TWELVE
T he metaphor escaped her. She would not readily come to the understanding that her view of Galen Thurston was skewed, that it was, in fact, severely flawed. She could not know that he would never be a power person; that he was the product of a stern and commanding father, which caused him, as he grew up, to become expert at the protective art of deflecting rather than initiating.
Just as her view of him was flawed, so was his own about his life and goals. His appeal to Harry for direction was a tacit admission that he felt helpless to organize his future. He was an Adonis, a potential Hollywood icon, arrogant on the outside, an insecure child within. It would be an epiphany if he understood that his persistent effort in the conquest of women was a poorly disguised cry for nurturance, for someone to offer him tenderness and affection.
There was no way for Juliet to know any of this. Someday, she might very well hitch her wagon, inappropriately and with dire consequences, to a defective star.
Harry also grew up under a parental cloud, so different from Galen’s, absent the punishing rigidity, but with un-challengeable expectations that created in him a similar kind of insecurity. Was his intrepid pursuit of the gold ring of fame and fortune his own ambition or theirs?
In the language of psychology, low self-esteem is an outcome of obeisance to other people’s agendas. Yet, in Harry’s situation, it was selective, his sense of his theatrical skill strong and unabashed, while his confidence in relationships or in career choices, fragile as a skiff in a storm. He would embrace his class assignments with élan, leave the campus and slide ignominiously into his other humor. Thank goodness for Katy Bloom, who knew how to detour his apprehensions and to elevate with her good sense the negative segments of his character.
“So what’s wrong now? Miss Congeniality not being so congenial?”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Disappointment.”
“She’s an anomaly. I don’t know what she wants.”
“I don’t imagine anyone really knows what another person wants.”
“Yeah, but she’s a come-on artist. I mean there are two distinct messages: sure, let’s get together, and nah, I’m not interested.”
“She has her priorities. Scratching her way up the ladder is first on her list.”
“I know, but she acts as if I’m important, then brushes me off like sand on the beach.”
“Expectations.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you expect her to put you at the top of her agenda, you’ll be disappointed. I don’t want to be mean, but Juliet is a user. Your talent is useful to her. When someone else’s status emerges as her most pressing need, she’ll dump you.”
“Well, that is mean, Katy. I don’t see her as sinister as that.”
“Okay, just my perception. I could be wrong. She could be a wholesome little farm girl, brushed with the acrylics of ambition like the rest of us.”
“If I knew where my career was headed, I might understand her moods a little better. I’m damned confused. The successes I’ve had are like whipped cream, insubstantial, elusive. What do they say, ‘You’re only as good as your last gig.’ It could all come crashing down with one uninspired monologue.”
“Not likely. I’ve never seen you grapple with a role in an uninspired way. You tend to see theater as a gourmet meal, to be savored, tasted scrupulously, not to be gulped down, never taken routinely.”
He looked at her curiously. “Damn, Katy, you sure do prop me up. Promise me you’ll never leave. I need you around to keep my focus.”
“You’re pretty well focused when it comes to acting. It’s with the personal stuff that you agonize and beat yourself up.”
“Lack of experience, poor training for asserting myself. Shaky with women issues, sexual issues, goals, that stuff.”
Katy looked embarrassed. Not the subject matter she relished confronting with Harry. The goals part was okay, the sexual part frustrating, with the added impact of her own enigmatic disappointment. She lived with her private set of unexpressed, impossible expectations.
Lamely, she said, “Deal with it. Sometimes you have to grow up fast.”