by Denise Dietz
“Your wife’s sweet, Joey. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, angel. Are you all right?”
“Remember when I told you about The Kaiser and Dolf?” At his nod, she whispered, “I’m a juju.”
“That’s ridiculous. You didn’t kill the cats.”
“I killed our baby and my husband.”
“No, Anissa. Jacob was responsible for the abortion and—”
“Don’t you understand? I failed Randy.”
“How did you fail him?”
“I don’t know. But I must have, ‘else why’d he die?”
“Anissa, there’s a reason for everything. I realize that’s hard to accept, but it will become easier, I promise. After Jacob told me about my mother, I loved and hated her at the same time. Now, I just love her.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small box. “Happy birthday. Kathy picked this out, but the inscription’s mine.” From another pocket, he retrieved a pad and pen. “Give me your phone number. I’ll call when we arrive in California.” He wrote down the number. “What’s that Jack Paar thing you used to quote all the time?”
“Paar said, ‘To restore a sense of reality, I think Walt Disney should have a Hardluckland.’ ”
“Right. Please remember that I love you.”
“I love you too, Joey.”
As he headed toward Kathy, Anissa retreated up the stairs to her bedroom. Opening her birthday package, she removed a flat gold charm, shaped like an angel. It was inscribed: TOGETHER WHEREVER WE GO.
She scribbled a note to Helene, signed it Anissa/Charl, and placed it on her pillow. Her coat hung inside the downstairs closet so she mashed her puffed sleeves under a blue cardigan, called a cab from her bedroom phone, walked down the back staircase, and slipped out a side entrance.
Goodbye, Senator. Joey may be able to forgive you, but I can’t. Goodbye, Mama. See you from the telly.
* * * * *
The cab ride was a blur. The flight to Chicago then LAX was a blur. Her watch looked blurry, but it had to be around three a.m. when she knocked on Drew’s door.
He answered her frantic pounding with a muffled oath. His body was draped in a blanket, his hair mussed, and his sleepy black eyes registered anger, then confusion.
“May I come in?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
“Of course. What happened?” Ushering her inside, Drew studied Anissa’s flushed face. Her eyes were too bright. Her hair escaped a tiara, falling down her back in long rat-tails.
“Jacob. Party. Joey.” She wanted to say more, but her teeth kept chattering.
Belting her bathrobe, a tall, slender woman entered the living room.
“You have company,” Anissa managed. “I’m sorry, Drew. I couldn’t go back to the duplex. Delly’s taking care of my cat. Echo adopted Oscar. The apartment’s em-empty, and I didn’t know where else to g-go.”
“I’m not company. I’m Drew’s sister, Maryl. You must be Anissa. Oh my God!” Maryl ran forward and supported the swaying figure while Anissa, at long last, burst into tears. “Drew, she’s burning up with fever. Here, take her while I find some extra blankets. Yours will do for a start. Never mind the blushes. I’ve seen you naked.”
Scooping Anissa up in his arms, hearing her sobs, feeling her tears scorch his bare chest, Drew followed his sister’s red hair toward the bedroom.
For three days Drew and Maryl took turns sponging Anissa’s body with cold cloths, force-feeding her hot tea, chicken broth and antibiotics.
On the fourth day she opened her eyes, finally fever free, and saw Drew sitting in a chair by the side of the bed.
“You need a shave,” she rasped. “Maxine’ll be pissed.”
“Don’t ever do that again. You scared the hell out of me. Why on earth would you leave Wisconsin in the dead of winter . . .” He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. “Why were you wearing a stupid sweater?”
“The sweater isn’t stupid, Drew. I was stupid.”
“What were you thinking?”
“You. I was thinking you.”
Rising, he turned and walked across the room. Anissa saw his broad shoulders shake. “Are you crying?” When he didn’t answer, she struggled to the edge of the bed, lowered her feet, and tentatively found the carpet with her toes. As she took a few steps forward, Maryl’s nightgown brushed her ankles.
Drew made an about-face. Tears streamed down his cheeks. “Anissa, get back in bed!”
“I was thinking you,” she repeated. “I was cold on the outside, burning hot on the inside, and it wasn’t my fever. I heard you call my name. I felt you reaching out, hugging me, even when my plane flew through a storm. I hate rain. I’m afraid of rain. But then I heard your voice.”
Swiftly crossing the room, Drew pulled her into the circle of his arms. She felt fragile, a crystal vase, yet there was an inner core of strength. He remembered how, as a boy, he had watched a willow during a violent storm. The wind had whipped branches, leaves had swirled, and the tree had arched, bent nearly to the ground. Holding his breath, he’d waited for the wood to snap. But it hadn’t. After the storm blew away, the willow stood erect again—nude, strong, proud.
Anissa sighed. “Maybe I imagined your voice.”
“No. You didn’t. I’ve loved you silently for such a long time, but that night I called out your name, in my sleep. Maryl woke me and we talked. Then I went back to bed and dreamed you stood outside my door. Only it wasn’t a dream. When you began to cry, reality set in, and I realized that you were my whole world.”
She felt his unshaven chin caress her forehead. “Randy wanted us to be together. He said you loved me.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever not loved you. Do you love me?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Welcome to my world.” He pressed her face against his heart. “Welcome home, Anissa.”
“Drew?”
“Yes?”
“Make love to me.”
He stroked her hair. “That’s not a good idea, honey. You’re still very weak.”
“Then I’ll take a rain check. You see, I’m not afraid of the rain anymore.”
Chapter Eighteen
Wearing beige shorts and a white sleeveless blouse, Delly sat at Jon’s desk.
Her brain played hopscotch.
Hop. In an old movie they would show how the months passed by ripping pages from a calendar. Usually, there’d be background music.
Skip. September, October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May. Now it was June. Delly had played Pandora for nine months, and she felt as if she’d given birth to a monster, or at least a monstrous problem.
Jump. Maxine had the option of renewing contracts every thirteen weeks. Judith Pendergraft dictated to Maxine, so Delly had spent three more evenings at Judith’s Brentwood home.
Hop, skip, jump!
Like an overweight train, Morning Star chugged along. As Pandora’s dependency on Charl grew stronger, Charl became more manipulative. Hannah had survived the poison attempt, so Charl made elaborate plans to escape from the hospital. She would kill Hannah again, then sneak back inside. Pandora would provide an air-tight alibi.
“No problem,” Delly told Jon one morning, over a home-cooked breakfast of rare bacon and fossilized eggs. “All Charl has to do is steal a key to the supply closet, pilfer a nurse’s uniform, break out of the hospital in the dead of night, and abduct a staff member’s car from the parking lot. Meanwhile, Pandora hides the gun, knife, poison, whatever, inside her baby.”
“Baby?”
“Her doll.”
Like a paint-by-numbers picture, various elements of the plot emerged slowly. Nine months. Delly felt like a stale piece of bread in a moldy loaf.
No, not bread. Twinkies. Drew had once said that roaches, Styrofoam and Twinkies would survive after the world was nuked.
Twinkie, twinkie, little star.
Dropping her ball-point pen, Delly crumpled another piece of paper. How come Jonny
could create brilliant monologues while she couldn’t even write her own name? Except for calendar pages, stale bread, and twinkie stars, her mind was blank.
She glanced through the window, staring at the familiar scenery, focusing on her elderly neighbor, Mrs. Grady, who was walking, or being walked, by her Shepherd-Collie. The large dog halted to water the palm tree at the edge of Delly’s front yard. Mrs. Grady wore a long blue dress and a hat festooned with artificial flowers. Even though the sky was sunny, cloudless, a black umbrella crooked Mrs. Grady’s arm. Suddenly, a jogger jogged by. The dog barked and propelled himself forward. Mrs. Grady’s feet nearly left the ground. She looked like a surreal Mary Poppins. Then the street became empty, silent, a Hollywood set waiting for the director to yell, “Three, two, one, action!”
“What are you doing?” Entering the living room, Jon shook his thick hair, still glistening from a health club shower.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Jonny. This is impossible.”
“What’s impossible?” Scooping up several discarded scraps from the floor, he tossed them toward a wicker trash basket.
“I’m sorry about the mess, honey. I started fooling around, trying to devise Hannah’s murder weapon. Gun, knife, sharp chopsticks. Then I tried to think of a background for Pandora, but it’s not working.” She sighed. “I can’t write my way out of a paper bag.”
“What’s with the background? You’ve been playing the part for months.”
“I know. But Pandora’s merely a tape recorder that Charl talks into. All the other characters have backgrounds, even Marlon’s twin brother. I should give Pandora a history so I can know her better, act her better.”
“Okay, I get the gist. Would you like to brainstorm with me? A variation of the dialogue game?”
“That would be great, Jonny. Thanks.”
“Come away from my desk. Plunk your curvy rump on top of your director’s chair. Good girl.” Jon hunkered down, directly in front of her knees. “Does Pandora have a last name?”
“No. Just a nickname. Panda.”
“Let’s make her last name Chinese.”
“Why not Greek?”
“It could be Greek, I suppose—the Muse and all—but the panda comes from the mountainous regions of China and Tibet. How do you feel about Panda Wang?”
“That’s a good soap name, but I prefer Panda Chan. I love Chan movies and Anissa quotes Charlie all the time.”
“I’ve changed my mind, Delly. We don’t want a Chinese name. You’d have to look ethnic.”
“Anissa calls Charl the all-American slut next door. Maybe Panda should be the all-American mental case. Pandora Lizzie Borden. Panda Borden took an ax, gave her mother forty whacks. When she saw what she had done—”
“She gave dear Hannah forty-one.”
“No. Charl’s supposed to knock off Hannah. I’ll suggest an ax. What a great weapon, all that blood. Gosh, where can they hide an ax? Maybe Mr. Ratings will find Charl’s ax and knock off Maxine.”
Jon walked into the kitchen and returned with a couple of ice-cold beers. “Didn’t we once look up our zodiac signs on the back of a menu?”
“Yup. You were born under the sign of the tiger. You are sensitive, emotional, and capable of great love. I’m the snake. Rich in wisdom and charm. Whoa. Are you saying I should call myself Pandora Snake? I hate snakes.” She shuddered.
“Weren’t there examples, on the menu I mean, of famous people born under various signs?”
“Yes. I remember because some were so relevant. Caruso was born under the sign of the rooster, Davy Crockett the horse. Your tiger included Mary, Queen of Scots. She lost her head.”
“I won’t lose mine. I want to be rich, not royal. Let’s see. Your sign included Lincoln, Darwin, Edgar Allan—”
“Poe! Pandora Poe. I like it, Jonny.”
“Okay, honey, Pandora Poe it is. Now, let’s create your background.”
Delly gazed up at Jon. “I want Pandora normal. That’s very important.”
“Define normal.”
“Well adjusted. Reasonably sane. That way her craziness is more traumatic.”
“Okay, normal childhood. Your parents produced two and a half children. Mom’s a school teacher. Dad’s civil service. Mortgaged home. An Irish setter named Big Red.”
“How about a Cocker Spaniel named—”
“Joe Cocker?”
“Very funny. The normal family would call its dog Lassie or Spot. Come to think of it, what average family would name their daughter Pandora?”
“Mom’s an English teacher. Are you sure you want normal, Delly? Closet skeletons are much more fun.”
“Pandora got sick when her best friend was killed. I’ll settle for an uncomplicated, typical childhood. Brownies, Girl Scouts, the most popular girl in school. Cheerleader?”
“But of course. Pandora went steady with the high school basketball jock.”
“No, not basketball. Football.”
“Whatever. Good student. Scholarship to college.”
“Majored in home economics?”
Jon laughed. “How about art history? Joined the best sorority. Became engaged to an anthropology major. Lost her cherry in the back seat of a Chevy.”
“Almost lost it. Didn’t go all the way.”
“Why?”
Delly placed her beer bottle on top of the coffee table. “Not every sweet thing gets screwed on the back seat of a Chevy.”
“It doesn’t have to be a Chevy.”
“Pandora’s a virgin, okay?”
“Okay. Pure Pandora Poe. We know about the car accident, right?”
“Yes. Three couples leave a frat party. They’re all drunk. Pandora changes seats with Robin and they hit a telephone pole.”
“Is Pandora the only one who escapes unhurt?”
“Yes. Robin dies. Another girl goes through the windshield and is disfigured for life. The fiancé turns into a veg—”
“That was in the script?”
“No. Just Robin. She was crushed to death.”
“Christ, Delly, what a sadistic mouth you have.”
“The better to eat you with, my dear. I think we’ve done enough background probing for one evening. Let’s lick stamps and envelopes.”
“Do I get Pure Pandora Poe or Deadly Delly Diamond?”
“Flip a coin.”
“Jungle studs don’t carry loose change.” Lifting her from the chair, Jon slung her over his shoulder. “Tarzan will take his chances. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind Crocodelly.”
“That’s crocodile.”
“A crocodile is a phone used for bullshit conversations.”
“Smarty-pants. I meant the thick-skinned, amphibious dile.”
“You’re not thick-skinned, my love. I wish you were.”
“Why?”
“It would make your acting career so much easier.” And our lives.
* * * * *
Maxine Graham’s office desk was covered with blue-penciled scripts, anchored by boxes that held the remnants of Chinese take-out. An empty Planters Peanuts jar held pens, pencils, paper clips and chopsticks. Two ashtrays overflowed with lipstick-tinted cigarette filters. A portable TV, next to the phone, televised a rerun of Cagney and Lacey.
Perched on the edge of a love seat, Drew thought about how it must be every man’s fantasy to sleep with Cagney and Lacey—a ménage a trois.
Maxine paced between the love seat and her desk, then halted mid-stride. “Have you eaten enough bean curds, Flory?”
“More than enough. Thanks, Max.”
“You’re welcome. I invited you here to discuss Cal.” She turned the TV’s volume lower and retrieved a lined pad, filled with spidery handwriting.
“Anything wrong?”
“Au contraire.” Her gaze touched upon his Chien T-shirt—Chien sandwiched between Mary-Wanna and Streisand—and his black chinos and sock-less sneakers. “Your fan mail has increased daily, especially since Randy’s timely demise.”
“Time
ly? Jesus, Max.”
“All right, unfortunate demise. In any case, we must increase the sexual tension between Cal and Charl. Mental rape, Flory, mental rape.” Shifting a container of siew mai, finding the edge of her desk with her backside, she scrutinized his face. “Why that brooding Heathcliff scowl?”
“Is this late-hour discussion leading up to a new plot?”
“Of course.” She glanced down at her pad. “Judith thinks we should put Cal in danger. A location shoot, Mexico or Nassau. Buried treasure or buried bodies.”
“Shit, Max, I want to do prime time and feature films. Jon Griffin is scripting a new movie for Paramount and I’m up for the lead.”
“What about your contract?”
“Screw my contract.”
“I’d rather screw you.”
Drew stood, walked over to the projection window, and stared into the dark room next door. He knew better than to give Max such a perfect cue line. She was trying to make rumor reality. Years ago he would have indulged her for the hell of it. Now, even if he wanted to, the famous sex symbol couldn’t get it up.
Turning away from the projectionist’s window, he sat on the love seat again. “I’m sorry, swee’ pea,” he said, intentionally using the pet name he’d coined for her. “But you’re not just a piece of ass. I respect you too much.”
Maxine lit a cigarette and coughed. “Okay,” she said, “where were we?”
“Nassau. Mexico. Look, swee’ pea, I have to go home. If you want my admittedly biased opinion, I think the foreign shoot idea stinks.”
She shrugged. “Aside from the ultimate consummation with Charl, what do you suggest we do to increase our ratings?”
“Since when do actors dictate plot treatments?”
“Since I say so.”
“How the hell do I know what you and Pendergraft have in store for Wayne County? We don’t even see advance scripts.”
“Merde! Do you think we don’t know about Wardrobe?”
Drew grinned. General script outlines were delivered to the wardrobe room because costumes had to be stitched in advance. “Gosh darn, Miss Graham,” he drawled. “We poor, dumb, insecure actors only hang out in Wardrobe ’round contract renewal time, just to see if our character’s gonna have an illness or accident comin’ up.”
