I'm Glad About You(64)

Alison remembered how at Dennis’s Christmas party Van had proved herself so adept at the art of inflicting wounds in public.

“Well, I want to hear about the theology,” Martin announced. “An actress, arguing theology! You don’t see that every day.”

“She’s quite intelligent,” Kyle stated. He wasn’t looking at her.

“I’m sure.” A cute chuckle from that f*cker Martin, what an *.

“The best actors are brilliant, they have to be, to understand Chekhov, Shakespeare, Molière,” Kyle informed him. “You can’t approach the world classics without some spark of genius.” That was her argument, made years ago how many times in the face of his insistence that she’d be throwing her life away. “What would the world be without our great artists? Or our great actors?”

“You’re on television, aren’t you?” This from the cheerful woman in the houndstooth, Alison hadn’t even met her yet.

“I don’t know if I’d call that brilliant,” said Martin.

“I wouldn’t either,” Alison agreed. “It’s a good job, though. I get health insurance.” This was meant to be a joke, but Kyle did not look up from the glass of wine he was refilling with such concentration and diligence. His face was set, severe. Was he angry?

“You’re being much too modest,” Van insisted, kissing that blonde child on the head.

“I’m an actor, we’re not a particularly modest tribe.”

“Do you see that as being your goal, then?” Kyle finally lifted those pure gray eyes of his. She’d seen that look before. He was angry, but not at the creeps who kept pawing at them. He’s mad at me, she realized.

“I—it’s more of a job, I don’t know about goals,” she stuttered.

“Meaning?”

“Well, television shows don’t last forever.”

“But you’ll stay in television.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Somebody lobbed that one in from the back of the crowd. “They pay like, crazy money, don’t they?”

“Who are you people?” Alison laughed lightly, to let them know she was kidding, or maybe the laugh was just to take the sting out of the fact that she wasn’t kidding. “Do you really hang out in Ohio and speculate on what television actresses make?”

“What do you make?” This from one of the men. They had all gathered around her, like she was a science exhibit.

“What do you make?” she tossed back.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.”

“What are those things you aren’t supposed to talk about, at dinner?” Van asked.

“Politics and religion,” Martin answered.

“And money,” Van finished. Underneath that angel in the house, there was something implacable and she was not happy. Having started it all, this whole scene wasn’t going the way she wanted.

“They already broke the rule about religion!” Martin protested. “All bets are off.” The assorted party guests chuckled at this shrewd point.

“We weren’t talking about religion at all,” Kyle said. “We were talking about art.”

“I don’t know if I’d call what I do art,” Alison countered.

“You used to.”

“You gotta eat.” Now that idiot Martin was stepping into this on her side? How could this keep getting worse? All the other guests were nodding; this was a version of the world they understood. Being an actor was a ludicrous idea unless you were on television making a lot of dough.

“I still want to do Chekhov, is that what you’re asking?”

“You still want to do Chekhov?” Kyle was implacable, and unamused.

“Doing television is hardly selling out. If I get big enough, they’ll pretty much let me do—all the things—I want to do.” This was such crap she couldn’t believe she had actually said it. But it was what they all said; every actress she knew who was stuck on a shitty television show at one point or another ended up explaining to anyone who would listen that she had bigger dreams than sitting in a trailer all day for the chance to wear pretty dresses and spout bad dialogue. Besides, putting her in a position where she had to defend her choices to a bunch of strangers was really the limit. They didn’t even know each other anymore! “And television isn’t exactly a wasteland,” she added. “The best storytelling in America is happening on television.”

“I just thought you had bigger dreams,” Kyle said. The thread of bitterness lying under all of it revealed itself, pricked her.

“I thought you did too,” Alison countered. “I thought you were going to South America to set up health clinics.” Kyle’s jaw stiffened, another one of his tells. But who was he, after all, to judge her?

“Oh, sure,” said Martin, that charmer. “South America!” He laughed, as if he even knew what any of this meant.

“It’s true, it’s the whole reason he wanted to be a doctor, it was all tied up in this idea of service to the poor,” she announced. “God’s calling. He wanted to take care of the masses.”

“Well, there are certainly masses of people down at Pediatrics West,” Houndstooth Woman observed. “Everybody’s still out there having babies.”