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THREE

“ I knew I was a terrible actor,” Albert says. “I was unable to remember my lines, I felt awkward in costume, and I couldn’t sing a note, which obviously matters on Broadway. But I was determined to get onstage. I was determined for people to cheer for me, even if I didn’t have much to offer. So I went to every open casting in the city, and never booked a single show.

“Of course, I convinced myself that it wasn’t my lack of talent that kept me from nailing my auditions. I was certain that the reason was that I was, you know, a confirmed bachelor. That’s what they called it back then. Wink wink, nudge nudge, this guy’s never getting married, know what I mean? I asked my agent what he thought, and he said it couldn’t hurt. Which was really his way of saying that my bachelor status wasn’t the problem at all, that it was my utter mediocrity that was the problem, but he was a nice guy. I left that conversation with a mission to get married as soon as possible.

“That’s what was in my head when I walked into the Contrarian. I was looking for a book that would help me find a wife. Which, of course, is idiotic, because a book can’t help you find a wife. But I was nineteen, what did I know? The woman working there asked if I needed help, and I said no, I needed a wife. And she said why and I told her why and she said, ‘What about me? I’ve always wanted to be a beard.’ You know, a person who goes out with someone of the opposite sex to give the world the impression that they’re both straight. And sometimes not just go out with, but marry. That’s what the nice lady at the bookshop offered to do. Marry me.”

“Cookie,” Eddie says.

“And she meant it. I even told her that I had a lover, a very talented actor who was starring in a show that I’d been rejected from. And she said she didn’t care, that she knew just from looking at me that we’d make a great pair. She put a sign in the window that said Out to Lunch and we took the subway straight down to City Hall. And that same night, we went to Rudy’s cast party as a married couple. Sure, a few eyebrows went up, especially Rudy’s, but from that moment on, well, everything changed. I gave up acting—I was not missed—and I started working at the bookshop. It was already the talk of the town by then. Cookie was a magnet. She attracted everyone.”

Albert’s voice lightens as he speaks, and his eyes glaze, as if he’s not here in this waiting room, but somewhere else, somewhere happier, a different place and time.

“In those days, everyone wanted a weird counterculture couple at their parties, so for a while, we were invited everywhere. Of course, she was the one they really wanted. I was just part of the bargain. Everyone knew we weren’t married married—we both had reputations and believe it or not, no one mistook me for straight—but for a time, we were on every list, at every party. Roddy McDowall, Candy Darling, Diana Vreeland—they all wanted us around. Even Anthony Perkins and Stephen Sondheim would have us over—oh, Anthony was so cute. The hands on him! I had to swat him away from my business again and again. ‘Perkins!’ I would shout, and he’d just giggle like a maniac.”

“I don’t know who that is—”

“You’ve never seen Psycho ?”

“No.”

“Honest to god,” Albert says. He stands up and begins to pace. “You kids. The point is we were everywhere. We were at the old Loew’s State Theatre, where all the Marilyn Monroe impersonators showed up for the premiere of Some Like It Hot . What was that, 1958? 1959? Oh, and the Copacabana Club, where Cookie saw Little Richard from across the room and wouldn’t leave him alone until he joined us for a drink.”

He speaks fast, the names all running together, a blur in Eddie’s ears. These words, these people, these places—Albert says them as if everyone knows them, as if everyone should, but Eddie doesn’t. He remembers his phone, takes it out, and marvels again at the sixty percent power still remaining. He starts tapping out a list of the names and places Albert is saying. If they are important to Albert, here in this waiting room, then they must be important to Cookie, too. He’s certainly misspelling them, but he can figure that out later. Right now, he just listens and types.

“We waited at Lincoln Center with every queen in the city for Maria Callas tickets in 1965. We stood outside the Plaza to watch the swans arrive for Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball in 1966. We hit Studio 54 in the 1970s, where I stood off to the side flirting with Joe Dallesandro and she wore sequins and danced circles around Bianca Jagger, no matter that they were all twenty years younger than she was. And of course, we lived at Mr Chow in the 1980s, eating dishes of dumplings and talking about our real love lives while the supermodels sashayed around us. Iman, Lisa Taylor, Pat Cleveland. And somehow Cookie always got someone else to pick up the check. Oh, she loved this city. Even when the city wasn’t good to her—even through the Depression, the war, the burglary at the Contrarian, the raids, the lean times, the dark times—she loved this city.”

“Loves,” Eddie corrects. “She loves this city.”

Albert sets his weary eyes on Eddie. “Yes,” he says. “Loves.”

Eddie looks up to see Albert shift his focus from Eddie to the linden trees outside. A mist comes over him, and his breathing slows. The circles under his eyes are dark, and the lines on his forehead run deep. He looks so, so tired. Eddie feels something like tenderness for Albert in this moment. Seeing this man, this unkind, bitter man in such a cloud of sorrow, of despair, makes him want to reach forward, to offer a hand. He does, taking Albert’s hand just as his knees start to shake. He puts another hand around Albert’s back, steadying him, and an image enters his mind: Theo. This gesture is just like Theo’s that day on the curb. Protective, supportive, kind. “I got you,” he whispers, remembering.

Albert sits again. He speaks quietly. “Mr. and Mrs. Gagné were the toast of the town.”

“I’ve never heard of them, either,” Eddie says, sounding apologetic.

“But you have, Eddie. Gagné is my surname. And according to the official wedding registry on file at City Hall, it’s Cookie’s surname, too.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Gagné,” Eddie says, trying it out.