by Denise Dietz
Romantic bastard, thought Maryl.
“Too bad an actor can’t get himself elected President of the United States,” she murmured. “If he could, Drew would win in a landslide. Goodbye, Deborah, you dumb jerk.”
* * * * *
Maryl adopted two stray cats. One she named Quasimodo, the other Maureen O’Hara.
Drew adopted strays, as well. Community theatre, he discovered, was dominated by neophyte actresses, rich divorcees, and bored housewives.
His tall form strutted across the stage in a variety of leading roles. Dark brown hair fell forward into his onyx eyes. He smiled often, his mouth creating a couple of deep dimples.
When the heavy ruby curtains opened, he fulfilled his fantasies on stage. When the curtains closed, he eased his hard-on from the enthusiastic applause with a succession of backstage performances. Maryl had compared him to a wild panther. The prop or costume alcoves became his lairs.
Twice he accommodated his leading lady beneath a sawhorse in the room where lumber and tools were stored.
Women offered the panther pussy. Soft pussy. Curly pussy. Crinkled pussy. Shaved pussy. They purred, yowled, rubbed, licked and scratched.
Drew began to associate the smell of stage makeup, powder, cold cream, even sawdust, with a woman’s climactic scream.
Despite his advice to Maryl, he promised his partners everything. Except fidelity.
Chapter Eight
“After all,” Maryl paraphrased, “tomorrow is another damn day.”
She wondered if tomorrow would bring rain. Outside the kitchen window, thunderclouds gathered. But they had gathered yesterday and the day before and the day before that.
As she watched, the clouds became wisps of cotton candy.
God was sweeping the sky with His universal broom, she thought. Why couldn’t God water the earth with His universal garden hose?
Clenching her fist in a classic Scarlett-O’Hara-I’ll-never-be-hungry-again pose, she knocked on her brother’s door. “Are you decent, Drew?”
“I’m never decent,” he replied, “but I’m clothed. At least as clothed as I plan to get in this god-awful weather. I think I’ll market a T-shirt that says something about surviving the heat wave of 1978. Come in, Maryl.”
Drew’s walls were filled with posters—five years worth of starring roles at the Great Neck Community Playhouse. In its place of honor, above an unmade bed’s headboard, hung a framed reproduction: Andy Warhol’s print masterpiece of Marilyn Monroe, autographed by Maryl. Once a sewing room, then an artist’s studio, the small chamber now belonged to Drew, who preferred his own side entrance to the Florentino house.
Barefoot, wearing a pair of faded cut-offs, he had just finished hefting weights, and the muscles in his bronzed arms convexed. His rich brown hair, darkened even more by perspiration, flopped into his dark eyes. Around his neck, above his naked chest, was a Chien-Silverwater bath towel.
“It’s a sauna in here,” he said. “Let’s escape to the kitchen.”
“Good idea.” Maryl pushed her wide-framed glasses up the bridge of her sweaty nose. “It’s the coolest room in the house. I’ve been sitting there reading Gone With The Wind.”
“Again?”
“It helps me proof Ed’s historical romance manuscripts.”
“Bullshit. You have this thing for Rhett Butler. That’s why you won’t date mere mortals.” Drew glanced around the kitchen, as if searching for the source of the bacon-coffee smell. “Where’s Mom?”
“I drove her to the train station forty-five minutes ago.” Sluggishly, Maryl placed her paperback on the counter, next to an unplugged waffle iron. “Mom’s gone with the wind.”
“Again?”
“You sound like an old song, Drew. Sha-boom, sha-boom, again, again, again, again.”
“It’s just that she’s never home any more,” he grumbled. “Why does she go to the city every day?”
Because she’s having an affair, you dope.
That sounded like such a cliché, but Valerie Florentino wasn’t very good at deception. Health club, new haircut, new attitude, new clothes, phone calls. Maryl had answered one call and immediately recognized the voice of the “insurance salesman.” Any TV addict would recognize that voice. Buzzy Beeson. Mom’s lover had to bee Buzzy, ha-ha, ‘else why would he call and lie through his teeth?
“She’s visiting Picasso at the Museum of Modern Art,” Maryl fibbed, because boys tended to forgive their dad’s extra curricular activities but not their mom’s. “She left a magnetized refrigerator note that says she’s taped a week’s worth of soaps.”
“I can’t believe you’re hooked on that trash.”
“I’ve seen you sneak an avid peek at General Hospital.”
“I peek avidly at the girl who plays Sarah. Eileen something or other.”
“There’s a fresh glass of iced tea on the table, waiting for your fingerprints.”
“What’s up?” Drew crunched ice cubes between his straight, white teeth.
“You. It’s after twelve. I thought you’d sleep all day. What time did you get in last night?”
“Late.”
“One of your co-stars?” The family referred to Drew’s dates as his co-stars, even if they weren’t.
“Nope. I went to the movies. Alone.”
“Why didn’t you invite your favorite sister?”
“No time. It was a last minute impulse. I decided to waste my hard-earned money on Ordinary People, which just received rave reviews.”
“How was it?”
“I don’t know. While waiting in line, I saw that girl I used to date. Samantha Gold.”
“So?”
“She flirted, Maryl. It was embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“She wasn’t exactly subtle. She wore a wedding ring and she looked pregnant, or else she’s gained fifty pounds. Christ! There was a time when I believed myself madly in love with her.”
“But you broke it off.”
He nodded. “Samantha was too eager, too passionate, too . . . exhausting. I suggested we cool it and she became hysterical, swore a blue streak, even threatened to sever a certain portion of my anatomy.”
“Did you ever F-word her?”
“Nope. We did everything but.”
“So she was a bitch, huh? Like in that old joke?”
“No. Samantha wanted me, and that’s not bragging. She was a high-class slut.” Drew shook his head. “Last night I said something about hating to stand in line. Then I caught a revival of Milland’s classic, The Lost Weekend.”
“I hate weekends.”
“Me, too. I’m not real fond of weekdays either. The only good thing about Dad’s office is his air-conditioning.”
“Listen to us.” Maryl sat across from Drew at the kitchen table. “We’re a fine pair. Both members of the proverbial family dynasty, working for Dad. Both living at home, even though we’re twenty-five and twenty-four. Never engaged, never married, never even divorced.”
“Is that the reason for this Sunday interview? Meet the press. Stop the presses. Maryl Florentino plans to wed.”
“Are you kidding? Who on earth would marry me?”
“Your romance historian. Isn’t he divorced?”
“Yikes, Drew. Ed’s six inches shorter than I am, even though he writes about ten feet tall heroes, not to mention heroines with alabaster breasts named Gweneth and Heather.”
“He names their breasts?”
“Maybe if Ed was taller or my breasts were whiter, I’d consider it. Nope. It would never work. Ed’s heroines all have golden hair. I mean, tendrils.”
“He names their breasts, Maryl?”
“Yup. That’s probably why he isn’t published yet.” She fiddled with the drawstring on her blue halter top and contemplated a seam in her white sailor shorts. “Drew, are you satisfied with your life? Happy?”
“I’m not un happy. Bored, maybe. The art department at Chien, Ink. runs itself. Dad employs artists with ten times the
ability I have. I’m dead-ended.”
“Dad doesn’t think so. He plans for you to take over the business some day.”
“Dad’s fifty-one. He has years left to play with his strip, not to mention the second, huge office he’s opening in California for animated features. The contest to name Chien’s illegitimate puppies was Dad’s idea. Besides, if anyone inherits the business it should be you.”
“Me? I answer the phone, read the mail, interview aspiring artists, and send ‘autographed’ Chien photos to his fans. Anyway, I’ve never been able to stay within the lines. Did Dad select winning names for the pups?”
“He sure did. Buzzy and Bootsie.”
“The poodle hair. I love it.”
Maryl grinned. Curly-topped Buzzy Beeson (her mother’s lover) starred in an ABC sitcom, portraying a jovial W.C. Fields child-hater who hosted a children’s show called Kiddie Korner. Recently, Buzzy’s TV character had been written into three weeks worth of summer scripts, televised on the popular soap opera Morning Star. Buzzy, Milton Berle, and George Burns had appeared on the Jonah Wiggins Show, where they entertained with old burlesque-style routines. Both the daytime drama and late night talk show were based in Manhattan, and Beeson had visited Dad’s studio after Andrew had created a week-long comic strip about Chien invading the conservative, segregated Kitty Korner—no dogs or black cats allowed.
Maryl brought her attention back to Drew. “What were we talking about? Oh, yes, boredom. Are you bored with the Playhouse, too?”
“I’ve got to take a shower.”
“Great. Then you’ll skedaddle out the back door and we’ll never finish this discussion.”
“I don’t skedaddle, Maryl. I ‘swagger’ and ‘stalk’ and ‘dominate the stage.’ Don’t you read the reviews?”
“Okay, Drew, what’s wrong?”
“I am bored with the Playhouse. I don’t think the audience even listens any more. They’re so used to me starring in every play, I could recite from the phone book and they’d give me a standing ovation.”
“But you have so much talent.”
“Yeah. Right. I’ve developed this huge talent for screwing up school, work, my life.”
“Oops. I’ve opened Pandora’s box. Self-pity isn’t your style, Drew.”
“Let’s ride to Montauk Point in my ‘Bird. I’ll put the top down. Maybe the breeze’ll clear cobwebs, or at least dry our sweat. I’ll even spring for lobster.”
“First, tell me what’s wrong.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Drew walked over to the kitchen sink, rotated the faucet, and ducked his head beneath the cold water. Face dripping, he stared out the window. “When we were kids, Mom would turn on the sprinkler and we’d run through, trying to get wet and not get wet at the same time. Remember, Maryl?”
“Sure.”
“Well, that’s how I feel. Life’s a fucking sprinkler. I’m running back and forth, going nowhere. I’m Jack be nimble, jumping over the candlestick, burning my balls. Christ, I’ve been screwing around for thirteen years . . .” He paused to catch his breath.
Drew’s impotent, she thought, hiding her instinctive gasp within a discreet cough. The rumors I heard are true.
“Did you ever wonder why Jack jumped over the candlestick, Maryl? Maybe he had this thing for fire, like Miss Muffet had this affinity for spiders.”
“She didn’t have an affinity for spiders, Drew. She had an affinity for tuffets and lactose.”
“Aw, forget it. You’re right. I’ve developed a terminal case of self-pity.” He snapped his towel at a mosquito. “James Stewart once said that the great thing about movies was giving people tiny pieces of time they never forget.”
“Is that what you want? To star in movies?”
“Movies, TV. I want to be an actor, a real actor, a superstar. It’s the only thing I know how to do well. All my other performances are . . . forgettable.”
“You want immortality, a chance to give people a piece of yourself they’ll never forget.”
“Shit, Maryl, you’re attaching a more profound meaning to a base instinct. I merely want to perform before a camera rather than an audience.”
“Then go for it.”
“I can’t. It’s too late.”
“Read the trades. Audition.”
“No. I’m tired. And burned out.”
She studied his tall form, still standing by the sink. Drew could put any number of actors in the shade, assuming God ever offered up shade again.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s drive to Montauk and watch a couple of beady-eyed devils get boiled alive. Is there a lobster heaven where lobsters select people from a tank? How long does it take to boil away your life?”
“Christ, Maryl, we’re both so damn morbid.”
“I wonder if lobsters go to heaven.”
“Nope. Hell. Hell is heaven’s junk yard.”
“Who said that?”
“Me.”
“Smartass,” she murmured.
There was so much tenderness in her voice, Drew felt an overwhelming urge to cry. But if he did, he’d ultimately confess that, after years of screwing around, Andrew Florentino’s son had become an impotent nice guy. He didn’t know if it was medical or psychological, but he definitely know one thing.
His romantic bastard image was a sham.
* * * * *
“I’ll miss you so much,” Maryl said.
“Be brave. In a pinch, you can start a Drew Flory fan club. You can even tell folks you’ve seen my quick through our shower curtain.”
“Your quick?”
“Boy oh boy, old age sure destroys memory cells. You once said that my quick was bigger than King Kong’s.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I said an actor’s ego was bigger than King Kong. By the way, I like your new name, Flory. It sounds like kitchen linoleum.”
“Want to hear something funny? When Maxine Graham insisted I change my name, Buzzy Beeson suggested I use his.”
“Drew Beeson? That’s awful. Damn! Why’d they move the show to California, after your interview, audition and contract? I’ll tell you why. They did it just to piss me off. It’s not fair.”
“Who said life is fair? Maryl, come with me. I’ve asked you a hundred times. We’ll get a two-bedroom—”
“Yeah, right. I can see you bringing your co-stars home to meet your little sister.” She smiled, anticipating a wisecrack. After all, she had never been considered little, not by any stretch of the imagination.
Drew merged his dark eyebrows. “Haven’t you noticed? I don’t have ‘co-stars’ any more. I’m too busy developing the character of Caleb on my soap.”
“Temporary, big brother. Wait until you hit Hollywood.” Prudently changing the subject, she said, “Why are they called soaps?”
“In the early days, serial dramas were sponsored by soap manufacturers. Why are you changing the subject? Share an apartment with me and help Dad with his California division.”
“I appreciate the offer, Drew, but my life here is settled and I’m happy.”
“What life? You work, watch TV, and proof your friend Ed’s manuscripts. That’s not life, Maryl. That’s merely existing.”
“Don’t start playing philosopher again. You once said that soap operas were trash. Does that mean they end up in heaven’s junk pile?” When he didn’t reply, she said, “You wouldn’t understand.”
He grinned. “Try me.”
“Well, I’m waiting, biding my time. I have this strong feeling that something special will happen soon.”
“Don’t give me that que serra shit. If you hadn’t told Mom about our self-pity discussion, if she hadn’t known Buzzy Beeson from the old days at her agency, I wouldn’t be starring on TV, achieving immortality from a distance.”
“You’re wrong, Drew. It was fate. Buzzy just happened to be in New York. Maxine Graham just happened to owe Buzzy a favor for his guest stint on Morning Star.
So she watched you at the Playhouse and cast you in her soap.”
“Maybe your que serra is moving to L.A. with me.”
“I don’t think so, but if I change my mind you’ll be the first to know. I’ll write often. Is everything packed? Your posters? The picture of my namesake?”
“Yes. Do you want a lift to the city in my ‘Bird?”
“No, thanks. I have to leave now. In fact, I should have left thirty minutes ago.”
“Maryl, the sun’s barely risen.”
“I know, but there’s this photographer coming in today. He’s from People magazine. Bryan Edwards. They’re doing a feature story on all the characters from the strip, including Buzzy, Bootsie, Mary-wanna, and Chien’s new poodle girlfriend, Streisand. Dad put me in charge.”
“I guess this is it, then.” Drew kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Go get ready for your photographer. Maybe he’ll look like Clark Gable.”
Bryan Edwards was young, the same height as Maryl, and he didn’t look like Clark Gable. His light brown hair was much too long and he had pure green eyes above an aquiline nose. His nose sheltered a trimmed mustache and beard. After a brief introduction to Maryl, he began clicking his camera at everything, wasting rolls of film.
I guess the magazine can afford it, she thought, doodling on her pad of telephone messages. Maybe Drew was right and she should change her life. How? Move to California? No. She was depressed over Drew’s leaving, plain and simple. It would pass.
It didn’t pass. Three days later Maryl sat in the same position, scribbling on the same pad. The phone rang. “Chien, Ink. This is Maryl. How may I help you?”
“Bryan Edwards here. Remember me?”
“Sure.”
“Can we meet for lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“You eat lunch, don’t you?”
“Usually at my desk.” She glanced down at her yellow shirt and black slacks. Circling the slacks was a tooled-leather belt that Drew had made for her in summer camp—a million years ago.
“Eat with me today,” Bryan said. “Please?”
“All right. But I only have an hour.”
Bryan greeted her at La Seine restaurant. The bar was roomy, decorated in Wedgwood greens and blues. Between deep drags on his cigarette, he chewed a swizzle stick. Staring at Maryl, he said, “It’s amazing.”
