Lives of the Circus Animals (26 page)

W
hat a vile, stupid, shitty day.

The sun was out. The rain was over. There was no hope now that Caleb could cancel his party.

The buzzer buzzed shortly after ten. Elena, his housecleaner, usually came on Mondays, but Caleb had asked her to come today to help set up for the party.

“Good morning, Cow-lib. We get ready now your shindig?”

Elena was Romanian, a fiftyish schoolteacher from Bucharest, part of the Eastern Europe emigration that had filled New York since the fall of communism. Caleb had looked forward to discussions of poetry and politics with her, but Elena was finished with “that stuff” and only wanted to talk about American television.

“Go outside, Cow-lib, out of my way,” she ordered.

He obeyed. He hated this party more than ever. He was surrendering his home, his privacy, his peace, and for what? So a pack of fair-weather friends could eat his food and drink his wine and say, “Poor, poor Caleb.”

He heard the buzzer buzz again inside. Elena answered. A few minutes later a stocky, middle-aged man came out on the patio. “Jack Arcalli,” he said. “The caterer? I spoke to your agent, Irene Jacobs?” A very gruff, bass-voiced fellow with short gray hair, a chin beard, and a single hoop earring, he looked like an older, sadder Don Giovanni. He shook Caleb's hand. “May I tell you just how much I admire your work?” he said in grumbly, mournful tones.

“Uh, thanks,” said Caleb, surprised and confused. After all, this was the caterer who'd wanted full payment up front.

Another man, skinny and younger with black curly hair, stood in the French door.

“My partner, Michael,” said Arcalli. Caleb couldn't tell if he meant business partner or boyfriend or both. The two men seemed so serious, so caring, they were more like undertakers than caterers.

“If you will show us your layout,” said Arcalli, “we can start.”

Caleb took them through the rooms while Arcalli looked for the best spots to set up a table for food and another for the bar. There would be no waiters circulating with trays. People could serve themselves, which was not only cheaper but the apartment wasn't big enough for extra waiter bodies. Arcalli decided he would do the food outside—“I think the rain is over, don't you?”—and set up the drinks table indoors in front of the television.

Banished now from his patio, Caleb withdrew to his office. He sat at his desk, but not for long. His office would be open during the party, and he should make sure nothing revealing was left out. He inspected his shelves. He cleared his desk. He pulled open drawers. In the top right drawer was a badly printed booklet from the 1940s: a Kewpie-doll lady in garter belt and stockings ties up another Kewpie-doll lady with clothesline and spanks her. Claire Wade, his star, had given it to him on the opening night of
Venus in Furs.
Would Claire come tonight? Or would she abandon him too?

Only the bottom drawer had a lock, but Caleb had lost the key. He opened it and saw his spiral notebook on top. He took it out and flipped through it: his experiment, his exercise, his mental health doodle. Thirteen pages of pencil scrawl. Auden said that a man loves the sight of his handwriting as he loves the smell of his own farts, but Caleb hated those too. The pages looked like a play, but weren't. “Conversations with a Dead Boyfriend.” That'd sure pack them in.

Caleb considered ripping the pages out, but couldn't. Not yet. Should he bring them to Dr. Chin? Or tell her about them? He tucked the notebook back in the drawer, set the spanking booklet on top, and covered it all with
Webster's Dictionary.
The sight of a dictionary would cause most people to close the drawer with a yawn.

The phone rang. Caleb answered.

It was Irene. “Good morning, doll. Just checking in. Jack there yet? Isn't he a trip? He used to be a journalist, then an actor, and is now a
cook. Jack-of-all-trades, I call him. But he's good, believe me. I'm just calling to make sure you didn't cancel and send him home.”

“Don't think I haven't thought about it.”

“I know you have. But you should relax, dear. This is your birthday party. You'll have a good time.”

“It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.”

“There you go. Keep your sense of humor.”

“You don't want to come over? I'm feeling a bit fragile right now. A little wired. It's like stage fright.”

“What are you afraid of? It's a party. These are your friends.”

“I don't know what I'm afraid of. It's just—I haven't seen anyone in days, you know.”

“Then go take a walk. Have lunch with some friends. Or your sister. Or someone. Just to take the edge off.”

“Are you free for lunch?”

“No. Sorry. But I'll be there this afternoon. Threeish. Can you hold out until then?”

“Sure.” He took a deep breath. “You know, I didn't know how nutty I was feeling until we started talking.”

“So don't talk about it. See you later. Bye.”

Caleb hung up and sat there, taking deeper breaths, fighting his sudden surge of anxiety, wondering what was the matter. This really was like stage fright, wasn't it?

Out in the living room the TV came on. Elena often turned on the television for company while she worked. Caleb heard the others stop moving, as if all were pausing to watch.

H
enry Lewse. Wow. I can't believe I have you on my show.”

“It's good to be here, Rosie.”

“This man is a class act, folks. Henry is known as the Hamlet of his generation.”

“Alas.”

“That's not good?”

“Oh, I suppose it's better than being known as the Coriolanus of my generation.”

When the audience only politely chuckled, Rosie laughed for them. “That's
minor
Shakespeare,” she explained. “For those of you who, like me, think Shakespeare is just another one of Gwyneth Paltrow's boyfriends. Did you see
Shakespeare in Love
?”

“Oh yes. And enjoyed it thoroughly.”

“So what brings you to our side of the herring pond? You're not doing Shakespeare here. You're in a very American musical.”

“But it's all acting, Rosie. Whether you do the Bard or Broadway or soap commercials. Besides, I've done Romeo. I've done Hamlet. There's nobody else for me to play until I'm old enough to do Lear.”

“Which is quite a few years yet, isn't it?”

“You're too kind.”

“And that's your next big goal? To play King Lear?”

“Or Prospero. In
The Tempest.
We Shakespearean blokes are divided between those who hope one day to play a bitter old fool, and those who'd rather play a wise old man.”

H
e smiled. He twinkled. He scratched his ear. He was so down-to-earth, not at all what she'd expected. He didn't even wear a tie.

Molly Doyle sat at home in Beacon watching
Rosie O'Donnell
as she did every weekday morning. It was a treat she allowed herself after indoor chores: to sit in front of the tube with a cup of instant gourmet coffee. She couldn't believe her ears when Rosie announced that her guest today would be Henry Lewse. Her daughter's boss. Who was going to her son's party. Small world, thought Molly. Small, small world.

“And you're a big villain, I hear?” said Rosie. “They've cast you as the evil Mr. Greville. In the movie of the bestselling book.”

The audience ahhhed.

Henry chuckled—Molly couldn't help but think of him as “Henry” now. “Oh yes. I'll be the man you love to hate.”

“But nobody can hate you, Henry.”

“We'll see about that,” he purred sinisterly.

“Ooooh,” went Rosie, making her big-eyed chipmunk face as she waved her palms in the air. Then she announced a station break.

No, Henry Lewse was not the snotty, stuffy Englishman that Molly had pictured. He chatted about Shakespeare as if he were everybody's favorite writer. Rosie clearly liked him. But Rosie was smart herself, a little like Jessie. One of the things Molly loved about Rosie O'Donnell was how much she reminded her of her daughter, although Rosie was chubbier than Jessie, and happier.

The commercials ended, Rosie returned, but Henry was gone. Molly was sorry she wasn't going to Caleb's party tonight or she
could meet Henry and tell him in person how good he'd looked on television.

“And that's all for today, folks,” Rosie declared. “I want to thank my guests again. Oh, I almost forgot: you can see Henry in
Tom and Gerry
at the Booth Theatre. We'll be back Monday when our guests will be Mira Sorvino and her fabulous dad. Have a great weekend.”

Molly turned off the TV and went into the kitchen to fix herself some lunch before she worked in her garden. Things should be dry enough outdoors after so many days of rain.

Small world, she told herself again as she opened a can of soup. She knew people who knew famous people. Her own children, in fact.

So why didn't she go to Caleb's birthday party? He invited her.

No, he didn't really want her there. He was just being polite.

But he and his sister had dared her to come. They said she was frightened of the city. Which was ridiculous. She wasn't scared of the city. She grew up in Queens. How could she be scared of New York?

She should go. It would knock her kiddos off their high horse. The train ride was only an hour and a half. She could zip down for a visit, see her son's new apartment, meet her daughter's famous boss, prove her love, and be back home by nine—or ten at the latest.

Do it, she told herself. But don't call them. Surprise them. That way, if she changed her mind, they wouldn't think she chickened out.

Molly finished eating and went upstairs to look for a nice dress, nothing too fancy, but not too casual either. This was another reason why she never got into the city. She didn't know what to wear anymore. Fashions changed so quickly.

But she refused to give up so easily. Here was a nice wool skirt that would go well with any blouse. And here was a blousy shirt that didn't look too dressy. And earrings. Good simple earrings would make her look nice without turning her into a dowdy old lady.

Piece by piece, she put herself together. She tried not to notice the flutters in her stomach, the coldness of her hands. It was a warm spring day, but her hands were freezing. She sat at her dressing table and brushed her hair. Good thing she'd been to the hairdresser this week or she'd use her gray hairs as an excuse. You are such a ninny, she told herself. What are you afraid of anyway?

Finally, she was ready. She went downstairs. And the flutters in her
stomach became painful, like ice butterflies. She grabbed the car keys in the dish on the table, telling her body that this was no different from going to the supermarket. Her body should behave, dammit. It wasn't her head that was silly, it was her body. She clutched her black leather purse and thought a moment. She went back upstairs to her bedroom. She took what she wanted from the nightstand beside the bed. She felt foolish, yet calmer, safer, as if she were putting a lucky rabbit's foot in her purse, nothing more.

 

She drove straight to the station. She walked from the parking lot to the ticket window and out to the platform without pause or hesitation.

The day was lovely. Newburgh looked so green and pretty across the river. It was three o'clock already. She couldn't understand where the time had gone. The next southbound train arrived. She stepped aboard. It was only a train; it wasn't like flying.

She stopped being afraid, but the only thing she'd been afraid of, she decided, was being afraid, was going into a panic. Now she was fine.

The other passengers seemed safe. There was even a white lady Molly's age at the other end of the car, reading a book in hardcover. Molly wished she'd brought something to read. A murder mystery was even better than cigarettes for keeping one occupied. The river flickered and flashed in the windows. Mountains rose on the other side. The Hudson Valley really was beautiful, wasn't it?

Molly must have ridden this train a thousand times, but when was her last trip? A year ago? Ten years? All she could remember today were the Saturday trips when she took the kids into the city to shop for clothes. Her son was forty now, so that would have been
twenty-five
years ago? Surely she had been to the city since. But the trips with her kiddos were her favorite visits, her best memories. Rockefeller Center at Christmas, Fifth Avenue in the spring. They sometimes visited St. Patrick's Cathedral, but Molly had had too much religion in her childhood—know-it-all priests, fish on Friday,
Lives of the Saints
—and she wanted to spare her own children. She took them to the theater instead. They saw shows like
Hello Dolly!, No, No, Nanette, Follies,
and even
Grease.
Jessie might have been too young, but she was just as tickled by the singing and dancing as her mother and brother. They were all so happy together. Their father stayed home. Bobby hated New
York. The city had been his job for too long, and he knew only its dark side, the crime scenes and courtrooms. He said it was no longer the wonderful Oz across the river that they both knew as teenagers.

Molly grew up in Queens, in Sunnyside, a petty Irish village of snoops and snobs and too many aunts. She had dreamed of moving someday into the larger, freer world of Manhattan. Instead she married Bobby Doyle and escaped to the good life of the suburbs, first on Long Island, then north to Beacon. Only rich people could afford to live well in the city. But she could still visit, she could take her kiddos there.

Then one day she stopped. She couldn't remember why. Because it was too much trouble? Because her kids were old enough to go alone and didn't want her along? Or because of the stories on TV or in the newspaper or told by Bobby's cop buddies? Everything went to hell in the 1970s. New York was not safe for old ladies.

Which was ridiculous. She wasn't afraid of New York. She loved New York. She missed it. She just had no reason to visit it until today.

The train was passing through the Bronx. The projects began to appear, ugly brick boxes packed full of people. Nobody, black or white, deserved to live like that. Then older buildings, five and six stories tall, crowded around the train. There were the dead eyes of empty windows. A huge Technicolor face painted on a crumbling wall swung toward her. She expected to hear police sirens from the half-deserted streets below but heard nothing except the chuckle of wheels under her feet.

They plunged into a tunnel. Her heart was racing. Don't, she told herself. This is your hometown, this is where your children live. You have nothing to fear.

The lights flickered. Everything went dark. Then they came out into a dingy electric brightness. People quietly gathered their things. The train ground to a stop.

Molly slipped the strap of her purse snugly over her shoulder. She followed everyone out of the car and up the ramp.

And she entered the city of her childhood. Back in the days when everyone wore a hat, Grand Central was its gateway. The ceiling was still painted with an aquamarine sky full of constellations. Molly marched through the enormous room, feeling more confident, like she
was young again and her whole life was ahead of her. Then she noticed the people talking to themselves.

They weren't the crazy black men of twenty years ago. They were white people, corporate men and women talking on those tiny new phones. The things looked like transistor radios or sometimes just a wire. And people talked at them. They talked, talked, talked, talked, talked. What could they possibly be talking about? Did they really have so much to say to each other?

Molly snorted at their foolery. And before she knew what she was doing, she stuck a finger in her own ear and said out loud: “Hello? I just got off the train. I'm in Grand Central Station. You wouldn't believe how crowded it is here. Why, it's a regular Grand Central Station.”

Nobody noticed the crazy lady talking to her hand.

“What the heck were you afraid of?” she told her palm. “This city is a riot. This city is a hoot. And you, Molly Doyle, are a nut.”

She dropped her hand and laughed. She stepped more briskly. She couldn't wait to see the faces of her smart-aleck son and daughter when their scaredy-cat mother showed up at their big-deal party.