The Postman Always Purls Twice

by Anne Canadeo

  Maggie hoped so, though there was no time to reply. The lights dimmed again and the girl with the board appeared.

  As the actors began speaking their lines, Maggie noticed that Suzanne’s gaze had wandered in the opposite direction of the set. Then her eyes widened and her face got pale. Maggie could tell she was about to either scream or shout as she rose from her chair.

  Maggie leaned over, about to stuff a ball of yarn into Suzanne’s mouth. Luckily, Nick shouted, “Cut!” Maggie dropped back down with a huge sigh.

  “What on earth is the matter?”

  Suzanne didn’t answer, just pointed, her eyes bugging out of her head. Maggie followed the gesture, along with the rest of her friends.

  Heath O’Hara stood right beside them, his arms crossed over his well-developed physique, biceps bunching up attractively under a tight white T-shirt.

  He’d snuck up on them, coming from somewhere at the front of the shop. He leaned over Phoebe’s shoulder and Lucy nearly swooned. “Hey, ladies. How’s the view? Sight lines good? You found a cozy corner, didn’t you?”

  Suzanne blinked, and her face turned beet red. Maggie was afraid she would faint.

  “We’re very comfortable, thank you,” Maggie replied with a tight smile.

  He looked amused by her reply. Or maybe by the fact that she wasn’t wowed off her chair? As the rest of her friends seemed to be, including Dana. Despite her cool attitude when they’d talked about movie stars—Heath in particular—she stared up at him now with her knitting hanging from her hands. Her mouth hanging open a bit, too.

  His looks were dazzling; Maggie had to grant him that. But a bit of a peacock, she thought.

  “So, you’re the real knitting group. Jen told me about you,” he added.

  Jennifer Todd had been talking about them? To Heath O’Hara? Maggie wished she could have been a fly on the wall for that conversation.

  “We’re the real thing, all right,” Lucy replied.

  “But we don’t belong to the Screen Actor’s Guild, of course, so we couldn’t be in the movie,” Phoebe explained glumly. “That’s supposed to be us up there.” She pointed to the extras on the set.

  “You’re not missing much. They’ll be shooting the same five lines of dialogue until tomorrow,” he predicted.

  “So we’ve heard,” Maggie replied. “I don’t think we’d last that long.”

  Suzanne stared as if he’d floated down from a cloud. She finally snapped out of her daze. “Could I please have your autograph, Heath?”

  “I’d be happy to.” He walked over to her chair as she frantically searched for a scrap of paper in her knitting bag. She finally came up with one and handed it to him, along with a fine-point marker.

  “Could I have one for my daughter? Her names is Natalie . . . N-A-T-A-L-I-E.”

  The movie star quickly complied and handed the paper back. Suzanne practically pressed it to her chest, then slipped it back into the knitting bag.

  “Oh drat . . . I don’t have any more paper.” She looked around, panicked. “Wait, I saw someone do this at a rock concert.” She stood up and whipped off her sweater. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to see what was next.

  To her great relief, Suzanne wore a T-shirt under the sweater. She handed him the marker and twisted around so that her back faced him. “Could you sign my T-shirt? It’s Suzanne . . . with a Z, double N.”

  Heath chuckled as he scrawled a bold signature, amused at her resourcefulness. “No problem, Suzanne with a Z, double N.”

  “Thank you so much.” Suzanne sighed, craning her neck to get a view of the autograph on her back. Close to impossible without a mirror. Suzanne would complain of a crick in her neck tomorrow. Maggie felt sure of that.

  “Could you sign this for me, please? It’s Lucy. The usual spelling.” Lucy shyly held out a knitting pattern, the blank side of the page showing.

  The movie star directed his dazzling smile Lucy’s way as he signed his name again. “My sister is named Lucy. It’s one of my favorite names.”

  Maggie smiled, though she wondered about that claim, even though Lucy seemed to believe him. Maggie might check later on the Internet, not that it made any difference.

  Heath O’Hara glanced at Maggie and Dana, but neither of them jumped forward with pen and paper. He slipped his hands into the front pockets of his tight jeans. “I hear that one of you owns this shop?”

  “I do,” Maggie replied.

  “The set designer loved it. She didn’t do a thing to the displays or the way the furniture is arranged. That’s saying something,” he added quietly.

  “Thank you, that’s nice of you to tell me.” Was he this friendly to all his fans? Or just bored and thinking he would give them a little thrill?

  Dana had picked up her knitting and started working again, though she wasn’t totally recovered from this close brush with stardom. “We read on your website that you like to knit, too, Heath.”

  She didn’t add, “Is that true?” But Maggie sensed she was probing a bit.

  “I do. It’s a good way to kill time and a lot cheaper than playing poker with the gaffers and grips.” Maggie knew what gaffers and grips were: electricians and other set technicians.

  Maggie looked up at him. “Are you working on any knitting projects right now?”

  “I just started a vest, to use in the movie as a prop. My character is supposed to learn how to knit, too,” he explained. “It’s not coming along that well.”

  “Maybe I can help you. I’d be happy to take a look,” Maggie offered, then wasn’t sure why. To call his bluff and find out if he really did knit? Silly, but she was curious.

  “Maggie is like a brilliant surgeon for knitting projects,” Phoebe promised. “If she can’t fix it, there’s not much hope.”

  Heath grinned, his smile as white as his shirt. “Great, I have the stuff right here.” He walked over to the director’s chair that said “O’Hara” on the back and slid it over to their group. He opened a leather pack that was slung over the arm of the chair and carefully removed his project.

  So he did knit. Maggie thought for sure he was only saying that to up the fantasy of his carefully crafted image.

  “Any hope?” He held up the work, which did look a mess.

  “Give it here. I’ll see what I can do.” Maggie held out a hand and slipped on her reading glasses.

  Phoebe sat back and gripped the arms of her chair, staring up at the ceiling. “Am I the only one who cannot believe that Heath O’Hara is actually knitting with us? Would somebody pinch me . . . please?”

  Phoebe stared around at her friends, her eyes wide with shock. Heath laughed lightly. Maggie could tell he thought her reaction was very cute. Maggie did, too.

  “I’m not going to pinch you. But I will take a picture.” Suzanne pulled out her phone and jumped up from her chair. “Is that okay?” she asked Heath.

  “Absolutely. You can post it on my Facebook page,” he added.

  “I’m going to post it on my mine first, don’t worry . . .”

  “I’ll take the photo, you sit in my chair,” Dana suggested.

  Heath’s seat was right next to Dana’s and she was the least in awe. Along with Maggie. Though she did find him a likable fellow.

  Lucy had gone very quiet and looked a little mesmerized.

  “All right, bunch up together and smile,” Dana instructed. Suzanne had found an even better excuse to move closer to Heath, Maggie noticed. If she was any closer, she’d be wearing his clothing. But he didn’t seem to mind. He smiled even wider and put his arm around her shoulder. Suzanne’s smile was so wide it looked painful. Maggie thought she might faint.

  Dana snapped a picture and a second for good measure. Then handed the phone back to Suzanne, who took it in her two hands as if was the Holy Grail. She quickly found the photo, tapped out a message, and posted it on her Facebook page.

  “What did you write, Suzanne?” Lucy asked.

  “ ‘Yes, that is Heath O’Hara. You
are not dreaming. Neither am I!’ ”

  “Funny,” he said with a grin.

  “Thank you, Heath.” Suzanne’s tone was so sincere, as if he’d just said she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  “I’ve tagged all of you . . . except Maggie, of course, who hasn’t joined the twenty-first century.”

  “I have a page for the shop,” she reminded Suzanne. “Put it there. I’d like a copy to hang in the shop, too,” she added, glancing at the movie star. “Maybe you could sign that for me?”

  “I’d be happy to. Don’t forget to put it on my fan page, Suzanne,” Heath added.

  Suzanne gazed at him. “Will do.”

  Maggie nearly laughed out loud at her adoring tone. She concentrated on repairing Heath’s knitting instead. She had picked up quite a few slipped stitches. She showed Heath the tinks and how she’d fixed them.

  “One loop at a time. Unless you want to decrease your stitches. You’re not ready for that part of the pattern yet,” she explained.

  He took the knitting and needles back carefully. “Thanks . . . wow, this looks much better.”

  “No problem, happy to help,” Maggie replied. Just then, someone called, “Quiet on the set,” again. Maggie turned her chair so she could see the set. So did Phoebe. The rest of her friends already sat facing the set, with Heath sitting cozily between Suzanne and Lucy.

  I am glad I have a picture of this, Maggie thought. Even I might not believe it happened by tomorrow, she decided.

  She’d thought Heath O’Hara was a bit full of himself when he’d first sauntered over, but his swaggering charm did grow on a person. Some people—men especially—could be total egotists but in a very beguiling way, she’d often found. The lights were dimmed again, except for the big floods shining on the actors. Maggie put her knitting aside and so did her friends.

  “Camera rolling,” someone called.

  Nick Pullman had been coaching the actresses but sat in his chair now. He took a wad of tissues and patted his brow, then slipped off his linen blazer. An assistant stood by to take it away and handed him a bottle of cold water, which he drank thirstily, then pressed it to his forehead for a moment.

  The digital clapboard appeared. “Scene fifty-seven. Take three.”

  Maggie wasn’t sure if she wanted to stay after this one. Though she expected that her friends, especially Suzanne, would not budge an inch until Heath O’Hara left their midst.

  Trina had just delivered her line, “I’m here for my lesson . . . Or maybe to teach you one,” when Maggie heard a horrendous sound, like someone choking.

  She saw Nick Pullman stand up, gasping for breath. Then grabbed at his chest, with a horrible grimace. Eyes bulging, he staggered forward.

  They were all in the dark, except for the actors on the set. Everyone was shouting. “It’s Nick . . . he’s sick . . . get some help . . . dial 911 . . .”

  Maggie and her friends jumped from their seats, their purses, knitting bags, and knitting clattering to the floor.

  “Oh my God! What’s wrong?” Jennifer ran toward her husband. “Put the lights on! Call an ambulance!”

  Nick grabbed Jennifer’s arm. His mouth hung open but he couldn’t speak. He fell to the floor, gripping his chest again. Trina stood beside him now, too, along with a circle of crew members.

  “Help him, someone . . . he can’t breathe!” Trina screamed.

  The lights flashed on as the cast and crew ran to help. Jennifer knelt by her husband’s side. Nora Lynch, the nurse practitioner, had pushed her way through the crowd and knelt down next to the fallen director, too.

  “Is he choking on something?” Dana asked quietly.

  “I think he can’t breathe. Maybe it’s a heart attack,” Maggie whispered back. She recalled that Jennifer had told her husband to calm down when the light fixture fell on Saturday. Do you want another heart attack? she’d asked him.

  Maggie saw the nurse administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Heath was down on the floor, too, and began chest compression. Maggie saw him counting under his breath, forcing himself to focus.

  “Nick . . . please. Open your eyes, man. Come on. Don’t do this . . . Do you hear me? Open your eyes . . .” Heath was half begging, half crying as he pumped his friend’s chest with his hands.

  Jennifer knelt next to her husband, looking shocked and frightened. She pressed her hand to Heath’s shoulder to steady him, her gaze fixed on Nick’s pale face.

  “An ambulance is coming! They’re on their way,” someone in the crowd shouted.

  Nick stared up at the ceiling, his brown eyes unnaturally wide. Then he closed them with a groan.

  Maggie feared Nick was gone. Nora and Heath kept working in a steady rhythm. Heath was crying openly but didn’t miss a beat.

  The shop door burst open and several police officers entered. They ran back to the fallen director. One of Nick’s assistants began to explain the situation to one of the officers: “He was watching the take and started choking and couldn’t breathe . . .”

  Another officer knelt by Heath and took over the CPR from the actor. Heath rose on trembling legs, his handsome face grim and ashen. He stepped over to Jennifer and put his arm around her shoulder. It was hard to tell who was comforting who. He hooked the other arm around Trina, who buried her face in Heath’s chest.

  Jennifer turned away a few moments later to answer questions from a police officer. “Yes . . . he had a heart attack last February and had a bypass operation.”

  Maggie heard a siren approach, and seconds later EMS technicians ran into the shop with a stretcher and cases of equipment. Nora let them take over and they quickly assessed the situation. Nick was breathing again on his own and they covered his mouth with an oxygen mask. The director was quickly strapped to a stretcher and rolled toward the door.

  “Stand back, everyone,” police officers instructed the onlookers.

  Suzanne gripped Maggie’s hand and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Maggie could hardly watch. But she couldn’t help it, she had to see what was happening. Dana, Lucy, and Phoebe were huddled together on the other side of the crowd, watching intently, too.

  Heath, Trina, and Jennifer followed the stretcher, along with several security guards. Everyone moved to the front of the shop to watch the stretcher being rolled out and lifted into the ambulance. The crowd of onlookers on the sidewalk and street had grown; quite a few had cell phones out and were snapping pictures. She expected that news of Nick Pullman’s health crisis would be on the Internet instantly. Maybe it was already.

  Jennifer spoke quickly to Alicia as they walked together toward the ambulance. Maggie couldn’t help overhearing their conversation. “—and you’d better call Dr. Wang in LA. The ER doctors will want to speak to him . . . And call Regina right away. I’ll check in with her later, when I know more.”

  Maggie guessed that was Regina Thurston, the film’s executive producer

  Alicia patted Jennifer’s arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll come to the hospital in a little while,” she promised.

  Jennifer smiled briefly in thanks and Alicia gave her a quick hug. Then the star was helped into the back of the ambulance, the doors slammed, and it drove off, siren blaring. Heath and Trina climbed into the backseat of a big black car, escorted out by the massive, silent giants who guarded them.

  “Where do you think they’ll take him?” Lucy asked.

  “Harbor Medical Center, in Newburyport. It’s the closest hospital,” Dana replied.

  “I hope he makes it,” Lucy said quietly. “At one point, I thought he was gone.”

  “So did I,” Maggie admitted. “Thank goodness the ambulance got here so quickly—”

  Her words were interrupted by shouts from the crew. “Okay, back inside. Let’s break it down and pack this stuff up,” one of Nick’s assistants shouted, herding the crew back into the shop.

  The movie crew looked dazed, drained of their crackling energy. They moved like zombies,
murmuring to one another. Maggie and her friends stood on the sidewalk, watching.

  “It’s so frightening.” Lucy sounded shaken. “He was hard at work one minute. On the floor the next, fighting for his life.”

  “It was a shocking sight,” Maggie agreed.

  The drama off camera had been far more intense than the drama on the set. But based on an undeniable, unavoidable truth: life was fragile. Any moment could be our last.

  We all took it for granted, didn’t we? Cocooned in our routines, our plans, our projects and expectations. Who could live a normal life, conscious every moment of our mortality?

  Our entrances . . . and exits.

  Maggie reached out and took hold of Lucy’s hand on one side and Phoebe’s on the other. “He’s fairly young and in good shape. And he has everything to live for. He could be back on his feet in no time. Let’s hope for the best.”

  “Yes . . . let’s send him waves of positive thoughts,” Phoebe suggested.

  “And Jennifer, too,” Lucy said. “She must be terrified.”

  Maggie nodded. Of course, they didn’t know the actress very well, but she’d been so kind to them and did seem like a friend in a way. Maggie’s heart went out to her, too.

  She hoped Nick Pullman would recover, and not make Jennifer a young widow, like the character she played in their film.

  Chapter Six

  Right before heading for bed, Maggie turned on the late news. As she’d expected, there was a report about Nick Pullman. A brief, blurry video—most likely sent in by an onlooker using a camera phone—showed the stretcher bearing Nick being loaded into an ambulance and Jennifer climbing in behind it.

  “. . . A spokesperson for Harbor Medical Center in Newburyport reported Pullman in critical condition after a medical emergency earlier this evening. Doctors suspect the director suffered cardiac arrest, though an official diagnosis has not been released. Pullman, along with his wife, actress Jennifer Todd, were filming on location in the village of Plum Harbor when he collapsed on the set.”