“We do, but you're an idiot if you have anything but the fried calamari.”
“Of course, she'll have the calamari,” declared Tuck in a sonorous baritone, returning to his seat next to Nell. “My treat.”
“I don't even know what calamari is!” said Molly.
“Where are you from? The moon?” muttered the actor who played Mrs. Lewis, getting up and heading toward a friend at another table.
“North Carolina,” murmured Molly. She had always thought of herself as smart and sophisticated. In Pelletreau, where barbecue was considered an art form, she was. Here among this crowd she felt like a hick.
“Trust me, bubee, you'll love it,” said the waiter and escaped in the direction of the kitchen.
“What did I just order?” said Molly.
“Fried squid,” said Tuck. “Very delicious. So tell me about Margaret. I truly am very sorry to hear about her passing. We were all so young then, so very young. I was fresh off the farm. Literally. Those were my salad days, and I but a spring lettuce. Tucker Aloysius Wittington,
Radicchio theatricalis.
The kiss Margaret and I shared in the play was actually my first from a representative of the opposite sex. So what was Margaret up to all these years?”
Molly explained diplomatically that her grandmother had lived a quiet life in Pelletreau. She told how they had come to New York after finding the program and what they had managed to learn at the library.
“Poor Margaret,” Tuck muttered, remembering. “The critics really destroyed us.”
With deep sighs and dramatic hand gestures, he recounted how well things had gone on the road for
Without Reservationsâ
the changes the playwright had made in Boston, the applause and curtain calls in Philadelphia, and then the silent Broadway audiences, the vicious reviews, the snickering.
“The producer had seen it coming, of course,” Tuck said with a sigh. “That's why he opened on Thanksgivingâhe knew he had a turkey and just hoped to feed it to a weekend of happy holiday audiences. But one was allowed to fail in those days, not like now when everything costs so much money. It was a truly creative time then, so many more productions, so much more energy. And what performers we had. My first play, and there I was, sharing the boards with Arthur Page Anderson and Lillie St. Germaine. There were giants then. Giants.”
Tuck had ended this pronouncement with a hand thrown up theatrically, as if he were tossing a bouquet of flowers into the air
or concluding a tango. Nobody else at the table paid any attention except for the DA character who sat a few seats away, quietly nursing his drink and watching Molly, who wished he would just go away.
The waiter returned with their food and drinks. Nell tore into her key lime pie. Molly tentatively tried a ringlet of her calamari and was surprised to find it pretty good, if a little rubbery.
“Tell me about my grandmother,” she said, offering Tuck a piece that looked suspiciously like a tentacleâprobably because it was one.
“Oh, Margaret was a darling,” said Tuck, “very earnest, very nervous about her part, but funny, always joking around. She had a wonderfully raucous laughâlike a horse, I used to kid her. Then those reviews came out. I didn't see her much after that, except on stage. She hid in her dressing room until we closed, poor thing.”
“Did she ever talk about her family, about where she had come from originally?”
“Not that I recall.”
“She left us a ring with a big stone. Do you remember it? Do you know where she might have gotten it?”
“Have not a clue. Who could notice jewelry when there was Margaret to look at? She was dazzling.”
So much for that, Molly thought.
“You know,” Tuck went on, “when I first met Margaret she had stars in her eyes. It was amazing. I mean you could actually see them twinkle. I wouldn't have thought that a few bad reviews could destroy her, but you never know about people. Margaret really took it to heart. A few months after we closed, I ran into Dickie on the street, and he said she still wouldn't even come out of the apartment. Then they got divorced and I never saw her again.”
“Dick Jellinek.”
“Yes, that was before Dickie changed his name.”
“Dick Jellinek changed his name?” exclaimed Molly.
“Of course. What kind of career could you have with a name like Jellinek in those days? And Maggie really was a laughingstock for years after we bombed so badly. I suppose Dickie got tired of people thinking about her when they saw him. So somewhere along the line he became Dick Julian, and did a lot better.”
“You mean he kept on acting?”
“He was an actor, my dear,” exclaimed Tuck. “What else would he do?”
So that was why Richard Jellinek had vanished from the
Theatre World
annuals, Molly realized. He had become someone else. Richard Julian.
“Dickie was a leading-man/best-friend type, quite a competent fellow,” Tuck went on. “And very attractive. He and I even did a few shows together in the sixties, then Dickie was off in Hollywood for a while doing television dramas. But he was basically a creature of the stage and always made his way back to New York.”
“Do you know where I can find him?” said Molly, excitedly. “Is he alive? Is he still working? I'd love to talk with him.”
“Oh, Dickie hasn't been around for years and years,” clucked Tuck. “God only knows what's happened to him.”
“Maybe Equity would have an address or a contact for him,” said Molly.
“Well, I know his agent was poor Burt Wolfanson at Ajax Bowles if that's any help.”
“Not really,” said Molly her heart sinking.
“You know who might know is Bobby Prince,” declared Tuck, snapping his fingers dramatically (Molly suspected that everything Tuck didâdown to and including setting his alarm clock and tying his shoelacesâhe did dramatically).
“Is Bobby Prince an actor, too?” she asked.
“Oh, indeed. And just as beautiful as Dickie. His name was
originally Plotkin, as I recall. Anyway Bobby and Dickie were always up for the same parts and they became inseparable. I'd see them at the same auditions and the same bars. They were always hanging around together. If anyone would know what happened to Dickie it would be Bobby Prince. He's been retired for years, but I shall track him down and give him a call on your behalf this very instant. It's the least I can do.”
“It's not too late to call?” said Molly. Her watch had stopped hours ago, but it had to be after midnight.
“Of course it's too late, but this is for old times' sake. Now who would have his number? Nick Lawlor? Suzy Winston? Chita? I'll have to check around.”
Obviously relishing the prospect of waking half the people in New York, Tuck bounced up from his chair and headed toward a bank of telephones near the restrooms. Someone turned up the volume on the jukebox, which was blaring show tunes. A guy from another table came over and without a word pulled Nell off to a small open area where people were dancing. Molly nervously watched her go, then looked over to find herself alone at the table with the unpleasant actor who had played the DA in the play.
“Why doesn't your sister talk?” he said, taking a sip of his scotch.
“I'd rather not go into that if you don't mind,” said Molly, trying to be polite. “It's very complicated.”
“You're her keeper?”
No, she didn't like him at all.
“I'm her sister,” Molly said evenly and turned away, using every ounce of body language she could muster to let the man know how she felt about him. It didn't work. He scooted over into the chair next to hers.
“You live together in North Carolina?” he asked.
“How did you know we're from North Carolina?”
“You mentioned it. Liz asked if you were from the moon. You said North Carolina, though I could tell anyway from your accent.”
“I don't have any accent. Y'all are the ones with accents. Do you always listen to other people's conversations?”
“Sometimes. So how long have you been taking care of your sister?”
“What is this? An interrogation? The play is over. You're not really a courtroom lawyer, you know.”
“I am, actually.”
Molly gave this the look it deserved.
“No, it's true,” he said, cracking a smile, the first one Molly had seen from him, onstage or off. “I was an assistant district attorney in Stamford, Connecticut. The woman who wrote the play you saw tonight served on a jury of a case I tried. When Longwharf first presented
Bank Street Story,
they couldn't find anybody believable for the prosecutor so she persuaded the producers to give me an audition. I hated my job and desperately wanted to change my life. They offered me the part, and I grabbed it. When the play moved to Broadway, I came along. My name's David in case you didn't read your program. David Azaria.”
“Molly O'Hara. As I'm sure you've overheard. I enjoyed your performance tonight. Sort of.”
“Thanks. Sort of.”
They sat in awkward silence for a moment.
“So are you going back to being a lawyer when the play closes?” Molly said finally, just to get him to stop staring at her.
“Nope,” he said. “Not that I like acting so much. The rehearsals are great, but after the first month of performances I was so bored I was ready to shoot myself. Then I started appreciating it from a deeper perspective. Doing the exact same sequence of actions, night after night, can be very Zen if you let it. Like the
Japanese tea ceremony. I'm using the time to learn more about the craft. Already casting directors are fighting over me for daytime TV, and I'm doing voice-overs.”
“Voice-overs?”
“Narration for documentaries, commercialsâthat sort of thing. Eventually I'd like to direct, but already I'm making more money now than I ever did as a prosecutor. And having a lot more fun, which is the point, isn't it?”
“You mean you don't believe that being an actor is the single most important thing in the history of the world?”
He smiled again.
“I just prefer to spend my time entertaining people than sending them to jail. You still haven't answered my question.”
“Which was?”
“Why is your sister your responsibility?”
“Because she's my sister,” said Molly. “We don't have any other family.”
“She lives with you.”
“Yes.”
“What about work?” asked David Azaria, taking another sip of his drink and staring at her with the same cold calculating expression. “What does she do when you're at work?”
“We work together. We have an antique shop. Look, why are you so interested in my sister and me?”
“What about dates? Does she go out on dates with you?”
“I don't goâ” Molly stopped, flustered.
“You don't go out on dates,” David said, finishing the sentence. “Have many friends, people you get together with?”
“Sure I have friends.”
“Name a few.”
Molly didn't say anything. Besides Oscar, who she didn't see
socially, and Taffy, who she didn't see unless she had to, Molly couldn't think of anyone who even knew she was alive, except for the dealers who were her professional competition.
“In other words, you're sacrificing any chance to have a normal life so you can take care of your sister,” said David in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Why?”
“I'm not doing any such thing. And I don't see how it's any of your business.”
“I don't care if you lie to me. I'd just like to know why you're lying to yourself.”
“Because what happened to her was my fault,” snapped Molly, then brought her hand instantly to her mouth.
She couldn't believe she had told him. She'd never told anyone, not in all these years. And now she'd blurted it out to a stranger in a bar, a stranger she didn't even like.
“What happened to her?” he asked after a moment.
Molly shook her head.
“Come on,” he pressed. “You want to tell someone. I can see it in your eyes. Who better than somebody you're obviously planning never to see again?”
Molly didn't intend to tell him anything. She was surprised therefore to hear herself talking.
“When Nell was a little girl she saw someone murder our mother, if you must know.”
“How was that your fault?”
“Because she was supposed to be with me,” said Molly angrily. “I was supposed to take her with me to the movies that day. But my friend Taffy didn't want to be bothered with my little sister and I let her talk me into leaving Nellie at home. If I had taken Nellie with us like I was supposed to, she never would have seen what she did.”