Read Online The Confessions of Edward Day by Valerie Martin - Free Book Online
Authors: Valerie Martin
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finished her wine and set the glass on the bar, slipping two one-dollar bills under the base. “I’ve got to meet Teddy at La MaMa,” she said. “He’s got tickets for a new show.” As she kissed my cheek and slid from her barstool, a flush of fragrance rose from her bosom, baby powder mixed with sweat, not unpleasant but notenticing, either. I pictured Mindy après shower, dowsing her breasts with baby powder while she sang “Don’t Rain on My Parade” at full blast. “Take it easy,” she said kindly. “Don’t work so hard.”
“Right,” I said. “Tell Teddy I’ll call him.” I watched as Madeleine and Mindy hugged and cooed. Guy accepted the same cheek busses I’d received. As Mindy flounced out the door, Madeleine and Guy went back to their conversation. For what seemed like a long time I sat drinking my beer and admiring Madeleine’s back. What were they talking about? I found Guy’s conversational mode peculiarly deadening, but Madeleine seemed both engaged and amused; her soft laughter rustled her shoulders and she nodded her head now and then in agreement or approval. I could see Guy’s lips moving, his dark eyes fixed on her face with a sinister, distant interest. Now and then his sudden grin flashed; something unnerving about it, I thought, something menacing. Christopher Walken had a similar death’s-head grin. I’d seen him in
Caligula
at Yale. It was amusement provoked by the apprehension of weakness, and I didn’t like to see it leveled at the unsuspecting Madeleine. I shifted to Mindy’s stool and leaned into the bar. “That’s hysterical,” Madeleine was saying.
“What is?” I asked.
She turned her bright eyes upon me. “Have you heard this? They’re rehearsing a musical of
Gone With the Wind
in Los Angeles. Guess who’s playing Scarlett?”
“Julie Andrews,” I suggested.
“Lesley Ann Warren!” she exclaimed.
“Not far off,” I said.
“And guess who’s playing Rhett?”
Because I had been thinking of him, I said, “Christopher Walken.”
“No, he would be good, actually. It’s Pernell Roberts.”
“Who’s he?”
“Bonanza,”
Guy said. “Adam.”
“The strong, silent one,” Madeleine added.
“Good God,” I said.
“Tell him about the songs,” Madeleine insisted.
Guy nodded. “There’s one called ‘Tomorrow’s Another Day,’ and ‘Why Did They Die,’ and ‘Atlanta Burning.’” This really did make me laugh.
“It’s a huge cast,” Madeleine said. “More than fifty parts.”
“How do you know about this?” I asked Guy.
“I have a cousin who’s in it. He plays one of the Tarleton twins.”
“Is that where you’re from?” I asked, though I knew he wasn’t.
“No,” Guy said. “I’ve never been to L.A. Have you?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you want to go?”
“No,” I said. And then we talked about L.A. and how different film acting was from stage acting and how little work there was in New York, unless you happened to be British or Italian. It was banal conversation and Guy held up his end well enough, though, as we were both entirely focused on Madeleine, there was a competitive edge to it. Then, abruptly, Guy stretched his wrist out to check his watch and pretendedsurprise. “Gotta run,” he said, kissing Madeleine on the cheek. “Friday, six thirty.”
“See you there,” she replied.
He turned to me extending his hand for a gentleman’s parting. “Ed,” he said. “Good seeing you. Get my beer for me, would you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” Madeleine smiled upon us, pleased to see this amiable exchange between friends. When he was gone I pulled my stool closer to Madeleine and said, “Friday? Six thirty?”
“He’s got tickets to
Jacques Brel
.”
I snorted. “That old rag?”
She regarded me coldly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Jacques Brel is great. I’ve been wanting to see it.” She finished her wine while I pictured the inside of my wallet. What a jerk Guy was to take my
“Right,” I said. “Tell Teddy I’ll call him.” I watched as Madeleine and Mindy hugged and cooed. Guy accepted the same cheek busses I’d received. As Mindy flounced out the door, Madeleine and Guy went back to their conversation. For what seemed like a long time I sat drinking my beer and admiring Madeleine’s back. What were they talking about? I found Guy’s conversational mode peculiarly deadening, but Madeleine seemed both engaged and amused; her soft laughter rustled her shoulders and she nodded her head now and then in agreement or approval. I could see Guy’s lips moving, his dark eyes fixed on her face with a sinister, distant interest. Now and then his sudden grin flashed; something unnerving about it, I thought, something menacing. Christopher Walken had a similar death’s-head grin. I’d seen him in
Caligula
at Yale. It was amusement provoked by the apprehension of weakness, and I didn’t like to see it leveled at the unsuspecting Madeleine. I shifted to Mindy’s stool and leaned into the bar. “That’s hysterical,” Madeleine was saying.
“What is?” I asked.
She turned her bright eyes upon me. “Have you heard this? They’re rehearsing a musical of
Gone With the Wind
in Los Angeles. Guess who’s playing Scarlett?”
“Julie Andrews,” I suggested.
“Lesley Ann Warren!” she exclaimed.
“Not far off,” I said.
“And guess who’s playing Rhett?”
Because I had been thinking of him, I said, “Christopher Walken.”
“No, he would be good, actually. It’s Pernell Roberts.”
“Who’s he?”
“Bonanza,”
Guy said. “Adam.”
“The strong, silent one,” Madeleine added.
“Good God,” I said.
“Tell him about the songs,” Madeleine insisted.
Guy nodded. “There’s one called ‘Tomorrow’s Another Day,’ and ‘Why Did They Die,’ and ‘Atlanta Burning.’” This really did make me laugh.
“It’s a huge cast,” Madeleine said. “More than fifty parts.”
“How do you know about this?” I asked Guy.
“I have a cousin who’s in it. He plays one of the Tarleton twins.”
“Is that where you’re from?” I asked, though I knew he wasn’t.
“No,” Guy said. “I’ve never been to L.A. Have you?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you want to go?”
“No,” I said. And then we talked about L.A. and how different film acting was from stage acting and how little work there was in New York, unless you happened to be British or Italian. It was banal conversation and Guy held up his end well enough, though, as we were both entirely focused on Madeleine, there was a competitive edge to it. Then, abruptly, Guy stretched his wrist out to check his watch and pretendedsurprise. “Gotta run,” he said, kissing Madeleine on the cheek. “Friday, six thirty.”
“See you there,” she replied.
He turned to me extending his hand for a gentleman’s parting. “Ed,” he said. “Good seeing you. Get my beer for me, would you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?” Madeleine smiled upon us, pleased to see this amiable exchange between friends. When he was gone I pulled my stool closer to Madeleine and said, “Friday? Six thirty?”
“He’s got tickets to
Jacques Brel
.”
I snorted. “That old rag?”
She regarded me coldly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Jacques Brel is great. I’ve been wanting to see it.” She finished her wine while I pictured the inside of my wallet. What a jerk Guy was to take my
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