“I suppose so,” Dayle said. “Within reason.”
“Well, I managed to snare a copy of the new screenplay. There have been several versions over the years. Each time, they shrink further away from the truth. This new script really takes the cake. If you knew the extent of creative license here, you’d die laughing. For example…” Sean trailed off and gave Dayle a wary look. “Is this okay? Am I offending you?”
“No, it’s all right, I’m interested,” Dayle said. “In fact, would you like to come up, maybe have a glass of wine?”
Sean’s face lit up. “Oh, thanks, that would be great.”
They lapsed into small talk on the elevator. Dayle gave her a brief tour of the apartment, and Sean praised her decorating choices—especially the Oscar pedestal created from dilapidated footwear. Dayle poured them each a glass of wine, and started toward the living room.
“Could we sit in here?” Sean asked, pointing to the area off the kitchen. “Seems more like home to me. Do you mind?”
“I don’t mind at all,” Dayle said. She turned on the gas fireplace, and they settled on the sofa. Fred took an immediate liking to Sean, and curled up in her lap. Dayle kicked off her high heels, and watched Sean follow suit. “You were about to tell me how the latest screenplay isn’t very accurate.”
Stroking Fred’s back, Sean sipped her wine and nodded. “Well, for starters, the lesbian sex scenes and the glamorization of my character. During the trial, they have me—this super-beautiful, super-lesbian—taking an occasional break from the law books to have super sex with my gorgeous girlfriend in this huge tastefully decorated loft. In reality, Dayle, I was averaging three hours of sleep a night and living in a dump of a house with very little furniture or knickknacks, because my darling toddler boy was destroying everything he could get his sweet, sticky hands on. And I hardly spent any time with him, which had me in tears constantly. Plus I was in a very chubby, nauseous stage of pregnancy with Phoebe and starting to stretch out my good court clothes. In short, Dayle, I was a mess.”
Dayle let out a stunned laugh. “Well, um, I see. Well, yes, that’s a big difference. So—both your children are your own. They weren’t adopted?”
“No, I gave birth to them,” Sean replied. “What did you think?”
Dayle shrugged. “Well, I figured…I mean, who’s their father?”
“Why, my husband, of course.” Sean Olson’s mouth dropped open. She tossed back her head and laughed. Fred was startled for a moment, until she hugged him. “Oh, my God, I thought you knew!” she cried. “It’s one reason this screenplay is such a crock. Dayle, I’m married. I’m not a lesbian. That was the notion of screenwriter number two or three. He figured only a lesbian would so valiantly defend a gay man, and suddenly—poof!—my character’s this gorgeous lesbian. They figured a pregnant, married lady was too boring.”
Dayle shook her head. “Oh, no.”
Sean nodded. “Oh, yes. That’s why I asked you yesterday if you intended to play me as a lesbian—with all those soft-focus, curtains-blowing-in-the-breeze sex scenes.” She settled Fred back into her lap, then sipped her wine. “That’s all from the imagination of some horny screenwriter. The death threats I received during the trial, the letters and phone calls, it’s true, they called me ‘lesbo,’ ‘dyke,’ and ‘fag-loving bitch,’ but they also promised to kill me—and my family. That wasn’t in the script. They said they’d burn down the house with my children in it, these ‘good Christians’ with their ‘family values’ told me that. But it’s not in the script….”
Dayle sat in a dazed silence as Sean explained the truth behind the cheaply glamorized screenplay. Gary Worsht, the gay doctor Avery Cooper would portray, was actually a waiter. He had picked up a fraternity pledge in a gay bar. They started necking in an alley by the tavern, when the kid went berserk and attacked him. Then the boy’s frat brothers came out of hiding to help “beat up the fag.” In self-defense, Gary killed the reluctant pledge with a broken beer bottle. The dead boy’s youthful handsomeness played against the defendant’s promiscuity, blurring the lines of guilt and innocence. It was a tough case to win, because the frat boys—all A-students from good homes—were the real culprits. They were fine, upstanding boys who happened to like getting drunk and beating up queers for fun. Ironically, the same group of lads also enjoyed forcing their pledges to march down to weekend breakfasts naked—in a line with each boy holding the penis of the pledge behind him.
“There isn’t a scene like that in the script,” Dayle remarked over her glass of wine. And yet, she was supposed to kiss this totally fictitious other woman’s breasts. She thought about what Maggie McGuire had said: Haven’t you figured out by now that heterosexual males call all the shots?
“The screenplay has no guts,” Sean said. “They made it so black and white—with Gary Worsht coming across as a saint, and the frat boys as these lowlife thugs—including the poor victim, who was just a scared, sweet-faced pledge forced into playing gay bait. This was a complex case, Dayle, and they whitewashed it. Can you see why I’m such a pain in the ass on the subject?”
Dayle nodded thoughtfully. “There’ll be some changes made; otherwise I won’t do this movie.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be glad to have a husband in this movie instead of a lesbian supermodel or whatever she was.”
Sean laughed. “Well, my husband will sure be delighted. He’s a real movie nut. In fact, could I get an autograph for him before I leave tonight?”
“I have some glossies in my desk. No problem. What does he do?”
“Dan? Oh, he…” She hesitated. “At the time of the trial he was a chef.”
Dayle gave her a slightly puzzled look. “What does he do now?”
“He—um, well, he stays at home and looks after the kids.” Sean shifted a little on the sofa, and she let out a slightly uneasy laugh. “So—enough about me. Let’s talk about you playing me.” She sipped her wine, then smiled. “Seriously, why did you want to take on this part—this fake-lesbian lawyer?”
Shrugging, Dayle stared at the fireplace. “I must admit, I had a tough time warming up to the role. But now, I can certainly relate to what you said about death threats, and the lesbian accusations. It’s happened to me recently. Everyone thinks I’m paranoid, but I’m sure somebody—some group—has been following me.” Dayle sighed and shook her head. “I wasn’t willing to put my career on the line for this role as written. But if I could play you, Sean, in a truthful account of what really happened, it would be worth the risk.”
They talked for over an hour. Dayle kept remembering the intimate chat with Leigh Simone that night at the Imperial Hotel, how they’d instantly bonded. It was like that tonight—with Sean Olson. The similarities were almost unsettling. Dayle told her so. She also told her about how Leigh Simone might have been murdered by the same people who had killed Tony Katz. “Do you think I’m nuts?” Dayle asked.
“Not at all,” Sean replied. “You said earlier you thought some people were following you.”
“Yes?”
Sean got to her feet and wandered over to the window. “While I was waiting for you in the lobby, I noticed this man sitting alone in a Chevy, parked across the street. He sat there for a half hour. Then a silver car came up behind him. The guy in the first car nodded, pulled out, and the second guy took his spot. It was like a changing of the guard. Fifteen minutes later, your limousine turned into the drive. The man in the silver car took out a cellular phone and called someone.”
Dayle stood up and moved to the window. Cradling the cat in her arms, she stared down at the front driveway to her building. A silver car was parked across the street.
“He’s still there,” Sean said. “You’re not nuts, Dayle. Someone’s watching you.”
“Hi, it’s me again, and I’m fine,” Sean reported to Dayle on her cellular. “Traffic’s running smoothly here along the coastal highway. No accidents, no tailgaters, no claw hooks dangling from m
y car door handle. I’ll have another traffic update for you in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, I’m making a mental note to play you as a grade-A smart-ass,” Dayle replied. “How are you, really?”
“I’m making great time,” Sean said.
Dayle Sutton hadn’t liked the idea of her driving alone at night this long distance. She’d made Sean promise to call on her cellular every fifteen minutes until she reached her in-laws’ house.
“At this clip,” Sean said. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
“Well, call me for touchdown so I’ll know you’re okay,” Dayle said.
“Will do, Dayle. Thanks again.” Sean clicked off the line. She glanced out her window at the dark, choppy waters of the Pacific. This time of night, all she could see were the curled whitecaps. Behind her, a series of distant headlights pierced the darkness. Something about the long, lonely drive in the dark—and that cool, ocean breeze whipping through the car window—made her feel so lost and melancholy. She’d even allowed herself a good cry a few miles back. In this vulnerable state, she realized that Dayle Sutton was the first friend she’d made on her own in California. But Dayle was also a movie star, and in Hollywood, friendships were transitory. Maybe that was why she didn’t tell Dayle about Dan.
Sean glanced in the rearview mirror—at the Jeep that had been following her since she’d merged onto the coastal highway thirty-five minutes ago. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d left Dayle Sutton’s apartment building. Instead, she’d focused on the lone dark figure in the silver car. He’d called someone from his cellular as soon as she’d emerged from the building. Had he phoned the person in this Jeep?
Sean told herself to stay calm. The highway wasn’t exactly deserted; plus the Jeep kept a safe distance behind her. Testing things, Sean eased up on the accelerator. The speedometer dropped to sixty-five…sixty…fifty-five. Other cars began to gain on her, the Jeep among them. One by one, they pulled into the fast lane and passed her, but the Jeep stayed behind.
Dayle answered the phone. “Hello?”
“Dayle? It’s me, Sean. We have touchdown. I’m walking up the driveway as I speak.”
“And you don’t think anybody was following you?” Dayle asked.
“Well, for a few minutes after the last call, this Jeep behind me gave me a case of heebie-jeebies. I couldn’t shake him. But he pulled off an exit before me, so I guess it was nothing.” She paused. “Oh, Phoebe’s waving at me from the front window. Anyway, I’m fine, Dayle. Thanks for worrying about me.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Dayle said. “I’ll call you.”
“Sounds good. G’night, and thanks again.” Sean clicked off, and waved back to her daughter. The petite, redhaired seven-year-old wore her pink ballerina outfit from Halloween. She jumped up and down excitedly, then made fish faces against the window for her mother. Sean laughed and blew her a kiss. She started up the walk to the front door.
Dan’s brother Doug and his wife, Anne, owned a large, cedar shaker on beachfront property—with a wraparound terrace and beautiful gardens. At one time, Sean had dreamt of having a home like this one. But now all bets were off.
Approaching Anne and Doug Olson’s front door, she thanked God for having such great in-laws. Dan and Doug were close, but even the most devoted of siblings might have cracked under the pressure of putting up a brother, nephew, and niece, a rotating series of baby-sitter nurses, and a sister-in-law, who checked in on her family from time to time between business in the city. Yet Doug and Anne never complained.
Phoebe opened the door as Sean reached the front stoop. “Well, my goodness!” Sean declared. “Look at my pretty ballerina!” She gave Phoebe a kiss. “Did you wait up for me?”
Phoebe nodded, and began telling her about what had happened in school today. She chattered nonstop as they stepped inside. The TV was blaring in the family room toward the back of the house. It was a beautiful, spacious room with a stone fireplace and an ocean view. Since coming to stay at Doug and Anne’s, she’d tried to keep her kids from trashing the place—and for the most part, she’d succeeded. Sean noticed a few things scattered about: papers and school books, a pair of gym shoes, and one of Phoebe’s sweaters. She also found her eleven-year-old, Danny, lying on his stomach directly in front of the television. Despite a trace of adolescent acne and an unruly mop of brown hair, he was a cute boy, with long-lashed blue eyes and an endearing smile. Barely looking up from the TV, he muttered, “Hi, Mom.”
“You’ll go blind,” Sean announced. “No, don’t get up. You haven’t seen your mother since yesterday morning, but God knows, that shouldn’t tear you away from the boob tube and Babe-Watch.”
On TV, a bikini-clad, blond silicone case ran through a dark corridor from a man with a butcher knife. “This happens to be PBS,” Danny said. “And I’m watching it for homework.”
Sean laughed. “You’re a twisted young man. God knows why I love you. Please tune it down a bit—for Uncle Doug and Aunt Anne’s sake.”
Danny sighed and lowered the volume with the remote.
Without the TV noise, Sean heard a mechanical whosh-whosh from another part of the house—as constant as those waves crashing against the rocky shore outside. It was a sound she’d grown to love and hate; a reassurance of life continuing, and a reminder that living was hard as hell.
Sean stooped down and kissed Danny. “I’ve missed you. Is Dad asleep?”
“Nope. He’s right here!” Doug Olson announced over the steady whosh-whosh of Dan’s respirator. Coming from the guest room down the hall, he pushed Dan in his wheelchair.
Their favorite nurse, Julie, trailed behind him. Julie Adams-Smart had saved Dan’s life twice already—when his respirator had malfunctioned. The petite, pretty, strawberry blonde had a lot of guts. Dan loved her, the kids loved her, Doug and Anne loved her.
Sean’s feelings for this young woman were more complicated. She was grateful, resentful, beholden, and in awe of Julie. Dan now depended more on Julie than he did on her. Only last week, she couldn’t understand something Dan was trying to say, but Julie had picked it up. She’d become better than Sean at reading his lips and anticipating his needs. Julie was smiling at her now. “Dan insisted on getting dressed for you,” she said.
Dan grinned. He wore his gray sweats, which had been cut to accommodate the feed tube in his back. Another tube—for his respirator—was connected at the base of his throat and hooked up to a portable machine. Julie had obviously shaved him today, and overcombed his hair until it was flat. Sean preferred Dan a bit more scruffy, because he used to look sexy with a five o’clock shadow and his thick light-brown hair mussed. Too much grooming now made him appear waxy and lifeless—ready for the coffin.
The disease had rendered him totally immobile. His head was propped back against a small pillow. His hands—now puffy and mannequinlike—had been placed palms-down on his thighs. He appeared older than forty. Sometimes, Sean looked at that helpless, old man in the wheelchair, and she didn’t recognize her husband. But then Dan would smile, or show a gleam in his eye, and she’d see the man with whom she had fallen in love. He was still there.
He gave her one of those looks now, and she read his lips. “Hi, honey,” he said. “How did round two go with Dayle Sutton?”
Sean kissed him. “I’ll tell you after the kids are in bed,” she whispered. She kissed him again and held her face against his. “Thank you for waiting up and getting dressed, sweetie. You’re a sight for these sore brown eyes.”
The constant whosh-whosh of Dan’s respirator was like a clock ticking. Depending on the night, it could keep Sean awake or lull her to sleep. Tonight, she was awake. She’d been up forty-five minutes before, working the suction tube to clear Dan’s mouth of excess saliva and phlegm that might obstruct his breathing. When she was done, she read his lips: “Go to back to sleep, honey. I’m fine. Good night.”
Sean kissed his forehead, then crawled back under the sheets. The respirator machine separated his h
ospital-type bed from her single. Sean was so anxious and desperate for sleep, she couldn’t nod off. Finally, she threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. At least Dan was asleep, thank God.
Tiptoeing into the family room, Sean opened the cabinet where they kept the videos. She found the one she wanted, and popped it into the VCR. Switching on the TV, she turned down the volume so not to wake anyone. Sean sat back on the couch, and watched her handsome, young husband playing on the beach with their two kids. Phoebe was four at the time, and Danny, nine. They were on vacation here in Malibu. Sean watched Dan swimming with Danny, and building sand castles with Phoebe. He had such a beautiful, tan body, strong arms and a hairy chest. Dan’s brother must have taken the next shot, because Dan was picking her up and carrying her into the water. They were cracking up. With the volume down, she could only imagine his laughter—a sound she hadn’t heard in over a year.
At the moment, accompanying their old home video was the constant whosh-whosh of Dan’s respirator machine down the hall.
At first, they’d thought Dan had arthritis or carpal tunnel syndrome, because his hands kept cramping up. Why else would a healthy, athletic thirty-seven-year-old man find it hard to hold on to things? As a chef, it became utter misery. He’d drop utensils and pans. So many of his culinary creations ended up on the floor, and he’d have to start over again—at the price of an expensive cut of meat, fowl, or fish. Customers often complained about having to wait forever for their dinner.
The evening before his doctor’s appointment, he and Sean were talking in bed. “I know what’s wrong with me, honey,” he whispered. “The muscles are going. It’s like Gary Cooper in Pride of the Yankees.”
“Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Sean said quietly, stroking his arm. “ALS, I looked it up last week.”
“I did my reading in the library a month ago,” Dan said.
Sean held him tighter. “We don’t really know yet. Both of us are being melodramatic. Let’s not drape the black crepe yet, honey.”
The Next to Die Page 12
