I Loved You Wednesday (31 page)

Walking over to Chris, I put my arms around her waist. “Hey, come on,” I say, lifting her chin with my hand and looking directly down at her. “You’ve got to cheer up. You’re going to the Caribbean tomorrow. It won’t do to have a sourpuss for the Breeze girl.”

Chris smiles at me.

I smile back.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she warns, widening her smile.

And don’t we know that look? That seductive, inviting, all-promising smile? It’s been so many days since I’ve so much as felt any stirring from my gonads, it comes as quite a welcome surprise.

“I’ve got lots of ideas,” I respond, trying not to sound too corny, before we kiss.

Chris gently pushes me away. “No, Steve. We can’t. Just because I’m lonely is no reason. . . . It’ll just make matters worse.”

“Or maybe better.”

“No, please. I’d just be using you.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I can’t do that to you.”

“You mean you can’t
not
do it.”

We kiss again, until Chris once again separates us. “No, Steve,” she says with less vehemency.

“Why not? I want to know.”

“Don’t ask me for the reasons, Steve. I don’t know them.”

“Fine. Come here.”

And I am all over her.

And vice versa.

We start kissing and embracing and undressing and going at each other like old times. And it’s fabulous. We’re in the bedroom in a few minutes, having a tough time holding back, on the bed not long after that, and then minutes later, in the throes of yet another glorious encounter.

And you know what we have for you right now, here for our Eleventh Hour Number? Our Big Finish?

Nothing.

That’s right.

Absolutely nothing.

The simple truth is it just ain’t there.

Something’s missing.

Not that Chris isn’t trying.

She’s as abandoned and committed as ever.

Not that I don’t give it my all.

I do.

But it’s gone. And she knows it. And I know it.

Even though we’re both going wild, carrying on like it’s the Fourth of July. And since neither of us cares to devastate the other by mentioning it, we just forge ahead.

Holding her tightly, working very hard, I try to summon that feeling again, wanting only to bring us back, at least for a few precious moments, to where we’d once climbed not so very long ago.

Going at it as hard as we can.

Trying to peak once more.

Trying.

Performing.

Acting.

Acting desperately to make it happen!

Once more.

Just one more time.

Please.

Once more.

For the road.

But the magic never comes.

The fickle chemistry which creates all the fireworks is simply not on for us.

This time, we’re no longer making love.

This time we’re balling.

Just doing each other.

Getting fucked.

Again.

Chapter Fifteen
 

BEEP! BEEP!

No response.
BEEP! BEEP!

I honk the tinny horn of Roger’s Mazda-cum-jalopy again. At last, the front door to Chris’ apartment house opens, and she staggers out, weighted down by a heavy suitcase and an overnight makeup case.

Remembering our previous driving record to Vermont and not knowing what to expect, I’ve insisted upon giving ourselves a good hour and a half to get to the airport, affording us plenty of time for any of our customary, casual emergencies.

So, because we are prepared this time, naturally nothing goes wrong.

We arrive at the airport in twenty-five minutes, which must stand as some record in motoring annals, and I pull into the parking lot across from the Pan American terminal.

Checking in at the ticket counter is easy since we are so unexpectedly early, and once her luggage is tagged, we go to the cocktail lounge for a drink before departure.

“The tarot cards have been predicting nothing but good things for you, Steve,” says Chris, sipping her Bloody Mary.

“Yes?”

“Yes. New beginning and productivity and success. Very positive readings.” “Good.”

“And I keep coming up in your cards, meaning you’ve been thinking about me a lot.”

“That’s accurate. What do the cards say for you?”

“I gave up doing readings for myself.” “Oh?”

“Yeah. I’m just going to let things happen.”

“A very different approach for you.”

“And about time, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

“I’ve decided things will probably go a lot better if I start living for today instead of forecasting what might come tomorrow.”

“Heavy-heavy!”

“Yes. My plans are very uncertain right now. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

“Good girl.”

“I may give up acting for a while. Take a breather.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Travel.”

“Where to?”

“I’m not sure. Europe. Tangier. I’ve got a standing invitation to Majorca. Maybe the Orient. I just don’t know.”

“It’s nice to have the freedom to do whatever you wish, huh?”

“I suppose. I mean if you’re not miserable being pinned down by someone, you’re miserable because you’re alone.”

“God, I hope it’s not all that bleak.”

“Believe me. It’s that bleak. Perhaps I’ll go to Argentina.”

“And live with the Germans?”

“Yeah. Or maybe Tahiti. Mingle with the natives in some primitive fishing village.”

“Sounds just like your cup of tea.”

“I could start painting. Oils and acrylics.”

“Good idea.”

“Or sculpting. I always liked Louise Nevelson’s stuff.”

“All right.” “I think I’ll give up sex, too.”

“Yes?”

“Sure. Shave my head and get me to a nunnery.”

“Don’t do that, Chris. You’d only be wasting one of your greatest gifts.”

“You’re probably right. Maybe I’ll marry some fabulously wealthy old count and quietly settle down in an eighty-room chateau on the Riviera, chockful of servants.”

“I promise to visit every summer.”

“Or poetry. I’ll get a garret in Paris and live with several dozen kittens, all of us starving for our art as I write my nails off.”

“I’d visit you in Paris also.”

“How about China?”

“How about China?”

“Maybe I’ll become a missionary. Establish a learning center like Ingrid Bergman in
The Inn of the Sixth Happiness.”

“Courage, fortitude, conviction and a dedication to some higher ideal, huh?”

“You betcha!”

“I don’t think you’d be happy doing that.”

“Ingrid Bergman didn’t mind.”

“But that was a movie.”

“So?”

“So life is not a movie. It’s real.”

“Reality, Steve, is at best a second-rate illusion. You’re the one always expecting the curtain to go up wherever you are.”

“I know,” I say, taking a mock deep sigh.

Chris, putting her hands in the air, frames an imaginary title, announcing, “
Life Is a Seven Thirty Curtain!
by Steve Butler.”

“Life Is One Long Joan Crawford Movie!
by Chris Canaday,” I retort.

“You want to hear something funny, though, Steve. I swear for years and years I was certain it would be that way. I thought sure there simply
had
to be a happy ending.”

“You want to know something, Chris?”

“Shoot!”

“I know you’ll think it’s sappy, but in my own foggy way, I still think there may be one.”

“FINAL BOARDING FOR FLIGHT SEVEN AT GA TE THREE!”
The announcement blares across the entire waiting area.

“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” says Chris, shrugging.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Have a terrific time, you hear?”

“You bet!”

“Work hard.”

“I will. Thanks for driving me here.”

“My pleasure. That’s what good friends are for.”

“I’m glad we were able to visit before I left. It’s almost like old times.”

“Does
almost
count?”

“Sure does.”

Taking her in my arms, we hug tightly. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” I foolishly try to assure her. “You’ll see. Just like before.”

“Come on,” Chris asks firmly. “Who are we kidding?”

“Only each other,” I answer, avoiding her eyes.

“Good-bye, Steve. I’ll miss you.”

“Take care.”

Chris starts to walk away, and I yell to her, “Hey, kiddo! I still love you!”

Turning back to look at me, she smiles softly.

Then she is gone, lost in the bulk of the plane.

I rush over to the window to see if I can spot her. When I cannot, I race across the corridor, up the stairs out onto the observation platform. I run down to where her plane is warming up and keep walking along until I see Chris, sitting down at one of the front window seats.

She spots me, and I wave at her frantically.

The big jet starts turning around, heading toward the runway. I keep waving until I can no longer see her sundrenched face smiling sadly back at me.

Standing there on the observation deck, I watch as the plane taxis down the runway. Even long after it disappears from view I remain fixed there, looking up at the empty sky.

CURTAIN CALL
 

The following Wednesday afternoon I’m about to run from the house, already late for an Equity showcase audition, when the phone rings.

“Hello!” I answer abruptly.

“Steve Butler, please. Long distance calling from St. Lucia,” says a fairly nasal operator.

Chris! How nice! “This is Steve Butler.”

“Go ahead, please!” answers the operator, signing off.

“Steve Butler?” asks a voice.

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me. I’m Andrew Southern. We’re down here in St. Lucia directing a Clairol commercial with Chris Canaday.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

“What!”

“Are you two related?”

“No. Just friends.”

“I see.”

“What happened?”

“Well ... it seems she’s, um . . . she drowned.”

A balloon filled with hot blood seems to burst inside my head, somewhere behind my eyes.

“ What
?” I ask, very bewildered, holding my forehead, trying to control this sudden shaking all over.

“Believe me, bud, we’re all just as surprised as you. We only finished shooting here a couple of hours ago. We were wrapping and she went off to take a swim. I don’t know ... she just went swimming and drowned.”

“I don’t understand ...” I say, still shaking.

“They tried to save her. Tried to get her to breathe again, but nothing helped. She was so beautiful. . . . I’m sorry.”

I have a million questions to ask, but I’m shaking so I can’t manage to get one of them out.

He continues: “We looked through her things and found an address book in her room. All the names have been crossed out except yours and a Mrs. Mathews in Seattle.”

“That’s her mother.”

“Oh. Her mother. I see. Do you think I should call her?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Do you know her mother, Steve?”

“No.”

“Would you want to make the call?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Sure. Give me the number.”

I jot down the number and tell my friend the director I’ll have Chris’ mother call or I’ll get back to him. Something. I don’t know. Whatever. Nothing’s making sense.

“Hey, um ... I want you to know how really sorry I am about this,” the director tells me. “I mean, it really comes hard to me, too. We had more than just a working relationship, you know.” “Oh?”

“Yeah. She arrived here all gloomy, and so I was spending a lot of my off hours, um, you know, cheering her up.” “Oh?”

“Yeah. And she was fine. So I guess you can imagine how upset I am by all this.”

“Yeah,” I say, flat. “I’ll get back to you.”