Not A Dry Eye In The House
Posted: 2003-01-27 11:33pm
This is a piece I've been trying to sell for nearly two years no, but without luck. It's got a couple strikes against it. One is that it's long (about 11,000 words). The other is that it's not really sci-fi enough (but it is science fiction; trust me). Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.
NOT A DRY EYE IN THE HOUSE
by Charles Sonnenburg
Part I
2003
“Excuse me, are you Cynthia Winters?”
Cynthia’s green eyes flicked up towards the tall, thin man standing across the table from her. It was a bit hard to make out through the loud music, but she thought she could hear a small amount of excitement in his voice. Her friend, Julie, must have noticed it too, but surprisingly kept her mouth shut. “Yes, I am,” she said finally.
His nervous expression changed into an equally nervous smile at the answer. “I-” he began after a couple of seconds, only to flounder. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.”
Cynthia looked him over a little more carefully as he stumbled, growing curious. He was dressed quite fashionably without being overly flashy, and his appearance was rather neat. Quite honestly, he didn’t blend in with this place at all. Of course, she and Julie didn’t really belong here either, but any place with alcohol and large bouncers was home at the moment, even if it did seem a bit more for the technobeat-loving college crowd. “Do I know you?” she asked finally.
He laughed uncomfortably. “No. My name’s Larry, Larry Wolf. I just wanted to say that I think you’re great. I mean, I thought you did a great job tonight.”
This started making a little more sense, but not much. Cynthia and Julie were both starring in an off Broadway production of The Planter’s Wife, not an especially well known play, that was touring through some of the major cities. Tonight was their first Chicago performance and the pair were just starting to make the adjustment. There were still months to go and Julie in particular was growing kind of weary of her part, the eldest daughter. You would think that Cynthia, as the titular character, would have had more lines, but she wasn’t going to let herself get caught up in trivial things like that. Still, how had he noticed her, given the more visible characters in the show? “Thank you,” she said. “I have to admit you’ve got quite an eye to have recognized me.”
“Oh, I could never forget,” he said, his anxiousness temporarily forgotten. “You really caught my eye. Every scene where you came out, I was just blown away by the air you seemed to have about you. You didn’t have many lines, but you just seemed to use that to enhance your character. Your silence said so much…” He trailed off. “I’m sorry. You’re probably here to relax. I just wanted to know if it was really you. I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, it’s all right,” Julie said before Cynthia could say anything more. “Are you with someone?”
“No,” Larry answered, obviously taken by surprise.
“Why don’t you take a seat,” Julie said. “Maybe help us out a little. This is our first time to Chicago, so perhaps you can fill us in.”
Larry sat down with a visible look of apprehension. “Actually, I’m not from Chicago. I’m just wrapping up some business here before I go home to Philadelphia. I thought maybe I’d soak up some local color while I was still here, before I fly back on the company dime.” They tried discussing Larry’s work in insurance a little, but he quickly admitted that it wasn’t very interesting. He seemed far more interested in their experience in the theater.
There wasn’t a whole lot for Cynthia to tell. The Planter’s Wife was her first major performance since graduating from NYU, and she simply didn’t have many great stories to tell of her college and community theater days. Well, none she felt like sharing. She and Julie were the new kids on the block among the cast, and she could feel a bit of resentment from a couple of the older women. They seemed to enjoy riding her every mistake or finding things about her performance to criticize, and it was hard to argue with them, cantankerous fossils that they were. She had been really pepped up by a nice review of their show in St. Louis, but typically they had been dismissive. It really was starting to bother her.
Despite this she spoke with Larry for some time. He amazed her with his perceptions, picking out the nuances of the character that she’d added and recognizing how they had contributed to the overall part, and the story as a whole. He seemed genuinely interested in her and her performance, and that really helped boost her self-confidence. If she was capable of creating that kind of thought and emotion in a person, well, maybe she was really cut out for this after all.
It must have been a couple of hours spent in conversation before the place had closed and they'd finally called it a night. Larry was excited when he heard they were going to be in Philadelphia in six weeks and swore he’d find tickets somehow. He went back to his hotel as Julie and Cynthia went to theirs. Julie, of course, couldn’t shut up about it.
“You’ve already got a fan,” she teased as they hailed a cab. “Gonna be on the cover of Rolling Stone before you know it.”
“Just shut up and get in,” Cynthia said with a smile and a small shove. The two climbed into the back of the cab. Cynthia watched the passing streetlights as Julie went on.
“He noticed you,” she said. “That means something. You got his attention.”
“I know what got his attention,” Cynthia said. “They got attention in St. Louis and Houston too. That’s nothing special.”
“Even if they did,” Julie replied, “what he noticed was your acting. That’s what he talked about. Hell, you couldn’t shut him up about it.”
“Well what’s he gonna do, spend the whole time talking about my boobs?”
“Oo, I’m sorry." Julie said, the sarcasm building in her voice. "I forgot the terrible stigma American culture has against women with big chests. Doors are closed in your face when they see you jiggling their way.”
“That’s the problem,” Cynthia said with irritation. “I don’t want special opportunities just because I give the director wet dreams. I want to make it as an actress because I’m good at it, not because I bounced my way into a role.”
“Well what do you think is going to help get you recognized as a great actress?” Julie asked. “You want big parts you need to be visible. You think anyone’s going to be flooding my voice mail over my part? You got a major part in this performance and it’ll look great on your résumé, and it’s giving you valuable experience. It doesn’t matter if you’re a great actress if no one gives you the chance to act!”
“That’s not an excuse,” Cynthia remarked.
“Come on. This business isn’t about talent. Look at some of the crap we see on TV and the movies; that’s not acting. And yet they’re there and we’re here. You get the big parts because of reputation, or you get lucky. The producer gets a blow job from his secretary during lunch and he feels like taking a chance on you after all, or you happen to do a great performance while some important director has just done a line of coke and thinks you’re the world. Acting is more than just the craft, and any edge you can get matters. If it’s luck or looks, you’ve gotta take what you can get.”
They didn’t say much else, either in the cab or back in the hotel room they shared. Julie went straight to bed, but Cynthia was a firm believer in proper grooming, even at two in the morning. A shower and scrub, a little maintenance here and there. By the time she settled down to brush all the tangles out of her hair she felt just how late it was, and knew how much she’d regret it in a few hours.
Cynthia ran the brush through her long auburn hair, gazing with exhaustion at her reflection as she repeated each stroke. She’d had one drink too many, and she regretted sounding like a self-pitying witch. “Oo, the world is so unfair that I’m so pretty,” she thought with a little disgust at herself.
She’d always been a pretty girl, popular in school and getting the boys attention. It had been fun in its own juvenile way. But now as an adult she faced casting directors offering to give her big parts in exchange for “favors,” as they liked to put it. Helping you move is a favor, she thought, having sex with you is a little bit more than that. It was about the third time it’d happened that she started actually resenting her looks, wishing people would just let her try it on her own merits! She wasn’t so stupid that she didn’t realize her looks weren’t an asset, but after so many lost opportunities because of them, and because she refused to prostitute herself, it was hard to keep the proper perspective.
In the end, Julie was right. There were thousands, if not millions, of women her age who were all trying to make it as actresses, and most didn't play by the rules. Anything to get ahead, any edge, would be exploited. If that meant sleeping with a few directors to land big parts, well, many wouldn't bat an eye. Cynthia couldn't imagine reducing herself to that, and wondered how anyone could. Maybe they got a kick out of it, or perhaps they just saw it as a means towards an end. Or possibly they were so desperate that anything, even their dignity, could be sacrificed. At the time, all she’d felt was disgust. But maybe the difference was her goals. For them it wasn't about acting, and maybe that was what bothered her. She certainly wouldn't mind being the next Kim Basinger, but that wasn't what it was about. Acting wasn't a means towards an end; it wasn't about becoming a superstar. And that was probably the difference between her and the rest of those girls; she wouldn't sacrifice the craft for glitz and money like they would. Maybe that was what bothered her, the idea that she was exploiting her body like the tramps who would spread to get a shot at the big time.
But no, that wasn't it. What it really was, was a fear that she was those girls. Oh sure, she'd never sleep with anyone to land a part or open doors, but was she getting by on pouty looks and a shapely figure? Was she just as bad an actress as those plastic women giving equally artificial performances on television that she and her classmates made fun of? As much as people might say she was good, she wondered if a chunkier, less appealing Cynthia Winters would be given the same praise. She had to wonder about what Julie said; were her looks an edge, or a crutch.
#
The applause grew louder as Cynthia and the leading man came out and took each others’ hands, stepping forward and bowing together with the rest of the cast. Her smile was genuine; the crowd was really enjoying the show and that made it worthwhile. All the frustrations and tears were forgotten when you saw how much joy you could bring someone when you did your job just right.
Despite the glare of the stagelights she saw an enthusiastic clapper in the front row. Larry Wolf, who was as good as his word. She remembered the flowers he'd had sent to her dressing room, the card telling her to “Break a leg.” It was very cornball, but it was also kind of sweet. She'd touched him too, and knowing that really made acting a joy.
She’d been thinking quite a bit about doing something that normally would never cross her mind: going with a local after a performance. Not like a date or anything, but just to talk. She remembered how engaging he’d been in their discussion back in Chicago, and he’d been such a gentleman. Besides, Julie was sick and had already told her that she was going straight back to their hotel to get some sleep. “You could do far worse than Larry Wolf for company,” Julie had said to her. And of course, she was right.
“You've changed,” Larry said over drinks later.
Cynthia laughed a little. “That's a bit presumptive. It's been nearly two months, and you hardly know me.”
“I mean your character,” Larry said. “You made some changes. They're good,” he added quickly. “Your mannerisms accentuate your status in the plantation, as well as implying that you know a great deal more of what's going on behind your back.”
Cynthia was a little taken aback. That was exactly what she'd done. She wanted to give her more depth and to maybe poke a little fun at some of the stereotypes that were being played off of in the script. Nothing outstanding, but just a little something to improve her performance. “I can't believe you picked up on something that subtle. You're not a critic, are you?”
Larry laughed in response. “Certainly not. I just pay attention. For seventy-five dollars, I don't want to miss a thing.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the theater,” she said as she took a sip of her drink. “Do you have any history with it?”
“No,” Larry said. “No, I'm cursed to be a lover of art who can't seem to create. So I enjoy the creations of others instead.”
“Well even if you can't do, you can certainly spot what's right or wrong. Have you considered becoming a critic?”
Larry grinned. “An actress telling me to consider becoming a critic? Isn't that like asking a shark if he's feeling a bit peckish?”
Cynthia couldn't help but smile. She had to admit that there was something interesting about him. He seemed to almost be peering through a window into her mind sometimes. “We need critics,” she remarked, “They keep us honest. There is a definite demand for the unimaginative asses.”
“You see,” Larry remarked humorously. The glass had been sitting in front of him for a while, but all he seemed to do was fidget with it. “I couldn't be a critic anyway. I don't like to focus on the negative, which is part of the job description.”
“But we need to know what's bad if we're to fix it,” Cynthia pointed out.
“Then that's what you have critics for,” Larry said coyly. “I just want to enjoy the beauty.”
After a little while Cynthia tried to steer the conversation towards Larry, but he seemed rather insistent that his work was dull. “Everyone’s polite and say they want to know, but the truth is that they don’t. It’s boring stuff. Well-paying boring stuff, but boring nonetheless.”
Cynthia tried to refrain from smiling. She hated to say it, but there was something so adorable about him. The way his sandy brown hair seemed to rebel against any attempts to stay in place. He had pushed the same strand out of his face four times during their conversation, just like a little boy on the playground. There was a well-hidden insecurity there too, one he seemed to cover up by fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. He was charming in a geeky sort of way. “Well if you don’t like it why do you do it?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he replied, “just that it’s not very interesting. It’s like being good at stamp collecting; just because you’re good at it doesn’t make it any less dull to other people. I mean, isn’t this the stuff you always hate? Being trapped at a party with the guy who won’t shut up about how he found the misfiled PS108 forms and prevented the internal audit from stripping their budget of such-and-such amount of money?”
Cynthia put her hand over her mouth but she knew he saw her snickering. “So what do you do when you’re not being boring?” she asked with a smirk
“Other boring things,” he replied with a smile of his own. “Go to the theater of course. The museum, art shows. I deal with a very cold and finely calculated world, so I like to see color and creativity whenever I can.”
“I noticed both times you were alone during the play. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No.” He stirred his drink again, still barely touching it. “I used to take my mother with me sometimes, but she passed on.”
“Oh I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. It was just me and her for a long time. She was a cocktail waitress right here in Philly. I don’t know how she managed to raise a child with that, but I tried to make it up for her in her later years. She gave me a love for art.”
Cynthia took a deep breath. She worried about whether or not she should take this next step, if she wasn’t about to do something she’d regret. Isn’t that how you felt about coming here? she reminded herself. “I have to be at the theater by five thirty tomorrow. Do you think you can give me a tour of Philadelphia’s most boring sites before then?”
Larry suddenly grew a little agitated, as if she’d just asked him if he could fix her car and he didn’t want to look incompetent. “I could,” he said finally, “but I don’t know how much you’d enjoy it. There’s so much to see... I’d hate for you to miss out.”
“Whatever you can manage,” she said, trying to sound interested without putting any pressure on him.
“When are you leaving for the next city?”
“Um, Tuesday. We’re heading up to Boston in the afternoon.”
“I know Monday isn’t the most exciting of days, but how about it? I guarantee you won’t miss a thing and will be bored silly.”
“That,” said Cynthia with an inward sigh of relief, “sounds perfect.”
#
There was the familiar sound of the train pulling into the station, and Cynthia checked her watch. Almost a half hour early, she noticed as she joined the small mob of people, who were probably just as interested in starting the weekend as she was. Despite the stereotypes surrounding women and travel Cynthia only had one suitcase with her. Okay, she admitted to herself, it was a large suitcase, but it wasn’t as if you could hide a body in it. She wheeled it away and pulled out her cell phone. She still had Larry’s number on the business card he’d given her back when she’d left Philadelphia, tucked safely away in her wallet, but she didn’t need it. He was number 3 on her speed dial and yeah, that probably meant they were more than just friends at this point. She didn’t dwell on it too much. She spent time with Larry because she enjoyed his company, and that was enough of a reason to see him. Okay, so she saw him rather frequently. He was different; he knew how to have fun that didn’t require drugs or getting groped.
All things considered, she could do far worse than Larry Wolf.
He was already on his way, so she hung up the phone and waited, not bored for an instant. She watched the people who walked past, and she tried to imagine what they were like from their mannerisms. Ruby Druvall, her favorite instructor, had impressed upon her that as an actress you reflect human beings on stage, and to do that you need to try and understand people. An airport, a waiting room, a restaurant, they were all like this railroad station, bustling with people going about their daily lives. Before she knew it Larry was there, ready to lug her suitcase to the car.
“How do you feel?” Larry asked as they left the parking lot. “Do you want to go to your hotel first and freshen up a bit?”
“I’m fine,” Cynthia said. “We don’t need to check in right away. What did you have in mind for the evening?”
“A rare event,” Larry said, his smile widening, “cooking. I haven’t had the chance to cook for anyone in a while and it’s the one creative thing I’m actually good at.”
“Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of art,” Cynthia replied. “What’s on the menu?”
“Tut tut,” Larry said with mock disapproval. “You don’t skip to the end of your scripts to figure out who the murderer is, do you?”
“No, but I rarely plan to eat the murderer,” Cynthia teased.
“Just trust me,” Larry said. And it was a well placed trust. The meal was excellent, although Cynthia had felt a slight gag reflex when she heard what it was. Octopus wasn’t usually on her menu, yet she couldn’t argue with the results. And of course, Larry was an excellent conversationalist. They could be having take-out burgers with fries and the meal would have still been interesting with him. After dinner, and once the summer sun had descended they enjoyed a drink, Cynthia talking about her new project; a musical.
“Do you have much singing experience?” Larry asked.
“I’ve done musicals before,” she said, “but nothing else.”
“I don’t want to sound like a mother hen, but are you sure your voice can handle it?”
“I’m sure,” she replied confidently.
“Because I’ve been to musicals before where I can tell the performers have overdone it. They’re on their tenth week of doing the shows and the songs lack the crispness. The piece suffers because of the wear and tear.”
“Maybe,” Cynthia said. “But I’ve already got the part, and if I back out now it could look bad for future parts. If I have to I’ll take it easier on my voice.”
“I’m just mentioning it,” Larry said, sounding a bit defensive. “I know you’re a perfectionist.”
“I am, and thank you.” She finished the contents of her glass. “So when do you start your theater review column.”
“As soon as Satan buys a snowplow,” Larry said coyly. There was quiet laughter over the little joke. It was something she teased him about from time to time, but now she was a little more serious.
“I still think you would make a wonderful critic,” Cynthia said. “You have an insight that many could learn from. You have a gift.”
She'd meant it as a compliment, but she could see that he was starting to feel uncomfortable. The silence seemed to last for days. Finally he stood up, and she was afraid that she'd blown it. “I'd like to show you something,” he said as he held out his hand. She took it and he led her through the apartment. He opened the bedroom door and went inside. She felt a slight apprehension at first, afraid that he might be implying something, but he didn't even slow in his gait, taking her across the room to the wall where a painting hung. “I bought this a couple of years back,” he said as he stepped back a little, allowing her a full view of the picture. It showed a young woman wearing a sundress leaning against a tree, gazing towards a sea covered in small boats, the sun low on the horizon.
“It's beautiful,” she said after a moment.
“Yes,” he said, coming up and looking at the picture over her shoulder. “That was the first thing I thought when I saw it. Such a beautiful painting. I remember it was on display at a show in Boston, and for some reason I kept coming back to this one. I bought it; not really sure why at first, but I kept it in my office for a while. Whenever I just needed a break I would get up and look at this picture.”
Cynthia never took her eyes off the painting, but she felt him come a bit closer, and his voice started to become quiet. She felt the warmth of his breath on her shoulder as he spoke, and it gave her goosebumps.
“If you look carefully, you'll see what looks like a letter or envelope in her hand, clutched tightly in that fist. And that expression as she looks across the water... there's sadness there. Maybe she lost someone to the sea, or maybe she came there to see him off, or she just learned that her distant lover is missing. But you can see in her expression, there's pain there. Still, there seems to be a little more. I can't show you where or explain how, but there's something there that implies hope. Whatever the problem she now faces, no matter how deep her sorrow, she still is holding on to something. Whatever has happened, she won't give up, she won't forget.”
Cynthia found she was holding her breath as she just stared into the woman's face. She could see it too, right there. Not defiance, but confidence; a hope that the future would be brighter.
“I'm not an art critic,” Larry continued softly. “But I saw this painting, and I saw that it was beautiful. And because of that beauty I eventually examined every detail, took in every brush stroke. And as I looked at it I came to realize that there was more than just beauty.” He took a deep breathe, and the warmth made her shiver. “I realized I loved it.” He was quiet for a while. “It's an odd feeling when you discover what it is you love. So much joy and so much fear. Poets try to put it into words, but you can't. You just know. There is no feeling like it.”
Cynthia felt her stomach tightening at the words, but she still kept her eyes fixed on the painting. She felt her chest rise and fall in anxiousness. When he spoke she felt her pulse quicken just a little. “I'm not a critic,” he said, his voice was barely audible, “I just pay close attention to the things I love.”
She tore her eyes away from the painting and turned around looking into his own. She saw a little bit of his own fear there, and she melted at it. You just know, she agreed, and then she was tasting him. She couldn’t even remember who kissed whom, it didn’t matter. Oddly enough, the bed that she had first looked at apprehensively was now the only place in the world she wanted to be.
#
Cynthia’s eyes stirred open as she felt Larry moving about. Several things fell off the nightstand, accompanied by a few of the saucier words in Larry’s vocabulary. There were a few beeps and then she heard him speaking. “I’m not coming in today,” he said simply, not even bothering to greet whoever was on the other end of the phone. “Re-schedule it, I don’t care. I’m on vacation today.” He disconnected and dropped the phone on the floor. Cynthia slid closer and wrapped her arm around him. He rolled over and the two looked into each other’s eyes for some time.
She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she saw was Larry pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he read through Tuesday’s paper. She pulled over another pillow and propped it under her head, smiling at him. “You seem to have missed your appointment, Mr. Wolf.”
He pulled on a T-shirt. “You seem to have missed your train, Ms. Winters.”
“There’ll be another one.” She’d meant it to be suggestive, but instead it was like a cold shower to her. No, she didn’t have to go back now or even today, but eventually she needed to get back to New York to get started on the musical. Suddenly the long distance relationship they’d had for so many months didn’t seem like it was going to cut it.
As always, Larry seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. He started speaking in a really bad Bogart imitation. “I know the love of two people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, but that’s why you’re getting on that train. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow...”
She laughed, trying to let his silliness distract her from the problem. It helped a little, but she just couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter. “I won’t be back for a while,” she said. “I’m going to be putting in a lot of extra nights and weekends to learn those songs.”
He wasn’t looking at her. She could tell he didn’t want her to see how much he didn’t want her to leave either. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t say it; he wouldn’t want to do anything that might make her leave acting. “Put that time to good use,” he said finally. He was more chipper as he went over to the closet. “How about a little snapshot to remember you by? Something to keep on the nightstand during these long weeks?”
“Sure. Where do you want to take it at?”
He pulled out one of those instant cameras. “How about where you are right now?”
Cynthia ran her tongue across her upper lip. “Are you making an indecent proposition, Mr. Cameraman?” she asked in her most sultry voice.
He snapped the camera open. “Show me something sexy,” he said in the same tone back. Cynthia pushed the blanket aside and kneeled on the bed. She crossed her arms like she was giving herself a hug, using the limbs to lift her breasts. She licked her pouty lips and acted like she was blowing a kiss. The flash snapped and he pulled out the picture. “Not bad,” he said, but there was no mistaking the look in his eye. He put the camera and the picture down and pulled the T-shirt back off again.
#
The importance of proper timing is drilled into young performers as a reminder of just how essential the right word or gesture at the right moment can be. Speed, pauses, everything needed to be considered in relation to time. It was, however, a clear case of poor timing when Cynthia called during a break to listen to her voice mail.
Larry's voice had an anxious strain to it. "Cynthia... oh God, I didn't want to do it like this. Cynthia, something's happened, I can't say what or it'll put you in danger. I have to go away, and I can't tell you where. Please don't try to contact me, you'll only be putting both of us at risk. I'm sorry I can't take you with me, but I can't take you away from your craft. You have a voice that can't be silenced, and if you came with me you'd have to give up that voice. I'm so sorry Cynthia." And the unsympathetic machine told her there were no more messages.
Later Cynthia tried to call Larry, but both his phones were disconnected. The number for the company where he worked had also been disconnected. Cynthia watched the papers for the next several days, hoping maybe there would be some explanation, but there was nothing. And during that time she cried more than once over what she had lost. They had had five months together, and it was only now that she had realized how much she cared about him. All that time squandered.
She tucked her phone away and went back out, listening distantly as the choreography was discussed for the supporting characters. The piano came in, and Cynthia did what she always did; put aside whatever she felt and let her voice out.
My secret place, all my own where no one sees me
My secret place, where I can be just what I am
When I'm in the daylight, away from all the prying eyes
I can feel, I feel the joy of being alone.
Part II
2013
The upscale real estate of Lakefront Drive is home to some of the most successful performers of the current day, including Oscar-nominated actress Cynthia Winters. Any night of the week the area might be home to a party of some kind, whether it was a ritzy, catered affair with champagne and hors d'oeuvre or an excuse to revel in booze and drugs and hopefully get laid several times. As a very body-conscious individual Cynthia tended to stay away from the latter, much to the disappointment of some of her neighbors who wouldn’t mind being around her with her inhibitions gone. So while there was a party going on several houses down, she was busy looking over the script her agent had sent over. She quickly realized she’d made a poor choice.
Cynthia had to sit down as she continued reading through the dreck in the screenplay. She knew it was a franchise so naturally it wasn’t going to be that great, but she was starting to suspect they were hiring eight year-olds to write the scripts. She slid off the arm of the couch and lay with her legs dangling over it, then smacked herself in the face as punishment for even considering this job. “’You did it?’” she read aloud. “’You were the one who sold secrets to Slinky Keester?’” Oh God, this really, really sucks. Yes, there was no question that Genepol had put her in the spotlight, and Doug Bryars was a great director to work with, but how popular would a third sequel be, especially one with this campy script?
She dropped the script on her chest and fumbled about for the remote, turning the TV on just for the distraction. It’s sad when late night television is more intellectually stimulating than what you’re doing at the moment. She rubbed her eyes in exhaustion as the talk show host continued his monologue.
“And in other news, flooding continues out of control in North Dakota, which may begin washing away their impressive roads and bridges. Local authorities estimate the cost of replacing all this could reach several hundred dollars.” He nodded with a sad expression as the audience laughed. “President Hart said today that she considered the floods a national emergency, and is considering sending in the Army Corps of Engineers to deal with the problem. Boy you know, Hussein causes trouble, she sends in the army. Flooding in North Dakota, she sends in the army. Am I the only one worried about her education plan?” He held up his hands as if he had a machine gun. “All right! Diagram that sentence! Now dogface, now!”
Cynthia laughed despite herself. She had been a strong campaigner for Mona Hart during the ’12 election, and even after just a few months in office she was getting lambasted for all the problems in the world. Like she were somehow responsible for some Third World dictator trying to follow in his daddy’s footsteps.
“For those of you watching in North Dakota,” the comedian went on, “there’s been some word on what to do if the flooding continues. Apparently there’s a shortage of boats for the moment and not everyone has life jackets. If there’s a problem you can make a flotation device out of plastic jugs, wood, or Cynthia Winters’ breasts.”
“Ah, thank you,” she said back to the TV as she turned it off. She stretched, picked up the script and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. It’s not as if I mind being a national sex symbol, she thought, but it’d be nice to be able to do something worthwhile. For the hundredth time she thought about going back to the theater, but a little voice reminded her that if she left the big screen too soon she’d never have another shot. She’d be one of those “whatever happened too...” people you see living in trailer parks and holding up liquor stores. Do the crappy sequel, she told herself, and they’ll give you creative control on the next project.
She continued reading aloud. “’How could you?!’” She tossed the script down. “God save me from this piece of crap,” she said as she left it in the bathroom.
She grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on, but switched over to her mail account. Her actual e-mail account was a secret; she had a reader forward anything that might be important to her to cut down on the sheer volume of mail. There were five messages.
“Home Electrolysis. Discrete, convenient service that can save you hours-”
“Delete,” Cynthia said before it even finished. She’d had electrolysis years ago and hadn't enjoyed it very much.
“Time Travel Agency, Inc. Enjoy the best hospitality history has to offer!”
“Delete,” Cynthia said. She wasn’t much of a history fan, and she found it difficult spending more on a vacation then a lot of people earned in a year. The producers of Cleopatra had wanted her to use the service to study the character first-hand, but she’d refused, pointing out that however accurate it might be she’d be the only one who knew it.
“Roger Somerset. Contact me right away about Genepol 4. No text.”
Cynthia sighed and pulled on her long fluffy white robe. “Call Roger Somerset,” she said as she took a seat on the couch. A moment later the producer was there, grinning that irritating grin of his.
“Cynthia!” he said with his grating Long Island accent. “How’re things on the left coast?”
“Peachy,” she said, her voice showing she wasn’t interested in the small talk. “What did you need?”
“Did your boy send you the script yet for G-4?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it reads like a movie with a Roman numeral in the title, only worse.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”
“I don’t care how bad it is, the point is that it’s bad! Why should we deliberately make a bad movie?”
“Look, the kids who watch it don’t give a-”
“Yes they do,” Cynthia interrupted. “Genepol is something some of them really care about, and they deserve something better than this.”
“The script has the approval of Dean Hollenz.” Dean was the lead actor in all three previous films.
“Dean doesn’t care as long as he gets to pretend he’s beating people up.”
“Not to mention John, Peter, Bryant-”
“Shh,” Cynthia interrupted. “Hear that?”
Roger’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Cynthia put a hand to her ear. “That’s the sound of me not caring.”
Roger scoffed at her. “You’re a real piece. So you’re saying no?”
“I’m saying no to this piece of trash,” Cynthia said. “Come up with something worthwhile and I’m in, but I’m not going to waste months of my life on something I’d be ashamed to show my friends.”
She rubbed her eyes after the line was disconnected. She should have called him in the morning when she’d be less irritable. She finally blew it off and went back to her mail.
“Brian Jameson. I’ve found your Mr. Wolf.”
Cynthia’s blood ran cold as she read the emotionless text. She’d forgotten all about it. It was... three years ago, right before the Academy Awards. She had wanted to be there with Larry on the off chance that she won Best Supporting Actress, so she hired a private investigator to look into it. He didn’t find him, and she’d forgotten about it, but she had never closed down the investigation. “Display,” she said, her voice a croak.
“Ms. Winters,” said Brian, a dark-haired man with a large build. “I’ve found your man, Larry Wolf. We managed to lift a full thumbprint off the business card you gave us. Now, the system had no record on him, but we run sweeps once a month here and it turns out your boy was picked up for DUI a few weeks ago. He goes by the name of Steve Mueller now, owns several investment firms, has more money than God. According to his ID he’s thirty-eight, which I know doesn’t quite fit with what you told us, but the fact is that this is the man who gave you that business card.”
A picture appeared, and Cynthia got up and approached the screen, scarcely able to believe it. He had a mustache, but other than that he was just like she remembered him. She didn’t even hear Brian continue to speak, she just kept thinking about the past ten years without him, and wishing they hadn’t been that way.
#
There was a definite moment of awkwardness as she looked up into the security camera at Steven Mueller’s front door. The rain was getting much heavier in the background as she waited. “I’ll be right there,” the intercom finally announced.
She had played this scene out in movies before, and had seen them played out by others. She wasn’t sure what she’d feel if it was really him. Joy? Grief? Anger? As the door opened she felt all of them plus a few dozen other emotions. He didn’t have the mustache from the picture, and he looked almost exactly as she remembered him from all those years ago. She wanted to hit him for the agony he put her through, and then she wanted to make up for ten years worth of lost nights. In the end, she could only say his name. “Larry,” her voice barely above a whisper.
“Cynthia,” he said back, and she saw the hint of that smile that she knew so well. Every second more and more details came flooding back to her, and despite herself she felt her eyes go moist as he invited her in out of the rain. He left her in the living room and came back with some coffee to help “get rid of the chill.”
She felt the warmth fill the core of her body and watched him over the rim of the glass. He looked the same, but the years had changed him nonetheless. The house was furnished in a far different style than his old apartment, less colorful and more Spartan. He himself seemed a little different in his mannerisms; just little things like the way he sat, watching her. “Larry-” she began.
“Steve,” he corrected her. “I haven’t used the name Larry for some time.”
“Steve.” She set the cup back down, remembering vividly that day. “Why did you leave?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The company I worked for was laundering money for drug lords. I hadn’t known about it, but I was a material witness. They... they tried to kill me.” His mood seemed to darken as he reflected on it. “These guys were big, and I had to go into hiding if I was going to live ‘til the trial. I only had time to make one phone call to you before they shipped me to the middle of nowhere.” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Telling you over voicemail like that.... it wasn’t what I wanted at all.”
Her heart went out to him. She could see how it was eating him up inside. “I’m glad you’re all right,” she said, hoping it would help a little. She couldn’t say it was okay though. It had hurt, hurt like nothing else, and she couldn’t lie about that.
He shrugged. “And so I became Steven Mueller. Started over. Unable to contact anyone from my former life.” He looked up at her. “But I never stopped watching you. You don’t know how much it hurt to see you up there on that screen and not be able to speak to you or touch you. But I couldn’t stay away from you.” He started wringing his hands, and she began to see the old Larry again. “I’ve been with other women since, I’ll admit it. But there was never anything like we had. You were one of a kind.”
“Excuse me,” Cynthia said as she got up and walked to the bathroom. She didn’t let a single tear out until the door was closed, but then she let them run freely.
“Are you all right?” he asked from the other room.
“Yes,” she lied. “Just toweling off some of the rain. It’s making me shiver.”
There was quiet for a little while. “I saw you at the Academy Awards. You were wonderful.”
She wiped her eyes several times. “Thank you.”
“You were robbed you know. I think Dinah Campbell was screwing someone on the committee.”
Cynthia laughed despite herself. That was her Larry; always getting her to forget about how bad she might feel. “Dinah deserved the Oscar.” She opened the door and stepped out, seeing him pour wine into some glasses.
“You’re far too generous,” he said as he offered one to her.
Cynthia took it, her eyes never leaving him. It was funny but he had that ability to just make her forget the pain. When she looked at him it was as if he’d never left. She took his hand and walked with him back into the living room.
#
Cynthia had spent some time listening to Larry’s quiet breathing as she lay next to him. She felt so good, so complete. It was as if she had known all this time that her someone was coming, and finally he was here. The waiting had paid off, and paid off big.
It reminded her of the painting, and she looked around the room for it. After a little while, when she didn’t see it, she pulled her shirt on and went wandering through the house. She knew how much Larry liked that picture, and he’d have it somewhere where he could look at it if he wanted. Sure enough, in the office, right behind his desk.
For the hundredth time that night it was almost as if the past ten years had never happened. Every detail, every stroke, was just as she had remembered it. That girl, staring across the sea with vigilant hope, certain that this wasn't the end. Let the time pass, let the tides rise and fall; they wouldn't change a thing in her heart. A hundred years couldn't hope to wear down her love. Hold on sister, she thought, never give up.
She was leaning against the back of his chair as she looked at the painting, but slowly she got up and moved closer, her eye suddenly fixed on something that she'd never really focused on before. Corenthy, it was signed in the lower right-hand corner, and she suddenly had a gnawing of nervous confusion. She knew that name. He had exploded on the art scene about two years ago as one of the first of the second renaissance art-style. His stuff was rather different from this, but Cynthia had remembered that his work had substance to it, unlike some of the other artists. Quite a coincidence that Larry--Steve--happened to have an early work of a hot artist. A hot young artist. Before she was even aware of it she had marched out of the room to where her coat had been hung up and pulled out her pocket computer. She hooked up to the Internet and checked out the biography of Rupert Corenthy, and her stomach tightened like a fist. She held up the small screen next to the signature on the painting to compare them, confirming what she'd already known.
There was no way to dismiss it. Even if Steve had bought the painting the day she arrived, Corenthy would've been thirteen years old at the time. He didn't produce his first painting until he was in college. It was impossible for him to have this painting in 2003, and yet he had. A reproduction? No, the detail was too perfect, and Corenthy wouldn't reduce himself to replicating someone else’s work; artists have too much pride in their originality. There was only one possible explanation, and she didn't like it.
She sat down at Steve's table while she dialed up Brian Jameson. She was rifling through his desk for printed receipts, just in case as the exhausted detective appeared on the screen. "This better be important," he rumbled.
"I need you to check something for me," Cynthia said, continuing her search. "Find out if Steve Mueller has every bought a vacation from Time Travel Agency, Inc. If so, find out where he went."
"Their receipts are confidential," he replied. "I would need to use... less than conventional means."
Illegal, you mean. "Ten thousand if you have the information by close of business today."
"Cynthia," he said as she continued rifling through the drawers, "are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes," she snapped. She pulled on the bottom right drawer, but it was locked. "Damn," she muttered.
"Got a problem?" he asked.
"Locked drawer," she said, frustrated at everything. The world had suddenly started crumbling around her, but it didn't even have the decency to be clear about it.
"Let's have a look," Brian said. She held the screen with its built-in camera up towards the drawer. She heard him laugh. "Pretty poor lock. Keeps most people out but anyone with a little know-how can pop it open fast. But fortunately for you, you won't have to."
She pulled out the drawer above and slid it out of its runners, placing it on top of the desk. The bottom drawer contained only one object, a large scrapbook. She pulled it out and placed it on the desk, opening it with shaking hands. She gasped as she saw the first page, then covered her eyes; partially to keep from looking at the pages, partly to stop herself from crying.
"I'll send out the payment today," she said to Brian, and cut the connection. After she took a few deep breaths she flipped through the book; fast so she didn't have to look very long. Finally she saw it, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She found herself almost panting for breath.
On the left-hand page was the full cover shot of her from People magazine. On the right there were two things. On the bottom was part of the card she had sent him: "all my love, Cynthia." On top was the picture of her, posing nude for the man she had thought she loved. Her page was no different than any of the others, nothing to show that she was anything special to him.
She jumped as the book slid away, and she looked up at Steve, who was flipping through it. He had an expression of self-satisfaction as he went from page to page, and it made Cynthia want to retch. "Those were some good times," he said when he held up her page once again. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"How could you?" She winced inwardly, but it was all she could say. She had never suffered such a betrayal before and she was overwhelmed with feelings of anger and pain.
"Oh please," he said with visible disgust, slamming the book closed. "Did you really think you were the only woman I had ever been with? That I would never look at anyone after you? Such naiveté is hardly found in one of the 'Top Ten Sex Symbols' of Entertainment This Month."
She looked at him, unable to believe she'd ever shared a bed with this thing. "I loved you," she said. Her greatest performance, the one that got her that Oscar nomination, didn't hold a candle to the amount of hurt in her tone. "How could you use me like this? Why?"
"I prefer to have a matching set," he replied, flipping through the pages in order; the same order as the Top Ten list. "And women like you don't normally sleep with guys like me, not when you've got your pick of leading men and sports stars. It's just like high school isn’t it; you go for the popular guys and the jocks and you ignore the geeks."
"How can you say that? You know me; you know I'm not like that."
Steve laughed at her, and she felt her cheeks flush in anger. "You're all the same. Oh sure it took a bit longer to get you then, say, Dove Rhorch or Dinah Campbell, but you climbed in bed with me just the same. A little money, a little charm, a little small talk that makes you think you're actually interesting and you all drop your pants."
"You son of a bitch!"
"You know what I loved about you?" Steve asked, his smug smile making her seethe. "You actually think that you're different; you're not. Every woman is the same. You like to tease men, show them just enough to get them hungry but don’t let them taste. And when you finally do give a sample you act as if you’ve done us a favor, when deep down it’s what you live for. Love? Doesn’t mean a thing to you, just a word to try and play us up. You’re no more capable of love than my toaster.”
Cynthia stood up, her eyes never leaving him. Her expression showed the smothering hatred of one who has been emotionally gutted. “My lawyer will get in touch with you later today.”
“About what?” Steve said, still acting smug. “Nothing wrong with consensual sex. And don’t pretend to cry rape; even if you did have a case the statute of limitations ran out years ago.”
“You’re a fraud,” Cynthia said. “You pretend to be something you’re not.”
“So do you,” Steve replied. “You do it every day.”
“Nobody gets hurt. We all know it’s just pretending, we don’t make people believe someone really dies, that someone truly loves you when they don’t.”
“Maybe so, but it’s still not a crime.” Steve shook his head as if she were too stupid to understand. “You read the brochures haven’t you? I’m sure TTA sent you some advertisements. There are two rules: you can’t commit a crime, and you can’t try to change history. The fact that this happened proves that it wasn’t a crime. Now if I’d killed you then they would have interfered and put everything right, but there’s no law against two adults sleeping together.” He started flipping through the book again. “Why don’t you discuss it with your friend, Mona?”
“Who?” Cynthia asked with a huff, but then he turned the book around. President Mona Hart, far younger, lying seductively on the bed in her picture.
“Mona,” he said with an emphasis on the “moan” part. “She may not look like much now, but back during the ’88 Dukakis campaign... whoo! She was a firebrand. Ever made love to the leader of the free world?”
“You sick bastard.” She scooped up her computer and marched out, then stopped only long enough to put her pants on and leave. Steve followed her with a casual walk, almost savoring her anger. He didn’t say a thing, even when she left.
She pulled over a few blocks away and, with her arm on the wheel, rested her face against it. One thing about acting was the ability to contain your feelings, and so she’d managed to keep from crying in front of him. That was probably what he’d hoped she was doing when he followed her, but there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d give him the satisfaction. But now she let it all out, hoping that maybe she could find relief in the release, but knowing that she’d hurt just as much when it was over.
#
Cynthia sipped at her drink as she continued reading through everything Brian had pulled on Mueller's travels. The amount of time and money devoted to his sick hobby was staggering. No wonder Time Travel Agency fought to keep her from seeing these, he had spent several million dollars on their services. Brian had broken down the expenses and cross-referenced them for her convenience, and she counted over thirty women. Singers, actresses, supermodels, politicians, his tastes seemed a detailed list of current celebrities.
He had to take multiple trips for some of the women, herself included. They had maintained a five month relationship, but he only was present in 2001 when he needed to talk to her. That explained why she almost always got his voice mail. Hi, I'm time traveling at the moment, but if you leave your message, I'll have already gotten back to you. He'd spent four hundred thousand dollars just on travel involving her. Four hundred thousand dollars just to have sex with you. It would be flattering if she wasn't just another page in his scrapbook.
She hated him. He was the sum of all that was evil about men. A manipulative misogynist, always putting on a different face to better worm his way into your heart, only to break it when he got what he wanted. Take a bow, she thought with loathing, because when you finish a performance there's not a dry eye in the house. She'd thought very briefly about hurting him; hiring some thugs to cripple him or something equally vile. In the end, she couldn't do it. As much as she despised him, she couldn't condone destroying someone like that, even if they did deserve it.
That didn't mean she was going to let him get away with it.
She pushed the papers back into the folder as the waitress came back with her bill. She passed the woman a twenty and told her to keep the change, much to the waitress' delight. Cynthia gave her a smile. "Say.... how'd you like to make ten thousand dollars for one day's work?"
#
It was hard for Cynthia to believe that Steve Mueller and Larry Wolf were the same person sometimes, even though she knew Larry was nothing but an act. Mueller--she couldn't think of him as Steve any more--regularly went out drinking and picking up bar sluts. His DUI wasn't the first time he'd been pulled over, but until then he'd managed to talk or bribe the officer into letting him off or reducing the charges. It was as if, having worked his butt off during his younger years to earn his fortune, he now was sowing wild oats that would make even the most stereotypical frat boys bow in awe.
Brian's people had set up some monitoring equipment in the bar and Mueller's car, which allowed them to see everything that was going on without tipping him off. Predictably he was nursing a drink as he kept his eyes on the women in the bar. Eventually he noticed Cynthia's girl, Judy, and the young woman accepted his hospitality as the evening wore on. Her skin crawled as she listened to him try and sweet talk the barmaid into coming back to his place. It wasn't necessary anyway, Cynthia had seen to that. Technically it was prostitution but when you've got a kid to take care of and bills piling up, ten grand can make the whole affair more attractive.
They followed Mueller and his soon-to-be latest conquest back to his place. Cynthia didn't listen, just waited while the others listened in on what happened. Obviously there was no stopping Mueller at this point, and finally the investigator took off his earphones and nodded. Cynthia lay back in the van and slept.
#
Morning came and Cynthia stretched, her body aching from the uncomfortable chair. It was after eight, which was as good a time as any. She stepped out of the van as the driver honked the horn twice, the signal for Judy to leave. The waitress came out, quickly followed by Mueller in his sweatpants. She had told him that she had to leave because Cynthia, her ride, was here. He slowed to a stop as he saw the actress leaning against the van. "Good morning," he said with his best poker face.
"It is a lovely morning, isn't it," Cynthia said as she came over. "How're you feeling? Not hung over I hope."
"I'm fine, thanks for your concern," he replied, a tone of suspicion in his voice. He nodded to Judy as she climbed into the van. "Friend of yours then?"
"Business associate." Cynthia was enjoying this a little more then she would have liked normally, but he had this coming. "You two get along all right?"
"Just fine." A slow smile spread across his face. "What was your plan? Maybe try to castrate me in my sleep? Or just lead me on and then leave? Whatever it was, I don't think it's worked."
"Really?"
"No. It was a wonderful night. And she's better than you."
Any other time that might have gotten her blood boiling, but not today. "I'm glad you enjoyed her." And then she told him. He didn't believe her at first, but she could see it slowly sink in. "You know, if you weren't such a deceptive little weasel and actually used your real name, it might never have happened."
"It's impossible," Steve finally said, seeming to find some small bit of hope to latch on to. "You can't bring anything to the present from the past."
"Oh, but you'd be amazed what can be done with a single phone call from President Moan-a." Cynthia gave him a wicked smile. "So sad, Steve. So obsessed with getting what you want. A little hair dye, a little alcohol, and next thing you know, you can't even recognize your own mother." She kissed the air and then climbed into the van. She watched Steve's legs go out from under him as they pulled away.
© 2003
NOT A DRY EYE IN THE HOUSE
by Charles Sonnenburg
Part I
2003
“Excuse me, are you Cynthia Winters?”
Cynthia’s green eyes flicked up towards the tall, thin man standing across the table from her. It was a bit hard to make out through the loud music, but she thought she could hear a small amount of excitement in his voice. Her friend, Julie, must have noticed it too, but surprisingly kept her mouth shut. “Yes, I am,” she said finally.
His nervous expression changed into an equally nervous smile at the answer. “I-” he began after a couple of seconds, only to flounder. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say.”
Cynthia looked him over a little more carefully as he stumbled, growing curious. He was dressed quite fashionably without being overly flashy, and his appearance was rather neat. Quite honestly, he didn’t blend in with this place at all. Of course, she and Julie didn’t really belong here either, but any place with alcohol and large bouncers was home at the moment, even if it did seem a bit more for the technobeat-loving college crowd. “Do I know you?” she asked finally.
He laughed uncomfortably. “No. My name’s Larry, Larry Wolf. I just wanted to say that I think you’re great. I mean, I thought you did a great job tonight.”
This started making a little more sense, but not much. Cynthia and Julie were both starring in an off Broadway production of The Planter’s Wife, not an especially well known play, that was touring through some of the major cities. Tonight was their first Chicago performance and the pair were just starting to make the adjustment. There were still months to go and Julie in particular was growing kind of weary of her part, the eldest daughter. You would think that Cynthia, as the titular character, would have had more lines, but she wasn’t going to let herself get caught up in trivial things like that. Still, how had he noticed her, given the more visible characters in the show? “Thank you,” she said. “I have to admit you’ve got quite an eye to have recognized me.”
“Oh, I could never forget,” he said, his anxiousness temporarily forgotten. “You really caught my eye. Every scene where you came out, I was just blown away by the air you seemed to have about you. You didn’t have many lines, but you just seemed to use that to enhance your character. Your silence said so much…” He trailed off. “I’m sorry. You’re probably here to relax. I just wanted to know if it was really you. I’ll leave you alone.”
“No, it’s all right,” Julie said before Cynthia could say anything more. “Are you with someone?”
“No,” Larry answered, obviously taken by surprise.
“Why don’t you take a seat,” Julie said. “Maybe help us out a little. This is our first time to Chicago, so perhaps you can fill us in.”
Larry sat down with a visible look of apprehension. “Actually, I’m not from Chicago. I’m just wrapping up some business here before I go home to Philadelphia. I thought maybe I’d soak up some local color while I was still here, before I fly back on the company dime.” They tried discussing Larry’s work in insurance a little, but he quickly admitted that it wasn’t very interesting. He seemed far more interested in their experience in the theater.
There wasn’t a whole lot for Cynthia to tell. The Planter’s Wife was her first major performance since graduating from NYU, and she simply didn’t have many great stories to tell of her college and community theater days. Well, none she felt like sharing. She and Julie were the new kids on the block among the cast, and she could feel a bit of resentment from a couple of the older women. They seemed to enjoy riding her every mistake or finding things about her performance to criticize, and it was hard to argue with them, cantankerous fossils that they were. She had been really pepped up by a nice review of their show in St. Louis, but typically they had been dismissive. It really was starting to bother her.
Despite this she spoke with Larry for some time. He amazed her with his perceptions, picking out the nuances of the character that she’d added and recognizing how they had contributed to the overall part, and the story as a whole. He seemed genuinely interested in her and her performance, and that really helped boost her self-confidence. If she was capable of creating that kind of thought and emotion in a person, well, maybe she was really cut out for this after all.
It must have been a couple of hours spent in conversation before the place had closed and they'd finally called it a night. Larry was excited when he heard they were going to be in Philadelphia in six weeks and swore he’d find tickets somehow. He went back to his hotel as Julie and Cynthia went to theirs. Julie, of course, couldn’t shut up about it.
“You’ve already got a fan,” she teased as they hailed a cab. “Gonna be on the cover of Rolling Stone before you know it.”
“Just shut up and get in,” Cynthia said with a smile and a small shove. The two climbed into the back of the cab. Cynthia watched the passing streetlights as Julie went on.
“He noticed you,” she said. “That means something. You got his attention.”
“I know what got his attention,” Cynthia said. “They got attention in St. Louis and Houston too. That’s nothing special.”
“Even if they did,” Julie replied, “what he noticed was your acting. That’s what he talked about. Hell, you couldn’t shut him up about it.”
“Well what’s he gonna do, spend the whole time talking about my boobs?”
“Oo, I’m sorry." Julie said, the sarcasm building in her voice. "I forgot the terrible stigma American culture has against women with big chests. Doors are closed in your face when they see you jiggling their way.”
“That’s the problem,” Cynthia said with irritation. “I don’t want special opportunities just because I give the director wet dreams. I want to make it as an actress because I’m good at it, not because I bounced my way into a role.”
“Well what do you think is going to help get you recognized as a great actress?” Julie asked. “You want big parts you need to be visible. You think anyone’s going to be flooding my voice mail over my part? You got a major part in this performance and it’ll look great on your résumé, and it’s giving you valuable experience. It doesn’t matter if you’re a great actress if no one gives you the chance to act!”
“That’s not an excuse,” Cynthia remarked.
“Come on. This business isn’t about talent. Look at some of the crap we see on TV and the movies; that’s not acting. And yet they’re there and we’re here. You get the big parts because of reputation, or you get lucky. The producer gets a blow job from his secretary during lunch and he feels like taking a chance on you after all, or you happen to do a great performance while some important director has just done a line of coke and thinks you’re the world. Acting is more than just the craft, and any edge you can get matters. If it’s luck or looks, you’ve gotta take what you can get.”
They didn’t say much else, either in the cab or back in the hotel room they shared. Julie went straight to bed, but Cynthia was a firm believer in proper grooming, even at two in the morning. A shower and scrub, a little maintenance here and there. By the time she settled down to brush all the tangles out of her hair she felt just how late it was, and knew how much she’d regret it in a few hours.
Cynthia ran the brush through her long auburn hair, gazing with exhaustion at her reflection as she repeated each stroke. She’d had one drink too many, and she regretted sounding like a self-pitying witch. “Oo, the world is so unfair that I’m so pretty,” she thought with a little disgust at herself.
She’d always been a pretty girl, popular in school and getting the boys attention. It had been fun in its own juvenile way. But now as an adult she faced casting directors offering to give her big parts in exchange for “favors,” as they liked to put it. Helping you move is a favor, she thought, having sex with you is a little bit more than that. It was about the third time it’d happened that she started actually resenting her looks, wishing people would just let her try it on her own merits! She wasn’t so stupid that she didn’t realize her looks weren’t an asset, but after so many lost opportunities because of them, and because she refused to prostitute herself, it was hard to keep the proper perspective.
In the end, Julie was right. There were thousands, if not millions, of women her age who were all trying to make it as actresses, and most didn't play by the rules. Anything to get ahead, any edge, would be exploited. If that meant sleeping with a few directors to land big parts, well, many wouldn't bat an eye. Cynthia couldn't imagine reducing herself to that, and wondered how anyone could. Maybe they got a kick out of it, or perhaps they just saw it as a means towards an end. Or possibly they were so desperate that anything, even their dignity, could be sacrificed. At the time, all she’d felt was disgust. But maybe the difference was her goals. For them it wasn't about acting, and maybe that was what bothered her. She certainly wouldn't mind being the next Kim Basinger, but that wasn't what it was about. Acting wasn't a means towards an end; it wasn't about becoming a superstar. And that was probably the difference between her and the rest of those girls; she wouldn't sacrifice the craft for glitz and money like they would. Maybe that was what bothered her, the idea that she was exploiting her body like the tramps who would spread to get a shot at the big time.
But no, that wasn't it. What it really was, was a fear that she was those girls. Oh sure, she'd never sleep with anyone to land a part or open doors, but was she getting by on pouty looks and a shapely figure? Was she just as bad an actress as those plastic women giving equally artificial performances on television that she and her classmates made fun of? As much as people might say she was good, she wondered if a chunkier, less appealing Cynthia Winters would be given the same praise. She had to wonder about what Julie said; were her looks an edge, or a crutch.
#
The applause grew louder as Cynthia and the leading man came out and took each others’ hands, stepping forward and bowing together with the rest of the cast. Her smile was genuine; the crowd was really enjoying the show and that made it worthwhile. All the frustrations and tears were forgotten when you saw how much joy you could bring someone when you did your job just right.
Despite the glare of the stagelights she saw an enthusiastic clapper in the front row. Larry Wolf, who was as good as his word. She remembered the flowers he'd had sent to her dressing room, the card telling her to “Break a leg.” It was very cornball, but it was also kind of sweet. She'd touched him too, and knowing that really made acting a joy.
She’d been thinking quite a bit about doing something that normally would never cross her mind: going with a local after a performance. Not like a date or anything, but just to talk. She remembered how engaging he’d been in their discussion back in Chicago, and he’d been such a gentleman. Besides, Julie was sick and had already told her that she was going straight back to their hotel to get some sleep. “You could do far worse than Larry Wolf for company,” Julie had said to her. And of course, she was right.
“You've changed,” Larry said over drinks later.
Cynthia laughed a little. “That's a bit presumptive. It's been nearly two months, and you hardly know me.”
“I mean your character,” Larry said. “You made some changes. They're good,” he added quickly. “Your mannerisms accentuate your status in the plantation, as well as implying that you know a great deal more of what's going on behind your back.”
Cynthia was a little taken aback. That was exactly what she'd done. She wanted to give her more depth and to maybe poke a little fun at some of the stereotypes that were being played off of in the script. Nothing outstanding, but just a little something to improve her performance. “I can't believe you picked up on something that subtle. You're not a critic, are you?”
Larry laughed in response. “Certainly not. I just pay attention. For seventy-five dollars, I don't want to miss a thing.”
“You seem to know a great deal about the theater,” she said as she took a sip of her drink. “Do you have any history with it?”
“No,” Larry said. “No, I'm cursed to be a lover of art who can't seem to create. So I enjoy the creations of others instead.”
“Well even if you can't do, you can certainly spot what's right or wrong. Have you considered becoming a critic?”
Larry grinned. “An actress telling me to consider becoming a critic? Isn't that like asking a shark if he's feeling a bit peckish?”
Cynthia couldn't help but smile. She had to admit that there was something interesting about him. He seemed to almost be peering through a window into her mind sometimes. “We need critics,” she remarked, “They keep us honest. There is a definite demand for the unimaginative asses.”
“You see,” Larry remarked humorously. The glass had been sitting in front of him for a while, but all he seemed to do was fidget with it. “I couldn't be a critic anyway. I don't like to focus on the negative, which is part of the job description.”
“But we need to know what's bad if we're to fix it,” Cynthia pointed out.
“Then that's what you have critics for,” Larry said coyly. “I just want to enjoy the beauty.”
After a little while Cynthia tried to steer the conversation towards Larry, but he seemed rather insistent that his work was dull. “Everyone’s polite and say they want to know, but the truth is that they don’t. It’s boring stuff. Well-paying boring stuff, but boring nonetheless.”
Cynthia tried to refrain from smiling. She hated to say it, but there was something so adorable about him. The way his sandy brown hair seemed to rebel against any attempts to stay in place. He had pushed the same strand out of his face four times during their conversation, just like a little boy on the playground. There was a well-hidden insecurity there too, one he seemed to cover up by fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. He was charming in a geeky sort of way. “Well if you don’t like it why do you do it?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he replied, “just that it’s not very interesting. It’s like being good at stamp collecting; just because you’re good at it doesn’t make it any less dull to other people. I mean, isn’t this the stuff you always hate? Being trapped at a party with the guy who won’t shut up about how he found the misfiled PS108 forms and prevented the internal audit from stripping their budget of such-and-such amount of money?”
Cynthia put her hand over her mouth but she knew he saw her snickering. “So what do you do when you’re not being boring?” she asked with a smirk
“Other boring things,” he replied with a smile of his own. “Go to the theater of course. The museum, art shows. I deal with a very cold and finely calculated world, so I like to see color and creativity whenever I can.”
“I noticed both times you were alone during the play. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No.” He stirred his drink again, still barely touching it. “I used to take my mother with me sometimes, but she passed on.”
“Oh I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. It was just me and her for a long time. She was a cocktail waitress right here in Philly. I don’t know how she managed to raise a child with that, but I tried to make it up for her in her later years. She gave me a love for art.”
Cynthia took a deep breath. She worried about whether or not she should take this next step, if she wasn’t about to do something she’d regret. Isn’t that how you felt about coming here? she reminded herself. “I have to be at the theater by five thirty tomorrow. Do you think you can give me a tour of Philadelphia’s most boring sites before then?”
Larry suddenly grew a little agitated, as if she’d just asked him if he could fix her car and he didn’t want to look incompetent. “I could,” he said finally, “but I don’t know how much you’d enjoy it. There’s so much to see... I’d hate for you to miss out.”
“Whatever you can manage,” she said, trying to sound interested without putting any pressure on him.
“When are you leaving for the next city?”
“Um, Tuesday. We’re heading up to Boston in the afternoon.”
“I know Monday isn’t the most exciting of days, but how about it? I guarantee you won’t miss a thing and will be bored silly.”
“That,” said Cynthia with an inward sigh of relief, “sounds perfect.”
#
There was the familiar sound of the train pulling into the station, and Cynthia checked her watch. Almost a half hour early, she noticed as she joined the small mob of people, who were probably just as interested in starting the weekend as she was. Despite the stereotypes surrounding women and travel Cynthia only had one suitcase with her. Okay, she admitted to herself, it was a large suitcase, but it wasn’t as if you could hide a body in it. She wheeled it away and pulled out her cell phone. She still had Larry’s number on the business card he’d given her back when she’d left Philadelphia, tucked safely away in her wallet, but she didn’t need it. He was number 3 on her speed dial and yeah, that probably meant they were more than just friends at this point. She didn’t dwell on it too much. She spent time with Larry because she enjoyed his company, and that was enough of a reason to see him. Okay, so she saw him rather frequently. He was different; he knew how to have fun that didn’t require drugs or getting groped.
All things considered, she could do far worse than Larry Wolf.
He was already on his way, so she hung up the phone and waited, not bored for an instant. She watched the people who walked past, and she tried to imagine what they were like from their mannerisms. Ruby Druvall, her favorite instructor, had impressed upon her that as an actress you reflect human beings on stage, and to do that you need to try and understand people. An airport, a waiting room, a restaurant, they were all like this railroad station, bustling with people going about their daily lives. Before she knew it Larry was there, ready to lug her suitcase to the car.
“How do you feel?” Larry asked as they left the parking lot. “Do you want to go to your hotel first and freshen up a bit?”
“I’m fine,” Cynthia said. “We don’t need to check in right away. What did you have in mind for the evening?”
“A rare event,” Larry said, his smile widening, “cooking. I haven’t had the chance to cook for anyone in a while and it’s the one creative thing I’m actually good at.”
“Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of art,” Cynthia replied. “What’s on the menu?”
“Tut tut,” Larry said with mock disapproval. “You don’t skip to the end of your scripts to figure out who the murderer is, do you?”
“No, but I rarely plan to eat the murderer,” Cynthia teased.
“Just trust me,” Larry said. And it was a well placed trust. The meal was excellent, although Cynthia had felt a slight gag reflex when she heard what it was. Octopus wasn’t usually on her menu, yet she couldn’t argue with the results. And of course, Larry was an excellent conversationalist. They could be having take-out burgers with fries and the meal would have still been interesting with him. After dinner, and once the summer sun had descended they enjoyed a drink, Cynthia talking about her new project; a musical.
“Do you have much singing experience?” Larry asked.
“I’ve done musicals before,” she said, “but nothing else.”
“I don’t want to sound like a mother hen, but are you sure your voice can handle it?”
“I’m sure,” she replied confidently.
“Because I’ve been to musicals before where I can tell the performers have overdone it. They’re on their tenth week of doing the shows and the songs lack the crispness. The piece suffers because of the wear and tear.”
“Maybe,” Cynthia said. “But I’ve already got the part, and if I back out now it could look bad for future parts. If I have to I’ll take it easier on my voice.”
“I’m just mentioning it,” Larry said, sounding a bit defensive. “I know you’re a perfectionist.”
“I am, and thank you.” She finished the contents of her glass. “So when do you start your theater review column.”
“As soon as Satan buys a snowplow,” Larry said coyly. There was quiet laughter over the little joke. It was something she teased him about from time to time, but now she was a little more serious.
“I still think you would make a wonderful critic,” Cynthia said. “You have an insight that many could learn from. You have a gift.”
She'd meant it as a compliment, but she could see that he was starting to feel uncomfortable. The silence seemed to last for days. Finally he stood up, and she was afraid that she'd blown it. “I'd like to show you something,” he said as he held out his hand. She took it and he led her through the apartment. He opened the bedroom door and went inside. She felt a slight apprehension at first, afraid that he might be implying something, but he didn't even slow in his gait, taking her across the room to the wall where a painting hung. “I bought this a couple of years back,” he said as he stepped back a little, allowing her a full view of the picture. It showed a young woman wearing a sundress leaning against a tree, gazing towards a sea covered in small boats, the sun low on the horizon.
“It's beautiful,” she said after a moment.
“Yes,” he said, coming up and looking at the picture over her shoulder. “That was the first thing I thought when I saw it. Such a beautiful painting. I remember it was on display at a show in Boston, and for some reason I kept coming back to this one. I bought it; not really sure why at first, but I kept it in my office for a while. Whenever I just needed a break I would get up and look at this picture.”
Cynthia never took her eyes off the painting, but she felt him come a bit closer, and his voice started to become quiet. She felt the warmth of his breath on her shoulder as he spoke, and it gave her goosebumps.
“If you look carefully, you'll see what looks like a letter or envelope in her hand, clutched tightly in that fist. And that expression as she looks across the water... there's sadness there. Maybe she lost someone to the sea, or maybe she came there to see him off, or she just learned that her distant lover is missing. But you can see in her expression, there's pain there. Still, there seems to be a little more. I can't show you where or explain how, but there's something there that implies hope. Whatever the problem she now faces, no matter how deep her sorrow, she still is holding on to something. Whatever has happened, she won't give up, she won't forget.”
Cynthia found she was holding her breath as she just stared into the woman's face. She could see it too, right there. Not defiance, but confidence; a hope that the future would be brighter.
“I'm not an art critic,” Larry continued softly. “But I saw this painting, and I saw that it was beautiful. And because of that beauty I eventually examined every detail, took in every brush stroke. And as I looked at it I came to realize that there was more than just beauty.” He took a deep breathe, and the warmth made her shiver. “I realized I loved it.” He was quiet for a while. “It's an odd feeling when you discover what it is you love. So much joy and so much fear. Poets try to put it into words, but you can't. You just know. There is no feeling like it.”
Cynthia felt her stomach tightening at the words, but she still kept her eyes fixed on the painting. She felt her chest rise and fall in anxiousness. When he spoke she felt her pulse quicken just a little. “I'm not a critic,” he said, his voice was barely audible, “I just pay close attention to the things I love.”
She tore her eyes away from the painting and turned around looking into his own. She saw a little bit of his own fear there, and she melted at it. You just know, she agreed, and then she was tasting him. She couldn’t even remember who kissed whom, it didn’t matter. Oddly enough, the bed that she had first looked at apprehensively was now the only place in the world she wanted to be.
#
Cynthia’s eyes stirred open as she felt Larry moving about. Several things fell off the nightstand, accompanied by a few of the saucier words in Larry’s vocabulary. There were a few beeps and then she heard him speaking. “I’m not coming in today,” he said simply, not even bothering to greet whoever was on the other end of the phone. “Re-schedule it, I don’t care. I’m on vacation today.” He disconnected and dropped the phone on the floor. Cynthia slid closer and wrapped her arm around him. He rolled over and the two looked into each other’s eyes for some time.
She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she saw was Larry pulling on a pair of sweatpants as he read through Tuesday’s paper. She pulled over another pillow and propped it under her head, smiling at him. “You seem to have missed your appointment, Mr. Wolf.”
He pulled on a T-shirt. “You seem to have missed your train, Ms. Winters.”
“There’ll be another one.” She’d meant it to be suggestive, but instead it was like a cold shower to her. No, she didn’t have to go back now or even today, but eventually she needed to get back to New York to get started on the musical. Suddenly the long distance relationship they’d had for so many months didn’t seem like it was going to cut it.
As always, Larry seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. He started speaking in a really bad Bogart imitation. “I know the love of two people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world, but that’s why you’re getting on that train. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow...”
She laughed, trying to let his silliness distract her from the problem. It helped a little, but she just couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter. “I won’t be back for a while,” she said. “I’m going to be putting in a lot of extra nights and weekends to learn those songs.”
He wasn’t looking at her. She could tell he didn’t want her to see how much he didn’t want her to leave either. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t say it; he wouldn’t want to do anything that might make her leave acting. “Put that time to good use,” he said finally. He was more chipper as he went over to the closet. “How about a little snapshot to remember you by? Something to keep on the nightstand during these long weeks?”
“Sure. Where do you want to take it at?”
He pulled out one of those instant cameras. “How about where you are right now?”
Cynthia ran her tongue across her upper lip. “Are you making an indecent proposition, Mr. Cameraman?” she asked in her most sultry voice.
He snapped the camera open. “Show me something sexy,” he said in the same tone back. Cynthia pushed the blanket aside and kneeled on the bed. She crossed her arms like she was giving herself a hug, using the limbs to lift her breasts. She licked her pouty lips and acted like she was blowing a kiss. The flash snapped and he pulled out the picture. “Not bad,” he said, but there was no mistaking the look in his eye. He put the camera and the picture down and pulled the T-shirt back off again.
#
The importance of proper timing is drilled into young performers as a reminder of just how essential the right word or gesture at the right moment can be. Speed, pauses, everything needed to be considered in relation to time. It was, however, a clear case of poor timing when Cynthia called during a break to listen to her voice mail.
Larry's voice had an anxious strain to it. "Cynthia... oh God, I didn't want to do it like this. Cynthia, something's happened, I can't say what or it'll put you in danger. I have to go away, and I can't tell you where. Please don't try to contact me, you'll only be putting both of us at risk. I'm sorry I can't take you with me, but I can't take you away from your craft. You have a voice that can't be silenced, and if you came with me you'd have to give up that voice. I'm so sorry Cynthia." And the unsympathetic machine told her there were no more messages.
Later Cynthia tried to call Larry, but both his phones were disconnected. The number for the company where he worked had also been disconnected. Cynthia watched the papers for the next several days, hoping maybe there would be some explanation, but there was nothing. And during that time she cried more than once over what she had lost. They had had five months together, and it was only now that she had realized how much she cared about him. All that time squandered.
She tucked her phone away and went back out, listening distantly as the choreography was discussed for the supporting characters. The piano came in, and Cynthia did what she always did; put aside whatever she felt and let her voice out.
My secret place, all my own where no one sees me
My secret place, where I can be just what I am
When I'm in the daylight, away from all the prying eyes
I can feel, I feel the joy of being alone.
Part II
2013
The upscale real estate of Lakefront Drive is home to some of the most successful performers of the current day, including Oscar-nominated actress Cynthia Winters. Any night of the week the area might be home to a party of some kind, whether it was a ritzy, catered affair with champagne and hors d'oeuvre or an excuse to revel in booze and drugs and hopefully get laid several times. As a very body-conscious individual Cynthia tended to stay away from the latter, much to the disappointment of some of her neighbors who wouldn’t mind being around her with her inhibitions gone. So while there was a party going on several houses down, she was busy looking over the script her agent had sent over. She quickly realized she’d made a poor choice.
Cynthia had to sit down as she continued reading through the dreck in the screenplay. She knew it was a franchise so naturally it wasn’t going to be that great, but she was starting to suspect they were hiring eight year-olds to write the scripts. She slid off the arm of the couch and lay with her legs dangling over it, then smacked herself in the face as punishment for even considering this job. “’You did it?’” she read aloud. “’You were the one who sold secrets to Slinky Keester?’” Oh God, this really, really sucks. Yes, there was no question that Genepol had put her in the spotlight, and Doug Bryars was a great director to work with, but how popular would a third sequel be, especially one with this campy script?
She dropped the script on her chest and fumbled about for the remote, turning the TV on just for the distraction. It’s sad when late night television is more intellectually stimulating than what you’re doing at the moment. She rubbed her eyes in exhaustion as the talk show host continued his monologue.
“And in other news, flooding continues out of control in North Dakota, which may begin washing away their impressive roads and bridges. Local authorities estimate the cost of replacing all this could reach several hundred dollars.” He nodded with a sad expression as the audience laughed. “President Hart said today that she considered the floods a national emergency, and is considering sending in the Army Corps of Engineers to deal with the problem. Boy you know, Hussein causes trouble, she sends in the army. Flooding in North Dakota, she sends in the army. Am I the only one worried about her education plan?” He held up his hands as if he had a machine gun. “All right! Diagram that sentence! Now dogface, now!”
Cynthia laughed despite herself. She had been a strong campaigner for Mona Hart during the ’12 election, and even after just a few months in office she was getting lambasted for all the problems in the world. Like she were somehow responsible for some Third World dictator trying to follow in his daddy’s footsteps.
“For those of you watching in North Dakota,” the comedian went on, “there’s been some word on what to do if the flooding continues. Apparently there’s a shortage of boats for the moment and not everyone has life jackets. If there’s a problem you can make a flotation device out of plastic jugs, wood, or Cynthia Winters’ breasts.”
“Ah, thank you,” she said back to the TV as she turned it off. She stretched, picked up the script and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. It’s not as if I mind being a national sex symbol, she thought, but it’d be nice to be able to do something worthwhile. For the hundredth time she thought about going back to the theater, but a little voice reminded her that if she left the big screen too soon she’d never have another shot. She’d be one of those “whatever happened too...” people you see living in trailer parks and holding up liquor stores. Do the crappy sequel, she told herself, and they’ll give you creative control on the next project.
She continued reading aloud. “’How could you?!’” She tossed the script down. “God save me from this piece of crap,” she said as she left it in the bathroom.
She grabbed the remote and turned the TV back on, but switched over to her mail account. Her actual e-mail account was a secret; she had a reader forward anything that might be important to her to cut down on the sheer volume of mail. There were five messages.
“Home Electrolysis. Discrete, convenient service that can save you hours-”
“Delete,” Cynthia said before it even finished. She’d had electrolysis years ago and hadn't enjoyed it very much.
“Time Travel Agency, Inc. Enjoy the best hospitality history has to offer!”
“Delete,” Cynthia said. She wasn’t much of a history fan, and she found it difficult spending more on a vacation then a lot of people earned in a year. The producers of Cleopatra had wanted her to use the service to study the character first-hand, but she’d refused, pointing out that however accurate it might be she’d be the only one who knew it.
“Roger Somerset. Contact me right away about Genepol 4. No text.”
Cynthia sighed and pulled on her long fluffy white robe. “Call Roger Somerset,” she said as she took a seat on the couch. A moment later the producer was there, grinning that irritating grin of his.
“Cynthia!” he said with his grating Long Island accent. “How’re things on the left coast?”
“Peachy,” she said, her voice showing she wasn’t interested in the small talk. “What did you need?”
“Did your boy send you the script yet for G-4?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it reads like a movie with a Roman numeral in the title, only worse.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”
“I don’t care how bad it is, the point is that it’s bad! Why should we deliberately make a bad movie?”
“Look, the kids who watch it don’t give a-”
“Yes they do,” Cynthia interrupted. “Genepol is something some of them really care about, and they deserve something better than this.”
“The script has the approval of Dean Hollenz.” Dean was the lead actor in all three previous films.
“Dean doesn’t care as long as he gets to pretend he’s beating people up.”
“Not to mention John, Peter, Bryant-”
“Shh,” Cynthia interrupted. “Hear that?”
Roger’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Cynthia put a hand to her ear. “That’s the sound of me not caring.”
Roger scoffed at her. “You’re a real piece. So you’re saying no?”
“I’m saying no to this piece of trash,” Cynthia said. “Come up with something worthwhile and I’m in, but I’m not going to waste months of my life on something I’d be ashamed to show my friends.”
She rubbed her eyes after the line was disconnected. She should have called him in the morning when she’d be less irritable. She finally blew it off and went back to her mail.
“Brian Jameson. I’ve found your Mr. Wolf.”
Cynthia’s blood ran cold as she read the emotionless text. She’d forgotten all about it. It was... three years ago, right before the Academy Awards. She had wanted to be there with Larry on the off chance that she won Best Supporting Actress, so she hired a private investigator to look into it. He didn’t find him, and she’d forgotten about it, but she had never closed down the investigation. “Display,” she said, her voice a croak.
“Ms. Winters,” said Brian, a dark-haired man with a large build. “I’ve found your man, Larry Wolf. We managed to lift a full thumbprint off the business card you gave us. Now, the system had no record on him, but we run sweeps once a month here and it turns out your boy was picked up for DUI a few weeks ago. He goes by the name of Steve Mueller now, owns several investment firms, has more money than God. According to his ID he’s thirty-eight, which I know doesn’t quite fit with what you told us, but the fact is that this is the man who gave you that business card.”
A picture appeared, and Cynthia got up and approached the screen, scarcely able to believe it. He had a mustache, but other than that he was just like she remembered him. She didn’t even hear Brian continue to speak, she just kept thinking about the past ten years without him, and wishing they hadn’t been that way.
#
There was a definite moment of awkwardness as she looked up into the security camera at Steven Mueller’s front door. The rain was getting much heavier in the background as she waited. “I’ll be right there,” the intercom finally announced.
She had played this scene out in movies before, and had seen them played out by others. She wasn’t sure what she’d feel if it was really him. Joy? Grief? Anger? As the door opened she felt all of them plus a few dozen other emotions. He didn’t have the mustache from the picture, and he looked almost exactly as she remembered him from all those years ago. She wanted to hit him for the agony he put her through, and then she wanted to make up for ten years worth of lost nights. In the end, she could only say his name. “Larry,” her voice barely above a whisper.
“Cynthia,” he said back, and she saw the hint of that smile that she knew so well. Every second more and more details came flooding back to her, and despite herself she felt her eyes go moist as he invited her in out of the rain. He left her in the living room and came back with some coffee to help “get rid of the chill.”
She felt the warmth fill the core of her body and watched him over the rim of the glass. He looked the same, but the years had changed him nonetheless. The house was furnished in a far different style than his old apartment, less colorful and more Spartan. He himself seemed a little different in his mannerisms; just little things like the way he sat, watching her. “Larry-” she began.
“Steve,” he corrected her. “I haven’t used the name Larry for some time.”
“Steve.” She set the cup back down, remembering vividly that day. “Why did you leave?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The company I worked for was laundering money for drug lords. I hadn’t known about it, but I was a material witness. They... they tried to kill me.” His mood seemed to darken as he reflected on it. “These guys were big, and I had to go into hiding if I was going to live ‘til the trial. I only had time to make one phone call to you before they shipped me to the middle of nowhere.” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Telling you over voicemail like that.... it wasn’t what I wanted at all.”
Her heart went out to him. She could see how it was eating him up inside. “I’m glad you’re all right,” she said, hoping it would help a little. She couldn’t say it was okay though. It had hurt, hurt like nothing else, and she couldn’t lie about that.
He shrugged. “And so I became Steven Mueller. Started over. Unable to contact anyone from my former life.” He looked up at her. “But I never stopped watching you. You don’t know how much it hurt to see you up there on that screen and not be able to speak to you or touch you. But I couldn’t stay away from you.” He started wringing his hands, and she began to see the old Larry again. “I’ve been with other women since, I’ll admit it. But there was never anything like we had. You were one of a kind.”
“Excuse me,” Cynthia said as she got up and walked to the bathroom. She didn’t let a single tear out until the door was closed, but then she let them run freely.
“Are you all right?” he asked from the other room.
“Yes,” she lied. “Just toweling off some of the rain. It’s making me shiver.”
There was quiet for a little while. “I saw you at the Academy Awards. You were wonderful.”
She wiped her eyes several times. “Thank you.”
“You were robbed you know. I think Dinah Campbell was screwing someone on the committee.”
Cynthia laughed despite herself. That was her Larry; always getting her to forget about how bad she might feel. “Dinah deserved the Oscar.” She opened the door and stepped out, seeing him pour wine into some glasses.
“You’re far too generous,” he said as he offered one to her.
Cynthia took it, her eyes never leaving him. It was funny but he had that ability to just make her forget the pain. When she looked at him it was as if he’d never left. She took his hand and walked with him back into the living room.
#
Cynthia had spent some time listening to Larry’s quiet breathing as she lay next to him. She felt so good, so complete. It was as if she had known all this time that her someone was coming, and finally he was here. The waiting had paid off, and paid off big.
It reminded her of the painting, and she looked around the room for it. After a little while, when she didn’t see it, she pulled her shirt on and went wandering through the house. She knew how much Larry liked that picture, and he’d have it somewhere where he could look at it if he wanted. Sure enough, in the office, right behind his desk.
For the hundredth time that night it was almost as if the past ten years had never happened. Every detail, every stroke, was just as she had remembered it. That girl, staring across the sea with vigilant hope, certain that this wasn't the end. Let the time pass, let the tides rise and fall; they wouldn't change a thing in her heart. A hundred years couldn't hope to wear down her love. Hold on sister, she thought, never give up.
She was leaning against the back of his chair as she looked at the painting, but slowly she got up and moved closer, her eye suddenly fixed on something that she'd never really focused on before. Corenthy, it was signed in the lower right-hand corner, and she suddenly had a gnawing of nervous confusion. She knew that name. He had exploded on the art scene about two years ago as one of the first of the second renaissance art-style. His stuff was rather different from this, but Cynthia had remembered that his work had substance to it, unlike some of the other artists. Quite a coincidence that Larry--Steve--happened to have an early work of a hot artist. A hot young artist. Before she was even aware of it she had marched out of the room to where her coat had been hung up and pulled out her pocket computer. She hooked up to the Internet and checked out the biography of Rupert Corenthy, and her stomach tightened like a fist. She held up the small screen next to the signature on the painting to compare them, confirming what she'd already known.
There was no way to dismiss it. Even if Steve had bought the painting the day she arrived, Corenthy would've been thirteen years old at the time. He didn't produce his first painting until he was in college. It was impossible for him to have this painting in 2003, and yet he had. A reproduction? No, the detail was too perfect, and Corenthy wouldn't reduce himself to replicating someone else’s work; artists have too much pride in their originality. There was only one possible explanation, and she didn't like it.
She sat down at Steve's table while she dialed up Brian Jameson. She was rifling through his desk for printed receipts, just in case as the exhausted detective appeared on the screen. "This better be important," he rumbled.
"I need you to check something for me," Cynthia said, continuing her search. "Find out if Steve Mueller has every bought a vacation from Time Travel Agency, Inc. If so, find out where he went."
"Their receipts are confidential," he replied. "I would need to use... less than conventional means."
Illegal, you mean. "Ten thousand if you have the information by close of business today."
"Cynthia," he said as she continued rifling through the drawers, "are you sure you want to do this?"
"Yes," she snapped. She pulled on the bottom right drawer, but it was locked. "Damn," she muttered.
"Got a problem?" he asked.
"Locked drawer," she said, frustrated at everything. The world had suddenly started crumbling around her, but it didn't even have the decency to be clear about it.
"Let's have a look," Brian said. She held the screen with its built-in camera up towards the drawer. She heard him laugh. "Pretty poor lock. Keeps most people out but anyone with a little know-how can pop it open fast. But fortunately for you, you won't have to."
She pulled out the drawer above and slid it out of its runners, placing it on top of the desk. The bottom drawer contained only one object, a large scrapbook. She pulled it out and placed it on the desk, opening it with shaking hands. She gasped as she saw the first page, then covered her eyes; partially to keep from looking at the pages, partly to stop herself from crying.
"I'll send out the payment today," she said to Brian, and cut the connection. After she took a few deep breaths she flipped through the book; fast so she didn't have to look very long. Finally she saw it, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. She found herself almost panting for breath.
On the left-hand page was the full cover shot of her from People magazine. On the right there were two things. On the bottom was part of the card she had sent him: "all my love, Cynthia." On top was the picture of her, posing nude for the man she had thought she loved. Her page was no different than any of the others, nothing to show that she was anything special to him.
She jumped as the book slid away, and she looked up at Steve, who was flipping through it. He had an expression of self-satisfaction as he went from page to page, and it made Cynthia want to retch. "Those were some good times," he said when he held up her page once again. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"How could you?" She winced inwardly, but it was all she could say. She had never suffered such a betrayal before and she was overwhelmed with feelings of anger and pain.
"Oh please," he said with visible disgust, slamming the book closed. "Did you really think you were the only woman I had ever been with? That I would never look at anyone after you? Such naiveté is hardly found in one of the 'Top Ten Sex Symbols' of Entertainment This Month."
She looked at him, unable to believe she'd ever shared a bed with this thing. "I loved you," she said. Her greatest performance, the one that got her that Oscar nomination, didn't hold a candle to the amount of hurt in her tone. "How could you use me like this? Why?"
"I prefer to have a matching set," he replied, flipping through the pages in order; the same order as the Top Ten list. "And women like you don't normally sleep with guys like me, not when you've got your pick of leading men and sports stars. It's just like high school isn’t it; you go for the popular guys and the jocks and you ignore the geeks."
"How can you say that? You know me; you know I'm not like that."
Steve laughed at her, and she felt her cheeks flush in anger. "You're all the same. Oh sure it took a bit longer to get you then, say, Dove Rhorch or Dinah Campbell, but you climbed in bed with me just the same. A little money, a little charm, a little small talk that makes you think you're actually interesting and you all drop your pants."
"You son of a bitch!"
"You know what I loved about you?" Steve asked, his smug smile making her seethe. "You actually think that you're different; you're not. Every woman is the same. You like to tease men, show them just enough to get them hungry but don’t let them taste. And when you finally do give a sample you act as if you’ve done us a favor, when deep down it’s what you live for. Love? Doesn’t mean a thing to you, just a word to try and play us up. You’re no more capable of love than my toaster.”
Cynthia stood up, her eyes never leaving him. Her expression showed the smothering hatred of one who has been emotionally gutted. “My lawyer will get in touch with you later today.”
“About what?” Steve said, still acting smug. “Nothing wrong with consensual sex. And don’t pretend to cry rape; even if you did have a case the statute of limitations ran out years ago.”
“You’re a fraud,” Cynthia said. “You pretend to be something you’re not.”
“So do you,” Steve replied. “You do it every day.”
“Nobody gets hurt. We all know it’s just pretending, we don’t make people believe someone really dies, that someone truly loves you when they don’t.”
“Maybe so, but it’s still not a crime.” Steve shook his head as if she were too stupid to understand. “You read the brochures haven’t you? I’m sure TTA sent you some advertisements. There are two rules: you can’t commit a crime, and you can’t try to change history. The fact that this happened proves that it wasn’t a crime. Now if I’d killed you then they would have interfered and put everything right, but there’s no law against two adults sleeping together.” He started flipping through the book again. “Why don’t you discuss it with your friend, Mona?”
“Who?” Cynthia asked with a huff, but then he turned the book around. President Mona Hart, far younger, lying seductively on the bed in her picture.
“Mona,” he said with an emphasis on the “moan” part. “She may not look like much now, but back during the ’88 Dukakis campaign... whoo! She was a firebrand. Ever made love to the leader of the free world?”
“You sick bastard.” She scooped up her computer and marched out, then stopped only long enough to put her pants on and leave. Steve followed her with a casual walk, almost savoring her anger. He didn’t say a thing, even when she left.
She pulled over a few blocks away and, with her arm on the wheel, rested her face against it. One thing about acting was the ability to contain your feelings, and so she’d managed to keep from crying in front of him. That was probably what he’d hoped she was doing when he followed her, but there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d give him the satisfaction. But now she let it all out, hoping that maybe she could find relief in the release, but knowing that she’d hurt just as much when it was over.
#
Cynthia sipped at her drink as she continued reading through everything Brian had pulled on Mueller's travels. The amount of time and money devoted to his sick hobby was staggering. No wonder Time Travel Agency fought to keep her from seeing these, he had spent several million dollars on their services. Brian had broken down the expenses and cross-referenced them for her convenience, and she counted over thirty women. Singers, actresses, supermodels, politicians, his tastes seemed a detailed list of current celebrities.
He had to take multiple trips for some of the women, herself included. They had maintained a five month relationship, but he only was present in 2001 when he needed to talk to her. That explained why she almost always got his voice mail. Hi, I'm time traveling at the moment, but if you leave your message, I'll have already gotten back to you. He'd spent four hundred thousand dollars just on travel involving her. Four hundred thousand dollars just to have sex with you. It would be flattering if she wasn't just another page in his scrapbook.
She hated him. He was the sum of all that was evil about men. A manipulative misogynist, always putting on a different face to better worm his way into your heart, only to break it when he got what he wanted. Take a bow, she thought with loathing, because when you finish a performance there's not a dry eye in the house. She'd thought very briefly about hurting him; hiring some thugs to cripple him or something equally vile. In the end, she couldn't do it. As much as she despised him, she couldn't condone destroying someone like that, even if they did deserve it.
That didn't mean she was going to let him get away with it.
She pushed the papers back into the folder as the waitress came back with her bill. She passed the woman a twenty and told her to keep the change, much to the waitress' delight. Cynthia gave her a smile. "Say.... how'd you like to make ten thousand dollars for one day's work?"
#
It was hard for Cynthia to believe that Steve Mueller and Larry Wolf were the same person sometimes, even though she knew Larry was nothing but an act. Mueller--she couldn't think of him as Steve any more--regularly went out drinking and picking up bar sluts. His DUI wasn't the first time he'd been pulled over, but until then he'd managed to talk or bribe the officer into letting him off or reducing the charges. It was as if, having worked his butt off during his younger years to earn his fortune, he now was sowing wild oats that would make even the most stereotypical frat boys bow in awe.
Brian's people had set up some monitoring equipment in the bar and Mueller's car, which allowed them to see everything that was going on without tipping him off. Predictably he was nursing a drink as he kept his eyes on the women in the bar. Eventually he noticed Cynthia's girl, Judy, and the young woman accepted his hospitality as the evening wore on. Her skin crawled as she listened to him try and sweet talk the barmaid into coming back to his place. It wasn't necessary anyway, Cynthia had seen to that. Technically it was prostitution but when you've got a kid to take care of and bills piling up, ten grand can make the whole affair more attractive.
They followed Mueller and his soon-to-be latest conquest back to his place. Cynthia didn't listen, just waited while the others listened in on what happened. Obviously there was no stopping Mueller at this point, and finally the investigator took off his earphones and nodded. Cynthia lay back in the van and slept.
#
Morning came and Cynthia stretched, her body aching from the uncomfortable chair. It was after eight, which was as good a time as any. She stepped out of the van as the driver honked the horn twice, the signal for Judy to leave. The waitress came out, quickly followed by Mueller in his sweatpants. She had told him that she had to leave because Cynthia, her ride, was here. He slowed to a stop as he saw the actress leaning against the van. "Good morning," he said with his best poker face.
"It is a lovely morning, isn't it," Cynthia said as she came over. "How're you feeling? Not hung over I hope."
"I'm fine, thanks for your concern," he replied, a tone of suspicion in his voice. He nodded to Judy as she climbed into the van. "Friend of yours then?"
"Business associate." Cynthia was enjoying this a little more then she would have liked normally, but he had this coming. "You two get along all right?"
"Just fine." A slow smile spread across his face. "What was your plan? Maybe try to castrate me in my sleep? Or just lead me on and then leave? Whatever it was, I don't think it's worked."
"Really?"
"No. It was a wonderful night. And she's better than you."
Any other time that might have gotten her blood boiling, but not today. "I'm glad you enjoyed her." And then she told him. He didn't believe her at first, but she could see it slowly sink in. "You know, if you weren't such a deceptive little weasel and actually used your real name, it might never have happened."
"It's impossible," Steve finally said, seeming to find some small bit of hope to latch on to. "You can't bring anything to the present from the past."
"Oh, but you'd be amazed what can be done with a single phone call from President Moan-a." Cynthia gave him a wicked smile. "So sad, Steve. So obsessed with getting what you want. A little hair dye, a little alcohol, and next thing you know, you can't even recognize your own mother." She kissed the air and then climbed into the van. She watched Steve's legs go out from under him as they pulled away.
© 2003
