Lives of the Circus Animals (22 page)

T
he sun was up, the sky was blue—the powder blue of skies in children's books. Jessie walked in a green, green cornfield, glad to be out of the city, pleased to have escaped her obligations, wondering what to do about the little hippopotamus. Roughly the size of a baby pig, he waddled behind her like a private remorse, a pet regret.

There was a strange knocking in the sky, a rapping like the old-fashioned thumps of a cane signaling the start of a play in
The Children of Paradise
. All at once, blue sky and green landscape pulled loose and flew up like a curtain. It's the end of the world, thought Jessie, terrified. The painted canvas of earth and sky vanished overhead. All that remained was a vast starry darkness. And an audience.

She stood onstage in a theater as big as the cosmos, as infinite as outer space. Her hippo remained beside her. Boy, do I have a witty unconscious, she told herself. Because she was beginning to suspect that this was only a dream. She hoped it wouldn't be one of those silly actor dreams where you forget your lines or don't even know what play you're in.

She looked out at the audience. It was all men, an ocean of men in tuxedoes. Which pleased her. She always enjoyed being the only girl at the party. She saw Caleb sitting in the front row. And Mr. Copeland, their high school drama teacher. His eternal boyishness was gone, and he looked as old as their father would be if Dad were still alive. Beside Mr. Copeland sat Frank, in a scowl of folded arms, disgusted with her for appearing in public with a hippopotamus.

But where was Henry? She could not see Henry. He hadn't taken the trouble to come. The shit.

The little hippo at her feet abruptly cleared his throat. He was
looking up at her with soft, kind eyes. He slowly opened his wide pink mouth. He was going to speak: he would tell her everything.

But before he could explain the meaning of it all, the cane resumed knocking. Thump, thump, thump. As if the play had still not begun. There was another play behind this play, the real play, God's play, and God was losing His patience.

Jessie suddenly woke up in her bed.

Knock knock knock.
Someone was banging at her door.

“Wha? Huh? Who?”

A muffled male voice replied, “It's me. I've come to apologize.”

She was sitting up. She lifted and pulled at her blankets, but it was gone. The hippopotamus of wisdom was nowhere in sight.

“Minute. Just a minute,” she croaked at the door. Her voice was hoarse and dry. She started down the ladder. Someone had come to apologize? But so many people owed her an apology.

She unhooked the chain and opened the door.

And there in her hall was the long, unshaven face of Henry Lewse. He held a wet umbrella in one hand and a large paper funnel in the other.

“Here,” he said and gave her the funnel. “I'm sorry about yesterday. That was very stupid and uncalled for.”

Jessie wondered if she were still dreaming. She folded back the paper; the funnel was full of flowers. Not dream flowers, but real ones, plain white daisies with dusty yellow centers.

So this was the real Henry Lewse in her shabby hallway. He looked as incongruous here as a rose in a bowl of brussels sprouts.

“Sorry,” he said. “I tried calling. But I only got your machine.”

“I turned my cell phone off.”

“I see. Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes: baby blue Nikes.

Jessie realized she should probably ask him in. But she didn't want to let Henry Lewse enter her grubby privacy. So she just stood at the door in T-shirt and panties, talking to her boss. Or rather, her ex-boss. Or maybe not quite ex-boss.

“I thought we could go out for breakfast,” he finally said. “And then we can talk and iron out our differences.”

“Oh? Yes. We could,” she muttered.

“Where shall we go?”

“Uh, there's the diner downstairs. Why don't you just go there? Get a cup of coffee and I'll meet you. All right?”

“Downstairs?” he asked dubiously.

“Yes. Go out the front door, turn right, and it's at the end of the block. I'll get dressed and join you in fifteen minutes.”

“Fine then. See you in fifteen.” He smiled at her, a bashful, guilty, irritated smile. Then he leaned into the apartment, grabbed the door, and pulled it shut. He had been embarrassed talking to his undressed assistant?

She remained by the closed door, staring at the cone of daisies in her hand, wondering again if she were awake or dreaming. She looked at the half window under the loft bed. It was still raining. She looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was after ten. Which was late for most people, but early for Henry. Nevertheless, he had come all the way downtown to apologize to her. Jessie was surprised, touched, and suspicious.

Not until she stood at her sink, splashing cold water on her face, did she remember her little hippo. What the hell was that about? When did her unconscious get so fucking whimsical? And what fine truth was he going to tell her?

T
he Vandam Diner was on the ground floor of an old printing factory, a stark space with a high ceiling full of heating ducts and a few Impressionist posters on the walls. Jessie had suggested the place only out of habit, but she liked the idea of Henry waiting for her in such an ugly, commonplace setting.

She saw him inside, seated in a booth under the fluorescent lights. He did not appear insulted. He looked up when she came through the door. And he broke into a smile. “Oh good. You came.”

“You didn't think I would?”

Ali, the Pakistani manager, came over. “Good morning, Jessica.” He set her usual cup of coffee on the table. “This is your friend?” He sounded concerned, as if afraid this older man were a lover.

“Henry Lewse,” she said. “My boss. This is Ali Mohran. Who feeds me when I don't feel like cooking. Which is most of the time.”

The two men nodded at each other but said nothing.

Jessie ordered her usual English muffin and Ali departed.

She watched Henry, waiting for him to speak, feeling he should make the first move. She was in a position of power here and wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. She blew on her coffee and sipped it.

Henry smiled the same mixed smile that he'd smiled upstairs, an uncertain combination of bashfulness, annoyance, and guilt.

“Jessie?” he finally said. “Why did we lose our tempers yesterday? What were we fighting about?”

“I have my theories,” she said. “What do you think?”

He took a deep breath. “I think I made a very bad mistake.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Jessie. Please. Will you come back? I need you. And not just for my bills or business, but as a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Yes. Someone with whom I can talk.”

“But I'm only an
assistant.
” She hissed the syllables at him.

He frowned. “I said far worse things. Which we don't need to repeat.”

“No. We don't.”

“I was a total anus yesterday. But I was in a terrible mood. I was feeling old and stupid and unloved. When you got all shirty with me, I forgot myself. I was unkind. Terribly unkind.”

“I wasn't very civil myself,” Jessie admitted. “
You
felt unloved?” She remembered Toby happily bopping around the apartment in his underpants.

“I know I take you for granted,” said Henry. “I apologize. What else can I say? I'm an artist. And like all artists, I can be terribly self-absorbed. But now and then, I do remember you, Jessie. And I appreciate you. I do.”

“Yes, well—” Jessie lowered her head. She knew she was being bullshitted, but she couldn't help smiling. After all, Henry wanted her back badly enough to go to the trouble of bullshitting her.

“Will you come back, Jessie? I can't promise you an entirely new man. But I will try, now and then, to show you the appreciation that I know you deserve.”

She could not say no. But she did not want to give in so easily. “Let me think about it,” she said. “We said some very bitter things to each other yesterday. And I can't pretend that I don't still feel hurt.”

“Those things were said from feelings of the moment. My long-term feelings for you, Jessie, are feelings of respect and admiration.”

“Yeah, right.”

He drew his lips together in a pout, annoyed she was not yet in the palm of his hand. “But you will think about it?”

“I'm thinking about it now,” she said coldly.

Ali brought Jessie her muffin. “Thank you,” she told him, as sweetly as possible for the sake of contrast.

Henry folded his hands on the table. “I would offer you a raise, Jessie. But I know that this isn't about money.”

“No, it's not,” she admitted. “But money might help me think bet
ter.” She was smiling again. Henry could be so cheap. He had only the vaguest notion of money, but he usually erred on the cheap side.

“All right. What do I pay you a week?” he asked. And before she could answer, he said, “I'll pay you a hundred dollars more.”

My God, she thought. He really does want me.

“Will you come back? Does that change your mind?”

“I told you,” she insisted. “I have to think about it.”

He frowned. “Your muffin's getting cold,” he said. “Eat. Eat.” He waved his hand at it.

She tore open a squib of honey and dripped it over the pores.

Henry watched her. He began to smile again, a timid, half-embarrassed smile. As if he knew she was going to say yes.

Then he said, “What do you know about Tobias Vogler?”

“Tobias? Oh. Toby.”

“Yes. Him.” He spoke dryly, coolly.

He's played me so smoothly, thought Jessie. Here is what this visit is really about. Not me, but Toby. She almost burst out laughing. Henry was so transparent.

“I know little about him,” she admitted. “Except that he saw Caleb for six months. And Caleb dumped him.” She made a scornful snort. “After the other night, you know him far better than I do.”

“One would assume,” Henry muttered. “Only, not to put too fine a point on it, our knowing was rather imperfect.”

“Oh?”

“We don't need to go into the details.”

“Hey. God is in the details.” She took another squib and squirted more honey on her muffin. “What? He wouldn't go to bed with you?”

“He went to bed with me. He just didn't want to do anything.”

“Ah. He couldn't get it up?”

“No, it was up. We couldn't get it off. And believe me, I tried.”

Did she really want to picture this? She asked the questions in order to embarrass Henry, but Henry was beyond embarrassment.

“So he must like you
some,
” she said.

“Oh he likes me. But only for my fame, so called. My presumed stardom. If he only knew. But that doesn't bother me. I no longer expect to be loved for myself, you know.”

She blinked. “Really?”

He shrugged, but then shifted around to sit sideways in the booth. “Do you know what the sickest thing about this situation is? What's most preposterous after Tuesday night?”

“You want to see him again.”

“
Exactly.
And not just want.
Need.
I must see him again. Damn. I must be in love.” He laughed at himself, a scornful crow of a laugh. “So much so that I've even agreed to go to this thing that he's in. Some sort of studenty performancy thing.”

“Oh.”

“Ah, the avante-garde piffle that one sees out of love.”

“It's not so avant-garde,” she assured him, even as she thought, Why does this hurt? Why isn't this funnier? “But Toby didn't stay with you last night?”

“No. Yesterday was a matinee day. I don't even know my own name on matinee days. But I woke up this morning alone. And I wanted to talk, Jessie. With you.” He was facing her again, with moist blue eyes, like an apologetic Siberian husky. “Then I remembered what we'd said to each other and you weren't going to come in. And I felt very sad. Very stupid and very wrong. And here I am.”

“And that's why you want me back?” she said. “So you can have somebody you can talk with about your broken heart?”

“Well, yes,” said Henry, without a shred of shame.

“Am I supposed to feel flattered?”

“I'm only being truthful,” he explained. “This boy is just one of several things that I want to talk about with you. And talk is just one of several things that I miss about your company.”

It was hard to say which was weirder, Henry's blunt honesty or the fact that Jessie did feel flattered.

“But enough about Toby,” said Henry. “Let's get back to us. When do you think you can tell me your decision?”

“I can tell you now,” she said.

“Yes?” He lifted his chin at her.

“A hundred more a week?” she said.

“That's fair, isn't it?”

She closed her eyes. She deliberated over teasing or toying or bargaining for more money. But she found herself nodding instead.

“You
will
come back?” he said.

“Why not?” She opened her eyes and laughed. “I was never really gone, was I?”

“Excellent. When? You can take the rest of the day off. Or, if you like, you can ride back with me by cab.”

“I'll ride back with you. Why not?” she repeated, with a resignation so dry it sounded bitter even to her ear. “Let me just finish my breakfast first.”

“Whatever you want, Jessie. It's all yours. Anything your heart desires.”

Henry was just as the critics said he was: a pure actor, as clear as water, as transparent as glass. Every thought or emotion read perfectly. He needed her only because he needed an ear. But that was something, wasn't it? It was good to be needed. It was better than being alone. It even felt good to be used. Being used brought you deep inside the machinery of the world.