Oh, Frank, thought Jessie as she hung up. She’d said something wrong but wasn’t sure what. Now he was playing games about whether or not he’d go to Caleb’s party. Silly old Frank. He should know better than to call her here.
She decided not to think about it and went back to work.
Henry was around the corner, groaning and grunting at his Nautilus machine. The blacksmith bang of weights was accompanied by old music on the stereo, “String of Pearls.”
Monday was a dark night, and Henry usually slept until noon. There was a lunch scheduled for two today, with Adam Rabb of all people, and Jessie assumed she would have to wake him. But when she arrived this morning, Henry was already up, bouncing around the apartment in sweatpants and tank top. “Jessie, mon amie. And how are you on this exquisite morning?” Then he put on a CD of 1940s dance music and began his morning workout. She had sniffed the air, but there was no aroma of dope.
Jessie usually enjoyed Mondays. Henry slept late, she did her chores, and then, when he woke up and found an empty night ahead of him, he hung out and chatted. Today, however, started out all wrong. She couldn’t enjoy anything, not even Henry’s mail.
She read all his correspondence and answered most of it, except for the more personal letters. Her typed reply was clipped to the original letter and left out for Henry to sign. There had been a flurry of personal notes the week after T & G opened, but they soon dropped off. Now his mail consisted chiefly of bills, invitations to speak—student, theatrical, or gay groups—requests for donations, petitions, and an occasional fan letter or plea for help disguised as a fan letter. People rarely asked for autographed photos anymore, but they did ask for advice. There was one of those today:
Dear Mr. Lewse,
I saw you last week when my middle school drama class came to “Tom and Gerry,” your smash hit musical. You were wonderful. I laughed and laughed.
I myself want to be an actress and think I have what it takes. How did you do it? If I send you a list of questions on how to structure my career, will you answer them?
Thank you. You are the greatest.
Sincerely yours,
Tiffany Benz
Nowadays even seventh graders were on the make. When Jessie showed Henry the first such letter, he was amazed. “Is this an American thing? How does one respond? And it’s a boy?” The first writer was male. “How old? Hmm. We could tell him I won’t be able to advise wisely until I see his photo. In either Speedos or briefs.”
He was joking, of course, but Jessie worked out a standard reply on her own: “I regret that my schedule does not leave me time…hard work and perseverance…many good drama schools in this country…best of luck.”
She wrote this letter to Tiffany and ran it out on the printer.
The clanking stopped. Henry came around the corner, looking disturbed, staring at a CD case in his hand. He was dripping, his tank top and gray chest hair plastered to his torso, the black hair on his head sticking out in all directions. Trim but grizzled along the edges, Henry looked like an old gymnast.
“‘Sentimental Journey,’” he said. “I could’ve sworn that was Glenn Miller. But I guess not. I have this inexplicable yen for ‘Sentimental Journey.’ I wonder where could I find it?”
“I’m sure they have it at Virgin,” she told him.
“Virgin? Oh, the store. Of course. But what disk would it be on? I suppose they could tell me.”
He seemed so helpless that Jessie couldn’t stop herself. “If you like, I could stop by and find a CD on my way home. Or I could probably download it from the Net.”
“Can you do that? No, no. Not necessary.” Henry seemed to think it was cheating to pull music from his computer. “A regular CD will be fine. I’ll go over to Virgin this afternoon myself. It’ll get me out of your hair and give me something to do.”
“You can do it after your lunch with Rabb,” Jessie suggested.
“Oh yes. That producer fellow. What time is—?”
Just then the phone rang. Jessie looked at the caller ID screen: England. She answered on the next ring. “Henry Lewse.”
Henry watched eagerly, as if expecting a call.
“Good morning, Jessie. Has our naughty boy dragged his sorry carcass out of bed yet?”
“Dolly. Hello.”
Henry’s face fell.
“Good morning. Or it’s evening over there,” said Jessie, stalling while she watched Henry to see if he wanted to talk to his agent.
He waved both hands across his face.
“No, I’m sorry, Dolly. He’s still dead to the world. Do you want me to have him call you at home when he gets up?”
“Want and get are two entirely different verbs with Henry.” Dolly Hayes had the most wonderful voice, a throaty Joan Greenwood purr. “He hasn’t returned my last calls. We haven’t spoken in weeks. If I didn’t know his bad habits, I’d swear he was avoiding me.”
“He’s been very busy, Dolly. Is there a message I can give him?” She took up her pen to write it so that Henry could read it over her shoulder.
“We have a nice job offer in hand. Voice-overs for a series of very smart detergent commercials.”
Jessie wrote “Voice-over soap ads.” Henry pulled the pen out of her hand and scribbled beside it “U.S. or U.K.?”
“Is that for the American or British market, Dolly?”
“The U.K., but it’s nothing to sneeze at.”
“British. Uh-huh. I’ll tell him.”
Henry flipped his right hand backward as if to say “Piffle.”
“I can understand him turning up his nose at a season in Leeds, but this is easy work for excellent money and wonderful exposure.”
“I’ll let him know.” She wrote “Good $, big expose.”
Henry worked his hand like a chattering sock puppet.
“Has he met yet with that Rubin fellow?”
“Adam Rabb. No, Dolly. That’s today.”
“Can you let me know how it goes? I assume it’s just another case of commerce kissing the arse of art, but you can never guess where these things will lead.”
“No, Dolly. I’ll tell Henry to give you a full report.”
“So how is our boy doing? Up to his eyebrows in the New York fleshpots? Rediscovering his hippie youth? Or is he already smitten with some pretty piece of American tail?”
“He seems to keep pretty much to himself, Dolly.”
“Uh-huh.” Dolly sounded dubious. “Let me just say, as one chum to another: We all want to protect Henry. He plays to the mother in us. But Henry’s worst enemy is Henry. See what you can do to get him to call me.”
“I’ll do my best, Dolly.”
“Thank you, Jessie. Good-bye.”
Jessie hung up and turned to face Henry.
“And that’s all the silly cow could find?” he said. “They want to use my voice to sell bars of soap?”
“Laundry detergent.”
“Stupid cow.”
Jessie liked Dolly Hayes. She couldn’t understand Henry’s antipathy, or why he wanted to drop her for an American agent. “She sounds concerned. She just wants to talk.”
“Me mum’s dead, thank you. I don’t need another. Her only real concern is that I might be leaving her.”
“But you are. You haven’t told her yet?”
He frowned. “She’s a friend as well as a business associate. I don’t want her to take it the wrong way.” He looked guilty, then covered his unease with a naughty smirk. “But thank you for fibbing for me, Jessie. You’re an excellent liar. I should feel terrible for bringing out that side in you.”
“Not at all.” She laughed. “It’s in my job description. Lying.”
“You are so good to me. I don’t know how to repay you.”
And as he turned away, a new thought lit up a corner of her brain. “Actually—Friday night? After the show. Do you have plans?”
“What? Plans? I don’t think I—”
“Would you be my date? For a party?” Fuck Frank. If Frank wouldn’t go with her to Caleb’s, she’d take Henry.
“A party?” He made a face like she’d just asked him to eat boiled dog.
“My brother’s birthday. He’s giving himself a party. My brother. Remember? You said you wanted to meet him.”
“Oh, the playwright! Yes. Of course.” Now he was interested. He remained confused, but he was definitely interested.
“It’s a big party, so I don’t know if he’ll have a chance to explain algorithms to you. But you will get a chance to meet him.”
“Algorithms? Of course. Algorithms. Why not?”
“You’ll come?”
“It’s the least I can do. I owe you, Jessie. Besides, I need to get out more. And I’ll get to meet your mysterious brother.”
“Nothing mysterious about Caleb.”
“But he is to me. I’ve never met Mr. Chaos Theory.”
“Uh, he’s still raw about his play,” she said uncertainly.
“I will be the soul of discretion there. Trust me. Friday night then. Excellent. Something else to look forward to.” Henry returned to the dining room and his weight machine.
Jessie didn’t know what to make of his off-and-on interest in Caleb. It did not sound sincere. But why should she care? Henry Lewse was taking her to Caleb’s party, which was not just a birthday party but a real New York theater party. It should set people talking.
The clanks and grunts resumed around the corner. Jessie continued with the mail. Only now did she think of Frank again. But this had nothing to do with Frank. Frank didn’t want to go to Caleb’s party. He had made that clear. She was doing Frank a favor.
“Henry?” she called out. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your lunch meeting?”
“My lunch what? Oh. I guess.” He returned to the door, his face shiny with sweat. “Who’s this fellow again?”
“Adam Rabb. He’s a producer. Mostly theater, but an occasional movie. Good theater, bad movies. He’s famous for being an asshole.”
“Aren’t they all? And what does he want from me?”
“Dolly says it’s just a meet and eat.”
“Hmm. He just wants to bask in my stardom. Oh well. At least I’ll get a good meal out of it. I suppose I could wash.”
He disappeared into his bedroom. Jessie shook her head and chuckled. He could be a very witty man.
She opened his phone bill. She enjoyed looking down the list of long-distance numbers and cities, wondering what famous colleagues were represented here. Henry was clearly a phone-call friend, not a letter-writing friend. The new bill included a category labeled Premium Calls. She had her suspicions about what they were but didn’t dare ask Henry. She called Verizon.
“Those are what we refer to as adult services,” the operator explained. “Did you want to put a block on them? So members of your household cannot call those numbers?”
“That’s okay. We want to keep them. I just didn’t understand the terminology. Thank you.”
Jessie wasn’t shocked, only surprised. She thought phone sex would be too techno for Henry. But she gave the matter a shrug, made out a check, and moved on to the next item.