After Annie (9781468300116)

by Tucker, Michael

  At the end of the reading, Sam stands and gives a one-man ovation to the cast. “That was superb. You are superb, one and all. Thank you. And not too shabby a play, either. This Chekhov fellow knew a thing or two, eh? Now we’re going to take an hour; go have some lunch, call your agents; do whatever it is actors do, and we’ll meet back here at half-past two. We’ll read the play again and we’re going to draw names as we did the last time. You still won’t be playing your own part.”

  “Are you trying to kill me?” Bob has his arms stretched toward heaven, but now there’s a smile in his voice.

  “No, Bob. I need you. But I am trying to torture you a bit. Have a lovely lunch.”

  As the cast is dispersing, talking about where they’ll go to lunch, Bob comes over to Olive.

  “That was very clever,” he says.

  “I don’t know what got into me.” She holds his gaze.

  “Oh, I think you know very well what got into you. I think you’re a very clever girl.” There’s admiration in his tone, but also there’s a subtle threat. There’s a “watch out who you’re playing with, sweetheart” tone in his voice, which is part of Bob’s charm.

  As the room empties, Olive drifts over to a table along the wall where the costume renderings are lined up. There are four costumes for Yelena, which will be built from the ground up in the costume shop. Nice change, she thinks, from the rented costumes I wore in summer stock. Yelena is a clotheshorse, so her outfits are stylish. It’s Russia in the late 1800s and upper-class women often got their clothes from Paris. Olive fingers the fabric swatches and she imagines how they’ll feel against her skin. The costume designer took the pains to make the character drawings resemble the actor playing the part and Olive notes the way she’s been perceived—elegant, beautiful and willful. I can use these drawings, she thinks. I can hold myself like this and walk with that kind of assurance—even if, inside, I feel like throwing up. Just like Yelena. She smiles. This is what I want to do, she thinks. This is what I want to be.

  Herbie is completely exhausted by the time he gets back to the motel. He’s been playing golf with Billy for the last three days and it’s the most consistent exercise program he’s been on since he was thirty. He now has an hour to shower and shave and meet Billy and her sister at the beach for dinner. The sister wants to meet him, Billy says, and if she likes him, she’ll make him crab cakes. “Another fucking audition,” he says out loud.

  The lessons haven’t really been lessons, because Billy refuses to talk about golf. “It’s not time, yet,” she says. “Just hit the ball to the target, no practice swings. Watch how much faster that makes the day go.”

  So they talk about other things—about Annie mostly. Just when he tees the ball up and he’s ready to swing away, she says, “So, how’d you guys meet?” And he launches into the whole story, telling all the gory details. Billy laughs, really getting into it and that makes Herbie all the more loquacious. There’s something about the way Billy asks the questions—she really wants to know—that makes him feel like talking. And the more he talks the lighter his body gets. He’s been pushing all this stuff down, working overtime trying not to think about Annie, about how much he adores her, and now it’s pouring out of him like champagne from a bottle that got shaken up. There’s a bit more pep in his step as he walks to his ball—yes, he’s walking most of the way because Billy only rented one cart and she’s in the driver’s seat, so to speak. As soon as Herbie hits the ball, she drives off and tells him she’ll meet him up at his next shot.

  “Did you know right away that she was the one?” asks Billy as she hands him his five-iron, and Herbie tells her about the party a few weeks after they met. Annie’s sitting on the kitchen floor; she’s hasn’t yet hit her twenty-third birthday; she has on a miniskirt with those unbelievable legs tucked under with the skirt riding up and Herbie can’t keep his tongue in his mouth. Billy laughs, Herbie smiles as he unthinkingly smacks the ball and then she drives away, leaving him to walk to his next shot. And so it goes. Billy doesn’t teach him at all, but he can’t help but watch her game, which is simple and dazzlingly effective. She looks at the ball; then she looks at the target; then she hits the one to the other. That’s it. Today is their third day and Herbie’s feeling it in muscles he forgot he had, but the feeling is good.

  He checks his messages and there’s a long one from Olive, all about her first rehearsal and Sam’s idea for the reading and the whammy she pulled on Bob Frankel. Herbie is so excited he can barely punch the numbers in.

  “This is brilliant,” he says when she answers the phone. “You are absolutely the pirate!”

  “Yep,” she says with pride.

  “Bob must have shit a pickle.”

  Olive just smiles.

  “What made you do it? Have you ever done anything like that before?”

  “I was just mad. I mean I think Sam’s idea for the rehearsal was great and then Bob tried to make it all about himself.”

  “Sam’s idea was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant! What better way to keep the actors from crawling up their own assholes during the first read-through?”

  “Hey, you’re in a good mood.”

  He stops and realizes that he is. “Yeah, well, my job is done. My protégé is ready to be on her own, obviously. You’re a pirate, baby. Go forth and piratize. You have a good director; you’re playing the right part. Just go and do it.”

  “Oh, so you’re in a good mood because you’re done with me?”

  “Yeah, thank God. I thought that was never gonna end.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Herbie smiles. “Now all you have to do is act.”

  “Oh yeah. So how does that go again?”

  “Acting?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t know. Either you can do it or you can’t. I mean there are tricks you can learn—good tricks, like how to stay focused and how to stay out of your head and how to be present. And simple shit like how not to upstage yourself. But either you can act or you can’t; nobody can teach you.”

  “So can I?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure of it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “First of all, this very smart director—very smart, it seems to me—picked you to play the role. Now obviously he’s got a hard-on for you, unless he’s gay…”

  “He’s not gay.”

  “Okay, we got that cleared up.” He pauses. “Where was I?”

  “Are you stoned?”

  “A little.”

  Olive lets out a small impatient sigh. “You were telling me why you’re so sure I can act.”

  “Right. So the smart director cast you—that’s one. And no matter how much he wants to have sex with you he’s not going to cast a bad actress in his play.”

  “And?”

  “And Annie said you could. She told me flat out. And Annie could tell a real actor at a hundred paces.”

  “She did?” Her voice is suddenly fourteen years old and quavering.

  “Why does that make you cry?”

  “I don’t know. She makes me emotional.”

  Join the club.

  Olive doesn’t want to let him go. She’s alone, too—in a cheaply furnished studio apartment near the theater. She’s about to put a Lean Cuisine into the microwave and then curl up with her script.

  “Say another really smart thing, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “It makes me all tingly inside.”

  He actually laughs. “I have to go.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m having dinner with my golf teacher and her sister.”

  “Oh, the golf teacher’s sister. That’s why you’re in such a good mood.”

  “I haven’t even met her.”

  “Uh-huh. So you’re done with me? No more smart things for me?”

  “Okay. You know when you have to go to the hardware store to get a key made, but it’s the key to the elevator, which you need to get down to the basement?”

  �
��Yeah?”

  Well, if you don’t tell the guy that it’s an elevator key— which is some kind of secret-code key—then the key he makes you won’t work in the elevator.”

  “That’s the smart thing?”

  “That’s a good piece of information.”

  “C’mon.”

  “About acting?”

  “Yeah.”

  He thinks for a minute. “Don’t let some guy—some old guy who just wants to show off his stuff—tell you how to do your job.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Big tingle.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Billy and her sister have already corralled the curve of the bar, so that they can both sit on one side and face Herbie on the other. Very thoughtful, he thinks. The sister is kind of cute. A few years younger than Billy, she’s wearing one of those long print dresses—Laura Ashley is the name that springs to mind— that’s flattering but discreet about the shape of her body. It’s just like those quasi-hippie dresses from the seventies, very colorful, very feminine. She has a cute, bouncy kind of haircut with wispy bangs coming down. And she has freckles.

  “Herbie, this is my sister, Roxanne.”

  They shake hands and Herbie sits on his stool, facing them. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  She nods and lifts her eyebrows a little as if to say maybe it is and maybe it isn’t.

  “I used to watch you on TV,” she says with a nice Southern lilt.

  He nods, modestly.

  “You were good,” she adds.

  “That’s it? I was good and that’s it?”

  “Well you were also kind of sexy, if you want to know.”

  “That was acting.”

  They smile at each other and nod a couple of times. “Okay,” she says, “you’re okay.” And she digs into her purse and pulls out a baggie with a crab cake in it. She hands it across the bar to Herbie.

  “You carry a crab cake in your purse?”

  “You never know.”

  Billy signals the bartender and asks him for a plate and a fork. Roxanne tells him to also bring some Worcestershire sauce, which gets Herbie’s attention. This girl knows her way around a crab cake.

  “I can’t wait for you to taste it,” says Billy, gently freeing the cake from the baggie and arranging it in the center of the plate.

  “I don’t have to taste it. I can see from here it’s a good crab cake.”

  “You have to taste it,” says Roxanne.

  He puts a scant drop of Worcestershire onto the lower left quadrant of the cake and then forks the whole section into his mouth.

  “He takes a healthy bite,” notes Roxanne to Billy.

  Herbie takes his time, chewing, savoring; savoring, chewing.

  “This is a perfect fucking crab cake. Pardon my language.”

  “No offense taken. I’m glad you like it. They’re better hot, right out of the fat.” The thought of which makes Herbie hungry—really hungry—for maybe the first time since Annie died. “If you want,” says Roxanne, “y’all can come back to my house. I’ve got them all made up and ready to fry. I have salad.”

  “You got booze?”

  “Please.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE THREE OF THEM LEAVE THE BAR IN TANDEM, ROXANNE’S car in the lead, Herbie following and Billy in the rear, making sure he doesn’t stray off course.

  “They’ve got me and they’re not going to lose me,” he mutters. He finds a way to load his pipe and he takes a hit when they stop for a light. After ten minutes they’re driving through an upscale neighborhood with houses partially hidden behind stone walls. Roxanne turns into a gated driveway that opens automatically and Herbie and Billy follow her up a little hill through a stand of manicured grounds to a contemporary-style house with big windows looking out in all directions.

  “Nice,” says Herbie, as he gets out of his car.

  “From upstairs you can see the ocean,” says Roxanne.

  “I’ve seen it.”

  Roxanne thinks this is the funniest thing she ever heard. She takes Herbie by the arm and ushers him into the house and right to the bar in the den.

  “There’s ice in that little fridge; you can bartend,” she says and goes off into the kitchen. Herbie looks at Billy and raises his eyes.

  “Yeah,” she says, “it’s quite a place. Rox and her ex are both big-time dermatologists and when they practiced together they were printing money. Then he ran off with the anesthesiologist.”

  “To ease the pain. How long’s he been gone?”

  “Couple of years. He was never a good man—always on the hustle, looking out for number one. This house gives me the creeps, if you want to know the truth.”

  Herbie can see how uncomfortable Billy is. She seems smaller and less sure of herself in this place—suddenly like a little girl dressed up in man’s clothes. Herbie does the drinks and they drift into the kitchen in time to see Roxanne drop a few cakes into the hot oil.

  “So, what? You’re rattling around in this place?” They’re sitting on stools around the big granite island. Billy throws out a pile of forks, some napkins and plates. Roxanne turns the crab cakes and puts out some sliced tomatoes and a salad, to go along.

  “I am now. Both my boys are up and out—the oldest is in med school at Johns Hopkins and my youngest is a bum.”

  “Where does he do that?”

  “On a beach off the coast of Spain.”

  “Nice.”

  “He’s a good boy for a bum.” She puts the finished cakes on some paper towels to let them drain off the excess oil and then serves them up. Herbie tucks in like he hasn’t eaten for a month.

  “And your husband split for another woman?”

  “For as many other women as he can fit in before he dies. He’s on a quest.”

  “Well… I don’t know if you’re looking for another way to look at this, but… guys chase.” He shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s right, but the male of the species—in order to propagate the species—seems to have that in the DNA.”

  “Oh, DNA my ass.” says Roxanne. “That’s so cheap. You’ve got a brain, use it. Use your big, human brain to tell your tiny little DNA to keep your big dick in your shorts. That’s all you gotta do.”

  Herbie’s on very shaky ground, but he’s had enough to drink to argue the point. “We do that—most of us—we control our urges, but that doesn’t mean the urges aren’t there.”

  “Oh Jesus, we got another one.” She turns to Billy. “Why are you sitting there smirking? You think you’re above all this just because you’re a lesbian. You know what they say, Herbie— what does a lesbian bring to the first date? A U-Haul.”

  “No. I’m not above anything,” says Billy amiably. “I just think the two of you are so adorable I can’t stand it.”

  “Oh fuck you, Billy.”

  The three of them suddenly realize just how loaded Roxanne has gotten herself. Billy stretches out her hand across the island and touches her sister on the arm—a soft caress with her fingers, like you might do on a little kitten.

  “I gotta go, tiger. Work in the morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Billy. I didn’t mean to say fuck you.”

  “I probably deserved it; don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow, Herb. You know your way out of here.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Now, don’t think you have to go prove your point or anything—you know, about how men just have to be men and all.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time.”

  “Same time.”

  Roxanne blows her a kiss and then pours herself a glass of bubbly water. She starts to clear the table and Herbie pitches in.

  “I got drunk,” she says. “I think I was nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You’re famous and Billy thinks the world of you. And I haven’t been seeing many men. I’m still too pissed off, as you can see. But don’t get me wrong; I’m not looking for anything to happen here. You
’re off the hook.”

  “No, I’m not ready for that anyway. I can’t… think about that right now. It’s too confusing.”

  “I get it. So we’ll talk a bit. You want coffee?”

  “No, keeps me up.”

  “Some people can drink it and go right to sleep. Not me, either.”

  Herbie goes to the bar and tops up his drink. Then he comes back to the granite island. “So what was good about your husband when you liked him?”

  She sighs. “Ted’s real good-looking and he’s a smart man. And a fine doctor, a good scientist. But as a human being, he was and always will be a piece of shit. And the more successful he got as a doctor, the more he thought he was God. And once you know you’re God, well… you’re not going to be listening to your wife telling you what to do, are you?”

  Herbie puts his head down and tightens his lips, in that way he has. “What if you were God, too?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Roxanne, we all think we’re God. It’s just that some people admit it and some people don’t.”

  She looks at him like he’s crazy.

  “Okay, let me use another word because ‘God’ freaks people out. I mean we all look at life like we’re at the center, looking out—it’s all happening around us—to us—right?”

  “Okay, I get that.”

  “But there are some people who think, no it’s not happening to me, it’s happening for me—this show is put on for me—for my amusement, for my pleasure—and I can go this way or I can go that; I have a menu—I can chose to do—or have, or be—whatever I want. We all want to be that way but most of us don’t have the balls.”

  “I’m sorry, Herbie, I’ve had a lot to drink and I’m a little foggy, but it sounds to me like you’re going into this deep, philosophical… thing—just so that you can justify the fact that you liked to chase pussy while you were married.”

  He thinks for a minute. “Maybe.”

  They clink glasses and smile.

  “That’s all you’re going to say? About being God?”

  “Well, now you got me thinking about pussy.”

  “Ha!”

  “Tell me about Billy.”

  “Billy is my big sister. She is my knight in shining armor. She is the finest human being on God’s earth. What else you want to know?”