Lives of the Circus Animals (27 page)

Y
ou love your wife and daughter, don't you?” said Dr. Chin.

Kenneth hesitated. “Well, yes.”

“I didn't mean to suggest you don't,” Chin gently added. “I'm just trying to establish what are the things you truly care about.”

It was five o'clock on a Friday and Kenneth was back at West Tenth Street, sitting on the sofa, a pair of cold hands in his lap.

“I do love my family,” he said. “I'm not always the best husband or father. But I try.”

“You do things for them? You do things with them?”

“Absolutely. Yes, well, I'm not the chief breadwinner anymore. Gretchen's law work brings in a bit more than I make. And Rosalind is at an age where she no longer wants to do half the things we used to do together: go to movies or shoot hoops at the gym or even play chess. Her friends told her girls don't play chess.” Yet he was never as good a father as he wanted to be. “But I'm hardly one of those art or theater types who has no other life. How does the Yeats poem go? ‘Players and painted stage took all my love / And not those things that they were emblems of'? That's not me. No. I love the real things.”

“William
Butler
Yeats?” said Chin. As if there might be another.

“Yes. From ‘The Circus Animals' Desertion.' A major poem. It's the one with the line about ‘the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.'”

Chin looked disturbed, puzzled, amused. Then she went back to her notes. “You and your wife have been married—fifteen years?”

“Yes. I love her, I trust her, I listen to her.” He hoped Chin wouldn't ask about their sex life. “I mean, it was Gretchen who convinced me to continue seeing you when I wanted to stop.”

Chin looked up. “You wanted to terminate our sessions?”

“Uh, yes.” He hadn't intended to tell Chin that.

She appeared concerned.

“Because you said some things last week that made me feel you weren't the right therapist for me.”

“Which were?”

He moistened his lips. “You said you hate theater. That you have a phobia about it.”

“I can't believe I said ‘phobia.' That's a clinical word, Kenneth. Not one I use lightly.”

“You said you were embarrassed about seeing actors onstage.”

“Oh that.” She shrugged, as if it were perfectly natural.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Chin. But it struck me as a confession of weakness. It undermined your authority.”

She lifted her eyebrows. “You see me as an authority figure?”

The question threw him. “You're my therapist,” he said. “You must have
some
authority.”

“You believe in authority figures, Kenneth.”

“When it's earned. When it's deserved.”

“You see yourself as an authority figure?”

“Not really,” he claimed. What were they doing
here
?

“But you're an important critic.”

“Only because I write for the
Times.
As I said last week. I'm nobody as an individual.”

“That's like me saying that I'm nobody except for my certification as a psychiatrist.”

He wondered what kind of certification she actually had.

“I'm an employee,” he insisted. “Only an employee. Nothing more. Tonight, for example, I have to interview an actor. It'll be after dinner when I'd rather be at home with my wife and daughter. And I'm not a reporter, I'm a reviewer. But they give the commands and I obey. Like a good dog.”

“And you resent that?”

“Not at all. I'm glad of it. Because it keeps me humble. It reminds me who I really am. It keeps me real.”

Chin sat back, her mouth knotted in a skeptical rosebud. Had he said something particularly absurd?

“So?” she said. “Do you want us to continue? Or shall I recommend a new therapist?”

He was startled. “Because I feel your authority is compromised?”

She shrugged. “You'll feel that way about any therapist. Because you have authority issues. But if you want to try someone else, I don't mind.”

Was she rejecting him? She wanted to get rid of him? Why?

“It's not about you,” he insisted. “It's me. It's my problem.” He laughed to signal he was making a joke. “I want you to be perfect.”

“I'm not,” she said.

She said it so flatly that he didn't know what to say for a moment. Then: “Maybe I should continue? For a little longer? We barely know each other, do we?”

She took her legal pad back into her lap and wrote something. “Good. I was hoping you'd stay. It
could
be a very interesting experience for us both.”

She spoke as if keeping him were a challenge, a complication that she'd rather not have. Was he really so difficult?

“Let me toss out a few ideas regarding you and authority,” she proposed. “You want to have power, but not be hated. You want to be king, but treated like an equal. You want to be loved but not loved too much.”

Kenneth regretted that he hadn't taken the chance to escape.

“Have you ever considered quitting your job at the
Times
?”

The question took him completely by surprise. “What? And give up show business?” he said.

He waited for her to recognize the antique punch line of the ancient joke and laugh, but she gave it only a pained smile.

“You haven't mentioned your parents yet,” she said. “Is your mother still alive?”

T
he sun burned low in the hazy sky over the billboards on the other side of Sheridan Square. It was only six-thirty. The party was not scheduled to start until seven, nobody would arrive before eight, but everything was ready. Jack and Michael had come and gone and come again. The undertaker/caterers were very proficient. A drinks table was set up in front of the television. On the terrace outside, under a square canvas umbrella, stood a trestle table covered in a pastel rainbow: green melon slices, orange cheeses, pink ham, and good brown bread. Plates of raw vegetables and bowls of dip were scattered around the rooms. The little kitchen was stuffed to the ceiling with backup food.

“And there we are,” Jack declared when he finished showing it all to Caleb. “Except for the music. Is there anything in particular you wanted? For an outdoor party like this, I suggest a mix of Cole Porter and Gershwin.”

“No music,” said Caleb. “It just makes people loud. It makes them
think
they're having fun.”

“You don't want that?” said Jack.

“No. If they want fun, let it be real fun. None of this fake fun.”

And he laughed. He was not in the right mood to host a birthday party, was he?

The telephone rang: Irene. She was downstairs in a cab with the cake from Cupcake Cafe and needed help in bringing it up. Michael went down. He returned a few minutes later with Irene and a white box as big as a computer monitor. Inside was a cake covered like a gaudy Victorian dress in butter cream flowers.

“Makes my teeth hurt just to look at it,” said Caleb.

“It's beautiful,” said Irene. “Hmm. No room for candles.”

“Thank God for that.”

Michael carried the cake to the kitchen.

Irene circled the room, then stepped out to the patio. “Wow, Jack. You've outdone yourself. This looks great.” She threw an arm around Jack's shoulders. “Didn't I tell you he was amazing?”

Jack hung his head in mock humility, then went back indoors.

“So beautiful up here,” said Irene. “Aren't you glad you decided to go ahead with this party?” She looked at Caleb. “Is that what you're wearing?”

White dress shirt, blue jeans, moccasins, no socks.

“Awfully California,” she said. “It needs a tan to work.”

The buzzer softly buzzed.

“It's not even seven,” Irene clucked at her watch. “There's always one. The person who didn't get the time right or who comes early to monopolize the host.”

They went inside. Michael had already buzzed the guest up.

“So everything's set?” Irene continued. “You got your food, you got your drinks. All you need are your guests. Oh, and music. Hey, Jack! Put on some music.”

“No music,” Caleb repeated. “I don't want any music.”

There was a knock at the door, which was already propped open. A small, middle-aged woman stood there, timidly peering in. She had wavy beige hair, no makeup, and a big purse. She looked like a retired schoolteacher. Then she said, “Hello, dear.”

“Mom?”

She was smiling, but it was a confusing, contradictory, I-told-you-so/what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here smile.

Caleb was doubly startled: first that she came, second that he did not immediately recognize her.

“Mom!” he cried. “Oh my God.” He threw his arms around her before he remembered that they weren't a huggy family. She felt remarkably small and light against him, like a bird. He promptly released her. “Wow. You came. Welcome. Wow.”

“Oh yes. Your old mother came,” she said, glancing around, not quite able to face him. She produced a snippet of laugh like a hiccup.

She looked as small as she had felt, which was stranger than it should have been. But Caleb had not seen her outside the home in
years, not since he'd been a child. His mind's-eye mom was a larger, more timeless figure than this flesh-and-bone woman at his door.

“Mom. This is Irene Jacobs. My agent and manager and one of my best friends.”

“Mrs. Doyle. So glad you could make it.” Irene cut her eyes at Caleb in a satirical look of pity. She didn't understand that he was overjoyed to have his mother here.

Mom indifferently shook Irene's hand and looked around the room again. “Where's your sister?”

“She's coming,” said Caleb. “She said she had to work late.”

“I thought she'd be helping you with your party.”

“Oh no. I've hired people for that.”

She pulled a face like she'd never heard of such a thing. “What time do you think Jess'll get here?”

“Uh, later.”

“Not too late, I hope. I need to catch the train back to Beacon.”

But Jessie was bringing Henry, which meant she wouldn't come until after his show, which could be very late.

“I could give her a call and let her know you're here.”

“No, no, no. I want to surprise her.” She shrugged. “If she doesn't show, she doesn't show. But if she hears I came to see you but didn't wait for her—” She frowned. “Well, you know how your sister can be.”

Yes, he knew. And Jessie was right. The mother-daughter bond was heavier and more tangled than the mother-son bond, even when the son was gay. I have it easy, thought Caleb. But he couldn't help feeling a little excluded, a little hurt.

He should call Jessie soon, on the sly, so she could visit the party before she picked up Henry and they could send Mom home.

“So this is your new apartment,” said Mom. A wary, querulous tone took hold in her voice.

“Oh yes!” Caleb cheerfully declared. “Let me give you a tour before people start arriving.”

“Your real home.”

He said nothing for a moment, then, “As real as any home can get in New York.”

He showed her the rooms: the kitchen—“Awfully small”—the bedroom—“Not much privacy with that window”—the bathroom—
“That old brass is hell to keep clean.” Then he took her into the extra room that was his study. She said nothing for a moment while she stood in front of the wall where a dozen framed photos were hung.

“Where did you get this picture?”

“I can't remember,” said Caleb. “You don't like it?”

She was frowning. “Not a good picture of me,” she said. “Not at all. But very nice of your father.”

“I think it's nice of you both.”

They stood side by side at the beach, Cape May, New Jersey, 1959. Black-and-white, all teeth and tans, they looked so healthy and happy. It was a half-truth, like most family photos, or maybe only a quarter-truth. But a pretty truth, nevertheless.

A few inches over was another beach picture, this one in color: Fire Island, 1987. Two young men in baggies stood arm in arm, grinning. Another half-truth, although on some days Caleb thought this picture was a three-quarter truth.

“And that was Ben,” she said.

“Yes,” said Caleb. “Was.”

He waited for her to say something else, that she missed Ben, or ask if Caleb missed him. Nothing special, just something more.

But she was already looking at the next photo, a color snapshot of a solemn seven-year-old boy sitting on a lawn with a baby in his lap, giving her a bottle. He held the bottle with surprising delicacy, too absorbed in his wide-eyed little sister to notice the camera.

“Oh yes,” said Mom. “You used to adore your sister.”

“I still love Jessie,” he claimed.

She shook her head and sighed. “You would've made a wonderful father.” She turned away, looked down at his desk and up at the window. “Nice room. It should be easy writing plays here.”

“It should be,” he said. He led her back out to the living room.

“Is there another floor?”

“Nope. This is it. And the terrace outside.”

“This is the place you
bought
?” She sounded critical again.

“That's right.”

They went up the two steps to the French doors.

“Ohhhh!”

Caleb thought she was appreciating the view, but no, she was looking at the table of food.

“I won't ask how much
that
cost.”

She kept disappointing him, this mother he loved. She sounded trivial and shallow. But she was distracted today, her attention off.

He led her around the corner of the L-shaped terrace. The low skyline to the west was a jumble of billboards, old water tanks, and TV antennas. Pieces of sun were already flaring in a few windows of the flinty apartment building overhead.

“Noisy here. How do you sleep at night?”

“You stop hearing it.”

She looked down. She stood a good three feet back from the parapet. “People,” she said. “So many people.”

He wanted to connect with her, but he didn't know how. She had come to him today and he was touched, moved, but he didn't know what to say to her.

“There you are!” a raspy male voice called out.

Caleb turned and saw a man come toward them: Daniel Broca.

“Happy birthday,” he said in a harsh grumble that made it sound like a curse.

He was a short, proud, unhappy man in his fifties. He had failed as a playwright but succeeded as a college teacher. His students adored him, but Broca was prouder of his failure.

“Daniel. This is my mother. Mom. My friend Daniel Broca.”

He brusquely nodded at her. “I see I'm the first one here.” He thrust a gift-wrapped package at Caleb. “Take it. I know you told us not to bring presents but I brought one anyway.”

“Oh, uh, thank you. I'll open it later?”

“Hmmm.” Broca's mouth tightened, as if this were an insult but one he would try to overlook. “Nice penthouse.”

“You haven't been here?”

“No. You never invited me to one of your parties.”

“I've never given a party.”

“Still. Nice place. You should enjoy it while it lasts. After that awful review in the
Times
.”

“It
was
an awful review,” his mother agreed.

“But just like the
Times,
” Broca lectured her. “They make you a success, then turn around and ruin you.”

“I'm not ruined,” said Caleb.

In certain moods, Caleb actually enjoyed Broca's company. His general bleakness made Caleb feel sunny and good-humored. But not tonight, and not with his mother.

“They're just jealous,” she said. “All those nobody critics.”

“But the
Times
is the worst,” Broca argued. “Because they're the most corrupt. And the most stupid. Kenneth Prager, the man who slammed
Chaos Theory,
is the worst of the worst.”

Caleb needed to get his mother away from Broca, but he also needed to call Jess. If he could get Jessie here soon, then Mom could go home and he could stop worrying about her.

“Irene?” he called. “Could you come out here?” Irene knew how to jolly Broca. Caleb could turn the pair over to her.

“So where are all your other friends?” asked Mom. “What time does your party start?”

“Right now,” said Broca. “Maybe they're not coming. Maybe they feel bad about not liking your play. Let me say again: I loved it. I think it's the best thing you ever wrote.”

“I know, Daniel. Thanks.” He turned to his mother. “People will come,” he assured her. “It's early yet. Some don't like to go out in daylight. And others are in plays. It
is
a work night.”

“Oh yeah,” Broca agreed. “People will come. If not for your son, then for the free food and liquor.”

Caleb smiled and turned around again. “Irene!”