Chapter Nineteen

        On Tuesday morning, while Adam lay in fevered dreams, as Jamie arose after a night of sweet dreams, Yvonne stalked a waking dream after a wakeful night of reading and contemplating theatrical dreams.
        She paced through her apartment, cigarette in one hand, coffee cup in the other. If she had had problems before, an obsession with Adam's unseen play, wanting to direct a myth, now she had a great quandary. And half of her dilemma was quite real. Now she had a real play offer. A very good play, in fact. On paper, resting now thrice read on her rumpled bed.
        Monday afternoon when she and Jillie had visited Hal and Paul, while Hal and Jillie were in the kitchen making lunch, Paul casually dropped his new play in Yvonne's lap. The light from a March sun polished to a brilliance by the abrasions of the winter just past glistened on the cover of the play. Yvonne looked up at the source of the light, past the darker source of the play. Beyond where Paul stood feigning nonchalance, the windows from the alcove where Hal and Paul wrote on twin typewriters projected rays of light onto Yvonne's lap, bejeweling the plastic covered play. Yvonne hadn't known Paul was working on his own stuff, let alone that he had a play. But then it had been five years since Duck, Duck, Goose. Sufficient time, she reflected, to adjust to his homosexuality, adjust to life with Hal, help Hal write the book on homosexuality and the arts, and to now have written a new play. Five years was enough time to learn to be a playwright again after the tumult of identity and world view editing. She felt a twinge of jealousy in Adam Adamsky's name, picked up the play and asked, "Is it good?"
        "Well, yes, of course. But you'll have to be the judge. We want you to direct. Hal's producing, of course. We've got the theater and everything."
        The mention of a theater gave Yvonne a pang of something akin to homesickness for the Paradise. "So you've got a new play!" she marveled in a drawl. She tried to concentrate on the moment, wanted to help Paul with the drama of it. But she was distracted. And besides, it was a little scene she'd played with too many playwrights, and Yvonne didn't have to look into the book to know that it was good. She had much faith in Paul. And, besides, it was her fate now, she knew, that a good play would come her way what with her debt to the Adamsky-Lord-Yvette fantasy outstanding.
        She looked at Paul as he sat down across from her, watched him light a cigarette with a slight tremor and keep his piercing blue eyes cast down out of reach of her piercing blue eyes. Humility, she thought, is a darling thing. Fear of rejection is sometimes just as endearing. But Yvonne refused to facilitate immediate gratification of Paul's expectations. Paul darted a look at her when he leaned forward to flick his ashes in a tray on the table between the twin facing couches where they sat. Yvonne knew that the protocol was that she was supposed to be looking into Paul's pages, but she was looking instead into the pages in her mind. She was remembering how eagerly Gabriel had brought the talented Paul to her, how eagerly they both had brought Duck, Duck, Goose to her, and how eagerly they had besieged her to prevail upon Hal to produce it. But then she shuddered, thinking of Gabriel's end.
        "You all right, Evie?" asked Paul.
        Yvonne nodded, but shuddered again thinking of other pages, the pages of the letter in her purse that had come that morning from Maggie. It had been written in England. Maggie was hiding out in a village in Cornwall, the letter reported. She was deformed, she wrote, "...an elephant woman" after a "wee bit" of plastic surgery in Switzerland. "Horribly botched." "I am ruined." The letter hinted at suicide. She begged Yvonne to come and sort things out, figure out what to do. Because she couldn't think any more. "Come. Come right away. I won't go on living if I have to look like this. I can't even die and leave a face like this." Elsewhere in the pages Maggie wrote, "I'm like Cleopatra. I spend all my time drugged on valium and seconal, waiting for Antony to come back from his wife in Rome. But I have no Antony. I'm so depressed. I'm devastated over my horrid face, so I take these pills. I'm too groggy to even fly somewhere and have my face fixed. I have a horror of some greasy surgeon making it even worse, as if that's possible. I have nightmares of Hal's face disintegrating. His beautiful face! I have nightmares of Cary's face after Princess Grace died, you remember how it sagged with grief. And the worse dream of all--how can I write this! But I have to write it to dispel some of the horror--I dream nightly of Gabriel's face. I dream of what it must look like now three years in the grave. I have covered all the mirrors in the place, like Jews after a death so I won't have to see myself. And it rains all the time. The only reason I can write this is that someone sent me a little envelope of powder. But writing this is depressing me now. How do you writers do it? It's such work. You've got to come, Evie. I'm glad I've written this. I could never tell you on the phone. It's too terrible. Come. Now."
        "God, Yvonne," laughed Paul. "At least look at the title."
        Yvonne almost said, "What title?" but caught herself in time and opened the cover. "The Play of Ruth, by Paul Blake."
        "Paul! Like as in the Book of Ruth? Like in the Bible?" Paul really did have something to worry about with this subject matter, Yvonne thought as he nodded rather stiffly, not liking Yvonne's reaction. "How'd you manage it?"
        "I modernized it. Well, I brought the language and sets and so forth up to date, but the story's basically the same." Paul sat up, moved to the edge of the couch and stubbed out his cigarette as he talked excitedly. "See, it's about friendship. It's about taking on values and customs, but it's about being yourself regardless of those customs. But at the same time, it's about being yourself because of the demands of custom, because of the demands of friendship. See, it cuts a different path through the issues of assuming a religion because the story from the Bible, and what I do in my play, isn't about being zombie-ized by some cult. It's just a simple story about a woman who takes on the Hebrew religion because she marries into it. It's a practical matter, not religious hysteria. And she takes care of her family just as they take care of her. It's really a peach of a story."
        Hal and Jillie came out of the kitchen. Jillie pushed the play aside and sat on Yvonne's lap. Hal sat beside Paul.
        "Well?" said Hal to Yvonne.
        "I'm telling her about it."
        "It sounds terrific," said Yvonne, who was reworking one of Jillie's braids that had come loose.
        "Don't tell her about it!" Hal said. "Let her read it."
        "I'm supposed to sit her and read it now?" Yvonne laughed. "Who've you got in mind for the lead?"
        Paul and Hal looked at each other. "You, of course," Hal said with a tone of civil mock scorn.
        "I only asked her to direct," Paul told Hal. "I figured she'd know it was for her."
        Yvonne was touched. Embarrassed. Taken off guard. She should have realized the part was for her. But then she should have anticipated Paul's writing of a play, too. She blushed a pretty pink mask. "Direct and have the lead? Again?"
        "I wrote Ruth for you. Direct or act or both. Hal or I or both of us can direct, if you just want the part."
        "God but we're an incestuous crowd. Group narcissism is the most democratic, I always say. Don't you guys know that there's some terrific actress out there from Cincinnati pounding the pavements dying for this part?"
        "Eve, aren't you from Cincinnati?" Hal asked.
        "Oh...I am, aren't I!" She forgot for long periods that she hadn't sprung full grown from the brow of the god of theater. "But you know what I meant."
        "Yeah, you don't want to do Ruth," Paul pouted.
        "Let's not be hasty," Hal said gently to Paul. "What do you mean?" he asked Yvonne.
        "I guess I mean let's not be hasty. I haven't even read it. And I shouldn't say any more about the book or production until I do. Besides, I'm still stunned. How'd you write this without my knowing?"
        "He's really worried about this. It's been a long time. He wanted to keep it a secret until he knew it was good. It is. But you'll have to be the judge," Hal told Yvonne and then he turned to Paul. "Now wait until she reads it. I told you. Stop trying to prejudice her."
        "Damn it, Hal, this isn't English 101. She can handle a little introduction. Right, Eve?" Paul whined.
        Eve closed her eyes and prayed that the magnanimity that Paul promised in his script and not this pointless peevishness would prevail when she introduced the subject of Maggie's crises as soon as the opportunity arose. "I'm sorry, I've got other things on my mind. Really, I'm sure it will be very good. But I can't make committed noises yet."
        "Of course you can't," said Hal, getting up. "Come on, Jillie, let's go check the food." And the little girl and the producer went back to the kitchen, but not until he had shot a warning glance at Paul, and a "please indulge him" look at Yvonne.
        Before Yvonne and Paul could again begin talking, Jillie zoomed into the livingroom, looped once around the couches singing, "Mommy, Paul, Hal says lunch in ten minutes," and she zoomed back into the kitchen. Yvonne took a deep breath, looked hopefully at Paul, and got Maggie's letter out of her purse, telling him to read it.
        She watched Paul read. He paled more with every paragraph. "I called her," she said after he put the pages down. "I told her to hang on, that I'd be there tomorrow. She sounded terrible, Paul. Much worse than this cocaine letter. I've made reservations for this evening."
        "Call the American Consulate. Have them scrape her up."
        "Oh that's lovely. Make a public, international scandal of it? Charming. No, it has to be someone she knows," Yvonne said, lighting her third cigarette in twenty minutes.
        "Let's see, don't we know a few people in London? Who was it I was thinking of? Hmm..."
        "No, Paul. Can't you see this is still the divorce?" she asked gently, treading on tender ground.
        "It's been four years!" Alex chortled.
        "Okay. Four years. It's taken you that long to come back to play writing. Four years! I've got things that happened twenty years ago that I never've gotten over. So Maggie's strong. It's taken her four years to get all the way to the bottom. The point is she's there. At the bottom. Now. And we're responsible. In part, at least."
        "Oh! Noble Ruth! Noble Yvonne! To the rescue!"
        "No. I don't even have a passport. I've never had a moment to travel."
        "Then why'd you make a reservation?"
        "Because it's Noble Paul, Noble Hal time."
        "Oh no. Uh uh. That bitch," Alex spat and laughed.
        "Remember Gabriel, Paul?" He blanched at once, but she let the screws turn themselves a bit by remaining silent for several beats--and then several beats more. Timing is everything in manipulation, as with any art. "Paul," she said, trying to sound like Paul's mother whom Yvonne had met several times, "you read the letter, you know what it means. Maggie's waiting for Antony. Hal. He should go get her. And you should encourage him to do it. Back me up. And don't give me any more bitch stuff. Who isn't a bitch? You? Me? Hal? Hell."
        Yvonne stopped and let this seep in. "You know, dear, you can afford to be a little generous. Things are going so well for you and Hal. You've got your new play, Hal's book is doing well, and the two of you are so happy. What can it hurt? This person's in deep trouble. Give a little. Give her Hal for a few hours. You think you won't get him back? Be realistic."
        "Ok, but I'm going with him. I can help."
        "Oh, sure. Just like Richard Burton could help Elizabeth Taylor with Eddie Fisher."
        "It's just a little different, I think."
        "Ok, you're a playwright. Go with this scenario: A woman of almost sixty has a face lift that so badly messed up that she covers her mirrors. She opens the door expecting me, but wanting Hal. It is in fact Hal--a miracle!--but also you're there? Her rival? Her young rival who's decades from a face lift? Who took Hal the Great Face of Hollywood away from her?"
        Paul acquiesced, but had to communicate his position with a nod and a wink because Hal and Jillie came for them to eat lunch just then. After lunch when Yvonne had Hal read the letter, immediately the errant husband was on his feet to go save Maggie. Yvonne and Paul calmed him down, told him about the phone call to Maggie and the reservation for a London flight for that night. The three adults played Old Maid and Go Fish with Jillie and discussed the Maggie situation. Yvonne said Maggie could stay with her when Hal brought her back.
        Late in the afternoon, Yvonne took Jillie home to Jillie's mother and then returned to Hal and Paul's. She marveled during the ride back how she had underestimated Hal. Not that her work on Paul had been wasted. He was hurt but disguising it well. He was as stunned as Yvonne that Hal was ready to rescue Maggie at the fluttery drop of a little air mail paper. She would talk to Paul after Hal's plane left about the bonds created in a twenty-five year marriage. Not that Yvonne knew, but undoubtedly she and Paul could invent such knowledge in order to make Paul feel better.
        All of this was going well, Yvonne hoped. But it brought up old lamentations into sharp contrast. If only she'd been more involved when Maggie and Hal and Gabriel and Hal had split up... But on the other hand, why did she have to be such a busy body? She manipulated her own life sterile. She had only one relationship that was both viable and unbesotted by politics--other than with Jillie--and that was with her shrink. When the cab pulled up at Hal and Paul's building, she thought, "Oh well, let's deal with the present situation." Tomorrow she would see her shrink. There would be some free and fecund moments!
        Over coffee at the airport after they had seen Hal off, Paul was already self-consoled before Yvonne could ply her trade. But they went over ideas and feelings anyway in agreeing tones, Paul having come to many of the mature, generous conclusions that Yvonne thought she would have to help him reach. She was a bit perplexed that it was all coming along so nicely, taking such a humane route at a respectable speed. She tried to assess whether the doubts she coverted would by magic ruin the happy soap opera that was coming together in front of her, or whether those doubts provided just the necessary superstitious body English to ensure success. But suddenly she was uninvolved. Didn't care. It was in motion, going in the right direction. If she was needed later to make corrections in the course, she'd be consulted, no doubt.
        "Go home," Paul was saying. "Read my play. Your play. I'll be nice. I like best the part about Maggie taking care of Hal all those years, and now I get the benefits... That's in the play, by the way. Not in those exact terms, of course. See, Ruth says at one point..." But then he laughed instead of quoting himself. He threw his wadded paper napkin onto the table and laid a dollar tip next to it. "Let's go. Let's get you home so you can read the play."
        When the cab pulled up at Yvonne's apartment, Paul put his arms around her. "Goodnight, darling. Read. We'll make a nice play. I'll call you tomorrow after Hal calls." Yvonne kissed him, and got out of the cab. But when the cab had gone a few yards, it halted and Paul threw open the door, saying, "But call me in the morning if you finish the play tonight, okay? Or call me even if you finish in the middle of the night, okay?" She agreed while knowing she would call him only after she had read and done hours of thinking about it. That was her way.
        So on Monday evening, just about the time the first thunderstorm was creeping up on the city to the terror of Jamie and about ten thousand other phobics, Yvonne nestled into bed to read Ruth. And Paul's play was good. Very, very good. It was lovely, charming, powerful, fresh, enlightened and enlightening, sweet, pithy, modern, ancient, and altogether excellent. It was everything a play should be. Paul had balanced action and thought to a faretheewell. The Ruth role was world-class great. It was the sort of intelligent role actresses were screaming for. It had humor and music, and none of the chaotic stridence or helpless whining that was compulsively coming out of writers' pens like requisite poisons for actresses to fit in their mouths. And yet Ruth seemed to have a hint of Ophelia to her, a bitter pathos like a pinch of marjoram.
        "God, Yvonne," she said aloud to herself as she haunted her own apartment on Tuesday morning after a night of reading and twice rereading the play. "Damn! You fool! How can you not do this play? It's the female role of the decade!" Her answer was that she picked up the phone and called the Zezex hairspray man, waking him. "Greg, I've got a part for you. I've got a play."
        Her excitement translated over the wires and electrocuted sleep. "Adamsky's play? You've read it? Is it good? There is a part for me?"
        "Ah, no. Ah, Paul Blake's new thing. I didn't even know he was working on a play. He dumped it in my lap yesterday, literally and otherwise. I'm sure I can get you a reading. You interested?"
        "Mmmm. Probably."
        "You putz! Don't go coy. You're not that good an actor. And you're rusty, you know, and plastic coated with the Zezex. Be a little honest here. I'll have to do a little politicking to get you a try."
        "Okay, okay. When, do you think?"
        "Well, they're quite hot, Hal and Paul, so probably quite soon."
        "You directing?" Greg asked. "Acting?"
        "Ohhh...one way or the other," said Yvonne cryptically.
        But it was good enough for Greg, who said, "Great! So this is a good play?"
        "Oh, yes. Yes it is. I'll have Hal call you." They ended their talk and hung up. Yvonne stared at the phone, envisioning Greg as Ruth's first husband. With a beard or dyed hair he wouldn't be the Zezex man.
        She knew she would manage to get him a part in Ruth, if not the husband, something. She had reason to. She wanted him absorbed in a play, happy, and maybe meeting someone new so she could slip unobtrusively out of his life. Conversely, she wanted Greg in the play as an insurance policy against being involved in it herself. She was intentionally avoiding this new success. She was fed up with her life. She was making a clean sweep. She was tired of Greg, and she was tired of associating on so many levels with Paul and Hal, et al. It was too safe. It was time to grow up and leave the bosom of her crazy little family. She wanted something daring, dangerous, uncertain. It was too easy. Her success was stagnating her. Or would soon, she feared.
        She thought of a Dylan song: "When you're tired of yourself and all of your creations, oh won't you. Come see me. Queen Jane." It was a line that had stuck in her brain since the 'sixties, anticipatory of a condition she now felt herself ensconced in. "But who is it I'm supposed to go see? Bob Dylan? He can't even help himself, I'm sure," she thought, and then stubbed out her cigarette and tossed off a last icy drink of coffee and went to her stereo. She searched the shelf of albums. She couldn't remember which of Dylan's albums had the song. She searched through the scratched print on the dusty, wrinkled album jackets, and her youth came tumbling off the antique ideas and sentiments and poetry there. "Shit," she said. "Oh, wow!" she exclaimed. "Man, I don't believe it!" she snorted. "Shit, wow, man," she whispered. At last she found the song and put it on, sitting in a rocking chair leaning into the vortex of the speakers, strenuously hoping to find out either from the lyrics or the fine anguish of the singer who it was she supposed to go see now that she was tired of herself and all of her creations. She got no answer, didn't think the answer was in the song, but she played it again. "That's it," she adduced when the song was done. "It's like every other damn thing. It only asks the question. No fucking answer here." She flipped off the stereo, went and made a fresh cup of coffee and stood at her livingroom windows.
        She looked out on a day of wintry spring, a city morning of grey brick and grey clouds; clouds that seemed tacked to the tops of the tall buildings like a child's game of tent making. She expected a blimp-sized six year old to walk past the window. She turned from cartoon pre-hallucinations and focused on the lace and plants inside her rooms. She sat down on the couch, smoked her cigarette, drank her coffee, deciding over and over again like a stuck record that she had better wake up and stop thinking sweepingly for now. That she was too tired after being awake all night and after having accomplished so much in less than twenty-four hours to handle any more dramatic thought. Focusing now on little practical matters, she counted her aches. Tears laboriously worked their tired path to her eyes. She wiped away tears that were nearly dry anyway, and rose to make a day despite the hard usages of a night that threatened to make the day used up though it was only several hours old.
        But the phone rang. It was Greg calling because he had forgotten to say thankyou, and he tried to wheedle out of her what the play and what the part for him were about. She put him off, saying again that Hal would talk to him. When they hung up, Yvonne sat again for nearly an hour in an unslept caffeine stupor. She wondered where Hal was in his noble pilgrimage. She wondered where Julian was in his rock and roll pilgrimage. She wondered where Adam Adamsky was in his, ah, Adam Adamsky pilgrimage. And she wondered where she was in her own pilgrimage, aside from the soap opera where she was Queen of the May and master plumber who managed the major shit all in one.
        "You know, the pilgrimage where we are all angels pasted onto flesh slapped back and forth between the hand of materialism and the hand of lyrical thought," Yvonne said to her nameless parakeet. She was up out of her stupor at last, peering into her blue bird's cage. "Blink, blink, say you? Profound, darling, truly profound." And with a laugh she was up about her day, running a bath to get ready to go see her shrink. But she let the bath sit for an hour while she transcribed the six poems she'd written over the week from handwriting to typed form. Her poetry was the main material bond between her and her shrink.