Applause erupted out front, solid and loud. Backstage in the dressing rooms, it sounded like a hailstorm. The phenomenon never ceased to amaze Jessie: it was weird like people but as natural as weather.
“I wonder if they like it?” she asked the New York Times.
“Hmp,” went the Times.
They were in Henry’s dressing room, Jessie and Kenneth Prager, the man himself. He sat there, gripping his little notebook, saying little. Jessie had seen him on TV and even in public—last week, in fact, at P.S. 41—but never this close. He was taller than she remembered, more physical, but also paler, drier. One might say he looked more like an accountant than a drama critic, but Jessie had a good friend who was an accountant, and he was smart and funny.
“Do you always wear a suit?” she asked.
“Of course not. I just didn’t have a chance to change.”
The simplest question seemed to make Prager squirm. She enjoyed needling him.
“So it’s not mandatory? You could wear a Hawaiian shirt?”
“Excuse me, Miss—”
“Doyle. But you can call me Jessie.”
“Miss Doyle.” Her last name meant nothing to him. “You don’t need to entertain me. I can wait for Mr. Lewse alone.”
“No trouble. And I want to introduce you two.”
It was hard to believe that this long, lean drone in gray was the maker and breaker of reputations, the Buzzard of Off-Broadway. Well, he did look kind of buzzardy.
They heard the actors coming, a growing noise, as if water were pouring backstage. Prager slowly stood up.
Henry swung into the doorway—and stopped.
“Kenneth Prager. New York Times.” He held out his hand. And a light snapped on in his eyes. It was a look of love: straight-guy love, a fan’s love. Jessie remembered the same spark in her father’s eyes whenever he spoke of a favorite baseball player or hero cop.
“If you say so,” said Henry in his dry Hackensacker manner. He shook the hand as his own eyes blinked and darted around. He often came offstage looking like a man on amphetamines. “Jessie? Time?”
“Oh? Right. Ten-forty.” The show had run a few minutes late.
He signaled her out. “You too, my friend,” he told Prager. “We don’t want this interview too intimate, do we? Family newspaper and all. Be with you shortly.”
Prager joined Jessie in the hall, looking mildly hurt.
“Sorry,” said Jessie. “We have another show to see tonight. And I should warn you: he can be real wired after performing. He’s had a full day already. Talk shows and radio and stuff.”
“I’ve had a full day myself,” said Prager, pretending nothing was wrong. “I’d like to go home.”
Princess Centimillia walked past, glancing at Prager. He gently turned away, as if afraid of being recognized.
The door snapped open and out charged Henry, already fully dressed in work shirt, jeans, and fancy linen jacket. He had not taken a shower but had sprinkled himself with cologne.
“Come along,” he said. “You’re the Times man? Sorry. We’re late. I have another show to see. A friend’s show. But you can interview me on the drive over, can’t you? It won’t be too out of your way.”
They charged out the stage door into the alley. A thick pack of fans stepped forward.
“No!” Henry shouted. “Not tonight! Come back tomorrow. I’ll give you everything you want tomorrow.”
And amazingly enough, the fans backed away.
“I’m late, I’m late,” cried Henry with a laugh, and he sprinted away. He’d make a wonderful White Rabbit, thought Jessie.
The limo was parked by the curb. Sasha stood by the open door, welcoming them home. They piled into the back: Jessie on the left, Henry in the middle, Prager on the right. Jessie noticed Hamlet in paperback up front. Sasha must have bought it during the show.
“West 104th Street,” said Henry. “And step on it, my good man. What time is it?”
“Quarter to eleven,” said Jessie. “But they’re not going to start without you.”
“You think?”
Prager was playing with a black tape recorder the size of a cigarette pack. He aimed the pack at Henry.
“Mr. Lewse? Shall we?”
“Oh no. Call me Henry. Please. I’m turning more American every day. No more English formality.”
“But he isn’t America,” said Jessie. “He’s the Times. Where they mister and missus their own children.”
“Henry,” said Prager, firmly and defiantly. “You’re one of the most admired actors of our time. You’ve done everything from Shakespeare to Beckett. Now you’re trying your hand at musical comedy. And there’s talk of you playing a suave movie villain—”
“Buzz, buzz, buzz,” said Henry. “We like to keep busy.”
“So,” Prager continued. “Do you see yourself as a highbrow visiting low culture out of financial necessity? Or do you actually enjoy trying as many different things as possible?”
A smart version of a tired question, thought Jessie, with a setup for a good answer. Prager might not be a total hack after all.
“Oh I want to try everything,” said Henry. “High, low, middle. I’m a promiscuous slut. A happy hooker of the theater arts.”
Prager looked uneasy. It wasn’t quite a Times quote.
Henry sounded awfully giddy tonight, goofy. Jessie wondered if he’d snatched a few tokes in his dressing room.
“You don’t see yourself primarily as a man of the theater?”
“Oh no. I see myself as—Excuse me. Jessie?” He turned to her. “You’ve seen this play? Does Toby speak or is it more a walk-on?”
“Oh no,” Jessie assured him. “He has a sizable part.”
“Good.” He turned back to Prager. “Sorry. You were saying?”
Of course, thought Jessie. Henry was goofy over Toby. After a day of fame, Rosie O’Donnell, and big bucks, he was gaga over a large blond bunny. Which was sweet. Kind of.
The car hurtled up Broadway. Prager tried more questions. “Many of your peers from the Royal Shakespeare have gone on to careers that take them far from serious theater.”
“Oh. Like dear old Alan Rickman?” Henry said indifferently. “But he did better work in Die Hard than anything else he’s done.”
“Do you see any common ground between playing a suave lover of little girls in Greville, and anyone you’ve played in Shakespeare?”
“Hmmm. Hamlet.”
“Interesting. How is he like Hamlet?”
“Damned if I know. Except they’re all like Hamlet, aren’t they?”
The car turned a corner into a narrow side street. They came to a stop by an old building with a canvas awning.
“This is it?” said Henry. “Where’s the theater?”
“There is no theater,” said Jessie. “It’s in an apartment.”
“How creative. Let me out, please.”
Jessie opened her door and got out.
“But we’re not finished yet!” cried Prager.
“After the show,” said Henry. “Come up and watch it with us. We’ll finish afterward. I promise.” He raced across the sidewalk to the front door without waiting to see if Prager followed.
Jessie bent down to speak to Prager through the door. “Hey. He’s an artist. They’re not like normal people.”
Prager turned off his tape recorder and shoved it in an inside coat pocket. The Times was not like normal people either.
“I apologize. Really.” And she was sorry. Not that she felt great sympathy for the Buzzard. She just didn’t want to turn the Times against Henry. “He needed to see this play,” she explained. “Well, not the play, but someone in it. If you know what I mean.”
“I wish I’d known sooner,” he grumbled. “Before I went out tonight on this wild-goose chase.”
“Sorry,” said Jessie. “You sure you don’t want to come up and see the play? It’s short. Only a half hour.” Or something like that. She couldn’t remember how long it was.
Prager remained in his corner of the backseat, stewing and thinking. “A half hour?”
“Or thereabouts.” What would Frank think if she showed up with the Times? Would he forgive her or hate her more?
Prager shook his head. “I’ll wait out here.”
“You won’t come up?”
“No. I’ll wait in the car. I’m sorely tempted to catch a cab downtown and go straight home. But I won’t, only because I don’t have anything I can use yet.”
“Oh good. Oh thanks. I really appreciate it,” said Jessie. “Downtown? We’re going downtown after this. We can drop you off.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Just so you know. But see you in a few minutes? Sasha will take good care of you.” She closed the door and tapped on Sasha’s window. It whirred down. “Don’t let him get away,” she whispered.