* * *
—
I got into bed a few minutes after he did that night, wearing a T-shirt and underwear, and immediately, before I’d turned out the light, he pulled me toward him, toward his warm, muscled, bread-and-forest-smelling chest—he was wearing only boxer briefs—and it was a joy to be close to him again, so much of our skin touching. When he was on top of me, I set my hands on either side of his head, my palms against the stubble, and said, “I’ve been meaning to say this since I first got to your house, but you’re actually even better looking with your head shaved.”
He smiled a little. “Actually?” he said. “Am I?”
“It’s true, though. Your hair before—it was okay, but there was something very teenage heartthrob about it. Now you look like an adult man. In the same way that I think meeting in our late thirties made us more interesting to each other, I think you’re even more attractive now than you were twenty years ago.”
He averted his eyes for a few seconds then looked back at me. “I have a confession,” he said. “I sometimes wore hair pieces before. When I was hosting TNO, that wasn’t all my real hair.”
“Well, TNO is the world headquarters of wig wearing, so welcome to the club.” I felt conscious of not wanting to embarrass him but also not wanting to feign astonishment—not wanting to lie to him, even about something small.
“I wouldn’t say I wore a full-on wig. I just had some help.” He seemed uncharacteristically abashed. “Do you think that’s cringey?”
I shook my head. “I’m very familiar with people in the public eye doing stuff like this. And I don’t just mean on camera. But the exact way you are right now, in this moment—you couldn’t look any better.” I paused. “Given how much has been written and said about how good you look for the last two decades, do you like being told that or does it seem boring?”
With his face a few inches from mine, he smiled. “Do I like when the woman I love tells me that I look good? Yes, Sally. I like when you tell me that.”
* * *
—
Jerry’s progress could be measured by the distance he ventured from his bed: first to use the toilet in his bathroom; two days later, downstairs to the kitchen in his seersucker bathrobe; the day after that, onto the deck. He announced he wanted a hot dog for lunch one day, and while the two of us waited in the kitchen for it to boil, he said, “I hope the male nurse isn’t too expensive.”
I squinted. “Do you mean Noah?”
“Who’s Noah?” Jerry asked.
“My friend. Or, uh, my boyfriend? The guy staying in our house.”
Jerry looked equanimous, and not all that interested, as he said, “I thought his name was David.”
* * *
—
In the selfie Viv sent Henrietta and me from the hospital, she was wearing a blue mask and a green hospital gown, her eyes were wide open, and she was making a peace sign.
Contractions 3 min apart cervix dilated to 5 cm, she wrote.
Then: Gloria the doula is my new BFF
Then: Epidural heavenly
OMG!! I texted. How are you feeling?
Then Henrietta’s reply came through and it was a picture of Lisa, who’d planned a home birth, reclining bare-breasted against the interior wall of an inflatable pool, looking blissed out, holding an actual baby—a tiny, huge-cheeked, closed-eyed, naked little creature.
From Henrietta: Amazing and also…meet Olivia Rose
From Viv: WTF?!!!
Viv: Meaning congratulations you overachievers
Viv: But when did Lisa squeeze that out?!?
Henrietta: 8 lbs 1 oz, born 7:46 A.M. this morning
Henrietta: Mom, Mommy, and Olivia all on cloud nine
Henrietta: You’ll do great Viv
Me: H so happy for you and Lisa!!
Me: Vivvy hope you can feel all the love coming toward you
Me: I know Theo and Gloria will take such good care of you
Then Henrietta texted just me: Don’t want to say this to Viv but Lisa’s labor so messy it was like a food fight
Then Viv texted just me: Don’t tell Henrietta I said this but is there ANYTHING fouler than giving birth in a tub
Viv’s first text had arrived a little after 9 A.M. central time. Six hours later, two texts arrived from Theo: first a photo of a baby gazing outward with big brown eyes, wearing a white hat, and wrapped in a striped blanket. And second a message: Caleb Elijah Elman, 7 pounds, 4 ounces. Caleb & Viv both fantastic!
* * *
—
I’d invited Charlotte Larsen onto our deck to meet Noah, and she came over after dinner, radiating jubilation and panic, clearly dressed up in a sleeveless flowered blouse, white jeans, and platform mules. When she’d climbed the steps from the yard onto the deck, I said, “Charlotte, this is Noah, and Noah, this is Charlotte,” and she said, “Oh my God, I love you so much, Noah.” Then she burst into tears.
As she wiped her eyes, she said, “I’m so sorry, but ‘Making Love in July’—and also ‘Arlington Dawn’—and ‘Sober & Thirsty’—sorry, I can’t even talk, but our first dance at our wedding was to ‘Making Love in July.’ My sister and I know all the words to the entire album.”
When Noah spoke, it was with a contained, professional kind of friendliness I hadn’t seen even during the week he’d hosted, a guarded warmth. “Thank you,” he said lightly. “I really appreciate that.”
“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.