by Liz Kay
I almost wander back to Greg, but I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. There’s no name, but the area code looks familiar. I pick up and say, “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Tommy.”
I feel a little sorry for Greg, who seems to be hanging around on the edge of the party, waiting to see if I come back.
“I hope you don’t have more work for me,” I say.
“Why? You don’t like getting paid?”
“Not when all this extra shit is lumped into a flat rate.”
“It’s a hell of a flat rate, honey. Daniel just mailed your check today.” Two hundred thousand dollars. It’s a nice number. It’s not exactly going to change my life, but it’s a nice number. And it means that the movie’s officially a go. I watch Stevie roll his ball, and when he turns around I give him a thumbs-up. Great job! I mouth.
“Where are you? It’s loud.”
“I’m bowling with my kid. Hang on.” I lean down to Stevie. I pull the phone away from my mouth. “I have to take this call, honey. Can you do my turn?” He gives me a high five and grabs a ball to roll. Of course the bumpers are down for my turn, so he’s not going to hit a single pin. “All right, what do you want?”
“Wow. Good to talk to you too.”
“Come on. What is it?”
“Nothing, Jesus,” he says. “I read your changes. Thanks for doing that.”
“Yeah, of course. You know I really will work on it anytime. I’m just, you know, giving you shit.” I scuff my toe along the floor. “Hey, is this your number you’re calling on?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know, Tommy. Do you think I should have it? I mean, what if I try to call you when you’d rather be ‘not really available’?” I try to make Daniel’s air quotes with my voice.
“Very funny. You’re hilarious,” he says. “I’ll be available.”
Poor Greg is standing at an angle like he’s not really facing my way, but he’s not really into the party either. He turns far enough to make eye contact. He makes a little half-smile, and I smile back.
“I’m not actually going to call,” I say.
“Wow.” He laughs. “Who’s the asshole now?”
“I know. I’m sorry. I know that’s kind of your thing. I don’t really mean to step on your toes.” Stevie gets a spare with the rather significant help of the bumpers. “I should go. He’s going to start pouting if I don’t take my next turn.”
“Yeah, you have fun with the bowling. That sounds really fucking exciting.” But then he says, “Hey, Stace, thanks again.”
“Anytime,” I say, and then I hit end.
Stevie’s standing at the return, waving his hands over the little vent. “I can get your ball for you,” he says when he sees I’m off the phone.
“I would love that, buddy. That would be great.”
• • •
Stevie and I finish our games way before the party ends, and I know he’s going to be jealous about the cake, so I buy him an ice cream, and we sit in the dining area. There’s a bar, and I think about ordering a vodka, but I feel like it would be weird.
“You’re not having ice cream?” Stevie says.
“I don’t really like ice cream.”
It’s soft serve, a twist, and he’s holding the cone in his hand, licking it on just one side so that it’s dripping on the other. He’s got streaks of chocolate and vanilla on his knuckles.
“You can have a lick,” he says, holding it toward me.
“That’s okay, baby. It’s for you.”
“Do you think Ben’s having ice cream too, or just cake?”
“Probably just cake,” I say.
“I like ice cream better than cake,” he says, “but I like pie the best.”
“Like your dad,” I say, but then I think, Shit, why did I say that?
Stevie doesn’t look sad though, just interested. “What was his favorite pie?”
“Coconut cream,” I say.
“Me too,” Stevie says, though I don’t think he’s ever had it. “We’re the same.”
• • •
Some days the boys walk to Jenny’s after school, and I meet them there. We let the kids play for a little bit while Jenny and I have coffee. She has this very formal front parlor, and there’s something nice about sitting on her little Victorian loveseat, drinking coffee out of our grandmother’s china.
Jenny is in the kitchen pouring the coffee when my phone rings. It’s sitting out on the coffee table, and I see the screen light up just as it starts buzzing. It’s my editor, who honestly never calls. I haven’t talked to her in forever. Even with the movie, it’s been strictly through e-mail. They don’t technically have anything to do with it because they don’t own any of those rights, but obviously I’ve kept them in the loop. She’s said sales have already been picking up.
“Hi, Erin,” I say. “How are you?”
“Oh, Stacey, good, great. I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Jenny walks in with our coffees on this little tray with a plate full of butter cookies. Neither of us is going to eat them. We’ll just leave them for the kids. She gives me a look like, Who’s that? and I shake my head.
“Well, we’ve got an opportunity we want to talk to you about,” Erin says. “The L.A. book festival is in April, and you know the panel proposals all had to be in months ago, but I was talking to the festival director about how their registration has been really down this year, and how they really need some kind of buzz.”
“Yeah?” I already don’t like where this is going.
“And anyway, we got to talking about you and your movie project, and well, we’d really like you to fly out for it. People are always interested in hearing about screenwriting. Especially in L.A. Everyone wants to get into the movies.” She’s talking fast. She always does when she’s trying to convince me of something. “So you could talk about the project and how it all went and maybe someone from the movie would be willing to join you? That would really be something.”
“You mean like Tommy DeMarco?”
Jenny makes another face at me like, What the hell is going on?
“Well, that would be fantastic, but we’d honestly be thrilled to have anyone who could speak to, you know, their end of things.”
“Look, I don’t know, Erin. You know how much I hate these things, and asking for this favor, this all puts me in a strange spot.”
“I know. I know. But you have to think about how much the book deserves this attention. It’s a fantastic book. We all really went out on a limb for it. That’s how much we believed in it, and sometimes you have to go out on a limb for it too.”
I close my eyes. “Look, I’ll ask,” I say finally. “E-mail me all the dates and specifics.”
I hear this little intake of breath on the other end. “I’m sending you everything now. Call me the minute you know. And Stacey? I really appreciate this.”
I end the call, and Jenny says, “What was that about?”
“It’s just this book festival thing, and they want me to go and ask Tommy, and I just …” I shake my head. “The whole thing is not what I want to do.”
I’m feeling a little sick. I don’t want to call Tommy, but I also don’t want to put it off. The longer I wait, the more I’ll have to think about it, so I thumb over and scroll through my contacts. He’s texted me a few times, but we haven’t talked in over a week, not since the bowling alley.
“Are you calling him now?” Jenny says, and I nod. “You have his phone number?”
“Yeah,” I say, tapping it and holding the phone up to my ear. He picks up on the third ring.
“Hey,” he says. “You know, I’m not really available right now.”
“Oh, sure, no. That’s fine, I’ll just send you an e-mail.” I close my eyes really tightly, press my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose.
“I’m just fucking with you, honey,” he says. “I thought you weren’t gonna call.”
I make this exasperated sigh. “God, you’re an asshole.”
Jenny makes a little oh sound and holds her hand up over her mouth.
“You keep saying that,” he says.
“You keep acting like one.”
He laughs. “I know. So what’s up?”
“Look, my editor just called about doing this thing for the L.A. book festival, talking about the book and making it into a movie. Anyway, it’s in April, and I don’t know what your schedule is like, but, I don’t know, I just thought I’d see if you want to do it with me.” I think I’m talking fast too. I might sound like an idiot.
“Yeah, totally. I’m in.”
“Well, let me send you the date and see if it works for you.”
“No, I’m in. I’ll just rearrange shit if I have to. Send it over to Daniel, and we’ll get it set.”
“Seriously?” I look at Jenny like, He said yes! and she claps silently.
“Yeah. I’m happy to.”
“My editor is going to be thrilled. You’re the best.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell you, Stacey, but you don’t fucking listen.”
“I’m totally listening now. You’re fantastic. You’re amazing. I could absolutely kiss you.” I kind of wish I hadn’t said the last part, but he just laughs and says, “Of course you could.”
I take this deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’d better call my editor back, but seriously, thank you.”
When I hang up, Jenny gives me these wide eyes and says, “How close are you two?”
“Tommy?” I try really hard to look confused. “I mean, we’re friends. It’s not like we talk all the time or anything, but you know, I guess we’re friends.” I lean forward and take my coffee from the tray, hold the saucer in my left hand, take a sip. “What?”
“You sounded a little flirty,” she says.
“Oh god, yeah, of course. I mean, Tommy’s super flirtatious. He’s kind of a bully with it actually. It’s just, whatever, it’s like how he is.”
“You sound like you like him,” she says.
“Oh, come on, Jenny, who wouldn’t? I mean, he’s gorgeous and smart and funny and mostly very nice, but he’s also just a tremendous asshole to women and his life is ridiculous. I mean, yes, of course I like him, but it’s not like it’s real.” I take another sip of the coffee. I like the way the cup and saucer keep both my hands busy. “I’d better call my editor.”
FEBRUARY
“I DON’T WANT the kind with stickers. I want the kind with candy,” Stevie says.
“Honey, everyone’s going to be giving out tons of candy. Maybe we should do something different. How about pencils?” I say. I hold up a box of Valentines. They come with silver pencils with blue and pink hearts.
“Those look girly,” Stevie says.
The shelves on either side of the aisle are a mess. There are plenty of Valentines left, but lots of the boxes are in the wrong place. There’s a bag of candy hearts on the floor. I watch a woman in the aisle with us nudge it out of the way with her foot, and I’m like, Seriously?
“They have blue ones too,” I say, and I hold the box close to him so he can see through the little plastic window. “Half of them are pink, and half of them are blue.” Ben’s favorite color for a long time was purple. Then he graduated from preschool into kindergarten, and he didn’t want to carry his purple umbrella anymore. For a while he said it was his secret favorite color, but by the time he got to first grade, it was through.
“Hearts are girly,” Ben says.
Stevie walks to the end of the aisle and comes back with a box in his hands. “I want these,” he says.
“Sweetie, it’s just so much sugar …”
“No one even likes pencils,” Stevie says, and he starts to cry. “You just want everyone to hate me.”
“Baby,” I say, and I squat down, rub his arm. I know I’m supposed to say no here, and there was a time I was pretty proud of never being manipulated by tears, but since Michael died, it’s hard to say which ones are genuine.
• • •
The boys dump the boxes of cards out on the dining room table. It usually has some sort of school crap strewn across it. We never eat there anymore. I print out their class lists and dig through my desk for a couple of sharp pencils.
“I can’t give this one to anybody,” Ben says. “It says, ‘I’m sweet on you.’”
“I’ll take that one,” Stevie says. “I don’t care if it’s mushy. Nobody cares in my grade.”
“They do in mine,” Ben says.
“So give all the mushy ones to your brother, and Stevie, you give the not-mushy ones to Ben.”
“Is ‘Sweet Stuff’ mushy?” Stevie says.
“I don’t know,” Ben says. He looks at me.
“It’s just objectifying,” I say.
“What does ‘objectifying’ mean?” Stevie says.
“Nothing, never mind, I was just making a joke.” They’re all mushy. And stupid, and when has “Be Mine” or “Sweet Stuff” ever worked on anyone? Would you please just put the names on the candy and let’s get this done with?
“But what does it mean?” he says again.
I hear my phone ring inside my purse in the kitchen, and I say, “Hang on, baby. I’d better get that.” It’s Daniel.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“We’ve got a problem. It’s the script. Jason and Joe. I don’t know. You have to come out.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?”
“I don’t know. Tommy just wants me to set up a day to get all four of you together.”
“Seriously? I thought the script was done.”
Daniel laughs. “Oh, sweetie, you’re cute. They’ll be changing shit every other minute. Okay, so, get your calendar out. Jason and Joe can do the thirteenth or the seventeenth.”
“This Friday the thirteenth? Jesus, Daniel, you guys never give me any notice.”
“I know. I know. So which one?”
“My kids are having their Valentine’s parties on the thirteenth, so not that day.” I’m one of the party moms.
“Seventeenth it is. Meeting’ll be early, so I’ll book you a ticket for the sixteenth.”
• • •
“Are you kidding me?” I slam the script down on the table. We’re in Tommy’s study. He’s standing in the center of the room, watching me, his arms crossed in front of him, one hand on his mouth.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“This goes way beyond not liking it, Tommy.” I prop my feet on the edge of the table, but then I drop them back down to the floor, lean my elbows onto my knees. “Goddamn it.”
“Let me get you a drink,” Tommy says.
“I don’t want a drink.”
“Well, I want a drink if I have to listen to you.” He walks out of the room.
By the time he comes back, I’m pacing. He’s got two small glasses of vodka in his hands, the bottle tucked under his arm.
“Drink this,” he says, handing me one.
“I don’t want it.” I set the glass on the table next to the script. I think about dumping the vodka out onto it.
“All right, let me explain Jason’s position.” Tommy straddles the arm of the loveseat, balances his glass in front of him. “He’s not asking to give her a happy ending. I mean, it’s not like he’s looking to tie things up, but the original ending is so fucking desolate …” and I glare at him, so he holds his hand out and adds, “which I love. But Jason wants a more open ending, not happy exactly, but with the possibility—and I’m quoting him here—of redemption. He thinks it would be easier on the audience. Better for the bottom line.”
“I don’t care about making things easier on the audience.” I cover my face with my hands and talk through them.
“And better for the bottom line.”
“That’s your problem.”
“Yeah, Stacey, it is. That’s why we have to have this conversation.”
“Great.” I cross my arms, look at the floor. It’s covered with this expensive Persian rug, all shades of beiges and browns and deep maroons.
“Look. It’s not just my money, or I’d say fuck it, let’s see what happens.” I can hear the ice tumbling in his glass as he takes a drink. “A lot of people have money in this. People I don’t want to screw.”
“You promised you wouldn’t fuck this up, and now you’re going to.” I shake my head.
“Slow the fuck down, Stacey. If I wanted to fuck it up, you wouldn’t even be here. We’d have just done whatever we wanted, and you would have had to live with it. Let’s remember that you don’t have any actual rights here, so maybe you should be nice to me for keeping you involved.”
“So you’re what, asking for my approval?” I may sound a little bitter, a little snide.
“I’m asking you to make your fucking case.” He takes another swig of his drink, and then his voice softens. “Look, you know I’m on your side, but I can’t just lay down the law here, or Jason could walk. Nobody wants that.”
I don’t say anything. I lift my arm up, slide my fingers deep in my hair, make a knot of it in my fist.
“Tell me why it’s better your way. Convince me, convince Jason, convince Joe. Well, fuck Joe. I don’t care about Joe.”
I laugh a little, more to release the tension than anything. I drop to my knees, sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the table, pick up the vodka, but I don’t drink it. I just hold the glass in my hand, rub my thumb through the condensation on the side.
“This isn’t a Disney story. I mean, we’re exploring this whole system of privilege and oppression and then you want to turn this into ‘Oh, she’s a plucky heroine, so she’s fine, she saves herself in the end.’ That’s not real, that’s not true.” I turn the glass in my hand again. The ice is melting. I finally take a sip. “We have to take the reader, the audience, whatever, all the way. We have to make them feel complicit.”
Tommy sits for a minute. Maybe he’s waiting to see if I say more. Maybe he’s just thinking. “Okay,” he says. “But you’d better sound a hell of a lot more eloquent tomorrow. And with Jason, you know, it wouldn’t hurt if you wore something a little more revealing.”