I Loved You Wednesday (12 page)

“That was
so
sexy I almost had an orgasm.”

“Congratulations. Multiple or run-of-the-mill?”

“How should I know? It never arrived.”

“Just a rush, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“Good. Well, in case you’re interested, that was so sexy I now have a pair of blue balls.”

“Congratulations. Multiple or run-of-the-mill?”

“Chris?”

“What?”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas.”

I storm out of the building and into the taxi. Looking up, I see Chris leaning out the window, waving to me. I wave back, and as the taxi drives off, I can hear her yelling after me, “I love you!”

INTERMISSION
 

Chapter Seven
 

Working in front of Florida audiences is a lot like looking at the ocean: waves of blue hair.

I’d be surprised if some of the older, wealthier matrons here in Wrinkle City didn’t check into the ladies’ room at intermission for a pint of blood.

The glitter from the incredible neckware, the mammoth rings, the weighted bracelets, the drooping earrings and the staggering pins is all so brilliant the audience is almost better lit than the set.

In this society the women go to the theater, and the men, those still alive, sit on boat decks, playing pinochle.

It’s provincial territory, too. You do not bring
Oh! Calcutta!
to the likes of the Poinsettia Playhouse in Palm Beach. No. You bring them
Barefoot in the Park
and even then must blue-pencil some of the snappier dialogue.

The old ladies are most receptive, though. I must give them that. And they really get into it!

When I have a fight with my bride, Corie, and am relegated to sleeping on the couch in the living room, you can almost feel the weight of disappointment hanging over the audience like a dark cloud. Forget the plane crash on the six o’clock news.
This
is real tragedy!

Similarly, in the third act, when we make up and are again friends, the audience, practically in unison, breathes one heavy sigh of relief, and the ominous cloud is lifted.

The road can be a fairly lonely place, too. There’s little opportunity to meet new people; one is so preoccupied with the show.

As a result, out-of-town is like a shipboard romance. Actors, like passengers, seem to lower their standards away from home. The only one on our ship of fools over whom I can generate any interest, though, is the actress playing my wife.

Her name is Linda Trenton, and she’s alternately accomplished, attractive, argumentative and annoying.

But shucks, kids, this is show biz and we’re out in the boondocks, and although I don’t especially launch her into raptures of delirium, I’m still the only one around under fifty (staff, crew and local countrymen included!). And although she doesn’t exactly quicken my pulse, she still happens to be the only one around not complaining about her last Medicare check.

So we sort of team up.

And here’s the strange part. Real theatrical. Instead of using our correct names, we call each other the names of the characters we’re playing.

My Paul to her Corie.

Granted, it’s a little sick, but as Linda—that is, Corie—points out, at least we’ll never make the mistake of being called by our wrongful names onstage.

Fair enough. But can I tell you how distracting it is when we’re making love and at the height of orgasm she bites my ear and yells out, “Paul, Paul, PAUL, PAUL! PAUL!?”

Up North, in the Big Apple of Gotham, Chris is having the time of her life. I call the first week I’m away, and she reports in to be happy, busy and still very much in love. She calls the second week, reporting in as busy, still very much in love and miserable.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You won’t believe it,” she answers, wiping away a small tear.

“Come on. Tell.”

“Well, that bastard. That bastard. Do you know what that bastard did?”

“What bastard?”

“Bradley, of course!”

“Oh,
that
bastard. Why didn’t you say so?”

“I did!”

“Oh.”

“That bastard told me last night that he’s married.
Married
, for Christ’s sake. Can you believe it?”

“Why didn’t he tell you—”

“Sooner? Why? Because he’s a bastard, that’s why. Listen to this. His wife was away in Houston these past few weeks with her dying father. So he’s been on the loose.”

“Why’d he lie about her?”

“I’m coming to that. He tells me he wanted me so much he didn’t want to scare me off; on our first date at the museum I told him how hurt I’d gotten by married men and wouldn’t deal with them anymore. He said he wanted to show his true intentions before spilling the beans.”

“What true intentions?”

“How should I know? His true intentions are that he hopes to keep me on as a quick ball whenever he can get away.”

“Terrific,” I say dryly.

“And on his schedule he probably means to hop over during cigarette breaks.”

“The bastard.”

“I’m so unhappy.”

“I know, baby.”

“What am I going to do?”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him to get out of the house; what do you think I told him? The bastard. I reminded him I was not just an afternoon lay;
his own words!
So he left, I took five Valium, cried all night, called you and now I have to leave for rehearsal. With swollen eyes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What can I do? I’m lonely and depressed. He’s got me right where he wants. I love him, Steve. He knows it. I know it. I told him never to call again, that I wouldn’t see him unless he gets rid of his wife. Her or me. I’m tired of playing the Other Woman. I want top billing. He said he’ll never call again, he understands. Now you and I both know he will call again, that I
will
see him. Am I right?”

“I’m afraid so,” I mumble.

“What?” says Chris, wiping away another tear.

“I said you’ll probably see him again.”

“And what can that lead to?”

“The usual. Your being hurt.”

“So why do I do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe ... I guess. . . . Chris, it’s not as if you’ve got a choice. You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“Do you think I could ever be happy being happy?”

“Hard to say. Happiness is such a neurotic conception.”

“His fucking wife came home for Christmas. Isn’t that the lowest?”

“I’m sorry.”

“And catch this. He says he and his wife have a terrific relationship. That’s why when he cheats, he’s always discreet. Waits for her to go off on one of her business trips or something. Doesn’t want to see her hurt.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me is right!”

“How’s the revue going?”

“Slowly, but good. At least I can focus my energies there, take my mind off all this.”

“Yeah.”

“And Christmas at the end of the goddamn week. I’ve never been alone for Christmas. Spent the last five with you.”

“Okay. Let’s not get maudlin.”

“I’ll get maudlin if I want.”

“All right, get maudlin. But if you’ll just stay busy rehearsing and keep your chin up a little longer, I’ll be home and we’ll have the best late Christmas ever.”

“Are you trying to cheer me up, Steve?”

“You make it sound like a subversive plot.”

“I’m
so
unhappy.”

“Chris, stop it. Once you’ve got the tree decorated you’ll feel wonderful. You always do.” “There’ll be no tree this year.” “Why the hell not?”

“I’m in mourning, that’s why the hell not. Have you ever had a tree you couldn’t share with someone? Now
that’s
a sight to drive you to drink!” “How are the dogs?”

“Well, all right, I guess. Ruth had another fit last night.” “Bad?”

“Not good. Three or four minutes.”

“Has she been getting her pills?”

“Right on schedule.”

“That should control it.”

“Steven?”

“Yeah?”

“What am I going to do?”

“I don’t know. Pray for a blizzard in Florida that’ll shut down the rest of the tour and send me home to you.” “Wouldn’t that be fabulous?” “Fabulous.” “What are the odds?” “I wouldn’t know.”

“I have to get off. I’ll be late for rehearsal.”

“That’s my little trouper!”

“Please, Steve, I’ll vomit.”

“Not on long distance!”

“All the way to Palm Beach!”

“Okay. Try to maintain. I know it’s rough, sweetheart. But think of your career. And me. / love you.” “That really is a comfort, you know.” “I know.”

“Good-bye. Call me Christmas.”

“Right. And, Chris ... stay away from those fucking little pills.”

“I will. I’m all right. Way past doing anything dumb like that again. Don’t worry. Part of the joy of life has been learning to live with being unhappy most of the time.” “That’s the spirit. Merry Christmas!”

“Bah. Humbug!”

I call Chris again on Christmas Eve early in the evening, before leaving for the theater.

No answer.

Performing a ten-year-old dated domestic comedy in a half-filled theater in Florida on a balmy evening is not my favorite way of passing Christmas Eve. But if, as a result, my performance this Yule is a little down, it’s Tony Award material compared to the sluggish rendering Linda—that is, Corie—is passing off.

We can both be grateful there is no one in the house who knows any better, though. The response is as enthusiastic as ever. Senility has its place in theater!

After the performance, once makeup has been removed, Corie and I go out for a late dinner and then up to her room with a very inferior bottle of champagne.

Corie puts on the television, which is wise since it’s not scintillating conversation that glues our relationship.

I call Chris again around one, but still no answer. I am now registering mild concern. Fairly drunk, Corie and I fall asleep somewhere in the middle of whichever version of
A Christmas Carol
is being screened on the tube.

The following morning, Christmas Day, around eleven, I finally get through to Chris. “Hi!”

“Steve!”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you, sweetheart.”

“I’ve been calling.”

“When?”

“All last night.”

“I was out.”

“Yeah?”

“A bunch of us went for drinks after rehearsal—” “Oh.”

“—and then I went home with Harold.”

“Harold who?”

“Harold. You know Harold.”

“No, I don’t know Harold.”

“Harold what’s-his-name.... The kid in the company....

I told you about Harold. Dumb. Cute. Chubby. Strange.”

I have no idea who she’s talking about. “Oh, yes.
That
Harold!”

“Right!”

“How
is
Harold?”

“Dull.”

“Oh?”

“Wants to be mothered.”

“Not your scene.”

“Not my scene. All I got was bed and bored.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“What?”

“Go home with him?”

“Are you kidding? I’m glad I got someone as
decent
as him. The way I felt about returning to an empty apartment on Christmas Eve, without you, without Bradley, anyone not holding a gun to my forehead would have proved appealing.”

“And?”

“And nothing. We went out for drinks. Everyone at the table had to run off someplace except cute-even-if-a-little-dumpy Harold. And I’d just downed my third vodka martini, so he was getting cuter and less dumpy by the ounce.”

“And?”

“And so I was very coquettish and genteelly asked if he’d like to ball.”

“And?”

“And he said it sounded like a good idea, despite the fact he doesn’t like forward women, and then asked if it was okay to go back to his place and not mine because he had been so busy this morning before rehearsal he hadn’t had time to feed his parakeet.”