Restless Souls

by Alisa Statman

  Sharon spent the third week in bed with the flu and bronchitis.

  Eager to see Roman again after all the delays, she was finally able to fly to London for the Easter holiday weekend. He picked her up at Heathrow Airport in a gift he’d bought her, a 1954 Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn sedan. It was a beautiful car, but in the back of her mind, she wondered if it was a gift given out of guilt. No matter how hard she’d try to wash it from her mind, the stain of Roman’s ongoing affairs remained. When the holiday ended, she returned to the Grand Hotel de la Ville in Italy to shoot the rest of her scenes. With misgivings about the state of her marriage, those last few weeks away were grueling. The physically demanding scenes pitted against her dwindling energy left her fully exhausted. Each evening she crawled into bed feeling spent and lonely, with thoughts of the “valley” first hovering then slithering through the pathways of her mind. But then she’d rest her hand on her belly to find the baby, whose tiny movements from within brought her unsurpassable joy and served as a reminder of just how much she loved her life. With each passing day the baby became more active. And with each and every night she’d soothe herself and the baby to sleep with lullabies she remembered from her childhood. In those bonding weeks, with just the baby for company, Sharon could finally sympathize with her own mother’s overprotectiveness.

  For Roman, the cruise aboard the Queen Elizabeth II that he and Sharon were scheduled to take home to the States was a luxury of time. But for Sharon, well into the latter stages of her pregnancy, it was her sole travel option across the Atlantic. As the date of their departure drew nearer, Roman hinted that he might not be able to leave on time. The day before the cruise, he broke it to her. “Sharon, I can’t go with you, the end of the script needs work.”

  “Then I’ll wait and go home with you.”

  “You can’t, they won’t let you fly,” he reasoned.

  “I’ll go see the doctor to get permission. I don’t want to go home alone,” she insisted.

  Determined to stay with her husband, Sharon sat in a desolate reception room, waiting for the doctor to finish an emergency call. She kept her mind occupied by reading the final chapters of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

  Hardy’s novel follows the life phases of Tess Durbeyfield, a young woman whose trusting nature leaves her vulnerable to the cruel and often cold society of nineteenth-century England. Early in the story, Tess’s father sends her to a neighboring village to convince the affluent d’Urbervilles of kinship, and ultimately, financial support.

  At the d’Urberville estate, the deceptive lord of the manor, Alec, takes advantage of Tess’s inexperience by stealing her virginity. Traumatized, she returns home to find that she’s pregnant. Her baby, never meant to be, unexpectedly dies.

  In the next chapter, Tess meets Angel Clare, who, unaware of her history, idealizes her. The two fall in love; nevertheless, Tess’s tainted past keeps her from accepting Angel’s initial marriage proposals. His persistence, stronger than her will, wins out. She agrees to the marriage, but only if he will hear her confession. At fate’s hand, it isn’t until after their wedding ceremony that she’s able to reveal her secret.

  The wedding night is a culmination of passionate tension that has built between the two characters. Riveted, Sharon knew the outcome, yet somehow hoped it would be different. She hardly breathed as she read Angel’s lacerating response. Instead of following the love in his heart, Angel lets the societal notions of right and wrong sway him into abandoning Tess.

  That winter, Tess’s father dies, leaving her as the sole provider for her family. A chance meeting brings Alec d’Urberville back into her life. Alec convinces Tess that her family’s future is at his mercy because Angel will never return. Though still in love with Angel, Tess reluctantly consents to be with Alec. On the eve of their agreement, an enlightened Angel returns, and pleads with Tess for another chance. But his change of heart is too late.

  Enraged at Alec for twice causing her to lose the man she loves, Tess murders him, and then rushes out to find Angel.

  Together at last, the lovers spend five days together before the police find them and arrest Tess. Hardy closes with Tess’s execution.

  When Sharon had finished the book, the last page remained open as she reflected on the tragic depth of Hardy’s love story. “Mrs. Polanski, would you like a tissue?” the receptionist offered.

  Sharon touched her tear-moistened cheek. “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry to add to your troubles, but the doctor won’t be able to see you until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “But that will be too late.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, there’s nothing to be done.”

  Sharon walked the distance to their house. With Hardy’s story fresh in her mind, she empathized with Tess. Forced to return to Los Angeles alone, Sharon worried that her husband was abandoning her, too. A fatalist at heart, Sharon contemplated why Tess came into her life now. The idea that it was to foreshadow a change in her marriage caused a shudder.

  Rarely outspoken, Sharon reserved forcing her opinion to counter another’s idea of right or wrong. Many confused her deference with being simpleminded; she was anything but. If the issue was important, she slyly found a passive way of conveying her thoughts.

  Before leaving for the QE2, she wrote Roman a note: “This would make a marvelous script. It’s filled with popular debating material—sexuality and society, religion, good versus evil, forgiveness, and fate. Tess will enchant you.”

  She left the note on top of the book, hoping that Roman’s curiosity would be piqued, and that within the pages he would uncover the deeper meaning of Hardy’s original title, Too Late, Beloved.

  P.J.

  The more I pondered it, the surer I was. The only thing accidental about Sharon’s pregnancy was how I found out. It happened at a fund-raising party for Jay’s shop in San Francisco. After a couple glasses of the flowing bubbly, Jay let the news slip, then swore me to secrecy.

  I stood over the casket and ran my fingertips over Sharon’s forehead, wistful of her youth, when I could rouse her from sleep with the same touch. “What other secrets came between us?” I whispered. “Who did this to you?”

  I don’t know when the tears I’d fought so hard to suppress finally cracked the dam, but I was powerless to stop them. Separated by the wars, there had been so many milestones that I’d missed in Sharon’s life. Lost time. And now, a lifetime lost, that staying in this room another two minutes, ten minutes, or even another hour couldn’t make up for. At the door, I took one last glance at Sharon. Although I’d never been a spiritual man, I prayed that God would keep her safe and happy.

  3

  ALONE IN THE CROWD

  A good amount of the pain I carried with me was [caused by] watching my parents suffer and not being able to help them with that loss and realizing that all I can do is wrap my arms around them and go from day to day and tell them how much I love them. To me, that was like hell on earth.

  —PATTI TATE

  Patti

  All the salesclerks at Saks Fifth Avenue knew Sharon from her films. More important, they knew her as a shopaholic, and when we entered the store, they flocked around her like hungry puppies, offering up the day’s sales. Sharon turned their attention toward me. It was my tenth birthday, and she wanted to buy me a dinner dress.

  Three jammed clothing racks waited for us in a changing area that was bigger than my bedroom. Dress after dress went on and came off before Sharon grinned with approval. The creamy, rich, green velvet fabric feathered against my skin as she circled, scrutinizing every inch of the sleeveless dress. “The hemline will need to be brought up an inch,” she told the salesgirl. “And we’ll need to find a sash for the waist.”

  While the clerk went to search for accessories, Sharon came up behind me, framing us in the mirror. “You look absolutely glorious.”

  I rolled my eyes, avoiding our reflection. She stepped in front of me. Tilting my face up, she asked, “Why do you do
that?”

  I smiled weakly and shrugged.

  Her hands cupped my cheeks. “Inside and out, you’re the most beautiful ten-year-old girl I know. Promise me that whatever happens in your life, you’ll never let anything take that away from you.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m beautiful,” I giggled.

  Her expression shifted. When that somber look overcame her eyes, I knew to pay heed. “Promise me, Patti.”

  My sarcasm fell away. “I promise.”

  She pulled me in for a bear hug. “Okay, on to more serious matters; what kind of ice cream do you want?”

  THE MORNING OF Sharon’s funeral, I put on my green velvet dress before going out to face a house filled with relatives. Their company and the return of flowing conversation proved that life—good or bad—would continue.

  Nannie Tate kept me busy helping her to create makeshift chapel veils, but she couldn’t fill the emotional void I felt from my parents’ absence. They both had isolated themselves. Dad left for the mortuary at dawn, and Mom had yet to come out of her bedroom. I didn’t see either of them until it was time to leave for the funeral.

  As the limousine coasted toward our destination, Dad explained that the media would be waiting for us at Holy Cross; all I needed to do was keep close and ignore them. What he didn’t tell us was that he feared Sharon’s killer would target someone else in our family. Earlier that morning he’d gone to Holy Cross with five of his friends from the FBI to set up a protection perimeter for our arrival. Along with providing protection, their other purpose was to look for suspects.

  Despite his warning, I was unprepared for the hordes of paparazzi that descended on us at the church. We waited inside the car while Dad’s friends pushed the crowd back to a safe distance before risking our exit.

  Outside the safety of the limousine, the popping flashbulbs and intrusive questions were staggering, even with the six-foot perimeter in place. We ignored it all the best we could while we met up with Roman at his limousine. Inside the car, sunglasses hid his bloodshot and darkly swollen eyes. Mom climbed into the backseat, and I followed closely behind. Wrapping my arms around him, I buried my face in his jacket and let his lapel soak up my tears. Clinging to him made me feel closer to Sharon, and I never wanted to let go. After a moment, he gently pried my arms loose. He smiled tenderly and then broke down.

  Mom had avoided Roman since his return to Los Angeles—it was just one more way she could deny Sharon’s death. Now forced to accept my sister’s absence alongside him, she eased Roman’s head onto her shoulder and silently wept with him.

  We waited in his car until the pallbearers were ready to take Sharon’s casket into the church. Combined with the stewing heat, the blinding camera lights and flashes were dizzying. I gripped the back of Dad’s jacket while we made the slow procession behind the casket. Nausea threatened as one unfamiliar face after another swirled, peering down at me with curiosity. I shut my eyes to slow the spin. Just as my legs wobbled, fresh air rushed through me. We were in the chapel; the doors barricaded the chaos behind us.

  One door to the unknown closed while another opened to my first funeral and an intimidating crowd. A service usher led us to the grieving room to wait with friends and family for the service to begin. My parents introduced Roman to our relatives. Debbie stayed close to her boyfriend. I stood alone, listening to disjointed conversations.

  Whispered was speculation of who the killer might be and why they killed. Sharon’s friends were scared. Some had put in new security systems, while others had bought guard dogs. John Phillips, from the musical group the Mamas and the Papas, caught my attention when he pulled back his jacket to reveal a gun. “Any one of us could be next,” he commented.

  Doris Duke chatted with Sharon’s friends. I thought back to the other morning, when I’d hoped for her well-being. Maybe if I’d hoped for Sharon’s safety instead of hers, we’d be at a different funeral. It was a shameful secret, but I wished Doris had been the one to die.

  Peter Sellers steered Mom into a removed corner. His mother had recently passed away, and he was trying to console Mom with his experience. Peter was a gentle and kind man. Whatever he shared with her was working; for the first time in days, Mom looked calm. They stayed together until Father O’Reilly came in to ask if we were ready to begin the service.

  Separated into four seating areas, the sanctuary formed a cross, centered around Sharon’s casket. As we moved down the aisle, many reached out to share their condolences. With my eyes focused on the silver coffin before me, I barely noticed any of them. It was so hard for me to believe Sharon was inside, that I would never see her again, never get to say good-bye. I wanted so badly to go back to the last time I saw her.

  With less than two months before the baby’s arrival, Sharon worked hard to finish the nursery and she’d asked if she could borrow the rocking chair that Mom had rocked all us girls in. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but the heat rose above eighty degrees while Mom and I carried the rocking chair to the porch. “Sharon! We’re here,” Mom said once we were inside.

  “Be right there,” Sharon called out from her bedroom.

  “Well hurry up—I can’t stay long,” Mom said to her. Then to me, “Let’s take it to the nursery.”

  We turned right and went through the dining room when Sharon appeared. “Mom, the room’s not finished. Just put it in the living room for now.”

  We backtracked through the entry and set it down where she had asked, then I plopped into the chair, exhausted, while Sharon opened a giant book filled with different materials. “Come look at the swatches I’ve picked out for the nursery.”

  Mom sat on the couch that had an American flag draped over the back; she pointed at it, “I thought you were going to get rid of this.”

  “I am, I just don’t know how to do it without hurting Gibbie and Woytek. It’s their way of making a statement.”

  “A statement of disrespect. You’d better get rid of it before Daddy visits again because he will—”

  “Shhhh. They’re coming.” A second later Gibbie and Woytek came through the front door. At the same time, the phone rang. “That’ll be Roman,” she said, running for the bedroom.

  “Sharon, wait, we have to go,” Mom called after her.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  After a short conversation with Gibbie and Woytek, Mom looked at her watch. “Patti, let’s go. I’m going to be late for my lunch.”

  “Wait. I want to say good-bye to Sharon.”

  “She’s on long distance with Roman. It’ll be a while. We’ll be back tomorrow. Let’s go,” she said, and nudged me toward the door.

  We didn’t make it back to Sharon’s house the next day. Mom had always taught me to pick and choose my battles. For the rest of my life, I’d regret not defying her in that moment.

  It didn’t seem fair that my parents had decided on a closed casket. Although I was forbidden, I wanted to get the coffin open. Maybe Mom didn’t want to see Sharon, but I needed to kiss her good-bye.

  When Father O’Reilly stepped up to the pulpit, the room hushed to his softly commanding Irish voice.

  “Death violently has come among us. It has cruelly taken Sharon from our midst. There is no need for me to give even the briefest detail of the circumstances of her passing. The facts are too painful to bear even a single reference. There is one question, however, that I must ask this morning. I ask it because I believe that we must do more than mourn the passing of Sharon. Her life, her talent, the memory of her friendship calls us to transcend our present sorrow. They demand that we engage in purposeful action to wrest some meaning from a senseless deed. We can do something, I believe, and we must. We are the only ones who can answer for her before God and man.

  “My question then is this: What must we, the living, do to ensure that such a terrible thing will never happen again? What must we do to bring about a world where there will be no more hate, no more cruelty, no more awful tragedy?

  “We ar
e faced with evil, but we are not without power. We can do something about this evil thing. First, we must determine never to add to the great store of wrongdoing. We can strive to create those conditions where man can be more human, more caring, much more compassionate. These were some of the qualities that Sharon exhibited in her life. She was a fine and talented person. It would be a double tragedy if we gave way at this time to despair, though our hearts are heavy.

  “The world has been given to us by God, though not as something ready-made and finished. We are not robots blindly following out a predetermined plan. It is left to us to determine what good or evil will come to this world. We create in every act of good we do; we destroy in every act of evil we perform. We are, in short, free men, and being free, responsible as well. Each of us, then, must look into his own heart and see whether he has done good or evil in that part of the world that God has given him.

  “In this, I see every reason for hope. We can make the world a better place. We hold the world and its future in our hands. The goodness of Sharon’s life must not be allowed to pass with her. To allow this to happen would be to betray her and the memory of her, which has called us here this morning. In God’s name, let us put our hands to the task and our talents to the cause of the right and the good. With that, I am a man of hope.

  “To conclude, I shall paraphrase a prayer from the liturgy of the Church for the Dead. Good-bye, Sharon. May the angels take you into paradise. May the martyrs come to welcome you on your way. May we who live cherish your memory and the goodness that was yours. And may we do more. May we strive with all our might to make this world fit for men and even angels. While we are all the poorer for your passing, we are also the richer for having known you. And as with Lazarus, who was once poor, but now is rich, may you have rest everlasting. Amen.”