by Lisa Tucker
She swallowed another glass of wine and then she stumbled to her bed and passed out. She heard the phone ring, but she couldn’t move to answer it. She found out the next morning that Dr. McAffey had called, after all, and Charles had talked to her.
His apology was sincere, but too late. “We don’t even know each other anymore,” she said, and she meant it. She felt like her marriage was over, and so was her life. She would always be in pain; she would never have more children, and her own children were growing up. Now that Jimmy was in first grade, four-year-old Dorothea was trying to keep up with her big brother. She wouldn’t let Lucy call her baby anymore; she wouldn’t even let Lucy tuck her in. Both the children spent far more time with Susannah than with their own mother. Both of them seemed to prefer playing with Charles.
Dr. McAffey told Lucy it was normal to feel depressed after a miscarriage, and not just from grief, from the sudden change in hormones. But Lucy didn’t think she was depressed; she thought she’d finally realized the truth about her life. She couldn’t imagine how she could ever again find any hope.
Seeing Charles made it a hundred times worse, and so she tried to avoid him. It wasn’t hard. The movie was way behind schedule, mainly because Brett and his assistant weren’t as organized as the other directors she’d worked with. Since she was getting out too late to see the children anyway, she started eating dinner with Brett or one of the cast members; sometimes she let them talk her into going along to a party afterward. Everybody at the parties drank and smoked pot and snorted coke; Lucy’s own pills seemed harmless in comparison, even though she was taking more now that she could get them without the hassle of going to the doctor. Brett had a friend, Ivan, who gave her as many as she wanted, and Ivan’s pills were stronger too, which was good since she could work straight through the schedule, no resting between scenes in her trailer like before. After work, she tried to cut back on the pills, but she always had a few drinks because it made it easier to get past her natural shyness and relax at the parties.
Before long she was walking in the door plastered about half the time. Charles told her over and over that she had to quit this, but she said it was none of his business. And she said a lot of other things too:
“I have to get drunk because I’m a murderer. I murder babies.”
“I thought I was not corrupt. Ha-ha.”
“I am Joan the brave, fighting to forget my life.”
“I remember every damn thing about that day. I remember exactly what those guys did to me because I wouldn’t just screw them and get it over with.”
When he told her she was destroying him, she shrugged it off.
“Nobody can destroy the great Charles Keenan.”
“A captain should go down with his ship. You’re the captain, mister. Come on down.”
“I’m already destroyed. So what?”
When he told her she would hurt the children, she got angry.
“I love my children. Don’t you ever forget it.”
“You hired Susannah because you wanted me to go crazy without my children to take care of. You thought I was too crazy to take care of my own babies.”
“I know you blame me for Dorothea’s breathing problems. Well, you can just go screw yourself. I did everything I could to keep her from being scared. You weren’t there. You have no idea.”
“You hired Susannah because you wanted to have sex with her, didn’t you? You did it with her while I was in the hospital. You’re probably doing it now while I’m at work!”
Lucy would often break down in tears right after saying one of these things. She would cry and apologize, and sometimes she tried to kiss him or sit on his lap. A couple of times, she even convinced him to go to bed with her, but only downstairs in her room, so he couldn’t lock her away like a madwoman.
In the mornings, when she woke up with her usual headache, made worse from the hangover, she would swallow two or three pills. What difference did it make, especially as she was still able to act as well as ever? She never forgot her lines and Brett was even more complimentary than before. Of course they were better friends now that they were partying all the time. He’d made it clear he wanted to sleep with her, but she wouldn’t do it. “I’m married,” she told him, but she laughed when he said, “You’re married to an ass.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “But he’s my ass and I love him.”
Two days later, a tabloid screamed:
“Brett Marcus and Lucy Dobbins? Not so, says the actress, despite rumors of the two being seen together all over L.A. Of her husband of seven years, director Charles Keenan, she says: ‘He’s my ass and I love him.’”
Everybody on set thought it was hilarious, but Lucy felt like she wanted to jump off a cliff. That night, she went straight home to face her husband, though she was hoping against hope that he hadn’t heard about it.
When she got home it was about nine, and she found him upstairs with Dorothea. She could hear the little girl gasping for air before she even came into the bedroom.
“Mommy,” she breathed, when she heard Lucy’s hello.
“Oh honey,” Lucy said, rushing to her daughter. Dorothea was sitting on her bed with her head between her knees. Charles was next to Dorothea, rubbing her back.
“How long has it been going on?” Lucy asked him.
“She woke up this way.” His voice was so cold. He obviously knew about the tabloid. “About ten minutes. Nothing has helped so far.”
“I’m scared,” Dorothea gasped.
“It’s okay,” Lucy said, kneeling. She stroked her baby’s hair. “I’m going to sing to you. If you want to sing along, you can.”
“She can barely speak,” Charles snapped.
“Let’s do ‘Jack and Diane,’” Lucy said. “You like that song, right?”
Dorothea nodded, and Lucy started to sing. For the first verse, it didn’t seem to be working. Lucy could feel Charles’s disapproval. She wondered if he thought she was drunk.
But then on the chorus, Dorothea joined her, weak at first, but getting stronger with each line. By the time they got to the second verse, they were singing together just like they always did. Dorothea had such a pretty voice, but it sounded funny too, hearing a four-year-old sing a song about holding on to being sixteen. Lucy started laughing, and even Charles laughed with relief.
“I did it!” Dorothea said, clapping her hands.
“You sure did, baby.” Lucy hugged her. “Good for you.”
They talked for a few minutes and then Charles told her she needed to go back to sleep now.
“I want to sleep with you,” she said, pointing at Lucy. And at Charles. Back and forth.
Charles said it wasn’t a good idea, but Lucy looked closely at her daughter. Dorothea had never asked to sleep with them since Lucy came home from the hospital. Was it possible the little girl knew what was going on now? Lucy made sure she was always up before the children were. She didn’t want them to wonder what it meant that she was sleeping downstairs.
“If it’s really important to her,” Lucy said, “it’s okay with me.”
He exhaled. “Fine.”
Dorothea was up and running down the hall to their bed before either of them had made it out of her room.
“How unusual to see you at this hour,” he said. “And sober.” His tone was so angry Lucy flinched.
“I’m going to tuck her in,” she said.
She not only tucked in Dorothea, she sang her two more songs, got her a glass of water and listened while her daughter talked and talked and talked. It was probably a half hour before Lucy was finished, and even then, she walked slowly down the stairs, dreading this confrontation.
He was sitting at the dining room table with nothing to drink or eat or read. Just sitting there, at the head of the table. Waiting. Lucy sat down. He folded his hands, but he didn’t look at her.
“You have seen your children exactly once in the last twelve days.”
“I’m finishing the film; you know
how that—”
“You were with them on Sunday night for what, an hour?”
“Come on, this isn’t about the children, it’s about that stupid tabloid. I hope you know that it was totally out of context. I didn’t call you an—”
He slammed his fist on the table so hard that Lucy jumped back like he was going to hit her. “This is about the children. Don’t even try to delude yourself that it isn’t.” He looked into Lucy’s eyes. “Dorothea dreamed you were dead. That’s why she had the attack tonight. She woke up crying because her mother was dead.”
Lucy felt horrible, but she swallowed hard and forced herself not to cry.
“Jimmy lost his dog on Monday. When I picked him up from school, he was hysterical. I still can’t get him to talk about what happened. The teacher said the children were playing at recess and when recess was over, Tigger was gone.”
Lucy covered her face with her hands. She was the one who’d told Jimmy he could take the dog for show-and-tell. Charles had said it was a bad idea, but Lucy had laughed and said to her son, “Ignore him. Your daddy worries too much.”
“Did you look for Tigger?” she finally said, lifting her face.
“What do you think?” He frowned deeply. “After I took Jimmy home, I went back to the school and tried to find someone who could tell me what happened, then I spent three hours driving around the area. Susannah said he cried on and off the entire time I was gone.”
“Poor Jimmy.”
“Yes, that seems a fair assessment. Poor Jimmy. Not only has he lost his dog this week, but tomorrow, it’s likely he will come to school and discover that his mother has called his father an ass in a newspaper.”
She felt her face get warm. “Those kids don’t read tabloids.”
“Oh, don’t be so naïve. That piece of trash is in the checkout line of every supermarket. Some of those kids have parents who read tabloids, and some of those parents will discuss this at dinner. Particularly those parents who don’t like us for a variety of petty reasons, like we have more money, you’re beautiful, we’re relatively famous and we keep to ourselves. Or I should say, we used to keep to ourselves. You’ve changed all that, haven’t you, Lucy?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you didn’t try hard enough not to. You didn’t consider our children when you decided to get drunk in public with Brett Marcus.”
“I didn’t do anything with him.”
“Don’t even bother.” He took a deep breath. “Are you leaving me for him? I would appreciate the truth. I think I deserve that.”
“Of course not.”
“Of course? I don’t think that expression is appropriate. There is certainly nothing obvious about your feelings anymore. At this point, I don’t even know if you care about the children.”
“I love them. They’re the only thing I have now.”
“A touching sentiment, except for the small fact that you’re never with them, that you’re neglecting them completely for a career you don’t need.”
“No one needs a career.”
“Ah.” He smiled a mean smile. “How far you’ve come from poverty.”
“I meant no one we know.” She smirked. “Including you.”
“You’ll find no argument there. If I was away from home as much as you are, you could try this on me. But I never have been, and you know it. Because I really do love the children, and I know they can’t raise themselves.”
“When this film is over, I’ll—”
“No. That doesn’t work anymore. You owe your children, Lucy. You may not owe me anything, but you owe Dorothea and Jimmy because they didn’t do anything but love you.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I won’t allow you to keep doing this. You have to stop hurting them, or you will live to regret it.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“I’m not, I’m giving you a chance to change. I think I owe you that, no matter how furious I am about you dragging our family into the worst kind of public display.”
“And if I don’t change?”
“Then this will end in tragedy. And not the kind of tragedy we love in movies, where the heroine wins the affection of everyone even as she loses all she holds dear. I’m talking about the gritty kind of tragedy, where the heroine ends up drunk and alone with no one to blame but herself.”
Lucy was nervous, but she said, “I don’t care if you divorce me.”
“A new twist. Fascinating I’m sure, but irrelevant. You know I will never divorce you.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“Tragedy, as I said, if you don’t start honoring your commitment to the children.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, and Lucy noticed his face was pale with stress and misery. She remembered when he used to talk tough to the studio suits, how he’d told her he hated it. “I’d much rather be able to be myself,” he’d said. “But they’d walk all over me. Most people mistake kindness for weakness. It’s an unfortunate fact of human nature.”
“Charles,” she said quietly. “I wish we could really talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I will not let you hurt them.” He stood up. “I will use all my power to prevent that, even if it hurts you, even if it breaks my heart.”
Then he walked out of the dining room, leaving Lucy just sitting there, stunned.
Twenty minutes later, when she could finally move, she remembered Dorothea waiting up in Charles’s bedroom, their bedroom, for the two of them.
She wanted her pills, but she didn’t dare; she needed to stay alert. She could feel that something terrible was about to happen, even though she had no idea what it was. She went into her own room, took off her makeup and put on her nightgown; then she went upstairs and crawled into her old side of the bed next to her sleeping daughter.
When Charles joined them, it was close to two o’clock, but she was still awake. She heard him opening a drawer, saw him in the moonlight taking off his clothes and putting on a pair of drawstring pants. Then she felt the mattress move as he lay down on the other side of Dorothea.
“Good night,” she whispered, without thinking how she’d feel when the inevitable silence was the only response.
He was already breathing slower, obviously asleep, when it struck her that the three of them hadn’t been together like this since that morning, September 21. They had been in this same bed, in the same positions, and her worst problem then was that Dorothea had woken up too early.
It was November 7, only a little over two years later, and yet her life had been changed so completely she barely recognized it. She was sad all the time now, and as lonely as when she was a kid living with her uncle. And she was always running to keep from facing up to the most shameful thing about herself, the secret she’d kept so well that even she didn’t know it.
That night, the fear was so close she could feel it breathing down her neck. But she told herself she was only afraid of Charles, of what he might do to her, and even that didn’t really make sense. There was nothing to be afraid of. She was just upset about their argument. If only she could have had a drink or one of her pills, she could have fallen asleep and forgotten about this.
When Dorothea woke up the next morning, Lucy was so relieved to get up that she didn’t mind asking Charles to please go get her cane. Her leg had gone numb from lying still for hours, trying not to toss and turn and wake up her daughter.
She took the day off, telling Brett only that she was having a family problem. She helped Jimmy get ready for school, but he still couldn’t talk about Tigger without crying. She ate breakfast and lunch with Dorothea and spent all day with her, playing and singing and dressing her dolls. But when Charles took Dorothea with him to pick up Jimmy, Lucy got on the phone with Janice. She needed advice.
Lucy rushed through everything that had happened, and Janice listened to it all. Her first theory was that he was going to divorce Lucy and try to get custody, but Lucy remin
ded her that Charles took his Catholicism seriously, and also that he’d said he’d never do that. Then Janice thought the answer was obvious. It was an idle threat designed to keep Lucy from finishing the film.
Janice already knew about Charles trying to keep Lucy from getting a part, and even about the locked room. “He’s still trying to win,” Janice said now. “Christ, he’s unbelievable, resorting to using your kids.”
When Lucy hung up, she was so angry she wanted to throw something. Of course Janice was right, and the worst part was he’d come very close to getting his way. After all, she was here, wasn’t she? She hadn’t gone to the set on one of the most important days for the film. They were all important during these last three weeks.
Three weeks was all he had to wait, and yet he was still trying to stop her. This wasn’t about Jimmy and Dorothea, this was about his power over Lucy. His controlling personality, as the therapist had called it. His belief that he was always right and he always had to win.
Well, it wasn’t going to happen this time.
He was nicer that evening, but of course he was, Lucy thought. He’d gotten his way. He changed his tune completely the next night, when Lucy went to work and stayed until the job was done at nine. She didn’t party with the cast; she came straight home, but he was still determined to intimidate her. He came up with a long sob story about Jimmy begging for her, and then he repeated his threat that if she kept neglecting the children, she’d live to regret it.
It was only a few days later when the police had their first and only success in the investigation of Lucy’s attack. They never found the two men, partly because the fingerprints the police took didn’t match any on file, partly because the two guys didn’t steal the Jaguar or the BMW, after all, but mainly because it was three days before Lucy could describe them. The trail was cold, and she had no idea how they even got there. They’d appeared at her pool while she and Dorothea were swimming—this was all she could tell the detectives. They’d appeared on a perfectly normal day, when she was laughing with her daughter, living a life that seemed so far removed from her past in Missouri and Nashville that it had never crossed her mind she wouldn’t be safe here either.
