by Lisa Tucker
Lucy nodded, but she said, “I don’t see how he dominates the children exactly.”
“He tells them what to do in the name of caring for them. He doesn’t let them freely explore their world.”
“He does love them though.”
“Maybe, but what kind of love? For the controlling personality, everyone in his life is viewed through the lens of his own desire for power.”
Lucy looked at the door that opened into the waiting room. She thought about Dorothea giggling this morning when Charles was crawling up to the window of her playhouse, making what were supposed to be elephant noises, but really sounded like a cross between a rooster and a donkey. And last night, when Charles had spent almost two hours sitting with Jimmy because the little boy couldn’t sleep. Charles had even written a story for Jimmy about a brave five-year-old with red hair who slays dragons and witches wherever he goes by challenging them to a game of chess and then tricking them into sticking their necks out while playing, so he can chop off their heads. Jimmy loved that story. He was already very good at chess.
Tracey had moved on to another topic. “I assume he also tries to control what happens between you in the bedroom. Tell me, does sex seem unusually important to him?”
“I don’t know if it’s unusual, but sure, it’s important to him.” Lucy paused. “It used to be one of the best parts of our relationship.”
“Best to him or to you? Did you have orgasms, Lucy?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You were nineteen when you married, and a woman that age can’t even know what she wants, much less know how to ask for it.”
“But I did have orgasms. If you must know, I always did, even the first weekend we were together. Now I don’t, but that’s not his fault. I don’t feel very sexy right now.”
Tracey nodded. How can she nod? Lucy thought. Didn’t I just tell her she was wrong?
“So you still have sex, but no orgasms. Would you say you’re only doing it for him?”
“I guess so.”
“And he accepts this?”
“I’ve told him it’s the only way I can.”
“Do you feel you have to keep him satisfied?”
“I don’t feel I have to.”
“Are you worried he’ll have an affair?”
“No,” Lucy said, though it had crossed her mind, but not because of anything Charles had done. It was more because of how damaged she was, not even physically, but in some other essential way that she couldn’t put her finger on.
“Why do you think you continue to comply with his sexual demands?”
“I told you, he isn’t demanding sex.”
“But he does expect sex from you even though he knows you don’t enjoy it. He expects you to meet all his needs. This is typical of the controlling personality because their own needs are always more real than the needs of anyone around them.”
Lucy wanted to walk out right then, but she was afraid of being rude. She also didn’t want to explain to Charles why she hadn’t stayed the full two hours.
But a few minutes later, when Tracey suggested that Charles could be dangerous if Lucy ever told him no, Lucy finally said she was finished with the appointment.
“I know it’s difficult to face this,” Tracey said. Her eyes were sympathetic. “Most women in your position wouldn’t have even taken the first step of coming here today.”
“The first step?” Lucy said irritably. “And what’s the last step, leaving him?”
Tracey said of course she couldn’t tell Lucy to leave him, but she did want Lucy to know that she had a responsibility to protect herself and her children. “If a man like that finds his power over the family threatened, he becomes increasingly desperate to regain control.” Tracey added that desperate and even dangerous behaviors were often the result, particularly when the man, like Charles, had already shown a propensity for violence.
Lucy wondered what she was talking about, but then she remembered Tracey’s point that Charles keeping Lucy from getting any movie roles was some kind of “symbolic violence.”
“You know what?” she suddenly said. “I don’t think you know a damn thing about violence.” Lucy could hear a trace of Southern accent in her own voice for the first time in years. “Violence is when you get your face slapped raw by your uncle while he’s yelling that you’re a cock-teasing little bitch. Violence is when a guy takes a lighter to your back and then kicks you in the head when you throw up from the smell of your own burning skin. What Charles did, violent? Even if he placed an ad in Variety saying I was the worst actress in Hollywood and I never worked again, that would be a walk in the park compared to violence.” Lucy stood up and shook her head. “I can’t believe you don’t have even the tiniest bit of sympathy for him. The man came home and found the woman he loved almost murdered. Can you imagine what that was like?”
Tracey told Lucy that her anger was a normal reaction to having her defenses questioned. Out in the waiting room, Tracey told Charles that the fee was $260 and she would take a check.
On the way to the Mercedes, Lucy impulsively reached out and hugged him.
“What’s this for?” he said softly, but he didn’t let her go.
“I thought you might need a hug,” she said, though now that he had his arms around her, she remembered how safe she used to feel there, and she had to resist pushing him away.
He was so much happier on the drive home that Lucy almost didn’t call Pam back. She didn’t want to hear any more bad news; she was tired of being angry with Charles. But Tom had written “urgent” next to the message, so Lucy went to the breakfast room and called her agent. And she was glad she did because Pam was calling to report that Lucy was finally being offered a part.
She didn’t even have to do a screen test because the director loved her work. The casting people would get Lucy the script tomorrow, but Pam had already read it. She said it was exactly what Lucy wanted: a serious drama that was being filmed entirely in L.A.
The director, Brett Marcus, was someone Lucy had heard Charles complain about before, but she couldn’t remember why. But as Pam told Lucy, if her husband was an enemy of this guy, all the better. Then Charles and Walter would have no influence on him.
“You’re set, baby,” Pam said. “Here we go.”
When Lucy hung up, her primary feeling was relief. She decided not to tell Charles right away though. What if she hated the script? Then they would have the argument for nothing. Of course it would be a huge argument because she had won. He would be mad at her for days, but eventually he would get over it.
That night, Lucy felt so much more confident that she decided to risk having sex with Charles the way they used to. She let him look at her naked body and touch her anywhere he wanted, including the scars. He told her she was gorgeous, and she knew he meant it because he was as excited as he had been the first weekend they were together. The next morning, they woke up holding each other and smiling, and they had breakfast on the balcony, just the two of them. It was already December, but it was warm enough that day to be comfortable. Lucy didn’t even mind seeing the electric fence. The view was still great. The ocean had never looked more glorious.
The script arrived a little before eleven. Tom brought it to her in the playroom, where Dorothea and Jimmy and Susannah were involved in a game. Charles was in his office talking to Russell Daley, the cinematographer he’d worked with for years, who was also interested in doing Master of Dreams. For a movie that was never going to be made, it was proving to be a lot of work in preproduction. She wasn’t sure why he was keeping up this pretense, unless it was for Walter’s sake. Even though he and Walter had argued plenty over the years, Charles was fiercely loyal to him. It was something she’d always admired about her husband—except when Charles was collaborating with Walter to keep her from working.
As Lucy read the script, she became more and more excited. Pam was right; it was the perfe
ct part for her, playing Adele, the wife of a senator who’d lost his hope after their son drowned. “We still have two daughters who need you,” Lucy read aloud, with feeling. She was typecast as a savior, just like Joan and Helena; as the one who would bring the senator back to himself. She could do this role in her sleep.
While the children had lunch, she made acting notes. The difficulty of this part, she wrote, is that Adele has also lost her son. How can she reach through her own damage to help Martin (the senator)? Won’t she feel resentment that her pain is so secondary (at least as it’s written now) to his?
Lucy shoved the script behind the toaster when she heard Charles coming.
“I have to meet Russell.” Charles had his car keys in his hand. “I told him today is the wrong day for this, but it can’t be helped.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Sorry, my sweet. You know I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to.”
“I understand,” Lucy said.
“I’ll be home at six-thirty, seven at the latest.” He walked over and kissed Jimmy and Dorothea. “Before you two go to bed.”
She watched him walk out, and then she picked up the phone to call Pam. She had a feeling Pam would jump at the chance to set up a meeting this afternoon, and she did.
“I have to have lunch with some dickhead producer, but I can make it by two. Will that work?”
“Sure,” Lucy said. “But I’ll need a ride home, and I have to be back by five-thirty.”
“Not a problem,” Pam said. “I’ll drive you myself.”
Krista was leaving for her night off. Lucy asked if she would mind driving out of her way and dropping her at Pam’s office in West Hollywood.
“As long as Mr. Keenan doesn’t mind,” Krista said.
“He doesn’t,” Lucy said, only feeling a little bad for lying. Krista worked for her too, didn’t she?
She hurried upstairs to put on her lucky violet dress. She also had to do her makeup, but she brought most of it with her, to do in the car. They had to rush to get to Pam’s.
She made it on time and she and Pam were only a few minutes late for the meeting, which was held over drinks at The Beverly Hills Hotel. The casting director and a guy from marketing were there too, but Brett did most of the talking. What a nice guy, Lucy thought. He praised her talent and told her his vision for the movie. She told him her concerns about the way Adele was written. They talked at length about finding character motivation, what she could bring to each scene and what she might need reworked in the script. Lucy couldn’t remember when she’d ever had a better conversation about acting. Probably because Brett had started out as an actor, he brought something different to directing than Charles did.
Different, but not better. Lucy had no bad thoughts about her husband and no reason to feel guilty, though she couldn’t help feeling a little bad when they brought the salads and she remembered her little girl’s excitement over these pink bowls. She didn’t want to think about Charles and the children staying here when she’d been in the hospital, how hard that had been on them—but on her too, of course. She’d suffered plenty. All she was trying to do was move on with her life, was that so wrong?
At four o’clock she told Pam they really had to run. The drive home would take less than an hour and a half, even with traffic, but she wanted to be on the safe side.
All the way back, she and Pam talked about what a fabulous opportunity this was. And how Lucy should approach Charles with the news. “After a blow job,” Pam said, smirking. “You’ll already be on your knees. He should appreciate that position.”
“He’s not like that,” Lucy said.
“Of course he isn’t, kiddo. Didn’t mean anything by it.” She lit another cigarette. “Let’s get back to Brett. Isn’t he just a doll?”
Lucy opened the window, though she knew she’d smell like smoke. Everyone at the restaurant had been smoking too; it couldn’t be helped. She’d just have to get in the shower right when she walked in the door.
They made it back by 5:10, plenty of time for the shower. Lucy said hello to the security guard, and rushed inside, only to find Charles standing right there, waiting for her.
He hadn’t gone to meet Russell. He’d gone into the city, but at the last minute, he’d changed his mind and decided to come home. On the way back, he’d stopped at the jeweler and picked out a present for her: a beautiful milky pearl necklace that was still clutched in his hand, even though he’d been pacing the front hall for two hours.
Before she could say anything to explain, he threw the necklace against the wall with such force that the string broke and the pearls went rolling all over the hall floor.
“Charles, wait—”
“You didn’t even leave me a note.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was shaking with anger. “I couldn’t get through to Krista. I had no idea where you were until I finally thought to call your agent’s office about fifteen minutes ago.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think I’d be worried?” He jerked his glasses back and quickly rubbed his eyes. “Oh, of course, it’s not as if anything could happen to you. That’s impossible.”
“Well, it is unlikely.”
“ ‘Unlikely’ isn’t good enough. ‘Unlikely’ will drive me insane, and you know that.” He paced over to the door and then came up right next to her. He brought his face down to hers. “Are you trying to punish me?” His voice was a hiss. “Is that what this is about?”
“Punish you?”
“For taking Jimmy to the fire station that day. If I hadn’t done it, I would have been home. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that. I’ve thought about it a thousand times.”
“I really haven’t,” she said.
“Then what are you punishing me for? Being rich? I know you hate having money, and maybe you’re right. Maybe if we didn’t have all this, you wouldn’t have been hurt.”
“I don’t think that—”
“Do you know what having money means to me? It means never having to do something I don’t believe in for money. It means knowing I can always provide for my family, unlike that corrupt bastard James Joseph Keenan.”
Charles so rarely mentioned his father that it took Lucy a second to realize he wasn’t talking about Jimmy. Whenever Margaret mentioned her husband it was in perfectly glowing terms, calling him a fine man and a good father. But now his son, who had never cursed in the seven years Lucy had known him, was calling his father a corrupt bastard.
Lucy was too surprised to speak, and Charles didn’t give her a chance anyway.
“But if it’s important to you, I’ll give away every dollar we have. Whatever you say. I’ll call Peter tonight and tell him I’m donating it all to his homeless project. I can make the money back. The money is nothing to me without you.”
“It’s not the money.”
“Then what is it?” His voice grew quieter. “Please tell me. Why are you determined to break my heart?”
“I don’t want to break your heart,” she whispered. “It’s not your fault what happened to me, it really isn’t. But it’s not mine either, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to act anymore.”
“Do you have any idea what the last two hours were like? It was absolute torture, imagining you being knifed on Sunset Boulevard or kidnapped and raped if the car broke down on the freeway.”
“But here I am, and I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand what I’m telling you. I don’t know if you can’t understand or you won’t, but either way, you just don’t see that I’m not going to make it through this.”
Lucy was trying to think of what to say when the children came downstairs with Susannah, fresh from their baths, already in their pajamas.
“Mommy, you look bootiful.”
“Thanks, baby.” Lucy reached down and picked up Dorothea. Her daughter was breathing fine. It had been over a month now since she’d had an attack, the longest so far. “What have you b
een doing, my pumpkin?”
“Playing!”
“How about you, Jimmy?”
“Same old, same old.” He smiled then because he knew Lucy would laugh. She always did when he said that. Charles had taught Jimmy the expression, but it sounded so funny coming out of the little boy’s mouth.
“What’s that?” Jimmy said, pointing at one of the pearls on the floor. Dorothea saw them too and said, “Pretty.”
“I guess you’re waiting for me to make dinner?” Lucy said. “Since Krista isn’t here?”
“Or Daddy could,” Jimmy said.
Charles was standing motionless, staring out the front window. He hadn’t even looked at the children or said hello.
“I think I should do it,” Lucy said. “Come on, you guys, let’s find something easy for Mommy to cook.”
Lucy sat with Dorothea and Jimmy while they ate their macaroni and cheese. Charles didn’t join them. She had no idea what he was doing, but she hoped he wasn’t still standing in the front hall.
An hour later, after she put the children to bed, she threw steaks on the broiler for the two of them. She assumed Charles was in his office, but when she looked, he wasn’t. She checked their bedroom too, and all of the rooms upstairs. Then she went back downstairs, and flipped the steaks, before looking around for him on the first floor. She was just starting to feel anxious when she saw the glow from the breakfast room patio door. He was sitting outside in the garden, smoking a cigar.
She opened the door and went out to tell him the steaks would be ready soon.
“Thank you,” he said.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Thinking about Master of Dreams.”
“Oh,” Lucy said, sitting down next to him, relieved that this was such a normal topic. “Want to talk about it?”
“So you can talk about whatever project you decided to do today?”
Of course he knew. Why else would she have been at an afternoon meeting with Pam? “I don’t have to talk about my movie,” she said, “but I’d still like to hear about yours.”
