Little Did I Know: A Novel (49 page)

“That’s sad.” She looked confused, as if I were speaking a foreign language.

“After the Romans captured his forces, they told the slave army that if Spartacus was identified he would be the only prisoner crucified. Rather than betray their leader, each of the five thousand members of his army stood up and proclaimed, ‘I am Spartacus.’”

She had been listening with interest until the last part, when her expression turned sour and dismissive. “That’s arrogant,” she said. “That’s why you signed the note ‘Spartacus’?”

“No, I signed it that way because Kirk Douglas and I are the same person. Never seen us in the same place at the same time, have you? Enjoy the rest of your summer, Mrs. Barrows, and give my best to ‘Andy.’” I turned and headed toward the house.

“Sam, come by tonight. Anderson’s away. We’ll have some fun . . .”

I kept walking, opened the door and entered my room. From the window I watched Lizzy Barrows climb into her fancy, red sports car all coiffed, buffed, and so terribly gorgeous. Yet so desperately sad.

“People often get lost on the way to anywhere, let alone to a rendezvous that will change their lives,” Lizzy had told me over drinks that first night at the Full Sail. I knew there were many songs that mirrored her life but at that moment, I couldn’t think of a single lyric.

I walked into the bathroom to shower and checked myself in the mirror. I didn’t look anything like Kirk Douglas. I was taller, and he had that hole in his chin. I climbed into the tub, turned the water on, and washed off the mud.

I
watched the performance that night.
Company
was my favorite of all, brimming with originality and a great score. Our version had matured into something of substance. True, it had its share of pretensions inspired by youth. At our tender ages, we really didn’t understand nor had we lived through the issues that drove the older characters in the play. Nevertheless, we did a fine job. We played it with tremendous commitment; as a result the show provided entertainment and emotional catharsis.

As important, Zach Rush was simply fantastic in the lead role. He was the personification of a leading man: tall, handsome, intelligent, graceful, alert, and generous. And Zach could sing. He made every song his; he owned the lyrics. As I watched him that night, I felt that even after I had grown old and seen dozens of productions of this show, no one would have played the lead as well as Zach.

After the performance, I stood on the deck outside the theater and watched the crowd walk to their cars. I enjoyed doing this. It was tactile. People had come to our house, plunked down their money, and left with a good feeling. There was quality in our product, the best of the American Dream, a cherry on top of the nation’s birthday cake.

Jojo approached me. “Sammy, Rush needs to speak with you. He’s in his dressing room.”

“Okay, Jojo. Thanks.” I headed his way without a second thought.

As a lead player, Zach had a private dressing room. It was small but it was his. He had decorated it with mementos of his summer: photos, telegrams, letters from fans, invites from numerous women who had come to see him. Taped to his mirror was a picture of his girlfriend, Paula, a rare equal to Zach in both beauty and grace. On the opposite wall he had posted all his reviews as well as the interview he had done for the
Boston Globe
. That particular piece was framed in expensive dark wood.

The door was open and Rush invited me in. He looked tired and much older than when we had first met in the basement of Tufts University. Zach had carried the season and made it special. His hard work and professionalism had raised the bar for everyone at PBT. He had made us more than a group of kids leaving college behind, and because of him we were better than most.

He asked me to sit. Turning away, he looked into his dressing-table mirror for a long time without saying a word. He had called this meeting; he would speak when he was ready. It began to feel like a really long time to sit in silence; worry crept into my chest.

And then finally, “Sam, I don’t know how to say this to you . . . I’ve been trying to figure a way . . .” He continued to stare into the mirror, speaking to my reflection as if he were hoping I wasn’t really present. “I’m leaving tonight. I have to. I love it here. I love you and Secunda, Jojo, Trudy, but I have to leave . . .”

As his words faded out I felt my breath disappear. This was a kick in the groin, a punch to the solar plexus. I looked at my reflection in Zach’s mirror and saw the color drain from my face. “Why?” was all I could find to say.

“I got a job.”

“You
have
a job.”

“This is a union job. I get my equity card. It’s what I always wanted.”

“You
have
a job.”

Zach continued to talk to my reflection. I heard footsteps descending the stairs, and in a moment Secunda appeared at the door, happy and chomping on one of his stinky cigars.

“What’s up?” he said, clearly unaware of the situation.

Zach moved his gaze from the mirror to look directly at Secunda. “I have to leave, I’m sorry.”

“Zach has another job,” I said in a monotone. as if repeating the news a thousand times would make it go away. “He’s leaving us to get his union card. It’s what he’s always wanted.”

“When?” asked Secunda.

“In the morning, at six,” Zach said. “They’re picking me up.”

Secunda was immediately in his face. “Who? Who is picking you up, Zach? Are they going to stay long enough to finish fucking us before they take you away?” A switch had been flipped and he was out of control.

Zach sat motionless and let Secunda scream at him. His face flushed bright red. Finally, when Secunda was finished berating him, Zach said, “I have to think about my career, Josh. I came here to start a career. To get seen, to find an agent. This is a Broadway tour with a big star. They’re offering me a lot of money. I have to do what’s right for me.”

“There’s only one way to do the right thing, Zach, and that’s to do the right thing,” I said. “Can’t they wait till you’re done here?”

Before he could answer, Secunda jumped back in. “I’ll . . . we’ll . . . pay you ten grand to finish here. They can’t be paying you more than ten grand.”

“We are not paying Zach ten thousand dollars to finish the job, Josh,” I said, now on the edge of fury myself. “We’re not doing that. We’re not paying Zach-fucking-Rush ten thousand fucking dollars.”

Secunda got in my face. “What are we going to do, Sammy? We blow up here if he leaves. Do we cancel the show tomorrow? Close early?” He turned to Zach and pulled back from rant to request. “Zach, will you stay if we pay you the ten grand?”

“It’s not about the money, I want to get in the union. This is a big chance for me.” Zach seemed to whine as he offered this bullshit defense.

“Josh, we are not paying him to stay,” I repeated.

“Then
I’ll
pay it to him. I’ll find the money.”

I leaned toward Zach. “No one will pay you, Zach. You are staying and finishing this job. You are staying and finishing this job. You are staying and . . .” I tried to be firm without a show of anger, but it all began to get the better of me. “You know, Zach, when we gave you this job you told
us
it was a big chance for you. Remember that? Now you found a prettier girl, so you’re gonna run off and leave us at the altar? No fucking way.”

I wasn’t shouting, but there was menace in my tone. The room was airless, a small underground box without windows. You could hear our brains working overtime to find a way. Our hearts beat out loud.

“I can’t turn down the money,” Zach said after what seemed like minutes. “I can’t.”

“I’ll pay you the money!” Secunda shouted. “Now stop it!”

“You said it wasn’t about the money and now it seems that it is,” I said. “Is this a holdup? You think this is the last union job you’re ever going to be offered? You’ll walk into an audition in two weeks and get another job, and then another. You’re too good.”

“Sammy, its only money.” Secunda said. “Its only ten grand.”

“Shut up, Josh,” I shouted. “I will not let you give Zach any money. He made a deal with us and with everyone upstairs and with everyone who bought tickets to see him in the next show. What about
my
money, Zach? What about the money I lose if you walk? Don’t I matter in this equation? You think there are no consequences other than a little guilt? Not so. I’ll be there at six tomorrow when they come to pick you up. I’ll tell their company manager that you walked out of your contract with us. Maybe it will happen with them as well. I’ll run into you down the road. Do the right thing, Zach. Please, for both of us.”

He said nothing. He eyes roamed the room, looking at his clippings and invites and telegrams.

Secunda leaned in close to me and said in a harsh, angry whisper. “I’m going to give him the cash. This has all been too good for it to blow up. I can’t look people in the face if it blows up. I’ll be ashamed. It’s only money.”

“Zach should be ashamed, Josh. Zach
will
be ashamed! I’ll be ashamed if you pay him. Ten thousand dollars is more money than I ever had. My father didn’t make ten thousand dollars last fucking year. If he leaves, we figure it out. You can’t buy everything.” I wasn’t shouting but I was close.

“Fuck you, Sammy. I have the money. You see?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, waving them in my face. Then he turned to Zach. “I have the money!” He took a match from the dressing room table and struck it on the wall. The flame billowed; he lit a C-note with it and used it to fire up his cigar. He was manic.

On his second or third puff, I reached back and clocked Secunda on the side of the head. He lost his balance and stumbled against the wall. He knocked the framed
Boston Globe
interview off its hook and it fell to the floor, smashing into dozens of pieces. He managed to remain standing, but he was stunned and silent. Zach was caught in a hurricane; things were out of control and he could no longer close the door for protection.

I looked around the room. It was broken. It smelled of cigars and fear. “I’ll see you both at rehearsal tomorrow,” I said. “Do the right thing, boys. Our decisions are the only part of us we can really control.”

I walked up the backstage steps and across the stage. I was meeting Veronica at the wharf. It was her father’s birthday and I had been invited for cake.

I
met Veronica and her parents at the piano bar of the Carver Inn. The place was the finest Plymouth had to offer. The hotel sat atop the knoll in all its colonial majesty and peered out into the bay. It had been built decades ago, and as I walked though the paneled hallway I could hear the ghosts of America’s past. It was the Ritz for Pilgrims.

I found the Chapmans at a small, round table by the big bay windows in the rear of the bar. They were open to the night and a gentle breeze caressed the room. I greeted Julia, Tom Sr., and Veronica’s oldest brother, Tommy. We had all seen each other several times since our first meeting. They remained a handsome, grounded family without pretense.

“Sam, it’s so good to see you—and away from the theater, my goodness,” Julia said as she gave me a hug.

“So, Sam, summer is winding down. How are things?” Tom Sr. queried.

“They’re good. They’re very good, sir.” I gazed at Veronica as I replied because that made my answer true.

Mrs. Chapman served me a piece of birthday cake. Yellow sponge with chocolate fudge icing and pink-and-white roses. My slice came with half a flower. Tommy Jr. filled my glass with champagne and toasted his father on his birthday.

“This cake is really good,” I said. “Sir, what did you wish for when you blew out the candles?”

“Easy. I wished for my son to come home soon and that my daughter meet more quality young men like yourself. You’ve made a big difference in a great many people’s lives here. We’ll miss you, Sam.”

“I don’t think you’ve seen the last of me. I’d like to believe this is all just a beginning.”

Mrs. Chapman raised her glass again. “Well then, that certainly is a lovely present, isn’t it, Tommy?”

Before he could answer, Veronica rested her head on my shoulder and said, “Yes, Mom, it is wonderful. I feel like not only is it Dad’s birthday, but Christmas as well.”

The pianist started playing Cy Coleman’s “The Best Is Yet to Come” as if on cue. I looked out into the bay. The moon had risen to its highest of heights. It was a beacon, a beam that could guide you home.

I
thought about setting the alarm to wake me in the early morning. I decided it wasn’t necessary; even if I fell asleep I’d awaken before six without assistance. I dressed and walked across the compound to the dining hall. I made myself a large, hot cup of coffee that I laced with gobs of heavy cream and many sugars. There was a slight chill to the morning and the coffee swept it away.

I walked to the redwood table and took a seat. It was twenty minutes to six. I had read that God never gives you more than you can handle. Therefore, I needed to have faith, a belief in God’s promises even though they remained unfulfilled. The grounds were quiet. Still. The sky looked like a cyclorama in a big-budget musical. Nightfall turned to dawn, and the blue it brought was almost unearthly. I sipped my coffee and waited.