Julian

I. January, Ch. 11

     "You'd think he's an airhead, but you should hear his ideas. Bruce is brilliant," said Roger.

     Roger and Calvin climbed the steps of their apartment building to the second floor, apartment 214.

     Calvin was in no mood for conversations. No matter what he tried, Genevieve wouldn't leave his mind. The memory of her cold shoulder at the PTA meeting sent acid through his bloodstream. Seeing her laughing with Roger as he stood by invisibly nearly sent him on a jealous rage.

     "Cal, are you with me?"

     He looked up. "Huh?"

     They got to the end of the stairs and walked down the corridor to their place. "You have to let it go. She'll get over it. All women do," said Roger.

     It sounded like a fairy tale. Calvin took the keys out of his pocket and opened their front door. "What if she doesn't? What if she tells Marlo?"

     "What's Marlo going to do? Fire you?"

     Calvin winced. "He might."

     "On what grounds? A little schoolyard talk with a colleague?"

     "You don't know Marlo."

     "Neither do you."

     The men stepped into the empty living room, where the most expensive things were the mini bar by the record player and the writing desk in the corner.

     "In here," cried Cookie from the kitchen.

     They tossed their coats on the sofa and followed her voice.

     Cookie was preparing her and Roger's next-day sandwiches. Carrot, olive, and mayo for her and unsalted butter and sugar for Roger. "How was the meeting?"

     Roger kissed Cookie's lips, then made his way to the fridge. "It looks like Julian's putting on a play."

     She pressed a sharp knife down on the bread to cut off the crust. "No kidding. I thought the theater wasn't built yet."

     Roger opened the fridge door and grabbed the carton of milk. "Well, Marlo better do something or he'll get trampled by a stampede of parents."

     Cookie looked at Calvin. "And what's wrong with you?"

     Calvin sat down with his elbows on the table, his eyes buried in his palms. "I have too much on my mind."

     "You wanted to be a teacher," sang Cookie.

     He only wished it was classroom-related. "It's not my students giving me grief. It's her."

     Cookie looked at Roger for an explanation.

     "Genevieve," Roger mouthed.

     Cookies eyes softened. "Oh, Calvie. Don't feel bad. She was a lesbian. What could you do?"

     Calvin could hear the guilt mocking his every neuron. "She's not a lesbian. I just behaved like a jerk, and now Marlo's going to know."

     Roger wiped off his milk mustache with his sleeve. "I wouldn't worry about Marlo. I know how you can make it all better."

     Calvin looked up.

     Roger placed the milk carton back in the fridge. "We're going to write and direct that play."

     Calvin raised his eyebrows. "Taking on more work? That's your idea?"

     Roger sat across from him, excitement oozing out of his voice and hand gestures. "Think about it. The last thing Marlo wants is more work, right? If we get this off his hands, he'll love us."

     "Uh huh. And what do you get out of this?"

     "For one, it gives me a new project for Bruce. Two, it might give my old lady a new job that doesn't require scraping dishes," he smiled at Cookie. "And third, it gives us a chance to showcase our work. It's too perfect. Marlo was practically begging us to do this."

     Calvin's face turned sour. "How would this solve my Genevieve problem?"

     Roger's jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding. Did you not hear anything I said?"

     "I've given up the dream, Stu. I just want a family and a house and a dog and a cat. And let's not get our hopes up. You heard Marlo. We need a sponsor for this and there's a chance none of Julian's benefactors are going to pony up."

     Roger leaned in. "You didn't hear this from me, but I might know more about that stuff than you think. And I think the play is a go."

     Calvin folded his hands on top of the table. "I don't know, Stu."

     "Your boring life will still be there when we're done. Right now, what matters is putting you on good terms with Marlo."

     Calvin pouted in contemplation. "It would give Marlo one less task to handle. All we need is the time to write this thing."

     "We won't write a play from scratch. Remember that one piece we wrote in high school, senior year?"

     Calvin chuckled. He could never forget his first piece. "Was it even any good?"

     "It was. We just have to polish it up and turn it in."

     "Okay, I'm in. Heaven knows I could use the distraction. I'll let Marlo know tomorrow. I just have to get to him before Genevieve does."

     Roger groaned. "Forget about her. We have bigger fish to fry."

     "I can't tap into my creativity unless my conscience is clean. I have to make things right with her first."

     Roger crossed his arms over the table. "I know Vivi. She won't turn you in."

     Calvin saw a spark of hope for the first time. "She won't?"

     "No. She just won't talk to you again."

     It was the world's ugliest curse. "What?"

     Roger threw his hands up. "I thought you wanted to keep a low profile."

     "Yes, but I don't want her to hate me."

     "That's just your ego talking. There's nothing you can do now."

     Calvin tapped his chin. "No, there's one thing I could do. I need to get it all out in the open, apologize, and explain what I really meant."

     "You're saying you didn't mean to make her feel like a conniving, loud-mouth spinster?"

     Anger flushed through Calvin's skin. "Kick me while I'm down, why don't you?"

     Roger put his hands up in defense. "Alright, I'm sorry. So, you're going to talk to her?"

     "Talk to her? Oh, no. I'm going to write her a letter."

     "You're going to mail her a letter?" said Roger, emphasizing every word.

     Calvin found a new sense of purpose that excited him. He stood. "I'm going to hand-deliver a letter. I don't want anything getting lost in translation."

     "And I suppose you want me to be your messenger boy, right?"

     "Wrong. I made this mess. I'm cleaning it up."

     Calvin marched to the living room with his briefcase, took out a notepad and pen, and line by line, poured his heart into the page.