by Denise Dietz
Anissa nodded toward a set filled with small, round tables, chairs, a bar area and a raised stage. Echo stood on the stage, a microphone held close to her lips. Drew Flory and Nurse Marybeth sat at a ringside table.
“Our club is called The Echo Chamber in a tribute to you know who,” Anissa whispered. “Peter named it. Over there is Lady Nan’s living room and bedroom set. I wish I could steal some of the authentic antiques.”
“God, I love antiques. I plan to spend my salary on collectibles. Jon says I’m nuts but—”
“Shhhh.”
“Sorry.”
Delly looked left and right, as she and Anissa traveled across the concrete floor. Drugstore, health spa and police station were all portable sets; only the nightclub and mansion permanent. At the very end of the studio was a sparse bedroom with bars at the window, followed by an area filled with colorful plastic furniture and what looked like a nurses’ station.
“Those are for our scenes,” Anissa whispered. “Bedroom and recreation room in Wayne Memorial’s mental ward. By the way, the sets change overnight for the next day’s shoot. Take a deep breath, Delly. Echo’s scene just wrapped.”
“Wrapped,” Delly echoed, her mouth dry, her heart beating against the pulse in her throat.
Anissa’s glossy lips turned up in a wicked grin. “Don’t be scared. Soon fourteen million people will be introduced to Pandora, roommate to Charl, the all-American slut next door. What’s fourteen million people compared to the Super Bowl and the Academy Awards?”
Peter Peterson strolled into view. The director had dark hair, mink-brown eyes, and a drooping Wyatt Earp mustache. He gave Delly a hug.
“Easy scene,” he said. “Pandora’s introduced to Cal. Cal’s investigating the attempted murder of Hannah. He suspects Charl. Cal already knows, from Marybeth, that Pandora’s here because of a mental breakdown, after her best friend Robin was killed in a car crash. Then we’ll go straight to the next scene, where Charl is happy because Pandora didn’t give away her big secret, that she’s pretending to be insane. Dialogue, blah, blah, blah, the doll bit. Ready, Delly?”
“You bet.”
They walked through the first short sequence.
Drew Flory’s even better looking in person, Delly thought. Drew Flory. The name sounded familiar. Good grief. Drew Florentino. Could this hunk be Samantha’s teenage crush? Delly would ask him later—if she survived.
She didn’t. Her dialogue with Charl was a disaster.
Nervous, forgetting every acting lesson, Delly talked too loud, giggled through every line, and just about rolled her eyes.
I’m acting cliché crazy, she thought, unable to stop.
Delly, Anissa and Peter all turned at the sound of high heels tapping.
“Come with me.” Maxine grasped Delly’s arm by the elbow.
Delly stumbled alongside the producer, down two flights of stairs, until they entered a small room. The furniture was tacky—an old stuffed couch, card table and chairs, a scarred, scroll-framed wall mirror. Beneath the mirror was a thumb-tacked sign that read: CRITIQUE SESSION BITCH PITCH.
“I don’t know what that was, but you just gave the worst impression of insanity I’ve ever seen,” Maxine said. “You were perfect at the audition. Did we make a mistake?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, and please don’t tell me you’ll be better. That’s obvious. You couldn’t get any worse.” Maxine tucked her blouse into the waistband of her skirt. “I’ve phoned down to the writers. They’ll alter the script and delete Pandora’s dialogue. She’ll just nod her head. While the writers are revising, we’ll shoot your scene again. If you repeat the previous performance, we’ll tape it a third time. With the new, silent version.”
Delly let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”
The cameraman focused on Delly’s green eyes, bright with unshed tears.
Anissa held a floppy rag doll with black button eyes and loops of wooly, red-orange hair.
To ensure her roommate’s silence, Charl suggested that she and Pandora become best friends. Charl would take Robin’s place in Pandora’s heart.
“Best friends don’t tell secrets about each other, do they?” Charl held out the rag doll. “If you keep my secret and help me escape from this dreadful hospital, you can play with my baby.”
“Do you mean it, Charl? Can . . . may I really play with your baby?”
Eyes wide, a grin splitting her face, Pandora crushed the doll to her chest, held it away for a heartbeat, then kissed its red cloth cheeks.
“My baby,” she whispered as the camera zoomed in for a close-up.
Background music reached a crescendo.
Ten days later, fourteen million viewers met and fell in love with Pandora, nicknamed Panda, and Delly learned that Maxine had never phoned down for script revisions. Delly’s performance had been achieved through fear and intimidation.
Delly was grateful, but she hated Maxine all the same. With relief, she discovered that everyone else loathed the producer.
Cast members swore that Max would kill for higher ratings. Echo conjured up a backstage phantom named Mr. Ratings, who, she said, would someday kill Maxine Graham.
Chapter Sixteen
The kitchen radio played Billy Joel.
Anissa looked at her Chien calendar. Above numerical boxes, an evil cat named Ronnie hung meaty bones on an outdoor Christmas tree. Behind an electrified White House fence stood starving dogs, their tongues lolling.
The caption read: LET THEM EAT BISCUITS.
In a few short weeks, Anissa would celebrate her thirtieth birthday and her five-month wedding anniversary. Replenishing her Chien coffee mug, she sat at the kitchen table and let flashbacks flicker.
* * * * *
Upon their return from Vegas, Randy had stood by her side for publicity photos, his arm draped casually across her shoulders. Later she discovered a slight discoloration on her right shoulder—pressure from his fingers.
They received congratulatory letters from Aunt Theresa and both sets of parents. The McNeals, who were back home in Australia, sent their new daughter-in-law a white lambswool sweater.
Helene scribbled her note on flowery stationary. Bobby Hoffman, she wrote, had married a girl named Monica, nicknamed Moose. Young Karl Dietrich was still a bachelor. Joseph Weiss practiced law in Chicago. “I watch MORNING STAR every day,” she wrote, “and I don’t believe you really meant to poison Hannah.”
Jacob was especially effuse with his praise, and Anissa felt a stab of wicked pleasure when Randy read the letter and said, “I can’t give you children, roo, can’t even try.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want a baby.”
“Anissa, remember when you said if we got married you’d never interfere with my lifestyle? I’m giving you the same option. You can be naughty with anyone you choose.”
“No, Randy. I’ll concentrate on being a good wife and a good mother to Oscar Wilde and Tramp.”
“That’s us, roo. Cats and dogs may get along but they don’t breed. I should have been neutered like your bloody cat. If I had, David—”
“Nothing’s changed, Randy. We’ll be fine.”
They weren’t fine. Every night Randy woke screaming. He replayed the murder scene over and over. “What happened to David was not your fault,” Anissa kept repeating, over and over.
Every day Randy waited for the newspaper. There was no mention of David. Or Popeye.
Somebody managed to keep the murder under wraps, Anissa thought. Could Popeye have lurked until she and Randy left the beach house? Could he have buried David’s body? Even if he had, what about the blood? The shattered mirror? The splintered stereo? The pillow stuffing? Was Popeye an incredibly efficient interior decorator?
Every hour Randy expected to see the flashing lights of a police cruiser pull up to their curb. He listened for the loud knock on their door. “Mr. McNeal, you have the right to remain silent . . .”
Silence prevailed. Nothing happened, and nothing was worse than something.
* * * * *
Randy said, “Why don’t the coppers question me? A bloke can’t just disappear. Why didn’t David’s auntie raise an alarm?”
Anissa decided to pay a visit to the beach house. Driving closer, she saw the FOR SALE sign. She parked, climbed the stairs, and pounded on the door. No answer. No neighbors. She jotted down the phone number on the sign, called, and was told that the property was under contract. No, the company wouldn’t give out any information about the previous occupants, sorry, goodbye.
We’ve been incredibly lucky, thought Anissa. Why can’t Randy see that?
Randy saw nothing, except the TV. His nightmares didn’t go away so he sat until dawn, staring hollow-eyed at the screen, clenching and unclenching his fists, as if he held Popeye’s lethal ice pick. His muscled body grew slack and his tan faded. By necessity, his role as the health spa instructor diminished. Randy didn’t care. Often, he forgot his lines while everyone else ad-libbed. He could still kiss. He was still the best kisser in Soapland. The ultimate irony, Anissa thought.
* * * * *
Maxine sat behind her cluttered office desk. “Merde, Anissa,” she said. “Since your marriage, Randy has thrown his career down the toilet. Is a straight relationship too stressful?”
Here we go again. Anissa coughed to hide her hesitation. Please, God, help me think of a believable it’s-not-your-child-Joey lie.
“We’re fine,” she replied. “I was practically living with Randy before we got married.”
“Then what’s with this depression bit? After your Vegas surprise, following all that delicious publicity, Judith and I talked about beefing up Adam’s part.” Maxine lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings toward the projection room window. “Of course, that’s impossible now.”
“Randy doesn’t gab about his personal life, Max, but I guess I can tell you. We want a baby. Randy had his sperm checked. It’s low. Don’t worry, this will pass. Give him time.”
“Time is the one thing we can’t afford to give. We’ve had letters. Soap fans are so fickle, my dear.” Her ashes missed the ashtray and dotted the untidy pile of papers scattered across her desk. “Say la vee. Adam has to go. Randy’s fired. Would you tell him, Anissa? I don’t want to hurt his feelings, especially when he’s so depressed.”
* * * * *
Drew Flory discovered Anissa, huddled on her knees inside the deserted Wardrobe room. She cried so hard, her whole body shook. Kneeling, he grasped her by the shoulders. “What is it? Are you sick? Hurt?”
“Go ’way.”
“Slow down and breathe.” Drew shook her gently, wondering if he should slap her face. Before he could raise his hand, she crumpled, falling forward, her hot tears soaking his pant leg. He leaned over, covering her body with his, holding her tightly.
Finally, inevitably, the painful sobs became small shudders, the shudders occasional quivers. Drew shifted, sitting with his back propped against the wall. He settled Anissa in his lap, her head resting beneath his chin.
“Sorry,” she gasped. “I haven’t cried like that in years.”
“Do you want to talk about it? My sister Maryl says I’m a good listener.”
“Not now, Drew, please. Maybe later.” A ghost of a smile curved her lips. “Maryl Bradley? She’s your sister?”
“Yes.”
“Romantic telegrams,” she whispered.
“What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I’ve got to go home, Drew, but I’m so tired I can’t move.” Her long lashes fluttered. “God, I’m cold. Maxine made me cold.” She snuggled closer. “I wish Echo’s phantom, Mr. Ratings, really did exist.”
Drew hummed softly. After a while he looked down at Anissa’s flushed face. Even asleep, her beautiful mouth trembled with every breath, and he wanted to destroy whomever had caused those tears. Was it Randy? Aussie bastard! No, wait. She said Maxine made her cold. What had Max done to her?
I could kill that bitch in cold blood!
Since murder was against the law, Drew used every ounce of his star status to convince Maxine that Judith should write Adam off on vacation, leaving the door open for reinstatement. Then he responded to Anissa’s impulsive thank-you kiss with a barely audible, “No big deal.” Because he would gladly slay fire-breathing dragons for her, and Maxine was merely a tiny dragon, puffing cigarette smoke through her nostrils.
Unfortunately, the indefinite hiatus had an unpredictable result. Randy now stayed inside the apartment day and night.
Anissa had never relinquished her half of the duplex, so she suggested that Randy cut through the connecting walls and create one large complex. “You can produce, direct, even star in any production you choose,” she said. “Use my apartment as a rehearsal hall. Jon Griffin has a file full of original plays. He wrote lots of stuff before he hit with Duck Pond Sonata.”
“That’s a ripper plan,” Randy said.
During the next few days he sketched blueprints for the building’s conversion, penned lists of actors who might be interested in the project, and read through Jon’s scripts.
Anissa congratulated herself, then awoke one morning to find the blueprints and list of actors crumpled, tossed into the kitchen trash can. Clenching and unclenching his hands, Randy sat in front of the TV.
After her taping at the studio, she hurried home. When her schedule called for a day off, she puttered around the apartment—cleaning, dusting, preparing tempting meals. One night she discovered that Randy furtively fed the gourmet tidbits to Oscar. The little dog grew fat.
* * * * *
“Anissa, shove off!”
For once the TV was silent. Randy sat on the sofa, a crossword puzzle in his lap, his fingers clutching a pencil like a bloody ice pick. Anissa had been dusting his rock collection. Now, as if for the first time, she noticed his sunken eyes and the dark pockets underneath.
“Why don’t you take a nap, darling?” she said. “You’ve got pouches under your eyes, big as a roo’s.”
“Belt up, Anissa. Please.”
“You have to snap out of this, Randy, see a psychiatrist.”
“What’s the point?”
“You can talk to him about what happened.”
“I know what happened. I killed David.”
“You didn’t kill David!”
“I wouldn’t believe we were being followed. I opened the beach house door. I’m responsible.”
“No, Randy. That’s why you have to see a doctor.”
“This isn’t working.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Please, darlin’, shove off.”
“I could go grocery shopping. Would you like something special for dinner tonight?”
“Forget groceries, Anissa. Ring up Drew Flory.”
“What does Drew have to do with anything?”
“I’m not a dill. I watch Morning Star every day. You two are mad for each other.”
“Randy, I’ve never—”
“I know. That’s what I mean. You’ve got to leave me alone. I can’t stand all this bloody kindness. Drew loves you, Anissa. Why let me screw up your life?”
“You’re not screw—”
“If you leave me alone, I’ll see your quack.”
“Quack?”
His lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. “Doctor. I’ll visit your bloody shrink.”
“Promise?”
“I’ll end this nightmare, and that’s a promise. Do me a favor and move into the apartment next door? I need to sort things out.”
“Okay, Randy, we’ll try it your way.”
Anissa’s life settled into a new pattern. She would meet with Drew and Delly to study lines and rehearse scenes. She slept in her old apartment. The Christmas holidays approached so she invaded Randy’s living room, stringing Christmas cards across the fireplace mantel, decorating a tiny tree with silver tinsel and red velvet bows. Randy even agreed to attend the Jonah Wiggins
New Year’s Eve celebration party, a coveted invite.
Christmas Eve was lucky, thought Anissa. By December twenty-fourth, Randy would have exorcised his demons.
Meanwhile, her husband seemed happier, healthier. The TV no longer played. Instead, Randy spent his time writing inside a loose-leaf notebook. Discarded pages were shredded so completely, Anissa couldn’t decipher his notations. He hadn’t seen a “quack” yet, but his writing was just as therapeutic.
Wasn’t it?
Feeling stupidly superstitious, she unwrapped a new Chien calendar; one of Drew’s Christmas presents. January depicted the puppy, Bootsie, looking up at a shelf filled with boxes of dog biscuits. The biscuits were just out of reach and the caption stated: DON’T BE TOO OPTIMISTIC. IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO SMILE AND WHISTLE AT THE SAME TIME.
Twelve days before Christmas, on a nasty overcast afternoon, Anissa squinted toward the sky from her seat in Drew’s black Porsche convertible.
“After Wisconsin,” she said, “I can’t get used to California weather at Christmas time. I want the sting of snowflakes landing on my face, catching in my lashes. I crave the smell of wet woolen mittens and knitted mufflers. I long for the ambiance of a sharp chill in the air. And I feel like barfing every time I see Santa Claus in a pair of jogging shorts.”
Drew grinned. “Are you pensive or grumpy?”
“Randy would say I was grizzling. I guess it’s my bloody car needing repairs again. I should buy a new car like you did, Drew. I have the money. But Randy says my Mustang is a classic, and, well, it’s aged well. Physically, I mean. It’s more beautiful now than the day I first drove it.” Anissa scratched at a small hole in her jeans, breaking a fingernail. “Why is the sky so murky?”
Drew grinned again. “This may sound profound, and I could be wrong, but I think it’s because it’s going to rain.”
“I don’t mind snow but I hate rain.” She pictured a young girl seated on a University of Wisconsin courtyard bench, her red sweatshirt drenched, her regal braids dripping rainwater. “Grizzle, grizzle, grizzle. Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
“Speaking of bitches, are you aware that Maxine and Judith have slanted the scripts toward a Cal-Charl love affair?”
