maybe?”
“No.”
“Hmm. So you’re still not seeing anyone?”
“No, Mom.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so picky. Do you want to wind up old and alone?”
“I’m only twenty-seven,” I said wearily. “But I’ll be old real soon if you nag.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Mom, I have to be somewhere soon. I don’t have time to talk right now.”
“Well, if you’d get up earlier—”
“Agggh!” I said.
“What?”
“We’ll talk next week. About the tickets. I have to go now.”
“All right,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Oh, and sweetheart? Your father says to send him any reviews of the show. Especially if they mention you.”
“Reviewers don’t single out chorus nymphs, Mom.”
“Well, your father would still like to see the reviews.”
“He can’t just look online?”
“It would be nice if you would send them, dear.” Her tone reminded me not to be a bad daughter.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll send some reviews.”
My father and I mostly communicate via my mother. He likes me fine, he just has no idea what to say to me. He’s a history professor. My mother manages a youth employment center. Neither of them is sure how they managed to raise an actress. But to give them credit, they love me, so they try to be supportive of my choices without understanding them at all.
“I have to go, Mom,” I said again.
“By the way, have you heard from your sister?”
“No.” Ending a conversation with my mother is a multi-phase process.
“Neither have I,” she said gloomily.
As family tradition demanded, I briefly reminded my mother that my older sister was always very busy and pressed for time. Ruth was a hospital administrator and the mother of two. She lived in Chicago, and most of her conversation (on the rare occasions when we talked) was about how overwhelmed and exhausted she was. Talking to Ruthie always made me incredibly glad I was a struggling actress instead of a respectable professional and family woman.
“I really have to go, Mom.”
“I meant to ask—”
“We’ll talk next week. Bye, Mom.”
I hung up and got out of bed, intent on leaving the apartment before anyone else could phone me.
As I thought over Max’s life story, it occurred to me that accepting liquid refreshment from an alchemist was not without risks. So I brought my own coffee to the bookshop that day. Due to our very late night, followed by a restless post-dawn sleep that left me looking more like a troll than a nymph from Sorcerer!, it was after noon by the time I arrived.
Max and I had stayed late at the Pony Expressive, examining Darling Delilah’s tiny Philistine temple and further discussing the disappearances. After that, I shared a cab with Khyber Pass and Whoopsy Daisy, who didn’t think a lady should risk going home unescorted at that time of night—and who insisted on paying the cab fare, even though my place in the West Thirties was out of their way. (Not for the first time, I wished that straight men could all be as gentlemanly as my gay friends.) They insisted that paying for the taxi was the least they could do in exchange for all my help. I didn’t really see how I was helping them so far, but I hoped that I would be able to. Although Delilah was the most upset of the bunch, they were obviously a close-knit group of friends, all deeply worried about Sexy Samson’s fate.
And it was clear by now that my help was indeed needed. Although I had no doubt after last night that Max, with his special knowledge and abilities, was essential to solving our strange problem, I’d already noticed that organization wasn’t his strong suit.
“We need to approach this methodically,” I said to him when I arrived at the bookshop. I walked over to the large walnut table, set down a box containing half a dozen cups of carry-out coffee and dropped my daypack on the floor.
“Methodically?” Max repeated.
I nodded a greeting at Saturated Fats, Khyber Pass and
“No.”
“Hmm. So you’re still not seeing anyone?”
“No, Mom.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so picky. Do you want to wind up old and alone?”
“I’m only twenty-seven,” I said wearily. “But I’ll be old real soon if you nag.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Mom, I have to be somewhere soon. I don’t have time to talk right now.”
“Well, if you’d get up earlier—”
“Agggh!” I said.
“What?”
“We’ll talk next week. About the tickets. I have to go now.”
“All right,” she said with exaggerated patience. “Oh, and sweetheart? Your father says to send him any reviews of the show. Especially if they mention you.”
“Reviewers don’t single out chorus nymphs, Mom.”
“Well, your father would still like to see the reviews.”
“He can’t just look online?”
“It would be nice if you would send them, dear.” Her tone reminded me not to be a bad daughter.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I’ll send some reviews.”
My father and I mostly communicate via my mother. He likes me fine, he just has no idea what to say to me. He’s a history professor. My mother manages a youth employment center. Neither of them is sure how they managed to raise an actress. But to give them credit, they love me, so they try to be supportive of my choices without understanding them at all.
“I have to go, Mom,” I said again.
“By the way, have you heard from your sister?”
“No.” Ending a conversation with my mother is a multi-phase process.
“Neither have I,” she said gloomily.
As family tradition demanded, I briefly reminded my mother that my older sister was always very busy and pressed for time. Ruth was a hospital administrator and the mother of two. She lived in Chicago, and most of her conversation (on the rare occasions when we talked) was about how overwhelmed and exhausted she was. Talking to Ruthie always made me incredibly glad I was a struggling actress instead of a respectable professional and family woman.
“I really have to go, Mom.”
“I meant to ask—”
“We’ll talk next week. Bye, Mom.”
I hung up and got out of bed, intent on leaving the apartment before anyone else could phone me.
As I thought over Max’s life story, it occurred to me that accepting liquid refreshment from an alchemist was not without risks. So I brought my own coffee to the bookshop that day. Due to our very late night, followed by a restless post-dawn sleep that left me looking more like a troll than a nymph from Sorcerer!, it was after noon by the time I arrived.
Max and I had stayed late at the Pony Expressive, examining Darling Delilah’s tiny Philistine temple and further discussing the disappearances. After that, I shared a cab with Khyber Pass and Whoopsy Daisy, who didn’t think a lady should risk going home unescorted at that time of night—and who insisted on paying the cab fare, even though my place in the West Thirties was out of their way. (Not for the first time, I wished that straight men could all be as gentlemanly as my gay friends.) They insisted that paying for the taxi was the least they could do in exchange for all my help. I didn’t really see how I was helping them so far, but I hoped that I would be able to. Although Delilah was the most upset of the bunch, they were obviously a close-knit group of friends, all deeply worried about Sexy Samson’s fate.
And it was clear by now that my help was indeed needed. Although I had no doubt after last night that Max, with his special knowledge and abilities, was essential to solving our strange problem, I’d already noticed that organization wasn’t his strong suit.
“We need to approach this methodically,” I said to him when I arrived at the bookshop. I walked over to the large walnut table, set down a box containing half a dozen cups of carry-out coffee and dropped my daypack on the floor.
“Methodically?” Max repeated.
I nodded a greeting at Saturated Fats, Khyber Pass and
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