I Loved You Wednesday (19 page)

Since she’s appearing Off-Broadway, the show’ll be dark the next couple of days, and she won’t have another until Wednesday. So at least her rape scene was well timed.

We stay at home until then, finding it easier to deal with ourselves than the cold, cruel world of reality lying outside our door, waiting to pounce on us again dare we stray.

We play games. Monopoly and Clue and Charades and Movie Moguls and Gin Rummy and Canasta and Old Maid, and she teaches me to read the tarot cards and I teach her poker and we bake an absurd unintentionally upside-downcake which comes out so soggy we throw it away and we leave only to walk the dogs in the cold rain, hurrying back to shred old newspapers, starting a fire in her ancient fireplace which almost suffocates us when it backfires, darkening the room in a black fog of soot and smoke.

We rehearse, over and over again, the scene I’m to do from
March into April at
my next callback. I’m feeling more comfortable with the part all the time, developing and rounding out various aspects of who the character is. And who he is just happens to be who I am, so the more I work on it, the more I realize this is a role I was born to play.

Days later I start picking up Chris after performances of
Another Straw
and sometimes we go out for a bite with the cast and sometimes we drift uptown by ourselves, stopping perhaps for a hamburger at Joe Allen’s and that sexual charge, that subtle but ever-present bolt of surging juice cascading down through my loins has never been so flowing and I’m thinking about making some kind of move and I know she’s waiting for me to make some kind of move, but both of us are afraid of any move being made because we’re getting so much at this level, we’re fearful this may be the peak and pushing ourselves one last step into the intense realm of sex could mean bliss or trouble, but since everything is going so rib-tickling well without it, I patiently wait, hoping it will work itself out.

After a week or so of this the cast of Chris’ revue notices the change in our closeness and rib her about how thick we’ve become.

On Tuesday of the second week I return once more to the Ethel Barrymore Theater for my third reading.

“Alfred” has never been so close to me. We are as one. I pride myself in eliciting several laughs from the people sitting in the orchestra reviewing me.

The director likes the reading, gives me a few pointers on how he wants it interpreted and then asks me to read the scene again.

Which I do, taking into account his new touches.

It goes rather smoothly, I think, and I’m thanked and sent on my way.

Later in the afternoon, I speak with Pat, who calls to say the reading went very well. She spoke with the producers and they thought I was terrific and are
very interested
. They told Pat not to commit me to anything before speaking with them for first refusal.

Good news, indeed.

And that evening, when Chris returns home from the Village she brings more good news, reporting that the cast of
Another Straw
had been summoned onstage for a meeting after the show and told they shall, indeed, be moving uptown to the Plaza in three weeks.

I rush out to the corner liquor store and return shortly with a chilled bottle of Cordon Rouge.

Sitting in front of the fireplace with the dogs, we sip champagne and fantasize about what might come to pass should things keep heading in these upwardly mobile directions.

So, of course, in no time the subject turns to sex.

“No way!” protests Chris feverishly. “I’m having the time of my life. I’m not going to fuck it up by fucking it up.”

“I’ll drink to that!” I halfheartedly toast, clicking Chris’ nearly empty glass. She drinks too, draining what she’s got left.

I refill her glass. She turns around, lying down, resting her head on my lap and, staring at the fire, says, “I can’t remember ever being happier.”

I lean over and kiss her forehead.

We finish the bottle and eventually fall asleep together there on the floor: Ruth to my left, Harry to my right, Chris saddled in my middle.

The following Wednesday afternoon it begins to snow. A fine, light, powdery snow which does its best to blanket a gray city in a fresh whitewash.

Chris tells me a meeting’s been called after the performance tonight, probably to discuss the transfer uptown, and since she has no idea how late it might run, why don’t I wait at home for her and then we’ll see about dinner?

Fine.

I spend much of the day reading and rereading
March
into April
, preparing for my fourth callback. Sitting by the window, I watch as the snow turns from light to heavy and count as the accumulation on the ledge rises, like a slow-baking cake, four or five inches.

Chris returns to the apartment around eleven and POW! . . . we’re right back where we started. Her eyes are puffed and red. Her shattered demeanor has dropped below sea level. Her hair is limping wet, and she’s covered in snow.

She takes one look at me and, rushing over with opened arms, bursts into tears.

“Oh, Steve! Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter?” I ask, more puzzled than you can imagine.

“I knew it was all going too well.”

“What happened?”

“It’s too awful. Too awful. I’m
so
upset. I had no idea.”

“What?”

“The tarot cards said be careful. I wouldn’t listen. Oh, Steve. Oh, Steve!”

“Chris, we can’t talk about it if you don’t tell me what happened.”

“It’s devastating! Just devastating. I knew it couldn’t last. I’ve been walking around town since you moved in saying, Tm the luckiest girl in the world; everything’s going my way.’ But I should’ve known. I should’ve known.”

“You’re not making any sense, Chris.”

“Who says it’s supposed to make sense, huh? I was sure things were so safe, nothing would crack.”

“Stop crying, Chris. Please! I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

Chris backs away and, standing tall, says, “Marty called me into his office before the meeting tonight. He said the move uptown was all arranged, but now there was one problem . . . me and Dolores are too similar in type, and since there are only three girls in the revue, some of the backers thought it might be a good idea if one of us was replaced.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Oh, shit is right!” insists Chris, blowing her nose. “So ofcourse, with my luck, they decided I should be the one to

^^ »»

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”

“Wait!” says Chris, raising her voice. “That’s not the topper. The final blow is that the girl they’ve picked to replace me, it’s a good thing you’re sitting for this one, Steve, ‘cause it’s sure to knock you on your ass . . . the girl going uptown to the Plaza instead of yours truly ... is Wendy Chartoff!”

Dazed, my mouth drops open. “Holy shit!”

“Holy shit is right!” repeats Chris, stamping her foot to the ground. “Wendy fucking Chartoff! YOUR FUCKING FRIEND!”

“Chris, you can’t be mad at me! It’s not as if I planned it this way.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, it’s not your fault. BUT IF YOU EVER SPEAK TO HER AGAIN, YOU CAN SAY GOOD-BYE TO OUR FRIENDSHIP AND THAT’S FINAL!’’

“Speak to who?”

“Wendy?”

“Wendy
who?”
I asked sincerely, which happily brings a smile to Chris’ face. She draws close and hugs me.

“You think this is gonna slow my career, Steve?” She sniffles.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” I say assertively. “Ain’t nothing gonna come between you and success!”

“You think not?”

“I know not! And as far as that shitty show is concerned,
Phfft!
It don’t mean diddley. They’ll be nothing without you. In fact, if you want to know the honest truth, I think it’s a frigmistake moving that baby uptown. I don’t think they’re ready. I think it’ll bomb badly.”

“Do you?” Chris asks in quiet, childlike wonder.

“I do. You wait and see. This may be the best thing could’ve happened. You’ll probably get into something much better right away.”

“Oh, God, I hope so,” says Chris, throwing her arms around me. “I’ve always wanted to do a musical. It’s all I dreamed about when I was a kid.”

“Let me tell you something, Chris. Good times are just around the corner. In fact . . . hold your horses . . . they’re here! Get dressed!”

“I am dressed!”

“I mean get redressed. Put on something warm. Some thermal underwear. A few more sweaters, several pairs of socks, your heavy coat, a scarf, your gloves, anything you can find!”

“Are you crazy?!”

“I’m not crazy!” I roar. “I’M INSANE!”

“But what’s it all for?”

“Don’t you know?
WE’RE GOING TO PLAY IN THE SNOW!”

Like children, the two of us bundle up in layer after layer after layer of clothes. By the time we’ve finished we look like a couple of rotund chubbas on their way to the playground.

Sneaking down to the basement, we borrow a sled belonging to one of the kids of Chris’ next-door neighbors. “Rosebud” under wraps, we head out for the untamed wilderness of Central Park.

New York in a heavy snow is one of the great paradises. Nothing moves. Nothing’s dirty. Nothing’s noisy. Nothing matters. Everything stops and stands still, at least for a few fabulous hours.

“Now-hold-on!”

“No! I’m afraid!”

“Hold onto my waist!”

“No! We’ll be killed!”

We’re at the top of some teeny hill in Central Park sitting on our sled. I’m commanding the ship and trying to convince Chris to be my passenger. But mutiny’s in the air. She wants no part of it.

“It’ll be just like
Ethan Frome!
” she yells.

“Good. Can you think of a more dramatic way to punch out?”

Chris shrugs. “I guess not.” Closing her eyes tightly, she yells, “All right; I’m ready; lead on!”

Giving us the necessary push over the top, I holler, “Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead!” as we go sailing down the hill. Chris panics midway and tilts the damn sled over. We lie mangled together in the snow, screaming at each other so loudly we barely hear the sled crashing into a tree below us.

Chris scoops up a mound of snow and hurls it at me, missing. I jump on her, and the two of us continue rolling down the hill, one over the other, until we finally hit bottom. There Chris dunks my head in some fresh powder. Roaring in mock anger, I start chasing her. She’s pretty fast though and almost gets away. With one last spurt, however, I deliver a flying tackle to the back of her knees, bringing her down to the soft white ground.

We roll around in the eight-inch accumulation awhile longer, tossing snow in each other’s faces. The dark orange-gray cloud above us sits low on the city, cutting visibility considerably, rendering objects past a distance of fifty feet almost unrecognizable. We walk, trailing our sled behind us, down to the Sheep Meadow and watch as the quiet, empty city all around us transforms itself into a fantasy of whipped-cream dessert.

Finally, drenched and exhausted, we plow our way from our private forest, through the accumulating drifts, back to Chris’ apartment.

It takes forever to peel off our mounds of clothing, all by now thoroughly soaked. Chris puts on a bathrobe, and I wrap myself in a towel. She goes to the kitchen to make some hot chocolate. I shred some newspapers and throw a small log on the fire.

“I’m shivering,” calls Chris from the kitchen, stirring the hot chocolate.

“I’ll fix that,” I call back, going into the bathroom to draw a hot bath.

There’s some strawberry bubble bath on the windowsill which I dump into the bathtub. Then I throw in some body oil, spray in a few squirts of Chanel #5 mist and add a dollop of shaving cream for good measure.

Chris walks into the bathroom just as I light a couple of candles, turn off the bulb and turn on the stereo.

“Here!” she says, handing me a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

“Thanks. Your bath is almost ready, madam.”

“How nice. I’m freezing.” Chris takes a sip of her hot chocolate and then disrobes.

Climbing into the sudsy tub, she looks up and asks, “Won’t you join me?”

It takes me three-quarters of a second to get out of my towel and plop into the tub. In fact, I think I touch bottom before she does.

“Mmmmmm,” hums Chris, sinking low until the bubbles are up to her neck.

I hand her a hot chocolate, pick up my own, and there we sit, at either end of the tub, facing each other, our legs partially outstretched, sipping marshmallow-topped hot chocolate in our strawberry candlelit bubble bath as snow keeps climbing outside our window.

From that point on the two of us exchange not a word.

Moving closer to her, I take a huge sponge and wash her feet. She smiles when the sponge tickles her soles. Moving still closer, I wash her calves and then her thighs.