I Loved You Wednesday (30 page)

Awkward and ill at ease, I make the mistake of asking, “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” she informs me. “Things are reallygoing quite well with me and Andy, and that of course makes for an easier adjustment.”

“Chris, there are about a thousand things I’d prefer to hear other than some barometric accounting of your love life. If you don’t mind, I’m just not interested. . . .”

“I’m not trying to rub it in, Steve. I just know from past experience how much it helps to latch onto someone else, anyone, after a strong affair doesn’t work out.”

“That how I first got into the picture? Just happened to be in the way while you were bouncing off Bradley?”

“You know that’s not true! I’m only suggesting you start seeing other people. Makes it easier, that’s all. Is there anything wrong with trying to soften the pain?”

“I guess not,” I say after a while.

Looking down, I rub the back of Harry’s ears as we’re visited again by that awful pregnant silence during which neither of us has anything to say.

No one speaks for what seems like a month, and so finally I attach Harry’s leash. “Well, I guess we’ll be off. Thanks for the dog.”

“Quite all right.”

I stand up and look Chris straight in the eye again. This time she returns the stare. After a few beats of basic discomfort, Chris eventually says, “Let’s talk in a couple of days, okay?”

“Sure, kid. Let’s get together and have lunch real soon.”

“Come on. I’m serious.”

“So am I,” I return, flip as possible.

“Call if you need anything.”

“You bet, sister.”

“I’m only trying to be helpful.”

I turn and open the door. But as I start to walk out, I find I cannot. Something won’t let me. My legs are locked. I try again but can’t budge. Some strained feeling of sadness and futility empowers me, telling me to say something, do something, anything to keep the conversation going, anything to be with her a few more moments, anything to stay here. Anything while I search for a way to convince her she’s making a mistake, that she’s got to come back. I must tell herhow this whole mess blew up too fast—too sudden—too illogically. She has to tell me how we could jump one day from bliss down to ugliness and slime the next. She’s got to tell me why two sensitive, intelligent people who care so very much for each other can’t work this out. She’s got to tell me what I did to have such a perfect setup slip through my fingers. She’s got to tell me all these things. And she’s got to tell me how she could do all this to us. To herself and to me.

Me
, for God’s sake.

Her best friend!

But as I fumble about, wanting to ask her to tell me all these things—trying to demand some better, broader explanation—I find it impossible to summon the words. I find it, in fact, impossible to say anything. I simply cannot talk. The words will not come. I can sort of move my mouth, but still, nothing comes out. So I try to speak again, but this time everything’s so bottled up, so choked, the only sound that emerges is this absurd dry whimper. Then, out of left field, this reservoir of tears start mounting behind my eyeballs, which is the last thing I expected or wanted, and it takes all the strength I’ve got to hold them at bay.

Paralyzed, I stand there, unable to speak, unable to move, capable only of making this strange, barely audible plea for assistance. Finding it suddenly impossible to swallow, I reach out, extending my arm toward Chris, my moving fingers signaling her in agony.

Saddened and no doubt frightened by the sight of this pitiful, helpless animal before her, Chris takes a step back, shaking her head from side to side, now fighting back her own tears, pleading, “Please don’t hate me, Steve.”

And the dam breaks.

“I DON’T HATE YOU!” I scream, pounding the wall with my fist. “DON’T YOU KNOW? I HATE MYSELF! I HATE WHO I AM!”

Chris rushes forward, attempting to take me in her arms. But I push her back flailing my arms. “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME!” I roar, trying to figure out how my face got so wet, so hot, so fast. “DON’T COME NEAR ME!”

She backs off, genuinely frightened. “Please, Steve,” she pleads. “You’re upsetting me!” “I’M UPSETTING YOU?
I’M
UPSETTING
YOU!”

“Yes. You are. Stop it.”

“I’m upsetting you?” I repeat, trying to clamp my near hysteria. “Well, forgive me, Chris. How awfully rude. Last thing I would ever want is to see
you
upset.” All this anger. All this fury. Coming up. Bursting out. “I’m sorry, Chris. I wonder if you can know how sorry! Hey! Here’s a thought! Why don’t you just forget about the whole thing, huh? Just think of it as a passing fancy. Better still, make believe none of it ever happened, okay? Forget we ever met. Maybe that way you won’t have to be upset. For goodness sake, Chris, don’t be upset. Don’t even give it a second thought.
YOU GODDAMN SELFISH BITCH!”

Now that I’m finally able, I pull the dog and walk out, slamming the door behind me.

In the days following that rewarding scene in Chris’ apartment, I get very busy, making the rounds at producers’ offices and with casting agents, dropping off photos, looking for appointments, something I haven’t done in years. I want only to flush from my system this gnawing unhappiness circling the pit of my stomach and racing around the back of my head.

And it seems only this constant unnecessary overactivity slightly alleviates my deep feelings of anxiety and distress, helping me get her momentarily off my mind and onto other gratefully less important matters.

But I can’t really get very far away from her, no matter how preoccupied I think I am. In the next three days, she calls twice. We are both more than cordial, albeit overly formal. And both times we speak, I pretend to be running off to some audition, so I’ve no time to chat.

At the end of our second conversation, I get off by adding, “If you should come to your senses, call. I’ll be waiting. In the meantime, would you mind canceling these momentary whims of charity?”

Chris hangs up on me at this point, and I don’t hear from her again.

It is, as you can well imagine, a fairly awful time to be living through. I’m still dazed. Still trying to figure just what happened and why and how and so on. Maybe I just should have known better. I’ve seen her go through scores of men in the past five years, screwing up would-be attachments, watching as boyfriends dropped like flies.

What the hell gave me the conceit to think I’d be any different? In retrospect, I wish to shit I knew.

In the past, when Chris started in on her cunning devices which ultimately tripped her up, it was easy to sit back and watch. I never minded. It always meant she’d soon be breaking up with whoever’s mind it was she was blowing and would eventually be coming back to me.

In the past, when Chris would be having man problems, I used to find her a lost, shattered kitten left out in the rain, and I always felt it my welcomed responsibility to tend to, care for and nurse her back to stability. Those times we were always at our closest.

What upsets me almost more than anything is now that the man problem is me, I’m too busy with my own disappointment and grief to be able to comfort her.

Ruth is still in the hospital, drugged and sustained on sedatives, adding no small amount of tension to my problems. Even poor Harry is moping about the apartment, no doubt wondering what became of our female companions.

All these malevolently negative elements governing my life finally dip to their nadir and, having no place else to go, start improving, ever so slightly.

On Tuesday, Ruth is discharged from the animal hospital with what is diagnosed as a fairly stable condition accompanied by a generally depressed temperament. What, her too? I bring her home, and Harry goes wild, getting so excited to be reunited with his longlost friend, he drools all over her.

On Wednesday, Pat calls to say the producers of
March into April
have finally made a decision.

My heart stops beating as I stiffen to hear this verdict which has kept me pent up for so many months.

“Well,” she says joyously. “After much discussion, they’ve finally managed to narrow their choices down to you and one other fellow! Isn’t that fabulous?”

“You call that making a decision, Pat?”

“Well, listen, dar-ling. It’s not a firm offer or anything, but at least they’re still mighty interested.”

“I see.”

“It’s very good news, believe me. They’ve auditioned everyone and his brother for this play. Anyone that could crawl on that stage, I think.”

“I see.”

“And they asked what your price range is, so we know they’re not just jerking off, right?”

“If you say so.”

“I say so.”

“Good. Um, Pat, do you know when they’ll decide?”

“Stay there a minute, Steve!” Pat blurts out before cutting me off, leaving me suspended on Hold for a time. When she comes back, she’s very upset. “That damned Coast office. They can never get it straight. I told them Michele Lee gets at least three thou a week, and they thought I was talking about Michel Legrand. Now how does anyone with even a pea brain confuse those two?”

“I don’t know,” I feed.

“What a shitty business. What a shitty business. Oops, there’s the other phone!”

“Wait! Pat, do you know when they’ll decide?”

“Who?”

“March into April,
remember?”

“Oh, right! No, of course not. Do I look like some kind of crystal ball? They start rehearsals next month, tour for the summer and bring it in next season. Gotta go. The other phone. ‘Bye!” Click.

Several evenings later, around eleven, while debating which might get me more disillusioned, the news on ABC or CBS, the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Steve?” comes the sheepish voice of Chris on the other end.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“I’m leaving for St. Lucia tomorrow.”

“Have a good time.”

“Roger’s loaned me his car for the day.”

“And?”

“I was wondering if you’d drive me to the airport.”

“What’s the matter with what’s-his-name, your director?”

“I was hoping
you’d
take me. That’s all. If it’s too much trouble, never mind. I’ll see you.”

“Wait a minute! Don’t hang up. I didn’t say it was any trouble. Relax. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a pretty light day tomorrow. I could drive you.”

“Good. Thanks. It’d mean a lot to me.”

Something in her voice sounds even more off than might be expected, even under the circumstances. “You okay?”

“Sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What isn’t?”

“Something new?”

“No. I’m all right.” She sighs, indicating she’s anything but.

“You want me to come over for a while?”

“No. It’s okay.”

“No trouble. I’m right in the neighborhood.” What the hell is suddenly making me so good-natured?

“Well, all right. If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll see you in half an hour.”

“Come on in,” says a beautiful, even if swollen-eyed, Chris.

“You’re looking well,” I say, which is almost true.

Chris dismisses the compliment with a shrug. “How about some coffee?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“All right, Chris,” I say, as she hands me a steaming cup several minutes later. “The doctor is
in.
Five cents a visit. Let’s hear it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the resounding waves of unhappiness you’re transmitting.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. You know me too well.”

“Well What’s up?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It’s your friend, isn’t it? The director?”

“No.”

“I bet it is.”

“I’m telling you NO!”

“I’m telling you
YES!”

“All right,
yes!”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You broke up?”

“Yes. But that’s not it. I knew it was going nowhere. It never mattered. You know that.”

“I’m not surprised, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not surprised either. That’s the funny thing, isn’t it, Steve? We’re never surprised.”

“I guess not.”

“I’m glad you came over. I just knew you’d understand.”

And here we are again, fans. Home on the range. Replaying our favorite scene: Chris down and vulnerable.

Steve caring and supportive.

How this happened is beyond me. Three days ago I didn’t even want to speak with her again. Now each of us is traveling on the same wavelength for the first time in weeks