The Actor and the Housewife

  “It happens,” Mike said as he made some grilled cheese sandwiches for the boys. “And besides, we don’t know all the particulars.”

  Mike was being infuriatingly reasonable. He would.

  When she read that Felix’s play was panned and closed down, she actually felt a small twist of “that serves you right.” Then in a supermarket line she saw Felix’s photo in a magazine she’d stopped to flip through. He was dapper. He looked younger (plastic surgery?). He was walking on a boardwalk somewhere, holding hands with Jessica Bedecker, a twenty-six-year-old actress with perfectly gorgeous flyaway brown hair and a build right at home in a V-neck sweater.

  Becky began to boil.

  “He’s forty-four, Mike. Did I mention he’s forty-four? What’s he doing?”

  “Are you worried for Celeste’s sake?”

  “Not anymore. She’s made her choice with Alfredo, the saucy Italian musician.”

  “Then I don’t understand why this upsets you so much. You know he’s going through a public and difficult divorce. I’d think you’d be happy for him to be dating again.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  So she had to think of a reason. “Because you’re a man.”

  “Oh.”

  That wasn’t the end of it. A few days later:

  “The point is, he’d been crying about Celeste a few hours earlier, then he went to a club and hooked up with two bouncy girls.”

  “They were adults, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, yes, bouncy infantile adult girls. Why are you defending him? He probably slept with one of them that very night! Or both! Don’t you see, Mike? I mean, what is he doing?”

  Mike sat down on the edge of the bed and said carefully, “Becky, what are you doing?”

  Becky stopped pacing. The tone in his voice stilled her. She had some words she’d like to shout, none of them rated G. But she couldn’t bear to fight with him when he used that tone—the sweetly reasonable, the concerned, the loving Mike tone. It wasn’t fair.

  She waited for him to speak again.

  “I can’t figure it out. You’re acting funny. You don’t usually get riled up like this—not about other people’s decisions, not unless it affects the kids somehow. It’s almost like . . . you’re jealous. But I don’t think you are. Are you? Jealous?”

  She let that question bounce around the quiet room. Then she whispered, “That was too far,” and walked away.

  Things were a teensy bit tense in the Jack house hold. Becky and Mike spoke like business colleagues, comparing to-do lists, engaging in stilted small talk that skirted anything emotional. Mike didn’t give Becky hugs in the kitchen, and Becky didn’t laugh much. Hyrum acted out more, playing trouble for trouble. Sam said things like, “Why’s everyone being weird?” Fiona looked at her parents askance and was double quick to do as asked.

  Polly was the only one who didn’t seem to notice. The week before, on her fourteenth birthday, she’d been allowed to start wearing a second item of makeup (in addition to lip gloss). She’d chosen mascara, and it took up a lot of her attention.

  It took a week before Becky and Mike rolled toward each other in bed and touched each other again. It was a white flag, an “I still love you even though I don’t want to talk about this right now” event. And it made the coming weeks a little more bearable.

  Still Felix didn’t call.

  All through May, Becky boiled. She made her prayers inconsequential. She read her scriptures nightly without allowing the words to sink inside her. In many ways, she felt liberated, as if she’d thrown off her bra and taken to wearing large purple hats. She’d always been so careful to guard herself, to live and let live, to not criticize others, to not use her own faith as a measuring stick for anyone else. And now—ha! She was giving the entire world the evil eye. Felix was wrong! Those bouncy girls were wrong! Everyone was wrong but her, and it was a thrill like she’d never experienced before, a rush like sledding down a black-diamond ski slope.

  Even so, she was aware that the rush couldn’t last forever. That she’d hit the bottom. That she’d have to sit still eventually and feel the world spinning beneath her.

  She held it off until summer.

  They spent five days at Mike’s parents’ cabin on Bear Lake, and Becky found it impossible to put up defenses against trees and water and wind moving over water. She sat on a rock, her feet dabbling with the lake. The rush of the ski slope stopped, her feet hit ground, and she had to think.

  The lines of light on water winking at her, the gray blue sky in the lake looking back up at itself, the way the cold began to feel warm on her toes—it was raw and unflinching and perfect. And she couldn’t hide from it. She took a breath and had to admit that she’d been out of line. And she knew why.

  Mike came walking along the shore, his jeans rolled up to his knees. He had big, muscular man calves. She’d always thought that he would’ve been a hit in Shakespeare’s time, when men wore breeches and tights to show off their legs. Those forehead-shaving dames would have gone mad.

  “Romeo, oh, Romeo,” she said.

  “Yo, Adrian.”

  She smiled. “The kids okay?”

  “My mom’s watching Sam and Hyrum. The girls are cutting up magazines.”

  He stood behind her, waiting for an invitation. She offered it by saying, “I’m ready to talk about it.”

  His eyebrows went up, but he didn’t say a word as he sat beside her. He dipped his feet into the water, breathing in through his teeth when he felt how cold it was. Stoic Mike, never complain Mike, never even mention a headache Mike, but he was such a wimp about the cold.

  “Okay, here it is. I’m not jealous. Not about Felix flirting with bouncy girls or hooking up with young actresses. I was a little afraid that I might have cared, and that made me cranky because I so badly didn’t want to. If I’m going to be absolutely honest, I’m glad he’s been seen with other women so publicly—it means the tabloids won’t be digging up that old story and pointing to me as the homewrecker.”

  She tossed a pebble into the water and watched the rings roll out, letting that thought sink in before she jumped to her blame.

  “But I was jealous, in a way. I was resentful that those puerile strangers were more interesting to him than I was. That he could toss me away so easily. That my company alone wasn’t enough to cure his depression. I wanted to be that important to him. Not just privately, but publicly. It’s gross to admit, but it’s true.”

  These thoughts had peeked inside her the past couple of days, but only while speaking them did she really see and understand. And Mike was the only person on earth to whom she could reveal those ugly parts of herself.

  “I’ve always felt that the Lord put me in Felix’s life for a reason, and there would come a time when he’d need me to . . . to save him. And when I got the call and went to New York, part of me thought, this is it. This is why we met in the first place, why this friendship has seemed so important all along. Because he needs someone now, and he hasn’t allowed himself anyone close besides Celeste—and me. With Celeste gone, I’m all that’s left. Now I can save him, and it will all have been worthwhile; it will all make sense. But instead . . .”

  “The puerile strangers.”

  She nodded. “I was close to useless. I’m not as important as I’d hoped. Not only didn’t I save him, but I lost something. He’s Felix Callahan, and his attention used to make me special.” She winced. “I thought I was immune to that. I’m not. I feel so stupid about this, but that’s the truth. I should have made allowances for his grief. I should have understood and given him space. Instead I’ve sulked because I realized I’m not as special as I thought.”

  At first, Mike’s expression was full of humble sympathy, but he began to smirk and then said in a high-pitched, mocking tone, “I’m Becky, and I like to be special.”

  She laughed, as he knew she would. She attacked him, lunging for his soft underbelly, and he let h
er knock him back. They wrestled there on the stony beach until they were panting, Becky allowing the physical activity to push the last of the resentment out of her body. Just to seal the deal, she let Mike throw her into the chilly water, pulling him in after her. It was a desperate baptism and made nothing more important than the warmth of a home. They shivered and laughed, and scurried into the house drenched and beaming.

  From her post on the couch, Fiona tilted her head, a questioning look, and Becky winked. The tension in the family crumbled away.

  In which Polly walks the red carpet

  Now that she’d forgiven Felix, Becky was ready for their third reunion. He didn’t call, though nearly every time the phone rang she wondered whether it was him. He didn’t drop by, though when the doorbell chimed unexpectedly, she expected to see his face through the screen. She considered contacting him, of course, but in her best, quiet, post-prayer state, she felt she needed to let him extend the olive branch. Waiting made her anxious, even stung a bit, like trying to light all the candles on a birthday cake before the match flame reached her fingertips.

  Months ticked by and the memory of her anger had been worn down to sand when she got the flowers: a huge vase of sunflowers, her favorite. The note said, “Forgive me?”

  She called him. He didn’t answer his cell. She phoned his London house and his Los Angeles house, but she didn’t want to leave a message. She was about to call Celeste to get an update before her memory caught up, and her heart tore anew for the loss of that marriage. At last she just e-mailed him and said, “Of course I forgive you.”

  He called the next day.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Pretty good.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “I am too. I’m happy to hear your voice.”

  “Yours is nicer.”

  “How’s Jessica?”

  “You heard about that? She’s good. We’re in Houston now. Her family lives here.”

  “How long will you be in Texas?”

  “Another week, and then I’m back in L.A.” He cleared his throat. “We’re about to release the Dean Martin movie.”

  “You are? That’s wonderful!”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  A pause.

  “This is awkward now but next time it’ll be easier,” she said.

  “Just a matter of getting used to each other again.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that’s why I’m going to have a layover in Salt Lake City next week. I’d like to see you.”

  The following Tuesday she picked him up at the airport and they had lunch at the Red Iguana, ten minutes away. She ordered the mole negro. He had the “Killer Nachos,” a huge, heaping, sweating plate of tortilla chips covered in cheese, beans, meat chunks, chile verde, guacamole, and sour cream. He ate three of the chips.

  “You look well,” she said.

  “I’ve been in the sun a lot lately. And Jessica is good for me.”

  “I’m glad. You deserve someone good for you.”

  “Also, I’m taking a multivitamin.”

  “You see? I knew they’d help!”

  He smiled.

  Now what? Were they going to talk? Did she need to tell him how she’d felt? Would she confess her boiling months, her jealousy, her spiteful thoughts? And how the lake worked it out of her? Would he reveal the tortured machinations of his brain that led him to abandon her at the club and ignore her for months? Or would they stay silent and pretend it never happened?

  “I’ve been an a—” He paused, altering his word choice. “I’ve been a stupidhead. I won’t overexplain, for fear of making excuses. The plain truth is I’ve been a big, fat stupidhead.”

  Relief surged through her. Until he’d said it, she hadn’t known how much she needed him to admit that he’d been an—whatever naughty word he’d been about to use. And in truth, she was almost as pleased with his substitution of “stupidhead” as she was with the apology itself. Felix just sounded so darling speaking that Hyrumish word.

  He was looking at her shrewdly. “I was, wasn’t I? You’re not going to argue?”

  “Oh no, you hit that one right on the head.”

  “And you forgive me?”

  “Completely, I think. I’ve missed you, Felix, more than I’ve even realized. I’ve missed me with you.”

  And it was good. And they smiled. But by the time she had to take him back to the airport, they still hadn’t laughed.

  She kept the radio off for the drive home and spent that rare hour of quiet wondering if they would ever laugh together again. Mike would’ve told her she was being fatalistic. She hoped that was all. But the silence felt permanent, as if she’d never hear anything but the drone of the car’s engine again. She always feared silence and scratched at it until the next wave of chaos rolled over her again and buried her in sweet normalcy.

  Felix called her that night. And the next. Just a few days later, after a sum total of four hours of postcrisis talking, the icy space between them thawed just enough and they shared their first laugh of the new era. It was timid. It came from their throats rather than from their guts, was more an auditory expression of a smile than an irresistible guffaw. But it was a start.

  It took a few weeks before they were engaging again in typical Becky-Felix conversations.

  “Hi there.”

  “Hey, hoser. How’s the movie release going?”

  “Good. Busy. I have precisely thirty-two seconds left.”

  “Well, that’s not nearly enough. Do you want me to talk to your people and finagle more time? I can be terribly convincing.”

  “I would even say frighteningly convincing. Shockingly convincing. Horrifyingly con—”

  “Or maybe I can win your director over with love. I’ll FedEx a loaf of zucchini bread.”

  “It only took thirty seconds to confirm the fact that you’re still absurd.”

  “I love you too. Hoser.”

  After the publicity tour, he came to Layton for the first time in three years. He stayed at a local hotel and complained endlessly.

  “That’s quite a shiner you have there, Sam. It’s the exact color of the wallpaper in my room. Is that an open sewer we just passed? A similar odor was leaking from my minifridge.”

  “Quit your whining or you’ll be set up in the Jack family Little Mermaid Suite.”

  “Shutting up.”

  He took the whole family out for miniature golf and pizza. At the ninth hole, Mike walked him aside for a private chat, and Becky imagined the scoldings and mild threats her husband might be expressing. For Felix’s part, he seemed to take it well; at least, he shook Mike’s hand and didn’t cut his trip short.

  She didn’t need Mike to defend her. Felix didn’t need to hear what Mike thought about his behavior to know that he’d been a stupidhead. But all the same, Becky loved Mike for it. To be frank, it made her feel all gooey and affectionate.

  After his Layton trip, Felix and Jessica broke up.

  “She wants a family one day. She wants children. It’s more important to her than her career is, than I am. And I’m not interested in being a father.”

  “Felix . . .” she used her motherly tones. “You would be a wonderful father. You really would.”

  “No. I wouldn’t. And I don’t care to be. Besides . . .” His voice was sad, and he didn’t say any more.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she said, hearing in the silence, Besides, Jessica isn’t Celeste. Besides, no one will ever be.

  He began a series of relationships with other actresses, makeup artists, singers, all significantly younger than him. Some he mentioned to Becky; some she discovered by paging through the celebrity magazines.

  Becky missed Celeste.

  But he was between women when he was nominated for a Best Actor Academy Award.

  “You were so brilliant, Felix,” Becky said. “If you hadn’t been nominated for this movie, I would’v
e marched on Hollywood. Do you know I saw it five times in the theater? I can’t leave my children unattended without worrying Hyrum will burn down the house or Sam will crack his head open. Can you imagine then the pains I went to just to view you as Dean Martin five times? This is what I’m trying to tell you. You were that good. Five-times good.”

  “It was a decent flick. I did it because of you.”

  “Then you’d better mention me in your acceptance speech.”

  “I find myself flying solo just now, and not having a date for the Oscars I—”

  “Want me to attend with you? That’s so sweet! I’ve always wondered—”

  “Er, no, sorry. You had to return the dress you wore to our premiere, didn’t you? And I don’t trust what hideous getup you might deem appropriate.”

  “Oh. What a relief. If I had to watch you pretending to be humble while the crowd chants your name, I might—”

  “Right. So I was asking about Polly. I’d hoped you might allow me to fly out your family for the before and after hoopla, and then at the awards Polly could play the part of my goddaughter and spare me inquiries about my current dating. I never forgot how she glowed at the premiere. I think she really enjoyed stepping into that world. Do you think Fiona would be heartbroken?”

  Becky spoke with Fiona. Her first question was, “Will Celeste be there?”

  “No, honey, I think they burned their bridge pretty thoroughly.”

  “Oh.” Fiona thought. “Can I still get a dress?”

  “Sure. He’s invited us all to a couple of parties where you could wear something nice.”

  They were sitting on the couch, Fiona’s feet on her mother’s lap, and as the conversation turned to dresses and fashion, Becky detected a rare passionate tone in Fiona’s voice.

  “Honey, do you think you’d like to design clothing?”

  Fiona smiled shyly. “I’d been trying to keep it a secret. I was afraid it was silly.”

  “The only silly part is keeping it a secret. You’ll be fabulous.”

  So Polly was to be Felix’s date, and in compensation, Fiona got to design and make hers and Polly’s dresses. Becky dug out an old e-mail address for Celeste, sent her a quick line asking her to phone, and crossed her fingers.