Romantic Comedy(87)
“But what happened to your hair?”
Pleasantly, he said, “It was time for a change.”
“Would it be okay if I get a picture?” Charlotte asked. “Sally told me about not posting anything, but just to show my sister. She won’t believe it unless I have proof.”
As Charlotte passed me her phone, and Charlotte and Noah positioned themselves side by side—“I’d put my arm around you if not for the pandemic,” he said, while maintaining a few feet of space between them—I thought once again of another TNO writer telling me years before that nonfamous people wanted their interactions with famous people to end as quickly as possible so they could go tell their other nonfamous friends about them. And indeed, Charlotte was within ten minutes walking back toward her own house.
I whispered to Noah, “Fifty bucks she puts that picture on Facebook later tonight.”
He whispered back, “What will be will be.”
Charlotte disappeared from view, and I said, “Seriously, you’re very good at that.”
“I’ve had practice,” he replied.
* * *
—
I sat at my wicker desk to write the email to Nigel. Two days before, I had spoken at length to my agent, and my agent had then relayed the particulars of our conversation to the relevant people at TNO, which meant that reaching out to Nigel was an act of decorum on my part rather than a disclosure of information. If I’d had more faith in my ability to express myself in speech, I’d have called him, but of course the thing that had propelled me to TNO in the first place was my faith in my ability to write.
Dear Nigel, I typed on my laptop,
I will never be able to adequately thank you for giving me the opportunity to be a writer at TNO. When I think of the best, happiest, and funniest moments of my life, an extremely high proportion of them took place inside the TNO studio or up on the seventeenth floor. I’ve heard you say more than once that TNO isn’t a place for lone wolves or perfectionists, but it was an ideal place for me because it helped me be much less of a lone wolf and much less of a perfectionist. You have created a singular comedic community, and I’ll forever be amazed that I was part of it.
All my best,
Sally
Nigel’s reply arrived ten minutes later.
Sally, apparently “lone wolf” is something of a misnomer. A wolf who strikes out on her own tends to do so only temporarily, when moving on to the next stage, before finding a new pack. As for perfectionism, those of us who have spent time inside the TNO studio know that something so evanescent and silly comes about only through prodigiously hard work. Don’t hesitate to be in touch. N
* * *
—
We ended up staying in Kansas City for sixteen days. Jerry’s fever had broken after five, and, very slowly, he continued to regain energy. By the time we decided it was okay to leave, he wasn’t the same as before, but he was far better than he’d been when Noah and I had shown up. His sister Donna promised me that she’d check on him every day.
For a farewell dinner, we grilled shrimp out on the deck the night before our departure. The Larsens were also on their deck, and Chloe, who was the nine-year-old, asked, “Do you think Sugar knows she’s a dog?” Before I could respond, Stella, who was the eleven-year-old, eyed the Greek salad Noah had made and said, “I don’t like cucumber because the best part of a cucumber tastes like the worst part of a watermelon.”
Noah and I looked at each other, and I said, “I can’t disagree.”
To surprise Jerry, I’d baked pupcakes for dessert—I’d found a recipe that was indeed edible for both humans and dogs, with flour and peanut butter as the main ingredients—but after we finished dinner, Noah said, “Before you bring out the you-know-whats, there’s something I want to do. I’ll be right back.”
When he reemerged from the house, he was carrying a guitar—not the Target one he’d made do with for a few days but one of his fancier models that Leah had sent from California, along with some clothes, after it had become clear we’d be staying awhile—and I heard Charlotte Larsen gasp. Around his neck, Noah wore a metal contraption that at first glance looked like an intense form of orthodontia but in fact was a harmonica in a holder. He walked to the eastern side of the deck and stood with the railing behind him. Noah glanced at Jerry and me, then at the Larsens, then back at me, and said, “I want to dedicate a song to you, Sally.”
Addressing the five other people and one dog, he said, “Sally and I met a couple years ago, but it’s only recently that we’ve reconnected. I feel very grateful. And since the way I express my feelings is through music, I want to sing a little something tonight. Thank you all for humoring me.” Looking at me, he said, “So, Sally Milz, this goes out to you.”
Next to Jerry, sitting at the table where we’d just eaten, I experienced a sort of internal lurching. Had Noah written a song for me? Was he calling my bluff after I’d said that maybe I’d like such a thing? Could I handle this in front of Jerry and the Larsens? In a different way, could Charlotte Larsen handle this?
Then Noah glanced down and began strumming. I knew right away, just from the first few chords, even before he looked at me and sang, “I heard that you were drunk and mean / Down at the Dairy Queen…”
I didn’t need to fake-smile; I didn’t need to make an effort to express my delight or conceal my distress. It was better than if he’d written a song for me, though perhaps, as I realized he hadn’t, I did sort of hope he would in the future? It also was better than if he’d sung some happily-ever-after ballad. There was nothing about Noah Brewster standing on Jerry’s deck singing “Dairy Queen” that I didn’t love.