Tom Lake(20)

“It is a story about Duke,” I say, taking in a deep breath of northern Michigan in the summer, the smell of the trees, of these three girls. Nothing will ever be like it.

“It’s about Duke and it’s not,” Nell says.

“That’s right,” I say, nodding. “Yes and no.”



I went to New York expecting to win. There was no George at the audition. An assigned reader sat to the left of the director’s table and read George’s lines, Mrs. Webb’s lines, the Stage Manager’s lines. When they called me back the second day, a few other actors were loitering nervously, though not Spalding Gray. We read scenes together, testing our chemistry. I had never felt so comfortable, so certain that I was an actress. The next time I saw Ripley I would thank him for talking me out of acting classes. I wore barrettes to keep the hair out of my face so the casting director could see my lovely little ears. I wore my UNH sweatshirt. When I went to leave the second day, the five men in the audition studio all stood to shake my hand. The last one double--checked to make sure he had the name of the hotel where I was staying. I went back to that hotel room to wait by the phone, and two hours later it rang. A man was asking if I could meet him at the Algonquin the following afternoon so that we could discuss the play.

I said sure. I asked when.

“What you need to remember is that everything’s a fix,” he told me at our little table in the corner of the very dark bar. His name was Charlie. Gray suit, a white shirt, no tie. I remembered the suit from the audition. He had a good tailor—-a scant quarter--inch of shirt cuff showed beneath his jacket sleeve. “They say they want someone new but you’re too new. If the movie was out, you’d be a shoo--in. Ripley says you’re terrific in it, by the way. We certainly thought you were terrific in the audition.”

I’d been formulating a brief acceptance speech in my head in which I expressed my excitement and gratitude, but Charlie seemed to be telling me I wasn’t going to need it. Is that what he was telling me? I refused to believe his message was clear. Then the waitress arrived at our table and I stumbled over my choice of beverage: a Coke would make me look young, but a Jack and Coke would make me look even younger, a kir might make me look like an actress but maybe one who was trying too hard not to care. In my sudden panic I defaulted to Perrier with crushed ice and lime, which made me look like a Californian, which was the last thing I wanted to look like. “The movie will be out by the time the play opens,” I said, my voice small.

Charlie shrugged, by which he meant what did I know about release dates? He was right, of course. That’s when it occurred to me that I was supposed to sleep with him. He’d brought me to a dark hotel bar to talk about getting the lead in a Broadway play, which, sorry as he was, he wasn’t going to be able to give me. Or maybe he could. I imagined the key was already in his pocket. I went through my options quickly, a feeling not dissimilar to my drink order: I could be indignant or offended, or I could just follow him to the elevator. Didn’t everybody have to sleep with somebody eventually in this business? Would I sleep with him if it meant I’d get to play Emily on Broadway opposite Spalding Gray?

Yes. Yes I would.

“Listen, you’re great,” he said, resting his hands on the white tablecloth just in front of our flickering candle. They were nice enough hands—-no wedding ring—-at least I would be spared that additional guilt. “But there’s too much money involved. You’ve got to be able to sell tickets.”

“Spalding Gray sells tickets.”

“Well, you’ve got to be able to help out Mr. Gray.”

I put my hands on the table as well. I kept them on my side of the candle but I thought they made my intention perfectly clear without looking like I was hosting a seance. He was twice my age, give or take. I looked at him the way Jimmy--George used to look at me. The way he used to look at Veronica. “Tell me what I need to do.”

Then Charlie laughed, not a nervous laugh but a great, unexpected guffaw. Into that moment the timely waitress returned with his Diet Coke and my Perrier. He wiped his eyes with his thumb, then took a sip of his drink to calm himself. “I’ve known your uncle since before you were born,” he said. “Did you know that? Ripley and I used to play racquetball together at the Y out in Hollywood Hills. Fierce backhand, that guy. Nearly broke my goddamn nose once.”

“It was always his game.” As nice as it was of Ripley to safeguard my honor in absentia, it would have been even nicer had he remembered to tell me.

“I’ll get to the point.” Charlie tapped the table lightly and then took his hands away. “I’ve done some work with Tom Lake over the years. The artistic director is an old friend.”

“You have a lot of friends,” I said stupidly because, god, I was so stupid.

“You know Tom Lake?”

I nodded. I did not know.

“They’re doing Our Town this summer.”

“Seems like everyone is.”

“They just lost their Emily. She did the first table read then got a call from her agent telling her to pack up. It’s a big film, and the studio is covering her cancellation clause. My friend asked me to keep an eye out since he knew we’re auditioning. They’re going to need someone who can step right in.”

“That would be me.” Why was I only now remembering that Perrier tasted like salt?