Acts of Love Page 6

  "I didn't forget; I was distracted. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  Claudia beckoned to the waiter. "Ravioli alia quattro funghi," she said,

  "and the tre colore salad to start. Keep the dressing on the side. What are you having, Luke? Maybe the same thing? You always did like mushrooms."

  An old trick, Luke thought, remembering all the ways Claudia had tried to bind them into one when it was clear their marriage had failed to do that. "Lobster risotto," he said to the waiter, "and the same salad as the lady." He turned to Claudia. "Is it money again?"

  "Oh, Luke, how crude you are."

  "You're right. I'm sorry. But you did say you had to talk to me."

  "Well, I am." He made a gesture of impatience that she recognized and she said hastily, "It's just that I need to talk. You know that, Luke. All these years and I haven't found one person who understands me the way you do. You know there's more to me than people think. I was a good hostess, wasn't I ? People always talked about our parties; some of them would have killed to get invitations. I loved being your hostess; I remember every party we ever gave. Remember the time that prince, the short one, what's-his-name ..."

  Luke drank his wine and welcomed the arrival of his salad and then their dinners. It became increasingly clear that Claudia had nothing particular to talk to him about or, if she did, was putting it off to another night, to make sure there would indeed be another night.

  ". . . and of course it was such fun, all those people telling you how wonderful you were, and I was part of it. Nobody notices me now; do you know how awful that is? No, how could you? It's the worst thing in the world; it's like I've disappeared."

  "You have at least five hundred friends; you're busy every night."

  "Well, thank God; that's what keeps me alive. But, you know, Luke, those are acquaintances; they're not really friends who truly care about me. I mean, they think I'm somebody because I was married to you and I still see you, I mean, we still date once in a while, but when you come right down to it, you know, there is absolutely nobody waiting for me when I get home at night. Just that empty apartment."

  / didn't have people behind me, waiting for me to come home, f^eeping my bedroom ready and leaving the front door unlocked and the living room lamp lit.

  Luke felt a flicker of pity, which surprised him and left him momentarily silent. He seldom felt pity: he believed most people were the cause of their own troubles and had it in their power to clear them up if they so

  44 ~ Judith Michael

  chose. Claudia especially— beautiful, spoiled, self-centered—had undercut their marriage from the beginning by refusing to share with him in building it. She had clung to him for everything: the fame he brought her, their travel, their friends, their social life, the way she organized her days, demanding of him that he tell her what to do with herself and how to do it. "You have a good sense of design," he had said, and she had gone to design school until it bored her. "I'll be an actress," she had declared, staring down Luke's look of disbelief, and she had gone to acting classes until even she had admitted that she had no talent and no real interest. Over and over, she had forced him to direct their marriage as he directed plays, but when something upset her she called him a tyrant. She preened at the attention they got when they went out, then sulked at home because people wanted to talk to Luke, not to her.

  "What do you want?" he had demanded when they had been married almost five years.

  "I want you to help me!" she flung at him.

  "I've helped you for five years," he said quietly.

  "Not enough!"

  But by then he did not care whether it was enough or not. Whatever she wanted, it was more than he could give her and he was exhausted by her incessant demands. He said he wanted a divorce, and she went through with it, rigid with anger and the fear of being alone. She left New York and for a year Luke did not see her. But then she began calling him, first from Europe, to tell him she was coming home, then irregularly, begging to see him. And, almost always, Luke made the time to see her.

  "You shouldn't have married her," Constance had told him. "You know perfectly well that you can't tolerate dependent people and you knew from the time you met Claudia that she would lean on you for everything. But you can't just cut her out of your life; you still nave some responsibility for her."

  "Luke, you're drifting again!" Claudia exclaimed. "I wish, just once, you'd concentrate on me. We'd still be married if you'd been willing to do that." Luke smiled and she looked at him defiantly. "I don't see what you find amusing in that,"

  "I'm amused by the contortions people go through to explain the past. It's not just you, it's everyone, including me. Such convolutions to find ways to soothe our vanity."

  "You're saying I'm lying?"

  "I'm saying you've written your own script and it satisfies you, so it needn't have even a remote resemblance to mine." His pity had faded; he was exactly where he was every time he was with Claudia: impatient to be gone. And now he could be; they had finished their coffee and had no reason to linger. "Come on, I'll walk you home."

  "Already? Are you nervous? You always get nervous when I talk about our marriage."

  "I never recognize our marriage when you talk about it. And I'm not nervous; I want to get home. I have work to do; we begin casting next week."

  "Can I watch the rehearsals?"

  "I leave that up to the cast. You know that." He signaled for the check.

  "I was at the Phelans' last week," Claudia said, very casually, and then Luke knew what this dinner was about, and he knew that she had held off talking about it until it was clear that, otherwise, the evening would be over.

  He sat back, ignoring the check the waiter put beside him. "How much did you lose?"

  "You could give me the benefit of the doubt. I might have won." He looked at her steadily and she flushed deeply. "A little over five thousand."

  "You promised me you wouldn't go there again."

  "I was lonely."

  "More likely bored."

  "That's part of being lonely. So when they called and said they missed me and they had some really interesting people and a new roulette wheel with a terrific new croupier—and I felt lucky—and God knows I've missed them —well, anyway, I said yes. And they gave me the front bedroom, you know, the blue-and-silver one, and I had such a good time. They're wonderful people, Luke; they make me feel wanted."

  "They want your money."

  "They want me! They could get tons of people with money, but they always call me first. Why can't you believe that people really like me?"

  "I know that people like you. I also know the Phelans." He skimmed the dinner check, then laid it inside its leather folder with his credit card. "How much over five thousand?"

  There was a pause. "Actually, it was closer to ten."

  46 ~ Judith Michael

  "How much closer?"

  "A little over nine. Just a little. Nine, three. But I have it, Luke, you don't have to worry about me."

  "You don't have it. The Phelans know you don't have it, but they know you can get it. Why else would they let you play all weekend just on your signature.?"

  "How do you know—"

  "I told you: I know them. You didn't spend a penny at their house, did you.'' They never asked you to. And what little token of affection did they give you when you left.'^ Earrings.? An Hermes scarf.? A bracelet.?" Claudia was silent. "What was it.?"

  "Lapel pin," she whispered.

  "Ninety-three hundred dollars for a lapel pin," he said contemptuously.

  "It was a gift! Because they love me! And if I want to believe that, who the hell are you to tell me I'm wrong.?"

  "Your banker," he said.

  Her shoulders slumped. She stared into space, running a finger around the rim of her wineglass. "I have until day after tomorrow."

  The waiter took the leather folder and vanished, and Luke pulled out his checkbook. An expensive dinner, he thought, and no sign
of anything changing soon. Why the hell can't she find another husband? But he knew the answer to that: she clung to the fantasy that they would get together again. Like a child, she believed that saying or thinking something often enough would make it a reality. And in one way she was right: he kept covering her gambling debts.

  He wrote the check and held it out until, with a whispered "Thank you," she took it and slipped it into her purse. Then he signed the charge slip for dinner and finally shoved back his chair and stood up. "I'll walk you home," he said, and turned to lead the way out of the restaurant, letting Claudia trail behind.

  "Thank you," she said again when they reached her building. "I do appreciate it, Luke, your help, your being close to me ... it means everything to me. I won't go back there, you know, the Phelans', if you don't want me to."

  "I didn't want you to go the last time. You knew that."

  "But I hadn't gone for such a long time. . . . And you know, they are my friends."

  A

  CTS of LOVE ~ 47

  "Next time you want to go, call me first."

  "Like AA." She smiled brightly. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather have for a buddy." She put her hand on his arm. "Won't you come up for a drink? I bought your favorite cognac."

  He even told me what md of car . . . I guess he thought I'd find that irresistible but I thought it was pretty sad that he couldn't trust himself to be the main attraction of the evening.

  "No," Luke said. "Good night." And he walked away, leaving Claudia with her doorman, who patiently held the door, averting his eyes but not missing a word.

  Dearest Constance, now can I ever tnank you enougn for your wonaerrul letter. I'm so sorry anout your aaugnter dying ... I guess tnat sounds silly because I know it nappened tnirty-six years ago, nut the way you described it, I was crying, it was so sad and I couldn't near to tnink or now you surrered, even tnougn you said having your daughter's little boy helped a lot. And it helped me, knowing what you'd gone through, and or course the most important part was when you said "I didn't tell her orten enough how much I loved her and what a good person and good mother I thought she was; I took it ror granted that somehow she knew all that. But nothing in relationships can be taken tor granted, repaired or restored when all the opportunities have slipped through our ringers. " I showed that to Dr. Lep-pard and he said you're a very wise woman, and you are, and how lucky your grandson was to grow up with you. Lucas Cameron, what a nice name; he must be a wonderful man. And he wants to be a director! That's so exciting for you! I'm sorry he was in Europe when I met you in summer stock, and now he's finishing graduate school, but I know I'll meet him someday because he's going to be famous, I just know it, because you brought him up and maybe someday he'll direct both of us in a play; wouldn't that be wonderful? Please tell me how you're going to play Miss Moffat. I've loved The Corn Is Green all my life and I've thought about how I'd play her and I'm sure that deep inside she's very insecure and fighting to discover who she is and what she can be. Is that how you see her? Thank you again, thank you so much, for your letter and most of all for your friendship. I do love you. Jessica.

  48 ~ Judith Michael

  Luke reread the last few sentences. He remembered talking to Constance about The Corn Is Green. She had come to his graduation when he received his Ph.D. and they had talked about the play, soon to begin rehearsals. Constance had said that a friend thought that Miss Moffat was insecure and what did Luke think about that? "You've got a smart friend," Luke had said. And it was Jessica, he thought, refolding the letter. About nineteen years old, for the first time broaching her ideas to Constance as an equal: one actress to another. Good for her.

  He fit the letter into its place in the box. As sure of herself at nineteen as I was, he reflected. And she thought I'd be famous someday. He smiled to himself. What amazing insight.

  He finished his drink and looked at his watch. A little after midnight; time for a few more letters. He pulled out a handful, all from Yale, describing her courses, her part-time jobs and her acting. By her third year she was regularly starring in the Yale Repertory Theater, one of the most prestigious in the country, and halfway through her senior year her letters reflected this: they grew more assured with every part she played, never casual but often casually confident. She was no longer a wide-eyed ingenue, but a professional who approached each play as a set of problems to be solved, a challenge to be confronted, a joyous time of discoveries about herself and the world.

  He looked up as his butler appeared in the doorway. "Still awake? Martin, it's almost one o'clock."

  "Mr. Cameron, I just discovered a message the housekeeper took this afternoon when I was out. Mr. Kent Home says he's worried about Monte's pushing to make Lena older—those are his exact words—and he wants to talk to you, whatever time you arrive home."

  "Thank you, Martin."

  "His voice sounded urgent, the housekeeper said."

  "His voice always sounds urgent. If he calls again, tell him we'll talk in the morning. Better yet, turn off the main phone and go to bed."

  Martin's face grew stern. "I could never do that. Emergencies occur, tragedies happen. One cannot cut oneself off, ever, from the tumult of the world, however much it may, momentarily, seem desirable."

  Amused, Luke shook his head when Martin left. I'm surrounded by drama. Probably I create the atmosphere and everyone else jumps in. He glanced at the last paragraph of the letter in his hand. Including Jessica.

  I know you're thinking or my nappiness when you keep asking ir I'm dating, but dear, aear Constance, I've tola you so many times that I'm not and I don't want to. Mayhe someday that will change, hut, helieve me, I don't reel deprived hy not dating and jouncing around in hed the way almost everybody else does. It's just too lar rrom anything I really care ahout. I suppose ir I met someone really special . . . hut I haven't, so it's foolish to speculate. I'd rather think ahout the chance that you'll come to New Haven for graduation in two weeks. That would he so splendid! Please let me know the very second you decide; I've already reserved a room for you, just in case, and the hest tahle in the hest restaurant for dinner. Now, THE BIGGEST NEWS OF ALL. (I've heen saving it for last, hugging it, you know, like a precious secret that I'm sharing for now just with you.) Two days after graduation I'm going to Chicago to read for John Malkovich at Steppenwolf! The theater manager called and invited me! The play is something I don't know, hy Sam Shepherd—they're sending it to me and I should have it in a day or two—but I don t care what it is; you of all people know that this is a dream come true—the chance to work with Malkovich and Gary Sinise and Joan Allen and Glenne Headley . . . oh, Constance, I'm sending prayers to all the theater gods that they ask me to join them. Please come to see me graduate; I want to see you, the real you, not the picture of you in my head when I write or read your letters. I can t wait. Much love, Jessica.

  Luke read the long paragraph again, sharing Jessica's excitement, the exhilaration that comes with that first opening of a door to the fijture. He had felt it when he got his first job as assistant to one of the greatest directors on Broadway; he had known then that he was on his way and nothing would stop him. And Jessica, too, he thought. I wonder if Constance went to her graduation.

  He wanted to read more, to be with her for a while longer and find out what happened next, but it was late and he had an early meeting. Re-luctandy he closed the box and switched off the desk lamp. Tomorrow night, he thought. I'll come back to her then. But at least I know this much. She's on her way.

  K

  ent called early the next morning. Luke was at breakfast in a shaded corner of his terrace where two wicker armchairs flanked a low brass chest that held the telephone, a stack of newspapers and his breakfast tray. The terrace was deep and long, paved with brick and wrapping around the corner of the building. Roses climbed its low brick wall, crabapple and plum trees grew in deep wooden tubs, dappling the light that fell on cushioned wrought-iron furniture, and gaillardia, cosmos, campanula and dahlias
were massed in terra-cotta pots and planters. The air was still; the city brooded, somnolent in the heat, its skyscraper windows reflecting the sun like sheets of foil flinging back the white light. In the distance, the George Washington Bridge hung in the heavy air beneath wisps of clouds barely visible against the pale sky. Without looking up from his newspaper, Luke reached for the telephone when it rang.

  "Luke, the thing is, I don't trust Monte." Kent's deep voice came in a barrage of syllables. "I have to see you, I mean we have to talk about this and get it settled before Monte gets set in stone, I mean, before he gets used to the idea of changing things or trying them out on us or whatever the hell he was doing with all that shit about making Lena younger. He can't do that every time he gets a bright idea, you know, he can't—"

  "He can do it whenever he wants," Luke said. "We'll all have ideas about the play and we'll talk them out and you'll have to get used to that."

  "'All'.? Who's all?"

  "Mainly Monte and me and the cast. But you'll find that Fritz has—"

  ~ 50 ~

  "Fritz?"

  "The stage manager. Fritz will have suggestions and so will the props manager and the set designer and just about everyone else who gets a look at rehearsals. Most of them are pretty casual and don't take up much time, but when cast members have ideas about their lines or the ways their characters are shaping up, we take them seriously."

  "Damn it, Luke, plays aren't written by committee! They don't come out of happy little meetings where everybody says, 'Oh, listen, I've got the best idea . . .' and they go off spinning some crap from some childhood trauma or something. Plays are written by playwrights working alone. You don't understand that, because you aren't one, but—"

  "I've done some writing," Luke said coldly, "and I work with writers. I know it's tough. But you chose it."

  "Over pumping gas, right. It's what I do, and I'm good at it, but it's my whole life, it's me, and if you think I'm going to change one scene —what the hell,o«f word —because some half-assed actor thinks he knows better—"

  "We'll talk about it at lunch," Luke said. "Right now I have some calls to make. I'll see you at Monte's office."