The Actor and the Housewife

  Mike scratched his chin. “You’ve told better.”

  “Well, anyway, I’ve paid up in Slurpees and I agree that he was serious about the pinky pledge.”

  They were in the kitchen, the kids asleep upstairs. Mike sat at the counter going over some papers while Becky rolled dough. It was a weekly tradition for Becky to make three pies—one for the family and the others for giving away to persons yet unknown. By the next night two names would invariably pop into her head, neighbors or family members or even relative strangers who, for what ever reason, might especially need the sweet comfort that came with a home-baked pie.

  “It was good to see Felix again, after the ball and all,” she said. “He really is Felix to me now, not Felix Callahan, not the actor or any of his characters. I’m relieved. At the ball, I was still disoriented and caught myself daydreaming about a romantic moment with him and . . . not me, but someone sort of like me.”

  She peeked up from the dough. Mike was looking at her as if she’d just confessed to murdering her parents and storing their bodies in the Deepfreeze.

  “I know, that sounds really bad,” Becky said, laying dough in the tin and pressing ridges with her thumb. “I don’t know why I do that—I don’t mean it. But I couldn’t daydream about him like that now, even if I wanted to. It’s one thing to have cheesy thoughts about a far-off movie star, but now . . . well, I just don’t think about him like that. Still, for the sake of full disclosure, getting his calls does make me a little giddy, like I’m twelve and I have a crush on him.”

  Becky had always gotten a little crushy with new friends of any gender. She’d meet a like mind and her heart would skip about and she’d want to brag to the whole world about this marvelous person. It was a common-enough occurrence to be unremarkable, though from his expression, it seemed Mike could not empathize. Everything about Mike’s face opened wide—eyes, lips, jaw. His nostrils may have even fl ared.

  “Honey, I don’t mean . . . you need to take that the right way.”

  “What right way is there to take that?”

  “Not lovey crush, like, friendship crush, like . . . ugh, there’s no word for it! Maybe it’s a woman thing. I don’t think it’s unusual for women to feel affectionate about lots of people—not in a romantic way, just in an I-love-this-person way, I’m-excited-to-have-this-wonderful-person-in-my-life way.”

  Mike’s horrified expression was frozen on his face.

  “No, no, it’s not like that. I just wanted to tell you, since Felix is a guy and it might seem like a different thing and I wanted to be honest about everything. Never mind, never mind, pretend I never used the word ‘crush’ and go about your business.”

  “Becky . . .” His tone was concerned.

  “Honey.” She reached across the counter and took his hand. “Is this too hard for you? For me to have a friend who is a man?”

  “When you start saying you have a crush—”

  “Wrong word. There’s probably a word for it in French or Sanskrit or something. I am so violently in love with you. He’s just another Melissa. That’s all.”

  “But he’s . . . an actor, one of those, whatdoyoucall’em, heartthrobs.”

  “Not to me.”

  “But . . .” Mike scowled. “I’ve always thought it was weird, the way you and your friends sometimes talk about seeing a movie with this actor or that, as if you’re in high school and the actors are guys who might ask you to prom.”

  Becky’s smile was aghast. “Really? Are we that bad?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You know we’re not fantasizing about them in a vulgar way.”

  “Yeah, I figured. But I still think it’s weird.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe it is. I don’t know—it seems so normal. But Felix’s friendship isn’t about that. He’s not a character from his movies. He’s just some guy, a friend. An Augie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Absolutely.”

  “Okay,” he said. She was pouring the filling, and he watched like a dog under the dinner table. “Can I lick the bowl?”

  “Can “And the spoon, baby.”

  Becky watched him scoop up sweet appley goop. He wasn’t settled, but he wasn’t upset. She would have to take care. But maybe this was a good thing. They had gotten into such a routine the past few years; there had been no bumps in their marriage, no doubts, no serious conflicts. She didn’t want to get lazy. A little imaginary threat would give her a chance to fight for her man, prove her devotion.

  And she would fight. She had chosen Mike thirteen years ago and never regretted a day.

  She and Mike had both been part of a large group of friends at Weber State University in the 1980s. They held monthlong foosball tournaments, played music in backyards and held impromptu dances, went on day hikes and picnicked on mountaintops.

  In the group, there were funny guys whose casual anecdotes were like stand-up routines. There were smart guys who could explain string theory and built backyard rockets. There were ambitious guys who would one day start their own successful businesses, taking their wives on vacations to islands strung with hammocks and glistening with virgin piña coladas.

  Maybe that was why Becky didn’t notice Mike at first—he wasn’t making the whole room laugh or wowing them with brilliant insights and obscure knowledge. But then again, all the other guys seemed to be trying so hard, flexing their muscles and wit anytime a girl was in the room. Mike just was—vulnerable and strong and goofy and nice.

  Ultimately it had taken an “ah-ha!” moment. They’d been at a potluck in someone’s backyard, a pool party where no one had brought a swimsuit, the chlorinated body of water more of a large, awkward centerpiece. Mike and Becky were at the food table, standing side by side, reaching for the same spoon in the potato salad, and their hands touched.

  “Sorry, I got greedy there.” He handed her the spoon and stepped back. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to her.

  What a nice voice he has, she thought, noticing how deep and rum-bly, how she felt the sound in her ears and in her belly. While scooping the potato salad, she dredged up what she knew of this guy: spying Mike on campus with his freakishly smart sister Virginia, talking and laughing not like siblings but close friends; a movie night crammed into someone’s basement, when the host played a few moments of a pornographic movie and laughed at everyone’s surprise, and Mike quietly got up and left the room; Mike arriving late for a pizza-making party but still taking the time to crouch down and chat with the host’s five-year-old brother.

  Mike. Michael Jack. She looked at him then, noticed him, the pleasing oval of his face, his straight blond hair falling down his forehead, how much larger he was than her, large enough that she’d feel tiny inside his arms. She liked how she felt standing next to him, and with a thrill that shocked her scalp and ran like lightning down her spine, she thought, I could be happy beside him for the rest of my life.

  “Hey, Mike,” she said, meaning, Wow, I just noticed you and this could be happily-ever-after, pal.

  “Hey, Becky,” he said with a smile, and she realized how often he was near her, quiet but leaning forward, listening, relishing.

  “Want to go eat with me over there?” She nodded toward a cluster of trees hiding a bench, apart from the noise.

  So they sat alone and ate and talked. Let’s be honest—it was a Potential Husband interview. Even at age twenty-one, Becky was auditioning guys for the post.

  Soon they left the bench to ramble the yard, then went out into the neighborhood, wandering streets until they came upon an empty park. The air temperature was the same as Becky’s skin, making her feel embraced, just another part of the summer night.

  Hope and expectation were bubbling inside her, and she felt thrills bigger than roller coaster drops. She wanted to kiss him. That was all she needed. Her friend Melissa was in love with any guy she was kissing at the moment, then complaining to Becky the next day that she’d been confused. But with that most perfect o
f touches, Becky’s mind and body just knew, and her heart followed.

  She’d kissed five guys. Post-kiss, three of them disappeared from her life without a backward glance. Two had electric kisses, stay-and-hold-me kisses, and those boys she’d dated for a good amount of time before one or the other decided to end things. The kisses hadn’t lied, she reasoned—they’d both very nearly secured the post of Mr. Becky.

  With Mike that night, it started with a held hand. He took hers as they climbed onto the jungle gym, and then he just kept holding on. Perfect, perfect sensation. A held hand was a hug to her whole body. The conversation drifted away, and she stepped in closer. She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed in. His smell was more delicious than hot chocolate. Gene tic Compatibility had spoken. They had the potential of having beautiful babies.

  His brown eyes were warm with the sight of her. He seemed so big and yummy, manly and wonderful. But when his lips first met hers, they were tentative, intruder lips, uncertain lips. She kissed him back, inviting him to fall in love with her. And as he fell deeper and deeper into the kiss, Becky’s heart exploded. Her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him as close as she could. The kiss left no doubt. She would never be without Mike again.

  Smell and kiss aside, three things sealed the deal for Becky:

  1. Two weeks later, Mike called to tell her about a new job he’d been offered. She said, “Sounds great. Did you take it?” He said, “I told them I wanted to check with you first.” So it was with Mike—he began to think of her as his partner from the top of that jungle gym and never stopped.

  2. Everywhere they went, Mike opened doors for her. Melissa had scoffed at this detail, but truth be known, it made Becky melt.

  3. Mike and Becky could curl up on a couch and talk for hours. It never got old.

  She’d thought she was in love before, but now those faded relationships seemed quaint and childish. Being in love with Mike lifted her off the ground, swathed her in fuzzy blankets, kept her warm and cozy everywhere she went. Awake or asleep, her heart thrilled, her lips smiled.

  The whole world was gilded, water was nectar, cloth was silk on her skin, every child was an angel and every stranger her best friend. Yay! Yay for love and the perfect man and the absolute complete gorgeousness of everything, everything!

  Beyond the rich emotions pouring through her, she felt herself change at the core. Mike merged into her every thought and action and hope and plan, her existence transforming from Becky-ness to Becky-with-Mike-ness. Five months after their first kiss, they were married. And the explosion of Mike in her life only expanded with each baby. They were a family. That word alone felt stronger in Becky’s mind than “army” or “fortress” or “Justice League.”

  That’s why it never crossed Becky’s mind that Felix’s friendship could threaten her marriage. That little kick she got after talking with Felix was a star prick compared with Mike’s sunlight.

  So when Felix returned to Los Angeles, she didn’t hesitate to call the number he’d given her just to check on his trip. He called a few days later when he was bored during a break in some production meeting. Soon she was phoning him whenever she thought of something that would amuse him, and they’d have brief, bright conversations. She didn’t need to talk long—five minutes, and she’d get that jolt, that goofy happiness that made the day a little better. It took a few weeks before “Hi Felix, it’s Becky” turned into “Hey, it’s me,” and eventually . . .

  “Hello?”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Yes.” Felix groaned. “I was hoping you hadn’t.”

  “Did you really tell Vanity Fair that you’re more Cary Grant than Sean Connery?”

  Another groan.

  “And say, and I quote, ‘I think women love me because of my world-weariness, my droll outtake on this absurd life. They feel that emptiness in themselves and recognize it in me. Mutual understanding is sexy.’ ”

  “For the love of—please, not another word!”

  “I’m going to put that on a T-shirt—Mutual Understanding Is Sexy.”

  “Interviewers coerce you into these statements,” he said, his voice a little desperate. “They ask you leading questions and push you into saying something idiotic, and then print your stuttered reply as if it represented your core philosophy.”

  “Yeah, I understand what you’re saying.” She paused. “Wait . . . I understand. That means I’m sexy!”

  “Stop! I’m begging you!”

  “Do you know what’s funny? I mean, besides that interview. I thought everything you said was adorable.”

  “Adorable. That’s just what I was going for.”

  “No, really. Every word you said. Even when you were being arrogant and narrow, I just wanted to pinch those three-days-unshaven cheeks. I must be completely smitten with you—I mean . . .” That had sounded wrong. “Platonically. Smitten platonically.”

  His voice was low and sweet when he answered, “I know what you meant.”

  She exhaled. “Good.”

  Felix knew. And Mike understood too, or so she thought. This would work. Becky was going to keep her new Augie.

  In which Becky employs a positive reinforcement lollipop

  Becky was friends with Felix Callahan, and she hadn’t told anyone but Mike. Nine-year-old Fiona, the eldest Jack child, had never seen a movie with Felix Callahan and if shown his photo would only think, “Yep, that’s an old guy.” Polly was . . . Polly, and happily enshrined in her daydream world of pink-drenched princesses and sparkly faced sprites. Hyrum was at the age when the coolest kid on the block was the one who could walk up the slide in his socks, and Sam had yet to discover his own feet. So, she didn’t bother telling the kids.

  She thought of phoning her parents, sister, brothers, sisters-in-law, neighbors, the local news—not to brag to them, mind you, but it was such a story and she was bursting to spill the beans. In the end, the first to hear was the last person Becky wanted to tell: her oldest friend, Melissa.

  Melissa was in the movie business, a freelance second assistant director in Salt Lake City. Being in the off-off Hollywood movie biz, she not only knew who Felix was; she would care very much about Becky’s news. Melissa had already heard about Felix Callahan showing up to the screenwriting presentation—her face had turned almost as purple as her hair. If Becky didn’t come clean about the whole story, the day Melissa found out from another source would mark the end of their friendship. It almost did anyhow.

  “What the hell do you mean Felix Callahan is your friend?” Melissa demanded over the phone.

  Becky couldn’t help smiling—not at Melissa’s question, but at the way it sounded. That sweet baby voice, that squeak of anger in the upper registers. Endearing.

  “He is, sort of. Well, not really, he’s—”

  “Oh, you really had me for a second! You goofball.”

  “What I mean is, Felix and I . . . you know how sometimes you meet someone and bam! Just like that there’s some connection and it feels as if you’ve been friends for years? Is there a word for that? Like ‘metabuddy,’ but something real?”

  A pause. “Becky, are you studying conversational Yiddish? Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Felix Callahan and me. We’re sort of friends now.”

  “Elucidate the ‘sort of’ part.”

  “We took a pinky pledge.”

  “You took a pinky pledge.”

  “Yeah, it was funny but kind of sweet too.”

  “What are you saying? Do you guys, like, hang out or something?”

  “Well, he’s in England right now, but we talk.”

  “You talk.”

  “Yeah, every so often. About once a week.”

  “Who calls whom?”

  “We take turns. He called last night.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But . . . but you’re the last person . . . I mean, I can imagine Shauna or Ava going off to California
and coming back with some famous best friend, but you? I know you liked him in that movie, but you’re just not the type.” She took a breath. “Are you still serious?”

  “Still serious.”

  There were rustling and stomping sounds, then Melissa’s voice strained as though it hurt her throat to talk. “Do you know that at this very moment I have a picture of Felix Callahan taped to my headboard? Between Johnny Depp and Bono?”

  “I know.”

  “I think I hate you.”

  “He’s married and so am I, obviously. Mike’s met him. There’s nothing remotely romantic about this. We just clicked, somehow.”

  “Okay, I know I hate you.”

  At that point, Melissa availed herself of more colorful diction—especially of the color blue. Per usual, Becky tried to shush her back to the straight and narrow but without much fervor. She couldn’t help herself—she found Melissa’s squeaky voice speaking those words just as cute (and wrong, but still cute) as a waterskiing squirrel.

  The same sort of conversation went on for a month, straining the friendship to the point of ripping.

  “It hurts her,” Becky told Mike.

  Mike didn’t have much patience with the sob story. “If I’m putting up with it, then so should she. What right does she have to get mad at you for making other friends?”

  Becky glowed when he got riled up on her behalf. The big sweetie. But it was easier for her to feel tolerant of Melissa’s occasional tantrums, knowing her history. They had met at a community theater where Becky’s parents dragged the whole family several months out of the year. Alice and Casper Hyde swore it was so the family could spend quality time together making art, but Becky had often suspected her parents just wanted to perform in plays without having to pay babysitters. Becky often won speaking parts because she was fearless and had personality, though she didn’t get any particular high from it.

  On the other hand, Melissa’s home felt like a half-dug grave. She dove headfirst into theater with a duffle bag full of needs. Her unusual voice relegated her to bit parts, but she dreamed of a playbill with her name at the top and a script so thickly highlighted with her own lines it glowed. It wasn’t fair that Becky didn’t care and yet still got her photograph in the program.