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resume would have led James to believe. A proudly working class kid from a Polish and Ukrainian neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia, he happily answered a fusillade of questions about what so-and-so and you-know-who was “really” like. Leo, sitting across the table from James, snickered and winked an eye, both of them enjoying the spectacle of a group of intellectually snobbish men, accomplished in the fields of architecture, neurology, museum conservatorship, and textile design, gushing over snippets of petty gossip about starlets and pretty boys.
    â€œWhat about you, James? Isn’t there some Hollywood legend whose deep, dark secrets you’re dying to know?” Archie asked, soliciting James’s opinion for the first time that evening.
    James blushed, feeling slightly undeserving of the attentions of a man who had once had an audience of twenty-six million people a week.
    â€œUh, I don’t know. I can’t think of anyone.”
    â€œJames is obsessed with Montgomery Clift,” Edward, the neurologist, shouted from the opposite end of the table, competing for his moment in the spotlight.
    â€œBefore my time,” Archie said.
    â€œSissy Spacek. James’s favorite movie is Coal Miner’s Daughter,” Philip, the textile designer, sneered, an inside joke about James’s home state that went completely over Archie Duncan’s head.
    â€œI’m from West Virginia, not Kentucky, and my favorite movie is The Miracle Worker ,” James protested, wondering how he’d survived so many summers living in close quarters with these vipers.
    â€œThe last time I saw Annie Bancroft was at the Golden Globes. She was complaining about her bunions,” Archie confided.
    â€œUgh,” James sighed, laughing. “You’re destroying the illusion.”
    The wine—a very, very fine vintage—was starting to cast its spell on the evening. Voices grew louder, multiple conversations raging at once. James, still queasy after the long afternoon, was sipping his glass slowly and was nowhere near drunk, but the harsh edges were fading, and he found himself imagining himself lying in bed with Archie Duncan and how the handsome actor, another lonely soul starved for an emotional connection, would respond to his solicitous and affectionate touch, the antidote to Alex’s and Leo’s carnal cravings. Then again, maybe he was drunker than he thought, since he seemed to be slipping into sentimental quicksand.
    â€œOkay, enough everybody,” Alex announced, tapping his crystal wineglass with a dessert spoon, demanding their undivided attention. “I don’t want Archie to go running back to Hollywood saying that all we New York fairies could talk about was Mrs. Robinson’s feet. Armando, make sure everyone’s glasses are full because now we’re going to play a game.”
    â€œOh, come on, Alex. Party games? The Boys in the Band was, what, forty years ago?” Thomas protested.
    â€œThe proper dramatic reference would be Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? ” Alex sneered. “Here’s how you play. Everyone has to tell the story of their worst Christmas ever. Leo, being Jewish, is disqualified, so he’s going to be the judge. One rule. No tired old clichés about looking longingly at the Barbie dolls Santa left under the tree for your little sister. Now, who wants to start?”
    The entire table was in revolt, preferring to gossip with a genuine Hollywood celebrity.
    â€œSince I don’t have any volunteers, I am electing Edward to go first. Proceed without further delay, please.”
    The neurologist’s pathetic tale of witnessing his father back the station wagon over his beloved cocker spaniel Tip on Christmas morning would have been heartbreaking if the doctor, once upon a time a shy country boy from Ohio, could have told a story without sounding like he was reading a pathologist’s report.
    Felix