Maybe the Moon (23 page)

Neil smiled. “Just a dad name.”

I stuck out my hand to the kid. “I like Danny better. Unless it’s short for Danforth.”

The kid shook my hand dutifully, if lamely, without meeting my eyes.

Linda laughed, getting my little joke. “Don’t worry, it isn’t.”

“I had a feeling.”

“Here’s his eardrops.” The ex-Mrs. Riccarton handed Neil a brown paper sack. “The directions are on it.”

“Gotcha.”

“You can reach me at Vonda’s after six tonight.”

“Fine.”

“Nice to see you, Cady.”

I told her it was nice to see her.

“Behave yourself, now.”

For one creepy moment I thought she was talking to me, until I saw her patting her son on the head. Three mechanical pats, evenly spaced. It was the gesture Neil had once described to me, one of cold economy and bloodlessness, the gesture I’ve always imagined my father to have made the last time he laid eyes on me.

Linda left without ever setting foot in the apartment. I wondered if this was their usual practice or if she was conveying a message to Neil about my presence there. As soon as the door was shut, Danny made a beeline past me into the hallway, bound for his bedroom.

“Hey, Skeeter, slow it down!” Neil yelled after his son, with a look of jovial exasperation. I knew he was trying to keep it light on my account. “He has to check on all his shit,” he said, “make sure it’s still there.”

I smiled at him.

“I’m sorry about this.”

“Is it usually that quick?”

“What?”

“The changing of the guard.”

“That was pretty good,” he said. “She used to let him go on the sidewalk and wait till I waved from the window.”

I took that in for a moment, then said: “He’s cute.”

He nodded.

“He’s lucky to have a dad like you.”

He shrugged. “I just do the regular stuff and hope it’s right.”

“Like I said, lucky. Lots of people don’t get that. I certainly didn’t.” I smiled at him. “Must be why I go for big guys.” I made myself blush with this little display of self-analysis, so I didn’t give him time to respond. “I should go, Neil. This is too much for him at once.”

Neil looked cowed. “He knows who you are, Cady.”

“The lady who sings with you.”

“That,” he said, nodding, “and a friend.”

“Whatever.” I began looking for the portable phone, thinking I’d call the cab myself. Neil usually keeps the phone on the carpet while I’m around, but he’d returned it to its cradle on the bar in his feverish preparations for Linda’s arrival. I was about to ask him to hand it to me, when Danny emerged from the hallway.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“Hey.”

“Your dad tells me you play keyboard too.”

“Yeah. A little.”

“He says you’re terrific.”

He shrugged sullenly.

“Danny, look at people when they’re talking to you.” This was his father, beginning to crack under the pressure. “He’s a great keyboardist. You wanna show Ms. Roth, Skeeter?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m tired.”

“Neil, I think it’s best—”

“Tired? It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

“Well, I don’t wanna do it!” The kid spun on his heels and stomped off to his bedroom.

Neil gave me an apologetic look.

“I don’t blame him,” I said.

“No. He knows better than that. I have to deal with this. Hang on, OK?”

Neil left in pursuit of his son. I heaved a sigh for all of us and leaned against the end of the sofa, suddenly realizing I had to pee. Luckily, the bathroom door was open, so I slipped in and pulled it shut after me—as much as I could, at least—by gripping the side of the door.

Once inside and seated, I discovered that I was adjacent to the room where the father-son drama was unfolding. I heard only snatches of their dialogue, like that on a car radio when you pass through a long tunnel, but there was no mistaking the stern but reasonable drone of a modern parental reprimand. I made out the words “rude and unkind” and “not how I raised you” and “not her fault she’s that way.” And then from Danny: “I don’t care” and “weird” and “grosses me out.”

I peed and beat a retreat as fast as I could. My purse was in Neil’s bedroom, so I went there and picked it up and returned to the living room. Neil came out a minute or so later, with his hand laid lightly on Danny’s shoulder, as if the poor kid were a minimum-security prisoner being taken into custody.

“So,” said Neil, much too cheerfully, “time to boogie, huh?”

“You bet.”

“Looks like it’s cleared up out there.”

“Mmm. It does.”

“Maybe we can stop for ice cream or something.”

I told him Renee was expecting me back at the house.

“OK…well…whatever.”

So we headed out—the three of us—father and son taking the lead and waiting for me at the van. Neil lifted me into the back seat with more chipper talk about the suddenness of that thunderstorm and how clean the air had become overnight. Then, on the way back to my house, he told his son what a fine singer I was and how I’d played Mr. Woods in the movie and how I’d dropped by his apartment that morning, eager for an early start, to begin rehearsing our new act.

Danny just sat there, saying nothing.

A
DAY LATER, THANK
G
OD
.

Neil called this morning, apologizing for Danny’s behavior. “That wasn’t like him at all,” he said.

“That’s OK.”

“All I can think is that Linda may have told him something.”

“About us, you mean?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you told her about us?” I asked. I felt certain he hadn’t told Danny—and probably never would tell him—but I still wasn’t clear about how much he’d conveyed to his ex.

“She knows we’re friends.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Well…no. Not that.”

“Then how could she tell Danny?”

“I dunno,” he said. “She could’ve guessed.”

“And that bothers you?”

“No.”

“Bullshit, Neil. If you’re worried about the kid finding out…”

“I’m not worried about anything. I’m just trying to explain why he acted that way.”

“I thought he was fine,” I said. “He did the best he could with what he’d been given.”

Neil caught my meaning, I’m sure, but chose not to address it. He took the manly way out and changed the subject. “I called Arnie Green yesterday,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? What about?”

“You know. Riccarton and Roth.”

“Oh.”

“He thinks he can book us, Cady. He thinks it’s a great idea.”

“Yeah, well, he thinks dancing poodles is a great idea.”

Silence.

“Let’s just forget it,” I added. “OK?”

“Cady, look…if you wanna try another agency…”

“No. I just don’t wanna do it.”

“OK, then.” His voice was as small as I’ve ever heard it.

“I’ve got some other ideas,” I said. “I’d rather not blow them on somebody as small-time as Arnie Green.” Since it was Arnie who’d brought me to Neil in the first place, I knew this would sting, but I didn’t care. I wanted it to sting. I wanted him to feel at least a fraction of the pain I felt.

“Well,” he said meekly, “if you need any help…”

“No. Thanks.”

“You wanna do a movie this week? Or dinner somewhere?”

“Not really, no.”

“Cady, if I said anything…”

“Just drop it, OK?”

“But I don’t want you to…”

“Look, Neil, I haven’t got the energy for forgiveness. I really don’t. Work it out on your own. I’ve got better things to do.”

I hung up on him—or rather pushed the little button on my cordless receiver—banishing him from my life with a single petty, melodramatic act. Almost instantly I burst into tears, crumpling into a lump on the floor. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, until my eyes were an angry red mess. When it became perfectly clear he
wasn’t calling back, I pulled myself together and marched into the kitchen to boil some eggs.

When the phone finally did ring, just before noon, it was Jeff. It seems I unleashed the furies when I told Leonard about Callum and Jeff and their meeting in Griffith Park. Jeff said Callum had called him in a snit, because Leonard had called him, Callum, in an all-out rage, accusing him of “totally uncool behavior at an extremely ticklish time.” The times are ticklish, apparently, because GLAAD has mounted an all-out media campaign against
Gut Reaction
, citing it as a prime example of homophobic filmmaking. Leonard told Callum that activists have threatened to disrupt a crucial scene to be shot on location next week.

As you might imagine, Leonard is beside himself. What if the tabloids—or, worse yet, some activist—had discovered the virile young star of said movie wagging wienie at the local meat rack? According to Jeff, who’s enjoying the flap no end, Callum had to assure Leonard repeatedly that he had not frolicked in the bushes more than once or twice tops and had given it up completely after he’d met Jeff. Though Jeff didn’t believe this, he claimed not to care, and for once I believed him.

Apparently Callum also accused Jeff of mobilizing the GLAAD protest, which Jeff denied both to Callum and to me. There were lots of loose scripts floating around, he said, lots of fed-up queers infiltrating the studios these days.

I asked him if GLAAD knew that Callum was gay.

“Of course.”

“You told them?”

“Cadence.” He sounded miffed. “I slept with the guy for months. I don’t live in a vacuum, I have friends, I have a life. He’s the one who’s supposed to be invisible, not me.”

“Does Callum know they know?”

“He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that you had blabbed to Leonard about Griffith Park and he’d appreciate it if I’d talk to you nicely and ask you to be more careful in the future.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him to talk to you if he had a bone to pick.”

“He won’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because he has to be nice to me.”

“Why?”

I explained about the tribute and how Philip and Callum and Leonard had jerked me around for days and how, ultimately, I’d aborted the return of Mr. Woods. When I was finished, Jeff responded with a dumbfounded silence, and then: “You really aren’t gonna do it?”

“No.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

I released a long sigh. “Jesus, Jeff, if
you
don’t get it, who will?”

“I know, but Bette Midler
and
Madonna.”

“Jeff…”

“I understand the principles involved. I see what you mean, believe me…”

“But?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I do.”

“What if they find somebody else to wear the suit? They’re bound to try that.”

“As short as me? I don’t think so.”

“You never can tell.”

I told him I’d just have to live with it if they did.

“You’re right,” he said eventually. “Forget it. Fuck the bastards. This is exactly the way to go. It’s the only way you can have any power at all over them.”

“Thank you.”

“Unless…”

“Unless nothing.”

“No, wait a minute…”

“Jeff…”

“What if you didn’t wear the suit?”

“I just told you…”

“No. I mean, what if you wore the suit, or agreed to, and went ahead with rehearsals and all that, and then took off the suit…you know, just before you go on.”

I met this with the stony silence I felt it deserved.

“They couldn’t stop you then,” Jeff added. “They’d look like monsters.”

“OK, Einstein. And then what?”

“You sing. Or whatever.”

“With no rehearsal, no prior communication with the orchestra, just grab a mike off a five-foot stand and start singing.”

“Somebody could help with the mike. And forget the orchestra—sing a cappella. It’ll show off your voice even more.”

“Jeff, read my tiny lips: Philip Blenheim will be standing in front of me, waiting for his award.”

“So you sing to Philip Blenheim. It’s your tribute to him. The audience will be charmed, and he’ll just have to stand there and smile and take it.” Jeff laughed triumphantly. “This is so brilliant I can’t believe it! This is exactly what you have to do, Cadence!”

What I felt at that moment was the strangest mixture of irritation and terror and total exhilaration, because I knew instantly that Jeff was right. It was time I started thinking less like a victim in this unholy war and more like a guerrilla. Why skulk off in anger from my best shot yet at the big time? What good would it do to make a point for the sake of honor if the public never even knows I’ve made it?

“God, Jeff…do you think?”

“I
know
.”

“But they’ll introduce me as Mr. Woods.”

“And out strolls this stylish little woman, totally herself, totally sure of who she is. I’m telling you, Cadence, I’m getting shivers already.”

So was I, for different reasons. Like, for instance, what if I couldn’t get out of the suit in time? It’s a bulky and confining lump of latex and wires, not some flimsy veil I can fling off like Salome at a moment’s notice. And what if somebody takes note of this striptease and puts a stop to it before I can escape into the public eye? On the other hand, this was only a live performance in a hotel ballroom, not the rigid and overpopulated environment of a movie set; with a few well-placed diversions and the right accomplice, it might not be that hard to pull off.

Jeff must have heard my wheels turning over the phone. “I know you can see this,” he said.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then…what?”

“I don’t know. Just being a pussy, I guess.”

He laughed. “What can go wrong?”

“A million things.”

“Do you give a shit?”

“No.”

“Well, then…”

“Will you help me with it?”

“Sure, but…what about Neil? He knows a lot more about show business.”

“If I wanted him, I’d ask him,” I said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Will you help me?”

“What would I have to do?”

“Oh,” I said, “stand around a lot and cope with rubber.”

“I can handle that.”

“I’ll bet.”

He laughed, then turned sober again, obviously beginning to feel the weight of his impending responsibility. “I just thought of something,” he said. “What if they want you to walk on with
Callum? As Mr. Woods, I mean. He’ll have to hang out with you backstage.”

“That won’t happen,” I told him. “It’s too much at once: the grown-up Jeremy and the first sight of Mr. Woods. The audience wouldn’t be able to absorb it.”

“I don’t know,” said Jeff. “They might think it was touching or something—the height difference.”

“Yeah, but that’s not how Blenheim thinks. He’ll want the elf to come out on his own. My guess is that Callum’ll come on first and introduce Mr. Woods.”

“Make sure you get your own dressing room,” he said.

“All right.”

“That way we can keep you hidden until the last minute.”

“Good idea.”

“And don’t let him give you any shit about that. You’re the one holding the cards here.”

I got an actual lump in my throat, imagining my little nook between Bette’s and Barbra’s. “I should get off and call him,” I said.

“Who?”

“Leonard.”

“No. Wait till he calls back. And agree to it very reluctantly. You can’t be enthusiastic all of a sudden. He’ll be suspicious.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“But don’t be bitter about it, either, or they’ll see you as dangerous.”

“What a good criminal you make.”

“Attitude is everything,” he said.

“I have to go now. I want to think about this.”

“I thought you’d decided.”

“I have decided. I just have to let it soak in. Tell me something.”

“What?”

“You aren’t doing this just to embarrass Callum, are you?”

He hesitated for a moment, then said: “Why should this embarrass him?”

“Well…it’s not what they planned on.”

“No, it’s a hundred times better. Nobody’s getting stiffed here, Cadence. This’ll work to everyone’s advantage, whether they know it or not. You watch. Even Blenheim will see how much more human and interesting this is.”

“OK,” I told him. “You’re the one who’s responsible when the poo-poo hits the Panasonic.”

“When the
what
?”

I giggled. “Leonard used to say that.”

“Wouldn’t he just?”

“I was trying to be Hollywood for you.”

“Well, stop it.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Call me when you’ve heard from him.”

“Don’t worry.”

“This is my best idea ever,” Jeff announced.

For the next two hours, I paced the backyard in a state of near delirium, while disaster and triumph fought for top billing in my mental movies. On the dark side was the notion that Leonard had already told Philip about my refusal and Philip had become so enraged that he’d checked
The Guinness Book
under “smallest” and was sparing no expense to acquire the twenty-nine-inch title holder from Yugoslavia. She’d be flown in like a live lobster just in time to save the day. Philip would be so grateful he’d break his vow of secrecy over the functioning of the elf and unleash a torrent of publicity for his new “pint-sized discovery.” I could see the little bimbo already, sitting prettily atop her luggage at LAX, blowing kisses to reporters as she recounts her life story in charmingly broken English.

On the positive side, I saw amazing things in my future: a spread in
Premiere
magazine, a record contract, a custom-made role in Philip’s new musical, and, above all, Leonard, wearing his best shit-eating grin, taking credit for my success as if he’d believed in it
all along. Neil would be so proud of me we’d end up frolicking openly on his AstroTurf for the “Couples” section of
People
. I could conjure up almost anything in those queasy hours in limbo, because I knew for sure—perhaps for the first time in my life—that almost anything was possible.

When Leonard finally called, I adopted a weary, affable, slightly defeated tone as I agreed to crawl back into rubber one last time for the sake of friendship. He was so elated that he promised me my own dressing room the moment I requested it, a clear indicator that I should have asked for more. There will be a preliminary fitting next week at Icon, in case “adjustments” are required, which I took to be another reference to my weight. Mr. Woods will have only one line of dialogue (no prize for guessing which), which will emanate—prerecorded—from a tiny speaker in his head. He will make his entrance all alone, Leonard assured me.