Miracle

by Deborah Smith

  “One.” She went to an enormous ice chest in a corner and returned with a can. “You’re doing great.”

  “After the show tonight I’m going to get absolutely shit-faced.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ll have the hotel install training wheels on a commode.” She knew that he’d been good beyond his limits lately; she knew that if she protested too much he’d rebel. They walked a thin line between his excesses and her control. It had taken her months to learn the boundaries of her influence, and there had been some ugly confrontations during that time. But he trusted her judgment, and sooner or later he always admitted it.

  He jerked the can’s pop top and chugged the beer in three swallows. Sighing, he handed her the can. “Thank you, Nurse Ratched.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ve scheduled your lobotomy for tomorrow.” Amy faced him and began massaging his shoulders. “You know, everyone on the staff suspects that we have a quickie each time we come in here. It’s bad enough that some of them think I only got my job because I’m your main squeeze. Like a rock star’s chief road groupie.”

  “That’s not true, and they know it. You work harder than anybody but me. Look, baby, you told me you wanted a job, and I gave you one. But if you hadn’t pulled your weight I’d have fired you by now. I’ve got too much at stake to play Sugar Daddy.” He chucked her under the chin. “Tough, ain’t I? But doesn’t that make you feel better?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want special treatment. Not when it comes to being associate producer.”

  “And assistant to Mr. Thornton,” he intoned, as if reading the show’s credits. His humor faded. He jammed his hands into his ruffled brown hair. “We’ve got to come up with some new material for tonight. Gimme one of your brainstorms, baby. Kick me right in the old imagination.”

  She walked to a window, chewing her lip and toying with the scarf at the waist of her green jumpsuit. Excitement lit her thoughts. This was the fun part. This was what she loved most—Elliot asking her, her, for suggestions, and then using them in his act. And now that he was going to be on national television five nights a week, he would need her contributions even more. Even his team of comedy writers couldn’t help him the way she could when he was desperate.

  For several seconds she watched the busy San Francisco streets far below, her mind humming with ideas. They always came so easily. “The Road Kill Café,” she said softly.

  “Huh? What?” Elliot moved closer, listening.

  “The Road Kill Café. It has a sign by the grill that says No Food Dead over an Hour. Hmmm, let’s see. Okay. The chef’s motto: If it’s slow, it’s edible. He serves low-cholesterol specials: ‘We use only thirty-weight oil.’ And regional specials: Try our pressed armadillo!’ Mystery meals: ‘That sucker was mashed so flat even we couldn’t identify it.’ Food with an elegant touch: Try our special purée and pâté’—wait a minute, weren’t those the twin sisters on The Patty Duke Show?”

  “Yes! Yes! I like it!” Elliot grabbed her for an exuberant kiss. Then he stepped back, rubbing his hands eagerly, lost in thought. “Take a couple of people and go find me some flat animals. The more disgusting, the better. I’ll start working on the bit with the guys. We’ll expand it. God, it’ll be so funny, doing it in a restaurant!”

  “You want me to go out on a California highway at the beginning of rush hour and try to scoop up squashed carcasses? Why don’t I just paint Hit Me on my chest and play in traffic?”

  “Baby,” he cajoled, looking anguished and tired. “Pulleeeeze.”

  “I’ll delegate the job to a couple of guys from the crew. I don’t have time to go myself. I’ve still got to revise your interview notes and double-check the cue cards.”

  “Baby, I want this bit to go over big. I know I can trust you to find funny dead animals. It’s important.” He grabbed his head and groaned. “Oh, God, I’m getting a killer headache.”

  She stared at him in alarm. With his contorted expression and hunched posture he suddenly seemed on the verge of agony. “Honey, okay, I’ll do it. Sure I’ll do it. Now you just relax—”

  “I love you. I love you so much. Now let’s get to work.” He wiped his forehead, slapped her on the butt, then strode to the door and flung it open. “I’ve got it!” he shouted to the waiting staff. “The Road Kill Café! Writers, into the kitchen with me. Pronto. I need food around me while I work on this!”

  He began detailing the bit to them as they hustled away. Amy came out of the bedroom and looked at the rest of the staff, who studied her with a mixture of curiosity and respect. She shrugged. “We had wild sex. It always helps him create.”

  Amidst their smiles she turned away, frowning. There was no reason for the resentment she felt toward Elliot sometimes, and she scolded herself. She had an exciting life because of him, a terrific job, the respect of her coworkers in a tough business, and best of all, an inside ticket to a world she loved.

  She flung a big leather pocketbook over her shoulder and gestured to a pair of fresh-faced production assistants. “Guys, we have a mission. Come with me.”

  “Is it important?” one of them asked.

  “Yeah. So important that Elliot will only trust it to me. There’ll be danger, suspense, and possibly a reprimand from the California Highway Patrol.” She shook her head at the inquiring looks everyone gave her. This was the life she had chosen. She wasn’t going to waste time examining a small humiliation here and there. “Hey, has anybody got an extra shovel?”

  After the first few shows the reviewers overcame their amazement and began to write. Amy cut the headlines out and thumbtacked them to her office bulletin board.

  THORNTON A SMASH—ALIEN LIFE-FORMS TAKE OVER TALK SHOW

  IS “AFTER HOURS” FOR REAL? RATINGS SAY YOU’D BETTER BELIEVE IT

  GET READY FOR THE ROAD KILL CAFÉ, BOWLING FOR PIZZAS, KAMIKAZE CAMERA

  WEIRD TV! IS THORNTON THE NEW KING OF COMEDY? EGADS!

  She circled “Road Kill Cafe.” Mine, she thought everytime she looked at the headline, and pride would nearly swallow her.

  Within two months Elliot became a household name. Everyone associated with the show was giddy with excitement. The energy level was so high that Amy worked eighteen-hour days and couldn’t wait to get up each morning. Elliot corralled his binges and zoomed around on pure adrenaline.

  “You know what we need, baby?” he asked one night. They were sprawled on a hotel bed, fully dressed, with cartons of shrimp chow mein perched on their stomachs.

  Amy squinted at him. Fatigue weighed her down. She barely knew what she was eating. “Did I forget to order egg rolls?”

  “We need a house. It’s time we stopped living in hotel rooms. Now that I’m off the road, it makes sense.”

  “Sure. I’ll call some real estate agents. I can visit houses and narrow the choices down so that it’ll only take you a couple of hours to see the best ones. Then we can pick out one that we both like.”

  “Hmmm. How soon can you do it?”

  “While you’re playing in the celebrity softball game this Sunday afternoon, I guess.”

  He continued to mumble about houses, but she fell asleep without hearing, with one hand resting in her chow mein.

  The next day he bolted into her tiny office and slapped a piece of paper down. “I made a couple of calls and leased a place in Toluca Lake. Burbank! Forest Lawn! The Hollywood Bowl! The big studios! Can’t beat it for convenience, baby. And I hired a decorator to fill the place full of leased furniture, too.”

  “Just like that? Over the phone? What if we hate the wallpaper, or the next-door neighbors raise goats in their backyard?”

  “We lease something new!”

  He breezed out, while she gritted her teeth in frustration. It was Elliot’s house, Elliot’s money, Elliot’s decision. Mary Beth called from Atlanta to chat. Her interview show was stronger than ever, and she wanted Elliot as a guest. Upon hearing the house news, Mary Beth grew quiet. Then, her tone ominous, she warned, “This is gonna be a tur
ning point. You are about to become a full-fledged, live-in, significant other. This, sugar, is where the shit gets deep.”

  She was right. Once the place was furnished they had only to move their suitcases, and they were settled. Amy parked her aging Escort in a three-car garage covered in rose vines. There was a heated pool with a lava-rock waterfall and a sauna; the house was an airy three-bedroom Spanish-style, decorated inside with oversized white couches, pottery lamps, and Navajo art. It had a gym, several wet bars, a state-of-the-art entertainment center, and a sunken marble tub in the master bath.

  Elliot went out the afternoon after they moved and bought himself two big black Harley motorcycles and a black-leather jacket studded with silver. She thought he looked like Eddie Haskell doing a Hell’s Angel impression, but she didn’t say so. Everything felt so strange.

  The next morning she carried a briefcase full of production schedules outside and sat in a pink lounge chair beside the pink-tiled pool. But she couldn’t work. She could only look blankly at the surroundings. “I have arrived,” she said out loud. “But I’m not sure where I am.” She put a Walkman over her ears and listened to Edith Piaf sing mournful French ballads, which made her feel like crying.

  Elliot burst out of the house, whooping. Naked, smelling of bourbon, he pounced on her, tossed the Walkman and the paperwork aside, pulled her from the lounge chair, and stripped the black maillot from her body. “Isn’t this great?”

  She struggled playfully, relieved by the distraction. “I’m glad you leased a home with a privacy fence.”

  “Decadent Californians. That’s what we are!”

  “You were decadent before.”

  “But now I’m getting a tan!” He tossed her into the pool and jumped in after her. By the time she came up, slinging hair from her eyes and coughing, his hands were between her legs, pulling her to him. “Hitch your wagon to a star. Hmmm. Nice wagon.”

  “Nice star.” He flipped her over and jammed himself into her from behind. Off-balance in water that was too deep for such activity, she flailed about, feeling ridiculous and trying to keep her head above water. “Elliot! Elliot, I don’t want to drown like this! It would be too embarrassing!”

  His rhythmic pumping quickened. A second later he groaned and stiffened against her, jerking her even tighter against him. Then he slumped over her and, breathing heavily, kissed the nape of her neck. “Fantastic. Flipper would be proud of us.”

  She disengaged herself and turned to face him. His hair was plastered to his head, his face was red; he grinned at her. He made a handsome, mischievous picture, but as she searched her mind she couldn’t recall the last time she’d really wanted him to touch her.

  “Elliot, when we make love there ought to be a laugh track. And most of the time, I don’t get the joke.”

  He looked wounded. “Baby, we have a lot of fun.”

  “Sometimes I’d like to be sentimental, you know, with soft music, and candles, and a few sweet words.”

  He put his arms around her. “Okay. You mean everything to me, right? You work your ass off to keep me out of trouble; you take care of my business so that all I have to do is be a fucking star. And you don’t ask for much in return. I love you for it.”

  Amy shivered. He loved her for being a dutiful helpmate. Who wouldn’t love someone who gave everything and expected nothing? But she needed to take care of him, she needed to make him happy, because it made her feel worthwhile. Confused, she shut her eyes. No, she was being cranky. She had everything she could want. What was wrong with her?

  “Marry me,” he whispered.

  She jerked her head back and looked into his eyes. “How much did you have to drink before you came out here?”

  “I’ve thought about this for a long time. Now that everything is perfect, we should make it more perfect. Say you’ll marry me. Hey, you know all my faults. What have you got to lose?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. Aw, Elliot, comeon now. You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  He frowned. “No. I expected you to be happy about it.”

  “I am, but it’s just such a shock. We never talked about getting married before.”

  “Don’t you want to be Mrs. Elliot Thornton? Don’t you know how much money I stand to make in the next few years? I’m going to be a comedy mogul. Don’t you want to be part of that?”

  “I’m part of it already.”

  “Yeah, but you always get weird when I try to buy you things. You’ll live with me but you won’t let me give you presents.”

  “I’m an old-fashioned sort of groupie.”

  “Look, my parents love you. They think you’re a good influence on me. My father says you’re a taller Sally Fields—and he’s crazy about Sally Fields—with a southern accent.”

  “They like me,” she intoned dramatically. “They really like me.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  She ducked her head under his rebuking gaze. “Sorry,”

  “Why the doubts, baby?”

  “I … they’re not doubts. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

  “Say yes.”

  A breath shuddered out of her. Her temples throbbed. Overwork and stress. That’s all this is, she told herself. Of course she wanted to marry Elliot. “Yes.”

  He held his left hand where she could see it. A large diamond solitare glimmered on his little finger. “For you.”

  “I already have two little fingers.”

  “Cut the crap! I want to be serious, for once.”

  The ring was beautiful; she kicked herself for making a joke. Who would have thought that anyone would be offering her a life like this? Wasn’t this what she had worked for—respect, security, love? “Oh, Elliot,” she whispered, tears sliding down her face. “It’s great.” He put the ring on her left hand. She began to sob and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

  “Amy? Baby?” He stroked her hair anxiously. “Well, I guess I ought to be the strong one sometimes.” After an awkward moment he added, “Is this, hmmm, happy sobbing?”

  When she didn’t answer he made soft, bewildered sounds of comfort. She continued to cry and clutched his shoulders, her control racked by the knowledge that she wanted something indefinable, something that taunted her like the shadows of wings because she still couldn’t fly.

  The charmed progress of Thornton After Hours crashed to a halt. That spring the Writers’ Guild threatened a nationwide strike, and every writer on Elliot’s staff prepared to join it. Television executives across the country blanched at the thought of lucrative shows going on involuntary hiatus, of fall schedules dissolving.

  Elliot was inconsolable. Amy woke alone one night and went to look for him. He was sitting cross-legged beside the pool with an ashtray full of joints and cigarettes beside him. His complexion was sallow in the light of the patio lamps. He gave her a droopy look as she sat down. “Gone. All my momentum. Pfffft. If there’s a strike Letterman and Carson can show reruns. Months and months of reruns. I can’t. I’m just a syndicated nobody.”

  “Elliot, don’t overreact.” She laid a tentative hand on his arm. He began to cry. Amy hugged him and shut her eyes, gathering courage. She’d been planning to approach him with an idea, but only if the strike came to pass. She couldn’t let him go on torturing himself this way, however. “Elliot, do you think, hmmm, I know this will sound crazy, but, do you think that the show could keep going as it is now, if I helped you write the material?”

  “What?” He stopped sniffling and drew back to look at her in the light of a poolside lamp. His mouth dropped open. “You?”

  “Nobody would have to know. I’m not a writer, so I wouldn’t be violating any union rules. I think we could do it, I really do. It won’t be easy, but it’s worth a try. I mean, what’s the big deal with writing a monologue and a couple of simple bits every day? And we could try more ad-lib segments, send you to strange places with a camera crew and just let you react, the way Letterman does.”

  “Yo
u? Writing for the show every day?” Even stoned, he sounded amazed.

  She scowled at him. “I’ve been giving you material for years. Oh, I know I’m not as good as a professional, but you can take my basic ideas and make them work. You always do.”

  She could see the light go on in his mind. He swayed. He thumped his knees. “You’re right! You always have ideas out the wazoo! If even half your stuff is usable, we might get by!”

  “Of course we will. And think how impressed people will be, with you doing fresh material every night even though you don’t have a team of writers to back you up!”

  He laughed and draped an arm around her shoulders. “My secret Miracle. You’ll make me a legend in my own time. I tell you what, baby, we’ll plan to get married as soon as the strike ends. Deal?”

  Be good and I’ll reward you. Earn my love and you’ll be happy. Amy shoved the troubling thoughts aside. She was getting an opportunity to do work she adored. She trembled with anticipation. “Deal,” she answered.

  The reporter from People magazine leaned across the patio table, eyes fixed on Elliot. “The writers’ strike has been going on for months, but you keep going, turning out fresh shows. If anything, your work has gotten better since the strike. People are using words like ‘genius’ to describe you. Where do you get your inexhaustible supply of ideas?”

  “I work at it. I never stop. I’m driven, and I love it,” Elliot answered, looking weary but satisfied. He glanced over his shoulder as Amy set a pitcher of tea on the table. “I have a lot of moral support from my lady, here. Thank you, baby.”

  She bared her teeth in a smile and glided back into the house, where she went to the main bedroom and flopped amidst dozens of notepads. She grabbed a mug of coffee from a nightstand and took a deep swallow, then rubbed her gritty eyes and tried to concentrate.

  An hour later Elliot sauntered in and collapsed beside her. “I was brilliant.”

  “What do you think of this idea? You take a camera crew to an elementary school and interview kids.”