The Actor and the Housewife (23 page)

“You’re my lady.”

“Don’t you dare sing that Kenny Rogers number to me.”

The music cued up.

“Felix,” Becky said like a warning.

“Lady,” he sang.

She left the stage, returning to her bar stool and her cold hot chocolate. He really could be exasperating.

She was staring into the milky brown goodness when she detected a change in Felix’s tone. He wasn’t playing with the song anymore, he was digging into the words, finding beauty in their resonance, laying meaning on every note. It became sultry, tangy, heart-stopping. She felt a cold pitch in her belly and kept her eyes down. Was he looking at her? Singing like that and looking at her? What should she do? Laugh and pretend he’s kidding, glare and scold, or run away?

He took the notes up, rising with passion so inappropriate that running away seemed her only option, and then the crowd began to hoot and applaud midsong. Becky glanced up. Celeste had arrived. She was approaching the karaoke stage in slow, lingering strides, her eyes on Felix. And his eyes were on her. He was singing to his wife, and no Kenny Rogers number had ever sounded so heated. All they did was look at each other, but Becky was prepared to book them a hotel room and call them a taxi.

Celeste kept moving forward, timing her strides so that she arrived within touching distance just as the song ended. Felix put one arm around her waist and pulled her in, planting his mouth on her neck. Her arms rested at her sides, her smile turned to the room, and she said, “Hello all. I hope I am not crashing the party?”

No, no! everyone assured, offering her drinks and hors d’oeuvre platters. She would have resembled a gigantic heavenly body pulling all the lesser bodies into her orbit, except that she was so thin.

Felix gazed at his wife as she gazed at her audience, and his complete adoration emanated out in nearly tangible waves. Becky sighed a happy sigh. Love was good.

A new song started up, and Felix and Celeste crossed the room to Becky. Celeste sat at the bar, and Felix stood behind, his arm over his wife’s.

“You came,” he said.

“Mmhmm.” Celeste leaned her head against his chest. “I was home and thinking, where do I want to be now? I want to be with my husband. It has been a long time since you filmed so close to home, so I have decided I will stay close too. This summer, I am everywhere.”

Her eyes flicked to Becky. The tiniest arctic breeze blew between the two women, hardly worth mentioning, but that it gave Becky goose bumps.

But the moment passed, and Celeste was all adoring graciousness, introducing Becky to anyone she didn’t know, hooking her arm through Becky’s and enveloping her in her warmness. And Felix stayed near Celeste.

Becky watched him and remembered what Diana had said. She was going to have to kiss that man. And not just kiss him, but
kiss
him.

She’d think about it tomorrow.

In which Becky tries to find her Hollywood legs

She’d already gone through the preproduction hullabaloo—screen tests, haircuts, wardrobe tests, the long debate about whether, as Hattie, Becky should wear glasses (in the end, it was decided yes, in some scenes). And with her hair short and perky, and new clothes on her body, Becky found it was easier to feel like someone else, someone who might have business being in front of a camera.

Before her first day on set, Felix came to the Jacks’ rented ranch house and rehearsed in private. At least, in as much privacy as anyone can have in a house with four children. While they went over lines, Sam and Hyrum wrestled at their feet.

“When I pin you like this, you’ve gotta swish your legs around. That’s how you get
leverage
.”

“Okay, Hyrum. Okay.”

“See, I’m heavier and stronger than you, so you’ve got to use your size and speed as leverage against me. You can’t move your upper body, right? So you need to get moving with your lower body and create leverage.”

“Okay, Hyrum. Okay. I’ll do leverage.”

Polly lounged on the couch, her pink-panted legs straight up in the air, pointed toes swishing back and forth in an upside-down ballet move. She was on the phone with one (or more) of her friends back in Layton, and her side of the conversation went like this:

“Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . Oh? . . . Oh. . . . Yeah . . . yeah . . . Yeah? . . . Cool . . . Okay . . . No . . . Sure . . . But . . . yeah . . .”

Fiona was in the kitchen listening to some fairly loud music, and from the slight quaking of the floor, it seemed, practicing a dance that involved a lot of stomping.

The noise didn’t bother Felix; he had an actor’s focus. And it was easy for Becky to tune them out, a skill she’d perfected long ago. When her children were in trouble, she had dog ears, picking up a cry for help from a mile away. But let them be muddled in a nonlethal sibling spat or a tirade of whining for something they couldn’t have, and Becky might as well have been relaxing in the countryside, no sound but the wind clicking through the sycamore leaves.

The only hitch was Ryan, who couldn’t decide if he wanted to be in awe of Felix or rib his big sister. It didn’t take her long to banish him to his bedroom.

Mike came in from the study to perch on the fireplace and read the newspaper, occasionally looking at the duo with an inscrutable expression.

“How’s it look, honey?” Becky asked.

“You’re great, Bec, but your partner sounds a little . . . British.”

Felix gave a wan smile. “That is a tragedy.”

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Mike said. “It takes a lot of practice to achieve our level of hick and make it sound natural.”

Becky laughed. She couldn’t get enough of Mike being smart with Felix.

The rehearsals helped, but the next morning she arrived on location at the deli where her first scene would be shot, and she panicked. Her legs wobbled as if her bones considered dissolving, her heart raced so much that she found herself looking around for something life-threatening to face.

Felix patted her shoulder and shook his head with a casual, friendly frown, as if to say, “It’s nothing. Don’t spend a moment worrying. Everything’s fine.”

She nodded, as if to say, “Sure, okay. Everything’s fine. You’re right.”

It wasn’t, so she had to pretend it was. That was the real acting.

She straightened and faced the room, robing herself in her persona of Mommy of Four. If there was a problem (and there would always be a problem), then she could fix it. She couldn’t do everything, would never know everything, but there was no sliver of doubt in her that she was the best person on this earth to be her children’s mother.

I’m the best person in this room to play this part, she told herself. So stop trembling and moping and just do it, Becky.

She began to do it; she began to feel it. Felix made it easier. Acting with him was like dancing with him—he led lightly, casually, so that she barely felt his hand on her back, and yet when he led, she didn’t miss a step.

“You’re a master,” she whispered to him after their first take.

He smiled with just a touch of the smug. “You may be able to clean a house, raise four children, bake zucchini bread, and whistle Rach-maninoff at the same time, but this”—he waved a hand around him—“is my world.”

“Oh, you are so lucky I’m trying to be on my best behavior and can’t laugh at you right now.”

“I’m sure you’ll make up for it later.”

That first shot took twelve takes, but at last the director called, “Print it.”

Felix whispered, “See, I said you would be beautiful.”

They wrapped for the day before dinnertime, and Becky rushed home to her family, spilling into the sofa and exhaling loudly.

“Call off the search. I survived.”

In moments Sam was on top of her, burrowing into her arms till she hugged him tight. Mike sat on the edge of the couch, lifting her feet onto his lap.

“How’d it go?”

“It went. Okay, I guess. Have you eaten yet?”

Mike shook his head, and his stomach squeaked.

“Hello, empty belly. Did you forget to have lunch?”

“No, I . . .” Mike shrugged. “I’ve been fasting for you today, praying it’d go well. You know.”

“Aw, hon.” She reached over burrowing Sam to grab Mike’s hand. “That was the extra push I felt. Your prayers were floating all around me, like the birds in
Cinderella
that help her get dressed. You have bird prayers.”

He shrugged again. “I try.”

“Thank you.” It made her feel a little misty-eyed, so she didn’t say much else until dinner: take-out Chinese.

One Saturday Celeste and Felix sailed the whole Jack family to Catalina, while Uncle Ryan took the day off to meet some indie film-makers Felix had introduced him to. Celeste was magical, tanned and lovely in short-shorts and a striped shirt, her chestnut hair aflame in the wind. Becky wondered if it got tiring, being so beautiful all the time, if Celeste ever wished to take a break and just be normal. She was darling with the girls, sitting on the bow with their legs dangling over, bare feet tickled by ocean spray.

Mike was always eager to learn something new and manly, so he and Felix ran the boat, chatting about sails and rudders and chutes and ladders and who-knew-what. She made a mental note that the two men could in fact carry on a conversation, if supplied a practical topic.

As they traveled over heaving waves and under hard blue sky, Becky hid behind sunglasses and pretended to steer so she could watch her little boys undetected. The moment Hyrum suspected his mom was observing him and his brother play—and worse, approving!—would be the moment he called it quits, returning to doleful ways, muttering with old anger about being forced away from his friends all summer. But for now, Hyrum and Sam ran around with kerchiefs on their heads, yelling “Ahoy!” and “Thar she blows!” The sight was chocolate on her tongue that never melted.

They ate fresh seafood at a restaurant facing the bay, and eight separate people passed by their table with the express purpose of saying to Felix, “I love your work.” That was what everyone said, not just on Catalina, but at Disneyland and at restaurants and walking down the street helping Polly find chic souvenirs for her friends back home: “I love your work.” Why those four words? Sure, there were also the “I’m a huge fan” people, and the flustered “I can’t believe it’s really you” people, but 90 percent of the time, if words were spoken, they were “I love your work.”

“Is that the official celebrity-sighting motto?” Becky wondered aloud.

“Must be a new fad,” Felix said. “Usually all I hear is, ‘My baby kicked when I saw you! It must be a spiritual sign. Be my best friend,’ that sort of thing.”

Really, the “I love your work” people were the least annoying. Felix was regularly accosted by young filmmakers as well as seasoned filmmakers, philanthropists wanting money or to use his name, and of course the autograph seekers and tourists with eager cameras.

“Everyone wants something from you,” Becky said. “Not
you
, the real you, but the superstar Felix Callahan. It must get tiring. It seems like they don’t care about you—they just want what you can do for them.”

“Everyone but you, darling.”

Her tear ducts stung, and she blinked rapidly and turned away, wondering if it was true.

Sometimes Felix groaned at the attention from fans, sometimes he pretended deafness, but more and more often, he managed to respond politely.

“Take a look at our boy, Celeste,” Becky said. “It’s getting so we can take him out in public.”

And they did go out quite a bit, with Celeste and Felix slipping into the Jack family without much fuss. The couple was a real boon to outings—they got seated quickly at restaurants, and family games of soccer were much more sporting.

So days off were great, but days on set weren’t too shabby either.

Becky hadn’t worked outside the home since Fiona was born, and so much time away from the kids was worrying (Uncle Ryan let you do what?!), but then again, she got to work alongside Felix.

“Hello, passably talented,” she’d say as soon as she ran into him on set, and give him two cheek kisses—Becky was a pro at this now, no lip contact, just the barest grazing of cheeks.

“Hello, darling,” he’d say.

Then they’d be über-professional, talk only about the upcoming scene, sit as quietly as church mice, listening to the director, waiting their turn. But as soon as they were released on a lunch break or film-ing wrapped for the day, it was like school was out for the summer.

The set was a petri dish for practical jokes. A live donkey awaited Felix in his trailer, thoughtfully nibbling on a towel. The wardrobe mistress showed Becky her outfit for an upcoming scene—a bustier and stilettos. Becky blushed and stuttered until she heard Felix snickering behind the dress racks. At Becky’s request, Lorraine in craft services baked a muffin filled with mushed anchovies especially for Felix. The following week a handsome young police officer showed up on set looking for Becky, which was alarming until he pushed Play on a CD player and began to sing “Happy Birthday.”

A singing telegram! she thought. It’s not my birthday, but what an unusually sweet prank for Felix to—The music dipped with some heavy bass. The officer removed his jacket. Becky put it over her head and waited in blindness until the performance was over. She was only a little sorry to miss it. From their hoots, the female crew members had sounded sincerely entertained.

But mostly Felix and Becky were model children, who sat quietly and made faces at each other behind the director’s back. There was plenty of time for this. Wally liked to have Becky on hand as the screenwriter, ready for a powwow or to rewrite a line, so even though her acting part was small, she was there as much as Felix.

“You are more than just my liver now,” he said as they ate lunch in the dining tent. “You’re also my spleen.”

“Spleen? Which stands for . . .”

“Seriously Platonic Lovers and Emotionally Empathetic Neolo-gists.”

“Neologists?”

“Because we’re creating new words. Look, it wasn’t easy to come up with something for ‘N.’ ”

“
Seriously platonic lovers
. . . How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“Fifteen minutes and an online thesaurus.”

“It’s good. I like it.”

“Be a good girl and I’ll make you my pituitary gland.”

One time the script girl asked Becky, “So, what’s the deal with you and Felix?”

“We’re bestest chums,” she said.

The script girl shook her head as she walked away. “That is so frig-gin’ cool.”

Becky nodded happily, not because she thought it was
that
cool, but because she was pleased with her use of “friggin’.”

Felix returned to his star chair, his eyebrow arched meaningfully. “You shouldn’t look so satisfied, Mrs. Jack. Do you know what
friggin’
stands for?” He answered his own question, tossing out a word even Melissa wouldn’t use in Becky’s earshot.

“Watch your mouth, young man. What would your mother say to such language?”

“ ‘Pish posh,’ probably. She used to say that a lot.”

Used to . . .
Becky knew Felix was an only child—his father had left him and his mother when he was a boy and died a few years later in Spain. Since his mother was his only family, Becky assumed she must be more precious to him than scones. Her death would be appalling. “I’m sorry, Felix. She passed on?”

“No—at least, I don’t think so.”

“Oh! Oh? But you used the past tense there.”

“I don’t know what she’s saying currently, as I don’t see her anymore.”

“Anymore what? Anymore this year?” Becky felt a small earthquake rock her chest. “Felix, when is the last time you saw your mother?”

He didn’t answer.

“Felix . . .” she said with warning.

“I’m counting . . . fourteen, fifteen—”

“Please don’t tell me those are years. Assure me that those numbers aren’t years.”

Felix groaned. “This isn’t going to end well for any of us.”

“But she’s your mother; you’re her only little boy. She must be devastated! This is catastrophic. How could this happen? What happened?” She was on her feet, clutching her heart.

“Nothing. Sit down. We had a row when I was at university, that’s all.”