After Annie (9781468300116)

by Tucker, Michael

  “How do I get him to direct me?

  “Ask him.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Don’t try. Do it.”

  “I will. Annie was right. You’re the best.”

  There’s a pause. “Sometimes it feels like she’s still here.”

  “Is this one of those times?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe you could think of that as a good thing?”

  He is silent.

  “Good night, Grumpy.”

  “Good night, Dopey.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  OLIVE GETS THE JOB, OF COURSE. AFTER SHE AND THE director work for the better part of an hour on a scene from the play, he crosses to her with his arms open wide and a warm smile on his face.

  “Lovely. Welcome to the cast,” he says with a very charming East End London accent. Then he takes her by the shoulders and places a chaste kiss on the top of her head. The producer and the casting people stand and give her a hand.

  He’s nothing like Herbie said, she thinks. He’s not stupid or untalented or insecure. He’s really great—generous and patient, completely open to new ideas, and not altogether bad-looking. Just stay calm. Just smile and thank them all and get out of the room without tripping. I got it, she thinks, her heart leaping out of her body. I got the part. I’m in the play.

  As soon as she hits the street, she calls Jeffrey, who’s ecstatic.

  “This is a lot more important than you know, Olive. Because it’s Chekhov and because Sam Harding is the new enfant terrible in London, some very good people are doing this. You’ll be in excellent company, my dear.”

  She stops in the middle of the sidewalk on Forty-eighth Street and a sudden chill hits her spine. Now she actually has to go into rehearsal with all these pros—in three days—and act Chekhov. What happens when they find out she doesn’t know what she’s doing?

  “Hello? Darling, are you still there?” says Jeffrey on the other end. “Earth to Olive—come in please.”

  She tries to calm her breathing. “Yeah, I’m a little nervous all of a sudden.”

  “Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be? But as soon as you start in, as soon as you get to the work, you won’t have time to be afraid. Remember, they chose you because they thought you were the best.”

  “They chose me because Herbie told me what to do. He set me up so that I couldn’t fail.”

  “Look, darling, Herbie’s very smart and he’s Svengali with pretty women, but he didn’t go in there and get the part; you did.”

  “I have to call him.”

  “Good. Then call me back. We’ll go through all the logistics—travel, accommodations, per diem, all that. You leave in three days. You’ll be making scale—minimum salary—as will everyone else; alphabetical billing. Welcome to the world of serious theater, Olive.”

  She speed dials Herbie and gets his voice mail. Come on, Herbie, she thinks. I need you.

  He, alas, couldn’t be farther away if he were in Tasmania. He’s on the seventh hole of the Pine Tree Hill golf course, flailing away with his drinking buddies from the night before. And as bad as his game is—he’s rusty and stiff and in dire need of Advil—he’s still the best of the bunch. Bill, Alan, and Bud are beer-drinking golfers. They’ve already worked most of the way through two six-packs and they’re planning on restocking at the turn. They carry dozens of balls in the cart and whenever they hit a bad shot—which is always—their rule is to just drop another ball and try again. The question of putting, the most psychologically stressful part of golf—especially for men of a certain age whose testosterone no longer impels them to strike the ball without fear of failure—has been resolved by Bill, Alan, and Bud with another rule of their own devising: if your ball rests more than six feet from the hole, it’s an automatic twoputt; within six feet, it’s a gimme. Putting? No problem. Herbie is deeply impressed by how, with these tiny, subtle changes in the rules, his score is improving at an amazing rate. He makes a mental note to bring more golf balls tomorrow. With an endless stock of balls, he’ll be breaking par in no time.

  When Olive gets back to her apartment, she tries him again but has to leave another message. “Herbie, it’s me. I got the part, but I’m getting worried. I really need to talk to you. Maybe you could even come back here before I have to go so you can work with me on it? Just call me, okay?”

  She takes down a suitcase and starts to pack. It’s cold up there. Rochester. Where the hell is Rochester, exactly? She stops packing and picks up the script for the play. She stares at the page for an hour, but nothing makes any sense. She goes back to packing when the phone rings.

  “Herbie?”

  “No darling. Jeffrey. I thought you were going to call me.”

  “Sorry. I’m waiting to hear from Herbie.”

  “We have a lot to talk about, but first I have a request for your phone number from your new director. May I give it to him? He wants to talk to you about the possibility of using another translation than the one you have.”

  “Another translation?”

  “From the Russian. Apparently they have a new one, done by a Brit playwright named… wait a minute… oh dear. His name is Hassam Taamzi. Doesn’t sound very British, does he? Anyway, Sam Harding thinks it’s great and he wants to talk to you about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I can give him your number?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then tomorrow you’ll drop by the office. I should have the contracts by then and I can give you all the logistics. Tomorrow, around eleven?”

  “Okay. See you then.”

  “Why do you sound sad, darling?”

  “I don’t know. I want to talk to Herbie.”

  … Who has finished his round and is now holding forth in the clubhouse bar, working his way through a series of vodka and tonics and scarfing down a shrimp po’boy with fries. Herbie has the kind of metabolism that slows down after a big meal, so he tries never to eat until after his workday is finished. Which means when he’s doing a play, he doesn’t get to his first real meal of the day until around 11:15 at night. Now he’s buying drinks for his merry golf pals and a few other duffers who have wandered over to their table. One of them had recognized Herbie from TV and came over to confirm. Herbie hates this particular aspect of his profession like a cat hates water.

  “Are you that guy? You look like that guy.”

  Herbie nods, warily. “Yeah, I’m probably that guy.”

  “Bullshit.” This is said with equal stress on both syllables.

  Herbie smiles. “You’re right, I just look like that guy.”

  “No, bullshit, you are that guy. Now that you talk I can hear it. What was the show?”

  Herbie says the name of the show and the guy tells him he’s right. Then he starts to call out to his pals at the other table and Herbie takes him by the arm.

  “Do me a favor, pal. Can we keep this, like, just between us? Otherwise…” He makes a vague gesture in the air. The guy’s eyes narrow and he puts his paw on Herbie’s shoulder, draws him in and directs his beer-soaked breath straight up Herbie’s nose.

  “Don’t say another word. I understand.” And then he does that thing with the pretend zip locking his lips.

  So now Bill, Alan, and Bud, plus the guy with the bad breath and his friends are all around the table watching Herbie eat. They’re talking golf.

  “You know, Herbie,” says Alan, “you mind if I give you a little tip?”

  “About my golf game?”

  “No, about your sex life.” Big laughs all around.

  “You’re going to give me a tip? With the way you swing a golf club?” Alan holds his hands out and shrugs. Why not?

  “Sure” says Herbie. “I sit at the feet of the master. Tell me.”

  “All right, I will: your practice swing is completely different than your actual swing at the ball. Radically different. Are you aware of that?”

  Her
bie looks down. His chins are piled up on his neck and his lips are tight in the expression of “somebody better restrain me.” He holds this pose for a long, dramatic beat.

  “Alan, I am aware of that. I was once on a golf course—a long time ago—and some shmuck, who was over in the other fairway playing another hole entirely, drives his cart all the way across the fucking golf course just so that he can impart the same piece of wisdom that you just gave me. ‘Do you know that your practice swing is completely different from your real swing. It’s like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,’ this guy said.”

  “Well?”

  “I killed him. Right there on the eleventh fairway. I took out my sand wedge and cut his fucking head off.”

  In the meantime, Olive gets the call from her director. Could we talk about this over dinner, he wants to know. I’d like to give you a copy of this new translation and show you why I like it so much—especially in terms of your character. They make a plan to meet at eight o’clock at Joe Allen, which is one of the stellar theater bars in the Broadway District. Olive is beaming again, all fear banished for the moment. She’s been to Joe Allen before; she’s watched famous Broadway actresses having late suppers with their agents or better yet huddling over a script with the director of their new play. Now she’s the actress. She calls Jeffrey just because she has to tell someone.

  “Is this kosher? Having dinner with the director?”

  “I don’t think there are any laws against it. It’s about the play, right? If he comes on to you, we’ll have him up on charges—unless of course you enjoy it. Seriously, it’s not a great idea, in general, to mix those things up. But you know that.”

  “Oh definitely.”

  Then she speed dials her mother in Stamford. “Hi Mom. I got the part.”

  “Really?” says her mother, letting her know how surprised she is.

  “Yeah, really. They actually hired me.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant you’ll have to tell Uncle Vincent you can’t work at the bar anymore. He’ll be very unhappy about this. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

  “They gave me the part, Mom.

  “You’ve never done anything like this before, Olive. What do you know about Russian drama?”

  “I think I can do it.”

  “I don’t know, Olive. I don’t think this is such a good time for you to be away. I’m still recovering, you know. From the hip surgery. I don’t get around all that well yet.”

  “Aunt Bertie’s there.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “She’s your sister; she loves you, Mom.”

  There’s a silence.

  “Mom?”

  Still nothing.

  “Don’t do this to me, Mom. It’s not going to work this time. I’ve changed. I’m not going to let you do this to me.”

  “Oh, you’ve changed! What did you do, go to your psychiatrist again? It’s not so easy to change, sweetheart. Not so easy to change your spots.”

  “I’ll call you next week, Mom.”

  It’s nine o’clock by the time Herbie stumbles out of the bar, loads his golf clubs into the trunk and remembers that he has his cell phone off. He retrieves Olive’s two messages, gives her a call but gets her voice mail. If she wants to talk to me so bad, he thinks, why did she turn her phone off? He calls Jeffrey at home.

  “Hey Tiger,” says Jeffrey. “There’s been a lot of excitement around here today; where have you been?”

  “She got the job.”

  “Oh, yes, but that’s just the beginning of it.”

  “What?”

  “She and the director are right now having dinner at Joe Allen, going through the script, so to speak.” “Who is this guy?”

  “Sam Harding. He’s just a baby, but he’s had two big hits in London—in that warehouse theater, what’s it called?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And he’s directing his first film in late May. He’s the new hot boy. The word is he’s wanted to do Vanya for a while. So he’s working on it as far out of town as he can—and you can’t get any farther than this. Then he’ll probably recast it with Brits and movie stars and take it to the West End.”

  “Uh-huh. How’s Olive?”

  “Excited. And scared. She’s been trying to get you all day. Where were you, on the golf course?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Playing night golf?”

  “There was a little drinking afterward.”

  Jeffrey sighs.

  “Come on Jeffrey, don’t hold back—bust my balls about my drinking.”

  Jeffrey sighs again, slightly more dramatically. “Leave Olive a message and then don’t turn your phone off. That’s rule number one in modern communication—leave your goddamn phone on. She’ll be home soon.”

  “I’m going to back off right now. She has a director; that’s who should be directing her.”

  “That makes sense. But give her a call.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, and one other thing—Uncle Vanya?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You want to know who’s playing it?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bob Frankel.”

  Driving back to the golf resort he hates, Herbie’s brain is spinning. Bob Frankel as Uncle Vanya is absolutely brilliant. There aren’t two actors in the world right now who could play that part better. No one can mine the smallness of the human heart like Bob Frankel. He’ll be a genius Vanya—envious, pathetic, whingy, yet somehow empathetic in his odd way. And always funny. Bob never misses a laugh. All of which means that Olive could be in over her head. Herbie was thinking she’d be doing it with small-time people in the sticks somewhere and could learn a little something while she gets experience. But now there’s going to be some serious acting going on and she’s going to have to fight to hold her own.

  He takes a shower and watches CNN for a while. Then he tries her again. It’s after eleven and her phone is still on voice mail. Fuck it, he thinks and turns off his phone, smokes a little dope and goes to the bar he hates. He sits at the far end, of course, nurses a martini—he doesn’t feel like drinking anymore tonight. Through the smoke in the bar, he pictures Olive sitting at a back table in Joe Allen, deep in discussion about her new script with this young, hot prick from London.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HERBIE’S EYES POP OPEN SHORTLY AFTER DAWN AND HE knows he’s not getting back to sleep. It’s too quiet, he thinks. All those years listening to Annie’s sound machine raining away in his ear—he hated that fucking thing. Now its absence is tragic, unsupportable. He turns on his phone and sees that there’s another message from Olive and one from Candy. Olive’s voice on the machine sounds plaintive and tired, like she finally came down off the high of getting the part. It’s too early to call either of them so he goes looking for coffee, which he has to admit they make pretty well at this joint. Today he’s got to find another place to stay—a hotel, he thinks, not a theme park. The lobby’s empty but he sees a stack of local newspapers outside the front door. He pulls one from the pile and heads to the kitchen where the night porter has the coffee machine going. Herbie gets the guy to fill up a thermos, which he then carries to the empty bar. He finds himself a mug, climbs up on the stool and starts his daily ritual of crossword and caffeination. He gets so absorbed that he doesn’t notice that Don, the golf pro, also couldn’t sleep this morning.

  “Morning, Mr. Aaron. I’m surprised you’re still here. I thought you didn’t like this place.”

  “I’m moving today.”

  “You mind if I join you for a second?”

  He actually does mind but some instinct tells him to offer the kid a stool.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” says the kid.

  “Sexual fantasies?”

  Don blushes and shakes his head. “You are the damndest person, Mr. Aaron. You always come up with the… I don’t know… the damndest things.”

  “You bring it out in me, Don.”

&
nbsp; “Have you found a golf teacher yet?”

  Herbie shakes his head.

  “Well, I might have an idea for you.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Her name is Billy Stiles. Yeah, a woman named Billy. She’s a… terrific gal, a real straight shooter. Mac wanted to get her to head the whole school up here because he says she’s the best around, but she turned him down flat. She has to do things her way, she says. And to be honest with you, I don’t think she took to all the michigas in the program.”

  “All right, if you’re gonna add this word to your vocabulary, you have to say it right: mishigas—sometimes the accent’s on the last syllable, sometimes on the first—there’s a subtle difference that even I don’t understand. Say it.”

  “Mishigas.”

  “And the other way.”

  “Mishigas,” he says, accenting the last syllable. “I think I like it that way better.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  “Anyway, here’s her number. Tell her I said hi.”

  They shake hands and Don walks out through the empty bar. Herbie types the number into his phone and saves it. Then he pours another coffee and walks it back to his room to call Candy, who is indeed asleep. When he hears her groggy hello, he sings to her: “Rise and shine sleepy Joe; there are places to go.”

  “Jesus,” she says. “I haven’t heard that song in a really long time.”

  “That’s how I used to get you up for school.”

  “Yeah, Pops, believe me I remember. Where are you?”

  “South Carolina.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What’s up? Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Wow, another phrase from my childhood. You getting senile?”

  “Is Maurice there?”

  “Right next to me, smiling.”

  “Say hi.”

  “He’s waving to you.”

  “Wait a minute. Somebody’s beeping me. What do I do? What button?”

  “Hit flash.”

  “Flash? What the fuck is flash? Oh, wait a minute.”

  He hits a button and loses both calls. He sits there looking at the phone, considering dropping it into his coffee. Then, out of self-preservation, it rings.