Free The Houseguest by Kim Brooks

elevated. Head in the direction of 14th Street, a southerly direction, I believe. Look for the theaters. The playhouses. Ask the gentlemen there if they have not heard of Jacob Adler. Of Israel Rosenberg. Of Schiller in London. After they nod, and assuming they haven’t thrown you out for an idiot, ask if they know of Ana Beidler of Bucharest, of Odessa, of London.”
    Abe watched her speak, wondering what it was that made it impossible for him to stop watching. Was it the slightly gray complexion of her teeth? The gaunt contour of her cheeks? Or was it the vanity in her eyes—that sickly ghetto fantasy of being not just accepted and embraced by the outside world but also somehow,impossibly, revered? She drank down the remainder of her wine and held Judith’s gaze before speaking. “Ask after Ana Beidler, one of the founding members of the Vilna Troupe, friend of both Jacobs—Adler and Gordin—and watch their faces. Ask about . . .” She paused for a moment, and when she opened her mouth again to speak, her painted lips parted widely, sharply, like the wings of an exotic insect, into what struck Abe as an unnatural, almost deranged smile, one that retreated as quickly as it had appeared. Instead of continuing with her monologue, she looked at Abe calmly, demurely, and asked if she might have another glass of wine.
    He reached for the bottle and found it empty. “I’ll see if we have another,” he said.
    â€œI’ll join you,” said Irene. “To check on dessert.”
    He rose, gave a small nod to those remaining seated, then followed his wife down the hall. There was no door between the kitchen and the hallway, and so they spoke in hushed voices.
    â€œWell,” Irene said, “this should be interesting.”
    He sighed. “It’s only for a month or two. How was I to know Max was going to stick us with some meshuganah actress?”
    â€œA beautiful, glamorous actress. I forgot to get berries for the cheesecake.”
    â€œWho needs berries? It’s sweet enough as is.”
    â€œYou think my cheesecake’s too sweet? I’ve been making it for twenty years, but you wait until now to tell me?”
    â€œI didn’t say ‘too sweet,’” he said.
    â€œYou’re watching your figure now? If I’d known, I would have made a fruit salad. Surely Miss Beidler’s not going to have any; a woman in show business has to watch her figure. It’ll end up in the garbage.”
    â€œThat, I doubt.”
    â€œWe’ll see,” she said, as they passed each other in the doorway. “We’ll see.”
    But they never did get to see what Ana Beidler thought of Irene’s dessert because by the time they returned to the dining room, the place where she’d been sitting was occupied only by a crumpled, lipstick-smudged napkin.
    â€œWhere’d she go?” Irene asked.
    â€œUnclear,” said Judith. “She gave a very loud yawn and then walked upstairs.”
    â€œThe restroom?” Abe suggested. But a few minutes later they heard her come out of the upstairs bathroom and go directly to the guest room, closing the door behind her.
    THAT NIGHT, WHILE Irene showered, Abe undressed, took off his shirt, and studied himself in the mirror beside his dresser. His middle was domed but still muscular. The hair on his chest and stomach was graying but not gray. He smiled at his reflection. He still had all his teeth, a decent face, a respectable hairline.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Irene said, coming back from the bathroom with a towel around her head. “Admiring yourself? You need to put your best foot forward now that we have a beautiful actress sleeping down the hall?”
    â€œThat’s just what I was thinking,” he told her.
    She dried her hair with a rough motion, hung her towel from a hook on the door, opened a drawer, slipped into her nightgown, then walked toward him, stood very close