Once upon a time Timothy had been deeply in love with Gertie. The problem was that he was also in love (lust) with half of Hollywood, and it wasn’t until Gertie had tired of his wandering eye (followed closely by his wandering hands) and divorced him that he realized what he’d once had, and given up. The issue was not that his and Gertie’s sex life had not been phenomenal—it was. The issue was that all of Timothy’s sex lives were phenomenal. Back then.
How he had loved being married to Gertie though! God, he’d loved it.
“You have a role, and a play, but no theater?”
“Right. We had a venue in Connecticut, but itjustfell through. Pipes burst and it flooded, and there was major damage. They pretty much have to tear it down to the studs and rebuild. It won’t be ready for summer.”
“Who’swe?”
“A guy I have. Blake. A producer.”
“Uh-huh,” says Timothy, suddenly and irrationally jealous.
“So my question is, don’t you have a friend from high school I met that one time at the opening ofThe Devil in Here? The one who owns that theater on Block Island? Gary Something?”
“Vinny. Vinny St. James.” (No saint, by the way; Vinny was the one who’d introduced Timothy to beer, then vodka, then pot, then for a brief and terrifying time, LSD.) “And yes, he owns a theater on Block Island. But it’s amovietheater, sweetheart, not atheatertheater. I’m not even sure it’s operational as a movie theater right now.”
“It used to be atheatertheater, I thought.”
“Well, yes. A long time ago. It’s not set up that waynow.”
“But it could be again.”
“It would cost a lot.”
“Money isn’t the issue, Timothy. This guy I have, his pockets aredeep. Really deep. Silicon Valley deep. The issue is that we need a venue, and every summer theater planned their seasons months ago, so no functioning spaces are available. Will you talk to him, please, Timothy? Will you at least ask if he’d consider letting us use the theater?”
In his mind, Timothy gives a cartoonlike sputter—Gertie’s favor requests can be outlandish!—but in actuality, his voice remains calm and measured. “Summer Shakespeare people don’t go to Block Island, Gerts. Its whole vibe is down-to-earth. It’s an island of the people, for the people, it’s not really a Shakespeare summer theater kind of place.”
“If we build it,” says Gertie, “they will come.”
“Too soon,” says Timothy, although it’s been thirty-five years since he auditioned for Costner’s role inField of Dreamsand was deemed too young for it. Imagine being too young for something!
“Sorry, sorry. But trust me. This production will be so good people will line up to get to that island.”
Timothy doesn’t point out that people alreadydoline up to get to that island—every day in the summer, whole oceans of people board the ferries from Point Judith and New London and Newport. They just aren’t Shakespeare people. For the most part.
He sighs. “I’ll talk to him. But there’s one condition.”
“There’s always a condition with you, Timothy.”
“Not always.”
“Okay,fine,what is it? A quarter of the box office? A third? You can’t have a third, that’s way too much. Do you really need the money?”
He lets that question sit without a reply—they both know the answer is no, neither of them needs the money, the movies have been more than kind to them both—and gazes at the koi. Grumpy seems to have cheered up; Bashful and Dopey are hanging together; Happy looks, if not exactly happy, at least content. And Timothy now knows what he wants.
“It isn’t the box office. I don’t care about the box office. I want to direct.”
“Sigh,” says Gertie, and Timothy tenses, because this is one of Gertie’s habits he has definitely not missed.
“You aren’t supposed to say the wordsigh,Gertie. We’ve been over this. You’re just supposed to sigh.” He waits. Nothing. He relents. “Okay, why are you sighing?”
“Because I love your directing work, but I already have somebody signed up to direct.”
“Who?”
“Never mind that, Mr. Nosy.”
