The Hudson River raced outside their window, a soft mirror of quicksilver on a bright, windless morning. The high steel gate of the Tappan Zee Bridge swung forward on the left, slowly at first, then more quickly. Then the span of girders shot overhead and the train plunged into greenery: clouds and sprays of fresh new foliage. They had left the sanctuary of the city for the wilderness of suburbs.
“Sometimes he talks to me like I’m his only friend in the world,” said Jessie. “Other times he forgets I’m even there. He takes me for granted. Which is a kind of compliment. I guess.” She laughed. “He’s such a mess. He makes me feel practical.”
It was Sunday morning, and she and Caleb had a Metro-North car almost entirely to themselves. They were going home for Caleb’s birthday. His party was Friday, but their mother refused to come to the city. So they went up to Beacon for the day.
Caleb sat by the window with several sections of the Times in his lap. Jessie didn’t understand how he could still read the paper that had made his life so miserable. The Sunday edition was the worst. He didn’t read the Times now but listened to her with a mild, patient, vague expression.
“And spoiled?” she said. “Jesus. Before the show opened, he was sure it would be a turkey. Gloom and doom, gloom and doom. Then the rave reviews came, but did they make him feel better? No way. Now he complains about how obvious it all was.”
Jessie was telling her latest Henry stories. She had begun back at Grand Central with the declaration, “You’ll never guess what Henry wanted me to do the other night. Buy him a little pot. And I don’t mean ceramics.” Which was a pretty good joke, she thought, although Caleb gave it only a faint smile.
“He can’t do life, only art. But he’s narrow even there. It didn’t hit me until the other day: he doesn’t do anything except act. He doesn’t direct. He doesn’t write. He doesn’t even teach. It’s a wonder he’s no crazier than he is. A spacey, spoiled, self-absorbed mess. His life in New York would be a total disaster without me to look after him. Seriously. And not just doing his accounts or buying him dope.”
“Are you bragging or complaining?”
Caleb’s tone was dry and neutral, but she felt scolded.
“A little of both,” she admitted. “But it is interesting. A chore and a privilege—to work so close to a real genius. See what makes it tick. Clay feet and all.”
Caleb frowned.
“I don’t mean that you’re not one, Cal. A genius.”
“Who said I was?” He lowered his face, crushing his tuft of beard into his neck. “Genius is such a crock word. There’s no such thing, especially in theater.”
She hated his new beard. It was supposed to be cool, but the little strip looked forced and artificial. The style was already five years old, if not older. But Caleb was even less of their age than she was. With his goony black-framed glasses, a goatee only made him look like a goat in a library.
“Acting is a kind of genius,” she argued. “A freakish ability to think with your whole body. Instantly. Not in slow motion the way that writers or painters do.”
His eyes lost focus, turned distant and preoccupied.
Jessie charged on. “I’ve come to the conclusion that actors, the best actors anyway, are idiot savants. From one minute to the next with Henry, I never know if I’ll get the idiot or the savant.”
She often did all the talking with her brother. Sometimes she blamed him—he was so miserly with his thoughts, so anal retentive—but other times she blamed herself, fearing she chattered away only to prove to herself that she really existed.
“Actors have this magic thoughtlessness,” she said. “I don’t. Which was my problem as an actor, both back in college and the classes I took at HB. I’m not saying I’m too smart to be an actor. I’m just too conscious. Too rational.”
She was asking for it now, but Caleb still said nothing. He remained deep inside his head.
“Working out a new scene?” she said irritably. “Lost in your next big project?”
He produced a heavy sigh. “I told you. There is no next project.”
“All right. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Nothing to talk about. I haven’t written a word in months. I can’t imagine why.” His sarcasm wasn’t bitter but cold and smug; Caleb could be so damned righteous in his suffering.
“You will again. Just give it time.”
“Hm.” And he turned away and looked out the window.
All right, she thought, he’s not writing and can’t talk about it. She understood that. But she was determined to get his attention. So she played a dangerous card.
“Frank says Toby’s really good in this play they’re doing.”
He didn’t even blink. “Good for Toby.”
“You’re coming, aren’t you? To see it?”
“Not this weekend. Next weekend. Maybe. I have my wonderful party this weekend, remember.”
She sniffed. “I get Toby a part in a play, and you don’t want to even see it? Because he’s in it?”
“I’m not afraid of seeing Toby.” He knotted up a corner of his mouth. “And you didn’t get him the part. Frank cast him.”
“Yeah, but Frank met him through me.”
“How is old Frank these days?”
He was only changing the subject, but Jessie hated the condescension in his tone. “I thought you liked Frank?”
“What’s not to like?”—implying that there was nothing to dislike either.
“You should’ve gone to his show, Cal. It was good. Last night was the last night, so you missed it. But Frank’s a smart director. It was wonderful watching those kids do theater. And Show Boat is really interesting, more complex than I ever gave it credit for…”
Caleb zoned out again.
She angrily dug her wireless from her pocket and beeped it on.
Caleb winced. “Who you calling?”
“Just need to see if there’s anything from Henry.” She did it solely for effect. Henry had called yesterday, but that was a rare event. She’d brought the phone today for effect as well, a prop to remind herself that she was indispensable to someone.
There were no messages, of course, not even one from Frank. She turned off the phone and shoved it back into her coat.
“Henry left the weirdest message yesterday,” she said. “Asking about you.”
“Me?”
She’d forgotten about it until now, it made so little sense. “He wanted to know if you were Doyle the playwright.”
“Probably wants me to write a play. With a fat part for him.”
“Actually, he wanted to know if you could explain algorithms.”
“Huh?”
She laughed. “That’s what he said. I don’t get it either.”
“Jesus. You use a couple of half-assed math metaphors, and people suddenly think you’re Einstein. What does Henry Lewse want to know about algorithms for?”
“Beats me. Maybe he just likes the word. Or maybe it’s his way of saying hello. You’ve never met, right?”
“No.”
“You should. I think you’d like each other.”
He drew another heavy sigh. “I have nothing to say to Henry Lewse. I’m so tired of actors. All actors.”
“Henry’s not like other actors. He’s different. He has a brain. He has soul. He’s a serious artist. I think you’d find you have a lot in common. What if I brought him to your party on Friday?”
Caleb stared at her. “Haven’t you heard yourself go on and on for the past half hour? Bitching and moaning about your crazy boss. Selfish and self-absorbed? The idiot savant? The pothead?”
“He’s not a pothead. He just needs grass to help him sleep.”
“A lot in common, huh? Yeah. Right. The pathetic failure and the happy sellout.”
“Henry didn’t sell out.”
“What else do you call it? The man sold his soul for a Broadway fucking musical. What’s next? A sitcom? Hollywood Squares? He’s kissed his artistic ass good-bye. He just doesn’t know it yet. Or maybe he does and that’s why he needs to get stoned to get any sleep.”
Jessie glared at her brother. Henry Lewse was hers. Only she had the right to trash Henry.
“No,” she said. “You have tons in common. Yeah, Henry’s spoiled. But no worse than you. And no more self-absorbed. I’m sorry your play tanked, I’m sorry you’re so unhappy. But that doesn’t give you the right to be so righteous and pissy about everything.”
“I’m not pissy. I’m depressed.”
“You…geniuses.” It wasn’t the right word but no other word came to mind. “No matter how much success you get, you want more. You and Henry both. If you’re not bitching about failure, you’re bitching about success.”
“I haven’t had any success to bitch about lately.”
“No. Your play cratered. And it was a good play. I liked it. But you’ll write others. You call yourself a failure, but us peons would kill to have the kind of success that you call failure.”
He was silent. He gave her an apologetic look, but didn’t apologize. “You don’t understand. Success doesn’t make everything all right. It makes you vulnerable. You wonder why you wanted to do any of it in the first place. It doesn’t take away our right to complain. I have plenty to complain about. Look at me. I’ve got no boyfriend, no job, no work in progress, nothing.”
“You have a million bucks.”
“Not anymore.” He looked angry that she mentioned his money, then embarrassed. He nervously glanced around to see if anyone could hear. “It was never a million,” he whispered. “Not after all the commissions and taxes. Since then it’s just dribbled away.”
“Your penthouse hasn’t gone up in value?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “But what’s money? Work is what counts. But you need success to keep working. I don’t know if I’ll ever get another play produced. Which makes it impossible to write a new one. I don’t know what to do with my life now. The only thing I can count on is that I’ll get an obituary in the Times.”
“Which I won’t!” cried Jessie. “And I’d kill for a Times obit.”
He stared at her. And he laughed. It was a mirthless, dry laugh, but justified. She had to laugh with him.
“Listen to us,” said Caleb. “How the hell did we get here?”
“You started it. Trashing Henry.” Even after laughter, however, she remained angry. She felt protective toward Henry, hurt that Caleb didn’t take her seriously, and, despite herself, resentful that her name never would appear on a Times obituary page—probably.
“You’re hardly a peon,” said Caleb. “You’re smart and talented and hardworking. Henry Lewse is damned lucky to have you.”
But he did not look at her as he spoke, as if embarrassed to say such things to his own sister.