by Star Jones
“And what about the man in prison?” William asked.
Maxine looked down at the ground. She knew that was her biggest mistake, the one she would always regret. She should have done more for that man, made a few phone calls to help him, even though she had told Missy she wouldn’t. That was the deal.
“Well, he’s still there,” she said, her voice drifting off. That statement sat between them for a while, with William staring at her and Maxine looking down at the floor. Somehow William, a truly decent man to his core, always managed to make her feel guilty. He was the only person she’d ever met with the power to make Maxine actually have second thoughts.
“William, please don’t leave me,” Maxine said softly. “I don’t know what I would do here in this big place totally alone. I need you, William.”
She got up from the chair and rushed over to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing, willing him to squeeze her back. Slowly, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around Maxine.
“I promise, I will do everything I can to help that man get out of jail,” Maxine said, speaking into William’s chest. “I promise, William. Okay?”
William didn’t say a word. He looked down at Maxine, gazing deeply into her eyes. She returned the gaze. She felt naked, exposed, and vulnerable, as if he could see through her lies and obfuscations to judge Maxine Robinson in her true state. She wished that she could be as morally sure, as unshakable, as William. But Maxine operated in a world of grays, of shadings of the truth. It was easy for him to be so morally right all the time because he lived a relatively simple life. He was a butler. Maxine swam with the sharks of the entertainment and television world. People who would smile in your face at the same time that they thrust a knife in your belly, again and again, and then twist it. If she weren’t hard and forceful and sometimes devious, people would stomp all over her. There would be no mercy for the daughter of a sharecropper from Texas. Her memories of that farm, of the disgusting outhouse, which sometimes got so cold early in the morning that Maxine would be tempted to pee on her young self rather than go outside, of her father toiling away in those fields until his hands literally bled—all that was more than enough ammunition to keep Maxine always pushing, always driving forward, shoving aside anyone who got in her way. There was no way in hell she would wind up back on that farm, back in that position, at the mercy of some distant white man, hoping for enough generosity to feed her family. No, Maxine knew that she would always keep pushing, always keep looking for an advantage over every person who dared get in her way.
William took her chin in his hand and lifted her face toward his. Their lips met in a long, soulful kiss. Maxine felt herself getting warm inside, excited, horny. She pressed her lips against William’s with more urgency, trying to send the message through her mouth that she wanted him to take her. Their sexual encounters weren’t nearly as frequent as they used to be in the early days, but they both made sure that they never went too long without reacquainting themselves with their favorite parts of each other’s bodies. They both fell back on William’s bed, on top of the suitcases. Without breaking their kiss, William reached over and swept the suitcases off the bed. They hit the floor with a thud. He slowly worked his way down her face and into her neck. She could hear him inhale deeply. She knew the fragrance she was wearing was a favorite of his. She hadn’t put it on earlier in the evening in anticipation of this moment, but she was glad she had worn it. Actually, maybe subconsciously she had been anticipating this moment.
William unbuttoned Maxine’s jacket and peeled it from her body like he was removing the petals from a flower. Maxine helped him out by removing her camisole. William took the camisole away and buried his face in her ample chest. She felt him inhale her scent again and she smiled. William began to move down her body, leaving soft, gentle kisses across her torso. The touch of his lips almost burned. Carefully, William reached up and pulled the wig from her head. Maxine opened her mouth to protest, but William placed an index finger on her lips, a signal for her to let it go. She fell silent and let William strip away all the facades, the barriers, the celebrity that kept her walled off from the rest of the world like the Mona Lisa behind the majestic glass case in the Louvre. Slowly, tenderly, William made love to Maxine. The real Maxine, the one he had first fallen in love with long ago, in those desperate days when she was married to that cruel rich man; this was the Maxine who needed him, who treasured him, who yearned for him. He whispered in her ear, telling her how much he loved being with her, being inside of her, being one with her. Each of his words sent tremors shooting down Maxine’s body. He held her in his strong, muscular arms and slowly rocked his body on top of her.
She felt like he filled her completely; she gasped to catch her breath. Her pleasure was so acute, so sharp, that it almost hurt her. She moaned and pulled him closer, holding on to him as tightly as she could, as if she could keep him there, in her home, in this bed, forever, if she never let go. But if she had been able to look into his eyes, she would have seen them welling with tears. William loved Maxine dearly, but he knew his soul could no longer stand idly by and watch her manipulate and destroy. Her viciousness ate away at him, even when Maxine didn’t know it, making him question himself for falling in love with a woman who could be so heartless and brutal. He had heard her promise so many times that she would change, she would be better, but he no longer believed it was possible. He didn’t think she was capable of change. Living with Maxine didn’t jibe with the way William thought of himself, the image that he wanted to hold of his place in the world. Rather than a kind force for good, Maxine made him feel like an enabler of something sinister. In order to preserve his sanity, William knew that he had to get away from her. Yes, he cried, for the love that he had to leave behind; he cried for the beautiful woman he could not save from herself; he cried for the intimate moments that he would miss.
Maxine cried out into the night when the orgasm overcame her. Her cry was joined by William’s soft moans as he also felt the final release. He knew that this would be the last time; it was explosive, intense, special. As he came down from the high, a heavy sadness settled over him. He crawled behind Maxine and held her closely against his body. The two of them fell into a deep sleep, William’s arms wrapped around Maxine, Maxine’s hands desperately clutching those arms.
When Maxine stirred in the early morning hours, awakened by the sunlight streaming into William’s room, she reached behind her, still anxious to feel his body against hers. But nobody was there. She turned around; William was gone. She looked around the room and saw that his suitcases were gone too. Panicked, Maxine got out of the bed and ran through the apartment, totally naked, calling out to him. But he didn’t answer. William had left her.
Whitney heard footsteps scurrying around the town house and knew that she could no longer stay asleep. She sat up and looked around her bedroom, her head pounding from a serious hangover and her tongue feeling like sandpaper. She tried to orient herself, but she couldn’t identify the source of the heavy, sinking feeling in her stomach. But then she saw her bureau drawers open, clothes strewn all over the floor, and she remembered the FBI search. She fell hard back onto the pillow. How could she forget? She was married to a child molester.
Whitney awoke with a heavy heart Sunday morning. The uncomfortable questions to her girls and the late-night talk with her boys had left her spent. But she couldn’t afford to wallow because she had another challenge ahead. Her mind moved along to Monday morning at The Lunch Club. What would she do? Could she go out there and face the prying world? She knew the ratings for Monday’s show would probably be astronomical, everybody waiting to see whether Whitney would be there, if she would look devastated, if she would say anything. Whitney had no answers to those queries right now. She didn’t know whether she could face America, and she didn’t know what would happen that would give her more strength in the twenty-four hours between the shower and the red camera light coming on.
The tears formed again and spilled
down her cheeks. She put her face in the pillow and sobbed once more, for herself and her family, before she got out of bed.
It was already ten fifteen. The divorce lawyer, Nancy Chemtob, would be arriving in less than an hour. Whitney rushed into her bathroom and got in the shower. She let the steaming-hot water pour over her for more than fifteen minutes, washing away the tangible remnants of the night before—the sex, the vomit, the funk of humiliation. She wished she could use the water to wash away her troubles. She was still partially numbed by her predicament. Instead of a divorce lawyer, perhaps it was a therapist that she needed now. That her whole family needed. She knew her girls—and her boys too—probably needed her comfort right now, but she almost wanted to avoid them because she didn’t know what to say to them. There was nothing she could come up with to make this better. Mommy couldn’t kiss it and make the hurt go away. This one was going to cause visible scars for a long time, for her and for the kids. That fucking Eric! Even the thought of his name, the memory of his face, made Whitney furious enough to spit. Yes, he was the father of two of her children, but she thought it would be just fine if none of her family members ever saw the bastard again. A part of her almost wished he had done the honorable thing and just killed himself in that room in Prague—but then again Eric clearly didn’t have an honorable bone in his body.
By the time the doorbell rang at noon, Whitney had debated whether she should wake her girls from their teenage slumber. Even on a good Sunday morning, the girls could sleep away the entire day unless she roused them for church. On this Sunday, after the events of the night before, when they probably didn’t really close their eyes until at least two in the morning, she’d be surprised if she saw them before three o’clock. Whitney opened the door and was surprised to see that Nancy Chemtob had brought a guest.
Whitney recognized her right away. It was Judy Smith, the well-known lawyer turned “crisis” manager who advised stars on how to handle themselves during uncomfortable times and served as their voice to the media. She had represented everyone from Monica Lewinsky to members of Congress, to Jayson Williams and the country of Saudi Arabia.
“Whitney, you know Judy Smith, right?” Nancy said. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought her along.”
Whitney shrugged. Actually she did mind a bit because if Judy was needed she was truly in the shit. If Nancy thought she needed Judy, then she needed Judy. Whitney poured everyone a cup of coffee and they sat around the kitchen table.
“The most important thing for you, Whitney,” Judy began, “is to look strong but sympathetic. Let me tell you how to do that . . .”
Over the next two hours, they prepared Whitney for her Monday morning appearance on The Lunch Club. By the time they were done, Whitney was exceedingly pleased to have Judy Smith on her team.
KAREN SIEGEL AND HER husband, Bert, as they worked their way through the Sunday Times together, couldn’t stop talking about Molly. Bert had asked her if she was going to talk to Maxine about Molly, but Karen wasn’t sure what she should do. After they had calmed Molly down enough to walk her back to her apartment, Molly kept pleading with Karen not to say anything about what had happened to anyone on the show, particularly Maxine. She said that she was sure Maxine would have exactly the excuse she needed to can her if she heard that Molly was walking around the streets of Manhattan acting like “a fuckin’ nut job,” as Molly put it.
Karen told Bert that she was torn. As the show’s longtime director—she had started less than a year after the show first went on the air, when the original director quit to take a job with Regis Philbin’s show (because Regis constantly bantered with the director and the people behind the camera, a director could actually become a star in his own right on the show)—it was her job as much as Maxine’s to protect the show’s integrity. Molly clearly was unstable and at any moment could do something that would cause a major embarrassment to The Lunch Club. Bert, who was an internist at Lenox Hill Hospital, had pointed to all the bottles on Molly’s kitchen counter. He said after they left that there was no doubt in his mind Molly was battling a pill addiction. He said she was exhibiting all the classic signs and that it was incumbent upon her coworkers to insist that she enter treatment. Since she lived by herself, he said, who else was going to do it if it wasn’t Karen and the ladies of The Lunch Club? Karen knew he was right, of course, but she also knew that the show would be much less entertaining without Molly Stein. She was invaluable, in Karen’s estimation. Karen couldn’t think of many other entertainers who could sit on the couch every day and be witty and smart at the same time—except for perhaps Dara’s girlfriend, Rain Sommers. Karen considered Molly irreplaceable, but she didn’t think Maxine shared that opinion.
Out of the corner of her eye, Karen caught a commercial for Primeline airing during the morning news. Another show was coming on in a few days, but this one was a special from Europe. Karen always found the Primeline predator shows deeply disturbing and avoided them at all costs.
“Watch the unsettling reaction of this latest predator caught in the act,” said the voice-over for the ad. “In fact, he’s a well-known American journalist.”
That last part grabbed Karen’s attention. She looked up—and was horrified to see the blubbering image of Eric Harlington, Whitney’s husband.
“That’s Eric!” Karen shouted, pointing at the screen.
“Who?” Bert said, looking up from the paper. He saw a distinguished-looking middle-aged white man crying into the camera, his shame seeping through the screen.
“That’s Eric Harlington, Whitney’s husband!”
They both moved in closer to the television. “I’ll be damned! It sure is,” Bert said.
Karen grabbed the remote to the DVR and rewound it. With their mouths agape, they watched Eric plead with Drew Finch for mercy—and, most unsettling of all, he did it by trying to use the fact that he had two daughters himself. Karen was so disgusted and upset that she wanted to cry. Just then, her cell phone rang. She reached out and grabbed it quickly.
“Are you watching the morning news?” It was Josh Howe, the executive producer, screaming into her phone.
AS THE MORNING NEWS played in the background, Dara and Rain rolled around their bed in a long, leisurely Sunday morning lovemaking session, which was becoming a tradition of sorts for them. Living with a woman was still new to Dara, and one of the most enjoyable parts of the experience was having a mate whose sex drive was such a comfortable match with hers. When she had dated guys, Dara always felt like something was a little off-kilter in that department—they wanted it when she didn’t, and when she wanted it they didn’t seem to be available. Sunday mornings was a time when she usually wanted it. So did Rain. They’d watch all the morning news programs. And at some point, one of them would make a move and they would start peeling off their pajamas and begin a glorious, unrushed session. Once Dara had had an amazing six orgasms on a Sunday morning, way more than she had ever had with a man. Sometimes she wondered if this was because of her partner’s skill—she often joked that it was too bad oral sex wasn’t an Olympic event because Rain would have as many medals as Michael Phelps—or because she was meant to make love only to women.
As they lay in each other’s arms, basking in the afterglow, a commercial came on for an upcoming episode of Primeline. Dara was only half watching—until she saw a familiar face on the screen. She sat up and groped for the remote. She rewound it, concentrating intently on the television.
“What is it?” Rain said, sitting up next to her.
“That guy looked familiar,” Dara said. She paused it on his face. “Oh no! That’s Whitney’s husband, Eric!”
They rewound it to the beginning of the commercial. When the full brunt of the story hit them, they looked at each other and both grimaced.
“Oh, God . . .” Dara said. “Poor Whitney.” She reached for the phone, thinking that maybe she should call Whitney to see if she needed anything.
“You gonna call her?” Rain asked her.
Dara looked up. “You think I should wait?” Dara asked.
Rain shrugged. “I don’t know. If it was me, I might not want to hear from anybody right now.”
Dara put the phone down. Maybe it was too soon to call. But she would call later. Whitney needed to know that Dara was her friend and would do anything to help her.
SHELLY WAS ON HER couch in a robe and slippers while -La—ah made bacon and eggs in the kitchen. Shelly had just finished explaining the book deal she had been promised the night before. She was going to tell La—ah about the horrible way the night ended, but then she saw Eric’s face on the television.
“That’s him!” Shelly screamed, pointing.
“That’s who?” La—ah asked.
“That’s Whitney’s husband! I heard about this last night at the party!”
Shelly recounted what Riley had told them the night before about Eric’s arrest. She remembered that horrible, deadened look on Whitney’s face as she walked out of Maxine’s place. The memory made Shelly feel queasy. She was tempted to call Whitney and see how she was doing. She considered Whitney a friend; calling would be the right thing to do. But then she thought about how she’d feel if she were in Whitney’s shoes—she wouldn’t want to hear from anybody. She’d just want to crawl into a closet and disappear for six months, she’d be so embarrassed. Maybe a text was better than a call, just to let Whitney know that Shelly was thinking about her. As she started tapping out a message to Whitney, she saw La—ah shaking her head.
Instead of empathizing with Whitney, whom La—ah had met many times, La—ah was thinking about the bigger picture.
“Oooh, this is crazy as cat shit—and it’s going to be great for y’all ratings!” she said.
BESIDES MOLLY AND WHITNEY, Lizette also missed the Primeline commercial, because she was still obsessing over her boyfriend’s dastardly deeds. Or maybe it was time to call Channing her ex-boyfriend. She was still dumbfounded that he could have so cavalierly sabotaged her career the way he had, apparently for his own good. What else could possess him to do something so despicable?
