“Yeah, let’s hope we’re wrong,” he said. “We’ll laugh about this later.”
After a barrage of tests, when the doctor diagnosed his ailment as ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, they nodded and said the initials in unison with him. Dan’s body had already started wasting away, and would continue to deteriorate in the coming months. The ironic cruelty to this disease was that his mind would remain clear.
Sean and Dan had prepared themselves for the worst, and they got it. He wouldn’t be around to watch Danny and Phoebe grow up. At the most, he had two more Christmases with them.
Sean silently watched her handsome, athletic husband slip away. He needed to feel independent as long as he could. So while she longed to tie his shoelaces for him, she’d pretend not to notice his frustration as the simple task took him nearly ten minutes some mornings. Later, she let Dan decide for himself when he was ready for a wheelchair. And Sean sat beside him as he told Danny and Phoebe that he wouldn’t be getting any better.
Dan could no longer work at the restaurant. They went in debt experimenting with expensive drugs and holistic remedies. Dan began having difficulty speaking and breathing. Sean spent many nights waking up to the sound of him choking on his own phlegm. She’d drag her husband out of bed, plop him into his wheelchair, then push him into the bathroom and turn on the hot water full blast. The steam helped clear Dan’s lungs, so he’d eventually cough up whatever was choking him. With all the nightly interruptions, Sean had to function regularly at the office on an average of three hours of sleep. The ordeal harkened her back to those days and nights with the kids when they were babies. It had been easier then, because there would be an end to the nocturnal feedings, and Dan was helping her.
Now, the only end in sight was Dan dying.
They put him on a respirator and a feeder. Machines did his eating and breathing for him. Yet all the while, those eyes of his were so alert. He could communicate with her and the kids—not as an invalid, but as a husband and father. The kids still turned to him for advice or praise. Danny and Phoebe were able to read his lips almost as well as their mother could.
Sean missed his voice, and his touch.
In the silent video, she and Dan emerged from the surf together and kissed for the camera. Phoebe ran to him, and Dan hoisted her in the air. Danny jumped up and down in front of them, making a goofy face.
For a moment, she thought Phoebe’s faint cries were coming from the nearly muted television. Then she realized the screams emitted from her daughter’s room downstairs. Sean switched off the video, then raced down the steps. She found Phoebe sitting up in bed. Except for her Little Mermaid night-light, the room was dark.
“Honey, it’s okay, I’m here.” She sat down on the edge of her bed.
Phoebe immediately hugged her. She was trembling. “There’s a man looking in my window!”
Sean glanced over at the window across the room. This part of the house stood at ground level, with the ocean view blocked by shrubs. The leafy branches shook in the wind, occasionally scraping at the windowpane.
“It’s just the bushes outside, that’s all,” Sean assured her—and herself.
“No, I saw a man,” she whined. “I did.”
Sean kissed the top of her head. “Well, I’ll just sit here with you for a while and chase him away if he comes back. In the meantime, don’t you worry about it, honey. I’m here.”
Sean gently stroked Phoebe’s head and listened to her breathing grow more steady. All the while, she stared out the window—just in case Phoebe wasn’t dreaming.
Ten
Dayle had a great respect for the stars of yesteryear—even the ones long ago forgotten by the public. She’d revived the careers of several veteran performers by campaigning for them to play pivotal roles in her movies. Months before Maggie McGuire had found herself back in the limelight and on the cover of People with her gay son, Dayle had approached her to play the mother in Waiting for the Fall.
The crusty old actor set to play Dayle’s long-lost father had recently suffered a minor stroke, and they needed to find a replacement. Dayle had promised the director she would review applicants, “the Geritol guys,” Dennis called them. She sat with Dennis at a conference table—along with the casting director and his assistant.
“Our next old-timer did this commercial earlier in the year,” the casting director said. A handsome man with silver-black hair, he wore a blazer over his gray silk shirt. Leaning back in his chair, he popped a Tic-Tac in his mouth. “Check him out. His name’s Tom Lance.”
The casting director’s assistant, a pale, thirtyish blonde with a bad perm and too much rouge, slipped a tape into the VCR. A McDonald’s ad came on. A kindly looking, bespectacled old man shared some french fries with his grandson. A real heart-warmer. It was a shame that Dayle, with her reverence for forgotten stars, didn’t recognize the actor in that McDonald’s commercial.
“So—what do you think?” the casting director asked. “Name’s Tom Lance. Want to meet him? He’s right outside.”
Dayle nodded. “Fine. Show him in.”
The assistant opened the door, then called for Tom Lance. He looked younger than the grandfather in the ad, but not as gentle and sweet. The old man had an embittered, edgy quality to him. He hobbled through the doorway, trying to stand tall. He wore a tie with a powder-blue blazer and madras slacks—pro-shop clothes, the colors a bit too bright, the material too stiff.
Dayle smiled at him, then spoke loudly. “Hi, Mr. Lance. Thanks for coming today.”
He grinned. “You don’t have to shout. I may be old, but I’m not deaf.” He pronounced it so it rhymed with leaf.
Dayle nodded cordially. “Do you mind telling me how old you are?”
“I don’t mind telling you that I’m seventy,” he said, slurring his words. “Those McDonald’s people wanted somebody older, so I came up with the glasses and whitened my hair. I—I can play older or younger, you name it.”
Dayle kept a pleasant smile fixed on her face. Tom Lance clearly had indulged in a few shots of courage before this interview. He weaved a little as he stood in front of them. She felt sorry for him.
Dennis leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I think this guy’s had a belt or two or five. The hook or what?”
Sighing, Dayle sat back and caught the casting director’s eye. He nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Lance. We’ll—”
“That’s all? That’s it?” he asked.
“We’ll be in touch.”
“Bullshit!”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“No, you wait a minute,” the old man shot back. “I made fifty pictures before any of you were born! I deserve some respect. Instead, I’m forced to sit out in that hallway for an hour. Then I’m called in here like a pet dog by blondie there. Nobody bothers to get off their rear ends to greet me. I—” He shook his head and swatted at the air. “Oh, forget it!” He swiveled around, almost lost his balance, then lumbered out the door.
“Sorry about that,” the casting director said.
“It’s all right.” Dayle sighed. “The seventh actor is good enough for me if Noah likes him.”
The casting director and his assistant started to collect all the résumés and videotapes.
“You seem in the dumps,” Dennis whispered to her. “Is it Grandpa? I’ll go beat the shit out of him if you want.”
Dayle worked up a chuckle. “My knight in shining armor.” She waved to the casting director and his assistant as they left the room. Then the smile fell from her face and she turned to Dennis again. “I—I’ve had these people following me around for a couple of days now. This morning, a tan Chevy tailed Hank and me from my place all the way to the studio.”
“Maybe it’s the tabloids. They’ve done this to you before, Dayle.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sure it’s something far more serious. These people have me under a kind of surveillance.”
“Why don’t you call the police about it?”
/> “They’ll just say I’m paranoid.”
Dennis cleared his throat. “Well, you’ve been under a lot of stress, Dayle. I mean, ever since Leigh Simone committed suicide—”
“Suicide?” Dayle asked sharply. “Haven’t you been listening to me at all these last few weeks? Leigh was murdered! Suicide? Did you say that just to get a rise out of me?”
“I’m sorry.” Dennis shrugged. “It’s just—well, you seem to be the only person in the free world who doesn’t believe Leigh killed herself. Laura, she’s a nurse, and she has some background in psychology…”
Dayle just glared at him. The last thing she wanted right now was to hear his girlfriend’s theories.
“She said what you’re feeling is normal. You were the last person to see Leigh Simone alive. Naturally, you feel responsible. You can’t help asking yourself if you could have done something to prevent it—”
“No, Dennis. What I’m asking myself is—Where the hell do you get off talking to Laura about me? You’ve only known her two weeks.”
Dennis didn’t respond. He stared down at the desktop.
Dayle rubbed her forehead. “Just get out of here and leave me alone.”
Without a word, Dennis slunk out of his chair and headed toward the door. He glanced back at her for a moment.
“I’m not crazy, goddamn it,” Dayle whispered.
Dennis nodded, then left.
The old man’s Plymouth Volare was parked on a high, winding dirt road just below the HOLLYWOOD sign. Sitting at the wheel, he glanced around, then decided the coast was clear. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a .380 semiautomatic.
Nobody at the audition had recognized him. If they’d bothered to look at his résumé, they’d have seen who he was. Instead, he was just some old actor from a McDonald’s ad.
Why, only two nights ago, one of his movies had been on television. None of his films had made it to video yet, so he was always on the lookout for when they were broadcasted on TV. Tom Lance saw this one listed in the TV Guide, which he bought every Tuesday:
’26-MOVIE-Western; 1hr, 35min (BW) **“Fall From the Saddle” (1952). Rancher turns outlaw when wife is killed by a crooked sheriff. Predictable. Tom Lance, Louise Reimen, John Clemens.
The movie aired at 2:30 A.M., and was chopped to pieces with commercial interruptions for diet centers and 900-number sex lines. Yet Tom looked forward to each break, because the announcer would say: “We’ll return with more shoot’m-up action in Fall from the Saddle with Tom Lance.”
Yesterday, Tom had stayed inside his tiny apartment, not wanting to miss any calls from friends—or possibly a producer—who had seen the movie. But the phone never rang. So Tom called a few actor acquaintances. One of them mentioned that Harry somebody had just suffered a stroke. He’d been set for a featured role in the new Dayle Sutton movie, and now they were recasting the part. For a while, Tom had such high hopes.
How stupid he’d been, thinking he had a chance.
He looked down at the gun in his hand. It was right that he should blow his brains out here by the HOLLYWOOD sign. Not very original, but appropriate. Plus they’d find him here within a few hours. Hell, if he killed himself at home, it might be days before they discovered his decaying body.
He thought about writing a farewell note to Maggie, but didn’t want to cause her any bad publicity. Maybe Tom Lance and his films were forgotten, but folks still knew who Maggie McGuire was. She had a plum part in the new Dayle Sutton film, the one for which he’d just auditioned—and lost.
How ironic, since he’d helped start Maggie’s career—way back in 1950. He’d starred in Hour of Deceit, and had been engaged to Maggie at the time. He’d practically browbeaten the director into giving her the small but showy role as the mistress of an underworld boss. She’d gone on to bigger and better films, and won an Oscar. Meanwhile, he’d floundered in B-movies and low-budget westerns. Then she’d dumped him.
Not long ago, he’d brought Maggie a book, The Illustrated Movie Star Dictionary. It was still inside a gift bag on the backseat of his car. Tom dug it out. Over a Thousand Stars Listed, the book’s jacket bragged, between a photos of Sylvester Stallone and Greta Garbo. Lavishly Illustrated, Concise Accounts of the Stars’ Careers and Their Films. From Bogart to Brad Pitt! From It Girl Clara Bow to Material Girl Madonna!
He wasn’t listed, not even mentioned. But they gave Maggie a nice write-up, and featured a beautiful glamour shot of her. Seemed like such a waste that Maggie would never get her gift. Then again, he could deliver it to her, and say good-bye. He imagined Maggie wanting to pay him back—not just for this token gift, but for her whole career. She owed him. She might even have some influence in getting Dayle Sutton to change her mind.
The sound of gravel crunching under tires made him glance up. A police car cruised from around the bend a few hundred feet in front of him. Tom quickly stashed the gun inside the book bag. Then he straightened up and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. As the squad car crept by, the cop spoke into a mike, and his voice boomed over a speaker: “No parking on this road. Please move your vehicle.”
Tom waved and nodded. He started his engine and followed the cop car—keeping his distance. Sweat slithered down his temples, and his shirt stuck to his back. Once they were off the dirt road and the police car went in another direction, Tom loosened his tie.
Driving to Maggie’s house in Beverly Hills, Tom imagined a revised edition to that movie book. This one would include him.
LANCE, Tom, it would say, under his favorite early portrait of himself, smoking a cigarette, his black hair tousled and wavy. (1925-, b. Thomas Lancheski, Chicago, Illinois). Handsome, dark-haired leading man in a number of RKO westerns and crime dramas in the early fifties. But within a decade, he was relegated to guest-star appearances on Perry Mason, Ben Casey, and Bonanza; then Lance seemed to fade into obscurity. Hollywood misused Tom Lance, and it is a great travesty that his talent went unappreciated until, at age 76, he took a supporting role in the Dayle Sutton starrer, Waiting for the Fall. Lance made every minute of his screen time count. Critics raved, and he nabbed a Supporting Actor Oscar nomination…
Tom’s daydream took him all the way to Beverly Hills. He turned onto the winding, palm-tree shaded road that was Maggie’s cul-de-sac. He drove past the beautiful houses and carefully manicured lawns. By comparison, Maggie’s ranch house looked rather modest—albeit respectable.
He pulled into the driveway and parked behind a white Mercedes. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he suddenly regretted this impulsive visit. He looked grimy and tired. He was about to restart the car and leave, but he heard a dog bark. All at once, the Doberman leaped up toward the car door, its paws on the window. Tom reeled back, clutching his heart. The huge dog growled and snapped at him on the other side of the glass.
“Tosha, get down from there!” Tom heard Maggie call. He glanced out his rear window. She came around from the side of the house. She wore jeans, a white sweater, and gardening gloves. “Tosha? Tosh, get down! Who’s there?”
The dog finally shut up. Tom opened the car door and stepped outside. He patted Tosha’s head and smiled at Maggie, who came up to his Volare.
She frowned for a moment. “Oh, Tom…” She pulled off the gloves. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”
He wasn’t too good on his feet today—with his gout flaring up. He tried not to limp as he made his way around the Volare. “Hi, Maggie—”
“Say, listen,” she interrupted. “Did you call me last week?”
“Someone called pretending to be me?”
“Someone called threatening to kill me,” Maggie said. “He sounded like you. I wasn’t sure. Phoned twice. He said, ‘You promote perversion, and thus you will die.’ Then he quoted the Bible to me—I forget what exactly.”
Tom shook his head. “Why would I say something like that?”
She shrugged. “Forget it. Some crank. I’ve gotten a lot of crank letters since those cov
er stories in People and that gay magazine. But crank calls to my home phone are another story. I just thought—well, forget I asked.”
“I brought you a present.” Tom reached inside the car for the gift bag. It felt a bit heavy, and he remembered that the gun was in there. Turning his back to her, he transferred the gun to his pocket inside his jacket. Her dog sniffed at his crotch. Tom handed Maggie the gift bag.
“Sweet of you. Tosha, stop that,” she said in one breath, with an apathetic glance inside the bag. “I suppose I should ask you in. Would you like some ice tea?”
“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”
She laughed. “Yeah? Since when?” She sauntered toward the side of the house and gave him a beckoning wave. “C’mon, it’s no bother. I was about to pour myself a glass.” She snapped her fingers at the dog. “C’mon, Tosh.”
Tom and the dog followed her to the fenced-in back section of the house. There was a large kidney-shaped pool, and a rock garden. “It’s the leash for you, Tosh,” she said, grabbing the Doberman by his collar. She led him to a chain attached to a palm tree at the garden’s edge. “Tosha, keep still.” She dropped the gift bag to fix the dog to his leash.
“I hear you’re in the new Dayle Sutton film,” Tom said.
“Yeah, sort of an extended cameo.”
“That’s quite a coincidence, because I’ve been considering a part in the same movie. Maybe you could put in a good word for—”
“Okay, Tosha, there you go,” she said to the dog. “Stay put now.”
Tom bit down on his lip.
Maggie retrieved the bag, straightened up, then opened the sliding glass door to the house. “Okay, here we go. After you, Tom.”
He tried not to hobble, but he caught her staring. “What’s wrong with your foot?” she asked.
“Oh, I twisted my ankle jogging this morning,” he lied.
“Jogging? You?” Maggie laughed. “I’d buy tickets to see that.”
Tom was careful of the step up to the recreation room. He loved this room, because it definitely belonged in a movie star’s home. The floor was Mexican tile, with a lambskin rug in front of the large stone fireplace. The sofa, love seat and chairs were covered with soft, cream-colored leather. Above the sofa hung an arrangement of framed photographs, Maggie’s magazine covers from a Life portrait in 1953 to a shot of her and her gay son on the front of People. There was Frank Sinatra planting a kiss on her cheek as she clutched her Academy Award; Maggie shaking Princess Grace’s hand at some formal reception; Maggie and her ex, Pierre Blanchard, attending a film premiere with Elizabeth Taylor and Mike Todd; Maggie and President Kennedy laughing over what seemed to be a private joke at some Hollywood political function. Her Academy Award took center spot amid the pictures, the only three-dimensional object on that wall. A sconce held it up.
The Next to Die Page 13
