The kids snapped out of their trances and hurried offstage, jostling and steering Frank with them out to the hall. The tuxedoed principal pounced on him there, followed by a mob of parents. Everyone congratulated Frank, and he smiled and nodded and said what a joy it had been to work with Felix or Tiffany or Josh or Elektra while his eyes impatiently scanned the crowd.
And there she was. She stood against a wall in her khaki trench coat, a briefcase under her arm, grinning like a happy conspirator. She looked lovely and lovable, cool and smart, the source of tonight’s most appreciative laughs. And Frank had seen her naked. That was two whole weeks ago, and they’d only talked on the phone since then, but here was Jessica in the flesh. Frank did not picture her naked now, but a memory of nudity seemed to illuminate her face—crooked smile, sharp cheekbones, short reddish hair—making it more real than any other face here.
When there was a lull in the storm of parents, Jessie came over, set her briefcase on the floor, and embraced him.
“God that was good!” she declared. “And smart!” She gave him a spearmint-scented kiss—on the jaw. “You didn’t try to hide that these were children, but used it, made it part of the play. I was in heaven, watching those kiddos do theater.”
He was tickled that Jessie understood what he’d done, even as his joy stumbled over the fear that she’d come for his play, not for him. He held her against his side. “I’m glad you liked it,” he said and kissed the top of her head. “I’m even gladder you came. Thank you.”
“I didn’t just like it, I loved it. Everybody loved it.” She pulled out from under his arm to face him. “Even Prager of the Times. Did you know the Buzzard was here?”
“Oh yeah. His daughter’s in the show.”
“He’s got a kid? Poor thing. Still. Even he loved it. He was sitting right in front of me. I gave him a piece of my mind. Oh, not really. I was way too subtle. He’s lucky I didn’t stab him with my pen. When I think of what he did to Caleb’s play.” She laughed at herself. “But I’m telling Caleb about this show. One more night, right? He’d love it. It should bring him out of his funk.”
Caleb was Jessie’s brother, Caleb Doyle, the playwright, author of Venus in Furs and a new play, Chaos Theory, which had just tanked. Theater was in their blood. The Doyles were not a showbiz dynasty, however, but outer-borough New Yorkers, their background as blue-collar suburban as Frank’s family, but Yankee, not southern. Jessie’s love of theater was matched by her smarts, but she’d not yet found a vocation there. She tried different things—acting, writing, managing—a jill-of-all-trades. Right now she was personal assistant to Henry Lewse, the British actor, during his stay in New York.
“I don’t care if Caleb sees this,” said Frank. “I’m thrilled you came. Look, there’s a cast party for the kids and I have to hang out. But then we can go grab something to eat and, uh, talk.”
She made a face, an overdone look of sorrow and guilt. “I’m sorry, Frank. I know I said we could get together tonight. But I can’t. I need to take care of something for Henry.”
“It’s almost nine o’clock. You on call twenty-four hours?”
“It’s an emergency. I’m sorry. He’s my job.”
Frank was surprised at how angry he felt, angry and hurt.
“I’m meeting him uptown after his show,” she explained. “I don’t know how long it’ll take. But it can’t take too long. Hey. We could meet at Mona Lisa later. About eleven?”
“I remember the last time we did that. You never showed.”
“That wasn’t my fault. Henry needed to talk. I couldn’t abandon him. Come on, Frank. I apologized for that already. Oh, all right,” she conceded. “What if I come out to Hoboken when I finish with Henry?”
Which meant spending the night, which was what Frank had wanted all along. Except he hated the idea of making love to Jessie when her head was full of Henry Lewse.
“No,” he said. “It’ll be too late. We better not. I have an early rehearsal of Dwight and Allegra’s play tomorrow anyway.”
She studied him, timidly, skeptically. “You weren’t going to ask me to spend the night?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. If it wasn’t too late.” Of course he’d planned to ask her, but he couldn’t now.
She frowned. “Jesus, Frank. Don’t be this way. You don’t have to be jealous about Henry. He’s strictly business.”
“I’m not jealous. Why should I be jealous?”
“He’s gay,” said Jessie.
“I know that.” He also knew that Lewse was fifty-plus, but this was more complicated than sex or bodies. “I’m not jealous,” he repeated. “I assume he barely ever notices you.”
Jessie glared at him. “Oh no. He notices me. Believe me. He’s helpless without me. He can do art, but he can’t do life.”
They said nothing for a moment, neither wanting to admit how angry they were.
“How about tomorrow afternoon?” she said.
“I told you. We’re rehearsing this other show tomorrow. It opens next week.” He feared he was being silly now and decided not to punish her further. “What about Sunday?”
“Sorry. Caleb and I are going to see our mom on Sunday.” She curled her upper lip and rolled her eyes.
He rolled his eyes in sympathy. Mothers, they seemed to tell each other, and made their peace.
“But see?” she said. “It’s not just my life that’s full. Yours is too. We’ll talk during the week. You’re coming with me to Caleb’s birthday on Friday, right?”
“I guess.” He’d agreed to go but dreaded it. The party would be full of successful actors.
“But we’ll talk before then,” said Jessie. “Good night.” She kissed his cheek again. “It was great, Frank. Really. You should direct more.”
“I’m directing Dwight and Allegra’s show.”
“No, I mean big-time. For real.”
“It’s not like I’m turning down offers.”
“But you’re not pursuing them either.”
He took a deep breath. He did not want to get into this discussion tonight.
Just then a tall man like a stooping scarecrow walked past. He called out, “Nice job!” before disappearing in the crowd.
“Oh my God,” said Jessie. “Do you know who that was? That was Prager. The Buzzard!”
Frank looked and saw only the elevated back of a gray suit.
Jessie grabbed Frank’s arm. “He said nice job! Can you believe it? Oh wow. You should feel so pleased!”
“Whoopee,” went Frank. But he was pleased. He’d feel more pleased if the two crummy words had changed Jessie’s mind about running after her boss tonight. Except he wanted to be loved for himself, not because he’d been patted on the head by the New York fucking Times. “Talk to you when we talk,” he said and touched Jessie good-bye on the elbow. “I need to get backstage and make sure stuff’s put away. Good night.” He backed toward the auditorium and waved at her, pretending everything was cool.
She waved too, a light twist of her hand like Queen Elizabeth, then hoisted her briefcase under her arm and departed.
Frank slipped back into the auditorium. It was empty, the stage restfully deserted. As he feared, coats and hats were strewn all over. He felt like kicking the hats, but instead began to pick them up and set them on the prop table. It made him feel like a mom, ineffectual and sexless. He cursed himself for telling Jessie not to come by tonight. Why did he do that? He could at least have gotten laid. What kind of man says no to sex? Well, a man in love. Men were supposed to think of love as a way to get nookie, but Frank just said no to nookie out of love. Or was it only pride?
Maybe he wasn’t in love with her. Maybe he only wanted to be in love. What was there to love? Jessie was nothing but trouble. She loved theater, and Frank loved that she loved theater, but Frank was giving up theater. And she loved theater not like Frank loved it, as a craft, but needily, therapeutically, with lots of personal strings. There was her brother, for one, a successful playwright. And now there was Henry Lewse. The great Henry Lewse, former star of the Royal Shakespeare Company, the Hamlet of his generation and all that crap, currently appearing on Broadway. Frank was unimpressed, but Jessie was infatuated. There was no other word for her devotion. Lewse was gay—famously so, a public homosexual—which meant Jessie’s love would remain platonic. Only what the hell did she love then? His artistry? His fame? His success?
Her brother was gay too, but not half as successful, especially after his new play flopped. There was some kind of connection there, which Frank was reluctant to explore. He could call her a fag hag, except the name explained nothing. He knew so many gay men himself that his friend Dwight, who was gay, called him a fag hog. Frank had cast Caleb Doyle’s new boyfriend in their uptown play in hopes of getting closer to Jessie. Toby was not half bad as an actor, although halfway through rehearsal he was suddenly an ex-boyfriend and Frank was still stuck with him.
Carmen appeared at the stage door. “Oh, Frank,” she said. “I was going to do that. You should be outside talking to parents.”
“They have their stars to talk to. Didn’t your mom come?”
“Yeah, but she’s talking to one of our neighbors, wanting the dirt on our landlord. Here. I’ll help you.”
“Thanks, sweetcakes.”
She picked Captain Andy’s coat off the floor and took it to the coat rack. “Actors are such pigs.”
“Welcome to theater,” he said. “Where there’s the actors and the rest of us. Who clean up after the actors.” He bumped his hip against Carmen’s hip and she bumped back and they laughed.