Lives of the Circus Animals (15 page)

H
i. Uh. Sorry. A lady was going out as I was coming in. I should have buzzed. Right? And called too. Sorry.”

He stood on one bent knee and hung on one hip. His head was down. He looked at Caleb through a soft fray of hair—a sheepish, sheepdog look. He wore an olive drab T-shirt and jeans.

“Toby. Hello. What brings you downtown?” Caleb spoke calmly, coolly. But he was not prepared for how real Toby looked, large and solid. He had not seen him in two weeks. The oversize image passed straight through his eye into his gut. There had been a time when Toby went from eye to heart, or eye to cock. But today he went straight into the pit of a raw, pink stomach.

“I came for my socks and underwear,” he said.

“What?”

“The stuff I left in the laundry. Didn't you get my message?”

“Oh. Right. Yes. The laundry came back last week.”

“I forgot. Until I started running out of clean underwear.”

He looked paler than Caleb remembered, blonder, almost translucent. He had his old, curious smell, half sour, half bitter, like raspberries and seawater. It was too intimate standing next to him.

“Is my stuff still here? You didn't throw it out, did you?”

“Don't be silly. Elena must've put your underwear in with mine when she put everything away. Come on in. We'll find it.”

Toby strolled inside, looking tougher and more confident than Caleb expected. He held his head high, indifferently gazing around at what had been his home away from home, for a few weeks anyway.

“So how have you been?” said Caleb.

“Busy. I'm in a play, you know.”

“I remember. That thing with my sister's friends.”

“The speech you wrote me? It works great. Frank wanted us to rework it, but I refused to change a word.”

“Whatever's best for the play,” said Caleb.

They came to the bedroom, as small as every other room, two-thirds of it filled with the double bed. The curtains were open. The big casement window divided the view into squares like a wall map. Caleb waved Toby in. “Underwear's in the bottom drawer. Just go through it and pick out yours.”

“You trust me with your stuff?” He looked over at Caleb with a hurt, touched, heartbroken expression.

He was acting, of course. He was always acting. The trick with Toby was to figure out when he was acting out things he only pretended to feel, and when he was acting out things he really felt.

Fuck it, thought Caleb. He stepped past Toby's doggy stare, opened the drawer, and took out fat white stacks of briefs and T-shirts. He set them on the bed. “Here. Find your things. Can't be many. I haven't come across any yet.” They both wore briefs, but Toby's underwear should be easy to locate. Not only was he taller and heavier, he wasted money on brands with names like “2(x)ist.”

Toby sat sideways on the bed, like a lady riding sidesaddle, bending over the stacks as he went through them.

Caleb stood in the doorway. “So you like living uptown?”

“It's okay. Allegra is ripping everyone off, charging us four hundred each. But nothing I can do about it, is there?”

His T-shirt rode up in the back. Three little vertebrae marked the descent downward.

“You'll get to see the apartment when you come see the play.”

He wore no belt. The lip of his jeans stuck out. A slim white tongue of waistband was just visible inside.

“You are coming, aren't you?”

“Eventually. Not the first night, but—later.”

Toby twisted to the left. The waistband slid down to the flat-boned isthmus between spine and bottom.

And Caleb lunged. He grabbed Toby by the waist and threw him facedown on the bed. He shook him by his britches, shaking him out of his jeans and underpants. Toby's ass was round and heavy like an
old-fashioned medicine ball. He tried to squirm free, but Caleb pinned him from behind. He wedged his chin between the cheeks and rubbed his beard there. “Here is what I love,” he said. “This is all I ever loved. Because nothing else in you is real.” He buried his nose in the warm, mossy furrow. He pried him apart with his thumbs; he dug in with his tongue. Instantly the boy was up on his elbows, arching his back and grunting like an elephant.

“Would you like a bag for those?” said Caleb.

“I brought my knapsack. I'll put them there. But thanks.”

Toby continued to examine neck tags and waistbands. Caleb remained in the doorway. But yes, he could imagine violating him. Rimming or spanking or fucking him, something obscene. Except it would be like sex, and sex could be mistaken for love. And he did not love Toby.

“Oh, almost forgot,” said Toby, unrolling a pair of socks and checking for holes. Only Caleb's socks had holes. “Guess who I met?”

“Who?”

“Guess.”

“How should I know?” Caleb sighed. “Shakespeare's dog?”

“No. But close.” Pause. “Henry Lewse.”

Toby did not face Caleb but concentrated on rolling the socks back up. He seemed to be smiling.

“He asked me to come see his show. Tonight. And he wants to take me to dinner afterward.”

Caleb didn't believe it. But Toby was not a good liar. So it might be true.

“How nice for you,” Caleb said drily. “Where did you meet?”

“He came to my class at HB and gave a talk. And I went up to him afterward and asked a few questions.”

At least it wasn't Kinko's. Where Caleb had met Toby when he became a regular there during the rewrites of
Chaos Theory
.

He was staring at the back of Toby's neck, the downy white squiggles under his haircut. He is not going to make me jealous, he told himself. But Henry Lewse? Henry “the Happy Whore” Lewse? Toby was crueler than Caleb had ever imagined possible.

“So that's why you need clean underwear. For your date.”

Toby snapped his head around. “What an ugly thing to say. And it's not a date. It's just dinner.”

“I remember dinner with a playwright and where that ended.”

Here, in fact, in this very room. Which was easy to forget in daylight. Or no, the curtains were wide open, the sun bright the next morning when they woke up together. Toby had shown no embarrassment over the hundred windows across the way, like a wall of eyes, and what the neighbors might think of two nude men in this airborne display case. He had actually seemed proud to be seen naked with Caleb by a city that might or might not be looking—a surprising attitude for an earnest, wholesome kid from Wisconsin. It was Caleb who wrapped himself in a blanket while Toby stretched and smiled and stood at the window.

The room suddenly felt as bleak and empty as a crime scene.

Toby said nothing but sat very still with his back to Caleb. He stuffed his underwear into his knapsack. “I'm finished,” he said. “I should let you get back to work.”

Caleb wanted him to go—out of this bedroom, out of his life. But not yet. “I'm not working on anything,” he confessed. “Let's go out on the terrace. I think there's some coffee and almond croissants left.”

“Oh? All right. Sure. I got time.” Toby hoisted his pack and followed Caleb out to the terrace.

He looked less sexual in sunlight, more opaque. He didn't want coffee, but he wolfed down a sweet pastry almost as soon as he sat.

“Oh. Almost forgot,” he said and paused to suck a crumb from his teeth. “Happy birthday.”

“It's not until Friday.”

“Your party is Friday, correct?”

An insincere, actorly note had entered Toby's voice; Caleb waited to see where this was going. “Yes?” he said.

“Who's catering?”

“I don't remember. How come?”

“I thought maybe I could get a cater-waiter job. So I can come to your party after all.”

And he began to laugh, like it was a really clever joke.

“Wouldn't that be a hoot? I'll be at your birthday. As nothing but a waiter.”

“Don't be silly. If you want to come to my party, come. Nobody's going to throw you out.”

“I thought you wouldn't want me here.”

Caleb didn't, but he accomplished nothing by feeding Toby's private soap opera. “I assumed you wouldn't want to come. Who wants to see his ex-boyfriend having fun with other friends? But if you want to play masochist, I'm not going to stop you.”

“I'm not playing, Caleb. It's what I feel. It hurts that you don't want me. But I want to feel that hurt. I want to experience every minute of it. Until it's over.”

Toby spoke in a haughty, hammy manner, yet Caleb feared that every word was true.

“And that's why you have a date tonight with Henry Lewse?”

“I told you. It's not a date. It's just dinner.”

“If you're chasing Lewse to make me jealous—?” Caleb shook his head. “It won't work. Forget about me. Go after him. For his own sake. He's important. He's famous. He's a good actor.” Or was. “He's openly gay. He's not bad-looking. You can do a lot worse than Henry Lewse.
He's
still a success.”

Toby sat in his chair, staring at Caleb, glowering at him.

I am being such a shit, thought Caleb, but it's the only way.

“In fact, why not bring him to my party? The glory of British theater. Show him off to people. And they'll all think: Lucky Toby. He dumped a loser and found a winner.”

“Go to hell,” said Toby. “I don't want Henry Lewse. I want you.”

Caleb let out a sigh. Not even being a total asshole could drive Toby away? “Well, you can't have me. I'm sorry.”

“Don't you get it, Caleb? I love you.”

“I know. You've told me. Repeatedly. But I
don't
love you.”

“Why? What did I do wrong?”

“You didn't do anything wrong. I just don't love you. It's a simple, nonpejorative fact.”

“I know why. It's because you're in love with someone who's dead.”

Caleb kept his temper, unlike last time. “Ben died six years ago. This has nothing to do with Ben.”

“And you know why you're still in love with him? Because you didn't love him enough when he was alive.”

Caleb clenched his teeth to stop himself from shouting. “What a
shitty thing to say. What TV talk show did you hear that on? What do you know about it anyway? Not a damn thing!”

The depth of his anger took Caleb by surprise. And it must have shown, all of it, because Toby looked stunned, frightened.

“I'm sorry!” Toby bleated. “But I'm in love with you! It makes me say shitty things.”

Caleb turned away, regretting his temper, his words. “You should go home, Toby. Or go to work or go wherever you should be right now. We're not good for each other.”

“You don't want me to come to your party?”

Caleb began to laugh. “Fuck the party. Come. Don't come. I don't care. But today? Just go. Please. I'm tired. I'm in a shitty mood.”

Toby slowly stood up, blinking and making faces. The actor was “thinking.”

“All right. I'm going,” he announced.

Caleb walked him back inside, escorting him to the door.

“I apologize for what I said about Ben,” said Toby. “I had no business saying it. I'm sure you loved him very much.”

They came to the front hall.

“Good-bye,” said Caleb and held out his hand.

“What?” Toby stared at the hand. “You can't hug me? You're afraid I might kiss you?”

“No, Toby. Maybe later, but not today.”

Toby stepped backward down the stairs, holding his own hand high and out of reach. “Then I don't want to touch you!”

“Fine then. Have a nice night with Henry Lewse. Be safe.” Caleb didn't intend to be sarcastic, but it did sound sarcastic, didn't it?

Toby stopped at the foot of the stairs in front of the elevator.

“You don't get it! But you will! Years from now! You'll understand! I could have been the best damned thing that ever happened to you!”

He turned and hurried down the next flight of stairs. He knew not to spoil a good exit line by waiting for the elevator.

Caleb softly closed the door and locked it. And he smiled.

Because it was ridiculous, it was absurd. Here was this cute, sweet, sexy kid, and
he
wanted Caleb. What did it matter that he was thoroughly self-absorbed? And so needy that he could be jealous of the dead? He was young, attractive, affectionate, and available. He was also
boring, but you weren't supposed to notice that. Sex was such a dirty trick. It made people exchange their peace and quiet for lots of bad company and dull conversation.

At another time, however, in a more generous mood, Caleb might have let himself be loved—for as long as Toby's love lasted. This was first love for Toby, or rather, first requited love, even if it was requited only in lust. But a response of any kind was so new and surprising for the boy that he might have taken months to recognize that he and Caleb were all wrong for each other.

Let him be Henry Lewse's problem, Caleb told himself. Lewse must have a good hard heart. He was an actor and a celebrity. He probably went through cute boys by the dozen, like doughnuts.

I
luf you like a pig lufs mud.”

The sentence popped into Jessie's head on the subway, complete with foreign accent. She didn't know what it meant or where it came from. It sounded like Greta Garbo.

“This is a message for Jessica Doyle. Allegra here. Wondered if you're free for coffee this afternoon. I need to pick your brain.”
Beep.

The recording was on Henry's machine when Jessie arrived. She could guess what this was about: Caleb and
2B.
If you scratch my back
again,
I'll scratch yours—one day. Which was so Allegra. But Jessie liked Allegra. You always knew where you stood with Allegra.

“Allegra, hi. Jessie here. Coffee sounds good. How about three? We can meet somewhere in Central Park. It's way too pretty a day to waste inside. Call me back and let me know.”

Clank clank clank.

Henry was in the dining room, already banging on his weights.

Jessie went to work. She checked his schedule and made a dental appointment and a few restaurant reservations. He was having dinner next week with Christina Rizzo and Rufus Brooks, the hunky Hollywood hack. Then the lobby sent up a messenger with a package that needed a signature. Jessie signed Henry's name. Not a full forgery, but she knew how to evoke his lazy squiggle. A flat cardboard envelope, it was from Adam Rabb.

Henry came around the corner. “Jessie,
mon amie,
what do you think?” His tank top was raised and he was frowning at his stomach.

“Uh, fine.” Hardly a washboard or six-pack, but the muscles looked solid under the light grizzle of gray hair.

“Not too much tummy?”

“Oh no. It's the belly of a man ten, no, twenty years younger.” She could never remember how old Henry claimed to be from one week to the next. “Big date tonight?” she asked.

“What? Oh no!” He laughed. “Alas. Just need to tone up. This play's left me flabby.” He jerked the shirt back down.

No, he must have a date, if not tonight, then sometime soon.

“I luf you like a pig loves mud,” she said, slowly and deliberately, so Henry would know she was quoting.

He stared at her. “I beg your pardon.”

Jessie blushed, then laughed. “It's from a movie. It popped into my head this morning on the subway. I don't know what it's from. I think it's Garbo.”

“Are you sure? It sounds like Dietrich.”

“That might be just my bad accent.”

He thought a moment. “No. Sorry, my dear. I'm a very poor queen, but I don't recognize it. What's that?” He pointed at the package in her hand.

“Oh. It just came.” She passed it to him. “From Adam Rabb.”

He weighed it. “Words, words, words. Ugh. He said he'd be sending me a script. So I can read the part they're giving Malkovich.”

“There's no part for you?”

“Oh, maybe the butler.” He thrust the package back at her. “But my body's not completely beyond hope? Yes? Well, back to the rack,” he declared, and returned to the dining room.

Jessie tugged the screenplay from the cardboard—“
Greville,
based on the novel by”—and set it on the table with all the other unread books and scripts and plays that people sent to Henry.

He
must
have a date, she decided. About time too. He was a hardworking actor in a foreign city; he deserved to get laid. She felt mildly miffed, oddly annoyed, but only because she didn't know who the man might be. It could be fun to find out.

 

“I'll do what I can to get him there. But I can't promise anything.”

“Right right right,” said Allegra. “You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink.”

“And you can lead a whore to culture but you can't make her think,” Jessie added.

“What?”

“Sorry. Old Dorothy Parker joke. Hmm. Good cappuccino.”

They sat on a bench just inside the park under the trees behind the
Maine
Memorial, the weird white monument that faced Columbus Circle like an old set from
Ben Hur.
They were drinking mocha cappuccinos, which Allegra had brought today instead of coffee, making clear just how important Caleb was to their show.

“But the show's looking good?” asked Jessie.

“Real good. What does Frank say?”

“Nothing really. We've hardly seen each other this week.”

“Oh?”

Jessie shrugged. “We've been busy.”

“You haven't broken up or anything?”

“It's too soon for there to be anything to break.”

“Good good good.” Allegra took a sip through the flute-hole in her lid. “I think you guys are made for each other.”

“Uh-huh,” said Jessie dubiously.

She had known Allegra six months, ever since they met at HB Studio, when Jessie was a secretary there and Allegra was taking classes. Jessie understood from the start that this friendship was built on use—she
was
Caleb Doyle's sister—but Allegra was a very nice user. The Dorothy Parker joke was not consciously directed at her. She was very pretty, with black hair, pale skin, and red lips, very delicate, even today when she wore jeans and a man's shirt.

“You look fine, girl.
So
fine,” crooned a bike messenger in boxy blue eyeshades as he walked his clicking bicycle past. Jessie assumed he was looking at Allegra.

“We're in the home stretch,” said Allegra. “I wish we could do a full rehearsal tonight, but half the cast has a cater gig. Frank's using it to go one-on-one with Toby. Who needs the attention.”

“Toby's no good?”

“No. He's just slow. Like Christmas.”

Jessie was relieved. She had introduced Toby into the circle. “Sounds like fun,” she said. “Hard work, but fun. I'm sorry that I'm not part of it.”

“I'm sorry you aren't either,” said Allegra.

The idea of working with them often crossed Jessie's mind. But
doing what? She couldn't act—she was too cerebral. She couldn't write—she was too self-critical. She couldn't direct—she was too impatient. She
could
stage-manage, but it was too much like being the mommy, and she was tired of being the mommy. She sometimes seemed to be everybody's Stage Manager.

“Maybe next time,” said Jessie.

She should be going. They had said everything they had come here to say, and it looked like rain. The sky had been clouding over since noon. The clouds were gray, the grass as green as house paint.

Allegra sucked out the last dribbles of cappuccino but then leaned back on the bench, not ready to go yet. “Oh life,” she said, watching people pass. “Working on a play makes me itchy. Frisky.”

“How're things with Boaz?”

“Oh, Boaz is Boaz.”

Jessie assumed they were talking about sex. “I hardly know Bo. But he seems nice. Sexy. In a hetero Nijinsky kind of way.” Then she saw the deliberate, faraway look in Allegra's eyes. “Oh. Problems?”

Allegra took a deep breath. “I probably shouldn't tell you—” She bent forward, folding herself over her crotch. Here was the real reason for the mocha cappuccinos. “I've been messing around. With somebody else.”

Jessie almost said “Frank?” But it couldn't be Frank. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I won't ask who. None of my business.”

“It's Chris.”

Jessie shook her head. She didn't know any guys named Chris. Then she squinted at Allegra, hard. “Chris Jamison? Big butch Chris?”

Allegra was smiling. “Are you shocked?”

“No.
Surprised,
” she admitted. Chris was bulky but beautiful, like Paul Robeson with breasts, while Allegra was so delicate, like a Cuban china doll. “I didn't think she'd be your type.”

“I'll say! She's a woman.” Allegra laughed. “I mean—It's not like I've never been there. Hey, I was a theater major. And my taste in women friends has always been better than my taste in men,” she admitted. “Except I like men being dumber than women. It makes them easier to be around. Less work.”

Jessie didn't know what to say or where to begin. “But you all live in the same apartment.”

“And I sleep with Boaz, and we still fuck. Which is weird with Chris right down the hall. But it's not like Chris and I are lovers. We've had sex twice—well, one and a half times. It began with a back rub. But she's sworn off straight girls. They're nothing but trouble, she says. And I see her point. But I can't stop thinking about her. I don't know if it's love or horniness or preshow jitters. But I'm fixated. She has so much presence. She's not fat. I know it looks like fat, but when you're in bed with her, wrapped in her, surrounded, it doesn't feel fat, it feels—metaphysical.”

Jessie listened with her chin in her hand, looking sympathetic, suspending judgment, feeling full of human interest, and all the while thinking: Everybody is getting laid except me.