The Actor and the Housewife (17 page)

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“No? So . . .”

Mike sighed. “How do you feel about it? The Felix part.”

Becky was vaguely aware of the newscaster warning about Y2K trouble and she muted the television, this conversation more important to her than all the news in the world. “I’ve been mulling and praying and thinking, and I still feel like there was a reason Felix and I met. In some way, I think he needs me. Besides, with him as my friend, I’m a little happier, calmer . . . I can be
more
.”

“You haven’t seemed all there lately,” Mike said.

“Lately?”

Mike smirked. “Is there something . . .” He took a breath. “Is there something I’m not doing? That I should be doing?”

“No! Heavens, sweetheart, you’re perfect, almost annoyingly so. You are my eternal companion. I want to be with you in this life and the next. Felix is . . . it’s like he’s my long-lost conjoined twin or something. Conjoined twins can still fall in love and marry other people, can’t they?”

“In most countries,” Mike said.

“Right, everyone knows it’s no picnic being a conjoined twin in Myanmar. So I’ve heard.” Becky smiled at her husband. “None of my friendships should get within miles of threatening our family. If you feel remotely wrong about it, then I won’t hesitate to shut that bloke out of our lives forever.”

Mike kissed Becky’s forehead. “It’s okay, Bec. It really is. I am fully prepared to support your friendship, or what evership, even though he’s skinny and pompous. But Celeste is great and she chose him, so he must have some admirable qualities that I just can’t see.”

Becky brightened. “Celeste is
great
, huh?”

“Don’t you think so?”

Becky raised her eyebrows.

Mike groaned. “Don’t even try it.”

“You know she totally digs you.”

“She does not.”

“She does too! And I love it. Let’s both be on this marginally slippery slope together and hang on to each other for support. Really I’m in no danger of slipping. I had a chance to kiss that man and it almost made me dry heave. But you and Celeste . . .”

“Celeste is some kind of model, isn’t she? And she’s French, and she doesn’t—”

“Why shouldn’t she dig you? You’re sexy and muscular and charming and kind too, and you’re
so
taken, so that’s just too bad, Ms. Celeste Bodine.”

She kissed Mike, and they found that they had more kisses than words. Fiona came downstairs in her nightgown, rubbing her eyes.

“Mom, I can’t find . . . ew. Were you guys kissing? You’re so gross. Now I’m going to have nightmares.”

In which Mike gets kissed a lot

“I haven’t bought you a Christmas present yet. If you don’t mind getting it early, I thought we could fly to L.A. and surprise Felix.”

Becky gaped.

“Good,” Mike said, “because I already reserved the tickets.”

Through Celeste, Mike had learned that Felix was in Los Angeles.

“You should go see him at the studio,” Celeste said. “I’ll call in your names. How I wish I could be there to see his face! This is a wonderful thing. Next time I see you, Michael, I will kiss you. You should warn your wife.”

“I should warn myself,” Mike said.

Becky could hear Celeste’s warm voice coming over the phone, and saw Mike’s neck flush. When he hung up, he said defensively, “She was being nice. She does not dig me.”

“She’s going to kiss you.”

His neck flushed darker. “She won’t. She was kidding.”

“She will. She’s French. Kissing for her is like a genetic tic.”

Mike’s parents came to stay and watch the kids. They were sporting folk, both pleasant individuals who once drove past a burning twelve-car wreck without stopping to help because they hadn’t noticed any commotion. That made Becky ner vous, but Fiona was a keenly observant girl who was trained in dialing 911. At least the elder Jacks would be at
her
house—Becky couldn’t in good conscience send the kids to her in-laws. Mike’s mother had selected her countertop and linoleum patterns by how good they were at camoufl aging spills and didn’t change bedsheets until they emitted a noticeable odor. But, hey, they were family, and most likely they wouldn’t let their own grandchildren die.

So with the grandparents in place, Becky and Mike hopped a flight, taking a bus from the airport because the taxi fare was appalling. Becky loved that bus—she felt she was having a genuine Los Angeles multicultural experience, and made sure to engage in friendly conversation with everyone around her. Mike groaned, though his fears of disaster were unwarranted until near the end of their ride when Becky spied an abomination—a little girl of about six sitting with her mother, the girl’s off-the-shoulder shirt reading in sparkling ironed-on letters, flirt.

As a rule, Becky could not approve of children’s T-shirts touting witticisms. If a little girl has to wear a shirt that says i’m so cute, then how cute can she really be? Shouldn’t it be obvious without the declaration? Maybe T-shirts should stick to something obvious, like i’m a girl or 80% water or likely to breathe. Of course Becky didn’t get irritated with the textualized children themselves—them she pitied. Their parents, on the other hand, she had to scan for possible brain damage, in the way you glance at the bozo in the car next to you to see if they look as dumb as they’ve been driving. But . . .
flirt
? On a six-year-old girl? That was child abuse.

“You want to talk to that mother, don’t you?” Mike whispered.

“Maybe.”

“You’re wishing you had the local number for Child Protective services handy.”

“Possibly.”

“Just take a deep breath and pretend it’s all a bad dream.”

The textually abusive mother and child got off at the next stop, and soon after Becky and Mike arrived at the hotel. After a quick check-in and luggage drop, a second bus took them to the studio. They approached the vehicular entrance on foot. Mike put out his hands, pretending to drive an invisible car up to the guard booth. Becky slapped his hands down.

“Don’t give them any reason to throw us out,” she said, but there was no problem. The guard had apparently admitted stranger folk than carless Becky and Mike from Layton, Utah. He gave them directions and they were off , weaving through the maze of warehouse-like buildings.

They passed a man in Regency attire, a troupe of teenage girls dressed as fairies, a cowgirl with extraordinarily long braids, and someone in a buzzard suit who was smoking a cigarette through the beak hole.

“Nasty habit,” Mike muttered. “That’ll kill him.”

“He’ll be buzzard meat,” Becky said.

“I was going to say that next.”

“Sorry, go ahead.”

“Nah, you said it better. I was still trying to figure out the right wording.”

“Keep that up, and he’ll be for the birds.”

“Okay, that’ll do.”

They came to building #14. Becky stood outside, her hand on her stomach.

“I’ve got a bellyful of ice pixies performing a number from
The
Nutcracker
.”

Mike rubbed her back. “We don’t have to go see him. Or we can come back tomorrow.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s a good kind of fear. Besides, it’s just silly. I mean, I’m not sure what I’m afraid of.”

She could feel Mike’s other hand rest on her shoulder. “Maybe that he won’t want to see you?”

“Okay, yes, that happens to be precisely what I’m afraid of.” She sighed gruffly. “That he’ll see me and he won’t care. That I’ve been feeling forlorn for six months because I was worried that he needed me, but he’s just fine and I’ve been fooling myself and making a big deal out of nothing. That I made you take me to California when you would’ve rather gone to Dinosaurland in Vernal, Utah.”

They stared at the door. The small square window had been papered over from the inside. The knob was stained with white paint. The door really wasn’t interesting enough to keep staring at.

Then she noticed Mike was smiling.

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused.

“A little. You’re never afraid of anything.”

“What do you mean ‘never’? You know I’m terrified of egg slicers and sharp paper.”

“And stampeding sheep, and animatronic presidents, and Captain Stubing from—”

“Enough.” She shuddered.

“What would be worse, that he’ll be annoyed and ask you to leave, or that you’ll never see him again at all?”

Becky considered. “The latter.” She took a breath and put her hand on the doorknob. “Okay, shape up, Mommy. Here we go.”

She turned the knob, took Mike’s hand, and entered the dark. They followed the noise and came upon a set built like a studio apartment. About fifty crew members were milling around, some intensely busy, others bored and waiting for their turn. Filming was paused while electricians lit the set.

A woman with an earpiece and a clipboard was on them within seconds.

“Yes?” It was not a polite question. It meant don’t-waste-my-time-I’m-not-paid-enough-to-be-nice.

Mike explained, showing the pass Celeste had arranged. Becky was searching the crowd, her hand still on her stomach.

“Ease up, nasty little frigid pixies,” she muttered.

Then she saw him. He was leaning against one of the false walls, looking over a script, his lips moving slightly as if trying to memorize. She stared. She willed him to look up.

His mouth twitched, his eyes rose, looking not at her but past her, his face expressionless.

Don’t look, don’t look, she pleaded now, afraid beyond reason. She took Mike’s hand again, was about to suggest that they flee, when the clipboard woman was suddenly at Felix’s elbow, whispering in his ear. She pointed in Becky’s direction, and his eyes followed the woman’s hand. He saw Becky, and he didn’t smile. The cold in her stomach heaved upward and froze her heart.

The script slipped from his hand and fluttered to the ground.

“Becky,” he mouthed.

She smiled hopefully.

Felix looked at Mike, seemed to take in the fact that he was there as well. Then he was running. He ran the most direct route, through the middle of crew members, past the director and the gaggle of director’s assistants, leaping over a sofa. Everyone looked up. Everyone was watching as Felix sprang at Becky, stopping just short of her. He grabbed both her hands. He looked back and forth between Becky and Mike, his expression wildly hopeful.

“Does this mean . . . is it over? Everything is all right?”

Mike shrugged. Becky nodded. Felix performed a brief jig, spun around, looked about to explode, his hands twitching as if not sure what to do, finally settling on grabbing Mike’s face and planting a kiss on his lips.

“Alrighty.” Mike took a couple steps back. “That’s enough of that.”

“Come here, Felix,” Becky said, holding out her arms. They were shaking, she was so excited and eager and crazy to get her arms around him.

He looked at Mike. “It’s okay? If we hug?”

“Yeah, of course,” Mike said, embarrassed.

Felix took Becky into his arms. He shut his eyes, sighing again as he squeezed her. “I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. Also, I missed you.”

“That was just icky, wasn’t it?” she whispered. “We should be together, just like we decided under that skinny little moon.”

“I felt that way before, but now I really know. Though I’m not happy about it.”

“Me neither. Darn you.”

She wondered if she should push herself away. She’d never hugged Felix like this, for so long, so tight. But Mike was right there, and it really did feel like hugging her brother. She watched Mike for any sign of his discomfort, but he put his hands in his pockets and smiled as if they were an amusing sideshow at a carnival.

“I haven’t laughed well for months,” Felix said, still holding her. “Say something to make me laugh.”

“On demand? Not likely.” She didn’t let go. “You feel skinny. Are you eating?”

“No. I’ve been on a hunger strike until you came to your senses.”

“Hunger strikes are mostly good for making you hungry.” She looked around. “Everyone’s staring at us.”

“Let’s stare back,” Felix suggested, turning his head so their cheeks touched.

Still hugging, they stared back at the crew.

“Now let’s look angry,” Becky said.

So they stared angrily.

“Try curious,” Felix said.

They stared curiously.

“Now be alarmed,” Becky said.

They stared alarmingly. This finally made Felix laugh and Mike mutter, “You’re a couple of little kids, I swear.”

Felix had a few more hours of shooting that day, so Becky and Mike sat back to watch. It didn’t take long to prove their presence wasn’t going to aid the process. In between takes, Felix kept stopping to smile at Becky or to do some goofy pratfall to make her laugh or to cozy up to Mike and express his undying affection for him and for all men everywhere bearing the name of Mike. Finally the director approached Becky’s chair and in a hushed voice offered use of the studio’s limousine if she would just leave the set for the day. So Becky waved good-bye, and Felix waved good-bye, and they kept waving and smiling coyly at each other until the door shut between them.

Becky squinted at the sudden sunlight. “That went pretty well.”

“You two are the goofiest—”

“I know, I know. It makes no sense.”

Mike put his arm around her shoulders. “It was fun for me, like reuniting two little girls after summer camp.”

“And I guess it doesn’t hurt for you to think of Felix as a little girl.”

“It helps a great deal.”

A limo pulled up, and Mike and Becky stood still, staring at their reflections in the shiny windows.

“That director was serious,” Mike said.

“That director “I guess.”

The driver opened the door, and there was nothing to do but settle into the leather seats, play with the radio buttons, and mutter, “We
so
don’t belong here.”

“Where can I take you?” the driver asked.

“Uh . . .” Mike said.

“Uh . . .” Becky countered.

They looked at each other.

The driver adjusted his hat to shade his eyes. “You want to sightsee? I could take you anywhere. There’s lots to see in Los Angeles. America’s cultural center west of the Mississippi.”

“Why don’t we go see a movie?” Mike offered.

That sounded pretty heavenly to Becky. It wasn’t often they were able to just go see a film, at least one in which the characters were neither cartoons nor talking animals.

The driver clicked his tongue. “A movie,” he muttered. “Cultural center west of the Mississippi . . .”

They went to an action flick, and while the lights were low, Becky snuggled up to Mike and enjoyed herself tremendously. But as soon as they were leaving, the nervous elation of Felix entered her again, and she found herself walking on her toes.

The limo driver had heard from Felix and took them to a restaurant where he was waiting anxiously, still in film makeup. Becky and Felix hugged and hugged, standing by the table while Mike read the menu and ordered beverages.

“I’m sorry about these two,” Mike told the waitress. “Just so you know, I’ll be embarrassed with you.”

“It’s just that we haven’t seen each other since summer camp,” Becky said.

“And we’d formed such a bond playing wily tricks on our camp counselors,” Felix said.

“Remember how you replaced Miss Pepper’s shampoo with liquid Jell-O and turned her hair green?”

“It was sheer genius when you stretched cling film over all the toilet seats.”

“Oh.” The waitress turned back to Mike, as if to address the only sane member of the group. “So, are ya’ll ready to eat now, or are you waiting for your date to arrive?”

Mike played with the menu. “Actually, she’s my date.”

“These are my two husbands,” Becky said. “We’re from Utah. You know, Mormon.”

The waitress stuck out one hip and gave a half smile. “You’re teasing me. It’s the men that have multiple wives.”

Becky snorted. “You must believe everything you see on TV.”

Mike rolled his eyes as the waitress left. “She’s going to believe you.”

“I know, but it’s useless to argue.”

At this point, Becky expected Felix to say something cheeky, but he was still beaming. He relinquished his hold to allow her to sit. When people slowed by their table to gape at Felix or paused to say “I love your work,” Felix made an effort to smile or even thank them, but his attention never swayed from Becky and Mike. He seemed not to notice or care that in public he was constantly observed.

It must be like living in a fishbowl, Becky thought.

Throughout dinner, he kept picking up Becky’s hand to kiss it, then he’d try to pick up Mike’s hand to kiss it, and everything he said was completely serious if incredibly silly, like, “You two are the most stunning people in the world,” and “Do you need anything? I have my checkbook. I could write you a check right now.”