Chapter Text
It must be five minutes before Frank realizes he’s still pacing back and forth along the road, turning each time the fence ends. The ground is not merciful, leaving pebbles in the grooves of his shoes with each step. He can’t care less about those shoes. He spent far too much money on them years ago and has worn them on a disgusting three occasions. That could be one reason he brought them with him to the streets of New York; he just wanted the memory of them to suffer.
The house in front of him, familiar yet surprisingly distant, is completely dark inside, save for one bedside lamp on the second floor. He forces himself to stop moving and stares up at the window. If memory serves, Frank has—he glances at his watch—thirty-five minutes until any attempt to knock would be hopeless. He swallows his doubt, and the dryness is excruciating.
The stairs feel much steeper than they used to, the door knocker heavier. He taps it once, then twice. Then steps back, almost bracing himself for the moments to come.
For nearly a full minute there’s no answer. The stairs creak tentatively indoors, as though someone is standing just before the bottom. Footsteps, faint at first, finally growing nearer. The knob turns and the door is opened. And there’s Charley Kringas, a few years more worn, but undoubtedly the same man Frank knew better than himself.
He isn’t wearing his glasses. Perhaps that’s why he’s staring at his doorstep in utter confusion, blinking like he must be seeing things.
“Charley,” Frank speaks, noticing how hoarse he is and promptly clearing his throat. “It’s been a while.”
Charley’s mouth is open, but still he says nothing. A look of disconcertment crosses his unshaven face, though he quickly shakes himself out of it.
“Frank. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I have a lot to talk about. Listen, I, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I know you’d normally be out in half an hour, but, please. For now. Can I come in?”
There’s a pause, a particularly thick and uncomfortable one. “You want to come in? Now?” Frank would never call himself a psychic, but he’s getting a strong feeling that Charley is less than thrilled to see him.
“Please,” he says again. “Charley, I’m fucked. I need a friend, okay?”
Charley’s brow tightens, but he steps aside to let him in and closes the door. Once he’s found the switch that lights up the front hall, Frank gets a much better view of his estranged friend’s expression.
“A friend,” Charley repeats. “A friend? Is that what I am again?” He’s careful not to raise his voice, but it’s no secret he wants to. “Because for the last three years, I have been dead to you. Now you show up in the middle of the night, with some other problem you can’t get yourself out of, and all of a sudden I’m your friend?”
“No, I know.” Frank rubs his temple, closing his eyes to avoid having to look in Charley’s face. “My flight was delayed. I was supposed to get in a lot earlier.”
Charley just stares at him, somewhat more quietly, his jaw still clenched. “You know that’s not half of what I’m mad about.”
Obviously. The tension in the room could swallow them both whole. Still, he goes on. “Just let me talk.”
“Why did you come here?” Charley asks, his tone softening slightly. “Why tonight?”
“Look, I’ve had a shitstorm of a week. Mary blew up at me and we’re not speaking. Gussie left me, and there’s no way in hell she’s coming back. And they’re both right for it. I’ve been screwing up for years.”
“Okay,” says Charley. He crosses his arms over his old plaid robe, now far more faded and worn out.
“I haven’t slept. Every night, I just can’t stop thinking, I don’t want it to go on like this. Maybe I became the guy who puts himself before everything.” Frank pretends not to notice how his voice breaks. “I was an ass to you, Charley. To Mary, too. To Gussie, and Frankie, and Beth. But I don’t want to be that guy. I can’t keep acting so carelessly.”
“So you’re here to apologize?”
Admitting that he’s wrong has never been one of Frank’s talents. Especially when he’s fighting a grudge against this man, who seems to have no remorse, no sympathy. But he says it, anyway. “…Yes.”
Charley’s response doesn’t come immediately. He purses his lips, takes a few paces into the living room. Finally, his hands drop to his sides and he turns around. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Am I supposed to thank you? Or just ease your conscience a little?”
Frank’s face contorts into a frown.
“You had three years, man.” Charley bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shouting. “Three. Years. I told myself I wasn’t going to wait around for you to finally realize what an idiot you were.”
“Come on,” he sighs irritably. “I know that. Okay? You’ve always been criticizing me, and you’ve always had to be right. But after all this shit you can’t give me a little grace?”
“I don’t have any grace left to give you, Frank! It’s not my job to forgive you now that you feel bad for yourself.” Scoffing, Charley pushes a hand through the back of his hair. Frank can tell by the way that it sticks up that he’s been lying down, likely reading in bed. “Yeah, I’m sorry about how things ended. And I’m sorry that Mary stopped putting up with your bullshit.”
“Charley—“
“But you can’t just drop people and pick them back up like it’s nothing,” he spits out. “Showing up here with no warning and expecting me to forget all of that. You know, if you really wanted to talk this out, you could have at least called.”
Frank places a hand on his forehead, praying that a migraine will wait until he gets out the door. “I know, but just let me—”
“You really hurt me,” he interrupts. “Not just in the interview, but every time you made me feel like a second choice. Like I was some kind of afterthought. Do you know how much time I spent waiting around and then hating myself for it?”
“Charley, I want to come back.”
This renders him speechless for several fraught moments. When his voice comes out again, it’s remarkably strained. “What are you talking about?”
“Say the word and I’ll do it,” Frank says. He feels sweat start to bead at his hairline. “I’ll quit the deal with Paramount. I’ll come back to Broadway with you. Just say it.”
“You’re not making any sense right now,” Charley replies, taking an unsteady step back. “Why would you say something like that?”
“I’m not kidding. I haven’t felt like myself in a long time, not since I was back here. Please. Tell me to quit and I’ll do it in a second.”
“Shut up, Frank.” There’s a hint of desperation in his tone, like he truly believes his old friend is losing his reason. “You’re not going to do something you’ll regret later.”
“I don’t care about later,” the disheveled producer insists. “I can’t tell you what’ll happen tomorrow, but I can say what’s happened since I gave up on us.”
“There is no ‘us,’ not anymore. I don’t need you as much as you think I do.” This jab is purposeful and out of bitterness, and Charley can’t help noticing the satisfaction it gives him to say it. “It’s a petty fantasy. We can’t just go back.”
Frank wipes his brow and flares out his jacket, suddenly warm and overwhelmed. “Right.” His gaze remains fixed on the floor in front of him. “I know there’s still a lot of stuff. You know.” He motions vaguely. “Between us. But if you ever need something—”
“What is this?” Charley asks. Frank finally meets his eye, hands awkwardly in his pockets. “What are you doing?”
“I…” He exhales through his teeth. “I can’t go home, Charley. I can’t go back to California and pretend my life wasn’t fucked since I left our work behind.”
He has no idea what he’s doing. Whatever compelled him to buy a plane ticket to New York, to make his first stop at Charley’s house, has done him zero favours. All of those hours at the airport and he hasn’t thought once about where he could go after this.
Charley rubs one eye, ignoring the tightening in his throat. “Frank, man. I’m exhausted. And the last thing I want right now is to talk business with you. I need you to leave.”
“Wait. I’m serious, I have—”
“Please,” he pushes. “I can’t do this tonight. I’ve let you rely on me, and take me for granted, and put me through hell long enough.” He makes his way past Frank and opens the door. “I’m not going to be that person again.”
The cold air hits them both, giving Frank an unpleasant chill. “Listen,” he says. “I’ve got to change something. Fix everything I screwed over.”
“Then figure that out in California first.” Charley presses his lips together in exasperation. “I’m not going to tell you what you really want, you know, that’s your job. And I hope you find out what that is.”
Frank bites his tongue and forces himself to walk out onto the step. The moment he does, the door slams behind him. As if his ego hasn’t been hurt enough.
Inside, Charley brings himself to the living room and collapses on the couch, head tilted forward in his hands. For a moment, the room is silent, until a soft pair of footsteps make Evelyn’s presence known. He feels his wife’s hand on his shoulder and tries to ease his shaking.
“Was that Frank?” she asks.
He nods, lifting his head to look at her. Her hair is in curlers and her eyes are tired. He knows she’s been asleep, and more than suspects he woke her up. “Who does that bastard think he is?”
She doesn’t respond, but she rubs his back empathetically.
“He can’t just drop his shit on me like… ugh.” Charley blinks, trying to feign dry eyes, though of course they both know better. “He needs a friend. Fucking hell. I needed a friend when he was still here.”
After settling in California, he’s almost forgotten how busy the streets are, even at night. To simply hail a taxi isn’t an easier feat than it would be at any hour. But ages after leaving the train from Charley's, he finally gets one, and he has one more thing he’s here for above finding a place to sleep.
Mary’s apartment is another sore sight for Frank. She moved here some time after his divorce from Beth and has been, as she puts it, “making do” with the one-bedroom. He pays the cab driver and steps out, hearing her voice in his mind before he presses the buzzer.
It takes a few rings for her to answer, and Frank figures that she’s getting herself into bed, too. But she reaches the intercom and lets out a groggy, “Hello?”
“Hey, Mary. It’s me.”
He almost wonders if it didn’t go through, but her sigh is enough to confirm she heard him. “Franklin Shepard.”
“Do you have time to talk?” he says, closing his eyes and silently cursing the uncertainty that’s plagued his voice.
“If you think I’m going to let you come up here, you’re very, very sorely mistaken. What do you want?” she demands. Her voice is harsh and sober, something he notices immediately.
He breathes in sharply. “I spoke to Charley.”
“Really? And did he speak back?”
“I’ve been thinking about the way things were.” Frank leans against the building’s front door and lets the glass cool his forehead. “I made a mistake.”
“You made too many mistakes for me to name,” she snaps. “And it took you this long to realize it. What did you do after I left your party?”
“Well, your outburst,” he mutters, “coupled with Meg’s trip to the emergency room kind of clouded the mood. Everybody left like the place was on fucking fire. And you were right. I deserved it.”
“Yeah, you did,” Mary scoffs. “You had to fly out here to let me know that?”
“I flew out here because I’d rather not chatter over the telephone for the rest of my life. And I’m past due to give us all a chance. I want it to be like it was. I really do.”
Mary stares at the buzzer on her wall, as though Frank can see the disgust on her face. “Give us a chance?” she says slowly. “You’re ridiculous.”
His mouth drops open. “Mary.”
“No, go to hell, Frank.” She hangs up, not allowing herself to react, only facing the intercom helplessly. He attempts a few more buzzes, but she promptly smacks the button and walks away.
Car horns honk incessantly, somebody revs their engine in the distance, and Frank feels completely hopeless. And restless as a night in the city.
Now pressing his back to the door, he lets his gaze wander past the block ahead. That corner, only a few streets away, is the same one he was always backed up on Monday mornings, when it seemed everybody in New York was on the road. He lifts himself from the building and starts toward it, piecing the rest of the block together in his mind.
It’s in a wave of familiarity, across from the godforsaken corner, that he realizes where he’s headed. The old apartment must not be a ten minute ride from Mary’s. In terms of home, he thinks, she never did go very far.
It’s only natural that that’s where he ends up. Staring at the building with its peeling wood and cracks between the bricks. He can point out his and Charley’s old suite, and the one Mary shared with Evelyn. God, weren’t they all so young. Frank still remembers his insistence, up on the roof, that their futures were starting in that moment. Twenty years ago, who’d have guessed.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s spotted the fire escape and is making his attempt to scale it. His own breathy laugh reminds him that his body’s changed as much as everything else. Climbing’s not exactly a strong suit of his, not like sweet talking and deal making. Though both of those have gone to shit tonight.
Silently praying that nobody happens to be looking out their back window, he climbs each step and pulls himself over each railing, tossing his jacket over his shoulder halfway. By the time he reaches the top he’s sweating through his shirt, but not without a certain sense of satisfaction.
When, Frank wonders to himself, was the last time his old friends met up here? After being evicted, Charley moved in with Evelyn and Frank found an affordable place some streets over. They never had trouble making the trip, and Mary lived in the same place until nearly ten years ago. It must have been after the divorce, stuck in the planning for their next big show. When Mary’s book was taking off. After that, the rooftop wasn’t very important anymore.
He sits back on the AC unit, that old piece of metal he and Charley would loudly curse most hot summer days. The thought makes him smile, but is almost immediately replaced with the words spoken to him tonight.
It’s a petty fantasy. We can’t just go back.
Mary’s voice, crackly over the intercom, rings in now.
Go to hell, Frank.
Yes, he admits, he deserved what happened at the party. He deserved Gussie’s anger and Mary’s castigation. The sleepless nights, the guilt, he knows he brought it all upon himself.
But his two old friends each humiliated him, made him feel that guilt far worse than if he’d realized it on his own. And they only berated him more once he came to apologize. He kicks the unit beneath him, regretting it as soon as the pain shoots through his heel. He’s a damn fool for flying across the country and thinking he could fix everything.
Do you know how much time I spent waiting around and then hating myself for it?
You made too many mistakes for me to name.
What is this? What are you doing?
Fuck, he’s an absolute jackass. He lets out a long, shaky sigh, resting his elbows on his knees. He hasn’t spoken to Frankie in over a year. That’s the only thing he can think of right now. His own son hasn’t gotten so much as a phone call from him since some Christmases ago. Not to mention how long it’s been since he’s actually gone out to Texas to see him in person.
Frank is busy. He always has been. He was busy when Charley wanted to keep writing, busy all those times Mary asked him to come to New York. He left everyone behind in some way to pursue the success he has today. But the thought of Frankie kills him.
Would he come back, if Charley asked, like he insisted he would? After a moment of thought, he knows the answer. No. Charley was right, he would regret it. Everybody would talk. Quitting Paramount would likely ensure he’d never make a movie deal again.
Maybe, if Charley had just snapped him out of it earlier on, he could have done it. If he’d stood by “There’s not enough money in the universe” and they had just continued what they were supposed to. Frank has come to hate Charley’s stubbornness, but he now wishes his partner had only been more persistent.
At last he stands up, absentmindedly leaving his jacket behind. There’s no point in what-ifs, in silly fantasies, in distant hoping. He should have made more time. Carved a space in the future he’d crafted in his mind. He can’t pinpoint the moment it went wrong, not that he particularly wants to. The past six days have been spent within the nineteen years past.
Most roads twist and turn, but only ever go in one direction. He reliably doubts that his, Charley’s, and Mary’s roads will ever intersect again. So he can only go forward.
Frank makes it down the fire escape more quickly than the way up, but also a bit more reluctantly. Perhaps it’s because he’s cooled down, but he knows he is done feeling sorry for himself. He’ll find some crappy hotel, reminiscent of his early 20s, and fly straight back in the morning. Maybe he’ll call Frankie, maybe give it a bit more time. No. What has time ever done for him? He’ll call tonight from New York.
Get the divorce settled with Gussie. Apologize to all of his Hollywood guests, even if they don’t deserve it. Figure out what he’s really looking for.
Even on the ride to his hotel, he can’t shake the sliver of hope that one day they’ll come back to that rooftop, and find their own way to mend things out of all the ways that they’ve failed. Petty fantasies. Dreams that were long forgotten. Going forward. God, how he wishes he were better again at leaving it all behind.