Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Names: Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis

Year: 1955

Ages: 37 and 29

Heart thrumming with excitement, Jerry approaches Dean's dressing room door. He's gonna be able to go back to Brown's Hotel! He's gonna get to see Charlie again, who never let him down. Who always knew when Jerry needed a comforting word or silent arm around the shoulder. And Lily, and Lonnie . . . Jerry smiles at the thought of her. Although he doesn't want to admit it to himself, there's no use in hiding the fact that he's going to be able to return triumphant. He's no longer the busboy or the failed athletic director. He's not the same scrawny, lonely kid who needed their charity. He's got the world in the palm of his hand now, a partner, a wife, and two beautiful boys.

He makes his presence known and lets himself in. Dean's laying on his couch, head tipped back as he blows smoke through his nostrils.

"Guess what, Paul! You'll never believe it, but we just got this amazing deal to appear at a gala premiere at Brown's Hotel—the one I used to work at— and they're paying for everything. Oh, and they're naming their theater after us!" Jerry bursts out, eager for Dean's eyes to light up, for him to sit up and tell him how excited he is. But that's just the foolish dreaming of a kid.

Dean sits up alright, but there's no hint of excitement in his dark eyes as he says without emotion, "You should have consulted me first." Jerry's heart drops like a stone, and he swallows the lump that forms in his throat as it occurs to him Dean may not go because he didn't ask him.

"I'm consulting you now," Jerry forces himself to say back, just as indifferent as Dean. "Give me the word and we'll do it. If not, we won't."

A pause. A long, slow, breath. Then, words that make Jerry sigh in relief: "Actually, Jerry, I really don't care where we hold it." Jerry's just too relieved that he doesn't stop to think another second about Dean's coldness towards him. Or about the fact that Dean may not have meant yes after all.

###

Three knocks on Jerry's office door bring him reluctantly from his directorial edit of next week's big scene.

"Come in."

"Hi, Jerry. I don't mean to bother you or nothin', but . . . " It's Maxie, and as he comes in he doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, looking around the room and folding and unfolding his arms.

When nothing else is said, Jerry sighs and looks up from his papers. "Mack, do ya have something to say? You're making me nervous just standing there."

"Your partner isn't making the trip." Jerry's heart skips a beat.

"Are you putting me on?"

A sad grimace and, "Look, Jerry, I'm relaying this straight from Dean's mouth. He said he's tired. He's going to take Jeanne on a trip to Hawaii. What else can I tell you?"

"Alright, Mack." Is all Jerry trusts himself to say, for he feels the heat rising to his cheeks, and he stands up swiftly from his desk to face the window away from Mack.

Mack stands there for a few more moments before he gets the message, and just says a soft, "I am sorry, Jerry," before leaving the room. How could this happen? Dean said he was going to go . . . Jerry pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. No he didn't. Now what is he going to do? He's gonna have to show up there alone. Alone in front of Charlie, and Lillian, and Lonnie . . . and the rest of the newspeople who are going to be there. For a moment Jerry considers feigning a migraine or some other phantom illness. No. That would be worse than showing up alone.

###

Names: Dean Martin And Jerry Lewis

Year: 1955

Ages: 38 and 29

Jerry's stomach twists as he hangs up the phone. Did he really just do the same thing that got him into so much trouble just four months ago? He wasn't really doing anything wrong, right? After all, if Dean was here on the call, he wouldn't have said no to the benefit. That would have been suicide given all the shit Y. Frank got them both out of. Right?

Unlike last time, Jerry enters Dean's dressing room warily, and apologetically. Dean says nothing when he opens the door, but his look says it all: affection, suspicion, caution—probably rightly so.

"Hey, pal. I hate to okay this without your approval, but something important has come up."

"Is it a contract?"

"Sort of." Jerry bites his lip. He wishes he had asked Dean to come onto the call, too. It wouldn't have been a hassle for Y. Frank, he's sure of it.

"Okay, then sign it. You'll do it anyhow." Dean says disinterestedly, crossing the room to go back to the Western he was watching.

"No, this is a little different . . . Y. Frank needs our help at the poor-children's benefit on November the tenth." Jerry watches Dean's face in agonizing anticipation, and Dean doesn't even look his way as he responds, "Sure, he's got it." Remembering last time, Jerry sits down beside Dean and says slowly and carefully, "Dean, hold on, now. This doesn't involve money or contracts. This is Y. Frank, the guy who kept our cars from getting repossessed. Do you understand what I'm saying?" The guy who saved both their hides in pure, unadulterated trust.

"Hey, man—I told you. It's okay." A hint of annoyance creeps into Dean's voice as he tries to talk to Jerry and watch the TV at the same time. The ultimate move of indifference.

"Well, I'm gonna ask you to do something for me, so I can rest easy. I want you to stick your big grubby Italian paw in mine and agree that you'll do the benefit for Y. Frank."

With an exasperated sigh, Dean shakes his hand—probably just so he can go on watching his Western—and says, "Jerry, for Pete's sake, I know how important this is. You got it."

November 11-The Day of the Benefit

He stood Jerry up. That meshugener really stood him up. This was their reputations on the line; Y. Frank's trust on the line.

With steam practically rolling out of Jerry's ears, he walks right into Dean's dressing room without so much as a knock.

"You crossed me, Paul."

"What are you talking about?" This shit-heel.

"I'm talking about your handshake. You gave me your word that we'd do Y. Frank's benefit." Jerry can barely keep his voice from trembling in fury as he glares at Dean.

"You're out of your mind. I don't know a thing about it." Dean gazes up at him with a look of feigned innocence.

"Where were you last night?"

"When did my life become your business?" Dean fires back mercilessly, and Jerry finds himself blinking back tears in spite of himself. When did Dean's life stop being Jerry's business? It seems like just yesterday they were closer than brothers: touring the world together, sleeping in the same room together, sharing makeup, sharing towels . . . sharing life. Together both.

"I didn't mean it that way. I mean, I sent notes to your dressing room, your wife, your valet, and your country club. So you mean to tell me you didn't know you were supposed to be at the Shrine at eight o'clock last night?"

No twitch of the lip. No fast blinking. No break in the voice. Just a cool, indifferent lie as Dean says, "Nobody told me there was going to be a benefit." What? How can Jerry even respond to that? Is this really how it is between them now? Is it possible Dean's telling the truth?

While Jerry's staring forward glassy-eyed, Dean's rummaging through his desk for something to write on. He then jots down a note on the back of a typed sheet of paper, and, as if he's talking to his assistant, says cheerily, "Listen, Jer. I need two prints of Living it Up. Could you handle that for me?"

Snapping from his trance, Jerry takes the note and excuses himself. Once Dean's door is shut behind him, he looks at both sides of the note. It's the memo for the benefit he had given to Dean.

Fear, anger, and confusion fill Jerry as he stares down at the paper. Is he losing his partner?