Winning is Everything (24 page)

51 

Ron sat in the Eugene O’Neill Theater, fourth row center, spending most of his time watching not
The Last of the Red Hot Lovers
onstage, but his date, Casey Kramer. When she laughed, he laughed. When she applauded, he applauded.

“Amusing,” Casey deemed the evening’s entertainment as they walked outside.

Ron flagged down a cab, helped Casey in, and held his breath. He didn’t have enough money for a fancy dinner and was hoping for a shot at seeing the inside of her apartment.

“My place, I guess,” Casey told the driver, and gave her address as Ron breathed a sigh of relief.

“Why don’t you come in?” asked Casey when they got there. “Forgive the place, it’s a
real
mess.”

Ron walked into the cleanest apartment he’d ever seen.

Casey hung her white beaver coat in the closet and asked Ron, “How about a brandy?”

“Best offer I’ve had all day.” Ron smiled, removing his overcoat and tossing it on a couch in the foyer.

“Right this way,” said Casey, leading him over to a cozy dark red couch in front of a fireplace. “Have a seat,” said Casey. “I’ll round up the liquid refreshments. Too bad we can’t build a fire, huh? Flue’s not breathing well.”

Ron sat back, counting both the impressionist paintings on the wall and his blessings. Casey returned in a few minutes, carrying a Cartier decanter half-filled with twenty-five-year-old Armagnac and two goldfish-bowl-style snifters.

Casey poured out an inch and handed the snifter to Ron. “Breathe deep!”

Ron breathed deep. It could have been apple juice for all he knew. “Mmmmmm,” he rhapsodized. Then he took a big gulp.

“No, darling …” Casey instructed. “Teeny sips. The intoxication comes from the fumes, the aroma. You must savor every drop.”

Always interested in tips on etiquette, Ron filed the information for future use. Still, he intended to even the score by teaching Casey a thing or two before the evening was out, and he was well aware that there was only one area in which he was probably more knowledgeable than she. Sex. Slowly, then, to get an indication as to how things were going, he loosened his tie.

“You’re so far away,” he said, patting the spot next to him on the couch.

“I’m fine,” said Casey as she sunk deeper into her chair.

Strike one! Ron told himself. Back off for a few minutes, then try again.

“Nice apartment,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Casey.

“How about a tour?” asked Ron, thinking about the bedroom.

“Some other time,” said Casey, removing her shoes and planting her feet up on the glass-topped table.

Strike two! This was getting to be a good deal more difficult than he’d first supposed. Maybe he should leave strike three for next time.

“Guess I’ll be shoving off …” he said with a small yawn and a large stretch of his arms. He stood up and walked into the foyer to pick up his overcoat.

Still saying nothing, Casey stood up too and followed him to the front door. Oh, God, thought Ron. Maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. And so, his back to the door, he put both hands around her neck and moved in for what Casey assumed would be a simple good-night kiss.

No way. The Prince was now in his element. He pulled her toward him and began making love to her mouth in a way no girl had ever resisted.

When Casey opened her eyes several minutes later, he knew the courtship was over. He’d won.

Casey put her hand out and touched Ron’s chest. “Don’t go …” she said very quietly.

The scent of victory filled the air. It was, perhaps, Ron’s favorite aroma in the world.

Taking Casey by the hand, he closed the door, put his arm around her waist, and whispered into her ear, “
Now
can we go see what your bedroom looks like…?”

52 

His eyes puffy and red, his nose swollen, Kip arrived at the J. Walter Thompson agency ready for his callback audition. There weren’t nearly as many actors clawing for the part this day, and Kip had to wait only fifteen minutes before being called.

He was greeted by the same five people he’d seen the other day and was handed, along with a copy of the script, a lacrosse stick and a goalie’s helmet, and was asked to recite the line.

Kip screwed up his courage … and sneezed. “I got a code in my doze!” he said.

There was a moment’s silence during which the only sound in the room was the wheezing of Kip’s lungs.

“That’s swell,” said one of the account executives. “Could you do it again? This time without the sneeze? While we certainly appreciate improvised touches, we’d rather just hear the line. Okay?”

“Fine,” said Kip. “I have a code in my doze!”

Kip’s reading was followed by another silence. Then the lady executive said, “That was terrific. I believed he
really
had a cold!”

The executives thanked Kip for coming back, said he’d be sure to hear from them, one way or another.

Kip took the elevator down to the lobby and hurried into the coffee shop, where he ordered the largest glass of orange juice they could muster and a cup of tea. He removed two aspirin and a time-released cold tablet from his pocket, and six thousand milligrams of vitamin C, and downed all the pills at once with a large gulp of water.

Having purposely ignored his cold till now, he was finally prepared to get better. He was home in bed when Rhonda called to tell him he had the part.

Late Friday afternoon Gary walked into Nora’s office and found her sitting behind her desk in a state of shock. He put down the bottle of wine he’d brought to celebrate the end of the work week and asked, “My God, what’s wrong?”

“We’re out of a job,” said Nora quietly.

“What did you say?”

“They’re closing the story departments on both coasts,” said Nora, staring straight ahead at nothing.

“They’re
what!”

Nora looked over at him. “They decided at Wednesday’s board meeting. Box office is down, expenses are up. They have to show their stockholders they’re doing something about trying to cut back until business improves.”

“I don’t believe it!” said Gary. “What will we do?”

“We’ll find other jobs. What else can we do?”

“But I’ve got to work with you,” said Gary. “We’re the best team since Ruth Gordon and Garson Kanin!”

“Listen. This is the movie business, not the movies,” said Nora. “Things don’t always have a happy ending.”

“How long do we have before they want us out?”

“Oh, the usual two weeks,” said Nora.

“So what do we do now?” asked Gary.

“Only one thing we can do,” said Nora. “Let’s drink our wine and pray it’s a half-decent vintage!”

They finished the bottle and then Nora pulled out another.

By the time Gary got home to the apartment, he was good and drunk. He didn’t even see Ron’s note saying he’d be having dinner with Milady Kramer over at the David Susskinds’ and would hopefully be spending the night at Casey’s.

Determined to get rid of his cold, Kip spent the entire weekend in bed. By early Monday morning he was feeling much better. He was thinking of going over to the Y for a workout, when his father called.

“Elliott?” asked Elliott Senior. “We got some trouble here.”

Kip felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “What’s up?”

“It’s your mother …”

“Not again …” Kip said softly.

“’Fraid so,” said Elliott Senior. “Another breakdown. Real bad. Last night was a nightmare.”

“Christ …”

“All she’s been doing is walking around looking for you, like you were three years old, for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. How’re you holding up?”

“Okay, I guess,” said Elliott Senior. “Not like it’s something new to us or anything.”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway. I think you better get down here. Should be at least a few days.”

“Dad, I … got a commercial to shoot tomorrow morning.”

“You what?”

“A television commercial. I can’t leave just yet.”

“Kip, listen to me. I’m under enough pressure without having to fight you too. Your mother’s going in for a shock treatment tomorrow morning, first thing. Doctors feel if she can get through the trauma they can shock her again by the end of the week.”

“But, Dad …”

“You know your mother, Kip. First thing she’s going to expect to see, once she comes to her senses, is you. You know that, don’t you?”

Kip exhaled in frustration. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

“Okay … There’s a five-thirty commuter leaves Penn Station. I’ll pick you up at the North Philly Station.”

“Dad, this commercial is my first speaking part.”

“I’m sorry, Kip. We got a critical situation on our hands. Make your apologies, postpone your plans, I don’t care. I’ve got to get over to the hospital now. I’ll see you at the station.”

Without waiting for confirmation, Elliott Senior hung up.

Kip stared into the disconnected receiver; then he slammed down the phone, hissing, “Goddam it!”

He picked up the phone again and dialed Rhonda Gulreich’s office. His agent was tied up on three calls, but Kip stressed the fact this was an
emergency
and eventually got put through.

After Kip had explained the problem, instead of saying she understood and was sorry, Rhonda seemed to go berserk. “You walk out on this one, Kip,” she screamed, “and it’s your funeral. I promise I’ll never send you on another call long as I’ve got this office. I’ll bad-mouth you all over town. You won’t be able to find work shoveling shit in the circus!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way …”

“And here I made the big mistake of thinking you wanted to
act”

“I do want to act,” Kip protested.

“You didn’t know how to spell the words ‘show business’ when we first met!”

“Rhonda … I’ll call when I get back from Philly,” said Kip.

“Don’t bother!” cried Rhonda as she slammed down the telephone.

In a state of agitation, Kip dialed Adrienne. “You won’t believe this,” he said. “This time it’s
me
who has to cancel our date tonight.”

“But why?” asked Adrienne.

“Big family troubles down in Philly. I gotta go home for a few days.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“I hope not also. It’s my mom,” said Kip. “She’s had another crack-up.”

“Oh, Kip … I am sorry,” said Adrienne.

“Thanks,” said Kip. “For being so understanding.”

“It’s the least I can be,” replied Adrienne. “You’ve always been a perfect angel whenever I’ve had complications.”

“Yeah, well …”

“Hey! I’ve got an idea. Friends of mine own this terrific weekend house in Connecticut. They never use it and are always offering it to me. Why don’t I tell them we want it, say … next Monday and Tuesday? I’ll be off both days. Wll you be back by then?”

“Adrienne … I’ll make sure I’m back by then.”

“Good,” said Adrienne. “Then we’ve got a date.”

53 

Suitcase in hand, Kip stepped off the train station at North Philadelphia and, even in the dark, spotted his father down at the end of the platform.

“How’re you doing, Dad?”

“Holding up okay, I suppose. You’d think by now I’d be used to it, huh? Strange thing is, we all thought she was getting better. Healthiest she’d been in years.”

Neither father nor son said anything else until they drove out of the station.

“Okay,” Kip said finally. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was crazy, really. I went out to play golf with three guys from the office—Farrell, Wooster, and another guy you don’t know. I thought about getting someone to watch her for the afternoon, but she’d been doing so well lately, I figured, hell, we gotta leave her to herself sometime.”

“Go on,” Kip said quietly.

“I was out four, maybe five hours. Farrell and I beat the pants off the other guys; we all had a few drinks at the club. You couldn’t ask for a better Sunday…”

“And?”

“I got home a little before six. House was silent. I called your mother’s-name a couple of times—no response. Then I walked into the kitchen. Refrigerator door was wide open, most of the food thrown to the floor. I knew we were in trouble. Water in the sink was left running full blast.

“I ran through the house looking for her, not knowing what the hell I was going to find.

“Finally, there she was, upstairs, in your old room—I’d been using it as a den since you left. Windows were wide open. Your mother had gone on one of her rampages. Threw out everything that fit through the open windows.

“And there she lay, Kip, alone in an empty corner of the room, on the floor, holding on to all four of Lady Bracknell’s pups.

“She’d closed the door so the bulldogs wouldn’t get out, wouldn’t leave her. Of course, after a few hours the puppies messed all over the floor. Your mother picked up the stuff, smeared it on everything—the walls, the couch, herself. It was awful.”

“Christ,” said Kip under his breath.

“I found a blanket and wrapped it around her. Called for an ambulance. Your mother sat on the floor rocking back and forth, singing some dumb nursery chant…

“And you know what she told me while we sat there waiting for the ambulance? You know what she said? She said she was trying to write a message on the wall. A message in puppy shit, can you believe it?”

“What was she trying to write?” asked Kip.

“She only got half the message finished, because she got distracted.”

‘What was the message?”

“The message was … the message was … Are you ready for this?
‘It’s all dog shit, anyway.’”

Elliott Senior drove his Buick through the main gates of the Packer-field Clinic. An early-morning flurry had left a dusting of snow along the tree-lined road leading to the administration building.

“I always forget how beautiful this place is,” said Kip, looking across rows of snow-covered lawns. “It’s prettier than Lehigh.”

“At eight hundred fifty bucks a day, it goddamn ought to be,” cracked Elliott Senior.

They were greeted at the administration building by Jean Bramer’s physician, Dr. Howit. He led them into one of the newer wings of the hospital.

“Now, understand, your purpose in coming here is to make your mother try to relax,” Dr. Howit told Kip. “Right now she’s highly agitated. Usually we don’t allow patients in so volatile a condition to have visitors. But Mrs. Bramer has been persistent in asking to see you. I’m hoping the visit might calm her down before she has to go in for her next shock treatment. Now, then”—the doctor held open a hall door for Kip and his father—”you know your mother’s not in a normal state, don’t you?”

“Doctor,” said Kip, “my mother hasn’t been in a normal state for as long as I can remember. I can handle her.”

“I’ll be in the waiting room,” said Elliott Senior. “It’s you she’s been asking for. I’ll be out here if you need me.”

Kip’s father turned to walk down to the waiting room, and Dr. Howit opened the door to room 174.

“Mrs. Bramer?” the doctor whispered.

Jean Bramer sat in a corner of the room on a small wooden chair, looking out the window. “Kip?” She raised her eyes to the door. “Is that you, son?”

The doctor signaled for Kip to enter the room.

“Hi, Mom,” Kip said softly. The doctor slowly closed the door behind him.

Jean Bramer looked up at her son. “So there you are,” she said softly. “Come over here and give your mother a great big hug.”

Kip crossed the room, got down on both knees, and hugged his mother around her waist.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked. “I’m sure we could get some.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” said Kip. “How are you feeling?”

“Isn’t it amazing how bright the late-winter sun can be?” she asked, staring out the window. “It snowed earlier. Not much. Just for a while.”

“I know. It’s very beautiful.”

“Why do you suppose they have these awful bars on the windows?” asked Jean Bramer with childlike innocence.

“Probably to protect you,” said Kip.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thanks.”

“I can get you something. Really, I can.”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Why do you suppose they have no kitchen in this room?”

“I don’t know,” said Kip, pulling up a chair to sit next to his mother.

“And look at that picture on the wall …” Kip’s mother pointed to a photo of a mountain stream in spring. “How do you suppose they make the water move? It’s just like a movie. How do they do it?”

“It’s not really moving, Mom,” said Kip. “The movie in your mind senses that it’s moving.”

“But if it’s not moving, why do I see it as moving?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’ve got an extra-special movie projector all your own.”

“So the reality is, reality is an illusion, right?”

“Something like that,” Kip agreed, smiling knowingly.

Kip’s mother kneaded her green cotton hospital gown above her thigh and Kip saw for the first time that her hands were encircled by a pair of brown leather rings connected by a short leather bar. Jean Bramer had been restrained.

“Are you hungry?” Kip’s mother asked.

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“I’m fine.”

“Do I look simply awful? You can tell me.”

“You look tired,” said Kip.

“I do, don’t I?” said Jean Bramer. “It’s no fun getting old, did I ever tell you that?”

“I think so.”

“Are the puppies okay?”

“The puppies are beautiful,” said Kip. “One of the best litters we’ve ever had. They all look like Shelley Winters. You should be proud.”

“I think my husband is trying to kill them …” said Kip’s mother in a near-whisper.

“Why do you say that?”

“He went out the other day to buy an ax. I know he did. He was going to chop them up into little puppy pieces.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” said Kip, taking his mother’s hand. “Dad loves those puppies. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt them.”

“Please don’t go back to Lehigh, Kip.” Jean Bramer bit her lip. “I’m not strong enough. Not yet.”

“I don’t go to Lehigh anymore, Mom,” Kip told her. “I graduated last year. You and Dad came to the commencement exercises, remember?”

“’Course I remember!” Kip’s mother snapped defiantly. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory … I just get a little confused sometimes … that’s all.”

Kip hugged his mother. “We all get confused sometimes. You’re just smarter than most of us. You know life is a cheat, so you have trouble going through the day-to-day hypocrisy of it all.”

Kip’s mother leaned over and kissed her son. “I’ve got to get better,” she said, wringing the skirt of her hospital gown. “My son is coming here to visit me this afternoon.”

“Mother!” Kip scolded.

“Forgive me,” said Jean Bramer. “You know how much fun I sometimes have pretending to be mad. Keeps the staff here on their toes.”

“Well, I’m not staff,” Kip insisted. “I know when you’re falling apart and when you’re all here. We’re two of a kind, Jean Bramer, and that, I hope, is why someday I really will become a good actor, and why I know you can get better!”

“Get better?” said Kip’s mother. “Why in hell would I want to get better? Without my madness, your father would be bereft. Golf and bulldogs and his law practice are what he thinks keeps him going … but I know better. He lives to pay penance because he married me for my money, and he’s spent years ever since trying to make up for it. I figure I’ll have maybe three of four more breakdowns before I let him off the hook!”

Suddenly frightened, shifting moods, Kip’s mother looked at her son, tense and irritated. “Have you been here a long time?” she asked.

“Not very long,” said Kip.

“Silly!” Mrs. Bramer knotted the front of her gown. “Tell me something, son.” She seemed to suddenly snap back to the real world. “Was I a terrible parent? Was it impossible growing up in a house with a mother who was more Lady Macbeth than just another member of the PTA?”

“Well,” said Kip, “let’s say there was rarely a dull moment.”

“You were such an adorable little boy, Kip. More beautiful, perhaps, than even nature should have allowed.”

“Mom …” Kip held his mother’s hand.

“Remember how you used to tell people that you were going to be a cowboy in the movies when you grew up?”

“I remember.”

“And then your father would always correct you and say you were actually going to grow up to be the governor of Pennsylvania.”

“That he did,” Kip recalled.

“Can you stay for lunch?” Jean Bramer began to fade.

“No … I think I better be going now/’ Kip said sadly. “I just wanted to stop in, say hello.”

“They’re going to do terrible things to me, aren’t they?” Jean asked, her eyes focused again on the photo on the wall.

“No, Mother. Nothing you haven’t been through before.”

“They’re going to put that thing on my head, aren’t they?”

“If they do, it’s only to make you feel better.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that to me? Doesn’t that presuppose that I’m not feeling well? It must. But I feel fine. I have my voices. I have my visions.”

“You’ll probably sleep through the night. I’ll stop in, see you tomorrow. How’s that?”

“Thank you. And don’t tell your father you were here. I think he means to do me and my puppies harm. That’s why he’s arranged for them to put that metal thing on my head.”

“You’ll be fine. The metal thing will make you feel wonderful.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” said Kip, turning to leave.

“One moment …” Kip’s mother stretched out her clamped hands. Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m so lonely,” she said, quivering. “Won’t you please stay and have lunch with me …?”