The Brownstone, page 10
At precisely three-thirty A.M., Justin discovered that he no longer liked his portrait of Magdalen. Over and over again, he developed a fresh print. The first was too dark; he had made the next one too light. He enlarged the next one, bringing her face fuller into the frame. He wasn’t satisfied with any of them. Tearing the prints up, he left the darkroom. When he reached the kitchen, Chandal was seated at the table waiting for him.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said nervously. “You want some coffee?”
“Why not? Two insomniacs are better than one.”
Face flushed, he moved with small spasmodic gestures as he snatched a cup from the dish rack. Yet, he looked fresh, filled with vitality, while Chandal could hardly keep her heavy eyelids open.
“Justin—were you walking around up here before?”
“When?”
“A little while ago.”
“No. Why?”
She paused. “I heard someone walking around.”
“Other people live here, remember? Sounds carry—this is an old building. Floorboards creak...”
“Yeah, and pigs fly!” She slammed her cup down.
“Jesus, Del. Go back to bed!” He moved into the hallway, put on his jacket.
“I heard them!”
The front door closed.
It was impossible trying to reach him. She was really alone in this. She glanced at the ceiling, not really alone at all. Wearily, she dragged herself into the bedroom and fell asleep almost at once.
Throughout the night, Justin roamed the city. At Forty-second Street, he found the sidewalks crowded. He could hardly find room to walk. Passing a sidewalk preacher ranting about Jesus, he was thrown into the arms of a whore who giggled and smiled: “You looking for some love, baby?”
Justin moved past her to the corner, ducked into a glass-enclosed phone booth, and called Billy Deats. Then he walked three blocks to Billy’s apartment. They spent the rest of the evening talking about casting. In the middle of pizza and beer, Billy hinted that he would like a shot at Justin’s new play. Justin said he’d see what he could do.
Billy leaned back against a poster of Elton John and began to nod. The room, shaped like a coffin and no bigger, cluttered with theatrical posters of recent Broadway hits, was reminiscent of a Cocteau movie. The 1940s jukebox bought with the last of Billy’s money threw crazy orange and red lights across the dirty floors and ceiling. The drapes, left from the previous tenant, had begun to fray badly. Acting books overflowed the bookshelves, lay stacked on the floor, on the chest in the corner. All of them were dog-eared: The Actor Prepares, Acting Is Believing, and The Actor’s Technique.
“Let’s take off,” Justin said casually.
“What?”
“We could go nowhere and stay a while.”
“When—now?”
“No, I mean really take off. Get the hell out of the city.”
“How about Chandal? She go with us?”
Justin didn’t answer.
“Listen, pal—you better sleep on it.” Billy lit a cigarette.
“She’s okay.”
“Then what’s the problem?” He blew smoke rings slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“Nervous about the kid?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a big responsibility.”
“No shit.” The last two weeks, tonight, it had been hard. He had to wonder how much harder it would get.
“You fucking around on the side?” Billy leaned forward.
“What?”
“You scoring somewhere else?”
“No.”
“You act like it.”
Justin tensed. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, I’ve been watching you. You look preoccupied—in-love-preoccupied. Like you’re thinking about some special pussy.”
Justin had understood, in a vague way, that he was changing, but this was the exact moment he realized that his world had changed and that it wasn’t going back. “No.” He paused. “I love Del.” He moved to the phone. “Can I use it?”
“Sure. Put the quarter on the table.”
Justin smiled. He knew the number by heart now. The phone rang and rang. He hung up. “She’s probably asleep. She’s a heavy sleeper sometimes.”
“I wonder why?” Billy smirked. It was six-thirty in the morning.
“Christ, I’ve got to get some sleep.” Justin pressed his fingers to his forehead.
“You staying here?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Cooling-off period. It’ll do us both good.”
“You take the bed.” Billy got to his feet.
“The couch is all right.” Justin punched the pillow into shape.
Billy yawned. “Well—” He yawned again. “You two will be okay.” He groped for the bedroom door.
“Hey, Billy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
Billy shrugged and disappeared into the bedroom.
Justin had been asleep for what seemed to him later to be only five or ten minutes when he was awakened by a voice. It came as a whisper first, a thin mist of air that slipped quietly into his ear. A part of him paid attention, another part fought to make the voice go away, leave him alone to sleep. The voice was insistent, and probed deeper into the shadowy labyrinth of his unconscious, demanding now to be heard. Justin resisted, his mind on the dark side of the moon.
Help me, the voice pleaded. Help me.
“What?” he whispered from some region of his brain. Not on a conscious plane, but in another dimension.
You must help me. Please. The voice sounded frightened. Lost.
Justin could faintly see her now, her long red hair flowing over her shoulders, her light eyes glowing in the dark. Her virginal face was pale, thin, extremely lovely. She looked almost holy. Everything in the room suddenly stopped.
Then a deep sigh escaped from her narrow lips.
She spoke slowly, softly. “Help me” she whispered. “Help me be.”
She began to move, to advance toward him, enveloping him in a sudden cloud of ether. Sweet-smelling lilac. He wanted to reach out and touch her. The tips of his fingers grew numb, and yet they burned. Was she real? Slowly, at first, he lifted his hand. She moved closer. They touched. A warm sensation flooded his body. She whispered, “Help me be.”
Justin turned his head slightly, the sudden closeness of her blinding his vision. “I... I can’t see you.” His hands groped in the dark; he couldn’t see at all now. He panicked. He couldn’t see—he couldn’t see! He felt behind him, touching nothing. A great pressure smacked him between the eyes. He bolted from the couch. “I can’t see!” He turned. “Where are you?” he shouted.
Billy turned on the light and glanced around the room.
The sudden glare blinded Justin. He placed his hands in front of his eyes trying to shut out the harsh light.
“What the hell is going on in here? Who are you talking to?” asked Billy, laughing.
“What?” asked Justin, trying to adjust his eyes to the light.
“I heard you talking to somebody!”
Justin shrugged. “I must have been dreaming.” He put his hand to his mouth, yawning. “What time is it?”
Billy stuck his head back into the other room and turned back to Justin. “Ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock! Jesus Christ!” Justin raced back to the couch and reached for his shirt, trying to put his shoes on at the same time.
Billy went to the window and threw open the drapes. “I guess I forgot to set the alarm.”
“Thanks a lot!” Justin had his coat on and was out the door.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard Billy holler, “Don’t forget to think about me for the play!”
“Fat chance!” Justin screamed back, flinging open the outside door. He hurried down the street, into the subway. He arrived at the casting studio in a foul mood, an hour late.
CHAPTER NINE
IN THE PEARL-GRAY DAWN, GRADUALLY, CHANDAL had become aware of it. It seeped into her thoughts, it was stifling, suffocating. She sprang up, went to the living room, and threw open one of the windows. It was a January morning, crisp and cold and filled with the crystal-clear reality that Justin hadn’t come home last night.
She stood for a long time at the window, filling her nostrils with the sharp air. Once again, the two dead trees that stood twisted in front of the brownstone reminded her that she was not happy here.
Shivering miserably, she wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, and waited. Waited for what? He hadn’t come home. The memory of last night washed back over her with a dull ache. The voices, the arguing, the tears. She slammed the window shut.
After two cups of coffee, she faced the dismal truth. There were few or no illusions she had about herself. She’d been acting bitchy. Okay. She hadn’t been supportive. Okay. She just wished he would come home. She’d say, “I blew it, I’m really sorry, Justin. I really love you a lot.” Everything might not be all right right away, but it would be a start. She frowned suddenly. Something about the telephone ringing. She must have been dreaming. She could hardly remember sleeping at all. But she’d dreamt that the phone rang and she’d let it ring, hadn’t picked it up. She was suddenly anxious that it wasn’t a dream, that Justin had tried to call her.
I look like a wreck, she thought drearily, afraid to face herself in the mirror, afraid not to. When she finally forced herself into the bathroom, looked herself in the eyes, it was about as bad as she’d feared it would be.
She patted makeup under her eyes, but the circles showed, anyway. Maybe it’s the light, she lied to herself and concentrated on accentuating her cheekbones with blush-on. It was eight-twenty-five A.M. She’d have to hurry. She brushed her hair, which was shiny, but flat, refusing to take a curl from her hair iron. She flipped the light switch down hard and left the bathroom. She went in and put on her beige pants suit with the dark brown knit shirt. The pants were too tight. She gave herself a lecture for missing a month’s worth of dance classes. She remembered the baby. God, she had forgotten it. Forgotten she was pregnant. She patted her stomach softly.
In the kitchen, she got out rye bread for toast. Two slices were browning in the toaster when the doorbell rang.
It was Lois Yates. “Lois, I—”
“Please, may I come in for a minute?” Lois clutched her pocketbook, her hands wrung tightly around the gold-plated handle.
“Why, yes, of course.” Chandal glanced back in the direction of the kitchen.
“I’ll only be a minute.” She moved into the foyer, past Chandal, who had by now sensed that something was wrong. “You should salt the steps—they’re slippery,” Lois said tonelessly.
“Justin hasn’t had the time.” Chandal closed the door. “Come into the kitchen. We’ll have coffee.” Leading the way, she listened to Lois’ pattering footsteps behind her. They made her nervous.
Lois eyed the apartment as they moved along. “I noticed the living room. It’s big.”
“Do you like it?” Chandal asked, removing the cold toast from the toaster.
“Yes—pretty. How many rooms?”
Chandal placed a second cup on the countertop and poured the coffee. “Five. Two bathrooms. Also the basement.” She reached for the milk. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Oh, black. Just black.”
“Here you are.” She handed her the coffee cup.
“So, everything is all right, then?” Lois asked.
“Oh, sure. Great.” Chandal wasn’t sure if Lois had detected the empty tone of her voice. “You wanted to see me. Any particular reason?” She glanced at the cellar door.
Putting her coffee on the countertop, Lois opened her purse a crack and drew out a cigarette. “To tell you the truth. I’m scared.” Her shaking hand jerkily lit the cigarette. She held her hand straight out in front of her. “I guess you can tell.” She quickly put her left hand into her coat pocket and drew in a deep breath of smoke.
“Why, what’s wrong?” Chandal sipped coffee.
“The dog lady, she’s moved out. Just like that, a few days after you left. We’re alone in the building now.”
Chandal wasn’t paying attention. She thought of last night—voices. Maybe from the street. Lois moved through the kitchen, her cigarette crushed between her two fingers; the other hand, inside the pocket, moved her alpaca coat up and down against her side. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s all right. I have to get to work, but I still have a few minutes.” Chandal looked at the clock. “You were saying that you and Jerry are alone in the building.”
“Yes, alone. ‘That man,’ he won’t leave us rest now. Every night, three, four o’clock in the morning—someone knocks on our door. But when we open it, there’s no one there. Then they start with the phone calls. Yesterday, all day—using filthy language. I don’t know how much more we can take.” She snuffed her cigarette into the ashtray and reached for another.
“Well, how can I help?” Chandal set her empty cup inside the sink.
“Justin, he always got along with ‘that man.’ Ask your husband to call him, please.”
“Are you sure that Mr. Bender is responsible?”
“Who else would it be? I mean, the caller didn’t introduce himself, but I’m sure ‘that man’ put him up to it. Please, we only want what’s ours, that’s all. Six thousand dollars isn’t enough. We have children. Please, have Justin call him, speak with him. He’ll listen to Justin.”
Chandal moved closer to her and placed her hand on Lois’ arm. “All right, I’ll have Justin call him.”
“You won’t forget?” she asked hastily.
“No.” Chandal’s smile was reassuring.
Lois clung to Chandal’s hand. “You’re a good friend.”
“It’s all right.” Chandal glanced at the clock again.
“All right, I’m going now. I know that Justin can talk some sense into ‘that man.’ I know it.’ She backed into the hallway. “Thanks.” Her hand gave a sudden little jerk indicating good-bye. Chandal watched her leave the house.
“Boy, is he angry! Jesus Christ, look at him—he’s mad!” The young actor watched Justin walk up and down in the next room.
The Equity representative, who was a genteel homosexual, quit working his crossword puzzle and closed the door. He glanced at his watch. It was going to be a long day. After six years, he knew it was going to be a very long day. Insight, having monitored countless interviews, he had it. For example, he had a fairly well-founded idea that he was never going to make it as an actor. Not now, at fifty-three, with his effeminate nature well advanced, too visible to be aesthetic for most shows, he wasn’t. He couldn’t even get dinner theater work and in a way, he was relieved. It was terrible to spend a whole career traveling from one dinner theater to another. In a tired way, he’d rather make thirty dollars a day as an Equity Rep.
An actress, chunky in the thighs, with a pasty face, came to the desk. “You’re number one hundred forty-four,” the Rep. said, and handed her a card.
“What number are they up to?” she asked, holding her wad of gum between her thumb and her forefinger.
“They aren’t,” he said. “They haven’t even started yet. I’m giving them a few more minutes and then something’s got to be done.”
“Jesus!” A stubby little actor collapsed in a metal chair. “I got here two hours ago, just so I’d get out early.”
Save your time, thought the Rep. You haven’t got a chance. He had a good eye for who had a chance and who hadn’t. This fellow had no more of a chance than he himself had. He could feel the sadness of the room, the shabbiness of people who hadn’t the money to put up a good front. Actresses with too much makeup, old men trying to pass for young men, trying to pretend vitality. It’s sad, the Equity Rep. thought, when hope goes. He felt terribly angry with the people who were keeping these actors waiting. They’d already been waiting far too long.
Inside, the two producers tried to calm Justin down.
Not that I’m upset, Justin thought, but I really feel like knocking you on your fucking ass.
It wasn’t easy to calm down. When you consider that he’d been busting his ass in the business for ten years and still hadn’t gotten a break. Why had he thought it was going to be any different?
Harvey Fein posed himself in the chair near the mirror. The chair was a cheap wooden chair that creaked with the slightest movement. The chair was creaking now. Fein winced. He wore an English tweed worsted suit of blue, immaculately tailored, with out-of-date bell cuffs on his trousers that covered a portion of his expensive Gucci shoes. His shirt was a pale blue, matching his blue pinstriped tie. He eased back in the chair, flinching slightly as it creaked, and then placed his diamond-covered hands on top of his knee and crossed his leg. No more than twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven, he stank of money. “I think we should all calm down,” he said.
“All right. I’m calm.” Justin squeezed his fingers together, pressing them tightly into his palms. “But let’s not waste our time kidding ourselves; I’ve directed over twenty-five plays. This is your first time out. You don’t hold an open call without a stage manager!”
“But that costs money,” Fein’s overweight partner chimed in.
“No shit?” Why am I doing this? Justin asked himself, dropping his jacket into the chair. Why am I crucifying myself?
Bernard Stark, Bernie for short, hadn’t meant to upset anyone. A few years younger than Fein, he took his bookkeeping seriously. All he ever really wanted was to please people. That’s why he decided to do this play. To please people.
Pimples! Justin thought. A pubescent accountant. God!
“I don’t know,” muttered Stark. He turned, gestured to Fein. “Maybe we can help him.”
Fein played with his diamond ring.
Justin began to wonder why in God’s name he was putting up with it all. “Listen, you!” He pointed his finger at the fat kid in the dark blue pinstriped suit. “A director shouldn’t have to conduct an open call. An actor every three minutes. What can they tell me in three minutes that I don’t already know? I’m broke, I’m starving, I’d love to do your play! Damn!”
