Maybe the Moon: A Novel

  “That’d be nice.”

  “You can sit in one of those tall stools with a back. With a pin spot.”

  I told him I sounded better standing up.

  “OK, then, we build a little box, like a pedestal. I can roll it out with me before you make your entrance. It would announce you, sort of—like a trademark.”

  “Can we put steps on it?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s better if you don’t have to lift me. People aren’t as nervous.”

  “No kidding?” He acted as if he’d never thought of that before.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “OK.”

  “The pedestal’s nice, though. I like that.”

  “I thought you might.”

  I smiled, but warily. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Completely. Never surer.” He touched my cheek. “Can you spend the night?”

  I told him I’d planned on it.

  “Good.”

  “We can do this, Neil, but I don’t want a Svengali.”

  “I know that.”

  “I’m my own Svengali.”

  “Hey,” he said, “I’m just the piano player.”

  “We aren’t gonna sing duets?”

  “If you want,” he said, laughing.

  “Duets would be nice, I think.”

  “Then we’ll do them. As many as you want.”

  I told him not to be so easy, that I’d take advantage of it.

  “I’m just glad you’re staying,” he said.

  He made a nice dinner for us—beef stew and garlic bread and salad—while the rain kept pounding away. I watched TV from the bed, comforted by the circling smells of the stew, the muffled clatter and clink of his movement in the kitchen. The tube, meanwhile, was full of the Thomas hearings, recap after recap of the weirdest day of testimony yet.

  “I am not believing this!”

  Neil arrived from the kitchen wearing a white butcher’s apron and holding a soup spoon like a scepter. “What now?”

  “He told her he has a dick like Long Dong Silver!”

  “Who’s that?”

  “This porn dude.”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “I’ve seen him. My friend Jeff showed me a photo once years ago in a magazine. He’s got this long, skinny shlong that hangs down to his knees. It looks like a piece of garden hose or some-thing—a really useless piece of garden hose. It was tied in a knot when I saw it.”

  Neil grinned. “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “No, sir. And if we’re having this conversation, they must be having it at the networks.”

  Neil chuckled.

  “They’ve got that photo as we speak, and they’re racking their conscience, wondering if this is something America really needs to know. I say show it. Show the world exactly what a pig Clarence Thomas is.”

  “How can you be so sure she’s not lying?”

  “Why should she, Neil? Why should she sit there and say the words Long Dong Silver?”

  “Because he jilted her.”

  “Jilted her?”

  “Well, rebuffed her. She was obviously hot for him once.”

  “Oh, please.” I threw up my hands.

  “Plus he married a white woman.”

  “Oh, now, there’s a good reason to get him.”

  “It is to some black women. It’s the worst crime you can commit.”

  “Look at her,” I said, gesturing toward that strong, cool, dignified face on the screen. “Does she look like a racist to you? She taught civil rights law, for God’s sake!”

  “At Oral Roberts University.”

  “Well…”

  “That’s not a credential I’d brag about. That’s like…teaching ecology at Exxon.”

  I absorbed that for a moment, then gave him a grumpy look. “Go back to your stew.”

  We ate dinner on the bed. The media in all their tongue-lolling sleaziness made poor Anita Hill say the words Long Dong Silver no less than four hundred times in the course of the evening. You couldn’t hit the clicker without landing squarely on that moment in time and the attendant shabby spectacle of all those middle-aged white men—Teddy Kennedy especially—trying their damnedest to keep a straight face.

  After another hour or so, we tired of the spectacle and turned off the set. I felt lulled by the rain and my pleasantly full stomach. Seeing me begin to drift off, Neil doused the light and slid into bed next to me, pulling the covers over us. I snuggled against him and fell into a solid sleep.

  I woke up alone to sunlight streaming through his matchstick shades. Hearing activity in the kitchen, I slid out of bed in the T-shirt I’d slept in, gave my hair a quick fluff, and went out to join him. He was tidying up with a vengeance: scraping plates over the disposal, sponging the countertop, bagging garbage.

  “I hope you’re not doing that for me.”

  “I must be brain dead,” he said. “I completely forgot something.”

  “You’ve got another date, and she’ll be here in five minutes.”

  His laughter was short and sour. “Linda’s bringing Danny by.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s not his usual day, but she called a few days ago and asked. I just forgot about it.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “You want me to call a cab or something?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  He shrugged and gave me a sheepish look. “There’s not much point. They get here in ten minutes.”

  In other words, we had to deal with it now, and that was that. No wonder Neil was panicked. I was suddenly annoyed that his negligence had turned this fairly significant confrontation into a rush job.

  “Do you need anything?” he asked.

  “No…well, maybe a wet washcloth.”

  “You got it.”

  “Do you still have my green T-shirt? The one I left here last time?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll take that too, then.”

  He left me alone in the bedroom with my requirements. I shucked my grungy T-shirt and gave myself a quick sponge bath in front of the closet-door mirror. Then I put on the green shirt—which was freshly laundered, at least, and a fairly becoming color—slapped on lipstick and powder, and spritzed myself with Charlie. After a futile effort to repair my sleep-dented hair, I flung down the brush in exasperation. It was Linda I was doing this for, but don’t ask me why.

  I returned to the living room, where Neil was snatching scattered newspapers from the floor.

  “Need a hand?” I asked.

  “No. It’s fine. You look nice.”

  I grunted.

  “Sorry about this.”

  “What the hell.”

  “She won’t stay. She’s just dropping him off.”

  “You need some time alone with him. Let’s just call a cab now and—”

  “I’ll drive you home, OK? In a little bit.”

  I shrugged.

  “He’s a nice kid. He doesn’t bite.”

  “Maybe I do,” I said.

  He laughed and dropped the newspapers on the dining table—just as the doorbell rang.

  I jumped a little in spite of myself. “Is she always on time?”

  “Always,” he replied, and headed for the door.

  I smoothed out my T-shirt and waited from a distance to give him as much opportunity as possible for explanations and introductions. He swung open the door to reveal an informally garbed Linda—pink slacks, gingham blouse, sunglasses—and, hard by her right leg, the handsome, stormy-eyed seven-year-old who made these meetings compulsory. Danny was dressed in vinyl cowboy boots and Levi’s, with a bright aqua corduroy shirt. While his mother greeted his father, the boy gazed across the room at yours truly, having sensed on some primal level, as I had, another living creature in the room at his eye level. I guessed him to be about a foot taller than I am.

  “We aren’t late, ar
e we?” asked Linda.

  “No, no,” said Neil. “Just on time. Hi, Skeeter.”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Look who’s here.” Neil beamed. “We were just rehearsing.”

  “Oh, hi,” said Linda. “How are you, Cady?”

  “Great.”

  “Danny, this is Ms. Roth…” Linda began.

  “…the lady I sing with,” Neil finished.

  The kid hadn’t stopped staring at me, so I walked toward him, looking friendly, letting him see how this apparatus works. “Hi, Danny.” I gazed up at Neil. “What’s this Skeeter business, anyway?”

  Neil smiled. “Just a dad name.”

  I stuck out my hand to the kid. “I like Danny better. Unless it’s short for Danforth.”

  The kid shook my hand dutifully, if lamely, without meeting my eyes.

  Linda laughed, getting my little joke. “Don’t worry, it isn’t.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “Here’s his eardrops.” The ex-Mrs. Riccarton handed Neil a brown paper sack. “The directions are on it.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “You can reach me at Vonda’s after six tonight.”

  “Fine.”

  “Nice to see you, Cady.”

  I told her it was nice to see her.

  “Behave yourself, now.”

  For one creepy moment I thought she was talking to me, until I saw her patting her son on the head. Three mechanical pats, evenly spaced. It was the gesture Neil had once described to me, one of cold economy and bloodlessness, the gesture I’ve always imagined my father to have made the last time he laid eyes on me.

  Linda left without ever setting foot in the apartment. I wondered if this was their usual practice or if she was conveying a message to Neil about my presence there. As soon as the door was shut, Danny made a beeline past me into the hallway, bound for his bedroom.

  “Hey, Skeeter, slow it down!” Neil yelled after his son, with a look of jovial exasperation. I knew he was trying to keep it light on my account. “He has to check on all his shit,” he said, “make sure it’s still there.”

  I smiled at him.

  “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Is it usually that quick?”

  “What?”

  “The changing of the guard.”

  “That was pretty good,” he said. “She used to let him go on the sidewalk and wait till I waved from the window.”

  I took that in for a moment, then said: “He’s cute.”

  He nodded.

  “He’s lucky to have a dad like you.”

  He shrugged. “I just do the regular stuff and hope it’s right.”

  “Like I said, lucky. Lots of people don’t get that. I certainly didn’t.” I smiled at him. “Must be why I go for big guys.” I made myself blush with this little display of self-analysis, so I didn’t give him time to respond. “I should go, Neil. This is too much for him at once.”

  Neil looked cowed. “He knows who you are, Cady.”

  “The lady who sings with you.”

  “That,” he said, nodding, “and a friend.”

  “Whatever.” I began looking for the portable phone, thinking I’d call the cab myself. Neil usually keeps the phone on the carpet while I’m around, but he’d returned it to its cradle on the bar in his feverish preparations for Linda’s arrival. I was about to ask him to hand it to me, when Danny emerged from the hallway.

  “Oh, hi,” I said.

  “Hey.”

  “Your dad tells me you play keyboard too.”

  “Yeah. A little.”

  “He says you’re terrific.”

  He shrugged sullenly.

  “Danny, look at people when they’re talking to you.” This was his father, beginning to crack under the pressure. “He’s a great keyboardist. You wanna show Ms. Roth, Skeeter?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Neil, I think it’s best—”

  “Tired? It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

  “Well, I don’t wanna do it!” The kid spun on his heels and stomped off to his bedroom.

  Neil gave me an apologetic look.

  “I don’t blame him,” I said.

  “No. He knows better than that. I have to deal with this. Hang on, OK?”

  Neil left in pursuit of his son. I heaved a sigh for all of us and leaned against the end of the sofa, suddenly realizing I had to pee. Luckily, the bathroom door was open, so I slipped in and pulled it shut after me—as much as I could, at least—by gripping the side of the door.

  Once inside and seated, I discovered that I was adjacent to the room where the father-son drama was unfolding. I heard only snatches of their dialogue, like that on a car radio when you pass through a long tunnel, but there was no mistaking the stern but reasonable drone of a modern parental reprimand. I made out the words “rude and unkind” and “not how I raised you” and “not her fault she’s that way.” And then from Danny: “I don’t care” and “weird” and “grosses me out.”

  I peed and beat a retreat as fast as I could. My purse was in Neil’s bedroom, so I went there and picked it up and returned to the living room. Neil came out a minute or so later, with his hand laid lightly on Danny’s shoulder, as if the poor kid were a minimum-security prisoner being taken into custody.

  “So,” said Neil, much too cheerfully, “time to boogie, huh?”

  “You bet.”

  “Looks like it’s cleared up out there.”

  “Mmm. It does.”

  “Maybe we can stop for ice cream or something.”

  I told him Renee was expecting me back at the house.

  “OK…well…whatever.”

  So we headed out—the three of us—father and son taking the lead and waiting for me at the van. Neil lifted me into the back seat with more chipper talk about the suddenness of that thunderstorm and how clean the air had become overnight. Then, on the way back to my house, he told his son what a fine singer I was and how I’d played Mr. Woods in the movie and how I’d dropped by his apartment that morning, eager for an early start, to begin rehearsing our new act.

  Danny just sat there, saying nothing.

  21

  A DAY LATER, THANK GOD.

  Neil called this morning, apologizing for Danny’s behavior. “That wasn’t like him at all,” he said.

  “That’s OK.”

  “All I can think is that Linda may have told him something.”

  “About us, you mean?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you told her about us?” I asked. I felt certain he hadn’t told Danny—and probably never would tell him—but I still wasn’t clear about how much he’d conveyed to his ex.

  “She knows we’re friends.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Well…no. Not that.”

  “Then how could she tell Danny?”

  “I dunno,” he said. “She could’ve guessed.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit, Neil. If you’re worried about the kid finding out…”

  “I’m not worried about anything. I’m just trying to explain why he acted that way.”

  “I thought he was fine,” I said. “He did the best he could with what he’d been given.”

  Neil caught my meaning, I’m sure, but chose not to address it. He took the manly way out and changed the subject. “I called Arnie Green yesterday,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah? What about?”

  “You know. Riccarton and Roth.”

  “Oh.”

  “He thinks he can book us, Cady. He thinks it’s a great idea.”

  “Yeah, well, he thinks dancing poodles is a great idea.”

  Silence.

  “Let’s just forget it,” I added. “OK?”

  “Cady, look…if you wanna try another agency…”

  “No. I just don’t wanna do it.”

  “OK, then.” His voic
e was as small as I’ve ever heard it.

  “I’ve got some other ideas,” I said. “I’d rather not blow them on somebody as small-time as Arnie Green.” Since it was Arnie who’d brought me to Neil in the first place, I knew this would sting, but I didn’t care. I wanted it to sting. I wanted him to feel at least a fraction of the pain I felt.

  “Well,” he said meekly, “if you need any help…”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “You wanna do a movie this week? Or dinner somewhere?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Cady, if I said anything…”

  “Just drop it, OK?”

  “But I don’t want you to…”

  “Look, Neil, I haven’t got the energy for forgiveness. I really don’t. Work it out on your own. I’ve got better things to do.”

  I hung up on him—or rather pushed the little button on my cordless receiver—banishing him from my life with a single petty, melodramatic act. Almost instantly I burst into tears, crumpling into a lump on the floor. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore, until my eyes were an angry red mess. When it became perfectly clear he wasn’t calling back, I pulled myself together and marched into the kitchen to boil some eggs.

  When the phone finally did ring, just before noon, it was Jeff. It seems I unleashed the furies when I told Leonard about Callum and Jeff and their meeting in Griffith Park. Jeff said Callum had called him in a snit, because Leonard had called him, Callum, in an all-out rage, accusing him of “totally uncool behavior at an extremely ticklish time.” The times are ticklish, apparently, because GLAAD has mounted an all-out media campaign against Gut Reaction, citing it as a prime example of homophobic filmmaking. Leonard told Callum that activists have threatened to disrupt a crucial scene to be shot on location next week.

  As you might imagine, Leonard is beside himself. What if the tabloids—or, worse yet, some activist—had discovered the virile young star of said movie wagging wienie at the local meat rack? According to Jeff, who’s enjoying the flap no end, Callum had to assure Leonard repeatedly that he had not frolicked in the bushes more than once or twice tops and had given it up completely after he’d met Jeff. Though Jeff didn’t believe this, he claimed not to care, and for once I believed him.