The Music of Your Life (33 page)

She is wearing a black cashmere sweater and black cigarette pants plus low-heeled black pumps. Somewhere along the way someone told Charlotte: “Actresses wear black.”

Her hair is dyed red, and she is in full makeup, even though it's early afternoon. Printemps has told me it takes Charlotte two hours to dress and make up for the day, even when she isn't going anywhere. Charlotte is always quoting people who say she resembles Arlene Dahl or Cyd Charisse, which is why she keeps her flat brown hair red, and why she goes Full Glamour even on weekdays. When she's performing, she gets to the theater four hours before curtain to begin getting into costume and makeup.

“Come in, come in,” she says, hooking her arm in mine and leading me into her living room, walking slowly and deliberately, but full of
inspiration
, like Auntie Mame escorting her nephew Patrick up the stairs in her New York apartment.

“Talbert, Talbert, I've been on the phone all morning with the members of the board, it's just exhausting! You of all people know how I try to bring the very best kind of culture to this town that I possibly can, and … well, it's so sad, really. All they want is Neil Simon this, Rodgers and Hammerstein that. Now, mind you, Messieurs Simon and Rodgers and Hammerstein have been very good to me in my time, but, Lord, I just think we should do some Mamet, some O'Neill, some … I don't know.
Rent
. We should do
Rent
!” She looks at me intensely, right in my eyes, but in the way of someone who's been directed to look at someone like that. Funny how all of Charlotte's gestures read suspiciously like over-rehearsed stage business.

“What do you think, Talbert?”

We are in her main living room now, decorated to the hilt with antiques and gaudy, overstuffed, floral-print sofas.

“Well, Charlotte, I think it might be a while before Duck Island is ready for
Rent
. But that's just my opinion.”

“Oh, no, you're right, you're right, you're so right,” she says, looking away suddenly, then releasing a heavy sigh. “I just dream big, Talbert, that's just the way I am, the way I've always been. Dream, dream, dream! The bigger the better! Let nothing stand in my way! Well … a house full of photos and memories. You can't take that with you when you go, can you?” And she gives me a “forlorn” smile and “sadder but wiser” eyes.

If I didn't know better, I'd think Charlotte was preparing to play Madame Ranevskaya in
The Cherry Orchard
, getting ready to leave her precious mansion for the last time.

“Now, sit down, sit down,” Charlotte says, suddenly breaking the mood and plopping down briskly and businesslike, putting her glasses on and looking at me. “Printemps said you had something you wanted to discuss with me.”

“Yes, I have an—”

“Oh wait. Oh, Talbert, I'm so sorry, I just remembered. You've been sick, darling.”

I look down at the floor. I didn't want to have to talk about my self-imposed exile with her; I figured she was probably way too lost in her own world to care, or even know, about my period of absentia.

“Well, yes, but I'm better now,” I say.

“Was it that nasty Hong Kong flu or something? I hear it's just terrible.”

I know Printemps wouldn't have told Charlotte about my taking to my bed for fear and depression, so I just go along with whatever Charlotte thinks it might have been.

“Yeah, the flu. It was awful. But I'm better now. Now listen, Charlotte … I've had an idea.”

“Yes …”

“I have something in mind to adapt, and then stage, for the Playhouse. I think it could be a big hit.”

A long, meaningful pause. “Oh, I see. And what would that be?”

“I want to write and direct a new adaptation, my own, obviously, of
The Little Prince
. You know it, don't you? The book by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry about the little prince who—”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she says. “Of course I know
The Little Prince
, darling. Hmmm … well, that's cute …”

“It's a wonderful story,” I continue. “I mean,
I
think it is, and I think it's great for adults as well as children. And it would give a talented local child a chance to make his stage debut, and that would be great publicity for the Playhouse. I know a child who can do it, too. He'll be wonderful. And we could have a few songs also, like, turn it into a mini-musical. Billy Squiers, the organist at First Methodist? He's always wanted to write the score for a musical.”

She takes her glasses off and leans back, staring up at the ceiling, biting on one of the earpieces of her frames, “listening” and “contemplating.”

“Well, it's an idea, certainly … it certainly is an idea,” she says, finally. “When would you want to do it?”

“It would take me just a couple of months to write it, maybe not even that. I have a lot of time on my hands.” I say this because I suddenly remember that I no longer have a job at Bledsoe Real Estate.

“Yes … yes … well, I love that you're thinking about things like this, Talbert. Really, such initiative. Such ambition. Of course, I'd have to see the finished product before I could show it to the board, and probably it's a little late for the upcoming season. But why don't you write it, darling, and we'll have a look.”

She kind of slaps her hands on her thighs, as if to signify that this meeting is over. I can tell my idea about
The Little Prince
doesn't really excite her. I should have known better. I should have approached it from the angle of “There will be a wonderful part for you …” I feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead, and even though I haven't sold my idea in the best way, I still think I can convince her. I keep going.

“I really have a vision about this, Charlotte. I really think it could be quite a good show …”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure it could be, darling,” she says, standing up and motioning for me to do the same. “Now you just work on it, and in six months, whenever you feel it's ready to be looked at, you just let me know. All right? And thank you, thank you, Tal-bert, for all your work for the Playhouse. We'll have to get you onstage again soon, won't we? You were such a big hit with the press as Sister Mary Amnesia.”

Printemps appears in the doorway, as if on cue.

“Charlotte, Dick Buttry is on the phone for you.”

“Oh, I have to take that. Talbert,” she says, leaning over and kissing me on both cheeks, “thanks so much for dropping by. Good for you, darling, good for you. You keep me posted on your little project.”

And she breezes out of the room with a cursory, “Thank you, Printemps,” making a big deal of pronouncing it very French:
Prawwnnn-tauuuun
. I'm sure that she still refers to her as Delores when Printemps isn't around to hear her.

“How did it go?” Printemps asks, walking me to the door.

“Like shit, basically,” I say.

“Now, little one, don't you get discouraged by Miss Lady and her shenanigans. You know better than that. Listen to Printemps. Where would Printemps be if Printemps allowed Charlotte's foolishness to undermine the exquisite glory that is Printemps Decoupage?”

“Printemps would still be Delores Jackson.”

“Yes, honey, and we know Delores is dead. Delores is long gone. There is no Delores, only Printemps. And there is only Talbert, too, you remember that. You get out of Talbert's way so Talbert can take care of Talbert, do you hear me, child? Believe, honey, believe in the power, the possibility that is Talbert.”

And she kisses me good-bye and goes back in, I presume, to continue cleaning Charlotte's house.

3:20
P.M.

I should go home and get back into bed, that's what I should do. I don't feel like seeing anybody else. I realize now I
liked
being in that damn bed, and sleeping and not waking up much. I missed the Dirt Devil, but that's all—I certainly didn't miss any people, that's for sure. To hell with them all, I say.

Still, there is somebody, one last person I want to see today before I go home and re-exile myself.

The Dirt Devil and I cross the bridge that takes us from Surf-side Beach back to Duck Island. I head away from the ocean to the Intracoastal Waterway side, down to Squaw Pond Road, to the very end, where Trey and Kelly live in a tiny little cabin in the piney woods. This is the time of day Trey usually comes in from his construction job, about two hours before Kelly gets home from the Savings and Loan.

When I pull up in the yard, I see that Trey's truck is parked out front, but Kelly's Toyota is gone. This is what I expected, and what I hoped for, nothing against Kelly.

At the unlatched screen door, even before I knock, I look into the tiny little living room and see Trey asleep on the couch. The TV is tuned to
General Hospital
and there is a half-empty bottle of Michelob on the coffee table. Trey's big, lanky frame is stretched out the length of the couch; he is dressed in blue-jean cutoffs and a white workshirt with the sleeves cut off and the front unbuttoned. He is barefoot, his workboots and socks tossed onto the floor next to the couch, and his big feet are hanging over the edge of the sofa, facing the screen door. He looks like big, dark-haired Apollo taking a rest from running errands half-naked all over Athens; just watching his broad, hairy chest lift up and down in his sleep is reason enough to stand here for several minutes, quietly, which is what I do. And then, remembering time constraints, I open the door and gently let myself inside.

“Hey,” I say softly, standing over him, not wanting to frighten him with touch. “Trey. Wake up.”

He opens his eyes, kind of in a flutter, and then into a slow, sleepy stare. He takes me in for a second, and then sits up.

“Tal,” he says, looking at me, waking up. “You're walking.”

“Yeah, hard to believe, I know.”

“Damn.” He rubs his eyes, and runs his hands through the back of his longish hair. “Thought we'd lost you for a while there, bud.”

“Well, I don't know … maybe you did, for a while.”

He leans back on the couch, his hands behind his head. “So …” he says.

“So what?”

“So what's the deal? Are you OK?”

“I think so,” I say. “I just … needed a break …”

“Oh, is that what it was?”

“Something like that.”

He takes a long pause. “OK. If you say so, whatever.”

“Yeah.”

“You want a beer?”

“Uh-huh.” He gets up to go into the kitchen, and, as he passes me, quickly runs his hand over the top of my head, through my hair. His big hand on me like that makes me take a sudden sharp deep breath—it's been a while since I've been touched. I mean by someone other than myself.

“Have you seen Kelly?” he asks from the refrigerator, twisting the screw-top on a Michelob. “She's been worried about you, fucker.”

“No, I haven't … I mean, I know she has. I think she came over and cleaned up. I think I remember that.”

“Yep,” he says, returning, handing me the cold, sweating bottle. “She said you were pretty much in a drugged-out haze.”

“Right …” I take a long swig of the beer; it burns cold down the back of my throat.

Trey sits down again, next to me on the couch, but one cushion length away.

“Is the Dirt Devil OK?” he asks.

“Yeah, seems to be. Why?”

“Well, I came over and started it a couple of times so it wouldn't sit idle for so long. I mean, when it looked like you were planning to stay in bed for a while.”

“Oh, wow, I thought Daddy did that …”

“Nope. Me.”

“Well … thanks. Thanks for … thanks for doing that.”

“Yep.” He swigs from the bottle, and then I do too, again, which makes me feel suddenly stupid, like some monkey-see monkey-do little brother. We sit there for a few minutes not talk-ing; on the TV, an angry blond girl is screaming at her hunky boyfriend, something about money, something about a diaphragm, something about “before it's too late!” I'm too nervous to really follow it.

“Mind if I turn this off ?” I say, picking up the remote and aiming it.

“Nope,” he says, looking me right in the eyes.

I turn off the TV, and suddenly the room goes quiet, except for our swigging and breathing. I think maybe I shouldn't have come now, and start to think about how to leave.

But then I think about how good it felt when he ran his hand through my hair a minute ago. I do that to myself sometimes, run my hands through my own hair and pretend that it's another guy doing it—maybe sometimes, even Trey. But it's so much better when somebody else actually does it. I'd like to see if I can get some more of that.