by A. W. Gray
“Oh, it was. And don’t think I won’t hear more about it.” Darla laid her spoon aside.
“I think Mr. Spencer got the worst of it,” Sharon said.
“Thanks to you.” Darla’s lip quivered. “There’s another reason I can’t leave David right now. I’m afraid.”
“You could be in danger. There are laws about that sort of thing, if you want protection.”
Darla quickly regained her composure. “You don’t call the police unless you want more publicity. The cops have been known to leak a few things in our neck of the woods.”
Sharon felt a burst of anger. “Has he hurt you?”
“Not permanently.”
“Darla, you listen. If you’re in an abusive relationship, you get out of it. And right now. I wish I’d brought Sheila along.”
“Your black friend?”
Sharon nodded. “She’s a psychiatrist. About half her practice are battered wives, girlfriends…”
Darla gave a harsh, bitter laugh, loud enough that a man at the next table turned his head. “I don’t know that I’m battered,” said Darla. “He’s only really beat the shit out of me a couple of times.”
“Get away from him, then. I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Darla studied her lap, the voluptuous cinema queen now looking sad and vulnerable. “You’d be surprised what some of us put up with for image’s sake.” She pushed her soup aside and picked at her salad. “You know how long it’s been since I had a really good time with anyone? When I first got to California, a few times. Guys I worked with on day jobs. One I met with this temp service, and darn if I didn’t feel there was really something there. Then along comes Fatal Instinct. All during shooting I didn’t say a word to him about my role, and he didn’t ask. I suppose he thought it was just another bit part. Opening night for the film I went with him, and guess what. It wasn’t a week until he wanted to tie me to a chair and whip me. No way could I convince him that wasn’t really what I wanted. I finally slapped him silly and walked out.
“I met David at an AIDS fundraiser shortly after that,” Darla said. “He’s ten years younger and full of hormones, okay? Set me in orbit sexually, that I’ll admit, but then we moved in together. Half the time he’s gone or I’m gone, shooting a film or something, or maybe just seeking solitude while we search for our true identities. That kind of crap, you know? And when we’re together, half of that time he’s so zonked on whiskey or drugs or both that he doesn’t know what’s going on. When he sobers up he feels bad, so he beats me up. Then later he apologizes. Jesus, practically on his knees, and that’s almost as bad as the beating.” Darla shrugged. “So that’s life among the beautiful people. But I take it. For a certain amount of time, you have to.”
“No, you don’t,” Sharon said. “Not one more second.”
“Oh, I’m going back to the hotel in a huff and snatch up my things. Tonight I’ll flee to California in tears. That will make the tabloids. We’ll be on-again, off-again for a month, just to keep up the publicity, then it’s going to be splitsville. David will pretend to care that I’m gone, but he really won’t give a damn. For someone with his drawing power, punching bags are a dime a dozen.”
“What hotel?”
“The Mansion.”
“I should go with you. You never know what might happen.”
“He won’t hit me tonight,” Darla said. “He was worked up enough to knock me silly back at Planet Hollywood, but by the time I get you home and then drive to the hotel, he’ll be in a stupor. I’ll just pack my gear and I’m out of there.”
Sharon turned her fork prongs down on her plate. Another carriage went past the window, clippety-clop. She said, “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure. We never had to get permission to ask each other anything we wanted, you know that.”
“Well, there’s a lot of water under the bridge.”
“Not with us. So ask.”
“Well … if you never had any feeling for the guy to begin with…”
“Why did I move in with him?”
Sharon studied her, the same, so-familiar face she’d known before, but now a face she’d seen on billboards as well. “Something like that,” she finally said.
A soft smile touched Darla’s lips. “Remember what they used to tell us in acting class, when we’d think our characters weren’t doing things the way they would in real life?”
Sharon chuckled, remembering. “‘That may be life, but this is a play’?”
“Yes. They say the same thing in Hollywood. That may be life, but this is the films. We get tied up in these roles we play. One month you might be a whore, the next month a nun. If you play-act that you’re falling in love, sometimes you think you are. Then you try it for real, and life kicks in.”
Sharon folded her hands in her lap. “I think that might’ve been true with Rob and me.”
“Maybe,” Darla said. “And if it was, then you know what I’m talking about. Feelings for David Spencer? Sure, I convinced myself I had some, the same way I convince myself I’m getting horny playing some of those scenes I do. But it isn’t real life, Sharon. It’s the movies, kid, what can I say? So don’t ever feel envious of me. People like you, people with lives, you’re the ones who have got it made.”
4
Darla leaned back until her face was in shadow, the glow from Sharon’s porch light illuminating her hands on the steering wheel. “What a neat little house,” Darla said.
“I’ll grant you it’s little.” Sharon reached for the door handle. “But anything beats a cold-water flat in Brooklyn Heights.”
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad. We had hot water.”
“As long as nobody else in the building showered at the same time we did. So tell me about the castle where you live now.”
Darla sighed. “Where I’m camping out is what you mean. I don’t feel as if I live anywhere.”
“I’ll bet it’s nice, though.” Sharon looked up the driveway to where her dented Volvo sat nose-on to the garage, with Sheila’s Buick wagon parked behind the Volvo. The living room lights were on, and Sheila and the girls would be watching TV as they waited up for her. She said to Darla, “Is it on the beach?”
“Sure, just like … well, just like in the movies, what can I say? We’re on a cliff, fifty feet up. There’s a sliding door leading from the bedroom onto a balcony, and at night you can sit outside and listen to the surf pounding. Whitecaps on the ocean at night are something to see, like ghosts on black water. They make this restful swishing noise, and keep me company while David’s sleeping one off. If I concentrate really hard on the ocean sounds I can’t even hear him snoring. Salt breeze on your cheeks and all that. Best that money can buy.”
How can she sound so bitter, Sharon thought, that lifestyle? “Guess you take walks on the beach,” she said.
A parallelogram of brightness shined on Darla’s mouth and nose. “Yeah, all the time. It’s the only way I’m ever really alone, nothing but me and the seagulls. I can close my eyes and imagine I’m just about anywhere, no security guards, nothing. Which is a rarity for me these days. This is the first time I’ve been anywhere without a shadow since I don’t know when. Feels sort of strange with no one bird-dogging me.”
“Come on, it can’t be that bad. What people wouldn’t give.”
Darla’s mouth puckered. “Can’t it? The people who haven’t tried it just don’t know. You can believe this or not, but I’d give up every nickel, all the glamour, if I could just live in a little house like you’ve got and be myself. I can’t be myself, Sharon. I’m not even certain that myself exists anymore. Ever since I compromised everything I’d preached for so long, just for one great big fuck scene. My whole life is a fuck scene now, you want to trade places? I’ll warn you beforehand, there’s no backing out.” She sniffled and looked at the clock. “Oh, hell, I’m whining agai
n. If I’m going to adios David and catch the red-eye, I’ve got to step on it.”
Sharon looked down, hesitating. “I wish you’d let me go to the hotel with you. I’d feel as if you were safer.”
“From David? No way he’s going to be a problem, it’s after nine o’clock. He’s in a stupor by now, believe me.” Darla squeezed Sharon’s arm. “Now that I’ve got you located,” Darla said, “you mind if I call you once in a while? Just to talk.”
“Of course not.”
“Thanks. I’m a little short of friends right now, someone I know isn’t after something. You may keep me from jumping out the window some night. And, hey, if I drive you crazy taking you up on your offer, I apologize in advance.” She tightened her grip, the pressure on Sharon’s arm desperate. “And thanks just for being my friend. To know how much that means, you’d just have to be in my shoes.”
Sharon stood on the curb and watched the Geo’s taillights bounce through an intersection, brighten as Darla hit the brakes, then disappear from view as the Geo rounded the comer. If the neighbors had any idea who’s driving that little car, Sharon thought, they’d all be outside in their bathrobes. She softly sang the opening bars to “Take Back Your Mink” as she lugged her briefcase and shoulder bag up the sidewalk. Once upon a time she’d gone with Darla to the umpteenth Broadway revival of Guys and Dolls, after standing in line for an hour at half-price tickets—the sign suspended over the joining of Broadway, Seventh Avenue and 47th Street read, TKTS, with half the letters missing from the word—across from the theater. Darla bad been short of money and had bummed a dollar to make up the difference. After the show they’d walked up into the Fifties and split a piece of Lindy’s cheesecake, two penniless young women on a lark, having a ball. Sharon had loved New York and often missed it. She continued to sing, and even added a few saucy bumps and grinds to her walk as she climbed onto her porch and inserted the key into the lock. The air was clear, the nighttime temperature down in the forties. She shivered slightly as she opened the door.
Commander mugged her in the entry hall. The German Shepherd reared up on his hindquarters to lidc. her face, whining as if he hadn’t seen her in years. Sharon giggled as she said; “Down. Down, dammit, you’re going to mess up my…” She turned toward the den. Sheila and the teenagers huddled in the alcove.
Sheila glanced sideways, out the front window. “Is she with you?”
Melanie breathed, “Is she, Mom?”
Trish stared bug-eyed. Sheila was in the same hugging pants and puff-sleeved blouse she’d worn to
Sharon rubbed Commander’s snout. “She had to go.”
Sheila and the teenagers sagged in unison.
“She’ll be calling me. Maybe we can visit her.” Sharon moved into the den with the others following.
Commander panted along, nuzzling Sharon’s leg. Melanie’s voice was an octave higher than normal.
“The paper says she’ll be here several days.”
Sharon sank down on the couch, dumped her belongings on the cushion, and scratched Commander behind the ears. “Afraid she’s changed her plans.” Melanie’s features screwed up in a frown.
“Aw, Mom …”
“Couldn’t be helped. She has commitments.”
Sharon felt Commander’s hindquarters, near the hip joint. The lump in the shepherd’s flesh seemed larger than in the past, and Sharon wondered if the vet should have a look. Touching the imbedded bullet sent tremors racing up her spine, and brought back images of the man who’d shot Commander two years ago. Later that same night Sharon had killed the guy. She patted the dog and leaned back on the sofa.
Trish poked Sheila from behind. “Are you going to ask her?”
Sharon frowned. “Ask me what?”
“Okay, I’m guilty,” Sheila said. “I’ve invited us to spend the night with you. Even rented Dumb and Dumber for the kids to watch in the bedroom. Got a movie for us old ladies, too.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Sharon said. “And what are we watching?”
Sheila cleared her throat, moved across the room to the VCR, and held up a Blockbuster Video case. Rather sheepishly she exhibited the title. Fatal Instinct.
Sharon expelled a sigh of exasperation. “Sheila…” Both girls regarded Sharon as if she were the Wicked Witch of the West. “You always get to watch the good stuff,” Melanie grumbled.
Sharon rolled her eyes. She folded her arms. “Okay, girls, into the bedroom. You’ll love Jim Carrey, trust me. If I catch either of you peeking at what’s showing in the living room, there’s going to be the devil to pay. Namely me.”
Sharon slung one arm over the back of the sofa, her lips parted in envy. Shown on the home entertainment center screen, Darla Cowan’s bare buns were ridges of muscle. God, as if a hypodermic needle wouldn’t penetrate. The camera followed as Darla crept toward a naked couple writhing in a king-size bed, a butcher knife held loosely by her thigh. As Darla neared the bed and raised the knife, Sharon wondered whether her head-to-toe tan was from nude sunbathing, or if they’d applied some body makeup. Sharon said to Sheila, “I don’t know about this.”
Sheila poked a mound of vanilla ice cream into her mouth and licked the spoon. “If it bothers you, stop watching. I’m just getting into it.”
Sharon had a sip of apple juice. That Sheila could pig out on ice cream—or chicken fried steak, pasta, just about anything, for that matter—and never seem to gain an ounce made Sharon want to regurgitate. Sharon had weakened earlier in the week and had consumed an old-fashioned chocolate malt at lunch. The following morning she’d gained a pound. A half hour ago she’d shed her courtroom suit and put on cutoffs along with an old Texas Longhorns sweatshirt. She said to Sheila, “How can she?”
“You’re not with the program, sister. Come on, if it didn’t bother Darla Cowan to film that scene, why should we worry about watching it?”
Sharon blinked and looked away as Darla executed the couple in the bed, the camera panning to the ceiling as blood spattered the walls in gory gobs. “Oh, it bothered her,” Sharon said. “At least it did at first. By now she may play those scenes without thinking twice about it.”
Sheila twirled her spoon around inside the carton of Haagen-Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond. Commander lay nearby, his gaze riveted on the ice cream, his tongue lolling to one side in a begging attitude. Sheila had a bite and snickered.
“What’s so funny?” Sharon said. “Just you.”
“Why me?”
“You come unglued over those scenes your ex-loverboy plays on that television series, and his stuff is under the blankets or through a shower curtain where you can’t see anything. But Darla Cowan’s practically doing it on-screen, and you’re defending her.”
“I think anything sexual on network television is out of place,” Sharon said, “regardless of whether it’s Rob or anyone else.”
Sheila pointed at the TV. “And that isn’t out of place? It’s whatever’s out of place that seems to make the world go ‘round.”
Sharon thought that one over. Damn Sheila and her points anyway. Finally Sharon said, “Consenting adults can watch anything they want.”
“So I’m consenting. Let me watch already.”
“You think I’m overreacting to Rob’s show because he’s Melanie’s father?”
Sheila jammed her spoon into the ice cream and left the handle sticking up. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“So okay, I’m partial to Darla,” Sharon said. “She was the first person I met in New York. First day of acting classes. A long time before Rob and me.”
“Which means that you won’t criticize a friend. That’s what I like about you. I’ll confide in you my plans to be a hooker.”
“Darla’s a helluva lot more than a friend. We were both twenty-one when we moved to New York. Both scared to death. We got our first parts on the very same day. Even after Rob and I got to
gether, Darla moved into the same building with us just to be near me. Rob resented it some.”
“What’s to resent?” Sheila said. “Considering that absolutely goddess body, I’m surprised he didn’t hit on her.”
“Oh, he did. And pulled back more than one bloody nub for his efforts. She didn’t tell me until after Rob and I had split the blankets. Darla’s the kind who would never horn in on a friend’s relationship, and with that school of piranhas swimming around the showbiz circuit, I’ll tell you that’s a rarity.
“The first night I spent away from Rob,” Sharon said, “I was at her place. All through my pregnancy she’d call me every day, come by if she possibly could. And when Melanie was born, that was a tough delivery, Sheil. I don’t want to ever go through something like that alone. I woke up in the hospital and there she was, sitting by the end of the bed. First thing she did was kiss both of my cheeks, God love her.” Sharon lowered her gaze, kneading her hands. “I hope she hasn’t gotten herself in trouble.”
Sheila looked up, attentive. “With that actor piece of dung?”
Sharon managed a smile. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know the type. She needs to get away from that guy.”
“That’s where she’s headed,” Sharon said. “To get her things and hook ‘em back to LA. Says with the publicity, she’ll break it off gradually. On again, off again for a while, and then splitsville.”
“Baloney. She has to end it right here, right now. The more she sees of him, the better chance she’ll get seriously hurt. The psychology of abuse is my ball yard, and that’s what she should do.”
Sharon licked her lips and had a sip of apple juice.
She set down her glass. “That’s the way she’d do it in real life, Sheil. But Darla’s in the movies. It’s this expression they’ve got, you know?”
5
Marian Cortez, the graveyard-shift desk clerk at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, was well groomed, articulate, and versed in the art of being snooty. She was tall and slender, spoke with a faint Hispanic accent, and watched over her station with the sharpest of eyes.
