Read Online The Man Who Lived by Night by David Handler - Free Book Online
Authors: David Handler
Tags: Suspense
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and ditched the mini around the corner from the theater. The Haymarket is a fine old stage—intimate, well-maintained, steeped in theatrical history and tradition. There used to be a few theaters like it left on Broadway, only they tore them down a couple of years ago to make way for a hotel complex that belongs next to an airport. In Atlanta.
Merilee had reserved a pair on the aisle. I let Lulu have the aisle seat so she could see better. She whimpered softly when the lights came up on Merilee. She wasn’t the only one. Merilee looked gorgeous that night, her waist-length golden hair and white dress aglow under the stage lights. Not that my ex-wife is conventionally beautiful. Her nose and chin are patrician to the point of mannish, and her forehead is much too high. Plus, she’s not exactly delicately proportioned. Her shoulders are broad and sloped, her back muscular, her legs big and powerful. She was, I realized, significantly taller than Anthony Andrews. She had to wear flat shoes and slouch into her hip to stay eye to eye with him.
They played it bright and peppy, like Barry is meant to be played. Her Tracy was steely control on the outside, a dithery, vulnerable mess on the inside. It’s hard to not think of Hepburn in the part—Barry did write it for her. But that night, on the Haymarket stage, Merilee made the role of Tracy Lord her own.
When it was over, Lulu and I worked our way through the opening night mob backstage to tell her. She was in her dressing room, surrounded by admirers and backers, laughing, giddy. I watched her from across the room until she spotted me. Her smile dropped. Her green eyes widened. We stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Then I smiled, and she smiled. And the other people in the room and the years and the bad times melted away.
“How was I?” she asked, accepting the dozen long-stemmed roses I’d brought her.
“It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“And you’ve never looked lovelier, but I suppose you already know that.”
“A gal only knows it if her guy says so.”
“Am I your guy?”
“Could be. I forgot how nice you look in a tux.”
“Careful, my head turns easily.”
She dabbed at my upper lip with her finger. “You shaved off your mustache.”
“Like it?”
“It reminds me of how you looked when we met.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I gave it as a yes.”
Slowly, each of us became aware of this moaning sound originating from floor level. Lulu, ears back and tail thumping, was desperately trying to scale Mount Merilee.
“Oh, Lulu, sweetness! No, you’ll tear my costume!”
Merilee bent over and held Lulu down with her hands. These Lulu nuzzled and licked, all the while circling Merilee in a frenzy.
“You’d best take her out, darling,” Merilee said. “I’ll change.”
“Not too much,” I cautioned.
She laughed. It was one of our corny old jokes from back when we were falling madly in love, and I’d meet her backstage every evening.
She emerged a half hour later dressed in a Laura Biagiotti skirt and sweater of mocha brown cashmere, a blouse of white silk and Tanino Crisci boots. There was a trench coat over her arm and a first-class Worth & Worth Statler fedora on her head. The Statler had been mine, until she convinced me it was too small for me.
She liked the mini. Lulu liked sitting in her lap.
We went to the Hungry Horse, which is on Fulham Road in what was a hip South Ken neighborhood twenty years ago. Now there seemed to be a lot of places there offering American cheeseburgers and televised NFL football games. Certainly, this was not my idea of hip, but then neither is Pee-wee Herman.
They serve old-fashioned English food at the Hungry Horse. The dining room is a few steps down, and small, and you go in the back way through the kitchen. The tables are set against little settees. I let Merilee have the settee. I sat across from her, or I should say them. Lulu
Merilee had reserved a pair on the aisle. I let Lulu have the aisle seat so she could see better. She whimpered softly when the lights came up on Merilee. She wasn’t the only one. Merilee looked gorgeous that night, her waist-length golden hair and white dress aglow under the stage lights. Not that my ex-wife is conventionally beautiful. Her nose and chin are patrician to the point of mannish, and her forehead is much too high. Plus, she’s not exactly delicately proportioned. Her shoulders are broad and sloped, her back muscular, her legs big and powerful. She was, I realized, significantly taller than Anthony Andrews. She had to wear flat shoes and slouch into her hip to stay eye to eye with him.
They played it bright and peppy, like Barry is meant to be played. Her Tracy was steely control on the outside, a dithery, vulnerable mess on the inside. It’s hard to not think of Hepburn in the part—Barry did write it for her. But that night, on the Haymarket stage, Merilee made the role of Tracy Lord her own.
When it was over, Lulu and I worked our way through the opening night mob backstage to tell her. She was in her dressing room, surrounded by admirers and backers, laughing, giddy. I watched her from across the room until she spotted me. Her smile dropped. Her green eyes widened. We stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Then I smiled, and she smiled. And the other people in the room and the years and the bad times melted away.
“How was I?” she asked, accepting the dozen long-stemmed roses I’d brought her.
“It wasn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done.”
“Thank you, darling.”
“And you’ve never looked lovelier, but I suppose you already know that.”
“A gal only knows it if her guy says so.”
“Am I your guy?”
“Could be. I forgot how nice you look in a tux.”
“Careful, my head turns easily.”
She dabbed at my upper lip with her finger. “You shaved off your mustache.”
“Like it?”
“It reminds me of how you looked when we met.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I gave it as a yes.”
Slowly, each of us became aware of this moaning sound originating from floor level. Lulu, ears back and tail thumping, was desperately trying to scale Mount Merilee.
“Oh, Lulu, sweetness! No, you’ll tear my costume!”
Merilee bent over and held Lulu down with her hands. These Lulu nuzzled and licked, all the while circling Merilee in a frenzy.
“You’d best take her out, darling,” Merilee said. “I’ll change.”
“Not too much,” I cautioned.
She laughed. It was one of our corny old jokes from back when we were falling madly in love, and I’d meet her backstage every evening.
She emerged a half hour later dressed in a Laura Biagiotti skirt and sweater of mocha brown cashmere, a blouse of white silk and Tanino Crisci boots. There was a trench coat over her arm and a first-class Worth & Worth Statler fedora on her head. The Statler had been mine, until she convinced me it was too small for me.
She liked the mini. Lulu liked sitting in her lap.
We went to the Hungry Horse, which is on Fulham Road in what was a hip South Ken neighborhood twenty years ago. Now there seemed to be a lot of places there offering American cheeseburgers and televised NFL football games. Certainly, this was not my idea of hip, but then neither is Pee-wee Herman.
They serve old-fashioned English food at the Hungry Horse. The dining room is a few steps down, and small, and you go in the back way through the kitchen. The tables are set against little settees. I let Merilee have the settee. I sat across from her, or I should say them. Lulu
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