Наташа Купер: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 1. Whole No. 767, July 2005

It turned out that her idea of a little something was pot roast, mashed potatoes, lima beans, salad, and apple pie a la mode. I had liver and bacon. We ate at the Blue Mill, which was just down Commerce Street from the Cherry Lane Theater. The Blue Mill’s not there anymore, and I miss it. It was an old-fashioned neighborhood place with a loyal clientele and waiters who knew you by name. The daily menu was scrawled on little chalkboards. If I closed my eyes, I almost felt like I was back home at Breitbach’s Family Restaurant.

“Is this your place?” she asked me after Stavros had cleared our plates and poured our coffee.

“It is.”

“I’ve walked by here a million times but I’ve never come in. I’m glad I did.” She glanced around at the homey blue-tile decor. “Where do you drink, the White Horse?”

“How did you know that?”

“Writers’ hangout. I used to wait tables there. The tips were lousy, but at least I didn’t get mauled every night. Compared to actors, writers are generally very well-behaved when they’re loaded. Why is that?”

“We’re more highly evolved.”

“Oh, is that right?” she said lightly.

“No, we just tend to live up inside of our own heads, that’s all. Instead of acting on an impulse, our first thought is, hey, I’d better get this down on paper right away.”

“It sounds like your work is more real to you than life is.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I think that’s very sad.”

“I said we were more highly evolved. I didn’t say we were happy.”

“So are you doing what you want to be doing? Or are you one of those reporters who’s secretly toiling away on the Great American Novel?”

“You make my life sound like a pathetic cliché.”

“I was just busting your chops. It’s only fair. You’ve been busting mine since the moment we met.”

“True enough.”

“Tell me about your novel, Timmy. Please.”

I needed very little encouragement. I happily told her all about my multi-generational chronicle of the Ferrises’ epic migration across the Great Plains — a journey that was, in fact, one family’s quest for the American Dream. I used those very words. I actually talked like that in those days — with a straight face.

And she actually listened. She was a good listener, her eyes lively and engaged. They didn’t glaze over once, which was what usually happened when I talked to people about my novel. Especially when those people were women.

“Timmy, I can’t wait to read it,” she said when I came up for air. “I’ll even buy it in hardcover.” She glanced at her watch, then bit down on her plump lower lip, coloring slightly. “Look, I have to get home. I’m meeting someone, okay?”

“Say no more,” I said. “Okay?”

We split the check. The rain had let up. There were some patches of blue in the sky. Leigh grew pensive as we walked, puffing distractedly on a cigarette. Me, I was well aware that she was on her way home to meet Anthony Beck for a matinee performance. I was also aware that just thinking about the two of them together made my chest ache.

Before we went our separate ways she stuck her hand out, and I shook it. It was slim and cool and seemed very at home in mine. I hoped it would move in and stay awhile.

“Timmy, I feel like I should warn you about Barbara and Tony,” she said uneasily. “They might try to use you. It’s what they do.”

“People always try to use reporters. I’m used to it.”

“No, this you’re not used to. You’re much too nice a person. Promise me you’ll be careful, okay?”

“I am careful.”

“Is that right? True or false — Tony sent you on a fool’s errand today.”

“Okay, true,” I conceded.

Her eyes lingered on mine. “So what does that make you, Timmy?”

I didn’t answer her. I didn’t have to. We both knew the answer.

My basement on Perry Street came with little in the way of heat, unless you count the lingering smell of No. 2 fuel oil that regularly wafted up from the nonfunctioning furnace in the subbasement. But my landlord was very generous about other amenities. He threw in the mice and cockroaches for free. Also the panoramic view out my windows of the trash cans in front of the building. Actually, I loved that apartment. It was my first home away from home. All mine. I’d furnished it mostly with pieces of furniture I’d picked up on the street. My work station was a mahogany drop-leaf dining table that someone had painted silver before they’d abandoned it on West Fourth Street. Whenever I had a few hours free, I pounded away on my novel there, often wrapped in an army-surplus blanket for warmth.

But on this particular day, I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about the way Leigh Grayson had listened to me when I’d talked to her. And how her perfume had smelled. And how at that very moment Anthony Beck was busy making expert, ironically detached British love to her. The thought of the two of them together made me feel as if I might explode. But how could I ever hope to rival the great Anthony Beck for the affections of a beautiful young actress like Leigh Grayson? What did I have to offer to her?

For the very first time since I’d moved to New York, I felt hopeless.

I put on my sweats and sneakers and went for a run, sprinting my way through the puddles on the sidewalks of the Village. I guess I don’t need to tell you that I ran by her apartment building. Three times, no less. It was a much nicer brownstone than mine, with window boxes and nicely painted trim. I thought about ringing her bell and barging in on them to tell her I loved her. If I’d been a character in a Noel Coward comedy that’s precisely what I would have done.

But this was no bedroom farce. This was my life.

That night, I sat through Private Lives all over again, just like Barbara Darrow wanted me to. Once again, she was radiant and dizzy, Beck marvelously droll. Leigh, in her blond wig, was sweet and clueless. John Jefferson was the same blustering clod. And yet, I detected a definite change from the previous night’s performance. Not so much to the rhythm, as Barbara had suggested, but to the mood. This performance was angrier. Barbara was angrier. She came out of the gate pissed and stayed that way until the final curtain, forcing the other performers to respond to her. Her playful jabs at new husband Victor knocked the air right out of him. Her catty remarks at Sybil left bloody gouges. And the scenes where Amanda and Elyot rekindled their romance were now death-defying duels. The whole play felt different. Mind you, the audience laughed just as hard. But tonight Barbara was playing for keeps.

At the second intermission an usher came to my seat with a hastily scrawled note: Timmy — Won’t you please come to my dressing room after the curtain? — Barbara.

I had to wait backstage until her dresser gave me the go-ahead. The stage crew was busy tearing apart the Act III set of Amanda’s Paris apartment. Watching them, I was reminded that despite all of the fame and fortune, the theater is still just a bunch of grown-up kids putting on a skit in front of a painted backdrop.

Darrow and Beck had neighboring dressing rooms close to the stage. Leigh and John were up a steep, narrow flight of stairs. That’s an old law of the theater — the lower your name in the credits, the higher your climb.

I found Barbara seated before the mirror at her dressing table, looking like a waif in an oversized terry-cloth robe. Her makeup was off, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She didn’t seem at all tired by the performance. In fact, she was positively glowing. The bottle of Dom Perignon she was working on probably wasn’t hurting.

“Ah, here you are, Timmy,” she exclaimed brightly. “Close the door and sit down, dear. Have a drink with me, won’t you?”