Dreams Are Not Enough

by Jacqueline Briskin

  Alyssia waved violently. Hap, reaching her, put an arm around her shoulders. “Okay?” he asked.

  She leaned into his side. “It’s horrible. . . .”

  “Diller?”

  “God . . . yes, Diller.”

  Desmond Cordiner and Mrs. Kelley, owner of the Fairlane, had caught up.

  “You mean the darling actor?” Mrs. Kelley cried. “Is he dead?”

  “His car went over the cliff,” Alyssia whispered.

  “They never did bank that curve right.” Mrs. Kelley’s voice rose shrilly. “And in the late afternoon the sun blinds you. There’s been a slew of accidents. Just last summer another car went over.” She stared at the cliff.

  Maxim was clearly silhouetted, his shoulders rising and falling. Obviously he remained trapped in that crazy laughter.

  He can’t be exposed to strangers, Alyssia thought. “I wouldn’t go to the edge if I were you,” she said to Mrs. Kelley. “The rocks are very slippery.” She held out her hands. “I lost my crutches.”

  Desmond Cordiner was staring at the cliff. “Isn’t that Maxim?”

  “Yes, and he’s really upset, Uncle Desmond,” Alyssia said, using the appellation for the first time.

  Desmond Cordiner peered at her, nodding. He had spent a lifetime keeping the press and other interested parties from the scandals inevitable with a group of highly exposed, highly nervous people. “Son,” he said to Hap, “you and Alyssia go ahead with this kind lady. I’ll drive Maxim’s car.”

  • • •

  A half hour later, Alyssia, Hap, Barry and Whitney sat in the Three Rock Inn’s shabby, comfortable office, where the two police officers had asked them to wait until somebody they respectfully called the Lieutenant arrived to take their statements. Barry, prompted by the solemnity of death, maintained a marital proximity to Alyssia, sitting with her on the sagging tweed couch. The manager had dug up a pair of old wooden crutches in the storeroom for her, and she gripped them tightly. Her eyes appeared a darker, more intense blue.

  Whitney said, “What can be holding up Maxim?”

  “He’s having a drink is my guess,” Hap replied quickly.

  “It was pretty grim,” Alyssia added.

  Headlights shone through the window as cars turned off the highway. After a couple of minutes the door opened. A short man with thinning, slicked back gray hair and a brown plaid sport jacket strode in briskly, followed by a youthful, narrow-jawed man in a khaki uniform.

  “I’ll be investigating this case,” said the gray-haired man, going directly to the manager’s desk, sitting in the swivel chair as if it were his own. “The name’s Lieutenant Mikeleen.”

  As they introduced themselves, the younger man began scribbling rapidly.

  Mikeleen said, “Low tide is early tomorrow morning. We’ll haul up the Dodge then. No point risking any more lives tonight. Miss del Mar, did you see the deceased in Harve Escabada’s car?”

  “It was Diller Roberts.”

  “Are you absolutely certain it was him?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Young Victor Johnson says it was too dark to make an identification.” Mikeleen’s voice had a badgering note.

  “I saw a black-haired man wearing a Levi jacket embroidered exactly the same as Diller’s costume.”

  A soft rap sounded on the door. “Desmond and Maxim Cordiner are out here, Lieutenant Mikeleen,” called a deferential bass voice.

  “About time. Send ’em in.”

  Maxim’s expression lacked all evidence of his recent craziness. For a moment Alyssia pondered the use of a sedative, then decided sedation wasn’t necessary: his father’s presence worked on him like a drug.

  “It’s my fault we’re late, sir,” Maxim said. “Dad stayed with me while I was on the phone to Ohio. Being the producer of Wandering On means I’m in charge. It seemed wrong to let Diller’s mother hear the news on television—”

  “All right, all right,” Mikeleen cut him off brusquely. “We’re in the middle of the interrogation.”

  There were no vacant chairs in the crowded little office. Maxim leaned against a metal filing cabinet while Barry and Hap both rose to give Desmond Cordiner their places.

  Desmond Cordiner, however, showed no inclination to take a passive position. Aware that a film’s chances are radically damaged by the star’s suicide, he was determined to prevent any such cause being written on the death certificate. Placing both hands on the scarred desk, he stared down at Mikeleen. “Now maybe you people will do something about banking that curve.”

  “Highway repairs aren’t the subject of this investigation,” Mikeleen retorted.

  “Last year on this same stretch you had another fatal accident.”

  “A case of drunk driving,” Mikeleen said coldly.

  “The curve’s not banked.” Desmond Cordiner leaned farther forward. “Magnum dislikes bad publicity. If we didn’t, Mendocino County would find itself in a suit for major damages. So let’s settle this unfortunate accident as quickly as possible.”

  “We haven’t ascertained it was an accident.”

  “I fail to see any other conclusion.”

  “Cars can be steered over cliffs.”

  “Diller Roberts was alone, so there couldn’t have been any foul play.”

  “He might have steered it himself.”

  “Surely you can’t be suggesting that he killed himself?”

  “It’s the top possibility.”

  “An actor who’s struggled for years and is finally on the brink of well-deserved stardom? Lieutenant, this was a young man with everything to live for.” Desmond Cordiner paused reflectively. “I knew him well. He was a magnetic and dedicated personality. Magnum’s lost a valuable asset. I better confer with our legal department before I make any decisions against filing that suit.”

  Mikeleen fingered back his thinning gray hair. “All we’re here for now, Mr. Cordiner,” he said with a small cough, “is to ask a few questions about what actually occurred.”

  “Then let me talk straight. You’d be one hell of a lot better advised to ask your questions about your highway than to cook up wild reasons for the death of a brilliant young actor.”

  • • •

  By the time Mikeleen and the others drove away, the restaurant was closed and the chef had gone home, so the manager’s full-cheeked wife offered to cut roast beef sandwiches and brew fresh coffee.

  Alyssia wasn’t hungry. She bowed out.

  Hap said, “I’ll walk you to your room.”

  As they went slowly down the long corridor, he asked, “Dad browbeat them into accidental death, but do you think Diller did kill himself?”

  “Maybe,” she sighed. “He’s been terribly on edge.”

  “And it got worse this last week. Any idea what was wrong?”

  “It could have been a hundred things,” she hedged.

  “That dumb dig of Maxim’s at lunch! I wanted to kill him. Diller was a good guy, so what difference did that make. To anyone except Dad, I mean.” Hap shook his head. “Jesus, what a way to choose to die, water filling your lungs—it takes five minutes.”

  They had reached her room. Visualizing Diller’s last five minutes, his frantic, animal-instinct struggles growing feeble, she shook her head. “I saw him getting the car. I should’ve gone over. . . . Stopped him. . . .”

  Hap put both his arms around her, holding her. She was shamed by the comfort she got from the cotton shirt that smelled of him, his warmth, the beat of his heart, then horrified that a faint fringe of desire stirred within her.

  “I love you.”

  The words were a low rumble, and she wasn’t positive if he had spoken or if she had heard a nonexistent voice.

  Pulling away, she said clearly, “I never stopped loving you.”

  He gazed down at her, the overhead light gleaming in his questioning eyes. Had he actually spoken? If he hadn’t, then her remark must be an embarrassing non sequitur to him. The exterior door at the end of the co
rridor opened and a heavy-hipped woman in purple slacks tramped inside, peering at them, showing recognition. She halted a few doors away, dawdling with her key as if she hoped to hear their conversation.

  “You must be hungry, Alyssia,” Hap said in a friendly, offhand tone. “Want me to have them bring you milk?”

  “Please—oh, and a candy bar.”

  “A Hershey with almonds,” he said.

  “You remembered,” she said.

  “I haven’t,” he said, “forgotten anything.”

  • • •

  Alyssia, more tired than she could remember, her leg aching ferociously, sipped the milk but found it impossible to eat more than one square of chocolate. Fully clothed, she stretched on the bed, attempting to consider the significance of her brief conversation with Hap. But instead she kept seeing Diller’s corpse bobbling, drifting.

  • • •

  She blinked in surprise at the yellow sun flooding between the undrawn drapes. Last night it hadn’t seemed feasible that she’d sleep, but she had.

  A rap on the door had wakened her, and another sounded now. Positive that Juanita had arrived, she called, “Just a sec.” Unhooking the chain, she turned the lock.

  Maxim stood there.

  Instinctively she pushed the door to close it.

  He gripped the wood, wedging in his shoe. “I need to talk to you. Please?”

  “If you don’t go away, I’ll scream.” In what Saint-Simon film had she said that line?

  “I’m not wearing my Jack the Rapist suit, I swear I’m in no mood to attempt any assault or the least battery. But I haven’t slept. Been doing what you might call some heavy thinking. You’re the only person who’ll understand.”

  “Me? As far as I’m concerned, you’re a complete mystery. I don’t understand one thing about you.”

  “Alyssia, if I don’t get some of this garbage out, I’ll explode. I am begging.”

  His eyes were mapped with red veins, and the shadows beneath were nearly black. Diller asked me not to hate him. Warily she released the door.

  He crossed the room, sagging into the chintz love seat. “What happened on the cliff?” he asked. “The scene we played isn’t exactly clear in my mind.”

  “You really can’t remember?”

  “I yelled a lot of ugly things about Diller, and you yelled back. Then suddenly you were on the ground. Did I hit you or what?”

  “You held me over the cliff.”

  “I what?” His bloodshot eyes were incredulous.

  “You lifted me off my feet and dangled me over the edge of the cliff.”

  “Jesus.”

  “It seemed like a year, but was probably less than a minute. One of my crutches dropped into the sea.”

  “I knew I went bananas, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

  “It still doesn’t ring a bell?”

  He shook his head. “I felt something inside me snap—it actually sounded like a bursting balloon—when I saw him floating and rocking like some sort of aquatic animal in that damn car.”

  “It was horrible.” She shivered.

  “He meant too much to me,” Maxim said. “And that frightened the hell out of me. I’d had guys before him, lots of them. During the act I was both titillated and terrified by how my honored sire would react if he could see me. When I met Diller, he became the only person I wanted . . . and I wanted him excessively. I don’t mean just sex, although God knows I was insatiable. I wanted to be around him every second. So there I was, trapped in a form of involuntary servitude and scared shitless by it. I couldn’t stop hurting him. But you’ve got to believe this, Alyssia. Even though he kept telling me he couldn’t bear any more of what I was slinging at him, I never, repeat never, thought that he’d drive any cars over any cliffs.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Does this sound like a laying off of guilt? When I said I was terrified of what I was, maybe I wouldn’t have been if it weren’t for Dad.”

  “Maxim, so you’re afraid of your father. Who isn’t?”

  “Dad’s why I needed marriage plus the signed affadavit of every starlet in the greater Hollywood area that Maxim Cordiner is the stud of studs.”

  “What could be more natural than trying to cover up?”

  “Nothing I’ve done in my life has ever been perfectly natural, Alyssia. Unless you count falling in love with Diller. I went to France to sign you for Wandering On, and when I saw you in that drafty barn, all dolled up in your blue velvet and fake sapphires, I thought to myself, This chick’s something else. Maybe playing around with her will cure me of Diller. But then I began to see something of him in you. It was the eyes. His eyes and your eyes have mysterious depths. I did care about you. Not like Diller, you understand—I never could love a woman that way. But a genuine emotion flickered. And you rejected me.”

  She sighed. “The flicker wasn’t there for me.”

  “Yes, your interest is in the noblest Cordiner of them all.” He paused. “Anyway, on my part, rejection or no, I began to view you as the sexual savior of my reprehensible life. I kept building up what I felt for you. And crushing down what I felt for Diller. God, the things I did to him. And said to him. I told him he swished, I told him he ought to come to the set in drag. I told him—ahh, fuck, what didn’t I tell the poor dead bastard?”

  He bent his head into his hands.

  She moved to the love seat, sitting close to him. “It’s over.”

  “Over?” Maxim said, his voice muffled. “At this very instant they’re on the rocks dredging up the car, taking him out of it.”

  “Oh, Maxim.” She put an arm around his shuddering back. “Maxim, Maxim.”

  “. . . How am I going to live?”

  Diller had asked this same question in this same room. Her answer then had been that people survive. She didn’t offer this cold and disputable comfort now. She let Maxim cling to her, and when he buried his wet face between her breasts, she kissed his russet hair.

  “How am I going to live?” he gasped out.

  BEVERLY HILLS, 1986

  A breeze stirred across the patio, rippling the heart-shaped pool. Maxim gazed broodingly at the wavelets. “Without Alyssia,” he said finally, “Wandering On would have been long strips of celluloid running through a machine.”

  “Exactly.” Barry nodded. “But I’ve never quite understood how you convinced her to do it.”

  “If you’ll recall, Barry-boy,” Maxim replied, “in those days your career had not reached its current splendor, and you were panting to earn your first buck. I spelled out to her that you and she were a package deal. If she didn’t play Cassie, no script for you.”

  “I should’ve guessed it was something like that,” Barry said. “She’s always had a fine generosity of spirit.”

  “Are the two of you crazy or what?” Beth’s voice rose from its natural, pleasantly modulated level. “She came back for one reason. Hollywood is where it’s at. You didn’t convince her, Maxim, she used you. And she used Barry and she used Uncle Desmond and she used poor Hap. She used all of us.”

  “It’s bad enough she’s a driving bitch,” PD added, “but educated word is that she had a hand in Diller Roberts’s death.”

  Maxim took off his dark glasses, staring at PD for a long moment. “She didn’t,” he said harshly.

  PD turned away, gulping at his Campari. Though estranged from his cousins, he had joined with Barry and Beth in vehement condemnation of Diller Roberts and Montgomery Clift: The Inside Story of Two Actors, the 1981 smirky dual biography that had devoted a full chapter to a supposed affair between Maxim and Diller. In defense of Maxim’s heterosexuality, they cited their cousin’s four marriages and numerous well-publicized affairs. At publication, though, Maxim had issued no denials, filed no libel suits, remaining incommunicado on his island off the Gulf Coast of Mexico.

  “If Alyssia’s so marvelous, why did we all come rushing over today?” Beth’s aging, pretty face was pink. “You both know the ans
wer as well as I do. We’re terrified of what she can do to us.”

  Barry glanced nervously at the inscrutable windows with their sun-protective coating, saying in a low voice, “Maxim and I weren’t canonizing my ex-spouse, merely pointing out she’s hardly a reincarnation of Jezebel.”

  “Bull,” PD said. “That’s exactly what she is.”

  “Why so rough on the lady, PD?” Maxim inquired. “Time was when you would have gone up the length of California on your knees like a penitente to represent her.”

  “She was my client, yes. And I always say the agent knows a client best.”

  “Why not? You guys imbibe ten percent of their blood,” Barry said, then forced a laugh.

  “In this particular case, let me tell you, my client was the one who fucked me over.” Mopping a linen handkerchief over his forehead, PD moved to sit in the shade.

  Alyssia had been difficult, yes, but inwardly he had to admit that she quite literally had saved his life.

  PD

  1966

  25

  Because of Diller’s death, Maxim and Hap had to stay in Mendocino, taking charge of what the local undertaker called “the sad remains,” but the rest of the Wandering On ensemble departed on a chartered DC3.

  An August hot spell engulfed Los Angeles. PD, who picked up Alyssia, Barry and Juanita at LAX, kept the air conditioning in his Cad roaring all the way to their furnished rental in West Hollywood.

  It was three blocks from their original bachelor apartment and nearly as shabby. Barry had written to Beth from France requesting that she rent them a house in a nice neighborhood. But Los Angeles rents had shot up, and though she searched long and conscientiously, this was the best she could find.

  Barry and Juanita sweated copiously as they hauled in the luggage. PD helped Alyssia to the couch, responding with alacrity to her murmured request for water.

  She downed two more codeines: she had taken two on the plane. The typed instructions on the brown phial read one every four hours, but the pain was unbearable. She told herself it was the heat.

  “First thing tomorrow,” PD said, “you have an orthoped look at that leg.”