The Nomination

by William G. Tapply

  Impossible. She couldn’t be that old. That didn’t match her memory. Besides, her skin was still smooth, her face unwrinkled. There was not a single strand of gray in her glossy black hair. She knew without ego or narcissism that she was still the beautiful, mysterious, fascinating Simone who made the movies and became the cult star and then suddenly retreated into permanent reclusion.

  Simone reached a hand up to her shoulder. Jill stopped brushing and gripped it.

  “Are you all right?” said Simone.

  “You know I’m sad,” said Jill.

  “Are you crying?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Please don’t try to give me courage.”

  “I wish I had extra courage to give,” said Simone.

  As she had requested candor from Dr. Mattes, so also had Simone demanded of Jill that she always be truthful and straightforward.

  When Jill had first come to live here in their retreat in the Catskills, the young nurse had been a passionate lover. As Simone’s disease had progressed, their love had deepened, but their lovemaking had diminished, until now all that was left were gentle kisses, soft caresses, heartfelt conversations, and comfortable silences.

  Sometimes Simone wanted to ask Jill why she didn’t find a more satisfying lover. She was young and fiery. How could she be satisfied with bathing and cooking for an invalid?

  But Simone knew the answer. Jill loved her. She didn’t have any choice. That was her fate.

  “I have decided it is time to call Ted Austin,” said Simone.

  Without letting go of Simone’s hand, Jill moved around to the front of the wheelchair. She knelt beside it, took Simone’s other hand and held them both in hers. She looked up into Simone’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she said.

  Simone felt her eyes brimming again. It was happening with increasing frequency lately. Sudden, uncontrollable, unprovoked weeping, of course, was a symptom of her disease’s progression, as Dr. Mattes had explained.

  “I had hoped,” said Simone, “that I would hear from May. I had hoped to persuade her to come here and spend time with us so I could tell her our story, face to face. That would have fulfilled my obligation.” She paused. “It has been a month. If she was going to respond to my note, she would have done it by now.”

  “Maybe Carol Ann Chang isn’t your May,” said Jill.

  “She is,” said Simone. “I am certain of it.”

  “Making a book of your life will be painful for you.”

  “Yes,” said Simone. “But it is my legacy. I must do it now, or it will be too late.”

  ON HER WAY home from Muir Woods, Jessie took the exit to Sausalito. She drove to the houseboat village, parked her car, and retrieved Leonard P. Lesneski’s .22 automatic from her daypack. She quickly disassembled it, shoved the parts into her pockets, then got out of her car and began to saunter casually around the piers and boardwalks.

  Here and there she slipped a part of the gun from a pocket and dropped it into the water.

  Then she drove to Oakland, stopped at a Salvation Army deposit bin, and threw all the clothes from Lesneski’s suitcase into it.

  She opened his briefcase. The notebook she’d seen him writing in was there. There were some names and phone numbers that might be worth checking. Jessie stuck the notebook into her glove compartment. She emptied the rest of the briefcase into a Dumpster behind a seafood restaurant.

  The empty briefcase went into another Dumpster. The suitcase into a different one.

  She decided to hang onto the camera—it was a Nikon, a really nice camera—and the Apple laptop, at least for now. She wanted to see what information she could get from them, and anyway, she could always use good equipment.

  JESSIE WAS BACK outside Anthony Moreno’s bungalow at seven the next morning with her long-lensed Canon and her video camera and her notebook on the seat beside her.

  It was another long day under a hot sun, but Jessie was grateful for the boring routine. It gave her time to refine her plan.

  When she got home that evening, she made herself a gin-andtonic, opened up her laptop, took out her notebook, and wrote up her weekly surveillance report.

  Then she took the envelope from her desk drawer where she’d stuck it when she’d received it a few weeks earlier. At the time, she hadn’t given it much thought. After the disaster at the clinic and all the ensuing publicity, Jessie had received dozens of letters, mostly from men who claimed to be handsome and wealthy, swearing they wanted to marry her.

  Well, this note was a little different. It was handwritten in green ink. The penmanship was unquestionably feminine, elegant but slightly tremorous, as if it had been written by an old woman. The postmark was from Beaverkill, New York.

  Jessie slid the note from the envelope and read it again.

  “My Dear Ms. Chang,” it said. “I have reason to believe that you are my daughter by birth, and that your real name is Jessie Church. I would like to verify this. I beseech you to respond. I enclose my address and telephone number. I anxiously await your reply. Sincerely yours, S. Bonet.”

  Well, nothing personal, but Jessie really didn’t care. She’d always known she was adopted. She’d never had any interest in tracking down her birth parents. In fact, given the choice of knowing who they were or not knowing, she’d opt for not knowing. She’d done fine so far, not knowing. Anyway, her life was too complicated as it was.

  On the other hand, she’d checked this S. Bonet’s address in her Atlas and found that Beaverkill, New York, was a tiny town in a lightly populated mountainous area north of New York City.

  A long way from San Francisco, and maybe far enough from Howie Cohen.

  SHE GAVE DEL her weekly report at their regular Monday morning meeting.

  He read it, then looked up at her. “So you think this Moreno’s legit, huh?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t make me,” said Jessie, “if that’s what you’re asking. He behaves exactly like a man with a serious back problem who’s having a lot of discomfort and should not be driving a bus.”

  “They signed us up for two weeks.”

  She shrugged. “Get somebody else. I’ve had it.”

  “Give it one more week,” he said. “Come on.”

  Jessie shook her head. “I need a break, Del. I’m going to take some vacation time. Anybody can do a stakeout.”

  “If I refused, you’d threaten to quit, right?”

  She grinned. “Absolutely. And if you still said no, I would quit.”

  “Well,” said Del, “fine. Whatever. I guess you’ve earned it. Got any plans?”

  Jessie shook her head. “Probably just turn off the telephone, hang around the house, sleep late, lay out on the beach, a day at a spa, maybe drive down to L.A. or San Diego, visit some friends. I just need to relax.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You better come back, Jessie,” he said. “I need you.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  She hated lying to Del. But what he didn’t know he couldn’t tell anybody else.

  After leaving the office, Jessie made the rounds of her banks. She had spread her money among several modest-sized accounts, all in different banks scattered around the city, all in the name of Carol Ann Chang. It was a precaution from her undercover days when it was quite literally a matter of life and death that mysterious deposits and withdrawals should not call attention to themselves.

  When she was finished, she’d withdrawn a little over eighteen thousand dollars in cash from five different checking and savings accounts, leaving enough in the checking accounts to pay her bills, and enough in all of them to keep the accounts open.

  Back home, she wrote checks for all of her bills, including the rent, even though it wasn’t due for another three weeks, and she paid the entire balances of her two credit cards.

  She figured that would give her at least two months before some computer flashed a red flag on her telephone or electri
city account, or her landlord tried to get hold of her, or debt-collectors started checking and figured out that Carol Ann Chang was no longer living at 4175 24th Street in Noe Valley in San Francisco.

  By then she’d be long gone and, she hoped, hard to find.

  TED AUSTIN CAME out from behind his desk with his hand extended. “Mac,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  Mac Cassidy grasped Austin’s hand. “You too,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “Okay.” Mac shook his head. “It’s been hard.”

  “And your girl? Katie? How’s she bearing up?”

  Mac shrugged. “I worry about her. She doesn’t say much.” He forced a smile. “We’re getting there. It takes time.”

  Austin released Mac’s hand. “You didn’t have to wear a necktie on my account, you know.”

  Mac shrugged. “I almost forgot how to tie it, to tell you the truth. I’m not much of a necktie guy, as you know.” The full truth was that Mac Cassidy had avoided occasions that required him to wear a tie since Jane’s funeral a little over a year ago.

  “I like the beard,” said Ted. “The Hemingway look, eh?”

  Mac touched his face. “The gray, you mean.”

  Austin smiled. “It gives you character.”

  “Anyway,” said Mac. “Congratulations. You got Simone. Quite a coup.”

  Austin nodded. “I’ve been hounding her for years.”

  “So why’d she agree now?”

  “Dunno. But I can tell you this. Suddenly it’s urgent. She wants to get it done right away.” Austin slapped Mac’s shoulder. “You up for it?”

  “Yes,” said Mac. “I think so.”

  Austin arched an eyebrow.

  Mac nodded. “I’m up for it.”

  “Good. What about coffee?”

  “Sure. Please.”

  Austin waved his hand toward the sofa in the corner of his office. “Grab a seat. I’ll be right with you.”

  The walls of Austin’s comfortable Manhattan office were covered with framed book jackets—the big sellers, the prizewinners, the books that became films—several dozen of them, but still, Mac knew, just a fraction of the books that Ted had midwifed for his authors.

  Ted Austin was one of New York’s big-time literary agents. Publishers respected him and authors trusted him. Mac knew he was lucky to have Ted representing him.

  The covers of all seven of Mac Cassidy’s ghost-written autobiographies hung on the agent’s office wall. His first had been the Jackie Gleason story, which the egotistical funnyman had reluctantly allowed them to call And Away We Go, an unintentionally ironic title, as Gleason had died shortly after the book came out. Mac Cassidy’s name had appeared nowhere in that one, not even in Gleason’s acknowledgment page—which Mac had also written. Jackie had taken full credit, but the industry knew that every word had been penned by Cassidy, and after Away’s sixteen weeks on the Times bestseller list, boosted, no doubt, by the news of Gleason’s well-timed death, Mac and Ted Austin had found themselves in the enviable position of picking and choosing their projects.

  They’d turned down Brando because he balked at the “with Mac Cassidy” credit that Austin demanded, and they’d been unable to reach an agreement with the elusive Hepburn. Mac and Austin could now laugh at their decision not to go after Lee Iacocca when they’d heard he was in the market for a ghost.

  There were six after Gleason. Sports figures Julius Irving (Doctor J) and Lee Trevino (Swinging from the Hip); political luminaries Bob Dole (A Life to Give) and Barbara Bush (Mrs. President); entertainment personalities Bruce Springsteen (The Boss) and Jay Leno (Cracking Wise).

  In the process of researching the books, Mac Cassidy had interviewed hundreds—make that thousands—of people. He’d always done it honestly and with class, and he’d made a lot of friends, earned a lot of trust.

  So now it would be Simone, the Garboesque woman known to the world by that single name, the reclusive millionaire—or maybe she was broke, no one was quite sure—the former film beauty, the mysterious cult icon. Simone had once been the envy of every middle-aged American woman and the wet dream of every redblooded American male, the source of periodic speculation in the supermarket tabloids. Simone’s sexual partners? Simone’s wealth? Simone’s origins? Simone’s age?

  Since Mac had received Ted Austin’s call three days earlier telling him about the Simone project, he’d prowled the Internet and looted the library, consuming every word he could find about her.

  Simone always had been an enigma, from her first memorable role as a Mafia don’s traitorous Eurasian concubine in the otherwise forgettable 1986 film This Side of Daybreak. After that there had been a film or two every year for twelve years.

  And then, without explanation, she had walked away from it, away from the public life. She had, effectively, disappeared. No explanation. No forwarding address. No more photo shoots or public appearances. She just quit.

  Which, of course, only enhanced her mystery.

  Simone, as it turned out, had never appeared in a critical hit or a box-office smash. She’d never played opposite Redford or Newman or De Niro or Harrison Ford. Mostly she’d played supporting roles, not leads. If she were a man, she’d have been called a “character actor.” In truth, she’d never been cast in a complex role or played against type, never been nominated for an Oscar or a Golden Globe.

  She had been, simply, one of those actresses who always seemed to just play her own fascinating self: elusive and manipulative, desirable and unattainable, mysterious and seductive and utterly, incredibly beautiful.

  For those twelve years of cult stardom, she’d allowed herself to be photographed for the fashion and entertainment magazines. She’d even endorsed a shampoo. But never had she sat for a personal interview. When she allowed herself to be quoted about a film, or a role, or the talents of her director, or the foibles of her fellow actors, she’d been unfailingly bland and uncontroversial. She never said anything critical or nasty, and so she got the reputation for being a poor interview.

  Her blandness, Mac surmised, was calculated to keep the hard questions away. She’d consistently refused to discuss her past or her private life. The only Simone quotes on the subject he’d been able to find were, “I don’t talk about that,” or, “You know better than to ask that question.”

  Which, of course just sparked new speculation.

  Now, after over twenty years of mystery, Simone would speak. She would speak to Mac Cassidy.

  He felt a hand on his elbow.

  “Here’s your coffee,” said Austin.

  “Oh, thanks.” Mac accepted the mug.

  The two men sat across from each other.

  “She’s got MS,” said Austin.

  “Simone?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s why she quit making movies?” said Mac. “That’s why she’s become a recluse?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Is she prepared to talk about her disease?” said Mac. He smelled a hook for the book. Simone could do for multiple sclerosis awareness what Mike Fox had been doing for Parkinson’s.

  “She says she’s prepared to talk about everything,” said Austin. “But I sense some skittishness. She’ll need some hand-holding.”

  “That will be my pleasure,” said Mac with a grin. “She’s a gorgeous woman.”

  Austin nodded but did not smile. “You know, Mac,” he said, “it’s not too early to begin thinking about our next project.”

  “Assuming I do a good job on this one,” said Mac.

  “Assuming you do a great job. Which I’m confident you will.”

  Mac shrugged. “I haven’t honestly given future projects much thought.” He waved his hand in the air. “There are a lot of things I should’ve been doing lately that I haven’t thought about.”

  “Understandable,” said Austin. “I’ve had a few conversations, but frankly, with you, um . . .”

  “Out of commission,” said Mac
.

  “Yes. All right. With you out of commission, I was reluctant to pursue anything.”

  “First things first,” said Mac.

  “Well, yes,” said Austin. “First Simone.” The agent sat back in his chair. “I know it’s been a tough year for you, my friend.”

  Mac nodded. It had been a very tough year.

  He kept returning to the railroad tracks in Concord, less than a mile from their suburban Massachusetts home, where Jane had been walking that foggy March evening a little over a year ago. He’d sit there near where they said it had happened, trying to understand.

  He kept seeing the face of the cop at the door, how he’d refused to meet Mac’s eyes, how he mumbled, “Um, are you Mr. Cassidy?”

  And Mac just nodding, knowing instantly that something terrible had happened, barely hearing the cop’s words: “The seven o’clock commuter train from Boston . . . where the tracks curve, down there along the river ... couldn’t stop in time.” Trying to imagine what she had been thinking and feeling at the moment when the train suddenly was upon her. Trying to understand why she was there on that moonless March night standing on the tracks. Endlessly replaying their last moments together, their mundane argument, their hurtful parting words.

  Trying not to think the obvious.

  They’d called it an accident. Mac wanted to believe that’s what it had been. A tragic, senseless accident. That was infinitely preferable to the alternative.

  “Local Woman Killed in Train Accident.” Headline in the local paper. The investigation had absolved the conductor. The local woman, Jane Cassidy of Chester Street, had apparently wandered onto the tracks, perhaps disoriented by the fog.

  Nobody’s fault, they said.

  Suicide. The obvious thought. The thought that he tried not to think. The thought that he thought all the time.

  A tough year, indeed.

  Guilt, anger, shame, loss, bewilderment. And the other feelings, the harder ones to acknowledge. Relief. Release. The feelings that circled back to the guilt.