Paullina Simons - The Tiger Catcher

The sun moved a quarter of a degree. The colors faded. The world returned to what it was.

Almost.

The pressure in his chest remained, the saturated heat of a punch in the heart.

He couldn’t speak. The lens through which he saw the world had become distorted, had lost focus in its very center.

Josephine took his hand. “Told you,” she said, squeezing and releasing him.

“What was that?” It was like waking up from a nightmare. For a minute you didn’t know where you were. Julian still didn’t know where he was.

“What did you wish for?” she asked.

“It’s not what I wished for. It’s what I saw.”

“What did you see?”

Julian didn’t know. He wasn’t sure. Something he didn’t want to see. He stared at her enthralled, yet unsettled.

Josephine dropped the stone back in her bag. “Sometimes,” she said with a melancholy tinge, “when I come here, I don’t know what to ask for because I don’t know what I want. I want so much to believe it’s all in front of me, and I wish for a break, or a role of a lifetime, for accolades, for applause. But sometimes it feels as if everything is already behind me.”

“It’s not,” Julian said, for some reason certain. “It’s all still up ahead.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said. “My biggest wish still hasn’t happened. I want to be in London, on the West End stage.”

“Why London?” he said. “It rains all the time. New York has great theatre, too.”

Longingly she smiled, imagining her perfect future. “We wish for what we don’t have,” she said. “I want to sell out the legendary Savoy.” She swiped her hand through the air. “Have my name above the marquee—Josephine Collins tonight at the Savoy!”

“I’ve never been to London,” he said. “Have you?”

“Only in my dreams.” She put her hand on her chest.

His heart still hurt.

“You know the same man who built the Savoy also built the most beautiful theatre in the world,” she said. “The Palace on Cambridge Circus.”

“I did not know this.”

She nodded. “He loved his wife so much he built her a theatre so she could attend the opera any time she wanted. Imagine that. The Palace Theatre is the man’s love for his wife made real.” She smiled.

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I adore the story of how much that man loved his woman,” Josephine said. “How do you not know this?”

Reluctantly, they started back downhill. “What did you wish for?” he asked.

“Today I asked to be in Paradise in the Park so I could stay in L.A.,” she said. “How about you?”

“Me, too,” said Julian.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO NOW?”

“What do you want to do now?”

“I’m starved.”

“I know just the place.”

Hours later they were still sitting across from each other at the Griddle Cafe on Sunset at a square table on the sidewalk, hot out, cars whizzing by. Julian perked up once he got some food in him. There had been something foggy and surreal about the minute with her at the top of the mountain, the floating evanescence mixing and churning with unfathomable emotion.

Dante’s people called. The part of the narrator was hers if she wanted it. Could they send the contracts over to her agent? Could she start rehearsals the day after tomorrow? Things were looking up. She was never taking off the red beret. “But do you know what the producer said to me even as he was giving me the job?” Josephine said. “What took you so long to come out here, Miss Collins?” She stirred her coffee.

“I heard you tell him you were twenty-eight.”

“And he said exactly and hung up.”

Julian laughed. “Last month Ashton was on the phone, angling for a walk-through at CBS and the producer asked how old he was. Ashton said thirty-two, and the producer said, ‘Do you look thirty-two?’ Ashton was like, do I need to look younger than thirty-two for a set walkthrough on a cancelled sitcom?”

Josephine shook her head. “Everybody’s looking for eternal youth. Especially in this town.”

“Eternal something maybe.”

“So, is your friend a good guy?” she asked. “The truth now. Even if he is ornery and thirty-two. Should we introduce him to my Zakiyyah, see what happens?”

“Okay, Dolly, pipe down,” Julian said. “He’s not ornery. He’s taken.”

“Taken, shmaken. How attractive is his girlfriend?”

Julian took out his phone and showed her Riley.

Josephine acted unimpressed. She took out her phone and showed him Zakiyyah.

Julian acted unimpressed.

“She was Miss Brooklyn!” Josephine said.

“Riley was voted most beautiful in high school.”

“Did you not hear me say that Z was Miss Brooklyn?”

“Ashton doesn’t date beauty queens.”

“ Obviously ,” Josephine said, and they both laughed. “Is Riley in the business?”

Julian shook his head. “Ashton also doesn’t date actresses. He got burned a few times, and now says they can’t be trusted.”

“Really, he says that?” She eyed him with a twinkle. “What do you say?”

“I don’t know.” Julian eyed her with a twinkle. “I’ve never dated an actress.”

She fell silent, continuing to stare at Riley’s photo. “Do you like her?” she asked.

“I like her a lot, why? We’re good friends,” Julian said. “She’s wonderful entertainment. And she hates being teased.”

“And that makes you tease her all the more?”

“Naturally,” said Julian. “Every outing with her is a wellness summit. Sometimes to help me cleanse my spirit and align my chakras, she tells me to eat paper.” He couldn’t hide his genuine affection for Riley. “To rid herself of impurities, she eats on alternate days. On B days she drinks only lemon water flavored with maple syrup. She tells me to write in my newsletter that maple syrup is the perfect food and I tell her, yes, especially over waffles.”

Josephine snorted the strawberry shake through her nose.

They finished their red velvet pancakes with cream cheese frosting. Their elbows on the table, they slurped the last of the milkshakes through their straws. The tables around them were empty; only they were left.

They talked about the plays she’d been in ( Danny Shapiro and his Quest for a Mystery Princess was Julian’s favorite). They talked about their favorite books ( The Fight for him, Gone with the Wind for her), subjects they liked in school, comfort food, swimming pools, and then engaged in a crossfire over the Dodgers and the Yankees. (“You live here,” she said, “so maybe you have to pay lip service to this, but you do know in your heart of hearts that the Dodgers suck, right?”) After half an hour, the argument subsided unresolved. (“What, you’re offended?” she said. “That’s not a surprise, I’d be mad too if I rooted for the Dodgers.”)

They told each other their official stories. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, near the Verrazano Bridge, not quite Coney Island, not quite Bay Ridge, a small congested working-class community so removed from the rest of the world that she was ten before she set foot in New York City. She thought Luna Park on Coney Island was what all beaches looked like, and her concept of New Jersey was map-related, as in, it was a mythical place beyond Staten Island.

“ New Jersey is mythical?” Julian said.

Her father ran a vaudeville joint called Sideshows by the Seashore, and she worked with him until he died, and the place changed hands. Her younger sister died of leukemia a few years later. To make her sister feel better, Josephine sang and played the piano, and her sister danced in time to her singing. She said that since then, that was how she thought of all children—in the image of frail girls dancing. Dying but dancing.