After Annie (9781468300116)

by Tucker, Michael

  “She substituted; she made the guy into somebody else.”

  “Like who?”

  “Viggo Mortensen, as I recall, worked pretty well.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You know, make him into somebody who turns you on the way Astrov turns on Yelena.”

  “So I should think of someone who gives me a tingle when he talks?”

  Again, Herbie doesn’t respond.

  “So, you won’t come up?”

  “I’ll be there for the opening. After the pressure.”

  A couple of nights later, Herbie’s at the bar waiting for Billy and Roxanne. They’re all on for lobster at the fish place they like. Herbie is sitting at a table in the bar area nursing a white wine—yeah, that’s right, white wine. He’s been cutting back on the drinking a bit and his pants are fitting better. The waitress brings him another wine and he starts to tell her that he hasn’t finished the one he has when she points over to the bar.

  “Those people just bought you a drink,” she says.

  He looks around and sees Candy and Maurice waving to him and smiling like two little kids. Herbie gets up and holds his arms out as if to say, where the hell did you come from? And Candy rushes over and gives him a big hug.

  “We’re getting married, Daddy. And you have to give the bride away.” She waves her ring finger in his face.

  “Holy shit, look at that thing.”

  “Maurice wanted to make sure I got the message.”

  Maurice gets a bottle of champagne and three glasses and brings it over to the table.

  “Hi, Dad,” he says to Herbie.

  “You must never say that again,” says Herbie, wagging a serious finger at him. “I don’t care what, why or how, you must never use that term with me again as long as you live.”

  “My first father rejected me, too.”

  Herbie holds up a warning hand as Maurice fills the glasses with champagne and the three of them clink.

  “How the hell did you find me here?”

  “I have ways,” says Maurice with a shrug.

  “What does that mean? You had me followed? You put a tail on me?”

  “Let’s not get too dramatic about it. I have a guy.”

  “You fucking had me followed,” says Herbie, getting a little steamed.

  “Herbie, lighten up, all right? We wanted to surprise you. And we did. Surprise! That’s all.”

  “What, did you fly down here in your little plane?”

  “It’s not so little, Pops. We came as soon as we got back from Venice. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I wanted to see your face. But I have to tell you, your face doesn’t look so good.” “I don’t like the idea that I’m being followed. It’s creepy. Like somebody’s prying into my life.”

  “You don’t have a life,” says Maurice. “The guy says you don’t do a fucking thing. You play golf, you drink, you go to sleep. What’s to find out?”

  “Pardon me,” says Billy as she joins the group at the table. “I don’t mean to butt in but I have dinner plans with this gentleman.”

  “You’re Billy,” says Candy.

  “How the hell did you know that? Tell me that, if you’re not following me. How’d you know she was Billy?”

  “Because I’m the lesbian. That’s a no-brainer. You think straight people dress like this?”

  “I’m Candy. I’m the daughter.” She gives Billy a hug. “And this is Maurice, my fiancé.”

  “Hey, wow! You got engaged! In Venice? That’s terrific.”

  The three of them hug and Herbie just stands there taking it all in, shaking his head.

  “And I’m the sister,” says Roxanne as she joins the group.

  “Roxanne!” says Candy.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “The dermatologist!”

  “Jesus Christ,” says Herbie in disgust. “It’s old home week.”

  Maurice waves to the bartender for more champagne and glasses and the party gets rolling.

  “We’re going for lobster,” says Roxanne. “Why don’t y’all join us?”

  “Oh my God, she said y’all. That’s so adorable,” says Candy. And she toasts with Roxanne.

  “Let me see that ring, sweetheart. My God. Be careful with that thing; you could kill somebody.”

  “Y’all’s is not so bad either,” says Candy, looking at Roxanne’s rock.

  “Yeah, but I lost the husband, so it’s a little tarnished, you know?”

  “I would like to make a toast,” says Billy with her glass on high. She takes a long pull on the drink to wet her whistle.

  “This isn’t very good champagne, is it, Maurice?” “No, Billy, it’s pretty piss-poor, actually.”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. This lobster place we’re going, however, has some good French stuff. I have indulged myself on numerous occasions.”

  “Excellent,” says Maurice, who already thinks the world of her.

  “Now my toast.” She raises her glass again and clears her throat. “Here’s to the father of the bride. Herbie, I’ve only known you a couple of weeks, but you are the most fun that’s come down the pike in a long time. Here’s to your daughter’s engagement: may Candy and Maurice always be as happy and in love as they look right at this moment.”

  Billy drains her glass as do the others, with ringing endorsements and “hear, hears” and all that. Herbie is standing there, realizing there’s no way in hell he can stay pissed off. He smiles and raises his glass.

  “Thank you, my shaman, my rabbi. I’m glad you’ve been having fun. Maybe I should get a rebate.”

  After a good dinner and many bottles of much better champagne, our party is in good spirits. Maurice, a little drunk, stands:

  “I have an announcement.” Then he turns to Candy. “You should do it, sweetheart.” Candy—also feeling no pain at this point—stands and raises her glass.

  “Maurice and I would like to announce the formation of On a Shoestring Pictures, an independent film company dedicated to high-quality, low-budget feature-length films. Documentaries and original feature films. I will be—excuse me—I am the president of the company and Maurice, my partner in life and in art, is the CEO and chief financial officer.”

  There are whoops and cheers around the table, more clinking of glasses, more drinking. In the melee, Herbie and Maurice catch each other’s eye and nod. Good job, Maurice, is what Herbie’s nod says, and Maurice acknowledges. Then Maurice takes Herbie’s arm and pulls him close.

  “She’s changed, Herbie,” he says softly in his ear. “She’s ready to step into herself. Sometimes out of sadness…” He leaves the rest unsaid.

  “How long are you guys staying? I’d like to have y’all over for dinner,” says Roxanne.

  “Just tomorrow,” answers Candy. “We fly back to New York tomorrow night. Then first thing Wednesday morning I’m meeting with a decorator to design my office.”

  “First things first,” says Maurice.

  “Daddy, could you and I have lunch tomorrow? Before we leave?”

  “I don’t know—have your people call my people.” He squeezes her arm.

  “And I’d like to take Herbie’s lesson with Billy, if that’s all right. I brought my clubs.”

  “Excellent,” says Billy. “How’s 11:30?” Maurice nods. “Right at the same place we had the bad champagne,” she adds.

  “What about you, Roxanne? We left you out,” says Candy.

  “No, honey. I’m on zit patrol. I’ve got patients all day.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HERBIE IS NOT A BIG FAN OF CHAMPAGNE. IT’S OKAY while he’s drinking it, but the next morning it always gives him a nasty second act. He needs coffee to get the blood moving again, so he gets dressed and heads out. There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts a little farther down the block than the Starbucks, but it’s worth the extra steps. Starbucks pisses him off. If you want a small coffee you have to order the Tall. What the fuck is that all about?

  He carries the coffee and
a couple of plain old-fashioned donuts back to his room and hears the cell phone ringing while he’s fiddling with the key. Well, not a key but one of those little plastic cards that he always puts in the wrong way. By the time he gets in, the phone has stopped. He looks at the little screen and he’s surprised to see it was Jeffrey.

  “My agent,” he says when he calls him back. “My agent called me! It must be Christmas!”

  “I hate to interrupt your vacation but I took a chance.”

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s an independent film. I read it and it’s not bad; very good part for you. It’s twelve days’ work, in New York; no money, of course, but I can get good billing. They want to meet with you—the writer/director and the producer—day after tomorrow.”

  “A meeting?”

  Jeffrey sighs. “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “Maybe they want to see if you’re still alive.”

  “That’s why I have an agent—to tell people I’m still alive.”

  Jeffrey lets that pass.

  “When?”

  “Thursday.”

  “No, I’m all the way down here; I’m playing golf; there’s no money…”

  “I’m sorry, Herbie, I don’t handle golfers. You want to be an actor, get on a plane and do the meeting.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Another silence.

  “I don’t know if I want to do this shit anymore, Jeffrey. Olive said something to me the other day that really hit me. She said she was past pretending. And I’m thinking, me, too. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “You’re in touch with Olive?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’s she doing up there?”

  “My guess? She’s going to rip the roof off the place.”

  “Should I go?”

  “Absolutely. And bring some people. Casting people. Once they see her in this, you can just sit there with your feet up on your desk and field the offers.”

  “I’ll go first and see for myself—before I buy plane tickets for people. I’ll go for the opening. You?”

  “Yeah, the opening,” says Herbie. “So, it’s a good script, this movie? What’s it about?”

  “It’s about a kid, what else? He has sex, he grows up; he has sex, he learns the ropes; he has sex.”

  “What am I, the father?”

  “The boyfriend of the mother—a real character. It’s a good role.”

  “The script is good?”

  “I think it is. I’ll fax it to you, if that fleabag you’re staying in has a fax machine.”

  “No, if you think it’s good, that’s enough for me. Tell them to make an offer. No meeting.”

  Jeffrey pauses a moment. “All right. Why not? I’ll tell them.”

  “FedEx the script and tell them I’ll do it, but no meeting.”

  “Got it.” He hangs up.

  Maybe Herbie’s past pretending; maybe he’s not. But he still likes it when somebody wants to cast him in a movie. He notices that he feels a bit more pep in his step as he takes his shower and gets dressed to meet Candy for lunch. Somebody wants him and he’s been an actor too long for that not to feel good.

  They’re lunching at the golf resort he hates because he knows it’s the only place in town that Candy can make the kind of entrance she likes to make. Sure enough, he gets there twenty minutes before her, orders a Bloody Mary and waits. Then, when he sees all the heads in the restaurant turn, he knows his daughter has arrived. Elvis is in the building. He doesn’t have to look.

  “I love this place,” she says as she kisses him on the top of the head and sits across from him. “It’s like a fifties movie with Lana Turner, very country club.” She looks great. There aren’t many women who can make an outfit look as good as it does on Candy. And she did some shopping in Venice.

  “Ooh, I’ll have what you’re having. What a good idea.”

  Herbie signals the waiter to bring two more Bloody Marys.

  “You look happy,” he says to her after she settles.

  Candy puckers her mouth up to let Herbie know she’s mulling something over. Bad acting, he thinks as he watches her.

  “I feel almost guilty about it. Well, not almost. I feel guilty. But I am happy, Daddy.”

  “Why guilty?” he asks, but he knows why.

  “I miss Mommy terribly. Every time I remember that she’s gone, I feel devastated. But something good also happened to me.”

  “Yeah, Maurice mentioned something about it to me last night—about ‘out of sadness . . .’”

  “I’m sure there’s all kinds of psychological explanations for what I’m feeling.”

  Herbie nods. Oh yes, he thinks. “It’s normal,” he says. “Suddenly there’s space where there wasn’t any before. Your mom took up a huge space.”

  “But I shouldn’t be happy.”

  “Here’s the thing: you’re sad and you’re happy. Both. You love your mother—we all know that. Give yourself a break. This morning, Jeffrey called with a movie and I hated the idea of acting again and I loved that somebody wanted me to act. Both—at the same time. That’s the way we are. Let yourself off the hook.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m happy you’re happy.”

  The waiter comes with menus and that gives them a chance to look away from each other. Neither of them has ever been comfortable with the father/daughter thing. Maybe because Herbie’s way of dealing with women is to be direct—which works with pretty much every woman in the world except his daughter. She always looks at him like he’s going to hit her. Ah, well.

  “Have you spoken to Olive at all?”

  Herbie nods, staying in the menu.

  “I talked to her from Venice a couple of times. She’s excited about the play.”

  “Yeah, I’ve spoken to her.”

  “We’re flying up for the opening. You want to hitch a ride?”

  “Sure,” says Herbie, and his eyes flick away. Candy sees his evasion and pounces on it; she can read her father like a neon sign. “You’re not waiting for the opening, are you? You’re going to sneak up early and catch the first preview.”

  He shrugs.

  “That’s when you always went to see Mom. The first audience.”

  “Yeah, I prefer that.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the first and the last pure show. It can get better after that but never purer. Once they hear the audience reaction, the actors remember how smart they are.”

  Herbie signals the waiter and they order lunch and a couple more drinks. After the waiter leaves, Candy leans in with elbows on the table.

  “You’re in love with Olive, aren’t you, Pops? You’ve got a thing for Olive.”

  “Easy.” He shrugs it away. He doesn’t want to get into this with her. “I’ve been coaching her, that’s all. I want to see how she does.”

  “Oh, Pop.”

  “Don’t… don’t do this. Don’t make a drama where there isn’t one.”

  “Oh, Pop.”

  “Stop saying that, all right?”

  “She’s too young for you.”

  “Of all the people in the world who might have that opinion, you are not eligible, I’m sorry.”

  Candy purses up her lips again—this time it means that Herbie is not being a gentleman to bring up the age difference between her and her betrothed.

  “And I’m not in love with her. You’re taking a big leap here.”

  “She’s sleeping with Sam Harding.”

  “No, she’s not.”

  “Daddy, she is. I talk to her all the time. She’s bonking the director.”

  “She’s not… bonking anybody.”

  And Candy gives him that look that says that women know things like this because when women talk to each other they tell the truth—not like when women talk to men. Herbie hates this look.

  “Whatever,” he says, and waves it away with his hand. But in fact, he’s taken the bait and Candy has set the hook.


  Maurice and Billy are waiting for them at the bar at the Fleetwood in North Myrtle. They have clearly had a bonding experience on the golf course and they’re celebrating.

  “Were you able to teach him anything?”

  “No,” says Billy. “But I learned a lot. Very interesting sonin-law you have there.”

  “I’ve invited Billy to the wedding,” says Maurice to Candy. “If that’s all right with you, of course. I’m thinking maybe she should perform the ceremony.”

  “That’s a totally great idea,” says Candy, “although I thought you said you didn’t want a religious service.”

  “I’ll tone it down,” says Billy. “What I really want is a ride in the jet, but if I have to work for it, that’s okay. Don’t worry, I’ll dress up nice.”

  “I’m not worried.” And Candy gives Billy a big hug.

  “You all right?” Maurice asks Herbie, who has been quiet.

  “Yeah. What are you drinking?” They amble away from the women to the bar.

  “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

  “Lunch with the daughter.”

  “Oy. You guys all right?”

  “We’re crazy about each other but somehow we always manage to dish up a little pain. I don’t know what it is. We’ll be fine. Don’t postpone the wedding.” He glances over at Candy, who although deep into a conversation with Billy is fully aware of Herbie and Maurice and knows exactly what they’re talking about at the bar. She sees Herbie looking at her and she sticks her tongue out at him. This is a sign that she wants to be friends again. Herbie blows her a kiss. What the fuck, he thinks, is she so angry about?

  “Why don’t you fly back with us?” asks Maurice. “You’ve made your point; you’re a golfer. Come on home.”

  “Soon, soon.”

  “What do you want? Vodka?”

  “Yeah.”

  Not long after that, the black cloud of Herbie rains out the party and everybody begs off—Maurice and Candy for the airport and Billy to clean her house. And Herbie moves into his bar stool on a more permanent basis. He’s not sure he really believes that Olive is fucking Sam. Probably not, he thinks. Candy always goes for that first off—everybody’s fucking everybody—judging the world by her own standards. But he starts to fantasize about it while he’s sitting at the bar—what the hell, he thinks, I may as well get some juice out of this, too. It’s a quarter to three; there’s no one in the place, except you and me. He signals the barman for another double vodka rocks and he brings up a picture of Olive and Sam in bed. He has to create Sam out of his imagination because he has no idea what he looks like. But there they are, going at it good, Sam helping her to a long, deep come like only a young, strapping fellow can, Olive with her knees up around her ears. And even with the alcohol and the tiredness, Herbie feels that old feeling, that stirring in his shorts. That gets a smile. Years ago when Annie told him about her love affairs, he asked her to go into detail, which she did with her legendary aplomb. They both got so hot from the images she was pulling up that they fucked their brains out right there on the couch. You never know what gets you going.