by Denise Dietz
“Or Douglas. Are they serious?”
“Very. There’s more. Virginia gets rescued in the middle of a storm, Amy Irving with wet curls plastered across her face, background music by Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. Meanwhile, the farmer who screwed Ginny gets trapped at the back of his barn while flood waters rush toward him. He’s the one who drowns. ‘It’s time we developed a sweet love story,’ said one producer. I mentioned the word paradox. They had an answer for that, too. The paradox is now whether or not Virginia should keep her baby. Can she really love it? Can Travolta love it? Perhaps, they suggested, we should show the rape and delete the pregnancy. But then we’d have to ax Mom, and Shirley MacLane has already expressed an interest in play—”
“Are you going to change it?”
“What choice do I have? The studio even dangled a literary carrot. Paramount’ll make a deal with some publisher and I’ll write the ‘sweet love story.’ We’re talking mega-bucks.”
“But it’s not your concept.”
“Come on, honey, that’s the same tone of voice you used last night when you put down soap operas.”
“Sorry.” She remembered the carrot Judith had dangled inside her mirrored bedroom. “Hollywood’s a town without pity, Jonny. Let’s play the dialogue game.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
Delly had once described their dialogue game to Carolyn Ann during a long distance telephone conversation. “You see, Mom,” she’d explained, “when Jonny has a terminal case of writer’s block and he’s threatening to get a ‘real job,’ we act out the scene that’s bothering him, improvise together.”
Jon leaned forward in his chair. “Who do you want to play?”
“I’ll be Virginia’s mother and you can play the farmer.”
“Talk about changing concepts.”
“All right. I’ll be Virginia and you can be John Travolta.”
“Let’s do this scene without dialogue.” Kicking off his jeans, Jon knelt by the side of her chair, kissed her eyes shut, licked at the tears that still stained her cheeks, and ran his hand underneath her shirt.
She responded. Her body. Her mind. Her heart. Her soul. An orgasm began to build, like waves crashing against a moat’s wall. Thank—
“God, Griff, I wish . . . I want . . .”
“Tell me.”
She fell from her chair, into his arms, then straddled his waist, staring at his toes. Without dialogue, she let her fingers do the talking.
In turn, Jon carried her toward the castle’s uppermost parapet while she urged him on to even greater heights. Until they spiraled downward, landing together on the crest of a wave.
“I almost forgot,” he said. “You had a phone call from a Vance Booker. He made me write down his number and repeat it twice. You’re supposed to call him back ASAP.”
“Do we know a Vance Booker?”
“He says he’s the casting agent for ‘Morning Star.’ What’s a morning star?”
“When did he call?”
“Just before you got home.”
Maybe, thought Delly, the merry-go-round’s ring wasn’t tarnished after all.
“What’s a morning star?” Jon asked again.
“Morning Star is the name of a soap opera. Last night I met the producer, Judith something.”
“Judith something was at The Playground?”
Delly nodded. “She was with a bunch of people, but I guess I made a good impression. I’ll use the bedroom extension to call Booker, so you can get back to your writing.”
Entering the bedroom, she hesitated, staring at the phone. Did she really want to do this?
Don’t be stupid, she thought. Judith’s merely keeping her promise. Besides, I’m not guaranteed a part. Judith said I’d have to audition, just like everyone else. Even if I’m lucky enough to pass the audition, that doesn’t mean I have to visit her house again.
Sinking onto the bed, Delly stared across the room, toward the shelves filled with her doll collection. Raggedy Ann stared back, an enigmatic smile on her painted lips. Barbie still retained her last elaborate hair style. Mortimer Snerd had once belonged to Carolyn Ann. So had Shirley Temple, clothed in a red and white dotted pinafore. The rest of the shelves held an assortment of stuffed bears, including one dry-cleaned, mink teddy-bear named Feiffer. The oldest bear, Mumpsy, was missing its button eyes.
“What should I do, Mumpsy?”
Vance Booker answered on the first ring.
“Fantastic,” he yelped, after Delly had introduced herself. “We’re looking for a young actress to play the role of a mental patient, rooming with one of the characters on the show who has checked into the hospital to escape what she thought would be a murder charge when she gave a poisoned drink to the woman engaged to the man who took her virginity.”
“Whoa. What did you say?”
“I’m supposed to set up an audition for you to read for the part of a character in a hospital’s mental ward. Her roommate is Charl, played by Anissa Cartier, our rising star. Charl checks herself into the hospital to avoid a murder charge and she needs someone to talk to so the viewers will know about her diabolical schemes—her escape, another murder attempt, the usual. Are you interested?”
“Can . . . may I call you back? Give me ten minutes.” Delly dropped the receiver on the cradle before Booker could reply.
She borrowed one of Jon’s scratch pads and a sharp pencil. Then she pawed through her purse until she pulled out the piece of paper with Anissa’s phone number.
“Please be home, please be home. Damn it! Why don’t you answer your—”
“Hello, this is Anissa Cartier. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message at the sound of the beep. Beep.”
“Hi, Anissa. This is Delly Diamond. We met last night at The Playground. I was hoping—”
“Hello? Delly? I’m here. That was me, pretending to be a recorded message. You wouldn’t believe the kooky calls I get for Charl, even though my number’s unlisted. I used to have an answering machine but the damn thing broke. I was in the shower. That’s why it took me so long to answer.”
Delly told Anissa about Vance Booker. “What should I know when I call him back?”
“Aside from time of interview, you might want to find out if the job’s an under-five.”
“What’s that?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. It’s a separate pay category where the actor can only say five lines with as many words as necessary. A long time ago Vance was an under-five, and he’s never forgotten. He still talks in run-on sentences.”
“Boy, does he ever.”
“An under-five is the next step up from being an extra. You might also ask if the character’s a day player. You work for only one day but your character is identifiable, so you’ll never work on the show again unless the same character is needed. Am I going too fast?”
“No. What else?”
“Ask Vance if the part will recur.”
“Recur? Come back?”
“Right. There’s no contract that says you’ll come back, but chances are you will. No guarantees, but you could connect with the viewers and a contract would come later. You want a recurring character.”
“Thanks, Anissa. Now I can sound as if I sort of know what I’m talking about. Anything else?”
“I don’t think so. By the way, how did you get your interview with Vance?”
Delly’s mind raced. “After I left you and Mac, I bumped into your producer, Judith something.”
“Pendergraft.”
“Right. I told her about Duck Pond. She mentioned this new part, a crazy kid, then suggested that I might be right for it. Type-casting, huh?” Anxious to change the subject, Delly said, “I once had a pen-pal named Anissa. Her last name was Stern and she lived in Milwaukee.”
“Are you my Delly? Delly Gold? My God! I sort of wondered about the name last night, but—”
“So did I. Well, I would have, but I was a bit, well, you know.
And, obviously, you’re my Anissa. Can you say small world?”
“You should have no problem auditioning, Delly. You’ve starred in everything from South Pacific to Our Town.”
“That was high school. Besides, I sort of exaggerated in my letters. My sister—”
“How I used to envy you.”
“Me? Why on earth would you envy me?”
“Your school activities. Cheerleader. Glee club. The boys you dated. What ever happened to that ‘older guy’? The one you met at the basketball game. The one who lived in . . . Broken Neck?”
“Great Neck. I guess we sort of lost touch.”
“I’d love to work with you, Delly Gold. Remember last night when I said rumor has it that Charl might try and kill off Hannah?”
“I remember everything you said, even though I can’t remember all of last night.” Delly felt her cheeks flush. “This morning was hangover city. Never again.”
“I think I told you we don’t see our scripts ahead of time.”
“I guess Vance Booker does. He said Charl would be checking into a mental hospital and I would be her roommate.”
“Great, Delly. Your part might be very important.”
“It’s not my part yet. Should I know anything special about Booker?”
“Special?”
“Sometimes Broadway directors have these idiosyncrasies.”
“Oh, I see. Vance looks like one of Santa’s elves. He’s short, with wispy white hair and pink cheeks. He’s sweet but nervous, and he has a tic in his right eye. I’m sure the tic is the result of our esteemed producer, Maxine Graham. If anything goes wrong with casting, the wrath of Maxine comes down on him. There’s a special red phone, a hot line from Maxine’s office, and if it rings, Vance knows he’s in trouble. If it doesn’t, he waits for it to ring. The Chinese water torture in reverse. Thus, his nervous blink. Don’t let it throw you.”
“Does he get in trouble often?”
“Only once since I’ve been on the show. He cast Scottie Fitzgerald. We call her Zelda for obvious reasons. She plays Hannah, and bitchy is an understatement. The grapevine says Zelda was Pendergraft’s recommendation. Am I going too fast for you again?”
“No. But suddenly I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. Piece of cake. Just recreate your Virginia role. You’ll be fine.”
“Assuming I pass the audition, how long does it take to appear on the show?”
“Hard to say. Tomorrow they’re pre-taping, introducing Adam, a new character. So that should set the chain of events in motion.”
“Say a prayer for me, Anissa. Oh, lord, you just stepped from the tub and I’ve kept you on the phone.”
“No problem. By the way, Mac’s name is Randy and he plays Adam.”
“Randy. Sorry.”
“Good luck, pen-pal.”
“Thanks, pen-pal. ‘Bye for now.”
Delly immediately called Vance Booker. The part wasn’t an under-five, was not a day player, and would recur. Vance set their interview for Friday.
That gave her three days to study the soap’s story line.
She moved the portable TV into her bedroom so she wouldn’t disturb Jon, and explained the plot to him three nights later. From the bed, they watched Jonah Wiggins, whose guest star was the famous Rosebud model, Maryl Bradley.
Delly thumbed the remote, turning the volume lower. Then she leaned back against her pillows and said, “Morning Star’s characters live in a small town called Wayne County.”
“The town square has a statue of John Wayne?”
“Nope. Statues are covered with pigeon poop and everything on my soap is squeaky clean, at least externally. Anyway, I’m not sure there is a town square. The characters all mingle together at the local nightclub, hospital, or health spa. Wayne County also has a local drugstore with a doddering pharmacist, not to mention a local mansion where the town matriarch, who has been on the show forever, lives alone.”
“No local whorehouse?”
“The entire town is a whorehouse. For instance, the first scheme involves my friend Anissa. Charl’s a virgin. Anissa says they’re about to introduce Adam, and bang, Charl will be deflowered. There’s this girl named Hannah, the niece of the town matriarch. Hannah’s rich. Snooty. According to Vance Booker, Charl poisons Hannah. I’ll bet she steals the poison from the pharmacist, Mr. Norman.”
“Who? Hannah?”
“No. Charl.”
“I’m lost.”
“Sorry. Charl gets screwed by Adam and tries to poison Hannah.”
“Okay. Got it. Go on.”
“There’s this guy named Caleb—” Delly stared at the TV screen. “Wow, she’s beautiful. I’ve always wanted to look like Maryl Bradley, tall and slender. I’ll bet she was a swan from day one. Where were we? Caleb, right? They call him Cal. He runs the local newspaper.”
“Hold it. I thought you said there’s a local lounge, hospital, drugstore and—”
“The Wayne Gazette isn’t housed in any building. Cal mentions his newspaper stories at other locations, and talks to his secretary, Betty, over the phone. I don’t think Betty exists, either. Cal is messing around with Nurse Marybeth and a rock singer, Tabitha Catherine, also known as Tabby Cat. Cal wends his way into the affections of Lady Nancine, the town matriarch.”
“Why is she called Lady?”
“She was once married to a British Lord. Cal suspects Lady Nan is involved with a drug smuggling operation, headed by a sleazy stud named Marlon.”
“Brando?”
“No. Just Marlon. A one-name sleaze.”
“You learned all this in three days?”
“There’s more. A bunch of subplots. For example, take married doctors, Marshall and Lizzie.”
“You take ’em,” Jon mumbled.
“Marsh and Lizzie are married in real life. I remember reading about them in my movie magazines. They were both young film stars, like Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood, but they fizzled out. Marsh and Lizzie once dominated Morning Star’s plot. Now they’re relegated to smaller slots and—”
“Wait! You’re losing me again. What did you say about Robert Wagner and Natalie Wood?”
Delly heaved an exasperated sigh. “Nothing. I used them as an example of young, married film stars. You’re not listening.”
“I am listening. How else would I know about Robert Wagner? By the way, a wagner is a happy dog.”
“Please listen. I’m almost finished. Tabby Cat—”
“The rock singer?”
“Yes. Tabby’s pregnant and might have an abortion. The black police chief, Malcolm, wants to marry her. That’s it.”
“That’s it? So far you’ve brought up issues of abortion, miscegenation, drugs and murder. What happened to sodomy and child pornography?”
“Give the show a chance. I only watched three days’ worth. And stop nibbling my belly-button.”
“I’m helping you rehearse for your audition, superstar. Take off that damn T-shirt. I plan to drive you crazy.”
“You won’t have to drive very far,” she whispered.
The next day Delly entered the Morning Star studios.
Vance Booker’s office was cluttered with scripts, résumés and casting breakdowns. She had to shift several agent submissions from her chair to the carpet before she could sit.
Anissa had been spot-on. Booker looked like a stereotypical North Pole elf. He wore Ben Franklin glasses atop a bulbous nose. The half-lenses magnified his tic. As he studied Delly, he said, “Fantastic. I was hoping you’d be small because the character we’re casting isn’t a child but she acts like one and due to tragic circumstances she’s reverted to childhood.”
“Mr. Booker?”
“Vance.”
“Well, you see, uh, Vance, I’m not all that familiar with TV auditions. I mean, until recently, I’ve never, well, hardly ever watched soap operas.”
“Daytime drama. Look, cookie, you’ll read for me today. Next week you’ll audition for Maxine Graham.
” Blinking non-stop, Booker glanced toward a red phone.
“What’s the name of my character, Mr. Book . . . uh, Vance?”
“Doris or Dora.” Shifting through the chaos on his desk, he located a script and flipped through its pages. “Here it is. Pandora. She has this guilt thing because she believes she killed her best friend. Can you play guilt?”
“You bet.” Piece of cake!
“Fantastic. Take these sides and learn your lines. You have fifteen minutes.”
“Wasn’t Pandora forbidden to open a box sent by the gods?” Delly reached for the pages. “Didn’t she open it anyway and let loose a swarm of evils upon mankind?”
“It’s just a name, cookie.”
Chapter Fourteen
Framed by a flaming window, Maxine Graham writhed while Manderlay burned. “A fire is good for ratings,” she said.
Drew Flory stood on the ground below the mansion’s window. “Rebecca,” he shouted, “let down your hair!”
“That’s Rapunzel, you fuckwit.” Maxine’s eyeballs oozed from their sockets and her skin peeled in strips, until all that remained was a skull.
“Cut and print,” said Alfred Hitchcock. “Judith, you can put your face on now.”
“Merde, Hitch baby. My name is Maxine Graham and I’m melting, mellllting . . .”
The phone rang, interrupting Anissa’s nightmare. Fumbling for the receiver, she stared groggily at the clock on top of her new color TV. Digital numbers solidified into focus: 12:07. Midnight-oh-seven.
She tried to think. It was six nights after her visit to The Playground and she was inside her apartment, watching Hitchcock’s classic movie, Rebecca. At least she had started out watching Rebecca. Now, the African Queen chugged through a murky quagmire.
Tramp’s head rested on one of her breasts and his tail coiled around another. When she moved, the cat’s sharp claws tried to secure a foothold.
“Ouch!” She placed Tramp on a couch cushion and brought the receiver to her mouth. “Hello, this is Anissa Cartier,” she said. “I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message at the sound of the beep.” She yawned. “Beep.”
