets her mind scatter and diffuse. When she thinks of Harper, she thinks of an abscess, a hole slowly growing at the center of a self, with bits of the person toppling in over its edge.
“Remember,” says Roy Cohn, “it’s a hallucination, not a dream.”
“Places,” says Miller. They file out, careful not to touch one another. Each is storing up a charge all his or her own, and any contact now will cause it to disperse. From outside the door of the dressing room, they can already hear the crowd murmuring. They are here to be entertained, or edified, or even changed. And Val is here for something, too: she’s here to stay the same somehow, to keep a line of communication open between who she is now and some other version of herself.
When it’s over, they all seem lost. The performance is a thing they’ve expended that will now need to regenerate.
“Run time was three and ten,” Miller tells them, reading it off his watch.
“Slack,” says Roy Cohn.
“Act two,” says Miller, shaking his head. When it goes slack, it’s always in act two. “Call tomorrow’s at seven thirty, same as it ever was.” He hands back wallets, phones, and keys. Val checks her phone immediately: no calls, no messages. Nothing has gone wrong, nothing has ever gone wrong. She exhausts herself some days inventing dangers and hazards so she can experience this relief that nothing has happened. She tucks her phone back into her purse.
“You have to come to the club with me,” Louis is saying to the Angel. “Li
ke that. I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before. People will lose their shit.”
“I’m afraid ‘people,’” says the Angel, putting air quotes around the word, “will have to hold on to their shit for one more night.”
“It’d be a thrill,” says Prior. “Like the moment the clown shows up at the birthday party.” He pats Louis on the shoulder. “Adult beverages in the men’s for those who are so inclined.” He grins acidly at the Angel. “You can wear your wings.”
“Oh, Christ, no,” says the Angel. She turns to Val. “You coming?”
“In a minute,” says Val.
She heads for the women’s dressing room to call Debra and check in. Through the open door she can see feet, legs.
Andrew sits in the chair in front of her mirror, elbows on his knees, holding a bouquet of flowers big enough to obscure his face.
“What the fuck—” says Val, and immediately he is standing, holding the flowers out like an offering or shield. He smiles the lopsided grin he uses for his real smile.
“The stage manager let me back here,” he says. He shrugs. “He was a fan, apparently.”
“He’s never mentioned it,” says Val. She stands in the doorway, not wanting to enter the room.
“These are for you,” says Andrew, thrusting the flowers at her.
“I don’t want them,” she says.
He sets them down on the dressing room table. “I’ll leave them.”
“You should take them,” says Val, “and go.”
“You were great,” says Andrew. It’s driving her crazy that he can maintain eye contact when she’s trying to stare daggers at him. Her face is a stone and he’s looking right at it. “I’d never seen it,” he goes on. “Even when they did it on HBO with Pacino and everything. I should have, I know.” It’s such a weird thing to apologize for, given all the apologies he owes her. “I was aware of it, of course. But it’s a little over my head.”
“What are you doing here?” she asks, to stop him from babbling.
“We were doing some shooting, for the show,” he says. “Ted comes to New York to maybe do some theater. It’s just the one episode.”