Authors: Ben Greenman
Celebrity Chekhov (5 page)
O
N A GRAY LEATHER SEAT IN THE FIRST-CLASS PORTION OF AN
airplane, Oprah Winfrey sits half reclining. She has a blanket spread over her legs, her overhead air turned on, and a book in her lap that she opens now and again, pages through, and sets down. She is greatly agitated.
On the seat next to her is a budding young author who has published one novel about a young boy growing up in the nineteen-eighties and is beginning work on a more ambitious project about the life and death of an American city. He is gazing into Oprah's face, gazing intently, with the eyes of a connoisseur. He is watching, studying, catching every shade of this exceptional, enigmatic nature. He understands it, he fathoms it. Her soul, her whole psychology, lies open before him.
“I know who you are,” he says. “But I don't mean it the way you think.” He has been drinking, and he touches her elbow. “Everyone sees a certain thing about you, but I see a sensitive, responsive soul. You show it, but you can't really show it. The struggle is terrific, titanic. But do not lose heart. You will be triumphant!”
“Write about me,” says Oprah with a mournful smile. “My life has been so full, so varied, so checkered, so perfect. I should be happy. I tell everyone to be that way. I teach everyone to be that way. And yet I suffer. Reveal that soul to the world. Reveal that hapless soul. You are a psychologist. We've only been on the plane an hour together, and you have already fathomed my heart.”
“Tell me what you mean,” the author says.
“Listen. It starts in Mississippi. My parents were never married. My father had a good heart and was not without intelligence, but the way things were then . . . he worked in a coal mine, cut hair . . . I do not blame my father. My motherâbut why say more? She left to move north and find work, and I stayed behind with my grandmother. I got beaten. I got educated. I went to school dressed in burlap. It was awful! The challenges! The sense of hopelessness! And the agonies of losing faith in life, in oneself! You are an author. You know us women. You will understand. I have always had an intense nature. I looked for happinessâand what happiness! I longed to set my soul free. Yes. In that I saw my happiness!”
“That's exactly right,” murmurs the author, touching her arm just above the elbow. “I have heard this told, or read about it, but it is so different to hear it directly from you.”
“Oh, I longed for glory, renown, success, like everyâwhy affect modesty?âevery nature above the commonplace. I yearned for something extraordinary, above the common lot of woman! And then, I was seized by the radio business, and then by television. It is not too much to say that the opportunity took me violently. I sacrificed myself to that life as much as any woman ever sacrifices herself to a husband or a lover. You must see that! I could do nothing else. I began to see some money, to make a name for myself. There were momentsâterrible momentsâbut I was kept afloat by the thought that one day I would lift myself even higher, that I would control the process that had controlled me!”
Oprah returns to her book, turns a few more pages. Her face has fallen into sadness. She goes on:
“There was a point where I sensed I might be done with it all. I was hosting
Dialing for Dollars
in Baltimore. Things were coming to a close. I thought I'd have my freedom. That was the moment I should have left definitively. But then came Chicago, and my morning show. It started as a half hour. It went to an hour. It went into syndication. It went national. It went worldwide. What could have been my freedom was my captivity once again. Don't misunderstand me. It is a wonderful kind of captivity, but it is also wretched. The things I have seen, the things I have not let myself feel. How ignoble, repulsive, and senseless life is. I dated John Tesh. I have recently been thinking about freedom again, but again there is an obstacle in my path, and again I feel that my happiness is far, far away. It is anguishâif only you knew.”
“What stands in your way? Tell me! What is it?”
“It is success. It is fame. It is the need to do good for others, to offer the full power of my assistance. This cycle never ends. It cannot end, because it is the correct thing for me to do, and yet there are times when I cannot bear it any longer.”
The book conceals her face. The author props his chin on his fist and ponders with the air of a professional. The engines of the plane thrum on either side of them as the glow of the setting sun fills the window.
B
ETWEEN SIX AND SEVEN O'CLOCK ON A
J
ULY EVENING, A CROWD
of summer visitorsâmostly fathers of familiesâburdened with suitcases and shoulder bags, was trailing along from the ferryboat dock. They all looked exhausted, hungry, and ill-humored, as though the sun were not shining and the sand was not white for them.
Trudging along among the others was Alec Baldwin, a broad, round-shouldered man in a cotton coat and khaki pants. He was perspiring and gloomy.
“Do you come out to your holiday home every weekend?” said a man in salmon-colored pants, addressing him.
“Not every weekend,” Alec Baldwin answered sullenly. “My wife and daughter are staying all summer, and I come here when I can. I don't have time to come every week; besides, it is expensive.”
“You're right there; it is expensive,” sighed the man with the salmon pants. “You coming up from the city? They used to run a boat directly from there to here, but when they did, they charged through the nose for everything. Chips were like six dollars. Now you have to go by train first, then by boat, and that has its own set of costs. Or you can drive the whole way, but to feel better about driving, you'll want to rent a nice car, or to take your own car, but either way it just sits in the lot all week. It's all small potatoes not worth worrying about, but over the course of the summer it adds up. Of course, to be in the lap of Nature is worth any moneyâI don't dispute it, perfect peace and all the rest of it; but of course, on my salary, every dollar has to be considered. If I waste a penny I lie awake all night. You know what? I'm sorry, I haven't asked your name. I receive a salary of almost a hundred thousand dollars, I smoke cheap cigars, and still I don't have a dollar to spare to buy myself the whiskey I like.”
“It's altogether abominable,” said Alec Baldwin after a brief silence. “I maintain that summer holidays are the invention of the devil and of woman. The devil was motivated by malice, woman by excessive frivolity. Mercy on us, it is not life at all; it is hard labor, it is hell! It's hot and stifling, you can hardly breathe, and you wander about like a lost soul and find no refuge. Back in the city there is no food and no drink at home. Everything has been carried off to the summer place: you eat what you can get; you go without your coffee because there is no coffeemaker; you can't even take the shower you want because the shampoo and the washcloth is gone; and then when you come down here into the lap of Nature you have to slog through the heat and the humidity! Unbelievable. Are you married?”
“Yes, three children,” sighed Salmon Pants.
“It's horrible. It's a wonder we are still alive.”
At last the bus came. Alec Baldwin said good-bye to Salmon Pants and boarded. In twenty minutes he was standing outside his house. He could hear nothing but the distant ocean and the prayer for help of a fly destined for the dinner of a spider. He went inside. The windows were hung with sheer curtains, through which faded flowers showed red. On an unpainted wooden wall there was a large fuzzy caterpillar. There was not a soul in the hallway, the kitchen, or the dining room. In an upstairs room that had no name, Alec Baldwin found his daughter, Ireland, a little girl of ten. Ireland was sitting at the table and breathing loudly with her lower lip stuck out. She was engaged in cutting up the jack of diamonds from a deck of cards.
“Oh, it's you, Dad!” she said, without turning round. “You're here.”
“I am. And where is Mom?”
“Mom? She went over to Mary and Ted's. They're organizing some kind of show. A benefit. It's this weekend. She says I can go. Will you go with us?”
“When is she coming back?”
“She's supposed to be back pretty soon.”
“And where is Jenny? Isn't she supposed to be your babysitter?”
“Mom took Jenny with her to help her carry some things back. Dad, why is it that when mosquitoes bite you they don't get too fat to fly?”
“I don't know. They must be strong fliers. So there is no one in the house, then?”
“Just me.”
Alec Baldwin sat down in an chair and for a moment gazed blankly at the window.
“Who is going to get our dinner?” he asked.
“There isn't dinner. Mom thought you were coming tomorrow. She is going to have dinner over there, I think.”
“Oh, thank you very much; and you, what did you have to eat for lunch?”
“I had some chocolate milk and a sandwich. And chips. Dad, do mosquitoes mix our blood with their own?”
Alec Baldwin suddenly felt as though something heavy was rolling down on his liver and beginning to gnaw in it. He felt so angry, so pained, and so bitter, that he was choking and tremulous; he wanted to jump up, to bang something on the floor, and to burst into loud shouting; but then he remembered that his doctor had absolutely forbidden him all excitement, so he got up, and making an effort to control himself, began whistling.
“Dad, does an actor ever forget who he is for real?” he heard Ireland's voice.
“Oh, don't bother me with stupid questions!” said Alec Baldwin, getting angry. “Kids stick to you like a leaf in the bath! Here you are, ten years old, and just as silly as you were three years ago. Why are you ruining those cards? What if I want to play solitaire?”
“These cards aren't yours,” said Ireland, turning around. “Mom gave them to me.”
“You are telling lies, you are telling lies!” said Alec Baldwin, growing more and more irritated. “You are always lying! What is your problem?”
Ireland leapt up, and moving her face in close, stared at her father. Her big eyes first began blinking, then were dimmed with moisture, and the girl's face began working.
“But why are you yelling?” said Ireland. “Why are you mean to me? I am not doing anything wrong. I was just sitting here and you're mad. Why are you yelling?”
The girl spoke with conviction, and cried so bitterly that Alec Baldwin felt conscience-stricken.
Yes, really, why am I doing this? he thought. “Come on,” he said, touching the girl on the shoulder. “I am sorry, Ireland. Forgive me. You are my good girl. I love you.”
Ireland wiped her eyes with his sleeve, sat down, with a sigh, in the same place and began cutting out the queen. Alec Baldwin went off to his own room. He stretched himself on the sofa, and putting his hands behind his head, sank into thought. The girl's tears had softened his anger, and by degrees the oppression on his conscience grew less. He felt nothing but exhaustion and hunger.
“Dad,” he heard on the other side of the door, “can I show you my collection of insects?”
“Yes, show me.”
Ireland came into the study and handed her father a long green box. Before raising it to his ear Alec Baldwin could hear a despairing buzz and the scratching of claws on the sides of the box. Opening the lid, he saw a number of butterflies, beetles, grasshoppers, and flies fastened to the bottom of the box with pins. All except two or three butterflies were still alive and moving.
“The grasshopper is still alive!” said Ireland in surprise. “I caught him yesterday morning, and he is still alive!”
“Who taught you to pin them this way?”
“Jenny did.”
“Jenny ought to be pinned down like that herself!” said Alec Baldwin. “Take them away! It's shameful to torture animals. And it's strange for a girl to do this, at any rate. Cards, insects: it's almost as if you have your own personality.”
How horribly she is being brought up! he thought as Ireland went out.
Alec Baldwin forgot his exhaustion and hunger, and thought of nothing but his girl's future. Meanwhile, outside the light was gradually fading. . . . He could hear the summer visitors trooping back from the beach. Someone was stopping near the open dining-room window and shouting: “Do you want any mushrooms?” And getting no answer, shuffled on with bare feet. At last, when the dusk was so thick that the outlines of the flowers behind the muslin curtain were lost, and whiffs of the freshness of evening were coming in at the window, he heard noises up the path, footsteps crunching the gravel, talk and laughter.
“Mom!” shrieked Ireland.
Alec Baldwin peeped out of his study and saw his wife, Kim, healthy and rosy as ever; with her he saw Mary Steenburgen, a tall woman with dark hair and a long thin neck; and two younger men: one a lanky fellow with a manicured look and a goatee; the other a short stubby man with a shaven face and a bluish crooked chin. Jenny was trailing behind them, carrying a box.
“Jenny, can you mix up some drinks?” said Kim. “It looks like Alec has finally shown up. Alec, where are you?” she said, running into the study breathlessly. “So you've come. I'm glad. I brought some people over from Mary and Ted's. Come, I'll introduce you.”
“Just tell me who they are. They look vaguely familiar.”
“The tall one is Will.i.am. He sings and produces music. The other one, the shorter man, is Tracy Morgan, who is an actor and a comedian. We're going to use them both for the benefit this weekend. Oh, how tired I am! We were singing while Ted played the piano.”
“Why did you bring them here?” asked Alec Baldwin.
“I couldn't help it. After dinner I want Will to go through his songs. Oh, yes, I almost forgot! Will you send Jenny to get some thin-sliced prosciutto, cheese, fruit, and something else? Will.i.am and Tracy Morgan might stay to eat. Oh, how tired I am!”
“I don't have money for Jenny.”
“Sure you do.”
Half an hour later Jenny was sent to the store. Alec Baldwin, after drinking a glass of red wine and eating a whole loaf of bread, went to his bedroom and lay down on the bed, while Kim and her visitors, with much noise and laughter, set to work to rehearse their songs. For a long time Alec Baldwin heard Tracy Morgan's voice and some kind of drumming he supposed came from Will.i.am. The rehearsal was followed by a long conversation, interrupted by Mary's shrill laughter.
Then followed more singing, and then the clattering of crockery. Through his drowsiness Alec Baldwin heard them persuading Patton Oswalt to perform scenes from movies he had been in, and heard him, after affecting to refuse, begin to recite. He hissed, beat himself on the chest, wept, laughed in a husky bass. Alec Baldwin scowled and hid his head under the quilt.
“It's a long way for you to go, and it's dark,” he heard Kim's voice an hour later. “Why shouldn't you stay the night here? Will.i.am can sleep here on the sofa, and you, Tracy Morgan, in Ireland's bed. I can put her in Alec's study. Do stay, really!”
At last, when the clock was striking midnight, all was hushed, the bedroom door opened, and Kim appeared.
“Alec, are you asleep?” she whispered.
“No; why?”
“Go into your study and lie on the sofa. I am going to let Mary sleep in here with me. I'd put her in the study, but she is afraid to sleep alone. Come on.”
Alec Baldwin got up, threw on his robe, and taking his pillow, crept wearily to the study. Feeling his way to his sofa, he reached for a lamp, turned it on, and saw Ireland lying on the sofa. The girl was not asleep. She was staring at the ceiling with wide eyes:
“Dad, why don't mosquitoes sleep at night?” she asked.
“Because we're not wanted. We have nowhere to even rest for a minute.”
“And why does Mary have dark hair now when her hair used to be light?”
“That's enough questions for today. Maybe forever.”
After a moment's thought Alec Baldwin dressed and went outside to walk along the road. He looked at the gray sky, at the motionless clouds, heard the lazy call of a seabird, and began dreaming of the next day, when he could send Kim off to practice for the benefit, and Ireland with her, and he could tumble into bed. After a little while he saw a car parked on the shoulder. It was running and the lights were on. A man was sitting in the driver's seat.
Maybe it's the police, thought Alec Baldwin. They patrolled sometimes late at night. He waved, as he was accustomed to doing with police. But as he drew closer, he recognized the man from the ferryboat, the one with the salmon pants.
“Hey,” Alec Baldwin said, tapping on the window. The man rolled it down. “You live around here?”
“Just up the road,” sighed Salmon Pants.
“Why aren't you there now?”
“My wife's mother came in late this evening. She brought our nieces with her. Great girls, but when you get three generations of related women together, well, let's just say that it was time for me to go for a little drive. Are you enjoying your evening?”
“Yes,” said Alec Baldwin. “It's hard to imagine anything quite so pleasant. Do you know if there is any kind of restaurant open this late on this part of the island?”
Salmon Pants raised his eyes to heaven and meditated profoundly.