Irene was right. Most people never arrive at a New York party before eight. As the sun sank behind the roofs and water tanks to the west, and a crescent moon grew brighter in the deep blue sky to the east—a thin fingernail clipping of moon—other guests began to appear.
The first was Kathleen Chalfant, the actress from Angels in America and Wit, a handsome mix of Virginia Woolf and Annie Oakley, with the throaty voice of a melodious raven. “What a lovely place,” she sang, lifting her hands palms out on either side of her face, a gesture that mocked itself even as it expressed real pleasure. With her was her husband, Henry, a soft-spoken man in glasses who made documentaries about street gangs, graffiti art, and salsa music. “Hello, Caleb,” he shyly murmured.
Caleb introduced them to Daniel Broca—“You’re brilliant,” Broca blurted at Kathy, then shriveled up in embarrassment—and his mother. “You live nearby?” said Molly, stunned that two people in their fifties actually lived in the Village. Caleb turned her over to the Chalfants, who were perfect company for anybody’s mother.
Next came Tom Steffano and Matt O’Brian, two whey-faced waifs like anorexic choirboys who had more weight in their stage identities, Leopold and Lois.
Caleb was suprised to see them. “The show still running?”
“Oh yeah,” said Matt, or maybe it was Tom—Caleb couldn’t tell them apart out of drag. “This is our night off. That shit review in the Times was a kick in the nuts, but we’ll survive.”
They were joined by Michael Feingold, the theater reviewer of the Voice often confused with a singing piano player with a similar name. Critics aren’t supposed to fraternize, but Feingold was always up front in his reviews about whose food he’d eaten, and it never seemed to affect his opinions. He always praised the actors and damned the playwright. Nobody mentioned his review of Chaos Theory when he greeted Caleb.
Here was Cameron Ditchley of the New York Post in his deliberately absurd ascot and seersucker, admiring the view and asking Caleb if he could see into his neighbors’ windows. Then came Craig Chester, the actor, followed by John Benjamin Hickey, another actor. Soon there were too many guests for Caleb to greet each new arrival; he lost track of who was here. He remained on the terrace, in the prowlike corner with his back to the sunset, noticing now and then the change of light as the stucco wall turned pink, then rose, then blue. The lights inside grew brighter. The party became a sea of bodies with an occasional familiar face bobbing to the surface.
“What did I tell you?” said Irene, bringing him another soda. “You do have friends.”
“Or people who have nothing better to do on Friday night.” But he was happily surprised by how many peers and acquaintances were here. He was not anathema after all. “Is my mother still with the Chalfants?”
The Chalfants had left, but Irene thought she’d seen Molly helping Jack in the kitchen.
“Well, so long as she’s happy.” He had tried calling Jessie, but her cell phone was off, and he left a message asking her to get here as soon as possible. “If worse comes to worse, I suppose I could ask Mom to spend the night.”
Then another wave of guests was upon him and he stopped thinking about his mother. There were more actresses now—it was after dark. He was pleased to see Cherry Jones and her lover, the lesbian architect, and Welker White, who had quit acting to have a baby, and Hope Davis, who was back from Los Angeles with lots of jokes about the Land of the Lotus Eaters. No, the people in his world of theater did not abandon him. What was he thinking? They too had known failure as well as success, and they weren’t going to avoid him like a fellow thief hanging from a gallows at the crossroad.
The next time Caleb looked at his watch, it was ten o’clock. He was drinking Diet Coke, so it wasn’t alcohol that was making the time fly but party adrenaline.
The terrace was filled like the deck of a pleasure boat. There was a steady milling of bodies around the food table outside the French doors. This was a West Village party, which meant people were fairly laid-back. They were here to see and be seen, of course, but mostly they were here to talk. This was New York, and it was uncool to stare at celebrities. There were no real celebrities anyway, until Claire Wade, star of Venus in Furs, arrived.
“Caleb? Where’s my pal Caleb?” a honeyed soprano called out. The crowd parted and Claire Wade emerged. Her semiclassical face, like a Garbo with freckles, came forward. “Oh, sweetie. How are you?” She gripped each of his hands and gazed deep into his eyes. “Happy birthday, my love. Happy, happy birthday.”
She spoke in her best Joan Crawford manner, a bit grand despite the casualness of her short hair and khaki slacks. Caleb didn’t care. He was delighted she’d come. He could feel the whole party watching them.
“So how are you?” he asked. “Doing any movies?”
“I’m waiting for them to make our movie. But—I probably shouldn’t tell you this—” She lowered her voice. “I’m in the running with Sarandon. For the mother in Greville. Do you know the book?”
“Uh, yes.” He considered telling her that Greville himself was supposed to come tonight, but decided against it. Claire would want to stay and meet him. He didn’t know if his good spirits could survive the spectacle of his star rubbing like a cat up against that star.
Irene came over. “Oh hi,” she told Claire. She felt no awe for movie faces. “Caleb. It’s getting late. Shouldn’t we cut the cake?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“But we have to toast you and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Or something. How do you want to do this?”
“Can’t we just serve the cake and forget about me?”
“It’s a birthday party. Come on, Caleb, dear. Do you want me to make a toast? Or I could get your mother.”
“Oh God, no. Not my mother.”
“What about me?” Claire offered.
“You don’t have to do that,” said Caleb.
“But I want to,” Claire insisted. “It’d be an honor. A privilege. And then I really must go. I have a very early day tomorrow.”
Irene led them indoors, into the surprisingly bright lights of the living room. Jack was already setting the rose-choked cake on the drinks table, with a stack of clear plastic plates on the side.
“Where’s my mother?” Caleb asked him.
“She went into the bedroom to lie down for a minute.”
“Is she ill?”
Jack shook his head. “She just wanted to rest. Very nice lady, your mother. And funny.”
“Oh yeah,” said Caleb. “She can be very funny around strangers. I better go get her.”
He felt terrible for abandoning her, for forgetting her. She had come all the way into town, a major undertaking, but the caterer had seen more of her than Caleb had. He went to his bedroom. He lightly rapped on the door. No answer. He pushed the door open.
She lay on his bed, flat on her back, her left arm over her eyes, her mouth wide open. She was sound asleep, and snoring. Her feet stuck off the end of the bed. One loafer still hung on her toes, the other had dropped to the floor. She seemed both young and old, like a college girl passed out at a mixer, and a grandmother exhausted by a day at the zoo. Caleb felt guiltier than ever. And full of love. He decided to let her sleep. He would wake her when Jessie got here.
He turned off the light. Her snores sounded louder in the dark. He gently pulled the door shut and rejoined the party.
“Attention, please!” called out Claire, tapping a glass with a knife. “The time has come. The time is here.”
All around the room, people stopped talking or chewing or drinking. They faced the table with the gaudy cake and movie star.
“Friends?” Claire began. “Friends. We are gathered this evening to mark a very special…”
Caleb stood beside her with the conventional bashful smile, looked out at the room, and felt a strange, deep, sudden sadness.
The party had been going well. It turned out so much better than he had anticipated. But now, hearing himself toasted by a friendly stranger, surrounded by friendly strangers, he felt terribly alone. Nobody absolutely necessary to him was here tonight. Except Irene. But Irene was different. Irene was as much business as friendship. His mother was here, but she was asleep. Where was his sister? And where was—?
But there was nobody else, was there? That’s why this hurt so much. That’s why he had dreaded tonight. Throwing himself a party was like rubbing his nose in his failure to connect with people.
“And so, my dear,” Claire concluded, “your friends and I wish you all the happiness in the world. On this, your birthday.” She lifted her glass, and everyone applauded.
“Thank you,” he mumbled. “Thank you.” And he bowed and wiggled his shoulders, as if too overwhelmed for words. Thank God, there were no candles for him to blow out.
He stepped back and let Jack carve the cake. He wished he could step outside and be alone with his sadness, but this was his party and he was trapped here. As people came forward to wish him happy birthday again, he envied actors their false selves, their public faces and handy dishonesties. But he was not a true theater person. He never was and never would be.
Claire kissed him good-bye on the cheek. Then there were kisses from John Hickey, and Edward Hibbert, and Roz and Charlotte, and a host of other people he hadn’t even known were here. The party emptied out a little.
When he looked at his watch again, it was after midnight.
He went back out on the terrace to get a breath of air. It was so much cooler outside, less crowded too.
“Here,” said Jack. “You never got a piece of your cake.” He held out a fat yellow slice with a delicate cross-section of a blue rose.
“Thank you,” said Caleb. He took the plate and took a bite. The butter cream rose tasted wonderful, a smooth, sweet, comforting thing. He looked up at Jack and smiled. Leave it to a food man to know what a body needed.
But before Caleb could discuss it, before he could ask Jack what his life was like, he looked past Jack’s big hoop earring into the living room and saw his sister enter.
Here was Jessie, at long last, coming through the door with a remarkably motley pack of men.