"More than you know," Barbara answered. "Have him call me."
10
A
T THE MOTION PICTURE Convalescent Home and Hospital, Bobo Reisman was known to everyone on the premises as the Mayor. Maybe it was because every morning, rain or shine, he made his way slowly and carefully, so as not to fall and hurt his hip again like last winter, to the bench outside the front door of Reception. Once he arrived safely, which at his age was a considerable accomplishment, he sat slowly, first putting his hand down behind him, then gently lowering himself into a seated position.
"Good morning, Mr. Mayor," Dr. Sepkowitz said as he passed.
"How's yourself?" Bobo asked him, but by the time he did, the doctor had disappeared into the building, leaving only the thud of the heavy glass door as an answer.
"Lookin' fine, Mr. Mayor," Margo Burke, one of the night nurses, said as she came out the door, and Bobo tipped his hat to her.
On the days when Ricky came to visit from the minute he got off the Ventura Freeway and turned the corner onto Calabassas Road, he could already spot Bobo on the bench and know immediately that his uncle was all right. Most of the time he would bring along a picnic lunch from Greenblatt's, and the two men would sit and share a chopped liver sandwich, which they both knew was bad for them, along with a Dr. Brown's celery tonic, which was also not so great but which they both loved. Then, on sunny days, Ricky would help his uncle to his feet, and they would walk haltingly around the grounds, being greeted by the passersby.
"Morning, Mr. Mayor," people would say to Bobo, then they'd nod to Rick and add a wink that meant, Aren't you nice to come out and spend time with an old guy like that? But Bobo didn't notice the others, because all he knew was that his nephew, his Ricky, was there to ask his advice about the business.
"Your dad couldn't understand why I wanted to do the goddamned outer-space stories. Years before that Sputnik was even heard of, I kept telling him, let's make movies about outer space. And wasn't I right? That's all you see now are those goddamned outer-space movies. The one with the guy with the pointy ears. How many times can they make that goddamned movie again and again? The whole crew of that spaceship is so old they should be moving into
this
place, for Christ's sake. It's like I told your dad years ago, I said, You know why outer space, Jakie? Because everybody wants to know what's out there. Are they people like us, or are they little green guys who are so small they use bagels as tires on their flying saucers? Ever hear that joke?"
"I
have
heard it, Uncle B.," Rick said. It was a scorching Valley day, and he was pushing Bobo, whose foot was bothering him a little, in a wheelchair around the labyrinthine paths of the grounds.
"You have?" Bobo asked.
"Uh-huh." Rick watched a young nurse leaving one of the cottages stop to write on her clipboard then reach back and tug something at her waist, probably the band on her panty hose. "The Martian tastes the bagel and says, 'Mmm. This is good, but it would be better with lox and cream cheese.' "
"Yeah," Bobo said, "that's the punch line. But Jesus, you
shmendrick
, I'm an old man, for Christ's sake. You couldn't maybe have pretended you didn't know the
farshtinkener
joke, and given me the pleasure of being able to tell it again?"
"I've tried that with you in the past, and you always say, 'Don't
yes
me. I know I already told it to you. I'm only old, I'm not crazy too.' "
Bobo laughed, revealing yellowed dentures, and reached his veined and crooked-fingered hand back to pat his nephew on the arm. "Don't worry, Ingeleh, soon I'll be gone and you wouldn't need to schlep out here no more."
"You'll probably outlive me," Rick told him.
"God forbid," Bobo said, reaching back to smack him. "I already got a number. I'm just waiting for somebody to call it. You? You're not even married yet, so you can't die."
"And what does one thing have to do with the other?" Rick asked. They were at that part of the walk where he had to push the wheelchair up a small hill, and he was a little out of breath, vowing silently to start going back to the health club on a regular basis. But by the time they were on the level again he'd forgotten his promise.
"What it has to do," Bobo said, "is why should you be so lucky to get out of this life never having been nagged by a wife?"
"Do girlfriends count?" Rick asked, stopping the
wheelchair next to a grassy area with lawn chairs, stepping hard on the brake, pulling one of the lawn chairs over, and sitting on it. "I get nagged by plenty of girlfriends."
"It ain't the same," the old man told him, shaking his head. Rick was always amazed at how, despite his uncle's wizened face, the man's big brown eyes danced with such life. "No matter what all the current cynical, immoral garbage television programs and movies tell you, my Ingeleh, it ain't the same. Listen, Ricky," he said, his brow under his wild crop of white hair furrowing with concern. "How is it you're in such bad shape for such a young man? Can it be a man your age goes up a little hill and huffs and puffs like that? Maybe you should knock off a couple a pounds?"
"I'm all right, Uncle B.," Rick said. "Don't worry."
"Why shouldn't I worry? I already told you you're in my will. You never mentioned if I was in
yours
."
Both men laughed, and then they sat in silence for a long time.
"You listen to me, Rickinue, it's time to make a life for yourself already. You're a big shot, a
shtarker
. And you date little girls who call themselves actresses, who shake a little
tochis
at you, and leave in the morning before you wake up. Right? Right! So what? You may be bigger in the business than me and your dad were, but me and him . . . at least we had something you don't have. A wife. I had your aunt Sadie, a pistol, a son of a gun, when she said 'Bobo,' I saluted. Whatever she wanted, I gave her, because she was a good soul, and we loved each other . . . what? Fifty-four years.
"And your mother, what an angel. A sense of humor on her, and she was crazy about your dad. I got married on accounta them. I used to watch them smooching when me and your dad came home from work, and I
figured that's how it is when you get married. Smooching all the time, so I did it too. Of course, in your generation you get all the loving you want without benefit of a
chuppa
, but believe me"—Bobo was tapping with arthritic fingers on his own knee for emphasis—"believe me . . ." But then the thought was gone, and he sat quietly again.
"Do you want me to take him back, Mr. Reisman?" A tall black nurse was standing next to Rick, who realized now that he'd been staring at the water spurting from a nearby fountain for a long time and hadn't noticed that Bobo had fallen asleep. He'd been thinking about what Bobo said, which though he'd heard it many times before seemed to grab him inside today, as if a hand were squeezing his heart. Or was it the chopped liver? We had something you don't have. A wife.
"No, I'll go with you," he said. "I'll come along, in case he wakes up."
Rick pushed the wheelchair toward the lodge. The pain was just heartburn, he promised himself again. As they got to the door the nurse hurried ahead to open it, and walked with him to Bobo's room. The two of them lifted the old man onto his bed, and Rick covered his uncle's feet with a green-and-yellow afghan he remembered from his childhood, when it used to sit on his aunt Sadie's sofa. As he held the door for the nurse she smiled and said, "He's very proud of you. Brags about your success around here to everyone. I haven't seen all of your movies, but I did see
A Quarter to Nine
, and I enjoyed it thoroughly, I must tell you."
Rick thanked her, then excused himself and walked wearily through the hallways leading toward the exit to the parking lot. This is how it ends, he thought. This is where I'll wind up too. If I'm lucky. And when someone stands up to give the eulogy, is it really going to matter if I directed twelve films or sixteen films? He slowed
his gait just by a fraction to look at the black-and-white stills of the classic films lining the walls of the building. Bobo, he thought, smiling to himself as he moved toward his car, wishes I was married. That's adorable. Every time we're together he gives me a little dig about it, just like every woman I date. That made Rick laugh, a little burst of a laugh, and when he got into the car and turned his car radio to KKGO FM, the jazz station, Dizzy Gillespie was playing "I Can't Get Started with You."
At home he warmed the dinner the housekeeper had left for him, ate it quickly in front of the television, moved the remote from channel to channel, then he dialed the Malibu number and Charlie answered.
"It's only me," Rick said yawning. The antiseptic smell of the convalescent home was still in his clothes.
"You mean you're sitting at home by yourself on a Saturday night?"
"So where else would I be?"
They were having the conversation they called "two really old guys in Miami Beach." It was part of an agreement they'd made with each other years ago. That when everyone else, lovers, spouses, friends, deserted them or dropped dead (anyone who leaves either one of us should
only
drop dead), the two of them would end up together, in a high rise in Miami Beach. Like
The Odd Couple
or
The Sunshine Boys
. After twenty-five years of marriage to Patty Marcus Fall there were no signs that Charlie would ever be alone. And for Rick there were only candidates. Dozens of candidates
"No Mona?"
"No more Mona."
"The long talk?" Charlie asked, and Rick smiled and emitted some air from his nose, along with a laugh which meant, How does Charlie know so much?
"I only know," Charlie said, as if he were reading Rick's mind, "because it's, what? Let's see. Six months? That's usually when it happens. Right? Last night I realized. You met her in October. This is March. I swear, I was thinking to myself, Mona is going to spring the long talk on the poor bastard any minute. And she did. So you said?"
"The usual."
"Ah, yes. 'Don't feel bad, it's not you, it's me. I'm no good for anybody.' So now you're depressed, right? Do I know my customers? Ricky, something's got to give, guy. Maybe it's time, and I say just maybe, for you to think about a little bit of compromise. No one's perfect. Right? You think
you're
such a bargain? So you dump Mona and now you're going to have to go through the whole process of dating again. How do you think Bush is doing? How do you feel about South Africa? And that's only on the rare occasions that you date someone who's even heard of Bush and South Africa. Christ, the thought of those evenings makes
me
depressed."
"Oh, leave him alone," Rick heard Patty say in the background.
"You're right. I'm pitiful, but I'm all I've got," Rick said.
"I don't know how to tell you that if you picked a woman for reasons other than how she was in bed, maybe when you got tired of screwing her and she could speak the English language you'd want to keep her around for more than six months."
"Yeah. Grow up, Uncle Ricky," he heard a voice say on what had to be Charlie's extension phone. It was Charlie's eldest son, Mayer, now how old? Could it be he was twenty? "My dad's right. Anyone can get laid. The trick is to relate to another human being in a loving,
nurturing way. Not exploit them. You're becoming a cliché. The Hollywood Bachelor. It's so trite."
"Well, I can't tell you how delighted I am that I called," Rick said, grinning to himself at Mayer's outburst. He'd changed the kid's diapers, for God's sake, and now the boy was a second-year film student at USC, hoping to follow in his father's footsteps.
Now Patty got on another extension and told both her husband and son to "stop nagging Uncle Ricky, and hang up so I can talk to him." Patty Fall. Now there was a gem, a beauty, his favorite woman in the world. He always said if he could find one like her he'd be married. "Can I pin you down for a night to come over and have dinner with us?" she asked.
"Gorgeous, you name it," he said and wrote the night she chose into his planning calendar. Then he hung up the phone, turned off the television and the light, and drifted into his room to go to sleep. Somewhere before dawn, he moved over to the other side of the bed and remembered uncomfortably that the warm body most recently occupying that spot was gone. Mona. That's who it was, only now it wasn't. Oh well, he thought as he went back into a very peaceful sleep until his alarm went off.
He was somewhere on the Ventura Freeway when his car phone rang. He had had the phone installed two years ago and still that muffled eerie sound of it ringing, like a telephone in a nightmare, never failed to startle him. He was sure he would never get used to simultaneously driving along the freeway and talking into the speaker. It felt too much like science fiction. He tried using the handset, which made it even worse, because then he had to drive with one hand while the other one held the receiver, and when he wanted to change lanes
or get off the freeway, he had no hands left to move the turn signal.
Once he'd been so involved in a telephone conversation that without realizing, he'd changed lanes too quickly and neglected to signal, and the guy behind him in a truck honked his horn at him, cursing. Rick had managed to hear some of what the guy in the truck was hollering. The part about the turkey in the Mercedes convertible on the fucking telephone. And when the truck driver passed Rick's open car, he shouted a final angry curse and spit out the window into the Mercedes. The spit missed Rick, but the point didn't. Talking on the phone while driving on the freeway in your high-priced car made you a Hollywood asshole.
Today it was Carrie in Nat Ross's office. "Mr. Reisman, are you in for Mr. Ross?"
"If this is what you can call in, then I'm definitely it," Rick answered.
Carrie clicked off, and Nat Ross got on the line.
"Rick?"
"Nathan Ross. Studio boss. How's your high-powered self this morning?"