Lives of the Circus Animals by Christopher Bram Page B

some hotshot baby producer seeing it and taking it Off-Off-Broadway. She didn’t even care that Toby was now Caleb’sex. Hope still sprang eternal for Allegra, while for Frank it had sprung a leak years ago.
    â€œI don’t know if Caleb Doyle is a money name right now.”
    â€œThen he should be flattered that we think otherwise.”
    â€œReal flattered, I’m sure. But okay. Why not? I’ll ask Jessie and she can ask him. I can’t promise anything.” Actually, he dreaded asking Jessie. She’d think he was interested in her only for her brother. But then he could never be sure how Jessie wanted to be wanted. She might prefer being used as a means to an end rather than an end in herself.
    â€œAlly, you’re a woman.” She was the wrong person to ask, but Frank needed to talk to someone. “I’m not sure how to read Jessie. If she wants to be pursued, or if I should take no to mean no.”
    The foot dropped to the floor. “Has she said no?”
    â€œNo. But she makes herself only semiavailable.”
    â€œBut not totally unavailable?”
    â€œNot totally, no.”
    â€œThat’s a good sign. I know I like being pursued. But only by guys who I want to pursue me. Only I don’t know Doyle well enough to know if she’s looking for anything serious.”
    â€œDo I look serious?” he asked worriedly.
    â€œDuh? Mr. Sincerity?”
    â€œHey, I can be insincere.”
    â€œYou slept with her yet?”
    â€œUm, uh, yeah. Once.”
    â€œOh.” The single syllable did not sound promising. “But she’s not completely avoiding you? That’s good. Go ahead then. Keep pushing. Let her know you’re available.” She laughed. “At least until her brother sees our play.”
    No, Allegra was not objective here, but she could be humorous about her self-interest. Forget Jessie, he told himself. Concentrate. Work. Fix this stupid-ass play.
    â€œThanks, Ally,” he said and went back to the living room to talk with Boaz about the music.

12
    T he Hudson River raced outside their window, a soft mirror of quicksilver on a bright, windless morning. The high steel gate of the Tappan Zee Bridge swung forward on the left, slowly at first, then more quickly. Then the span of girders shot overhead and the train plunged into greenery: clouds and sprays of fresh new foliage. They had left the sanctuary of the city for the wilderness of suburbs.
    â€œSometimes he talks to me like I’m his only friend in the world,” said Jessie. “Other times he forgets I’m even there. He takes me for granted. Which is a kind of compliment. I guess.” She laughed. “He’s such a mess. He makes me feel practical.”
    It was Sunday morning, and she and Caleb had a Metro-North car almost entirely to themselves. They were going home for Caleb’s birthday. His party was Friday, but their mother refused to come to the city. So they went up to Beacon for the day.
    Caleb sat by the window with several sections of the Times in his lap. Jessie didn’t understand how he could still read the paper that had made his life so miserable. The Sunday edition was the worst. He didn’t read the Times now but listened to her with a mild, patient, vague expression.
    â€œAnd spoiled?” she said. “Jesus. Before the show opened, he was sure it would be a turkey. Gloom and doom, gloom and doom. Then the rave reviews came, but did they make him feel better? No way. Now he complains about how obvious it all was.”
    Jessie was telling her latest Henry stories. She had begun back at Grand Central with the declaration, “You’ll never guess what Henry wanted me to do the other night. Buy him a little pot. And I don’tmean ceramics.” Which was a pretty good joke, she thought, although Caleb gave it only a faint smile.
    â€œHe can’t do life, only art. But he’s narrow even there. It