by Denise Dietz
“Then what happened?”
“Daddy called the whole thing off. Mom went ballistic…is that the phone or my head?”
“The phone.”
“You get it, please. That’s Mom’s ring. I can’t handle her right now, and if we let the machine pick it up, she’ll keep calling back.”
“It’s your agent,” Andre announced in a Liberace voice. Handing me the receiver, he walked over to the CD player and turned Ella’s volume down.
Suzanne Burton had phoned, Harris said, and I wondered why he didn’t sound like a balloon about to burst. Maybe she forgot his name again, I thought, my head about to burst.
Nope. Mystery solved. Suzanne had called yesterday, after the audition, before the screen test. If Madison liked the screen test, I’d get top money and a guarantee of five weeks.
“The test was incredible,” I said. “Unbelievably terrific. The crew applaud --”
“Don’t get overconfident, cookie,” Harris said. “Talent means zilch in this business. A director will enthuse over what you did on the set, but one of a thousand things could happen. For instance, what if your makeup doesn’t match the other girl?”
“It’ll match. Lynn Beth Sullivan looks more like my mother than I do.”
“Yeah, sure, but maybe they’ll decide they don’t need a double.”
“Harris, Lynn Beth’s thirteen years old and there’s this crucifix --”
“Okay, cookie, okay,” he said, and I could visualize him forking the peace sign with his pudgy fingers. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“My what in a what?” I said, and could almost hear him blush; Harris has to be the biggest prude in the history of the world.
“I’ve got this new client,” he said. “From Australia. Her name’s Sherry-Anne, one name, like Madonna. Knickers are” ‑‑ he lowered his voice as if he were about to cuss ‑‑ “panties.”
I didn’t want to hear about a new client. It made me feel like an old client. So I said, “What happens next?”
“They’ll messenger the preliminary contracts to my office.” Harris exhaled his (and my mother’s) patented martyr sigh. “There’s a clause….there’s always a freaking clause.”
“Which says?”
“Suzanne can drop you if the screen test is bad.”
“Bad is good, Harris.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Can you sign the prelims on Monday, cookie?”
“Sure. I know it’s only a double, Harris, but at least I’m the star’s double. That makes me a star-by-proxy.”
“They’ll messenger your check for the screen test, too.”
“Good. I can use the money.”
“That doesn’t mean you got the part.”
“Bye, Harris, have a nice day,” I said, glancing toward the window. Nightfall chomped away at daylight, missing skyscrapers by inches, and I thought It’s too cloudy for stars.
Rising from the armchair, I staggered to the merry-go-round table, slammed the receiver into its cradle, and stared down at some long white envelopes. Correction: I knocked over some long white envelopes. Sinking to my knees, I said, “What are these, Andre?”
“Résumés,” he said. “Applications for regional theatre. I figure I’ll parlay my soap stint into a summer run.”
I looked down at the envelopes. “Toronto? Galveston? Miami? Tulsa? You plan to leave New York?”
“Manhattan isn’t exactly regional, Frannie.”
“Long Island is.” He hesitated so long, I knew he’d already called his L.I. buds. “I’ll bet you could get another commercial, just like that.” The snap of my fingers sounded like the snap of a dry twig.
“What’s the big deal, babe? I’ll be back this fall.”
“No, you won’t. What about California? You said --”
“You said…” He took a deep breath, sank into the armchair, and patted his lap. “Frannie, from the very beginning you said we wouldn’t let our living together interfere with our careers.”
“But that was when we were both based in Manhattan,” I said with Jewish logic. Leaving the insidious envelopes on the floor, I draped myself across Andre’s knees.
“We don’t own each other,” he said.
“Why don’t you talk in clichés?”
“‘Women are like elephants to me,’” he said, ignoring the insult. “‘I like to look at ‘em, but I wouldn’t want to own one.’ Quote, unquote.”
“Andre, I don’t want to play your stupid quote game!”
“Our stupid game. C’mon, Frannie. Women are like elephants --”
“W.C. Fields!”
“Very good. Give me a kiss.”
“‘I’d love to kiss you, but I just washed my hair.’”
“Bette Davis. ‘I’m probably a cad. Are you by any chance a weak woman?’”
“That’s too easy. Humphrey Bogart. Don’t leave New York, Andre. Forever Asmodeus takes place in New Jersey, an easy commute. And Harris says I’ll get top money, whatever that means, but I’m sure it’ll be more than enough for groceries and --”
“Not the way you buy groceries.”
He pried my lips apart with his tongue, found my tongue, and performed a tongue-tango against the roof of my mouth. I pulled away. “‘It’s late,’” I said, “‘and I’m very, very tired of youth and love and self-sacrifice.’”
“You’re sure in a Bette Davis mood tonight.”
“Leave me and you’ll be sorry.”
“Is that a threat, or are you still quoting Bette?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Hold me, Andre. I drank too fast and the wine is curdling inside my stomach.”
“Wine doesn’t curdle.”
“Cottage cheese does.”
“We don’t have any more potted palms, and I think Snow went…what’s your word?…potty in the last of our philodendrons.”
“Potty is Mom’s word, Andre, and I’m not throw-up sick. Just sad.”
“Let’s make the most of the time we have,” he said philosophically, unzipping my jeans.
Straddling his lap, I leaned back until my hair touched the floor. As he fumbled at my jeans and my twisted knickers, he said, “Tell me what you want and then I’ll tell you.”
“I want to make mad passionate love.”
“Say the words, baby.”
“I love you.”
“And I love you. Say the words, Frannie. Forget inhibitions.”
“I can’t. Repression’s genetic. Speaking of genetic, what’s a Jewish American Princess’s favorite whine?”
“Yours is Chardonnay.”
“No, no, Andre. I wanna go to Miami.”
Miami…one of the regional theatre addresses!
“Okay,” I said, feeling a sudden chill, wondering if I’d left the bedroom window open. “If Suzanne offers me Asmodeus, I’ll turn the part down and travel with you. It’s only a double, not a real part.”
“Why don’t we discuss it later?” Maneuvering my body to the floor, Andre wriggled out of his cut-offs and spread-eagled my hips.
I could no longer smell crock-pot stew, nor incense sticks, just roses. There’s no other smell like it ‑‑ heavy, almost cloying.
Above Andre’s shoulder, I could see the Anne Frank poster. Suddenly, dozens, if not hundreds, of beetles cascaded from Anne’s frame, fell to the floor, and righted themselves with a thousand clicks.
“Andre!” My mouth felt dry and my voice sounded as if there was a burr stuck inside my throat. “Andre, beetles!”
“I prefer Ella,” he said.
“Beetles, not Beatles!”
Shifting my gaze to the mock fireplace, I felt nausea grip my belly like a giant hand.
Emerging from the fireplace was a luminous shadow. His features were hazy…no, obscure…but I could see his cock. The tip glowed red, very red, not unlike my psychic’s pulsating brooch.
My flesh crawled, my blood ran cold, and I said the first thing that popped into
my head. “Okay, no sweat, I’ll do the movie, I promise.”
“That’s my girl,” Andre said. “It’s only two, maybe three months. We’ll survive the separation.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. Then felt like a marionette as someone, or something, pulled imaginary strings and my heavy eyelids lifted.
Someone, or something, turned my face toward the fireplace. The shadow had vanished, but I sensed that the…whatever-it-was…lurked. Still piloted by an unseen director, I darted quick glances left and right until I saw it…him…standing by the merry-go-round horse table. In a mesmerizing rhythm of continuity, he scooped beetles up off the floor and stuffed them inside his pockets.
Except, a naked man doesn’t have pockets. So he was stuffing them inside…
“Oh, dear, oh, shit,” I whispered.
“I will now kiss you in places you have never been kissed before,” Andre said.
“Forget kissing,” I said, my voice raspy. “Who needs kissing?”
“You do. Isn’t that one of Frannie Rosen’s canons? Thou shalt kiss before consummation. C’mon, give us a kiss. Life is a banquet and most poor sons-of-a-bitches are starving to death. Quote, unquote.”
“Auntie fucking Mame, and I don’t want to play your stupid quote game!” The wine lapped at the back of my throat, then settled, then sizzled. The room felt ice-cold, but my body burned. Hot. Peppery. Scorching. As Andre penetrated, I shouted, “Eat me, drink me!”
“Okay, Alice, let’s go straight to Wonderland.”
“Yes! Oh my God! I want you, Asmodeus!”
“Asmodeus?” Andre withdrew.
“Don’t stop, you son of a bitch! Eat me, Asmodeus! Drink me, Asmodeus!”
“Jesus,” Andre said.
“Oh my God! I’m on fire!”
“Jesus,” Andre said, and I could feel his body stiffen. But not the part I wanted to stiffen.
The pain was unbearable. I was being cremated from the inside out. Desperate, I curled my fingers around Andre’s flaccid penis and tried to guide him inside.
Instantly, as if he’d received a jolt of electricity, he had another erection. “Jesus,” he said.
“Now,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Ejaculate,” I growled.
Somehow, he managed to obey, but his discharge was red-hot. On the verge of losing consciousness, I realized that his fiery fluid had cauterized my burns, and I felt a series of intense bursts, as if nitroglycerin had been wedged inside my body then detonated.
I screamed, “Oh, my God! I’m coming!”
And heard Andre say “Jesus” for the fourth time.
After he’d finished and I’d finished, I glanced toward the merry-go- round table, then the fireplace, but the luminescent shadow was gone.
Once again, a puppeteer shifted my gaze, this time toward the ceiling, and I saw it…him…floating just below the light fixture.
He was eating beetles.
I heard him crunch them between his teeth.
CLICK. CRUNCH. CLICK. CRUNCH.
Sour wine traveled up my throat.
Before I could spew it out, pain spiked my skull and a different kind of nausea, a fainting nausea, cramped my stomach.
Teetering on the edge of a black abyss, I heard Andre say, “Jesus, Frannie, jeeeesus!”
At least he didn’t sound gee-I’m-so-sensitive anymore.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning I thanked Andre for putting me to bed and vowed I’d never drink wine again, especially on an empty stomach.
To tell the god’s honest truth, I had only vague memories of my bacchanalian revelry. I couldn’t quite recall the shredded remnants of my nightmare, either, the horrid dream that had followed my drinking spree. Before passing out, I’d scared the bejeesus out of Andre, that much I did know, but he didn’t want to talk about it. Correction: he refused to talk about it.
I blocked the ersatz fireplace with our computer desk, then sent The Diary of Anne Frank poster, frame and all, down the hallway chute, toward the incinerator. I couldn’t fathom why I did these things, but I felt better…safer.
A few days later, I visited Sol’s studio. He needed to make a new plaster mask of the demon. With a vomiting apparatus. Since the scene would be shot in profile, tubing stemmed down one side of my face, and that’s how I learned that I’d been cast in Forever Asmodeus.
Harris called to confirm; I was now “cookie baby.”
When my phone rang the following afternoon, I couldn’t determine who was calling. The ring sounded persistent, authoritative, so maybe it was my mother, or my aunt Sylvia (Charlene and Marlene’s mom), or my Aunt Shirl, the overprotective mother of my stupnagel cousin, Mark. Named for the same dead relative as Marlene, Mark had been my high school prom date. By now, both aunts knew about my “very important part” in a Victor Madison movie.
And yet, the repetitive peal didn’t have that Jewish-sacrifice quality, hard to explain unless you’ve been groomed, practically from birth, to become the first Jewish American Princess First Lady.
I picked up the receiver. After a brief hello-how-are-you, Suzanne Burton said Forever Asmodeus would be filmed in Houston.
“Texas?” I said.
“The last time I looked at a map, Houston was still in Texas.”
“Not New Jersey?”
“Madison has made arrangements to use the Astrodome for Joe Bob’s prayer rally. He’s shooting the bedroom possession scenes on location, in a subdivision of new model homes south of the city, not far from Galveston. Can you be ready to leave in three to four weeks?”
I said yes while my gaze strayed toward Snow. How could I finagle Mom into boarding her grandcat?
The phone had barely been cradled before I ran to the computer, logged on, and surfed the net.
I had once visited my father’s sister, Aunt Estelle. She’s retired now, and lives in Arizona, but at the time she ran a souvenir shop in Galveston, Texas. It was Spring Break and I desperately wanted to fly to Fort Lauderdale, where the boys were, but Mom said, “What’s the difference, Frannie? Galveston’s an island, it has water, sand, a beach, and you won’t have to share a crowded motel room.”
If I remembered correctly, Galveston also had a dinner theatre.
Bingo! Galveston Dinner Theatre’s dramatic webpage included an email link. I typed in Andre’s résumé, word for word, except I might have exaggerated a tad when I added one line: My fianceé, Francine Rose, is starring in a new Victor Madison movie.
Hitting the send button, I logged off, returned to the phone, and tapped out Bonnie’s number. When she answered, I said, “Hi, Bonnie, did you hear about Houston? Did you get the part of Martine? How was your date with Madison?”
“Yes. I think so. Fine.”
“You think so?”
“I auditioned for Suzanne, but I’m pretty sure she knew about my date with Victor. She seemed…brusque.”
“No, no, Bon, that’s her thing. She was brusque with me, too. Don’t keep me in suspense. How was Madison?”
“Competent.”
“Aw, c’mon, details.”
“He was…charming. We dined in his hotel suite, the top floor. It reminded me of Pretty Woman, you know, the breakfast scene, a table filled with covered dishes that look like sterling-silver turtles. I pigged out. Champagne, marinated Souvlaki, sautéed veggies, and chocolate-covered pralines.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Yes, I slept with him.”
“I’ll bet there was music. What kind of music does he like?”
“There wasn’t any music.”
“Your voice sounds funny, Bon. What aren’t you telling me?”
“He…Victor played videos. He had a suitcase full.”
“Wow. X-rated tapes?”
“No. Disney.”
“Disney? As in Walt?”
“Correct. Dumbo, Bambi, Tarzan, Snow White, you name it.”
I took a moment to adjust to my Prince of Darkness watching S
now White. Then I said, “What exactly did you mean by competent?”
“Victor never seemed to tire. I did, after a while. But he never…well, came.”
