Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not why ‑‑”

  “It didn’t work. He left, anyway, after a big fight. He said Mommy was fooling around with Mr. Madison. Mommy cried and I couldn’t hear everything they said, but my dad was wrong. Mommy met Mr. Madison at a party, two years before I was born. She told me he liked her, but they never, you know, got together. Mommy wouldn’t fool around, even if she wanted to. I mean, she was already married to my dad. He sends me birthday cards.” Lynn Beth shrugged.

  “And your step-brother?”

  “He and Mommy are still very close. She says he’s a ‘free spirit.’ He’s divorced, no kids, and he’s always getting into trouble.”

  “Are you staying alone at the hotel?”

  “No. I’m sharing Cat’s room. Cat sings me lullabies.” She blushed again. “I know I’m too old for lullabies, Frannie, but Cat has such a beautiful voice. Cat bought me this book and…I think they’re calling you.” She waggled her fingers like a spider. “Have fun.”

  Smiling, she put her glasses on, anxious to get back to Misery.

  As I headed toward the stairs, I thought about what Lynn Beth had just told me, especially the “already married to my dad.”

  I didn’t believe, for one moment, that a small impediment like matrimony would bother Dawn, and I was equally certain it wouldn’t fluster “Mr. Madison.”

  So what? An affaire de coeur between Dawn Sullivan and Victor Madison, assuming one even existed, didn’t have anything to do with me. And yet, inside my head, I couldn’t help paraphrasing Peggy Lee’s Lady-Tramp song.

  She’s a tramp (woof, woof, arf), but she loves him…

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  During one of our trivia marathons, Andre had said that Oscar-winning director George Stevens discharged blanks during the filming of The Diary of Anne Frank. Stevens wanted to provoke startled reactions from his cast, and it worked. Except, I can’t watch the damn movie anymore without trying to guess when and where the gun goes off.

  I knew Madison had the same ploy in mind. Cold, I’d searched for a sweater. Inside a bedroom closet, I’d seen a gun and a box of blanks.

  He hadn’t used the gun yet, of course, but it was just a matter of time. And what better time than the spider sequence?

  I would do my turtle-on-its-back walk half-way down the stairs. Then Madison would cut to Robin’s mom, who was throwing a party. Then he’d cut to Lynn Beth. On all fours, flicking her tongue like a snake, Robin would crawl toward the party guests. Bang! Startled reactions.

  Madison had promised to shoot my spider sequence in one take. I didn’t believe him, but if true, maybe I could leave early. I felt queasy, exhausted, but most of all I wanted to see Andre. This morning I’d left a message on Rick’s cell phone. “Andre, we have to talk,” it began. I told him I’d be filming all day. I told him I’d wait up for him. Sounding like my mother, I asked if he could “spare a few minutes.” Then I left a second message. “Disregard last part of first message,” I said, trying to make my voice sound seductive. “Just come home, Andre, please.”

  My game plan was to clean the house and bake some peanut butter cookies ‑‑ Andre’s favorite. I needed to repair the rift in our relationship. My strange reaction to Madison could be sex deprivation. How many times had Cosmo told me that a woman’s sex drive was as strong as a man’s? I felt I could now give Andre what he wanted: uninhibited sex. And if the demon didn’t like it, he could lump it.

  While the cookies cooled, I’d take a nap.

  Stifling a yawn, I strolled through the movie set’s living room.

  Cat had arrived, looking drop-dead gorgeous in her Ellen party gear. The extras mingled. Bonnie, who’d arrived with Cat, was chatting with…oh, no!

  Bonnie was petrified of guns. Her father had been shot and killed when she was five years old. I needed to tell her about Madison’s gun. Now! Plunging through the crowd, I was stopped by a familiar grip on my arm, as Madison said, “We’ve revamped your harness, little Frannie.”

  At that very moment, had I looked up “surreal” in the dictionary, it would have stated: having the intense irrational reality of a dream.

  I didn’t care if the living room had wall-to-wall people.

  I wanted Madison’s hands to paw beneath my nightie.

  I wanted him to do his sculpt-butt thing.

  I wanted his index finger to --

  “Come on, Frannie, we’re running out of time here!”

  Madison’s words brought me back to rational reality, and I thought If I had a dollar for every time he’s said we’re-running-out-of-time-here, I’d never need grocery money again.

  Revamped harness, my ass! Bob had rigged piano wires to a white belt. He must have caught my expression because he didn’t say anything about the Titanic. “We’ve tested this twice,” he said, “with a sandbag that weighs 115 pounds.”

  “Bob,” I said, then hesitated. I’ve never, ever verbalized my true weight; even my driver’s license fibs. “I think…shit, I know I weigh more than one-fifteen. Try one-twenty-one.”

  “Ho, ho, ho,” he said. “Dripping wet, you can’t weigh more than 105.”

  “Hurry, we’re running out of time here,” Madison said.

  With a shrug, I let Bob attach the belt.

  The strobe lights felt hot.

  Madison had cameramen shooting from all angles.

  I did my spider walk, halting half-way down the stairs.

  Madison didn’t yell cut, so I knew Lynn Beth was in position.

  A shot rang out.

  I had been sort of expecting it, but my tech man hadn’t.

  He dropped the wires. I tumbled down the stairs. Correction: I fell down the stairs on my back.

  It hurt to turn my head, but somehow I managed, and saw Bonnie crying hysterically while Cat tried to comfort her. The party extras looked as if a VCR had stopped on PAUSE.

  Except for one obese lady extra with red, silicone lips. Her lips formed vowels and consonants as she said, “The media’s gonna love this.”

  Bob said, “Don’t move, Frannie.”

  Madison didn’t say anything. He ran his hands over my body, testing every inch for broken bones, and I almost purred like a cat.

  Then pain rather than desire throbbed, and I felt as if I’d been thrown to the lions.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Nothing was broken, thank God, but the on-site doctor said the X-word, as in rays, and Sol Aarons volunteered to drive me to the emergency room. Madison would have taken me, but he had to shoot Lynn Beth’s “spider” close-ups. Sheldon Giglia, the ass director, had been fired. I didn’t know why, but I suspected terminal ineptness.

  Once I was comfortably (ho-ho-ho) seated inside Sol’s car, I begged him to drive me home. Yes, I understood insurance would cover the hospital. Yes, I understood the producers wanted to cover their butts, just in case I was badly hurt. Except I wasn’t badly hurt. According to my mother, my head was as hard as a rock, and a slug of vodka with aspirin would take care of my ribs. Please, Sol, please.

  He said, “Frannie, you’ve got to cut down on your drinking.”

  “Why?” I said, startled. “Is it affecting my work?”

  “No, but it’s affecting your eyes. Half the time they look dazed, the other half scared.”

  I tried for humor. “Only a makeup man would notice that.”

  Silence.

  “Hey, Madison hasn’t said anything.”

  “He’s been preoccupied. First Davy, then Stevie Eisenberg.”

  “Was he close to her, Sol? I mean, he didn’t seem all that upset.”

  “He shed a few tears for the TV cameras.”

  “At least he didn’t compare S.B. Eisenberg to F. Scott Fitzgerald,” I said sarcastically. “But then, Fitzgerald isn’t as big an icon as James Dean.”

  “Sometimes Madison hides his true feelings. That’s what you’re trying to do with your drinking. But it won’t play in Peoria, sweetheart. Your eyes are too expressive.”

>   “My eyes are always hidden by makeup, and what’s the difference if I drink a little vodka? Christ, it’s not as if I’m playing a real part.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, kid. The Demon is real.”

  “What?”

  “The Demon’s a real part. Lynn Beth couldn’t do it, even if Dawn hired the best drama coach in the business. You’ve got an instinct for acting, Frannie. You’re holding our movie together, and don’t think for one moment that Madison doesn’t know it.”

  I blushed at the compliment, then said, “Is that why he’s been so lovey-dovey recently? Toward me, I mean?”

  “No, sweetheart, ‘lovey-dovey’ isn’t his style. And as far as I know, he’s never messed around with anybody in his cast. Before the shoot, maybe. After, frequently. But never during.”

  I pictured the high school hallway, Madison’s hands molding my butt. If I hadn’t stopped him, would we have found a broom closet and messed around? Whoa…Bonnie said she and Madison spent the whole lunch break together, so how could he have fondled me?

  Doppelganger, doppelganger, doppelganger reverberated inside my bruised head.

  No. Bonnie wasn’t infallible. She could have forgotten a brief restroom recess.

  Then how come, later, Madison stood by the gym door and held you in his arms at the same time, Frannie?

  A voice that sounded like my Nana Jen’s answered my silent query. You were bowled over by the sight of Davy hanging from the scoreboard, princess. The sun hitting his silver armadillo belt buckle blinded you, darling. And don’t forget, you went into a state of shock.

  I heard my mother: Stretch your imagination too far, Frannie, and it will snap back at you.

  Then my stupnagel cousin Charlene: Most accidents happen accidentally.

  My psychic put in her two cents. You’re an ecktriss, Miss Rose. An ecktriss has an overactive imagination. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact. Quote, unquote.

  “Who is William Shakespeare?” I murmured.

  “Frannie! Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Sol.” With relief, I saw that we’d passed a hospital. However, Sol looked as if he wanted to hang a U, so I decided to change the subject. “Sol, do you know why Sheldon Giglia was fired?”

  “No, not really. I’ve heard rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  “Shelly was ‑‑ shall we say keeping company? ‑‑ with Dawn.”

  I wondered if Shelly, or Madison for that matter, knew about Dawn’s other company ‑‑ Daniel Pearlstein, Tenia, Aretha, and Cosmo cover-model, Mary-Magdalene, just to name a few.

  Aloud, I said, “Why would Madison care about that?”

  “Ordinarily, he wouldn’t. But some say Shelly campaigned relentlessly for Dawn to play Ellen. There’s even a rumor that Cat’s sprained back was due to Shelly’s deliberate screw-up.”

  “Jesus.”

  “The cruncher came when he showed an interest in you.”

  “Me? Shelly hates me.”

  Sol shook his head. “Bob said Shelly told him, in detail, what he’d do to you when he got you alone. Shelly told Bob that he couldn’t stop thinking about you, that he’d make you ‘love him back.’ Bob’s no prude, Frannie, but the crew adores you. You’re their itsy bitsy spider, and they don’t want to see you get stepped on. So Bob went to Madison. Bob says Madison told him to get back to work and mind his own business, but Bob says Madison’s eyes glittered like two pieces of hot coal.”

  “Did Bob add ho-ho-ho?”

  “What?”

  This time I shook my head, and felt a stabbing pain. “I’d hate to be the reason why someone gets fired, Sol.”

  “Shelly didn’t blame you, Frannie. From what I heard, he threatened to kill Madison, then threatened a lawsuit.”

  I caught a quirky quality in Sol’s “threatened-to-kill-Madison.” Glancing at his hands, I saw that he clutched the steering wheel the same way he’d clutched the Tsingtao bottle during our first makeup session, inside the CBS studios. It was none of my business, of course, but not asking Sol would be like my mother not asking me if I had remembered to dead-bolt the door. Or not asking me if I’d had my period ‑‑ god-forbid I should get pregnant before I was legally married. (As opposed to illegally married, Mom?)

  So I asked.

  “Sol, what have you got against Madison?”

  He stayed silent so long, I was afraid I’d blown our friendship.

  Then he said, “Madison’s a bastard,” and I surmised he didn’t mean an illegitimate child.

  Wisely, I didn’t ask him to clarify.

  “I wish I had the guts to kill him myself,” Sol said, then swung the car toward the curb. If he’d been thinking clearly, he’d have known the sudden motion would cause waves of agony to wash over my body. In fact, I almost passed out. If I had, I would have missed his next remark.

  “I’m in love with his sister,” Sol said.

  My spongy mind undigested everything I’d ever seen or read about Madison. A&E’s Biography, Rolling Stone magazine, People magazine, E!, the Houston Chronicle.

  Stupidly, I said, “Madison doesn’t have a sister.”

  “That’s what he wants everyone to believe,” Sol said.

  “Why?”

  “She’s…different.”

  I waited.

  “Sometimes she has memory glitches,” Sol said.

  I waited some more.

  “Madison was responsible for her condition,” Sol said, leaving the curb, inching his car in between a pickup truck and a pickup truck.

  “What did he do?” I breathed.

  “He didn’t do anything. What happened was pure Frank Capra, only in reverse. There’s this scene in It’s a Wonderful Life…at a cemetery…where the ghost…the Angel…”

  “Clarence,” I clarified.

  “Right. Where Clarence tells Jimmy Stewart that his brother died because…um…Harry?”

  “George. Harry’s the brother.”

  “Because George wasn’t there to save Harry. That was George’s wake-up call. It made him realize life was wonderful, after all.”

  “I love that movie, Sol. We didn’t celebrate Christmas, but every year we’d watch Wonderful Life on TV. Then my mom would run up and down the street, yelling ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs. Merewether, Merry Christmas, Mrs. Wagner, Merry Christmas, Vera, Merry Christmas, Betty.’ And everyone yelled back, ‘Merry Christmas, Mrs. Rosen,’ or ‘Merry Christmas, Miriam.’ Mom looked so cute in her fuzzy blue bathrobe and black galoshes…uh, sorry, please go on.”

  “First, allow me to savor the image of your mother’s fuzzy blue bathrobe and black galoshes.”

  Maybe that’s where Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s hair went, I thought. Maybe Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s not a bear at all. Maybe he’s a childhood memory that makes you smile.

  “If Victor Madison had never been born,” Sol said, his voice bitter, “his sister wouldn’t have tried to kill herself.”

  “Oh my God! How ‑‑”

  “She slit her wrist. Thank God it wasn’t fatal. But she also suffered a small stroke. The stroke left her with a memory impediment. When I first met her, I thought she was naïve, impressionable, like a foreign visitor or the mermaid in Disney’s Splash. Which is kind of ironic when you think about it…” He paused.

  “Because Madison has a thing for Disney?”

  “No. Because the mermaid’s name is Madison.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “Despite his recent press conferences, Victor Madison has always tried to keep a low profile. People don’t recognize him on the street, like…oh, say Spielberg.”

  “True. When I first saw him, I felt let down. He looked so normal, so Clark Kent-ish.”

  “For the last twenty or so years, Madison has kept his sister in a home. Not a hospital, a nice house, owned by a middle-aged, childless couple. He doesn’t want her to be a part of his life, but he’s not a monster. So he’ll take her out to dinner, a movie…”

  Sol cleared his throat. �
�One night, three years ago, they were at a restaurant. I happened to be there too, sitting in the corner, listening to Maxine Nightingale’s ‘Lead Me On’…the restaurant had wall jukeboxes at every table. I had worked with Madison, but he didn’t acknowledge me, so I kept drinking my coffee and pigging out on blueberry cheesecake.” Sol smiled. “Peggy…that’s her name…loves cheesecake. She stood up and drifted over to my table, so Madison had no choice. He invited me to join him, introduced me to his sister, and ‑‑”