The Date Auction (18 page)

When you do theatre, do you ever get nervous before a show? I was involved in acting when I was a kid, and I thought I was pretty good at it, but my stage fright eventually got the best of me. You looked very relaxed on stage when I saw you in Henry IV. How do you do it?!

If you weren't an actor, what occupation do you think you'd have? That's probably a generic
question you've heard a dozen times, but I'm still curious.

What other actors do you admire? From whom do you draw your inspiration?

Do eccentric fans (such as myself) annoy you with their fan letters and stupid questions, or do you enjoy receiving mail such as this?

I pause to reread my letter. It sounds like a bunch of crap, and I'm seriously thinking about tearing it up. I'm sure Harry Shaw has better things to do than to read my ramblings.

I wonder if I should mention my cancer?

…

...

No. Not now. I don't want to be too gloomy.

I've refrained from asking “the girlfriend question” because it's really none of my business. Besides, what I'm really interested in is your acting talent. No matter what project you choose next, I'm sure you'll imbue your character with something that's uniquely Harry Shaw.

I don't expect you to respond to this letter, I just wanted to tell you how much I adore and admire you. And I sincerely hope this letter is flattering, not annoying. If any of my readers (as if they exist!) liked one of my books well enough to write to me (as if!), I think I'd be flattered to hear from them.

I wish you all the luck in the world, and may good fortune always fly your way!

Sincerely,

Cora Crosby

IV

Two weeks later

“I don't understand why they're sending you home,” Jamie says with a sigh. “You should stay at the hospital where they can treat and take care of you.”

“Jamie...” My own sigh is twice as long and considerably more high-pitched than his. “You need to face the music. There's nothing else they can do for me.
That's
why I'm going home.”

“It just... it just seems like...” When I see him squinting, I realize he's fighting back tears. “It just seems like they're giving up too soon. Isn't there more they could have done?”

“This is really for the best,” I insist. “I'd rather be someplace comfortable, with people I care about.”

“And you know I'll take good care of you, sweetheart,” says my mother. She's standing behind me with a hand on my shoulder. At the moment, we're standing on the lawn in front of my childhood home. When I moved away eight years ago, I never thought I'd have a reason to come back. Somehow, I just don't feel like returning to my own apartment. The more I think about it, the more I know it's true:
this
is where I want to spend my last days. I was born here, and this is where I'll die.

Jamie starts hauling my bags from his truck to the house. “You don't have to do that, Jamie,” I try to tell him, even though I know it'll be a useless protest. He's always been the helpful brother.

“It's not a problem.” Like the show-off that he is, he hefts one of my larger bags onto his shoulder and makes his way toward the house.

“Will should be here,” my mom says. “He should be helping out too.”

“It's okay. He doesn't have to come.”

“No, he doesn't
have
to come... he should
want
to come,” my mom insists. “He should want to see his sister. He should
want
to help you!”

“Maybe he was busy?” I try to defend him.

“Oh, I'm sure he was! He's always busy with that girlfriend of his. That stupid nitwit.”

“Lilly isn't so bad.” My mom has a point. William is
always
with Lilly, and he seems blissfully oblivious to the effect she has on other people. I don't think the William in my book was quite as dense.

“Don't say anything to William, but I personally can't stand her. If you could look into her head with a flashlight, I don't think you'd see a brain in there.” As my mom complains about Lilly, Jamie returns and grabs two more pieces of luggage. “By the way, honey, I never touched your bedroom. It's exactly how you left it.”

“
Seriously
?!” Oh god. Please tell me she at least had the decency to take down the boy band posters! “It's been eight years.”

“True. And I've always hoped you'd come back. Is that strange? I've been missing my best friend.”

As I capture my mom in a hug, I wonder who she's talking about: me, or my father? When he died, I know it crushed her. I can only imagine what sort of effect
my
death will have on her. “I've missed you too.”

When Jamie returns again, he stands beside his truck and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Well...” My brother smiles at me—I know that smile. He's pitying me. “I think that's everything. Do you need anything else, sis?”

“No, I think I'm alright.”

“Good. I'll call you later.” He moves towards us, kisses Mom's cheek, then mine as well.

“Tell Jackie I said hello,” I say.

“Jackie...” When our mom hisses her name, I can tell she's more than a bit irritated. “I swear to god, my sons are going to kill me with their girlfriend choices.”

“Hey, I thought you liked Jackie!” Jamie exclaims.

“Like her? I do like her. But not as your girlfriend.” Our mother is shaking her head and crossing her arms at the same time. “But when you compare her to Lilly, I guess she's the better of two evils.”

“Bye, Mom.” Jamie's shaking his head at me as he climbs into his truck. “I'll see you guys tomorrow. Maybe I can bring some dinner or something.”

“Some Chinese!” our mom calls to him. “Bring Chinese!”

Jamie's truck rolls down the driveway, making the gravel crackle and scatter. When he's gone, Mom wraps an arm around me and pulls me in the direction of the house. “I cleaned everything before you came,” she says. “I know I said I didn't touch your room, but that's not entirely true. I cleaned that too.”

“Thanks.”

“I wanted to make sure the environment was as sterile as possible. I wouldn't want you getting sick.”

“I think it's a little late for that.”

“Oh, you know what I mean!” She gives me a playful slap on the back as we pass through the doorway. “I don't want you to get a cold or a bacteria or anything like that.”

She has a point. The way my immune system is right now, a common cold could probably kill me. “I think I'm going to go upstairs and inspect my old bedroom.”

“Okay, honey. You go ahead and make yourself comfortable. Can you make it on your own?”

“Yeah.” What's she thinking? I'm perfectly capable of climbing the stairs. I have cancer, not a disability.

“Do you want me to bring you something, like a tea?” she asks. “The other day, I bought some special tea at the store. It's supposed to be good for fighting cancer.”

Unless it's a miracle tea, I'm not expecting much. “Yeah, tea sounds nice.” As I start climbing the stairs, I turn around and wave to her. “Bye, mom.”

“Bye, honey.”

As soon as I get to my bedroom, first thing's first: I check the walls. When my mom said she didn't change my bedroom, she really wasn't lying. Not only are the boy band posters still there, I also see the unicorn stickers I put on the wall when I was nine. When I was a teenager fawning for singers with bushy blonde hair, I'm sure it never crossed my mind that I'd die at twenty-eight. I never thought I would die an unpublished writer, lonely and alone.

I sit on the bed, reach for my laptop, and immediately pull up
The Date Auction
document. I know I need to finish it. Two weeks ago, I told myself I would resume writing after I gave myself a two week break. Well, those two weeks have expired, and now I'm forcing myself to give it another go. What's the last thing I wrote?

“I've been thinking,” he repeated. “I enjoy spending time with you, and for the last several minutes, I've been wondering what it would be like to kiss you.”

“You want to kiss me?!” Cora gasped. “But I'm not pretty enough for you.”

“You're pretty enough to me.”

Oh no. Those lines are still in there? I thought I deleted them! Harry asking Cora for a kiss has to be the most ridiculous, nonsensical, out-of-the-blue plot development I've ever read in any work of
literature. How am I supposed to develop their relationship when I know there's no way in hell that Harry Shaw would date someone like Cora Crosby (who, let's face it, has a bit too much in common with me!)

“You know I'd love to kiss you, Harry.”

Eight words. I just typed eight words. Isn't that good enough for one day? Now that I'm not in
the hospital anymore, maybe my concentration will improve? Maybe I'll be able to pick up where I left
off tomorrow?

I hear a tap on the door. A few seconds later, my mom asks, “Honey, can I come in?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

She's waving an envelope in her hand as she steps into the room. “I forgot to tell you, you got something in the mail yesterday. And it came all the way from England, too! Who in the world is Harry Shaw?”

All at once, my body freezes, heat floods my cheeks, and a lump forms in my throat. So much time has passed, I had almost forgotten about the letter I wrote to Harry. Did he actually write back to me, or is it just a signed photograph and form letter? My joints are especially achy today, but that doesn't stop me from leaping out of bed and snatching the letter from my mom's hand. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Aren't you going to tell me who that is?”

“Nope.” I'm itching to tear open the letter and see what's inside, but not while she's here. I don't want her ruining a sacred moment.

“Well...” She must know I want to be left alone, because she's already edging toward the door. “I guess I'll just leave you alone with your letter.”

“Okay.”
“And I'll go make you that tea.”

“Okay.”

As soon as she slips into the hall and closes the door, I tear open the envelope and remove its contents. My hands are shaking more violently than a small dog in a storm.

It's too good to be true. It's a real letter from Harry Shaw.

A hand-written letter.

Dear Cora,

Thank you very much for your letter. I assure you, I devoured every word. It isn't often that I hear from people who admire my work, unless they're related to me (my mum being my most frequent offender). Come to think of it, I vaguely remember a bold yank calling me out on my projectile saliva (that sounds much better than spit, wouldn't you agree?) Was that you, by any chance?

It is good to know I can convincingly portray a psycho as well as a saint. Lately, I've been hired to play more psychos than saints. What do you think that says about me? I am starting to wonder if my smile is a bit sinister.

I am intrigued by the fact that you named a novel character after me, and I hope he was a better man than I am. If the fictional Harry Shaw is starring in a remake of Gone with the Wind, he must be more charming than I am, as I have had very little success at charming American casting directors and producers. However, I have not given up hope that my day may come. If an English actor can be Spiderman and a Welshman can be Batman, I think I have a shot at Aquaman (even if he is the lamest of the superheroes). You asked about my American accent, and I believe that might be part of the problem. Apparently, I sound 'too southern.'

I'm taking a break from filming at the moment. I'm considering a couple of offers, but I might return to the stage. You're correct about one thing: stage work is more demanding than anything, but it's worth it. There's something dangerous and intense about performing on stage, and you feel like you have a special connection with your audience. Having said that, I enjoy all mediums of expression equally... television, film, and stage. And if you're wondering how I overcome my stage fright, the short answer is: I don't. It's so terrifying every night, I have no idea how I manage.

You need not apologise for being a self-proclaimed Harry Potter nerd. I am, in fact, a Harry Potter nerd as well. Once, a fan sent me a photoshopped image of me with glasses and a lightning bolt scar, and I will treasure it always. Apparently (and this is according to the fan who sent me the aforementioned image), I have the black hair and green eyes that would be appropriate for Harry Potter. Unfortunately, I am tragically too old for Mr. Potter. At 29, I'm quite certain I would be the
oldest student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At my age, I am sure I would be a
teacher. Either that or I'm a failure of a student, and I failed so miserably at charms and incantations
that I am practically a squib.

I have no idea what I would be doing if I wasn't an actor. When I was younger, I also had an affinity for writing, but I was never very good at it. I started many novels over the years, but I never had the mental fortitude to finish what I began. How do you do it?

What other actors do I admire? Well, there are many! Johnny Depp, Gary Oldman, Paul Newman, and (of course) Rowan Atkinson. As an Englishman, it would be sacrilegious if I failed to express my adoration of Mr. Bean.

As for 'the girlfriend question' which you hesitated to ask (I am under the assumption that I know what this question was meant to be), the answer is no. I am quite single at the moment.

Thank you for your letter. It was in no way annoying, you silly girl. I found it to be very interesting and enlightening, and if you should ever feel like writing to me again, you are more than welcome to do so.

Take care,

Harry Shaw

P.S. - I would be more than happy to read your novel or screenplay, if you ever wanted to share it with me.

V

“Your mother gave me the most scathing look as I walked through the door,” Jackie says. “She hates me, doesn't she?”