by Denise Dietz
When the gasping sobs had become small breath catches, Anissa looked into Randy’s blue eyes. “I don’t know how you can have such patience with me,” she said, “but I feel ever so much better. I give you my word, Randy darling. No more sleeping pills. No stupid tears, either. I just hope I have the opportunity to help you as much as you’ve helped me.”
The next day Anissa auditioned and was awarded the role of Laura in The Glass Menagerie.
Following the first performance, Maxine Graham pushed her way backstage. “I have a new part coming up on Children,” she said. “What the hell happened to your long hair?”
“My haircut was the result of a religious vow,” said Anissa, winking at Randy. “I live in an old Monastery.”
“Merde. Grow it back. I want it long again by next week.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s the part, Max?” Randy asked.
“Cyndi’s sister.”
“That’s a small role. The grapevine says you’ve considered a ghost for Pablo.” He tilted Anissa’s chin. “Look at this face, Max. Celestial. Chimerical. Ingrid as Joan of Arc.”
Three weeks later Anissa floated across the TV screen, a celestial, chimerical, Ingrid Bergman-ish ghost. Five days later the first fan letters arrived. All were addressed to Anissa Cartier.
Which meant, said Maxine, that viewers had read the credits. Which meant, thought Anissa, that viewers were into ghosts.
So what? She was getting paid for having fun. Nova or galaxy star, she had achieved an unanticipated, serendipitous success. And success, be it sugar-coated or saccharine, smelled like perfume.
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
“No, no, no!” The director took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his beaky nose. “Maryl baby, this is a TV commercial, not some goddamn spread in one of your fashion mags. Perfume is seductive. Nobody wants to screw a skunk.”
“Jesus, Tony.”
“Okay, lousy metaphor. Here’s a better one. Drowning in money. Do you have any idea how many women watch soap operas?”
“For the record, my big brother says soaps are called soaps because they were sponsored by soap manufac—”
“Bullshit! Soap is squeaky clean while perfume is pornographic.”
“Don’t you mean prurient?” Absently, Maryl patted the head of the tame tiger standing by her side. Then she pulled up the bodice of her red mini-dress. “Why bother covering my nipples? Why not let it all hang out?”
Tony gazed at her critically. “Not much there to hang, baby.”
She stared directly at his crotch and threw his words back at him. “Not much there to hang, baby.”
“Bitch!” screamed Tony, who, rumor had it, put thick rolled-up socks inside his underwear. “Freaking bitch!”
Maryl held her breath and counted to ten. “If you think that by calling me names you’ll make me feel seductive, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“You might not believe this, dollbaby, but most models would give their left tit to work with me.” He sank onto his director’s chair. “All I have to do is snap my fingers.”
“Then snap.”
“I wish I could, but Morning Star wants you. Rosebud wants you. You’re their goddamn spokeswoman.”
“Spokesperson.”
“No, woman. That’s what you don’t understand. The women who watch Morning Star want to get laid by Drew Flory, and we have to guarantee they smell good.”
“Give me a break!”
“That’s a terrific idea. Take ten, fifteen minutes. Find a deserted corner and masturbate.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Yeah, but very successful.”
Jonah Wiggins strolled onto the set, hugged his wife, and whispered, “He’s right, Maryl.”
“About masturbating?” she asked, flabbergasted.
“No. About being successful. Do you have a dressing room?”
“If you can call it that. Chair, table, mirror.”
“Does it have a door?”
“Well, yes.”
Shading his eyes from the glare of lights, Jonah looked at Tony. “Leave us alone for half an hour, okay?”
When Maryl returned to the set, she glowed from within. Her face was radiant. Her eyes still glittered lustfully. Her skin above and below the red mini-dress seemed phosphorescent, as if the tiger had rubbed his tawny body against her body, igniting sparks.
“Oh God, oh shit,” breathed Tony. “Someone turn on the wind machine. Hurry! Never mind new makeup. Leave her face the way it is. Her lips look bruised, that’s incredible. Okay, dollbaby, bend over and pet the tiger. Tickle his chin. Now run his tail across your breasts. Shit, I’m getting a hard-on. Uh, sorry Jonah.”
“No problem. Maryl, stop laughing.”
“I can’t help it, Jonah. I keep thinking about Pat Python. After they had, you know, done it, the model turned to the tiger and said . . .” Maryl giggled helplessly.
“Terrific, baby,” Tony crooned. “Beautiful, dollbaby. Wet your lips. Toss your head. Stare at the camera. Glance toward Jonah. Look at the tiger. The camera again. Yes, yes, yes!”
NEW YORK CITY
The curtains opened.
Delly paced up and down the wings as Duck Pond Sonata cast members joined their hands together and bowed.
“Let’s skip the curtain call,” she said.
“Don’t be silly,” Jon said. “That’s what turns you on.”
“You turn me on, Griffin.”
“I wish,” he said under his breath.
The curtains closed then opened again.
Delly stood center stage. Dipping into a deep curtsy, she said, “Quack, quack.” Then she lowered her body to the boards and stretched out on her side, knees slightly bent, face toward the audience, eyes shut.
Well, almost shut. Through her spiky, mascara-caked lashes, she could see people rising from their seats. Her freckled nose inhaled perfume and fur. The applause was deafening.
Mom and Uncle Sam had flown in from Chicago for Duck Pond’s premiere. Jules and Samantha Perry had bought tickets, too. Then, at the very last minute, their baby-sitter canceled. And yet, during every single performance, Delly anticipated Sami’s arrival. Every performance she waited for Princess Pretty to prance on stage and shout, “Sing my doodahs, Delly-Dog!”
It never happened, of course. But the prospect gave Delly the motivation to explore her character’s vulnerability and create an almost obsessive torment.
The critics compared her to Julie Harris. Jon, they said, was spicy Tennessee Williams and peppery Arthur Miller, seasoned with a sprinkle of salty Neil Simon.
Following the reviews, the lines at the box office were very long. Six weeks later, Paramount called and—
Still in her semi-fetal position, Delly completed the ritual she had begun opening night.
“This is for you, Daddy,” she whispered.
Rising, she blew fingertip kisses toward the balcony.
It was like blowing on a dandelion puff.
No. It was like tossing a handful of diamond stars toward heaven.
Delly Diamond stars.
Wishing stars.
ACT TWO
Chapter Eleven
Los Angeles, California
From hidden speakers, Kim Carnes sang about Bette’s eyes.
Randy turned the stereo’s volume down. “Are you sure you want to go with me, Anissa?”
“Absolutely. I’ve never been to a gay lounge.”
“How many people have? It’s not on everybody’s agenda. People usually prefer Disneyland and Universal Studio.”
Anissa shuddered, remembering eight years ago. June, 1973. Universal Studio. Buzzy Beeson.
Recently, she’d encountered Buzzy at a movie preview. He was into drugs again. Saggy-chinned, unfocused, the famous comedian kept mumbling something about how Anissa starred on TV with his only son, Drew.
Bringing her attention back to Randy, she said, “I should explore different sensations, lay the groundw
ork.”
“A visit to The Playground won’t help you lay anything or anybody. Lesbians don’t exist in Soapland.”
Seated on the sofa, Randy stared down at Anissa. Dark blue denim contoured the rump that seemed glued to his living room floor. Her toenails gleamed amid cotton puffs. At age twenty-nine, she looked innocent, wholesome, a blonde dairymaid from Wisconsin. Currently, she played Charlotte on Morning Star, TV’s most popular daytime drama. The writers had conceived Charl as a goody-goody, but Anissa had dubbed her “the slut next door.”
“I don’t know what to wear,” she said, removing the toe-puffs. “How does one dress for a gay lounge?”
“A bra is not required, my lady, but a top and shoes might be appropriate. On the other hand—”
“No shirt, no shoes, no service,” she finished, directing one pink-polished fingernail toward the sign above Randy’s front door. During a rumble at the Unicorn, instigated by some Marlon Brando motorcycle clones, she had stolen the Unicorn’s sign, and it now joined the memorabilia that adorned her best friend’s room.
Several pots were hidden in woven macramé cradles, suspended from ceiling rafters. The pots held English ivy, Boston fern, and Pothos plants, whose fronds looked like the veins on an old woman’s hands.
Across one wall hung framed posters—the Marx Brothers in Animal Crackers, Walt Disney’s 1938 Snow White, and the 1947 classic, Gentlemen’s Agreement. The most prominent poster displayed Rock Hudson, James Dean, and Elizabeth Taylor in Giant.
Montgomery Clift publicity stills dominated another wall, depicting the handsome star in cinematic scenes from Red River to The Misfits. Between the Clift stills were photos of Randy’s early stage successes.
Wooden-shuttered windows filled a third wall.
The last partition included a fireplace, surrounded by various-shaped mirrors. Flanking the hearth, bookcases overflowed with bound scripts, novels, and rocks of all sizes. HE WHO CASTS THE FIRST STONE read a framed needlepoint.
Plump, chintz-covered cushions were nestled in white wicker furniture. A wispy Yorkshire Terrier named Oscar Wilde had made one of the wicker chairs his personal property, and black tufts of fur had become part of the patterned chintz.
From his own cushion, Randy leaned sideways to scratch Oscar’s ears. “Damn dog. This furniture is . . . was new and very expensive. Shoo, you alfy mutt. Get down!”
Oscar bared small fangs and snapped at Randy’s fingers.
“Shame on you, Wilde Oscar, biting the hand that feeds you.” Anissa grinned. “Such a ferocious, macho bugger, just like your devoted master.”
Propelling himself from the sofa, Randy landed on top of Anissa. They wrestled briefly until he pinned her arms above her head.
“Stop!” she yelled. “You’ll smear my polish.”
“Screw you.”
“Is that an Australian expression?”
“G’day, love, screw you.”
“I wish you would. I haven’t been laid in years.”
“Celibacy was your idea.” Randy nodded toward the Thorny Pink nail polish tattoo that garnished her bare breast. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“A roo with a joey in its pocket.”
“It looks more like a boomer fannywhacker.”
“Is fannywhacker another word for kangaroo?” Playfully, she arched her back and rubbed her breasts against Randy’s naked chest. “Or is it a humongous penis?”
“A boomer fannywhacker is a large marble,” he said, releasing her arms and sitting back on his heels.
“A marble? Aussie galah fink! My tattoo is an herbivorous leaping marsupial mammal. Anyone with an American brain can see that. Did I ever tell you I flunked Zoology, along with English lit and botany?”
“Yes.”
“You smeared my roo’s tail, so now I must visit the loo and wash it all off.” Anissa simulated tears from the corners of her eyes. Not quite Bette Davis eyes, but close.
Carnes finished her last song, and a new record clicked into place—Judy singing about the boy next door. Leaning back against the white wicker legs of the sofa, Randy shut his eyes and thought about Anissa, the girl next door. She kept insisting he had saved her life when it was really the other way around. He had fought her booze and pills, but she had fought his demons.
He had always been haunted by demons, even before he discovered that he was a queer. According to Webster’s, a queer differed from what was usual or normal while a queen (same page) was an effeminate homosexual. He knew he wasn’t effeminate, but the scary demons vanished when Anissa was present. They were scared of her. Because, from the very beginning, she had never allowed his queerness to override her feelings for him. Anissa called it common sense. He called it sensitivity. Despite her lonely childhood, despite the ill-fated affair with her half-brother, Anissa was the most compassionate person he had ever met.
Garland’s last note rebounded off heaven and wafted toward Carnegie Hall. The sudden silence was jolting, until it was interrupted by Anissa’s sweet voice. “Are you asleep, Randy?”
He opened his eyes and gazed up at the lovely woman who stood above him. “When you reach my advanced age,” he murmured, “you daydream a lot.”
“Advanced age?” Anissa tossed her hair, cascading once again toward her waist. “You’re only thirty-five, Aussie.”
“That’s this life. In my previous existence I was a princess and one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens.”
“Are we discussing ghosts and things that go bump on the set? Remember my first role? Pablo’s deceased lover?”
“The viewers ate it up.”
“I can’t imagine why. It was indigestible. I’ll never forget whispering my seductive dialogue to a bored camera crew. Then, when they finally edited my scenes onto the tape, I looked like a Kewpie doll wrapped in toilet paper. God, I couldn’t wait until I was reborn on Morning Star, a flesh and blood character. I’ll bet you had something to do with my reincarnation, Randy, considering that you were once a magic princess.”
“I didn’t say magic, and don’t make fun of me. I believe in reincarnation. Did you know that throughout history famous people have died and been born on the same date? For instance, Robert Benchley, U.S. humorist, died on November twenty-first, 1945, the same day Goldie Hawn was born. When the doctor slapped her tiny rump, Goldie probably emitted her first giggle.”
“And on the day Hitler perished, Maxine Graham was born. I still say you had something to do with Morning Star, darling.”
“Impossible. Maxine doesn’t let a mere actor contribute plot treatments.”
“Not true.” Anissa bent forward and scratched Oscar’s furry rump. The ecstatic Yorkie licked her fingers. “Ever since Max left Children and became Star’s producer, the grapevine’s been on overtime. They say Drew Flory can ‘contribute’ to Maxine any time he feels like it. They say he has her wound ‘round his little finger, but I have a feeling she’s wound ‘round a different part of his anatomy.”
“Have you met Caleb yet?”
“Just an introduction.”
“He’s a beaut.”
“Why, you randy bugger! Stay away from Drew Flory. Don’t you know that according to all the columns you and I are supposed to announce our pending nuptials any moment?”
Anissa disappeared into the kitchen, then walked back through the living room. Anchoring Coke bottles beneath her armpits, she buttoned a checkered red and white shirt with colorful flowers embroidered on each breast pocket.
“Is that a new deodorant?” Randy asked, staring at the bottles.
“Don’t change the subject,” she said, handing him a Coke.
“What’s the subject? Our engagement?” Downing the soda in five swallows, he placed the bottle on his bookshelf. “The reporters pair us because you refuse to date. If you’re attracted to Flory, go for it.”
“Who said I was attracted to Drew Flory? I’m not even sure I like him. Besides, I have you.”
“If David was here, I’d kick your beautiful butt
next door.”
“David’s the one with the beautiful butt. We have the same taste in men, and they always prefer you.”
“Too right. But visiting The Playground won’t improve that situation.” He stood, stretched, donned a white shirt, and stepped into snakeskin penny loafers.
“Anyway, I don’t need sex,” Anissa said.
“Bullshit! Everyone needs to be naughty once in a while. If I really were a magic princess, I’d wave my wand and have the perfect mate appear. The quintessential Prince Charming.”
“He’d probably fall in love with you, not me. Darling, why don’t we get married?”
Randy removed Oscar from the wicker chair and watched the little dog leap back up again. Finally he said, “It would be a great way to get even with your father. If you married me, you couldn’t give Jacob his prized grandson.”
“That’s not true. Lots of gay men have children.”
“Not me, Anissa. I can’t make children.”
“That doesn’t matter. I love you, Randy. You could sleep with David, I wouldn’t care. I love you so much, and even though you deny it, my heart would still be broken if you hadn’t been around to fix it with your verbal bandages.”
“I’ve told you before. Hearts can’t break.”
“The Oz wizard says that hearts will never be functional until they can be made unbreakable.”
“The Oz wizard said that hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable, and anyway, the wizard was a charlatan.”
“I love you, Randy. I love—”
“Belt up, Anissa. Are you ready?”
“Yes. Do I look okay?”
“You’re a beaut,” he said sincerely, meaning more than her physical appearance. “Let’s hit the road, jackeroo.”
* * * * *
Leaning back against the Volkwagen’s headrest, Anissa lifted her face toward the starry sky and felt breezy curlicues caress her hot cheeks. Had she really asked Randy to marry her? How many times had she promised herself she’d never bring the subject up? Because rejection was painful, and anyway she’d already been pregnant, aborted, married, annulled.
