by Denise Dietz
“But Charl’s stuck inside Wayne Memorial’s mental ward.”
“When has locale ever stopped a love affair? Max says the ratings will soar.”
“Bloody ratings.”
“Ratings make the world go round.”
“I thought love made the world go round.”
“Not for Maxine.” Drew pulled his Porsche against the curb. “We’ve arrived, Charl. See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for the lift, Cal. I’ll check on Randy. If you linger a few minutes, I’ll retrieve Jon’s scripts. I keep forgetting to give them back to Delly. You’re driving past her house, aren’t you?”
“Yup. I’ll wait right here, honey.”
I’ll wait forever.
Those three words came to mind as he watched the leggy actress scamper down the path.
It started to rain a split second before he heard Anissa’s desperate screams. Racing toward the duplex, he could distinguish a few disjointed sentences.
“Untie the rope. I can’t reach. Oh, God. His poor, tortured neck. Joey! Drew! Somebody, anybody, help!”
* * * * *
Randy’s notebook included a will, leaving everything to Anissa. One page listed specific instructions for his funeral. Other pages contained muddled notes to David. Randy wrote the scene at the beach house as a short story, changing the ending so that he and David overpowered Popeye, then used the pick to chip away at a block of sculpted ice.
After filling their glasses with Drambuie, Stuart said, “Let’s make a toast.”
“Alfy word, toast,” David replied. “It sounds like burnt bread.”
Those were the last words on the last page. Then Randy hanged himself in the same bathroom where he had once wrapped Anissa inside a fluffy pink towel.
Dry-eyed, she attended the memorial service. Dry-eyed, she torched fireplace logs, burned the Christmas cards and tree, and systematically pulled prints and posters from the wall, adding them to the blaze. The Marx Brothers lost their silly grins. Snow White, Prince Charming, and seven dwarfs sacrificed themselves on the flaming pyre. Gregory Peck and Rock Hudson soon joined the mélange.
Drew watched passively, but gathered her into his arms when she began to discard the Montgomery Clift movie stills.
“Let me go,” she said.
“Burning Clift won’t bring Randy back.”
“I don’t want to bring him back. He’s reconciled, peaceful.”
“Jesus, Anissa, do you believe death conciliatory?”
“Yes. No. Maybe. Don’t fret, Drew. I’d never commit suicide, mainly because I’m not sure I accept the concept of heaven and hell.”
Releasing her, he glanced at the fireplace. “Let’s stop burning stuff and head out for something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know, honey, but food is one of the first steps toward overcoming suffering.”
“You s-sound like m-my m-mother.”
Convinced that Anissa was finally going to cry, Drew extended his arms.
“I’m not going to cry,” she said. “I’m too angry. Randy had no right to leave me alone.”
“You’re not alone,” Drew said, his voice very soft.
For five days Anissa played Charl with habitual ease. Her expression altered for the cameras. Afterwards, her eyes resumed their haunted stare and her face looked like rigid white marble. Drew couldn’t break through her shell. He prayed for a repeat of the wild-weeping episode inside the Wardrobe room, a therapeutic cry, but it never happened.
Maxine sent Anissa to Wisconsin, a promotional tour. “I’m not insensitive,” she told Judith. “We’ll shoot around Charl while Anissa recuperates in the friggin’ bosom of her family.”
Chapter Seventeen
Madison definitely had the ambiance of sharp chills in the air. Temperatures dipped below zero. Salvation Army Santas wore thermal underwear underneath shabby red velveteen. Inside black boots, their toes froze. Duetsch Department Store sold out of every pair of mittens, every earmuff, every jacket, every woolly sock in stock.
University of Wisconsin students skated on Lake Madison, then drank coffee and 3.2 beer inside the well-heated Rathskeller.
Newspapers headlined people freezing to death because they couldn’t pay their electric bills.
At Hillhouse, radiators hissed. Fireplace wood sizzled when snow fell down the chimney. The entire bottom floor reeked of singed hot chocolate. Steamy, lavender-scented water permeated the upstairs. Helene’s bedroom had so many electric heaters plugged into wall sockets, Anissa thought her mother’s TV might short-circuit. But luckily—or unluckily—it didn’t.
On Morning Star, Cal wrapped up the Marlon/Lady Nancine smuggling caper. Marlon died in a shoot-out, then—surprise!—came back on Christmas day as his twin brother. The whole cast sang jingle bells (oh, what fun) except Charl and Pandora, who “celebrated” the holidays inside Wayne Memorial’s mental ward. During the party, Hannah tried to seduce Cal, who obsessed over Charl’s absence.
Helene watched the show obsessively. Corpulent, her hair still styled like Mamie Eisenhower, she expressed sorrow for Adam’s death.
“My husband’s name was Randy, Mama. Stuart Randy McNeal.”
“Do you think Adam exercised too much, dear? I read somewhere that too much exercise can cause heart attacks.”
Jacob’s body was wizened, his face a map of wrinkles. He asked Anissa if Randy had impregnated her before he “kicked the bucket.” When she said no, Jacob didn’t even bother to hide his disappointment.
Invitations were issued for a January birthday party.
Anissa dreaded the event, but remained silent because Helene wanted to “show Charl off.”
I’m not Charl, Mama. I’m your daughter, Mama. I’m a juju, Mama.
* * * * *
“Holy shit, I’ll bet that’s real gold.” Bobby Hoffman ran his thumb across the embossed letters that embellished Anissa’s birthday-party invitation.
He tried to wipe away a greasy fingerprint, smudging the invitation even more, then carefully leaned it against two ceramic figures saved from the top of a wedding cake. The miniature groom wore a black tuxedo and stovepipe hat. The bride’s foot had been broken in a fall from the bureau to the wood-planked floor. Monica had glued the bride’s foot back on—backwards.
Rather than a wedding picture, the bureau sported a black and white photo of Roy Rogers. “I love Roy,” Monica had once said, “because he stuffed Trigger. Ain’t that a hoot?”
Owls hooted, thought Bobby, turning away from Roy’s photo. Focusing on his wife, he said, “You can’t wear that outfit to a fancy party.”
“The hell I can’t.” Monica looped a Garrison belt through her brown chinos. A yellow plaid shirt struggled to contain her breasts. Her stomach bulged above the tight belt as she bent forward and tucked her pegged cuffs inside her pointy-toed boots. “I ironed my pants and shirt good, Bobby Bear, and polished my boots. Ain’t you proud as punch?”
I’d like to punch your freaking stomach!
He stared at Monica’s belt buckle. “You gotta’ have a nice dress somewhere. I wore my suit,” he said, flaunting blue pants and jacket, a white shirt, and a black bow tie.
“I saved my wedding gown inside a garment bag.” She nodded toward the bedroom closet.
Wish I could zip you up inside your garment bag. It’s plastic, ain’t it? How long would it take you to suffocate?
“Do ya want I should wear my wedding gown, Bobby?”
It wouldn’t fit, you stupid bitch.
“Of course not, Moose,” he said. “Maybe a prettier blouse and skirt. Please? For me?”
“No way, José. I don’t have to get all fancied up to meet one of your old hoo-ors.”
Hoo. Hoot. Monica looked like an owl with her short brown hair, round eyes and beaky nose. When they had wed, fifteen or twenty pounds ago, Bobby’s friends had made sly remarks about his new bride’s oversized titties, and he had practically burst through his Fruit of the Looms.
/> “Nissa ain’t no whore,” he said.
“Funny how she never mentions you in all them magazine articles, Bobby. TV Guide never said one itty-bitty word.”
“They didn’t say one word ’bout Karl Dietrich neither, and she married him.”
“That husband of hers who just died was some looker. I woulda had him stuffed.” Monica laughed.
Bobby glanced around. Covering their walls were animal heads, mounted on wooden plaques. At first the unusual decor had fed his lust. Now it made him want to puke.
“Nissa don’t talk about us to reporters ’cause we were kids,” he said, staring into the marbled eyes of a full-grown buck. Bambi’s father?
“Oh, pardon silly me,” Monica huffed. “I forgot how you was brought up in that hoity-toity house.”
“Aw, Moosie, don’t. I married you. I . . . I love you.”
I’d love to see you hanging from the light fixture, your throat cinched by that stupid belt. I’d love to see your head mounted on the wall.
“Why don’t we stay home tonight, Bobby Bear? I bought me some new lon-jur-ray.”
“Are you crazy? I . . . we . . . you’ve got to meet Nissa.”
“Why? ’Cause you once had the hots for her?”
“She had the hots for me!”
“Bullshit! I seen her on TV, buster. She’s got class, like a princess. You ain’t her type.”
Bobby’s chipped tooth flashed. “We were in love. But Jacob laughed when I told him I wanted to marry Nissa. So she got stuck with that drunken asshole, Karl. Then she married some faggot actor.”
“Fag? You gotta be kidding. Her actor was more man than you. I seen him on TV, pumping iron. You won’t exercise. You won’t even go hunting.”
“I hunt up dead cars and fix ’em.” He glanced toward the stuffed trophies and felt his guts knot. “I think hunting with a high-powered rifle sucks.”
“If we stay home tonight, I’ll let you suck.” Unsnapping her top buttons, she thrust forth her breasts.
Bobby ignored his wife. “Jacob didn’t think I was good enough for Nissa. Well, I done great. Got myself the biggest car repair shop in Madison.”
“Should we skip the party, Bobby?” Monica’s eyes blinked owlishly. “You want I should put on my new lon-jur-ray?”
“Snap your shirt, Moose. Your tits are hangin’ out.”
* * * * *
Karl Dietrich Jr. had ordered a subscription to Playboy, but he used his father’s name because they gave doctors a rate-break.
Doctors always got rate-breaks, even though Karl couldn’t understand why any pragmatic practitioner would want Miss January hanging ‘round his office. Unless he was a baby doctor and he needed a man to donate sperm.
Placing the magazine on the kitchen counter, Karl poured another three fingers of Wild Turkey, gulped it down, belched twice, then dropped the plastic tumbler and clutched his belly. Forgot to insulate my stomach. Shame on me.
He staggered to the refrigerator, tugged at the handle until it opened, and drank straight from a milk carton. “Anissa once said that Wisconsin’s a goddamn dairy state,” he muttered, white liquid dripping from his mouth, staining his green and gold Packers sweatshirt. Shit, sour! The milk’s sour! Oh, God!
Dropping the carton, he watched white globs puddle on the linoleum. A rancid smell invaded the kitchenette. Retching, he turned toward the sink. Tears streamed down his face while mucus ran from his nose.
He filled the sink with water and lemon-scented Joy, hoping the detergent would dispel the milk odor. Then he filled a new tumbler with whiskey. Shame on me! His hands shook and the Turkey sloshed and he had a feeling he’d soiled his underpants.
“What the hell, have to change my clothes anyways.” Turning slightly, he focused on a Mickey Mouse wall clock. “I’ve been drinking since three this afternoon, Mickey. Hey, it’s nearly seven. Time flies when you’re having fun. I swore I wouldn’t drink till Anissa’s party. Hey, Father and Mother will be knocking on my door soon. Do I have time to shower? I’d better. Hey, maybe I should squirt Joy under my armpits.”
Karl staggered toward his bathroom. “Joy to the world,” he sang, “my armpits stink.”
After washing and toweling his pudgy body, he put on a Jonah Wiggins shirt and a gray wool suit. Then he lassoed his neck with a pre-knotted, poinsettia-patterned tie. His hair had thinned so much the scalp showed through. His eyes looked bloodshot so he poured half a bottle of Visine over the pupils, blinking at the sting. Swiveling left and right, he stared into the mirror. Shit on a shingle! Anissa would soon see a fat failure who had flunked out of medical school and who now lived above his parents’ garage. Ostensibly, he was his father’s Office Assistant, a glorified nurse who wore soft-soled shoes.
“When I’m completely shit-faced,” he told his reflection, “I’ll dream that my ex-bride is dead, on top of a slab, with a tag tied ‘round her big toe. To Anissa, from Karl. I’ll dream I’m performing an autopsy. First, I’ll cut up her beautiful January breasts.”
Fondling his erection, Karl recited the months of the year. In his head, he pictured body parts and Playmates. April looked like Anissa.
He filled a toothpaste-encrusted glass with tap water and swallowed a Quaalude.
Shame on me!
* * * * *
A diamond birthday bracelet sparkled from Anissa’s wrist as she wended her way down the long staircase. She wore a dark gray velvet gown with crimson puff sleeves because she knew that Randy wouldn’t want her to wear black. “Jerry Lewis was right when he said that funny had better be sad somewhere,” she murmured, gazing toward the funny-sad people clothed in formal attire.
“Nissa does look like a princess!” Bobby entered the house, Monica by his side, just in time to watch Anissa’s slow descent. “She’s even wearing a crown.”
“That ain’t no crown,” Monica said. “It’s a tee-aira.”
“At least she didn’t dress in pants and boots.” Bobby hurried away from his wife. “Nissa,” he said, meeting her at the landing, reaching out to give her a worshipful touch.
Anissa blinked, and for a brief moment her fragile exterior shell cracked. Childhood memories flickered. She recoiled, stepping backwards, nearly falling. Then, abruptly, she turned toward her mother, who sat in an oversized wheelchair.
By Helene’s side stood Karl, Jr. Returning his soft hug, Anissa was unable to comprehend the expensive suit. Instead, she pictured him in white pajamas with red hearts and Cupids.
“Merr’ Chris’mas,” Karl slurred. He pictured her wearing a tag tied ‘round her dead toe—To Anissa, From Karl—and without another word, he lumbered toward the downstairs bathroom.
Ignoring Karl’s strange behavior, Helene said, “How do you like your party, Charl? Are you having a good time?”
“The party’s fine, Mama. Thank you.”
“Lady Nancine’s party didn’t have as much food as our party, and Hannah shouldn’t flirt with Cal. He’s your boyfriend.”
“Yes, Mama. Please excuse me, Mama. I’m thirsty.”
Bobby intercepted her at the mahogany sideboard, directly in front of the cut-glass punch bowl. Once again, she abruptly turned toward another group of guests.
Bobby’s face flushed at the sound of Monica’s derisive laughter. Angry, frustrated, he grabbed her fur-lined parka, propelled her out the front door, dragged her down the path, and shoved her inside their red Corvette.
“Where’s your jacket, Bobby Bear? You’ll freeze your balls off.”
“Shut up, Moose.”
“She didn’t say one itty-bitty word to you. Nissa, you said, your mouth full of sugar, and your big TV star didn’t even know you.”
“Shut up!” Ignoring the stick shift, Bobby yanked at Monica’s belt buckle. Then he peeled her chinos and panties down to her boots.
“Atta’ boy,” she urged. “Didn’t you have no fun at your fancy party?”
“You’re asking for it.”
“You’re lucky somebody asks for it.
Guess Nissa don’t have the hots for you no more, huh? Can you get it up, Bobby Bear?” She snorted. “That’s what I thought. Let’s go home and I’ll put on my new lon-jur-ray.”
Inside Hillhouse, Anissa wandered through the room.
“No, the writers haven’t told me how Charl will escape from the hospital,” she kept repeating.
Later she could recall nothing about the party, except the image of Karl in pajamas, until the front door opened and a tall man entered. Joe’s face was older while an unfamiliar mustache shaded his Voight-Redford lips.
By his side stood a tiny Asian woman, her black hair styled in a pixie cut. Grasping Anissa’s hand, she said, “We were so sorry to hear about your loss, Mrs. McNeal. Joe wanted to send you a letter, but we decided to tell you in person when Jacob insisted we attend your party.”
“Thank you. Please call me Anissa.”
“And I’m Kathy. Kathy Wong-Weiss.”
Joe put his arms around both women, guiding them away from the doorway. “You never heard about my marriage,” he said. “I assumed Helene would tell you. I’m so sorry, angel. I sent an announcement to your studio since I don’t have your home address.”
“I rarely get my studio mail.” Turning toward Kathy, Anissa said “Congratulations” and hugged the smaller woman. Then she faced Joe again. “Have you become a famous lawyer yet?”
“No. I’m an ordinary attorney, working for Chicago’s Civil Liberties Union. That’s where I met Kathy. But we plan to move to your neck of the woods soon.”
“Joe just passed the California bar exam,” Kathy said.
“So did she,” Joe said, his voice oozing pride. “We’re going into private practice, Weiss and Wong-Weiss. I don’t see my father much, Anissa. I’ve paid back my tuition and—”
“You can’t be serious, Joey. Jacob owed you much more than an education. I hate him. Don’t you?”
“Since I don’t work for him, Jacob owes me nothing, and I can’t hate him. He’s become so old and powerless.”
“I must greet our hostess,” Kathy said over her shoulder, as she walked toward Helene’s wheelchair.
