He ran a hand over his shiny bald pate. “What do you think?”
Rather than answer that, since I saw no reason to mar this unexpected reunion with an honest opinion, I asked, “Is it for summer? Or a job?”
“A job. They wanted a certain look. I’m playing an athlete.” He flexed his shoulders. “I’ve been working out for it, too.”
“You look fit.” And that was true. Jeff was slim and long-limbed, not bulky or muscular. He wore a tank top and shorts in this heat, so it was easy to see that he was well-toned, his skin stretched smoothly over taut muscles and glowing with good health. “What’s the job?”
Jeff didn’t answer. Examining my outfit, which was looking the worse for wear by now, he asked, “So where were you working last night?”
“On location here in Harlem. A nighttime shoot for The Dirty Thirty.”
“Whoa!” His eyes widened. “I love that show.”
“Thank you,” I said with feeling. “Er, I mean, I’m glad to hear that.”
“The Dirty Thirty, huh? Well. Hmm.” He smiled again. “Hey, good for you!” His gaze moved to Max and he introduced himself. “Hi. I’m Jeffrey Clark.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said belatedly. “Jeff, this is Dr. Maximillian Zadok, who’s a good friend of mine. Max, Jeff is an actor and . . . an old friend.”
Actually, Jeff was a former boyfriend. But that’s a phrase which implies old complications, and it seemed like too much information in the current circumstances.
“I’m delighted to meet you,” Max said, shaking Jeff’s hand. “Were you on your way into this establishment?”
“Yeah. I work here.”
“Oh, of course!” I slapped my forehead, then looked at Max. “That’s why it sounded familiar to me.” I said to Jeff, “Now I remember! You used to teach workshops here.”
“I still teach workshops here,” he said.
“The Livingston Foundation.” I nodded. “I knew I recognized the name from somewhere.” I had never been here, but I now recalled that, staying true to the Harlem roots he had always wanted to have (in fact, he came from a middle-class suburb of Columbus, Ohio), Jeff took pride in teaching acting workshops to young people at the Livingston Foundation.
“Since you’re employed here, then perhaps you knew Darius Phelps?” Max asked, leaping right into the breach.
“Darius?” Jeff shrugged. “Sure. He worked here.” He looked at me. “Is that why you’re here? You knew Darius?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“We have some questions about him,” Max said. “Perhaps you can help us?”
“I didn’t know him that well, but, sure, I can try.”
“First of all—”
“Not right now, though.” Jeff glanced at his wrist-watch. “I’ve got a meeting, and . . . and . . .” His gaze was fixed on me, and he started smiling. “Oh, man. This is lucky.”
“What?” I said.
Then his smile faded and he looked uncertain. “Actually, maybe you won’t . . .”
“What?” I prodded.
“Do you want some work?”
He was speaking my language. I asked, “What kind of work?”
“I know you’ve got this D-Thirty gig and all, and this wouldn’t pay much compared to that. But it also doesn’t take up that much time, and it’s a way to—you know—give something back,” he said in a rush. “Plus, you’d really be helping me out.”
“What kind of work?” I repeated.
“You’d take over some of the workshops I’m teaching here. This job I got—the athlete role—has some scheduling conflicts with my work here. I thought I had it covered, but I got an angry call from the boss this morning. The guy who was substituting for me here turned out to be a flake and hasn’t shown up for a couple of days. I’m on my way into the boss’ office to do a mea culpa and promise to clean up my mess.” He let out his breath. “She was really pissed off, Esther. So it sure would help, when I go in there now, if I could introduce her to my new replacement.”
Actually, I thought I might enjoy teaching some acting workshops. Meanwhile, my working in Darius Phelps’ place of employment might be a fruitful avenue for investigating his fate, if he was indeed the individual whom I’d seen last night.
However, I was a little concerned about my outfit. “I’m definitely interested, Jeff. But do I really have to meet your boss? Now, I mean?”
“Since my previous replacement has crapped out on her, yeah, I think she’s going to insist on meeting you. And then you and I can teach a class together today, so the kids can get to know you.”
“Like this? But—”
“Come on.” He gestured to the front door. “It’ll be fine. I’ll explain to her about the outfit.”
I glanced at Max. He was frowning. But when I lifted my brows in silent query, he gave a little shake of his head, indicating that he didn’t want to discuss whatever was troubling him. Not in front of Jeff, anyhow.
“Okay, let’s go meet your boss,” I said to Jeff. “Oh! Wait!”
“What’s wrong?” Jeff said.
“Before we do anything else, I have to make a call. Can I borrow your cell? Mine was stolen last night.”
“Stolen?” Jeff reached into his pocket.
“Yes. I’ll explain later. But this call is important. I should do it right now. Thanks.” I accepted the phone from him . . . and then realized I didn’t actually know the D30 production office’s number. I’d have to phone directory assistance first. “This will just take a few minutes.”
As I walked a little distance away from the two men to make my calls, I heard Max say, “So you are a fellow thespian. Is that how you and Esther met?”
“Yeah. We did Othello together,” Jeff said. “She was Ophelia. I got to strangle her.”
And on many occasions after we started dating, I wished it had been the reverse.
Max was a Shakespeare fan, so he plied Jeff with questions about that long-ago production while I got directory assistance to connect me to D30. The production office’s phone rang a few times, and then someone answered it just long enough to put me on hold.
Jeff had always been his own best publicist, and from the bits of his conversation with Max that I overheard while on hold with D30, I could tell that this hadn’t changed.
That production of Othello had been a non-Equity cooperative showcase, meaning we all did it for free so we could list another role on our résumés, and so we could try to attract some attention (from talent agents, for example). The income from ticket sales barely covered the cost of the small, shabby performance space that we rented above a bar in the East Village. But based on what Jeff was saying about that production now, Max was probably getting the impression that we had performed the play at Lincoln Center and that Jeff had only narrowly missed being nominated for a Tony Award.
Playing Ophelia opposite Jeff had been my first good role after coming to New York. After graduating from Northwestern University, I had moved here with two other classmates, and we had gotten lucky and secured the rent-controlled apartment that I still lived in. We mostly paid our bills by waiting tables, telemarketing, and doing office temping. My first “acting” job in New York had involved dressing up as a bear and wandering the streets, handing out leaflets for a toy store at Christmas. I was subsequently cast as a singing rutabaga in a one-act play that toured local schools to teach children about nutrition. (The rutabaga, an unjustly neglected root vegetable, contains vitamins A and C.)
After that, I was determined to play an actual human being, even if I wasn’t paid for it. So I went to the audition when I heard about the Othello showcase. The project was being coproduced by the director and the lead actor—Jeffrey Clark. Jeff had been in New York longer than I had, he knew the ropes better than I did, and he was tremendously talented. He was also very attractive, and he thought I was tremendously talented. Before long, our flirtation turned into a serious relationship.
We were together for almost a year, and w
e had some good times. Jeff was a decent man, as well as one who shared and understood my vocation.
On the other hand, he was also the reason that I had decided never again to date an actor.
Now, while I waited for D30’s production office to speak to me, I could hear Jeff telling Max about some of the other roles he had played since the Moor of Venice.
Moving a little farther away from them, I muttered, “But enough about me. What do you think about me?”
Then, finally, someone picked up the phone at D30 and spoke to me. As soon as I gave my name, the woman at the other end of the line cried, “Oh, my God! There you are! I’ve phoned your apartment and your cell. Twice! Each. Where have you been?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m really sor—”
“We’ve been frantic to get a hold of you.”
“I can imagine. And I want to start by say—”
“We were getting so worried!”
“I know,” I said. “And I—”
“We are all so sorry about this, Esther!”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“Have you seen the papers?”
“Uh, no, but—”
“Never mind. That’s okay.”
“Thank you. I mean—”
“As you may have heard—or maybe you didn’t—Mike’s gastric episode last night turned out to be a heart attack. A heart attack! So suddenly there were medics and doctors and ambulances and cops and hospitals and chaos and panic and—and—and! You know?”
“Um. Uh-huh.”
“So we were at the hospital all night. All night! We left a skeleton crew to pack up the location shoot. And we totally forgot—I mean forgot until, like, this morning—that some of the actors had gone off to get something to eat!”
“Oh?”
“But now I know what happened to you, Esther!”
That seemed unlikely. “You do?”
“You poor thing! We had no idea until this morning that the actors were wandering around Harlem in the middle of the night wondering where the show had gone, and that the few crew members who were still there weren’t very helpful. I can only imagine how scary that was for you!”
“I was pretty scared last night,” I said truthfully.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “We’re all so sorry.”
“Oh, these things happen,” I said kindly. “And I’m fine. So don’t give it another thought. Really.”
“You’re such a pro.”
I was very glad that someone on the staff of a successful television show thought so. “So tell me how Nolan is. Uh, Mike, I mean.”
“He’s, er, not very happy. But, well, I guess that’s to be expected.”
Based on my limited exposure to him, I doubted that he was ever happy.
She added, “He’d like it if you visited him. He’s at North General in Harlem. He wanted to go to Mount Sinai, but—”
“I can’t visit him,” I said. “I hardly know him.” Yes, we had simulated the act of sexual intercourse together in front of a TV camera, but we were scant acquaintances, at best.
“He wants visitors,” she said firmly.
“It’s probably not a good idea to tire him out with visits from casual acquain—”
“There’s a sign-up sheet. When shall I put you down for?”
I supposed that if the star of a successful television show told the producer that he wanted visitors, then he got visitors. Even if we had to be bullied into it.
Since I was in Harlem anyhow, I said with resignation, “I’ll go today.”
“Afternoon or evening?”
“I don’t know. I’m a little bus—”
“Pick one,” she snapped.
“Afternoon.”
She was in good cheer again. “He’ll be delighted to see you!”
That seemed doubtful. But I wanted to stay on good terms with D30, so I would do my duty and go visit their star. “How are his nurses coping?”
“Mike wants to get out of the hospital as soon as possible,” she said. “And the nurses are, uh, trying to help him with that.”
I’ll bet they are, I thought. “But he’s going to be all right?”
“We sure hope so. He’s been ignoring the warning symptoms for months, ignoring his doctor’s advice, and refusing to modify his lifestyle or change his habits. Personally, I think what happened was inevitable, and he’s lucky it wasn’t worse. So let’s all hope this incident is a wake-up call, and that he listens to it. Or we’re going to lose a fine actor and special human being.”
Whatever.
“So what are they going to do about this episode of the show?” I asked. My unfinished scene wasn’t the only one that Nolan was scheduled to film.
“They’re talking about doing some rewrites that will eliminate him from the rest of this episode and account for his absence from the show for the next few episodes, too.”
“That makes sense.”
“But Mike is furious about that and refusing to agree to it.”
It came as no surprise to me that even a heart attack didn’t make Nolan willing to surrender the spotlight for a few weeks.
She added, “He says he can be back at work in a few days and continue shooting the show the way it’s been written. But the doctors are advising against it.” She sighed, slowing down now and starting to sound like someone who had indeed spent all night at the hospital. “We’re shooting around his scenes for the time being, but we’ll have to make a decision soon. So if you can just stand by, Esther? One way or the other, we’ll need to reschedule you, either to shoot the unfinished scene with Mike, or else to do a new scene the writers will draft—probably one where Jilly C- Note gives that same plot information to someone else in the Three-Oh.”
“Of course I can stand by,” I said. Because I am such a pro. “I’ve still got the costume, after all.”
“Oh, that’s right! The wardrobe mistress was asking a little while ago what to do about the missing costumes from last night.”
“I’ll get it cleaned.” Possibly fumigated. “And I’ll bring it with me to the next shoot.”
“Great. I will make a note of that.”
“Oh, and I’ve lost my cell phone,” I said. “Until I replace it, use my home number.”
As we ended the call, I realized that I had a lot of additional practical matters I needed to take care of, with regard to my stolen purse.
Meanwhile, it sounded as if I’d probably get at least one more day’s work on D30, which was good news, and it might be without Nolan, which was even better news.
When I returned to the entrance of the Livingston Foundation, I found Max alone.
He asked me, “Is all well?”
“Yes, no problems with the job. It’s all sorted out. But we’re going to have to go to the hospital later.” I explained the situation while lifting my hair off my damp neck for a few moments, in the doomed hope of catching a breeze. Then I asked, “Where’s Jeff?”
“He was concerned about being late for his meeting,” Max said, “so he went inside and left me with instructions. We are to ascend to the second floor and seek the office of Dr. Catherine Livingston.”
“Catherine Livingston?” I repeated, pulling the sweat-dampened Lycra away from my chest for a moment as a trickle of perspiration ran down between my breasts. Jilly C- Note’s push-up bra was starting to feel like a form of torture: ordeal by undergarment.
“Dr. Livingston is the founder’s widow, according to Jeffrey,” Max said. “Shall we go inside?”
“Wait. First tell me what’s bothering you about this.”
“Oh. Well, it may be nothing . . . but I’m wondering why the substitute teacher has ceased to come to work.”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. “It probably is nothing, Max. At almost every job I’ve ever worked, there’s a problem with employee attendance. A lot of people are flaky and unreliable; and actors are flakier than most. Like Jeff, the replacement might have gotten an acting job that conflicted wit
h his teaching schedule. Or maybe he just didn’t like this job and, instead of quitting, he simply stopped showing up. People do that sort of thing all the time.”
“You are no doubt correct. Nonetheless, without further information, I am somewhat troubled by the fact that an employee has stopped coming to work, without explanation, precisely when—we currently suspect—another employee is roaming Harlem after dying and being reanimated.” He concluded, “It’s troubling.”
“Well, put like that, it’s certainly troubling,” I said.
“If you become an employee here,” he said, “you should maintain an alert attitude and take no risks. And I, of course, will be vigilant on your behalf.”
“Agreed.” I turned to enter the building. “Now let’s go inside.”
After my initial surge of relief at feeling the artificially cool air of the interior on my hot, damp skin, I noticed that the inside of the Livingston Foundation was a pleasant surprise after the impression created by its generic exterior. The halls were painted in bright colors, African batiks and Caribbean art decorated the walls, there were beautiful mobile sculptures hanging overhead, and the furnishings were eclectic and interesting, rather than institutional. An elderly African-American man at the reception desk in the lobby greeted us with a friendly smile and, at our request, directed us to Dr. Catherine Livingston’s office, saying that Jeff had told him to expect us.
We ascended to the second floor by way of a stairwell, then turned left, as directed. We entered a narrow hallway where the walls were painted a soft apricot color. One wall was decorated with vibrant textile artwork, each piece depicting figures and symbols in bright patterns.
“These are very pretty,” I said, looking at one that portrayed a big red heart which contained smaller hearts created out of silver and gold sequins. It was set against a field of tropical foliage, also studded with sequins, and surrounded by multicolored abstract symbols.
The cloth hanging next to it, created out of shiny fabrics quilted together, was divided into four panels, each containing a large geometric symbol depicted in contrasting colors. One of the symbols appeared to be a cross decorated with flourishes and abstract motifs; next to it were the letters LEG B A. Another of the symbols was a triangle with curly lines sprouting out of it. The letters next to this one were O G O U N.
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