Late in the Season (10 page)

And the phone didn’t stop. He’d had to take the first two calls this morning. Daniel, reporting in at 9:00 a.m. It was teatime in London, and Dan was off to tea with Lord and Lady Someone-or-other, connected with the network. Then he would be off to dinner with Ricky and Andre who’d moved to England a year ago. Then off, afterward, to bars. “The sleazy ones,” Dan hoped, “in South London. With motorcycle boys.” What had Jonathan been up to? Dan managed to ask in the last moments of their ten-minute transatlantic call. “Nothing. Composing. I had dinner with the Locke girl last night. Lady Bracknell’s ward. Over at her house. She was alone too.” Dan had replied, “You poor dear! You are having it bad there, aren’t you? Why not close up the house and go back to the city?” “Because I’m working,” Jonathan had said. Then the international operator interrupted, and it was love and kisses, good-bye, ta!

Working. Trying to work. He’d been stuck since the night of the storm, if he really admitted it. Yesterday was almost a total loss. He’d awakened late, found he couldn’t concentrate at all, went for a walk on the beach, sat down with Stevie on her blanket, then—after she’d left the beach—had tried to work later on, but again couldn’t concentrate. Thus the recourse to the piano. He’d spent most of last night playing out the score up to this point. That hadn’t been wasteful. He’d found some nice new figurations for Fiammetta’s first song, incorporating his ideas of temperament à la Stevie Locke. He’d played a bit more with Gentile’s prayer. That was now done, quite moving, he thought. Why was this damn chorus holding him up?

The phone rang and rang. Then stopped.

The second phone call of the day had been from his long-time collaborator Barry Meade. Business, Barry reported. Jonathan knew better. It was check-up time. Barry was getting worried. He’d been worried right from the beginning on
Lady and the Falcon
:
anxious from their first meeting over the scenario. Jonathan understood why. Successful as
Little Rock
had been, Barry felt this was the show that would make him or break him. He’d never really wanted to write musicals in the first place. Barry was a poet. He was uncomfortable among show people: uncomfortable to the point of distress around anyone, it seemed, except Amadea and Saul, Daniel and Jonathan, and a few others. He belonged in some small upstate New York college, teaching English literature and writing his lovely poetry. Not out here in the public eye, writing the book and lyrics to all-star, million-dollar musicals for Broadway. Implicit in every question he asked Jonathan, every discussion they had about the punctuation of a lyric he’d written for
Lady and the Falcon,
was Barry’s real question—had he overreached himself, was he deluding himself; off-off-Broadway shows were one thing; was he good enough to be writing something this big, this important? Jonathan felt like a convent mother with him, at times; spiritual and rational support was endlessly needed. And what if the show
did
fail? Jonathan would always have several good songs. Amadea and Saul would feel bad for a while, then, like all producers, get in line for another project. But Barry would suffer, possibly talk himself into a nervous breakdown. The responsibilities in such an undertaking seemed awesome to Jonathan. No only did he have to score a three-hour show, he had to protect the future of another man, a grown man.

Luckily, Barry had been able to keep his anxieties to a minimum in this phone call. Contracts for the British production of
Little Rock
had gone through, he said, pleased. Big bucks. It seemed the English had always had a softness for country rock music. The show would be done in the West End and the investors there were extremely enthusiastic about it. On the other hand, Barry said, progress on the film version here was still inching along at a snail’s pace. There had been a nine-way conference call on two coasts yesterday: he and Amadea and Saul, their agents and lawyer; the producer in Hollywood, his choice of actor, his agent, and all their lawyers. It had gotten so confusing, Barry hadn’t known who was saying what, and had demanded that every speaker identify himself before having his say. It had turned into an insane free-for-all anyway.

Hearing Barry talk business amused Jonathan. It also made him feel more at ease. He reported good work on the score. He explained the various changes in the pieces he’d been working on. Barry seemed delighted that his comic foil to Fiammetta—Giustina’s—first act song would be a lullaby. “I never thought of it that way,” he admitted, “but I think it’s terrific.” When Jonathan began talking about his modifications of Fiammetta’s number, he had to explain that he thought she ought to be played by as young a performer as possible—given the enormous focus she would provide: no more than eighteen years old. Barry agreed with that too. “Marge will bitch and whine about my having to audition all those nubile young girls,” Barry said. “It’s my weakness, you know.” Jonathan hadn’t really known. Was that why Barry’s wife had been so strongly supportive of his leaving Swarthmore and writing musicals with Jonathan? To keep him away from the co-eds?

To which Jonathan had said, “You ought to be out here, then. There’s one perfectly nubile maiden, all of eighteen years old, alone, just waiting for her castle to be breached.” He’d been teasing, of course, but when Barry dropped his voice to a baritone Jonathan had never heard before and began to ask questions, he became embarrassed at how specific the details soon became in his collaborator’s imagination. “I sure wish I were there,” Barry said, concluding, realizing that Jonathan’s answers were getting more and more vague. Jonathan was sorry he’d brought up Stevie at all, glad he hadn’t been stupid enough to say anything about her serving breakfast coffee to him, naked in bed, yesterday morning. Barry might have really gotten ideas and on some pretext of the score, flown out to Sea Mist.

The phone started ringing again. Damn! He ought to have taken it off the receiver.

“Hello!” he finally said, hoping he sounded evil.

“I thought you were out,” a woman’s voice replied. It took Jonathan a minute to recognize the voice as that of Janet Halpirn, Dan’s ex-wife.

“Sorry, Jan. I was pretending it was off the hook.”

“I’m glad you stopped pretending. Is Dan there?”

“London. For a month. I’ll give you his phone number there.”

“London!”

“He gets all the breaks,” Jonathan commiserated.

“That’s awful! He was supposed to take the boys this weekend. We planned it a month ago. Christ! Pete’s going to hit the roof. Didn’t Dan even mention it to you before he left?”

“You know how scatty Dan gets when he’s traveling. I have to make sure he’s packed underwear and socks.”

“I know.”

Here they were: two wives talking about the same husband, comparing notes. He liked Janet, however, which made it less banal. And he hated defending Dan to her.

“I talked to Dan this morning, and he didn’t mention it then either,” Jonathan said. “I’ll bet he was afraid to say anything.”

“Knowing Dan’s great love of avoiding scenes unless he has the starring role, I’d have to agree,” she said. “Well, I guess Pete will simply have to swallow his disappointment.”

“I’ll take the kids,” he offered. He liked Dan’s and Janet’s boys, Ken, eleven, and Artie, nine. They’d spent a month out here, July, in Sea Mist, already; been out various times on weekends earlier that year and during previous seasons.

“Not if you’re too busy to answer the telephone, Jonathan. I couldn’t. They’d drive you nuts.”

“So? I’ll be a little busier. Put them on the seaplane after school. I’ll meet them at the dock.”

“I can’t,” she wavered.

“I’ll be done with my work today by the time they arrive.”

“They do like you,” she said. “Of course they’ll miss not seeing Dan.”

“He’ll call in the morning. He calls every day.”

“Really?” Surprise and irritation. “He never used to call me regularly when he was away.” Then, the old Janet, more relaxed. “I suppose that’s why you two are still together after eight years. We didn’t last half that long.” A pause, then, “On the seaplane? Are you sure? They’re only kids.”

“They’ve been on it before. We always take it,” Jonathan insisted. “Otherwise it takes all evening to get here. Believe me, Jan, bicycle riding is more dangerous. Book them for a four o’clock flight.”

The idea grew more attractive to him as he argued for it. He hadn’t been alone with the boys in almost a year. It would give him a chance to relate with them without the ever-present Daddy of Daniel hanging over them. They were good children—Ken a little moody, preternaturally intelligent; Artie playing on his younger status, seeking attention and affection, but funny and charming too.

“You are patient,” she said, “to put up with all of us, and our mix-ups. Maybe that’s the secret of loving Daniel.”

“The secret of loving Daniel is to ignore him completely half the time, which he will resent, and to give him all your attention the other half, which he’ll also resent. Confused, ambiguous, he’ll eventually surrender. For example, when he calls tomorrow, I’ll act as though we’d already discussed the boys’ visit, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’ll be surprised, apologetic, then more than a little annoyed by my tactic. All of which will satisfy me. End of incident.”

“Virtue triumphant,” Janet said, laughing. “You really do have him psyched out, don’t you?”

“We’re absolutely alike,” Jonathan said. “So it’s easy. The only difference between us is that he does it openly, loudly, dramatically. Whereas I do it quietly, covertly, more subtly. How’s Pete?” he asked, curious about the younger man Janet had been living with for the last year or so.

“He’s fine. Got a new motorcycle. A big old thing from the fifties. Called an Eagle. Makes more noise than a Boeing 747 taking off. We ride around on it all the time. I feel the way I always thought I would when I was a teenager and used to see boys on motorcycles speeding by.”

“How?”

“Like a slut!” She laughed, then said more seriously, “Pete and Ken are on the outs again. If Ken says anything to you…”

“If he does, I’ll listen, discuss it; but I won’t snitch on him.”

“It’s not snitching! I’m his mother.”

“Ken will think of it as snitching.”

“Spoilsport! Here’s some background if he does say anything. Ken told Pete he was overcompensating for a real fear of lack of masculinity by doing all these dangerous sports—you know, the motorcycle, the hang gliding, the bobsledding. Pete got huffy and suggested he become gay like Ken’s father. Ken hit him, and said he was proud of his father, gay or not. You know they marched together in the Gay Pride Parade last year.”

“Gay Daddies. I know. I marched too.”

“Well, I made Ken apologize to Pete; but they haven’t spoken in the two days since. Pete says Ken has a lot of unresolved feelings about growing up with a male gender identity. He blames Dan for that. Blames me too.”

Jonathan began to get angry. “Ken’s only eleven years old, for chrissakes. Why should he have any feelings about gender? He probably hasn’t even had an erection yet.”

“Don’t yell at me. I don’t want to be referee.”

“But if Pete’s pressuring him, making him play baseball and all that…”

“Ken would rather be tortured to death than play baseball. Come on, Jonathan. Don’t you start with stereotypes. Pete isn’t a father. He just wants to be liked by the boys.”

“If they’re hitting each other…”

“Pete’s not
hitting
my children. He’d be out on his ass tomorrow. Only
I’m
allowed to strike my children in this house.” She sighed. “And God knows, sometimes I wish I could bring myself to do it.”

“All right,” Jonathan said, calming a bit. “Maybe some time out here is exactly what the boys need.”

“It’s what
I
need! Jonathan, don’t rile them up against Pete, please?”

As he didn’t say anything, she asked again.

“Well, I love them,” Jonathan began, “and I don’t want to see them growing up with all the sexist shit I had to put up with.”

“And I love all of you, remember,” she said wearily. “Seaplane at four?”

“At four,” he agreed. “You have the phone number for the reservations?”

“Somewhere. You’re sure about this?”

“Ask the kids. They may not want to come with Dan away.”

“Of course they’ll say yes. They’re crazy about you.”

“Which can’t please Pete too much.”

“They’re lucky kids, having three fathers, I tell them.” That felt good hearing too. It would be fun here with Artie and Ken; and it would give him a chance to try to undo some of Pete’s uptightness.

“Seaplane at four!” he said.

“I hope you won’t be sorry,” she said before hanging up.

Jonathan hadn’t been out of his house all morning. Stevie wondered if he was ill—or merely hard at work. She’d restrained herself from taking him up on his invitation to check his library all day yesterday: restraint that had somehow pleased her, filled her with an air of expectation and a feeling that if she could only be patient, she would be rewarded as she had been with his kiss.

Seeing him step onto his deck shattered that resolve. She wanted to do something to get his attention: call to him, wave, do something to make him notice her. Perhaps he was merely taking a break from his composing, a breather? Either that, or he was still composing in his mind, away from his desk, or his piano, before going back inside to write it down. Hadn’t other composers worked that way? Hadn’t Mozart composed entire overtures in his head during stagecoach rides to the cities where the operas were to be premiered? She couldn’t disturb him now, not with that possibility. Although she couldn’t think of a better time, either.