**********
Casually, because he absolutely knew his parents would figure out a way to resolve the Thurston issue, Harry asked on the phone, “Did you erase the threat? Is Galen’s father backing off?”
“We got him,” Louis replied. “He stands to lose as much as we if he goes ahead with his little scheme.”
“Okay!” Harry said, trying to show enthusiasm. “I’m curious. How did you do it?”
“Don’t worry about that. In the legal arena there are many twists and turns. As Harold Hill in Music Man said, we ‘know the territory.’”
Though his father couldn’t see him, Harry shrugged. “I hope you didn’t have to stoop as low to get him as he stooped to try to get you.”
“Stooping is a matter of perspective. We did what we had to.”
When the conversation ended, Harry tried to put it out of his mind, though the stooping business stayed with him. After his parents’ attempted intimidation of Juliet to get information, his suspicion about their limits to deception was elevated; he had no doubt his father had done something underhanded to level the playing field.
A check for a thousand dollars arrived in the mail for Harry two days later, with a note: “Thanks for having to go through the crap with us about Thurston. Please split this with Juliet, a show of appreciation if we inconvenienced her. Love, Mom and Dad.”
Harry debated whether or not to give some of the money to Juliet, not because he wanted it for himself, but because he was embarrassed about his parents’ transparency. How obvious! How crude! Guilt money for them trying to browbeat us! He felt like returning the check, or perhaps tearing it up, but decided to keep it, awareness of tainted money from his family now up there in the pantheon with their other unacceptable transactions.
Also out of curiosity, he asked Juliet, “Have you heard from Galen lately?”
“Not for a couple of weeks. Why?”
“I was wondering about that business my parents were so intense about, whether any of it filtered down to him.”
“Not that I know of.” She stopped, tried to read Harry’s camouflaged intent, and said, “If his father is some kind of dishonest character, it may take some dishonest counter-tactics to get him. I don’t fault that. Your parents were probably trying to save themselves from some dirty little scheme.”
“True, they were. But I like to think of them as a little more above board than Galen’s father. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“Lawyers,” Juliet said with a knowing frown. “They’re never above board.”
Harry winced, but knew she had a point. “I can’t believe I never knew anything about the underbelly of my father’s work. I grew up both steered and sheltered. How dumb of me.”
“Not your fault. Kids have no power.”
Next day, by chance, Galen called Juliet and wondered if they could get together, maybe after class one evening. She was reluctant to have him show up with Harry around, so arranged to meet him in the school library in the afternoon, a couple of hours before her four o’clock class.
They sat in the lounge, away from the stacks and the studying students, Juliet aware at once that Galen looked agitated.
“My movie may be cancelled. Something about the investors getting cold feet. Hell, the primary investor is my father, and he’s gung ho. So, I’m not sure what the hell is going on.”
“Who told you? Your father?”
“He just told me not to put all my eggs in one basket, trite stuff like that, you know. Didn’t go into detail, but it was because of him—because of the opportunity—that I quit school. Now what do I do?”
Some secret part of Juliet felt a touch of satisfaction with this news; Galen, after all, was not a competent actor, and it was the bane of the industry that such hunks become famous, shamefully not on talent.
“There are lots of baskets out there, Galen. If this part goes empty, another will come along.”
“Yeah,” Galen replied gloomily. “But what do I do now? Sit and wait?”
“You can come back to school. You only missed one semester.”
“Going to classes is not my strong point. I’m not a good student.”
“But, rarely does someone leap into fame and recognition. You have to have a base, some kind of grounding.”
“I thought it would be on-the-job-training for me. This flick was going to be my incubator. I’d learn from the experience and see where it took me.”
“Where has it taken you so far?”
“Oh, well, I know how things work on a set. I’ve watched the director. The other actors and I are like friends, so I’ve picked up little gems from them. I guess I’ve learned some things.”
It was clear that this once-superior, self-important raconteur, was now deflated, some element of his arrogant style missing, his tone softer, the old, in-your-face charm withered. Juliet was hardly overjoyed by this; she had relished the game with Galen, the male-female tag they always played, the way she could predict his come-on behavior and the ease with which she could detour it. Now, she almost felt sorry for him and, parenthetically, for herself. After all, it meant the loss of a possible connection for her in the Hollywood scene.
“Stash it away, big fellah. It all may come in handy someday. Meanwhile, ditch the sour mood. If you’re not sure, why beat yourself up with the tragedy? What if it goes through after all?”
He hesitated, then blurted out, “I think my father’s a fag!”
THREE
B lue Skies, a song from an old movie, was blaring its slow-beat tune on Harry’s car radio. He kept his punch-key numbers on national public radio, one local news, and three different kinds of music stations. This one was his oldies channel, which he was into a lot these days, though he would not have been able to say why.
He had been invited by Katy to sit in on the star, Amanda, performing the role of Laura, to get his opinion on how the two interpretations differed. She respected his insight and was eager to know if her one night of standing in came anywhere near the professional actor’s performance, or if, as some had told her, it was different, unique, and meritorious in its own way.
On the phone Harry had asked, “Would it be okay if I invite Juliet? She’d love to see the play and she might offer some good insights.”
“She didn’t see my performance. She’d have no way of comparing.”
“No, but she could tell us what she thinks of Detmer’s work, and how the role could be done differently.”
“I guess so,” Katy said dejectedly, though Harry seemed not to pick up on her mood.
He and Juliet agreed to meet at the theater, since she had un-explained “obligations” running almost to curtain time. For Harry, Juliet’s life away from time spent with him was a grand mystery, and she seemed disinclined to change that fact.
After Blue Skies, Doris Day sang Secret Love, and then Bing Crosby pitched in with Cool, Cool, Cool of the Evening, that up-beat number ending just as Harry pulled his car into the five dollar lot across from the Music Center complex. His mother was an avid listener and fan of old fifties ballads, but if Harry had been aware that it was his mother’s taste that was seducing him, it would have given him grief. As with Juliet’s private activities, and other unknowns in his life, the lure of those ultra-romantic songs was a mystery.
Juliet arrived at the box office area in front of the Ahmanson scarcely five minutes before curtain. The two hurried to their seats—good comps, left for them by Katy—just as the lights dimmed; Katy herself was backstage with an open script, prompting if needed.
Ms. Detmer was an accomplished actor, and brought appealing shades of subtlety to the role of Laura. When the play was over, the trio of friends agreed to drive, each in his or her car, to the Will Wright’s usually frequented by Harry and Katy. This did not please Katy, since she considered that charming and petite ice-cream parlor their special rendezvous place, but she saw no way to protest without seeming petty.
Seated and with their chocolate/almond specialties on the w
ay, Juliet began the critique with, “Amanda is good. She fits the part in an unusual way, probably too cute for the actual character, but poised and insightful in her skills.”
“I saw her in a movie where she was becoming a nun,” Harry said, “but falls in love with a guy and follows her heart. She was cute and clever. This role is definitely more subtle.”
Katy was quiet. Her invitation had been, she realized, for her own gratification, and here were her classmates analyzing the star’s career. She felt a slow burn, but waited, certain that Harry, at least, would draw some comparisons.
Youthful as he was, and often too focused on his own future, Harry had been trying to learn to listen more intently to underlying messages from his friends. He looked hard at Katy, and in a burst of awareness said, “She is fine, this Amanda babe, but I want to say that your work was soft and penetrating. I think you caught some aspects of Laura that Detmer didn’t consider. You did a powerful job of revealing the fear that your character had of men and intimacy. When Amanda, not the star, Amanda, but the character, Laura’s mother, says, ‘Laura, you are sick, darling…’ then turns to her son and says, ‘I told her that it was just too warm this evening, but—is Laura all right now?’ your face was the perfect blend of disdain for Amanda, and pain for yourself and your life predicament.”
His compliment, phrased as it was, buoyed Katy’s spirits. She allowed a tiny smile and said, “I struggled with that scene in rehearsal, over and over. Laura is trapped, both in her own prison of fear and in her mother’s of manipulation. I wasn’t sure if I could portray the duality of her feelings. I feel good that you saw it.”
“Everyone interprets a scene in her own way. Glad to hear that you saw something complex and went for it,” Juliet said. She was not openly condescending, but neither did her voice carry warmth.
Harry, as usual, missed the sly criticism and reacted to Juliet’s surface meaning. “Right. Juliet has a point. We all bring ourselves to a part. That’s the powerful thing about acting: it is plumbing our own emotional depths in order to read the character’s motives.”
“Well, as I see it,” Katy said, “the glass menagerie is a symbol for Laura’s private world, the glass signifying its fragility and her desperate attempt to break free.”
“Good thinking,” Juliet said.
“Laura is hemmed in by her imaginary world and the gentleman caller is a symbol of the outside trying to enter in,” Katy added.
“But, it’s too scary for Laura, and she regresses back into her make-believe, safe life,” Harry said.
There is a pause, as all three seemed to focus on their ice cream, the complexity of the Tennessee Williams character heady stuff.
“Now what?” Juliet asked. “Are you in line for any other parts?”
“Haven’t any offers, at least not yet.”
“She will have, though,” Harry rushed in to say. “There was a really positive article in the Times. She was well reviewed.”
“Oh, what did it say?”
Katy was quiet, but Harry said, “One phrase was that Ms. Bloom lived up to her name. Like a flower in spring, she blossomed in the role of Laura Wingfield.”
“How clever,” Juliet said. “This ice cream is heavenly. I’ll have to remember this place.”
FOUR
L ouis Schiff invited Bruce Thurston to his office for a consultation. His wording was simple yet urgent, with a bite that forced Thurston to sit up, take notice, and acquiesce without argument. He had called on a cell phone private number, and said, “Thurston, this is Schiff. It is imperative that we meet. You will want to consider information I have about an assignation at the La Brea Tar Pits.”
Miriam suggested she be there as well, wanting to savor turning the tables on her despicable former fiancé, but Louis held up his hand and virtually ordered her to suspend any form of celebration till it was a done deal.
Only the two of them met. Usually, when he had an appointment, Louis liked to get out from behind his desk and sit side by side with his client in the soft chairs in front. This time, he remained at his desk and began with, “Your accusations and the deposition you filed are contemptible. You know as well as I that they are phony. I have no illusion that I could talk you out of this vindictive act, so instead I’ve collected a bit of juicy counter-smut to see if it might do the trick.”
He produced the series of photos that Whitey Carter had taken, and without a word, laid them out on the desk.
Bruce Thurston was a handsome man, not quite as Gable-esque as his son, but with smooth features and a chiseled look that, if you were old enough, might remind you of the hunk who played the Marlboro Man in ads on television some twenty years earlier. He dressed impeccably, with a silver and black striped tie, a Giampaolo Desanti, finely woven, grey woolen suit, and black leather shoes polished each morning as he arrived in the lobby of his office building. His hair was silver at the temples and otherwise a carefully coiffed, salt and pepper combination that was so perfectly trimmed one might have thought it a wig.
His eyes, part of the symphony of grey he projected, perused the photos with widening dismay.
“Look,” he began, but Louis cut him off.
“Thurston, you can mess around any way you like. It’s not my worry. But, if you want it to be our little secret, the shit you’ve been trying to get Miriam and me on will have to go away, fast and totally. Do I make myself clear?”
There was hardly a beat of silence and Thurston said, “Done.”
As he rose to go to the door, he turned and said, more humbly than one might expect from such an accomplished man, “You know, Schiff, we both loved the same woman. That ought to count for something. I’m a rotten loser, and that’s it. The other stuff, the pictures and all—I’m not proud of it. It’s an addiction I need to keep secret.”
“Not a problem. Different from you, I have no need to ruin anyone’s life.” He could not hide a little smile of triumph, and, as Thurston read it, scorn.
What the Schiffs had no control over was the nefarious motive of one, Whitey Carter. Hardly a week passed, when a letter came to the Thurston home addressed to Mr. Thurston. Whitey had no awareness that Galen Thurston was regularly at his parents’ home, for meals, occasionally to sleep in his luxurious room, and to collect his mail. When Galen saw a thick letter addressed as it was, and knowing that mail for his father almost always included the letters L.L.D., in deference to his law degree, he made a quick judgment and opened it. It read:
“See these pics. I want ten grand on Friday the 12th, by ten AM or they go public. Small bills, in the downtown Greyhound terminal, locker number 1123. It will be unlocked and left ajar on the morning of the 12th. When the money is deposited, shut the locker door. It will automatically lock. No funny business or the pics are spread all over town. Negatives will be mailed to you.”
Galen perused the enclosed photos, hands shaking as he filtered through the small packet, heartbeat escalating as if he were running a marathon, his handsome face distorted in pain, eyes finally glassing over with tears.
It was not as if he idolized his father. In fact, as a child he had dreams that his father was going to eat him. Bruce Thurston was an un-affectionate parent and also ominously distant; nothing overt, but an ever-present sense that Galen had ‘better not’ do this-or-that hung over every encounter. The term ‘permissive’ was not accurate; rather, one might say that he was a parent who chose to ignore his growing son—until he reached adulthood. Then, as his father saw it, though perhaps not consciously, the boy represented the family and, to avoid embarrassment, had to match up.
No, he did not idolize his father, yet the scandalous information he now saw, spread so shamelessly before him, destroyed some kind of fantasy he had harbored: that the old man was upright, successful, at least to be admired, and wanted the best for his son. He did not know what to do with this new awareness.
How would he act—he did not consider himself a good actor—and what could he do to restore the envelope so
that his trespass would not be discovered?
The latter was easier than the former; he could replace the envelope, print his father’s name and address on it, glue on a used stamp from another letter, and seal the whole thing up for his father to open. How to be with his father was a painful, awkward and daunting prospect.
It occurred to him that his mother, the former Jennifer Knight, the replacement bride after Miriam Gannet left Bruce Thurston at the altar, was utterly naïve about the situation. Did that need addressing? Well, it wasn’t up to him to disclose anything to her, at least for now. In any case, his mother was, as he saw her, a pliable partner who acquiesced to any and all of her husband’s demands. His guess was, even if she knew about his sexual misadventures, she would do nothing. Her self-confidence, he always believed, was in the toilet.
His own at this moment was equally dismal.
FIVE
K aty was a noiseless celebrity. Her classmates were well aware of her achievement, but not through her own pronouncements. Harry was delighted to broadcast the elegant reviews of her one-night’s work, while Juliet, not prone to complimenting others in her profession, was subdued and even evasive when asked about Katy. “Oh yes, she’s understudy for the lead. She was able to go on one evening, when Ms. Detmer was ill. She did a creditable job. It’s lovely to get a break like that. I wonder whose turn will be next.”
Florida Berry, Katy’s current professor, always muted in her praise, actually disclosed to her class that Ms. Bloom had, “…performed admirably in her first professional role.”
Professor Garth Benjamin, with his more effusive manner, was, “…delighted to see one of our own kick off what will certainly be a promising career. We are all rightfully proud of Katy Bloom.”
Katy, herself, was embarrassed by the attention, an odd twist for someone who was a performer and used to being in the limelight. When asked all sorts of questions about the experience—how the other actors behaved toward her, the expertise of the director, the sense of being the focus of attention in front of six hundred people, the way it felt to read about her performance in the newspapers—she would reply succinctly, with a word or two, and with graceful modesty.
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