A MISSED CUE

Copyright 2024 by Alexandra Y. Caluen. All Rights Reserved. This author does not consent to the harvesting, analysis, or re-use of this media by or for machine-learning or generative AI purposes.

I.

Not everybody on Broadway landed a summer gig in the Catskills, or the Poconos, or doing summer stock, or even on the straw-hat circuit. Sam and Miriam, therefore, played host to an array of stray hoofers, singers, musicians, stagehands, and others every year at the Fire Island cottage they’d managed to buy after their 1934 play hit. Fortunately, all this month’s guests but one had already returned to the city or gone on to a gig they did land. There was no one to notice when the last one left, or how, or why.

Tommy didn’t make a scene about it, but he left fast.

Sam was sitting on the porch swing, staring at the view (the textured horizontal strata of scruffy yard, wooden fence, beachgrass, sand, and ocean always soothed him) when Miriam joined him. “What the hell just happened?”

“Tommy left.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Why?”

“I guess I read it wrong.”

“You mean, oh. Oh no. That prick-teasing son of a bitch.” Miriam, the best woman in the world, plopped down on the nearest deck chair and stared at her husband.

Sam choked back a laugh, then lifted his glass, noticing that barely a mouthful of gin remained. He savored that mouthful. “Is he?”

“He’s got his arm around your neck, he’s kissing your face, he’s calling you sweetheart. What else were you supposed to think?”

“Not what I thought, I guess.” Sam leaned over to set the empty glass on the polished, squared-off chunk of tree that served as a side table, then patted the space beside him. “Come over here, would you? I need a cuddle.”

“Boy, I’ll bet.” Miriam joined him, fitting perfectly under his arm as always, her rounded hip warm and comfortable against his. “So what happened?”

“We were sitting here talking about the new play. He was making a pitch for another song and dance number in Act I. Had his hand on my thigh. Patted me, you know, but left his hand there. So I turned my head, and his mouth was right there, so I kissed him. And he just about fell off the swing getting away.”

“Oh, hell, honey.”

“Now I guess we have to wonder if he’s going to back out of the play. Or try to get us canned.”

“He can try,” Miriam growled. “We’ve got a contract. The producers hired us and Tommy as a package deal.”

“Good thing we wrote his big hit, huh?” Sam sighed. “And it’s a good thing there’s still a month before we all have to see each other onstage.” They were quiet for a moment. “Who’s coming next week?”

“I don’t remember. Another gang of freeloaders.” They both laughed a little. Miriam snuggled closer. “We’re good for it.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll get myself together by tomorrow.” He kissed the top of her head. “Lucky to have you. I love you.”

“I love you too. Feeling a little guilty.”

“Guilty? You? Why?”

She answered indirectly. “I’ve got everything I ever wanted. Two beautiful little brats who have four living grandparents and two great-grands to take them off my hands in the summer, a husband who not only lets me write with him but puts my name on the work, and I never have to touch a penis again.”

Sam laughed long and hard. He felt Miriam giggling along with him, gave her a squeeze. Eventually said, “You’d kill me if I tried to steal your copyright.”

“You better believe it.”

II.

Tommy had never been so grateful for his Packard. Since the novelty wore off, he’d sometimes regretted the purchase; parking was a chronic problem. But he’d driven himself to Fire Island, so he could drive himself away. Since driving required his attention, he couldn’t spend that time losing his mind about Sam, and the porch swing, and the kiss.

Unfortunately, once he got to the city, he lost his mind a little. If he went home, he’d be alone, with nothing to do except wonder why that happened. So he drove to his friend Roberta’s Upper West Side apartment building, left the car with the doorman, and took the elevator up. Then he stood in the hall, wondering what he was doing. They weren’t the kind of friends who dropped in on each other. His building had a telephone. He should go home and call her. Should turn around right now, go back downstairs, get his car, and go home.

He'd actually turned and taken a step away when the door opened behind him. “Tommy?” He looked over his shoulder. Roberta’s expression changed from puzzled to concerned. “What’s wrong? Come in.”

So he went in. And he told her everything, panicking the entire time because this was not something you told anyone, much less a woman, especially not a woman who was backing your new play.

“Oh, God,” he said as realization hit.

Roberta reclined in her chair, showing no signs of shock or disgust or even judgement. If anything, she seemed amused. “Now what?”

“The play.”

“For Christ’s sake, Tommy, don’t worry about that. Sam and Miriam are professionals. He made a pass, you didn’t want to catch it, he’ll probably never mention it again. You don’t have to either. Though frankly, I’m astonished.”

“What?”

“I would have sworn you and Sam were made for each other.”

“We’re what?”

“Tommy.” She leaned forward. “You’ve worked in the theater since you were thirteen. That’s, what, fifteen years? So you know plenty of men who’d rather be with other men than with women. Right? And plenty of women who want nothing to do with men. I’m one of them.”

He caught himself before barking out yet another pointless query. Frowned as he considered Roberta’s social career since her debut, ten years ago now. After she graduated from Vassar, there had been a new suitor every year. Always either rich or with expectations. Usually someone socially acceptable, though there had been the Jewish man, and the Spaniard. “You don’t want to get married?”

“God, no. I’ll have to soon, I suppose,” she said. “My parents think a woman unmarried at thirty should be shipped off to an asylum.” They sat there staring at each other. Tommy didn’t know what to say. Because what made him lose his mind when Sam kissed him was that he felt something, and that had never happened before.

He’d kissed girls plenty of times. It was pleasant but didn’t produce the burning urge to mate that seemed to plague so many men. Tommy was relieved, because he wanted to focus on his career. Was it possible he’d simply been kissing the wrong people?  Why wasn’t this idea making him feel sick? Shouldn’t he want to run to confession?

Finally, at a loss, worried and confused and deeply grateful that of all his friends, he’d come to this one, he said, “What should I do?”

“Well.” She stared at him for another few seconds. “You could marry me.”

III.

It was such a delicious scandal. Unbeatable publicity for the new play. No one really expected it to last; even if Tommy Hayes and Roberta Van Dorne made it to the altar, they were an unlikely pair.

Or maybe not, because she showed up at rehearsals, kept quiet while the cast and crew worked, spoke briefly but affectionately to Tommy before leaving, then sent her notes by messenger to Sam and Miriam. Since she had quite a lot of money on the line, they had to pay attention.

"It's impossible to be offended, I suppose,” he said grudgingly, holding yet another slip of paper covered with cogent and useful suggestions.

Miriam laughed. “I guess an English degree is worth something after all.” Sam made a disgruntled noise and tossed the note onto his desk. Miriam eyed him. “It’s very interesting that of all the good-looking young women with money in New York, Tommy gets engaged to the one who I would have bet would never marry.”

“Stop it.”

“No, really,” she insisted. “It’s a classic lavender marriage. Two high-profile people under pressure to conform, with enough common ground and genuine goodwill to make the effort. If they can go through the motions long enough, they’ll both be safe from unpleasant rumors. Safer, at least. Plus.” She reached over and poked the stack of rehearsal notes from Roberta. “Looks like she’s been building up a good head of steam to be an effective producer. Nobody’s letting a single girl do that, not even one like her.”

His clever wife had a point. Sam nodded. “She’ll be dug in by the time they get divorced.”

“Don’t assume they will,” Miriam said, smiling with a few too many teeth. Sam faked a cringe; she sat back, relaxing. “He’s been fine with you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Never mentioned Fire Island, I guess.”

“Nope.”

“He doesn’t seem different around other people.”

Sam rolled his eyes. He wasn’t getting excited just because their star was still friendly. Maybe Tommy went to a lawyer and found out there was no getting out of the contract. He was the kind of guy who’d make the best of it, rather than risking a flop. And if he still touched Sam, still did the arm around the neck and even the cheek kiss, so what? He did that with all the other people in the show.

He did not, as far as Sam knew, knock on other people’s office doors, two weeks before opening night, and ask to talk. He did not then, with other people, close the door behind him and turn the key. Did not then cross the poky little room to stand very close to the only other person in it, who could have heard whatever he had to say perfectly well from a few feet away. “Tommy?”

“Did you mean it?”

Sam refused to pretend he didn’t know what the man meant. “Yeah, I meant it. Been thinking about it for going on four years. The way you’ve always been with me, I thought you wouldn’t mind. Sorry.”

“Are you?”

Sam dipped his head, suppressed a smile, looked up at the star of his show. “Actually, no, I’m not.”

“Do you still want to?”

“Every minute of every day.” Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. Tommy didn’t step back. “You sure about this?”

Tommy shook his head, eyes wide and wet. Smiling, leaning up. Sam bent to brush his mouth across those parted, trembling lips.

The End … for now.