Lives of the Circus Animals (30 page)

I
rene 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.

T
he elevator arrived and Jessie lead her posse up the single flight of stairs to Caleb's open door. Here I am, she thought proudly, but she was also having second thoughts. Because she brought not just Henry, and Toby too, but Kenneth Prager. It was mischief rather than malice, and not deliberate but accidental—well, accidentally on purpose. She hadn't realized until they were halfway downtown that she'd be infecting the party with the very man who had killed her brother's play.

Caleb's apartment was totally unrecognizable with a celebration inside. The sofa was pushed against the wall, a bar set in front of the TV, and there were people everywhere. Jessie spotted Michael Feingold—or was it Feinstein?—sitting in an armchair, holding forth on German expressionist drama. The party was still at full boil. It should be easy enough to slip in and disperse without Caleb knowing who had arrived with whom.

“Oh my,” said Henry, surveying the people in the room. “I see that the sixties are back. And the fifties.
And
the seventies.”

Jessie did not catch sight of her brother anywhere.

“Look, there's a terrace,” Henry told Prager. “We can go outside to finish our interview. Let me get us something to drink. What will you have?”

“Nothing for me,” said Prager, then whispered, “I need to find a lavatory. I'll join you outside.” He hurried away.

Jessie saw her chance. “Henry, wait. Don't go yet. I want to introduce you to my brother.”

“No, me,” Toby insisted. “I was going to introduce them.”

“You?” said Jessie. “But why? You're his ex.”

“We're still friends. And I can prove it by introducing Henry.”

Which was too weird, but Jessie recognized that she was just as weird. They each needed to prove something, didn't they?

“May I introduce myself?” said Henry. “Is that acceptable?”

Jessie noticed Frank standing by. She had brought him, but why? Did she need him here as her conscience?

Then she saw Caleb across the room, framed in the double doors to the terrace. He stood beside a fat neo-punk waiter, looking a bit like a waiter himself in his white dress shirt and Elvis Costello glasses. She could not get used to those glasses or his little soul beard. They still looked like a disguise.

He saw her. He saw
them.
He stepped inside. He stepped down into the slightly sunken living room, looking at her, looking at the two men with her. No, three. She kept forgetting about Frank, but Caleb wouldn't care about Frank.

“Happy birthday!” she sang when Caleb stood in front of her. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. It came out sloppier, wetter than intended. “Sorry we're late. But better late than never, huh?”

C
aleb stared at the three faces. Or no, four faces, but Frank Earp was not part of this equation. Frank stood back, frowning, waiting, looking chilly. The others—Jessie and Toby and the famous Henry Lewse—were all grinning at Caleb like a pack of shit-eating dogs.

“You must be Caleb Doyle,” declared Lewse.

He held out his hand, and Caleb took it without thinking. The hand felt dryer and tougher than Caleb expected.

“So good to meet you at last,” said Lewse. “When I've heard so much about you.”

Which could not help sounding loaded when he stood between Caleb's sister and Caleb's ex-boyfriend. What had they told him? Not that it mattered. The man was only an actor. Caleb had known too many actors. With no role to play tonight, no character, Lewse was an absence, but an oddly precise absence, his long face suggesting a footprint in the sand.

“Hello, Caleb,” said Frank. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Frank. Good to see you.” He suspected Frank disliked him, although he wasn't sure why. But Caleb respected Frank. Frank wanted nothing from Caleb.

“Caleb? Caleb?” said Toby. “Happy birthday, right?”

“Yeah. Hi, Toby. So glad you could make it. And that you brought your new friend.”

Toby grinned and nodded, oblivious to sarcasm. “Henry saw our play tonight. He thinks it's good. Don't you, Henry?”

“Quite good. We were all delighted by how good it is.” Lewse spoke in round, plummy, flirtatious tones, still smiling, never dreaming that his host might despise him.

“It is good,” said Jessie. “Really. You got to see it, Caleb.”

“Anyone want something to drink?” said Frank. “I sure do.” And he left without waiting to hear from the others.

Toby continued to gaze at Caleb, all big-eyed and expectant, like a giant puppy hoping to be petted. He wanted Caleb to be jealous. He was so transparent that it was laughable. So why wasn't Caleb laughing? He'd known Toby and Lewse were coming. He had assumed he wouldn't feel a thing. But he couldn't look at Toby now for fear he'd picture him running his tongue over that public English face.

Lewse was watching Caleb with a mild, thoughtful, curious expression. Did he really expect Caleb to be friendly?

Jessie looked pained and apologetic—as well she should. Caleb was furious with her for shoving this pair at him.

He ignored the men and faced Jessie. “You'll never guess who came tonight. Not in a million years,” he said. “Mom.”

Her head jerked as if the building had hit a bump. “
Our
mom?”

“Uh-huh. Don't you ever check your voice mail?”

“You're kidding. She came into the city for your party?”

“Yeap. But she wanted to see you too.”

“She went home already?”

“Oh no. She's still here.”

“Oh my God. Where?” Jessie wildly looked around.

“Your mom's here?” said Toby. “Neat. I've never met her.”

The intrusive sound of that slightly froggy voice angered Caleb beyond reason. He turned to Toby and Lewse.

“You two must be hungry. There's food out on the terrace. Why don't you go help yourselves.”

“No, I'm fine,” said Toby. “I'll get something later.”

“Toby.” Caleb kept his temper, but just barely. “Please. Could you and Mr. Lewse allow me and my sister to finish our talk in private? It's a family matter.”

Toby stared and winced, squinting as if Caleb had just said something vicious.

“Come along, Toby,” said Henry. “Let's go put on the feed bag.”

“Right,” said Toby. “I'm coming.” His temper raised his voice. “Because I'm hungry. Real hungry. And I'm not gonna be hungry
another minute just so other people might think I care about them more than I care about my stomach.”

He wheeled around and stomped away.

“Ah, youth,” said Henry. He nodded good-bye and followed.

Caleb watched him go. He was still angry but was free to express it now, and it all fell on his sister. “Jesus, Jessie. You had to bring your whole damn entourage tonight?”

“My what? Oh no. Only Henry and Toby.” She nervously looked around, as if other unwanted bodies may have followed her. “Is Mom really here? Or did you make that up?”

“No, she's here. She lay down to take a nap in my bedroom. She
was
asleep.”

“But she's so phobic about the city. I wonder why she came?”

“Out of love for me,” he said with a perfect deadpan. “And for you too,” he admitted. “She said she couldn't go home until you got here. Because you'd be all pissed and out of shape.”

“I wouldn't be pissed. A little miffed, maybe.” She chewed on the idea a moment. “She didn't really say that?”

“Why don't you go ask her? We can go wake her up.”

“That's okay. Let's let sleeping moms lie.”

A few minutes ago, Caleb had felt criminally alone at his own birthday party. Now Jessie was here, and he felt less alone, not wrapped in love but tangled up in meaningful aggravation.

“So that's the great Henry Lewse,” he said.

“What? Oh right.” She stopped fretting about Mom. “But see? He's not such a bad guy.”

“I guess. For somebody who's fucking my ex-boyfriend.”

She made a little pout, looking surprised by the idea, then decided not to play dumb. “But I thought you were finished with Toby. You having second thoughts?”

“Not at all. Especially when he shows up with your boss, hoping to make me jealous.”

“Yeah, I was picking up those signals too. But if he can have Henry Lewse, an actor, why would he still want you, a writer?” She smiled. It was a joke, sort of.

“And now he's going to be a movie star,” said Caleb. “Greville.”

“You don't need to sneer. Have you read the novel?”

“No. Have you?”

“No. But I read the script. Yesterday.”

“And?”

She was smiling again. Her smile broke apart in a laugh. “It's a
Lolita
rip-off. Only this time Lolita is legal—eighteen—and she and her mother team up and kill Humbert Humbert. So it's a feel-good
Lolita.
Where mothers can bond with their daughters.”

Caleb laughed with her. No matter how angry he might be with Jessie, he respected her intelligence and enjoyed her humor. So why couldn't she get her shit together?

“Are they really fucking?” he suddenly said.

“What?”

The question had broken into his brain and he had to ask it. “Or does Toby just want me to
think
they're fucking?”

“I—uh—er—um—” Jessie was thrown, not by the question but by the look on his face, the tone of his voice.

“Tell me! That's why you brought them here!” he charged. “You want to put me in my place! Let me know my life is as big a mess as yours! You must know if they're fucking or not!”

“Caleb.”
She held her ground, she did not flee. She lowered her head but looked straight at him. “Yeah, I think they're fucking,” she said calmly. “But it's got nothing to do with us.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry. I don't know where that came from.”

But he knew exactly where it came from: his sister loved him, but her unconscious hated him. For various sibling reasons. And his own unconscious understood that and had struck out at her. He understood
her
unconscious better than he understood his own. Maybe. Yet what does one do with such knowledge? Now was hardly the time to exhume old grudges and built-in sib antipathies.

“Want some cake?” he asked.