THE FAT LADY SINGS by Kit Sloane
Virtue is rewarded only in musical theatrical performances.
—W. S. Gilbert
Margot O’Banion looked across the old oak dining table at Max. The early afternoon sun filtered through the wooden shutters creating bars of light across her companion’s chest. The stripes reminded her of jail scenes in old black and white movies from the thirties.
Max perused the newspaper in the quiet apartment over the remains of their lunch, the thin papers rustling in the silence. Margot sat back and perused Max. With both her roommates out of town, Max had come to the apartment last Tuesday and stayed the entire week. This amount of time together, outside of their working side-by-side on one of his films, was a first. And Margot wasn’t exactly certain she was that comfortable with Max so close by, day after day. It was one thing to edit his movies for weeks on end, but even then he was at one end of the studio and she at another. And the heavens certainly knew, they spent enough evenings and even most nights together, by mutual consent. This time the togetherness was unexpected. This time it was different. She had a different Max to contend with, too. This Max Skull wasn’t hard at work, obsessing over a new project. This Max was bored.
Much as she loved and admired the man and cherished their long-term relationship, she couldn’t deny feeling some irritation. For one thing, the telephone rang constantly. If the noise wasn’t coming from one of the apartment’s telephones, Max’s cell phone went off twenty times a day. Margot’s dreams were punctuated with the trilling of the cell phone’s tinny electronic song. Max seized every ringing instrument and paced about the large living room, growling into the receiver, frowning and gesturing with his free hand.
Of course, they had also done several activities she couldn’t believe they’d actually done, mainly because they’d never had time to do them before. They’d gone to two first-run movies, one a matinee, where Max slouched beside her eating popcorn and commenting on the film, loudly and in a highly negative way. Then Max had finally accepted a long-standing invitation and spoken to second year film students at Luis’s college. The students received his talk about the movie business, peppered with anecdotes and great good humor, with enthusiasm. Their son Luis, tall, dark and as handsome as his father, looked proud. But, Margot noted warily, what Max wasn’t doing, and there was no getting around the novelty of this—he was not writing. He wasn’t taking notes. He wasn’t jotting down ideas at strange times of the day or night on whatever scraps of paper, napkins, newspaper margins, dry cleaning tickets were available. Max seemed to be out of ideas, for the time being, and this was a side of her workaholic significant other that Margot had never before witnessed.
It certainly wasn’t that Max seemed depressed. Margot had read enough popular psychology to know that depressed people were rarely interested in sex. Max, however, had shown even more, not less, affection—no, it was more than that. Ardor, pure ardor, that’s what he’d been showing her during the past week. My goodness, they’d been acting like lovesick teenagers. She felt her face turning warm thinking of last night.
Now, nearly ten days later and with both roommates, Sophie and Ivy, due back from their trips tomorrow, Max talked about moving back to his palatial house in West L.A., the house that no matter how hard she tried, she still hated. He was busy now, right after lunch, trying to talk her, again, into joining him there. Max never gave up trying to change her mind.
“No, Max,” she said. “I don’t care how much work we put into changing that place of yours—and I’ve still got two pairs of jeans with paint on them to prove it—it’s still…ahh…un-homelike to me. I’d rather stay here.”
“Margot, babe, listen to me.” He took her hand, dark eyes searching hers. “It’s time for us to put up or shut up.”
“What? What on earth are you talking about?”
He cocked his head. “You might have noticed that beside us, both Ivy and Sophie are in serious relationships now. I even happen to know that Ivy is thinking of moving out of here and moving in with what’s-his-name.”
“His name is Mark, but, really, she is?”
“Yes. She confided that to me before they went on vacation. She wondered what you’d think about it.”
“What I’d think?” Margot raised an eyebrow. “Goodness, why didn’t she ask me?”
Max shrugged. “Dunno. But then there’s Sophie and what’s-his-name…”
“His name is Ben Estrella, as you well know. He’s one of Carlos Estrella’s star chef cousins. Carlos and Loretta Rose fixed them up. Remember?”
“Yeah, sure. Well, they’re going like a house afire, doncha think? It’s only a matter of time…”
“Before what?”
“Well, before…well, one of them moves somewhere. I mean Sophie might move out, or, I dunno, Ben might move here.”
“Max, what is your point?” He pointed at the newspapers strewn across the table top. “I think you and I oughta look for a place. Some place you like. Some place for us, just the two of us, oh, and Luis, of course, on school vacations.”
Margot stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Of course I’m not kidding. This isn’t something to kid about, babe. So whadaya think?”
“I’m not sure. Goodness. What would Luis say?”
“What would Luis say? Good God, woman, we’re his parents. What’s he gonna think? He sure as hell knows about us. I mean, really, Margot. So what’s the matter with my idea?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it, Max. I’m just surprised. It’s been five years… We’ve been together, but living separately, for five years now.”
“So, cool. Five big ones. Now we’re all grown up. We can make our own decisions. This is my decision. We’ll get some place, something smaller than mine, with a nice guest room. It can be Luis’s room when he’s home. Home. That’s nice.” He smiled at her. “Home.”
“Are you sure all this kind of thinking isn’t because you don’t have a project on the line, something occupying your thinking every waking hour? Maybe you’re just bored.”
Max made a face. “Jeesh, babe, thanks a lot. No, moving in together is not something I thought up to do because I’m bored and between projects.”
“Wow,” Margot said. She felt herself starting to blush. Wow. She reached across the table and patted Max’s shoulder and then moving over, she kissed his tan cheek. She breathed in his scent and kissed him again, settling down on his lap as he curled his arms around her. She could feel her heart suddenly beating wildly. Was this what she wanted, a genuine commitment to Max, something everyone would see that showed they’d decided to be together for always? Well, he hadn’t said anything about “always,” but, still, that’s what this meant, didn’t it? He hadn’t said let’s move in for a week or let’s give it a try or something like that. She felt his arms tighten around her.
“What are you thinking, babe?” he whispered in her ear.
“You’re not going to turn me down about this, are you? We can lease the thing for a year or two, if you’d rather. One of those places where you can decide later whether to buy. Would that make you feel less rushed?”
“Yes,” she said. “A nice lease. By the lake,” she added. “Let’s find some place overlooking the lake.”
“Not the ocean?”
“No, I want to look at the lake, a nice placid view.”
“Well, even city lakes aren’t always placid, but you’re talking about Silverlake, right? Okay. We’ll check it out. Silverlake. Good thing we’re rich.”
“I know.” She laughed and looked at his face. Max’s dark eyes sparkled in the light. “It’s nice isn’t it, being rich and all. And you’re right. A house will be a good thing to spend our ill-begotten gains on.”
He laughed, hugging her tight. “Speak for yourself. My money is hard-earned. So is yours. Just cuz we make movies doesn’t mean we don’t work hard and deserve what we get. Well, at least most of what we get.” He paused. “Still, you’ve gotta admit, that last movie we made was kind of a dog. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t deserve all that dough.”
“Not a dog, Max. Fusion Factor was complex. Not everyone understood what you were trying to say.”
“See, you sound like one of them. That movie critic dude, Roger Hawthorne, said, ‘Whatever the obscure items might be that still clutter up Max Skull’s inner vision, they continue to elude me.’”
“Is that verbatim? You mean you remembered that exact quote from the Times?”
Max nodded. “It’s easy to remember the bad reviews, babe. You know that.” He sat back stretching his long arms toward the ceiling. “A shit review like that doesn’t really bother me. That fool Hawthorne wouldn’t recognize vision if he stepped in it.”
Margot got up and reached for the newspaper, pulling the classified section out. “Well, I’ve never met him, but, I’ll bet you’re right—he’s probably a first class jerk. He’s never liked your films. And, if you were quoting exactly, he doesn’t write very well, either. Now let’s see what’s being advertised. What were you thinking , house, condo, or apartment?”
•••
“Impaled.”
“She was what?”
“Just what I said, mom. Impaled. Zap, right through the top of her costume. Right through the heart.”
“Well, really.” Margot O’Banion shook her head, tossing red curls that had unfurled on her neck.
It was three days since Max had made his startling decision to try a live-in relationship and now she, Max, and Luis sat in second row center in the college theater. A second year student at film school, it was Luis who had invited them to attend the drama department’s rendition of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta, Iolanthe.
Around them people rustled and murmured, making themselves comfortable before the curtain rose. “Are you certain that little story isn’t one of those urban legends, Luis?” Margot asked. “You know, like the poodle in the microwave or that awful gerbil thing. I can’t imagine something as deadly as that really happening, and in a live theater production, too.”
“Yeah,” Max said. “It could probably happen on a movie set, Luis, but not on stage. You heard your mother.”
“Well,” said Luis, “trust me on this one. The singer was impaled on her snickersnee, her Japanese-style sword, right there onstage, right in the middle of the second act.”
“Was it seppuku, ‘the happy dispatch,’ as Mr. Gilbert calls it?” Max’s eyes were still riveted on the program open in his hands.
“No, dad, it wasn’t seppuku. Seppuku is voluntary. This was involuntary.”
“A bizarre accident.” Margot’s film editor’s inner eye envisioned the horrific scene. “So where did this charming accident happen?”
“I’m not sure,” Luis said. “Some repertory group in England, I think. Or maybe it was over here. I dunno for certain.”
“And this was recent?”
Luis shrugged. “Not sure on that either, the exact date, I mean.”
“So it either really happened or it didn’t happen at all,” Max said.
“No, it really, really happened. I know all the details. It was all over the Internet, pictures and everything.”
“Please spare us the details, Luis.” Margot sighed. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves.”
“Oh, come on, babe,” Max said. “Let’s hear the gory details. Maybe there’ll be a screenplay in it for me. I need some inspiration.”
“Max!”
“Well,” Luis began, “okay then…” and as he said “okay,” the house lights dimmed and from stage left the black tie-clad conductor made his appearance to sporadic then increasing applause as a single spotlight caught and followed him making his way to the conductor’s podium.
“You’re saved by the bell, babe,” Max whispered in Margot’s ear.
The murmur of voices stilled. There were various sounds as people settled down, coughing their last cough, folding their programs, and then all eyes turned toward the stage.
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