The Role Players (14 page)

Chris grinned at him. “That's right, grandpa. Why don't you tell Dick and Jonathan what Mr. Lincoln said to you after the Battle of Gettysburg? I love that story.”

Max bared his teeth at him and made a deep, animal growl. “Watch it, little man,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “I'm about ready for bed myself.”

To my considerable surprise, Jonathan said: “Yeah, bed sounds pretty good.”

Will wonders never cease?

“'Night, Russ,” Max called as we left by the side exit and made our way to the street to wait for the cab.

*

On the ride to the apartment, I explained I had an 8:30 meeting with Gene Morrison the next morning, and maybe they should plan their morning without me. Jonathan looked disappointed, but didn't say anything.

But Chris said, “That's okay. I think we can all afford to sleep in.” He looked at Jonathan. “And we'll leave a key out so that if you feel like taking a jog up to Central Park before we get up, you can let yourself back in.”

“Thanks,” Jonathan said, and then turned to me. “What time do you think you might be back?”

I shrugged. “I'd say I should be back by ten or ten thirty. I really don't know what Morrison has in mind, but I'm eager to find out.”

*

I was up at seven o'clock, much against my will, and slipped out of bed to go take a shower. I knew damned well that Jonathan woke up when I did, but he studiously pretended to be asleep for my sake. When I returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind me, he was lying on his back, hands behind his head, blankets tossed aside to reveal the full package, smiling at me. He looked sexy as all hell, of course.

“Wanna play a game?” he asked innocently.

I deliberately made a wide circle around the bed to get to the closet, bending over quickly to toss the blankets back over him. “You know I do, and you know I can't, so behave yourself or I'll paddle your ass till it glows in the dark.”

He gave me a wicked grin. “Promise?”

I just shook my head in mock exasperation and continued to the closet.

He watched me as I put on my shorts and reached for a shirt, then got out of bed to go to the shower.

“You really don't have to get up,” I said.

“I know,” he replied and continued on his way to the bathroom.

I was dressed by the time he came back into the bedroom. “So what are you going to do until Chris and Max get up?” I asked.

“I dunno,” he said, rummaging through his bag for shorts and socks. “Thought maybe I'd go out for a walk.”

“That jog up to Central Park?” I asked, and he looked at me quickly to see whether I was teasing him.

“No,” he said, raising one leg to step into his shorts, “but it's an idea. Not enough time, though. I'll probably just walk around the neighborhood and go to the bakery for some rolls for coffee. I want to be here when you get back.”

“That would be nice,” I said, walking over to give him a hug and a kiss. “But now I'd better go call a cab.”

He came into the living room as I was standing at the window, looking for the cab to pull up.

“Why don't we go wait outside?” Jonathan asked, picking up the key from the coffee table. “It looks like another really nice day.”

The cab pulled up just as we started down the front steps. “Oh, well,” Jonathan said. He walked me to the cab.

“See you soon, Babe,” I said, opening the door and climbing in.

I turned around as the cab pulled away, and saw him standing there, watching me. Then he turned around and walked off in the opposite direction.

*

Morrison lived in the East Village, overlooking Thompkins Square Park. I was early (of course) and had just enough time to take a brief foray into the park. I realized how my being apart from Jonathan as much as we'd been might actually have been a good thing. It gave each of us time just for ourselves to experience the city in our own way.

I arrived at Morrison's apartment on the 14th floor at 8:25, and he greeted me at the door. The apartment was about a fifth the size of Tait's—actually, almost the same size as Chris and Max's—but it was extremely comfortable and not the least ostentatious.

“I know you have other things to do today,” he said, “so breakfast is nearly ready.”

He led the way into a small dining room, where the table was set for two, complete with goblets of orange juice and a small napkin-covered basket I assumed held rolls of some kind. He waited until I was seated, then said, “I hope you like quiche. I didn't know if you were a vegetarian so I made two—one with spinach, tomato, and onion and the other with ham. Which would you prefer?”

“Either would be fine,” I said, a little overwhelmed by the trouble he'd obviously taken—especially for someone he'd barely met. He excused himself and went into the adjacent kitchen—there was a shuttered pass-through window between the two rooms. He opened the shutters from the kitchen side and placed a tray on the small ledge, on which he put a spatula and a carafe of coffee and, after disappearing for a minute or two, two individual-sized quiches.

He came back into the dining room and moved the tray to the table, finally sitting down himself. “Since you said you have no preferences, shall we cut each one in two and have both?”

“That'll be fine,” I said as he picked up the spatula and cut each quiche neatly in half, then expertly removed them from their pans with the crust totally intact and conveyed them to our plates. They smelled wonderful.

Setting aside the spatula, he lifted his glass of orange juice and said, “Cheers.”

I returned the toast.

“It was kind of you to have me over,” I said, “and to have gone to all this trouble. You must have gotten up at the crack of dawn.”

He set down his glass to pick up his fork. “No trouble at all,” he said. “I'm an early riser and I really enjoy spending time in the kitchen. I think if I'd not been a writer, I'd have considered being a chef.”

I finished my first bite of the spinach quiche, which was delicious. “This is excellent!” I said. “But you can reach more people with your writing than you could ever have reached as a chef. I still remember seeing
Unbroken
four times when I was in college. A great movie!”

“Ah, my first film,” he said with a small smile. “I'm glad you liked it. I must admit it was one of my favorites. And you're right about reaching more people through writing. When I'm cooking, I'm happiest when I cook for only two.”

His eyes suddenly reflected a terrible sadness, which rippled quickly across his face. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I've not had the opportunity….”

His voice trailed off and he made an “hh-hem” sound and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. I could clearly see that Tait's earlier description of him had been accurate: Gene Morrison tried very hard to hide his vulnerability under a facade of calm and sophistication, but it didn't always work.

“You obviously loved him very much,” I said, aware that I may have overstepped my bounds.

He looked at me strangely, then took a deep breath and straightened up, giving me that small smile again.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I did. Am I that transparent?”

“No,” I replied, “you're that human.”

He was silent a moment, then looked at me and said, “I'm normally a very private person, Mr. Hardesty…”

“Dick, please,” I interrupted.

He smiled and made a brief nod. “Dick,” he continued. “I'm seldom this open even with Tait, whom I've known for what seems like a lifetime. But when I met you, I sensed…something. I have no idea what…that reminded me of myself many years ago. You struck me as the kind of person who would listen, and would understand. Nothing I've seen thus far has altered that original assessment.

“So, yes, I loved Rod. How could I not? He was breathtaking, and funny, and warm, and I sincerely do believe he cared for me as deeply as he could.”

“And why wouldn't he?” I asked.

He gave a laugh, which had more than an edge of bitterness to it.

“Very kind of you to say, Dick, but look at me! I'm sixty-three years old, grey haired, and four inches shorter than Rod. He could—and did—have any man he set his eyes on. I had no illusions. Those were taken from me years ago. But I thought he and I could work out an arrangement beneficial to both of us.

“Don't get me wrong, he wasn't a ‘kept boy,' but the longer we knew one another, the closer I felt we became, as friends and something more. I wish I could have left it at that level, but the human need for love is an overpowering force, and I found myself falling hopelessly—the operative word—in love with him.”

“I can certainly understand that.”

“I was sure you could,” he said with a semi-sad smile. “We had an unspoken agreement—he was free to go outside our relationship for his needs so long as he was discreet and never, never got involved with someone we both knew. I wasn't concerned that he would leave me for another man—the contacts and connections he made through me were far too valuable to him—but I did not want to jeopardize whatever good reputation I may have by becoming a laughingstock.

“At first he adhered to our unspoken agreement, but then he began to go outside the bounds and, worst of all, would lie about it if I questioned him. That's what hurt most. And then jealousy—one of the worst of all human emotions—began to eat at me.”

He looked at me closely. “Are you by any chance a Scorpio, Dick?”

I nodded.

“Ah,” he said. “I somehow suspected as much. So you can understand what I'm saying.”

I could indeed.

“I wrote
Impartial Observer
for Rod, partly because I knew if it and he were a success, the door would open for us to begin putting some distance between us. He'd move on, hopefully, with his career, and I'd return to my old life. I'm afraid I have something of a martyr complex. I saw it as giving up my own happiness—which by this time was coming close to equal parts happiness and misery—for his sake.”

He suddenly stopped and looked at me intently. “Am I babbling?” he asked. “You must be terribly bored by now.”

“No!” I said a little more emphatically than I had intended. “No, I'm fascinated, and flattered that you would consider confiding in me.”

He smiled again. “Not totally altruism,” he said. “I have been under horrendous emotional strain since Rod's death. I felt I had to talk about this to someone other than myself—I'm afraid I couldn't even tell Tait everything I'm telling you. But I liked you from the minute you came up to me in the theater, and I instantly felt I could trust you, which is why I asked you over.”

He paused to pour our coffee, replacing the carafe on the tray.

“Anyway,” he continued, “after my selfless acts of nobility…” he gave me a quick, sardonic smile, “… shortly after returning to California following the casting and preliminary blocking, I began hearing reports, just subtle hints at first—I'll not say from whom—that Rod was blatantly seducing members of the cast and crew—of
my
play! I felt betrayed, humiliated, and hurt, and then terribly angry.

“I was working on a project with a deadline, so I couldn't just fly back and forth from coast to coast, and I knew I'd be coming here for the opening. I determined to make a complete and total break with him, even though it tore my heart out to do so. But when I got here, I learned Rod had been killed the night before.”

The night before, eh?
I thought. I started to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of the telephone. Morrison excused himself and went into the kitchen.

I heard him pick up the phone, then, “Yes, Tait. Good morning. No, I was just finishing breakfast. Well, I'm certainly not looking forward to it, but yes, if we must. Give me half an hour, will you? Fine. I'll see you then.”

A good two minutes went by before he came back into the dining room, looking mildly shaken.

“Sorry,” he said with a weak smile. “Rod's parents have come in from Connecticut to claim his body. They called Tait to ask if they could meet with the two of us—Tait because he runs the Whitman, and me because while I hope they had no idea of our relationship, they knew I was his mentor and that he was staying here while I was in California. I'm sure they'll want to make arrangements to collect his things, but they're simply going to have to wait a week or so for that.”

“Well, it's certainly pressure you don't need right now, with the opening tonight,” I said. “Will you be all right?”

He smiled. “Of course. I write plays and I can put myself in any role if I have to. I'll just look on this meeting as a new part I've written.”

“I admire you,” I said honestly. I really wanted to broach the issue of ‘the night before' but knew there would not be time. “I'd really better go. But can I help you clear up the dishes first?”

He waved his hand. “Nice of you to offer,” he said, “but no. I'll get them when I come back.”

Getting up from the table I walked over to shake hands. “It has been a most interesting morning,” I said, “and again I thank you for both your hospitality and for your openness.”

He walked me to the door. “It is I who thank you. Putting actual words to feelings, and hearing them expressed aloud is very therapeutic. I know I can rely on your discretion to keep all this strictly between the two of us.”