Say Goodnight, Gracie

by Julie Reece Deaver

  “Jimmy, wait a second. . . . Thanks for covering for me onstage . . . after I fell. . . . Thanks for doing my lines.”

  “Nothing to it.”

  “No, really . . . I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there. Sometimes it seems like you’ve been rescuing me from one thing or another all our lives. . . .”

  “Come on, Morgan.”

  “I’m not kidding. You’re really not like anyone else I know, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy wasn’t much on compliments, but that was okay with me. He cleared his throat a few times and stood up. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look . . . Morgan . . . I never know what to say when you talk like that.”

  “Very simple, Jimmy.” I stood up and put my hands on his shoulders. I started steering him out of the dressing room. “Just say goodnight, Gracie.”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Goodnight, Gracie!”

  13

  The play ran through Christmas Eve. As soon as the curtain came down, Jimmy and I hit North Avenue and headed back to Glen Ellyn.

  “You mind stopping in the village before we go home?” I said. “I have some shopping to do.”

  “Not your Christmas shopping—”

  “Yes, my Christmas shopping. Don’t worry; it’ll only take a few minutes.”

  “Gee, there’s nothing more heartwarming than the thought of you agonizing for a whole ‘few minutes’ over what to get me for Christmas, Morgan.”

  “Jimmy, you’re not a method actor, you know. Didn’t you leave Scrooge back at Pheasant Run when the play closed?”

  He looked at me. “Humbug,” he said.

  It took us twenty minutes to find a parking place.

  “I approve,” I said, as we got out of the car. “The snow falling, the decorations, even the crowds. I approve of them.”

  “You’re a real romantic, aren’t you, Morgan?”

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing. Feed the parking meter.”

  I dragged him up and down Main Street. Into Rystrom’s, where I found a beautiful silver filigreed bracelet for my aunt; into Warner’s, where I bought a roll of my father’s favorite canvas for his oil paintings. At Dujardin’s I bought a Nevil Shute book for my mother—she’s one of those avid readers who’ll read soup-can labels if she doesn’t have a book around—and finally, while Jimmy trudged back to the car with my packages, I dashed into Horsley’s to buy his present: a light-blue Shetland wool sweater I’d seen in the window.

  I looked at my watch when I got in the car. “See? That didn’t take too long. An hour and a half, that’s all.”

  “Terrific. Too bad Christmas shopping isn’t an Olympic event, Hackett. You’d win a gold medal.”

  “Just start the car, Ebenezer, okay?”

  The Woolfs came over for brunch Christmas morning. For a while everyone was crowded into the kitchen: all of us. While my father was piling strips of bacon onto a platter, he broke into a sort of impromptu version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and the rest of us joined in. But no one could remember how many lords a-leaping there were, so the song ended up being “White Christmas.” My mother and Mrs. Woolf were trying to go for some weird type of harmony while my father and Mr. Woolf did their best to nail down the melody, but none of it was working out too well.

  “This is like being trapped inside a Bing Crosby Christmas special,” I said to Jimmy. “Let’s get out of here.” We each took a cup of tea and a hunk of his mother’s traditional almond coffee cake into the living room, so we could sit on the floor and eat in front of the fire.

  “You know something?” I said. “Now that it’s all over, I sort of miss being a theatrical slave. I really learned a lot while I was out there.”

  Jimmy choked on his tea. “Am I hearing right? You miss being an apprentice? How can you say that after all the bitching you did about coffee making and errand running?”

  “Yeah, Jimmy, but at least I got to hang around the theater. I’m really going to miss it, you know?”

  “Ben told me he’s doing a new play after Christmas. He wants you to read for him.”

  “Are you kidding? Really?”

  “Looks like your coffee-making days are over, Morgan. Something we can all be thankful for.”

  I gave him a little kick. “It’d be nice to get a part of my own,” I said. “I told my parents about going on for Robin, but I didn’t give them any of the gruesome details. I didn’t tell them about falling flat on my face in front of hundreds of people.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Because I don’t care to advertise my own stupidity, that’s why not.”

  “You put too much emphasis on what people are going to think about you, Morgan.”

  “Everyone wants respect.”

  “Not at the expense of their peace of mind.”

  “You sound like my aunt,” I said. I stuffed the last bit of coffee cake into my mouth and brushed the crumbs off my hands. “Why don’t you go to medical school and become a psychiatrist? You could become the first tap-dancing shrink at Johns Hopkins.”

  “I think I’ll stick with the theater,” he said. “I’m driving into the city tomorrow to talk to this guy at Actors Equity; you want to come with me? There’s a chance I might get to do some summer stock up in Wisconsin this year.”

  “What time are you leaving?”

  “Three.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You can drop me off at Second City. I’ve got to start making up some of the workshops I missed while I was out at Pheasant Run.” I looked at him. “You really want to go away and do stock this summer?”

  “Sure. It’ll be great experience.”

  “But you can get great experience right here, doing local theater like you did last summer—”

  “And the summer before that and the summer before that. This is a step up, Hackett.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Wisconsin isn’t exactly Mars, you know. Planes, trains, and busses go there—”

  “Are you inviting me up to Wisconsin to visit you?”

  “Yes, Morgan, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Well, I might try to make it,” I said. “If I’m not on Broadway by then. Where’s my Christmas present?”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little envelope and handed it to me. Inside were two theater tickets.

  “Uncommon Women and Others,” Jimmy said. “By Wendy Wasserstein. It’s at the Goodman Theater.”

  “Next week,” I said, reading the tickets.

  “Oh, by the way: Dinner is included in the present.”

  “Jimmy, thank you.” I reached under the Christmas tree and pulled out his present. “Hope it fits,” I said, handing it to him.

  He tore off the paper, took the lid off the box. “Very classy,” he said, taking the sweater out of the box. He took off his jacket and pulled on the sweater. “I’ll wear it tomorrow and impress everyone at Equity.”

  “Well, wait a second; let me take the tags off, will you?” I made him stand up so I could make sure it fit right, and undid the tags. “You really like it?”

  “I really like it.”

  “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?”

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, Jimmy.”

  “Come on now, Morgan—”

  “I want a Christmas kiss,” I said. “And I want it now.”

  “There’s no mistletoe.”

  “Since when do you need mistletoe? I didn’t see any mistletoe when you were kissing Robin-the-toothpick!”

  “All right! You want a kiss?” He reached down, pulled me to my feet, put his arm around my waist, and suddenly there I was—staring at the ceiling—my head parallel to and nearly touching the floor.

  “Didn’t I see this in a Fred Astaire movie?” I asked.

  “Flying Down to Rio.”

  “Jimmy Woolf, if you let go of me and drop me—”

  �
��I know what I’m doing, Hackett.” He kissed me, a very nice kiss. Then he let go of me and dropped me on the floor.

  “Good friends aren’t everything they’re cracked up to be,” I said.

  “Morgan?” my mother called. “Your presence is requested in the kitchen, please.”

  “Hey, get me another cup of tea while you’re out there,” Jimmy said.

  “Get it yourself!”

  “What was that you were saying about good friends?”

  I shook my head and took his cup out to the kitchen. “Look,” I said, holding up the theater tickets. “From Jimmy. Next Tuesday.”

  “Very nice,” my mother said. “Loey’s on the phone; she wants to talk to you.”

  “Why isn’t she on her way?”

  “She’s not coming.”

  “What do you mean she’s not coming?”

  “What do you mean what do I mean? She’s not coming. She’s at the hospital and she’s busy, so try to keep it short, okay?”

  I took the phone from her. “Aunt Lo?”

  “Hi, sweetie. Merry Christmas.”

  “Yeah, Merry Christmas. Mother says you’re not coming—”

  “Honey, I’ve got a couple of crises going on here, and I don’t want to be too far away from the hospital today.”

  “Well, don’t your patients care if you have a Christmas or not? Why don’t they give you the day off?”

  “I’m afraid this is just one of those occupational hazards.”

  “I know I’m being selfish, but I don’t care. What are you going to do tonight?”

  “Well, Dan’s coming over tonight and we’re going to open a bottle of champagne I’ve been saving.”

  “I’m glad you won’t be alone on Christmas.”

  “Listen, I left your Christmas present with Fay and I want you to open it, okay?”

  “Okay . . . but it’s just not going to seem like Christmas without you.”

  “I’ll try to make it out there tomorrow—”

  “Famous last words!”

  She laughed. “You’ll see. . . . Honey, I’ve got to run.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  The present from my aunt turned out to be a pair of knee-high suede boots.

  “Very sexy,” Jimmy said.

  “Think so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Jimmy.”

  “What?”

  “Everything,” I said.

  14

  The next afternoon I set my hair on hot rollers and put on a white sweater, jeans, and my new suede boots.

  “Jimmy’s father left this morning on a business trip,” my mother said. She wandered into the bathroom and started rummaging through the medicine chest. “So I thought we’d ask Jimmy and Enid over for dinner.”

  “Jimmy and I won’t be back in time for dinner,” I said. “We’ll probably grab a bite in the city.”

  “Do you have enough money?”

  “Yes, thank you. . . . What are you looking for?”

  “My lipstick. How could I lose my lipstick?”

  Jimmy’s horn sounded in the driveway. He wouldn’t let up on it.

  “He’s just doing that to drive me crazy,” I said. I ran downstairs and opened the front door. “I’m hurrying! Keep your shirt on, will you?”

  “I’ve got an appointment, you know!” he hollered. “Traffic’s going to be heavy today!”

  “I have to do my hair!”

  “Do it in the car! Come on!”

  I grabbed my purse. “Mother, I’m leaving!”

  “Have a good time,” she said.

  “You look like the Cat Woman of Mars,” Jimmy said when I got into the car. “You’re not going to do that thing with the mirror, are you?”

  “You mean this thing?” I turned the rearview mirror so I could see what I was doing while I took the rollers out of my hair.

  “Yeah, that thing.”

  “Well, it’s your fault,” I said. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  “I want to get there early. It’s a compulsion with me.”

  “I know. Your mother says you were even born a week early.”

  “Well, I had to get into the world early, Morgan, so I’d be here to look after you.”

  “Ha!” I dumped all the rollers into my purse and started brushing my hair. “God, it’s freezing in here! Why don’t you turn on your heater?”

  “It’s broken.”

  “Broken!”

  “You cold?”

  “Yes, Jimmy, those of us without coats are cold today.”

  “Why didn’t you wear a coat?”

  “Because you told me to hurry!”

  “I told you to hurry, Morgan, not to run out of the house without a coat.”

  “Well, you did it. You just said I was stupid.”

  “No. No, I didn’t actually come out and say it—”

  “You implied it, dammit.”

  “All right now, Morgan, let’s not get profane here.”

  “Jimmy Woolf, I’m getting frostbitten!”

  “It’s not that cold. You just happen to have a low temperature threshold.”

  “You’re the one with the jacket,” I said.

  “Nag, nag, nag. Take the wheel.” I leaned over and steered while he unzipped his jacket and took it off. “Here,” he said, tossing it to me. “I understand there are more entertaining ways of warming up a friend, but this is the best I can do while I’m driving—”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. I put on his jacket and rolled back the cuffs so it would fit me. I looked over at him. “You’re wearing your new sweater.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jimmy, my hands are cold.”

  “You can’t have my gloves, Hackett.”

  “Nobody loves me and my hands are cold!”

  “God loves you and you can sit on your hands.”

  “You’re so chivalrous.”

  “I’m trying to drive.”

  It was really too cold to do much talking. I stuffed my hands into the jacket pockets. When we got into the city, Jimmy drove down North Wells and pulled up alongside Second City. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see the hands.” I pulled my hands out of my pockets and he started rubbing them. “I’ll pick you up at five thirty and we’ll go eat, okay? If I’m going to be any later, I’ll call you.”

  “Let’s eat here in Old Town,” I said. “Someplace where they have greasy French fries.”

  “Anything you want. Your hands warmer now?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “See you in about an hour.”

  “You want your jacket?”

  “Keep it.”

  “’Bye.”

  I wrapped his jacket around me and ran into the theater. Patty, this girl from my workshop, was sitting on the lobby stairs tugging off her snow boots.

  “Not bad,” she said. “Who is he?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who just dropped you off.”

  “Oh . . . he’s a friend of mine.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “No, we’re not— He’s just a friend. My best friend, really.”

  “Your best friend’s a guy?”

  I nodded.

  “Definitely weird,” Patty said. She pulled off her coat and we started upstairs. “Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around lately.”

  “I was working as an apprentice out at Pheasant Run.”

  “Yeah? I got a job too. I’m understudying the understudy of the third lead in The Music Man over at the Candlelight. I’m supposed to be at rehearsal right now, but I didn’t want to miss the party.”

  “What party?”

  “The semester ended last week; we’re having a party today.”

  “I wish I’d known,” I said. “I could have brought something.”

  “Are you kidding? You should have seen the food they brought in here a few minutes ago. It looks like they knocked over a couple of hundred delicate
ssens.”

  We walked into the theater. Patty headed right for the buffet: a long table set up onstage piled with plates of meats and cheeses and breads, bowls filled with chips and dips, crackers and pretzels. I checked my watch. I wanted to be someplace else. Anyplace else. I was just really lousy at party mingling unless I had someone like Jimmy beside me to help me break the ice. I was beginning to wish I’d gone with him to Equity and waited for him in the car, heater or no heater.

  “Morgan,” I heard someone say, “welcome back.” I turned around. The director of my workshop walked over to me and handed me a glass of wine. “I understand you’ve been apprenticing out at Pheasant Run, huh?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Ben Kubelsky’s a friend of mine. You know something? My whole workshop’s defecting. First you. Then Patty. She’s at the Candlelight for six weeks. Then Marnie over there—she’s at the Goodman this month in Uncommon Women and Others.”

  “Really? My friend and I have tickets next Tuesday.”

  “It’s good to have you back, Morgan. Our new semester starts next month; don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. Thanks.”

  I walked around sipping wine, nibbling on crackers, smiling at people, and trying to act like I was having a hell of a time. I managed to spend a whole hour in the middle of a party all by myself, which I decided was pretty pathetic. For my self-esteem alone I felt I had to take a crack at being sociable before I left. I walked up to the buffet table to talk to Patty and tried to think up some typical party talk.

  “How was your Christmas?” I asked.

  I think I shifted gears much too fast for her, because she gave me a blank stare and dropped her Dorito chip into the guacamole.

  “Oh!” she said. “Christmas. . . . See, my boyfriend and I don’t celebrate Christmas because it’s so crass and commercial and everything. We’re thinking of starting our own religion. If we can find enough people.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I set my wine glass down; it was definitely time to leave.

  For the first time in history Jimmy was late picking me up. I had to stand out there on North Wells in the bitter cold, in the dark. I pulled the collar of Jimmy’s jacket up around my neck and walked back and forth in front of the theater—I learned a long time ago it’s not a good idea to remain stationary for any length of time in the city. It has to do with my theory about weirdos finding it harder to hit a moving target. After half an hour I was mad enough at Jimmy and cold enough to go back into the theater and call him at Actors Equity. I didn’t care if they were offering him the deal of a lifetime. I ran up the stairs and went back behind the bar and looked up the number in the phone book. My fingers were so numb, I actually had to let them thaw out a little before I could put any change in the pay phone and dial.