Say Goodnight, Gracie Page 5

  “All right, Morgan, okay . . . if that’s the way you want it . . .” He stood up and grabbed one of the pillows off my bed. “Why don’t we settle this thing physically, huh?”

  “Physically!”

  “A pillow fight.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  He started swinging at me. “When we were kids, a good pillow fight always got you out of a bad mood.”

  “Well, we’re not kids now and I’m not going to fight you.”

  “Arm yourself, Hackett—”

  “No! This is silly!”

  “Defend yourself!”

  “Quit swinging that pillow at me, dammit! You almost hit me in the face!”

  “I’m not aiming for your face, Hackett.” He swung at me again, and this time, well, let’s just say that this time he caught me south of the border.

  “You’re really asking for it, Jimmy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I refuse to lower myself to your level.”

  “That’s right, Morgan. Let’s be mature about this.”

  He hit me across the shoulders.

  “Jimmy Woolf, you do that once more and I’ll—”

  The pillow came down on my head.

  “All right! You want war?! You’ve got it!” I grabbed the other pillow off my bed and hit him in the stomach. He countered by letting me have it across the back. After a few minutes of vigorous warfare I was helpless, completely out of breath. I collapsed on the bed. So did Jimmy.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay. You win.”

  “Morgan . . . listen . . . I still can’t believe I acted like such a jerk yesterday. God, you’re the last person in the world I’d want to hurt.”

  I stared at the ceiling. “I know. It’s okay. All is forgiven.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sometimes I think . . . sometimes I worry that, you know, the older we get, the more we pull away from each other.”

  “We’re not pulling away from each other.”

  “Aren’t we? Our lives are already starting to go in different directions. It’s just going to be hard for me, that’s all, when you do go on tour with a play and aren’t around anymore. . . .”

  He leaned on his elbow and looked at me. “Morgan, are you going to cry?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes, you are—you’re going to cry.”

  “I am not.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you have a sense of the dramatic?”

  “Only you,” I said.

  “It’ll come in handy when you get your first big break.”

  I grabbed my pillow and gave him a final whack.

  “Looks like things are back to normal,” my aunt said. She was standing in the doorway putting on her earrings. She looked beautiful: Her hair was pulled back with a silver barrette, the earrings were diamonds, as was her bracelet, and she wore a tailored silk blouse and a long skirt. I could smell her perfume from the bed.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “I look okay, then?”

  “I’ll say. Where’d you get those diamonds?”

  “I’ll tell you when you’re older. Why don’t you both come downstairs. Dinner won’t be too long.”

  Jimmy jumped off the bed and grabbed my hands and pulled me to my feet. “Come on, Hackett. Let’s party.”

  “Do you mind if I finish getting ready?”

  “Go ahead.” He started out the door. “Don’t listen to a thing she says, Dr. Hackett. She attacked me! She had me pinned to the bed, and for a second there I didn’t know what she had in mind—”

  “Jimmy, just go cram a few thousand Ritz crackers into your mouth so you can’t talk, okay?”

  “Okay. See you in a minute.”

  After he was gone, I said to my aunt, “How come you didn’t tell me he was coming?”

  “It was a last-minute thing,” my aunt said. “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, anyway . . . I guess you were right. About Jimmy and me, I mean. . . . I guess our friendship’s stronger than I thought.”

  “You and Jimmy really have something special going for you.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And it only took me seventeen years to realize it.”

  9

  “Well, now . . . Dr. and Miss Hackett,” my father said when my aunt and I came downstairs. He took my aunt’s hands and twirled her around. “Pretty dressed up, Loey—anyone special coming tonight?”

  “Maybe,” my aunt said.

  “Morgan tells us you’re going with someone from the hospital. When do we get to meet him?”

  “He’ll be here tonight.”

  “Oh?” My father looked at me and winked. “Maybe I should ask him if his intentions are honorable.”

  “I can save you the trouble,” my aunt said. “They’re not.”

  “Sounds like I better have a little talk with this guy—”

  “You do,” my aunt said, pulling him close, “and I will cheerfully plant an axe between your ears.”

  My father and my aunt always sound like they’re playing war games, but they’re really very close. And when my aunt’s date did arrive, my father was the one who greeted him and introduced him to my mother and Mr. and Mrs. Woolf. Jimmy went up to him and shook his hand right away, but I went over to the bar and took more time than I needed pouring myself a Coke. It’s just really hard for me to meet new people, but I noticed that Dr. Petrie seemed a little shy, too. I couldn’t picture him specializing in emergency medicine and buzzing around the hospital the way he probably did.

  I took my Coke and went over to the couch, where my mother and Mrs. Woolf were sitting.

  “What do you think of him?” I asked. I sat on the edge of the coffee table and helped myself to a handful of Cheese Puffs.

  “He’s very attractive,” my mother said. “How serious is it? Has she said anything to you?”

  “Well, they gave each other flu shots, if that means anything.”

  “Your mother’s already planning the wedding,” Mrs. Woolf said. “You get to be maid of honor and I get to be in charge of the bridal shower.”

  My mother took another look at Dr. Petrie. “They’d have great-looking kids together.”

  “God, Mother!”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you think you’re rushing things a bit?”

  “Face it, Morgan,” Mrs. Woolf said. “Your mother’s an incurable romantic. You should have heard her the week you and Jimmy were born. We were still in the maternity wing at the hospital, and she was all set to arrange a marriage between you two—”

  “Jimmy and me? No. Absolutely not. There is no way we’d ever—”

  “Okay, so I’m a romantic,” my mother said. “I like the idea of two people being meant for each other, the idea that you and Jimmy would grow up together and maybe someday . . . well, anyway, the two of you looked so cute, lying right next to each other in the hospital nursery—”

  “Please!” I turned to Mrs. Woolf. “I love Jimmy, but Mrs. Woolf, your son is way too flaky to marry—”

  “That’s funny,” my mother said. “Jimmy says the same thing about you.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s not change the subject here. I just think you should let Aunt Lo live her own life and not pressure her to get married or anything.”

  “Who’s pressuring her? I’d just like to see her start thinking seriously about marriage, that’s all.”

  “I think she wants to try it out before she makes any permanent plans.”

  “Try it out—what does that mean?”

  Mrs. Woolf laughed and put her hand on my mother’s. “I hate to break this to you, Fay, but I think Morgan’s trying to tell you that your sister-in-law and Dr. Petrie are having some sort of torrid assignation.”

  My mother just looked at me. “You mean they’re sleeping together?”

  I choked a little on my Coke. “Mother, no one says ‘sleeping together’ anymore.”

  “No? What do they say?”

&n
bsp; “Aunt Lo and Dr. Petrie are co-vivants . . . on a part-time basis, that is—”

  “Co-vivant—what does that mean?”

  “It’s French,” I said. “For sleeping together.”

  “How charming,” my mother said.

  After dinner, after everyone had left the table and wandered into the living room, Jimmy and I took our coffee and headed for our favorite spot: a window seat at the front of the house. I sat sideways and stretched my legs out on Jimmy’s lap.

  “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, Hackett. Hey, watch it! You’re making me spill my coffee!”

  “You have bony knees, Jimmy.”

  “No one else has complained.”

  “I thought I was the only girl who’d experienced your knees firsthand!”

  “You have an interesting way of putting things, Morgan. Listen—there’s something I want to talk to you about. Since I’m obviously not ready for the big time, I’ve decided to go back to Pheasant Run and do their children’s theater again—”

  “Are you kidding? Last year you said you were through with children’s theater forever. Remember the time that kid bit you on the ankle and you had to have stitches?”

  “Yeah, they should have given me a rabies shot while they were at it.”

  “I remember your exact words. You sat on the edge of the stage clutching your ankle, and you said: ‘Nobody’s this desperate for work. Never again.’”

  “Well, that was before my rather spectacular flop at the Shubert. Anyway, I was telling the director at Pheasant Run about you—”

  I looked at him. “About me? Why’d you think he’d be interested in me? I’m just a . . . what was the phrase you used? Oh, yeah—I’m just a lousy unprofessional, remember?”

  “Look . . . I just . . . I feel really bad I said that, and this is my own inadequate little way of making up for it, okay? There’s an opening for an apprentice out at Pheasant Run, and I thought you might be interested in it—”

  “An apprentice? Me?”

  “Sure. Why not? It’d be fun for us to work together, wouldn’t it?”

  I took a sip of coffee. “Is this a bribe, Jimmy?”

  “Yes, Morgan, this is a bribe. You know I’d do anything to see that smile of yours—”

  “Let me get something straight before I flash anything at you that even remotely resembles a smile. You think I’d be willing to work hours on end for no pay? To skip my acting workshops at Second City just so I can hang around Pheasant Run and be an apprentice for a kids’ show? You think I’d be interested in that?”

  “Well,” he said, “No one could ever call you a lousy unprofessional again. . . .”

  I pictured myself on the very lowest rung of the show-business ladder with a long climb ahead of me, but that was okay. As long as Jimmy was on the same ladder I was, the length of the climb didn’t seem too important.

  “How about it, Hackett?” Jimmy said. “You interested in being Pheasant Run’s resident slave?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well? Where’s my smile?”

  “You really are a turkey, Jimmy,” I said, smiling at him. “It’s right here. Right where it’s always been.”

  10

  I started my apprenticeship on a cold rainy Thursday in early November. Jimmy drove me out to Pheasant Run and gave me the official tour about five minutes before rehearsal started.

  “Now, Miss Hackett,” he said, pulling me onstage, “directly in front of you is your audience area. Please keep your eyes on your ankles at all times and beware of children with extremely sharp teeth.”

  “I’ll watch out, professor. Anything else?”

  “I take my coffee black.”

  “Really? You may find yourself wearing it instead of drinking it.”

  In the next five minutes a whole bunch of people came in. I got to meet the director, this young bearded guy named Ben Kubelsky. He handed me an empty coffeepot and a stack of scripts.

  “Welcome to the glamorous world of the theater, Morgan. Jimmy’ll show you where we keep the coffee, and would you pass out those scripts? Thanks a lot; it’s great having you with us.”

  I turned to Jimmy. “He’s kidding, right? I’m not really supposed to make the coffee, am I?”

  “Yeah, Morgan. In between the time you walked in that door and the time you collect your Oscar, you’re gonna have to do all those crummy little jobs no one else wants to do.”

  “Jimmy . . . I don’t do coffee.”

  “Morgan, once upon a time I did coffee, Ben did coffee, and now you’re gonna do coffee.” He went over to the sink and found a can of Chase & Sanborn. He balanced it on my stack of scripts. “Look at the bright side,” he said. “After Ben tastes your coffee, you probably won’t have to make it anymore.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “But I don’t have to like doing it.”

  Jimmy hit me on the arm. “That’s the stuff, Hackett. You’re a real trouper.”

  I made the coffee. I poured it into Styrofoam cups, delivered it to the actors, ran for cream and sugar. I felt like a damn waitress. The closest I came to doing anything “theatrical” was handing out the scripts—Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I saved the last script for Jimmy. I delivered it airmail across the stage. It hit him in the stomach.

  “This is supposed to be the beginning of my great theatrical career?”

  “All right, Morgan. Okay.”

  “Did you see that jerk over there send me down to the gift shop for Rolaids? Why should I be responsible for his heartburn?”

  “Morgan, come on; you don’t have to be so dramatic—”

  “Yes, I do! This is a theater and I want to be dramatic!”

  “You know what you do when you pout? You stick your lower lip out like this—”

  “I’m not pouting.”

  “You want to run lines with me until Robin gets here?”

  “Who’s Robin?”

  “My girlfriend . . . Scrooge’s girlfriend. She’s in the scene where the Ghost of Christmas Past shows Scrooge all the stuff he missed out on by being so cheap—”

  “Yeah, I know the story, Jimmy.” I took the script from him and leafed through it. “What’s she like?”

  “Scrooge’s girlfriend?”

  “No. Robin.”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “What difference does it make? She’s a girl, that’s all. Will you please just cue me on my lines?”

  While I was doing the scene with Jimmy, I noticed Ben standing off to the side watching us. I thought about how neat it’d be if he came over and said something like: “Robin can’t make it, but it looks like you can handle the part. How about it?” Only what happened instead was Ben came over to tell me they needed more coffee, and while I was making it this long-legged ballerina-type girl walked up to Jimmy and gave him a pretty serious kiss. I was so shocked I knocked the Mister Coffee over.

  “Hey, Morgan!” Jimmy yelled. “Robin’s here; I need my script!”

  “All right! Okay! Just a minute!” I grabbed some paper towels and soaked up the coffee. Watching Jimmy laugh like a lunatic with Robin over there really gave me a creepy feeling. I wiped his script off and took it over to him, but I felt like I was butting in on a big private meeting.

  “Is there anything else?” I said.

  “No. . . . Oh, Morgan, I want you to meet Robin.”

  Robin and I smiled at each other.

  “Morgan’s working as an apprentice for the run of the play,” Jimmy said.

  “Don’t worry; it’ll get better,” Robin said. “Ben usually tries to give the apprentices a chance to do some acting before the play closes.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  Jimmy tried opening his script, but the pages were all stuck together. “You got coffee all over this!”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s decaffeinated.”

  I sat off to the side and watched Jimmy and Robin rehearse. I almost walked out, I really did. I hadn’t spent
over a year and a half in an acting workshop just so I could run around getting coffee for everyone and watch Jimmy drool over some Junior Miss reject who was built like a tongue depressor. By the time rehearsal was over, I was fed up with being an apprentice, fed up with the theater in general, and fed up with Jimmy in particular.

  On the way home I told him so.

  “I think maybe it was a mistake. This apprentice thing, I mean. I’m not sure I’m cut out for the glamorous world of the theater.”

  “Come on, Hackett . . . you won’t always be running around on Mickey Mouse errands. Sooner or later you’ll get a chance to act—”

  “How long have you known Robin?”

  “Robin?”

  “Yeah. Robin. The girl who had her lips planted all over you. How long have you known her?”

  “We’ve done some plays together; she’s an old friend—”

  “We’re old friends too, but I don’t go around kissing you all the time—”

  “No one’s stopping you from kissing me, Morgan—”

  “I could play Scrooge’s girlfriend just as good as that toothpick you were mauling. Better, probably.”

  “What have you got against Robin?”

  “She’s just a face, Jimmy, that’s all. She can’t act. . . . What’s so funny?”

  “Are you listening to yourself?”

  “She can’t act! I’m serious! And I don’t think it was too professional of her to sneak up behind you like that and cop a feel!”

  “You’re talking like a jealous woman, Hackett.”

  “Jealous!”

  “You can only keep your hormones on a leash for just so long, Morgan. Then sooner or later—”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Face it, Hackett, some other female has invaded your territory and you’re insanely jealous.”

  “You have an absolute faculty for—”

  “I wish you could have seen the look on your face—”

  “You have an absolute genius for—”

  “—when Robin was kissing me.”

  “—misinterpreting everything I SAY!”

  “I guess it’s only normal for you to feel a little possessive—”

  “Don’t make me laugh!”

  “Why not? It’s pretty funny, isn’t it?” He glanced over at me. “Isn’t it?”