Acts of Love (8 page)

I didn't have people behind me, waiting for me to come home, keeping my bedroom ready and leaving the front door unlocked and the living room lamp lit.

Luke felt a flicker of pity, which surprised him and left him momentarily silent. He seldom felt pity: he believed most people were the cause of their own troubles and had it in their power to clear them up if they so chose. Claudia especially—beautiful, spoiled, self-centered—had undercut their marriage from the beginning by refusing to share with him in building it. She had clung to him for everything: the fame he brought her, their travel, their friends, their social life, the way she organized her days, demanding of him that he tell her what to do with herself and how to do it. “You have a good sense of design,” he had said, and she had gone to design school until it bored her. “I'll be an actress,” she had declared, staring down Luke's look of disbelief, and she had gone to acting classes until even she had admitted that she had no talent and no real interest. Over and over, she had forced him to direct their marriage as he directed plays, but when something upset her she called him a tyrant. She preened at the attention they got when they went out, then sulked at home because people wanted to talk to Luke, not to her.

“What do you want?” he had demanded when they had been married almost five years.

“I want you to help me!” she flung at him.

“I've helped you for five years,” he said quietly.

“Not enough!”

But by then he did not care whether it was enough or not. Whatever she wanted, it was more than he could give her and he was exhausted by her incessant demands. He said he wanted a divorce, and she went through with it, rigid with anger and the fear of being alone. She left New York and for a year Luke did not see her. But then she began calling him, first from Europe, to tell him she was coming home, then irregularly, begging to see him. And, almost always, Luke made the time to see her.

“You shouldn't have married her,” Constance had told him. “You know perfectly well that you can't tolerate dependent people and you knew from the time you met Claudia that she would lean on you for everything. But you can't just cut her out of your life; you still have some responsibility for her.”

“Luke, you're drifting again!” Claudia exclaimed. “I wish, just once, you'd concentrate on me. We'd still be married if you'd been willing to do that.” Luke smiled and she looked at him defiantly. “I don't see what you find amusing in that.”

“I'm amused by the contortions people go through to explain the past. It's not just you, it's everyone, including me. Such convolutions to find ways to soothe our vanity.”

“You're saying I'm lying?”

“I'm saying you've written your own script and it satisfies you, so it needn't have even a remote resemblance to mine.” His pity had faded; he was exactly where he was every time he was with Claudia: impatient to be gone. And now he could be; they had finished their coffee and had no reason to linger. “Come on, I'll walk you home.”

“Already? Are you nervous? You always get nervous when I talk about our marriage.”

“I never recognize our marriage when you talk about it. And I'm not nervous; I want to get home. I have work to do; we begin casting next week.”

“Can I watch the rehearsals?”

“I leave that up to the cast. You know that.” He signaled for the check.

“I was at the Phelans' last week,” Claudia said, very casually, and then Luke knew what this dinner was about, and he knew that she had held off talking about it until it was clear that, otherwise, the evening would be over.

He sat back, ignoring the check the waiter put beside him. “How much did you lose?”

“You could give me the benefit of the doubt. I might have won.” He looked at her steadily and she flushed deeply. “A little over five thousand.”

“You promised me you wouldn't go there again.”

“I was lonely.”

“More likely bored.”

“That's part of being lonely. So when they called and said they missed me and they had some really interesting people and a new roulette wheel with a terrific new croupier—and I felt lucky—and God knows
I've
missed
them
—well, anyway, I said yes. And they gave me the front bedroom, you know, the blue-and-silver one, and I had such a good time. They're wonderful people, Luke; they make me feel wanted.”

“They want your money.”

“They want me! They could get tons of people with money, but they always call me first. Why can't you believe that people really like me?”

“I know that people like you. I also know the Phelans.” He skimmed the dinner check, then laid it inside its leather folder with his credit card. “How much over five thousand?”

There was a pause. “Actually, it was closer to ten.”

“How much closer?”

“A little over nine. Just a little. Nine, three. But I have it, Luke, you don't have to worry about me.”

“You don't have it. The Phelans know you don't have it, but they know you can get it. Why else would they let you play all weekend just on your signature?”

“How do you know—”

“I told you: I know them. You didn't spend a penny at their house, did you? They never asked you to. And what little token of affection did they give you when you left? Earrings? An Hermès scarf? A bracelet?” Claudia was silent. “What was it?”

“Lapel pin,” she whispered.

“Ninety-three hundred dollars for a lapel pin,” he said contemptuously.

“It was a gift! Because they love me! And if I want to believe that, who the hell are you to tell me I'm wrong?”

“Your banker,” he said.

Her shoulders slumped. She stared into space, running a finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I have until day after tomorrow.”

The waiter took the leather folder and vanished, and Luke pulled out his checkbook. An expensive dinner, he thought, and no sign of anything changing soon.
Why the hell can't she find another husband?
But he knew the answer to that: she clung to the fantasy that they would get together again. Like a child, she believed that saying or thinking something often enough would make it a reality. And in one way she was right: he kept covering her gambling debts.

He wrote the check and held it out until, with a whispered “Thank you,” she took it and slipped it into her purse. Then he signed the charge slip for dinner and finally shoved back his chair and stood up. “I'll walk you home,” he said, and turned to lead the way out of the restaurant, letting Claudia trail behind.

“Thank you,” she said again when they reached her building. “I do appreciate it, Luke, your help, your being close to me . . . it means everything to me. I won't go back there, you know, the Phelans', if you don't want me to.”

“I didn't want you to go the last time. You knew that.”

“But I hadn't gone for such a long time. . . . And you know, they
are
my friends.”

“Next time you want to go, call me first.”

“Like AA.” She smiled brightly. “I can't think of anyone I'd rather have for a buddy.” She put her hand on his arm. “Won't you come up for a drink? I bought your favorite cognac.”

He even told me what kind of car . . . I guess he thought I'd find that irresistible but I thought it was pretty sad that he couldn't trust himself to be the main attraction of the evening.

“No,” Luke said. “Good night.” And he walked away, leaving Claudia with her doorman, who patiently held the door, averting his eyes but not missing a word.

Dearest Constance, how can I ever thank you enough for your wonderful letter. I'm so sorry about your daughter dying . . . I guess that sounds silly because I know it happened such a long time ago, but the way you described it, I was crying, it was so sad and I couldn't bear to think of how you suffered, even though you said having your daughter's little boy helped a lot. And it helped me, knowing what you'd gone through, and of course the most important part was when you said “I didn't tell her often enough how much I loved her and what a good person and good mother I thought she was; I took it for granted that somehow she knew all that. But nothing in relationships can be taken for granted, repaired or restored when all the opportunities have slipped through our fingers.” I showed that to Dr. Leppard and he said you're a very wise woman, and you are, and how lucky your grandson was to grow up with you. Lucas Cameron, what a nice name; he must be a wonderful man. And he wants to be a director! That's so exciting for you! I'm sorry he was in Europe when I met you in summer stock, and now he's finishing graduate school, but I know I'll meet him someday because he's going to be famous, I just know it, because you brought him up and maybe someday he'll direct both of us in a play; wouldn't that be wonderful? Please tell me how you're going to play Miss Moffat. I've loved
The Corn Is Green
all my life and I've thought about how I'd play her and I'm sure that deep inside she's very insecure and fighting to discover who she is and what she can be. Is that how you see her? Thank you again, thank you so much, for your letter and most of all for your friendship. I do love you. Jessica.

Luke reread the last few sentences. He remembered talking to Constance about
The Corn Is Green.
She had come to his graduation when he received his Ph.D. and they had talked about the play, soon to begin rehearsals. Constance had said that a friend thought that Miss Moffat was insecure and what did Luke think about that? “You've got a smart friend,” Luke had said. And it was Jessica, he thought, refolding the letter. About nineteen years old, for the first time broaching her ideas to Constance as an equal: one actress to another. Good for her.

He fit the letter into its place in the box. As sure of herself at nineteen as I was, he reflected. And she thought I'd be famous someday. He smiled to himself.
What amazing insight.

He finished his drink and looked at his watch. A little after midnight; time for a few more letters. He pulled out a handful, all from Yale, describing her courses, her part-time jobs and her acting. By her third year she was regularly starring in the Yale Repertory Theater, one of the most prestigious in the country, and halfway through her senior year her letters reflected this: they grew more assured with every part she played, never casual but often casually confident. She was no longer a wide-eyed ingenue, but a professional who approached each play as a set of problems to be solved, a challenge to be confronted, a joyous time of discoveries about herself and the world.

He looked up as his butler appeared in the doorway. “Still awake? Martin, it's almost one o'clock.”

“Mr. Cameron, I just discovered a message the housekeeper took this afternoon when I was out. Mr. Kent Home says he's worried about Monte's pushing to make Lena older—those are his exact words—and he wants to talk to you, whatever time you arrive home.”

“Thank you, Martin.”

“His voice sounded urgent, the housekeeper said.”

“His voice always sounds urgent. If he calls again, tell him we'll talk in the morning. Better yet, turn off the main phone and go to bed.”

Martin's face grew stern. “I could never do that. Emergencies occur, tragedies happen. One cannot cut oneself off, ever, from the tumult of the world, however much it may, momentarily, seem desirable.”

Amused, Luke shook his head when Martin left. I'm surrounded by drama. Probably I create the atmosphere and everyone else jumps in. He glanced at the last paragraph of the letter in his hand.
Including Jessica.

I know you're thinking of my happiness when you keep asking if I'm dating, but dear, dear Constance, I've told you so many times that I'm not and I don't want to. Maybe someday that will change, but, believe me, I don't feel deprived by not dating and jouncing around in bed the way almost everybody else does. It's just too far from anything I really care about. I suppose if I met someone really special . . . but I haven't, so it's foolish to speculate. I'd rather think about the chance that you'll come to New Haven for graduation in two weeks. That would be so splendid! Please let me know the very second you decide; I've already reserved a room for you, just in case, and the best table in the best restaurant for dinner. Now, THE BIGGEST NEWS OF ALL. (I've been saving it for last, hugging it, you know, like a precious secret that I'm sharing for now just with you.) Two days after graduation I'm going to Chicago to read for John Malkovich at Steppenwolf! The theater manager called and invited me! The play is something I don't know, by Sam Shepherd—they're sending it to me and I should have it in a day or two—but I don't care what it is; you of all people know that this is a dream come true—the chance to work with Malkovich and Gary Sinise and Joan Allen and Glenne Headley . . . oh, Constance, I'm sending prayers to all the theater gods that they ask me to join them.
Please
come to see me graduate; I want to see you, the real you, not the picture of you in my head when I write or read your letters. I can't wait. Much love, Jessica.

Luke read the long paragraph again, sharing Jessica's excitement, the exhilaration that comes with that first opening of a door to the future. He had felt it when he got his first job as assistant to one of the greatest directors on Broadway; he had known then that he was on his way and nothing would stop him. And Jessica, too, he thought. I wonder if Constance went to her graduation.

He wanted to read more, to be with her for a while longer and find out what happened next, but it was late and he had an early meeting. Reluctantly he closed the box and switched off the desk lamp. Tomorrow night, he thought. I'll come back to her then. But at least I know this much. She's on her way.