She leaped from the couch and with one convulsive dash landed in his arms. “Oh, Christie.” Her tears were genuine. “You really mean it?”
He seemed embarrassed as he gently broke her embrace. “Sure, sure. Now make the calls, doll.” He started for the door.
“But where are you going?”
He paused. Then with a weak smile he said, “I’m gonna buy us wedding rings.”
When Christie left the Astor he walked uptown. He reached Forty-seventh Street, and headed toward the block known as jewelers’ row. Several guys he knew had booths—the Edelmans always gave him good bargains when he sprung for gold cuff links for the writers and crew at Christmas. He saw them through the window as he passed their store. He waved and wondered why he hadn’t stopped. But he continued to walk east. He found himself heading toward Fifth Avenue. His pace quickened as he slowly became aware of his subconscious destination. He broke into a run. By the time he reached Fiftieth Street he was short of breath. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked up the stone steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Christie had been born a Catholic. He accepted this fact the way a person accepts the color of his skin. He didn’t practice the religion, he couldn’t even remember his catechism though he had known it by heart when he took his first communion. But with his parents’ divorce his formal religious training had come to an abrupt end. His mother had remarried—the guy was a Baptist and his half brother was raised as a Baptist. Or was it Methodist? He hadn’t gotten along with his stepfather and had left home at fourteen. Now, as he stood in the soft darkness of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, all the forgotten rituals slowly came back from his memory. Unconsciously he dipped his fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. He walked past tiers and tiers of burning candles and gazed at the Stations of the Cross. He saw a woman enter one of the small confessionals. Suddenly he had an overwhelming urge to make a confession. He approached a confessional nervously. Then he stopped. It had been so long. The last time he had gone was when he was fourteen, after the first time he got laid. He had hoped that the act of confession might prevent him from getting the clap. He had been so eager to get into the girl, he hadn’t realized what a beast she was until it was over. But what could you expect in a doorway for fifty cents? A woman came out of a confessional and crossed to a pew. He watched her kneel and take out her rosary. Her eyes closed, her lips moved as she fingered each bead. All he had to do was go in, kneel: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He walked into the confessional, knelt and mumbled, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Yes, my son?”
Dimly he saw the shadowy outline of the priest behind the screen.
“I have committed many mortal sins,” Christie began. “I have lived with a woman who is not my wife. I have taken the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Do you intend to make amends?”
“Yes, Father. I am going to marry this woman and have a child and I will—” He stopped. He wanted to say, “I will love and cherish her,” but the words stuck in his throat. He jumped up and rushed out of the confessional. He walked to the front of the church. He knew there must be a side exit somewhere. His gaze wandered along the wall where the rows and rows of lighted candles wavered in the dim light. Several people were kneeling before the Virgin Mary. He wandered down the side of the church toward the back. Under each statue was a blaze of lighted candles. It looked like a sea of light—each flame representing a personal prayer. Suddenly he passed an altar that was dark. It took him a moment to realize that only one solitary flame flickered—one candle among two trays of unlit candles. It glowed, defiant and proud in its pathetic loneliness. It didn’t seem fair—the only saint in the whole place who wasn’t doing any business. He looked at the plaque. St. Andrew.
He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then he slipped to his knees. The stone steps were hard. He put his head in his hands, then he looked up. “Okay, Andy, old pal, I’m gonna give you my business. From the look of things you got nothing much to do but listen to me. This one lone candle you’ve got going for you is almost burned out, so you probably already attended to it.” He stood up. Was he nutty or something? Talking like it was real, talking to plaster… . Besides, there were no saints. They were just radical nuts who got killed for a cause. And what did it all matter in the end? They were dust and gone, and people were still sinning and fighting and dying. Like Amanda. Amanda. … He stopped and the tears came to his eyes. He put his face in his hands and sobbed quietly. “Oh, Mandy,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean a thing I said in that room. Oh, dear God, if there is a heaven and You are listening, tell her I didn’t mean it. Mandy, can you hear me, doll? I love you. I never loved no one else. I never will. And it doesn’t matter that you didn’t love me. I loved you and that’s all that counts. Maybe that’s why I’m marrying Ethel. I loved you and you went off with someone and it hurt. I guess I kind of remembered it today and suddenly I thought—why should I hurt Ethel? I don’t love her, but she loves me. So why not make her happy? So you see, doll, indirectly, you’re the reason Ethel is gonna be happy. And when I have my kid, then I’ll be happy. Why is it like this, Mandy? Why does Ethel love me and I loved you, and oh shit—excuse me doll—but why can’t people love together? But I’m gonna give my kid everything… . And look, Mandy, maybe when I walk outa here I’ll think I’m crazy, but right now, this very second, I believe you can hear me. And I believe this St. Andrew is with you, and maybe there is something after we kick off. I can’t start being a knee bender and going to Mass, but I’ll tell you this—I’ll raise my kid as a Catholic, and I’ll never say a wrong word in front of him. And, doll, I’ll never stop loving you. I think you know it, don’t you, Mandy? You’re not down in the earth in a box. You’re up there somewhere—and you’re happy. I can feel it. Jesus—I can feel it!” He paused and for a moment her lovely face seemed so close and she was smiling. He smiled too.
“Okay, doll, take care of yourself up there. And who knows? If there is a second time around, maybe we’ll make it together.” He shut his eyes. “St. Andrew, help me be a good father. And give me a good healthy son.” He stood up, then suddenly he knelt again. “And by the way, thank the Head Man up there for all the luck He’s thrown my way. And pray for my intentions.”
He stood up and dropped a quarter in the box, took a taper and lit a candle. Now two candles flickered together. But oddly enough the one extra light seemed to make the tiers of gray unlit candles more prominent. He gazed at the statue of St. Andrew. “I know how you feel—like I did when I played to empty nightclubs with maybe two tables taken. I used to look at those white cloths on all the empty tables and go snow-blind.” He reached into his pocket and took out a dollar, jammed it into the box and lit four more candles. It still looked meager compared to the other saints. Christie shrugged. “What the hell, I’m not gonna be chintzy.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill and stuffed it in the box. Then he studiously lit every candle. He stood back and proudly surveyed the effect. “Andy, old boy—when them priests come around to check the house tonight, are they gonna be surprised—you’re gonna have the biggest Nielsen of them all!” Then he walked back to the wholesale district and bought two gold wedding bands.
The wedding received enormous press and television coverage. Even the events leading up to the nuptials made news. Lou Goldberg took over the second floor of Danny’s and threw a tremendous “bachelor” party for Christie. Every male star who was in New York attended. The columnists printed some of the jokes told at the dinner. Television comics pulled good-natured gags about it. But there was not one joke pulled about Ethel. They all sensed that the slightest stab could blow the lid off the pressure cooker, which held Ethel’s past.
But Ethel had several bad moments. The first hurdle was the arrival of her mother and father a week before the wedding. Christie sprung for a double room at the Astor. Ethel didn’t argue on the “room” bit. Her parents had never been to a hotel, they probabl
y wouldn’t know what to do with a suite anyway. As it was, she had to warn her mother not to make the beds. She had been stunned when she met them at Penn Station. (Of course they wouldn’t fly! The idea of New York was traumatic enough!) But she couldn’t believe that these two tiny people were her folks. Had they shrunk?
They were awed with the Astor, speechless at meeting Christie, and viewed the city itself in terrified fascination. They insisted she take them to the top of the Empire State Building. (She had never been there herself.) And then there was the boat ride around New York. They had to see the Statue of Liberty. Next on the list—sure they had a list; half of Hamtramck had worked on it-was Radio City. The picture was okay, but to sit through that stage show! They adored it. She was relieved when the “gofors” took over with Grant’s Tomb, the hansom ride in Central Park and the trip across the George Washington Bridge. At first she was volubly grateful to them until it suddenly hit her as the future Mrs. Christie Lane: they were her “gofors” too. Meanwhile, she used this respite to cover the stores in search of a suitable wedding dress. It had to be on the conservative side. It was wild-Christie’s sudden decision that they get married by a priest. But it was a good sign—he really meant it to stick. As far as she was concerned, she would have been married by a witch doctor as long as it was legal. She had talked to Father Kelly—no, she didn’t have to convert, just promise to raise the children as Catholics. Children! He’d get one child. One! But not until she was ready. She was thirty-two and had spent too many years hunting bargain clothes and watching the right side of the menu. For the first time she was going to have a wonderful wardrobe, take massages, go to the best beauty parlors. She wasn’t about to spend six months in maternity clothes. Not right now. Not when she was finally getting everything she ever wanted.
They were married the first week in May in a double ring ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, with her folks, Lou Goldberg, the “gofors” and Aggie in attendance. Christie wanted it that way, and until the final “I do” was said, she wasn’t going to argue a single point. When the ceremony was over, everyone kissed everyone. Suddenly she noticed that Christie had slipped away. She saw him crossing to the other side of the church. She followed him curiously, stood at a distance and saw him kneel at an altar. The nut was lighting every candle! And he put twenty dollars in the box! She returned to the wedding group without his seeing her. She hadn’t realized how much he cared for her. For Christie to part with twenty bucks—it had to be love. But then, a lot of men who were penurious changed after marriage. This was a good omen.
Christie took everyone to dinner, and then they all went to the station to see her folks off. That night when she went to Christie’s suite at the Astor, she was registered at the front desk for the first time.
She made no comment about spending her honeymoon at the Astor. Christie was immersed in the special and then they were going to Vegas for six weeks. That was the time to make all the future plans. She’d tell him to deposit five thousand in her checking account every month—maybe ten. After all, he had a great new deal at IBC for next season. And she would call a renting agent before she left and have them line up a duplex on Park Avenue.
She spent the first week of her married life sitting in the darkened theater watching Christie tape the Happening. Her part with Christie would be location shots: restaurants, theaters. Right now they were re-creating the atmosphere of his TV show so he could sing a few songs. Ethel had quickly contacted a renting agent, an elegant woman named Mrs. Rudin, who arrived at rehearsal one day with floor plans for several excellent apartments. Christie ambled over during a break. Ethel introduced him to Mrs. Rudin. He listened quietly while Ethel explained. Then he clamped his teeth on his cigar. “Listen, lady, roll all them blue prints up and forget it. Ethel and I are plenty comfortable at the Astor.”
Ethel’s face burned with silent rage. She waited until the woman left. Then she cornered him backstage. “How dare you do that?” she demanded.
“Do what?”
“Embarrass me in front of a renting agent.”
“Then don’t bring them around and you won’t be embarrassed.”
“But we have to get an apartment.”
“What for?”
“Christie, do you expect me to always live at the Astor with your two wardrobe trunks in the living room, one dinky closet for both of us, one bathroom—”
“Listen, I seen the joint you and Lillian shared. That wasn’t exactly the Ritz.”
“I wasn’t Mrs. Christie Lane then.”
“Well Mr. Christie Lane is happy at the Astor.”
She decided this was not the place to fight it out. She had the whole summer to wear him down. “I’m going to Saks to buy a bathing suit for Vegas. Oh, by the way, I want a checking account.”
“So open one.”
“I need something to put in it.”
“You’ve been earning two hundred a week before we were married. I was talking it over with Lou. He’ll still send you the same check each week. You can keep doing my publicity—you got nothing else to do anyhow.”
“But what about my spending money?”
“Two hundred bucks isn’t exactly chicken feed. Besides, now that you don’t have to kick in your half of the rent to Lillian you’ll have more money. Two hundred a week is plenty of spending money. Some families of eight live on that.”
She sank into a seat in the empty theater. Suddenly she felt as if she had been tricked—like hitting an oil well and waking up the next morning to find it had run dry. And when the special was finished and they left for Vegas, the feeling persisted. Bellboys and motel managers called her Mrs. Lane. Other than that her life hadn’t changed. Actually her life had been better before the marriage. There had always been a few nights a week that belonged to her—nights where she could sleep in the privacy of her apartment with Lillian. Now she spent every second with Christie, the “gofors” and Agnes. And in the fall, back in New York, it would still be the Copa bar, Jilly’s and dinners with the “gofors.” But she was damned if she’d go back to the Astor.
She brought it up to Christie one night after the show. “What’s wrong with the Astor?” he demanded.
“I don’t want to live there.”
“Where do you want to live?”
“In a nice apartment, with a dining room, a terrace and two bathrooms!”
“All those rooms for just the two of us? I took a house in Hollywood once, but Eddie, Kenny and Aggie lived with me. And even then we had too much space. Look, once we have a kid, then we’ll talk about apartments. Sure, with my kid I’ll want a dining room. I want him to learn right, but as long as there’s just you and me, it’ll be a hotel suite.”
The following night she didn’t wear her diaphragm.
TWENTY-THREE
ROBIN SAW THE PICTURE OF MAGGIE in the morning paper while he was having his coffee. He read the caption: MAGGIE STEWART, CENTURY’S NEWEST YOUNG STAR, IN NEW YORK TODAY TO DO LOCATION SHOTS FOR “THE TARGET.”
Her makeup was a little more pronounced, her hair was longer, but she looked great. Suddenly he had an insatiable urge to see her. He placed a call to the Plaza. She was registered, but her room didn’t answer. He left word that he had called.
He was in the middle of a meeting when his secretary quietly entered the room and placed a note before him: “Miss Stewart on the phone.” He waved her off and went on with the meeting. It was five o’clock before he had the chance to return her call.
“Hi!” She sounded impersonal and cheerful.
“How’s the big movie star?”
“Beat. I’m playing a high-fashion model whose life is in jeopardy. In the opening scene an attempt is made on my life while I’m shooting fashions in Central Park. Naturally, in true Hollywood form, we’re shooting it last. That’s why I’m here.”
“It sounds exciting.”
“I hope it is. As soon as this scene is finished they’ll start to edit and score the picture.”
�
��Have you another lined up?”
“I’ve had several offers but my agent wants me to wait until this one comes out. It’s a gamble. If I’m good I’ll get much more money and offers of better parts. But if I flop, I’ll lose the things that I could grab now.”
“It sounds like a rough decision,” Robin said.
“I’m a gambler,” she said. “I’m going to wait.”
“Good girl. By the way, how long will you be in town?”
“Just three days.”
“Want to have a hamburger with me at P.J.’s?” It had slipped out before he realized it.
“Why not? Room service takes forever. Just give me time to get out of eight layers of pancake and into a shower.”
“Seven o’clock all right?”
“Fine. I’ll meet you there.” She hung up.
Robin stared at the phone thoughtfully. She hadn’t even given him the chance to offer to pick her up. Was she intentionally playing it cool? Then that meant she still had ideas. … He quickly put in a call to Jerry Moss.
At seven thirty they were still waiting for her at P.J’s. “Maybe she’s standing me up,” Robin said with a smile.
Jerry looked at him curiously. “What’s with you and this girl?”
“Absolutely nothing. We’re just friends—almost old acquaintances, you might say.”
“Then why are you afraid to be alone with her?”
“Afraid?”
“Last time she was in, you made damn sure I was with you when you met her plane.”
Robin sipped his beer. “Look, chum, she was once Andy Parino’s girl. They had just broken up when she came here that time. I didn’t want him to think I was horning in on him. That’s probably why I asked you along. I don’t recall.”
“Oh, that explains everything. And tonight I’m here to protect you from Adam Bergman?”
The Love Machine Page 33
