by Denise Dietz
“But they can’t,” Delly said. “Cal and Charl belong together. C my name is Charlotte and my husband’s name is Cal. We come from California and in our baskets—”
“We’ve simply kicked the idea around, sweetie pie.”
“Panda can’t love Cal. Panda’s pure.”
Judith’s butt plowed a rocking chair’s cushion. She patted her lap. “Sit, Pandora.”
“No. Panda has to go home.” Watching Judith’s eyes narrow, Delly felt her control slip a notch. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Panda has to go home,” Judith mimicked. “I wonder which role is honest.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t look so friggin’ innocent. Save it for the cameras. Do you prefer to play the dull Delilah, who lost an Oscar-winning role in her boyfriend’s movie, or the Delly who hides inside Pandora’s skin so that she can become Pendergraft’s pampered pet?”
“I’m acting, Judith.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m Pandora Poe at your house or on the Morning Star set.”
“Pandora Poe?”
“We . . . I gave Panda a last name.”
Judith laughed. “Poe. That’s priceless. From Edgar Allan, I presume. Did you ever read his short story, ‘The Magic Paw?’ ”
“ ‘The Monkey’s Paw.’ Yes. But it was written by W. W. Jacobs, featured in an Edgar Allan Poe anthol—”
“Whatever. Remember the third wish, canceling the other two wishes? Do you want to wish away Morning Star?”
“No.”
“Then sit on my lap, Miss Pandora Poe.”
Delly sat. She placed her thumb inside her mouth as Judith’s hand crept under her skirt. The Chivas had dulled her senses and, after all, control had definite sexual connotations. Lay down the law. Be on top of. Delly giggled and her thumb popped out. “That tickles, Judith. Panda wants her pill.”
“Later.”
Control! “No, Judith, now!”
“Patience, pet. Patience is the art of concealing your impatience. I have a nice evening planned, a surprise.”
“Goodie, goodie, good as gold. Panda loves surprises.”
The doorbell rang.
“I do believe my surprise has arrived.” Judith shifted Delly and rose from the rocker. “Wait here, pet.”
A few moments later, Judith returned, followed by two women. “Pandora, I’d like you to meet Mayella and Beverlee. Beverlee spells her name with two friggin’ eees at the end.”
Delly stood and curtsied.
“Judith, she’s precious,” said Mayella.
Shoulder-length cinnamon hair had been pulled away from Mayella’s forehead, exposing a prominent widow’s peak. Tiny blue eyes, like buttons, crinkled at the corners.
Beverlee had short reddish hair, the color of paprika, and a long sharp nose.
She looks like Woody Woodpecker, thought Delly. I think we’ve met before. Where?
“I watch your show all the time,” Beverlee said, “even tape it when I’m working. I’m a model.”
“Do you know Maryl Bradley? She’s a model and the sister of a very close friend of mine.”
“I model shoes, dear. Maryl Bradley and I don’t run in the same circles.”
Delly accepted a new drink from Judith. “Where’s the surprise?”
“This is the surprise. A party. Later we’ll play games.”
“Panda doesn’t want to play games,” Delly whispered, her tummy cramping. “She wants to go home.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” It’s not your home anymore. Samantha. Montalban the rat-dog. Sinbad the Parrot.
Judith glanced at her watch. “Make yourself comfortable. Flory’s show is about to start.”
“Goody, goody.” Delly clapped her hands.
Opening the door to a French Provincial cabinet, Judith tapped the buttons on a television, then walked across the room and settled into her rocker. Delly sat on the couch, next to Beverlee. Mayella folded her body, powwow style, on Judith’s new, lush, cream-colored carpet.
Large printed credits flashed across the TV screen. Drew’s name was above the title, along with Shirley Jones and Melissa Sue Anderson.
The plot was simple—a man in love with both mother and daughter. Delly maneuvered back and forth between the wet-bar and the couch. Sorry, Cal, I wanted to watch your movie sober, but Panda hasta get drunk as a skunk.
For two hours, minus commercial breaks, Drew wooed both Shirley and Melissa Sue. As the film ended, he drove away to die of a fatal, undefined illness, leaving Mom and kid united in mutual sorrow.
Judith watched critically, then smiled during the last scene, and Delly thought her eyes looked very yellow in the room’s recessed lighting.
“I know the genius who wrote that piece of shit,” Judith said. “Oh, well. The movie’s been hyped for weeks and Flory was his usual charismatic self. Maxine’ll be pleased.”
“I thought it was sad. And beautiful.” Beverlee sighed. “He sacrificed his happiness to die all alone, just like—what’s that animal that dies all alone?”
“An elephant,” Delly said, remembering when and where she’d met the shoe model before. Once. At The Playground. Beverlee had been part of Judith’s entourage.
“Game time,” Judith said. Opening another cabinet door, she retrieved a camera.
Delly felt woozy. “Pander hasta go home now,” she slurred. “Her sistah’s waitin’.”
“Yes, pet, I understand.” Judith held both hands behind her back. “Choose, Pandora. Left or right?”
Delly pictured script pages—Panda trapped in a fire. She pointed, opened her mouth like a baby bird, and washed down the Quaalude with Chivas.
“Wheee, I’m a swan,” she cried.
“Drink some more, Pandora, that’s a good girl.”
“Scotch tastes like Sami’s eyes. Panda’s flyin’. Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home, your house is on fire and Judith’ll burn.”
“What does she mean by that?” Mayella’s brow beetled.
“Pandora wants to set me on fire,” Judith said, “and she knows just how to do it. Don’t you, pet?”
“No. I meant Max. Set Maxine on fire. Mr. Ratings.”
“What? Who?” Mayella looked as if she needed a dictionary.
“Cast joke,” Judith explained. “Maxine thinks it’s a hoot.”
The living room spun. Through wisps of cotton candy, Delly saw a brand new movie-of-the-week. Starring Judith, Mayella, and Beverlee. Delly Diamond’s name filled the screen, above the title. Surprise! The movie had been shot in Judith’s living room. Opening scene: famous scriptwriter hands actress a full glass of amber-eyed scotch. Actress drinks.
Beverlee: “Careful, Judith. Pandora’s already had too much. She’ll puke or pass out, like she did last time.”
Delly: “I threw up last time?”
Beverlee: “No. You passed out.”
Judith: “She’s developed a high tolerance, and she won’t lose her inhibitions unless she’s zonked.”
Beverlee: “There’s a big difference between zonked and passed out.”
As if on cue, Delly’s legs buckled and she fell. The puddle of spilled Chivas looked like Chihuahua piss. Judith would be pissed.
Oh, no. Delly Diamond had to throw up. Was that in the script? Once upon a long time ago she’d sworn she’d never throw up in front of a famous—
She heaved twice and waited for more, but that was it. So why did the room kept spinning?
Beverlee: “What did I tell you?”
Judith: “Help her upstairs. Shit! My new carpet’s ruined.”
You can’t say shit on network TV.
Giant scissors cut, censoring, and Delly’s movie-of-the-week faded into oblivion.
“Help her upstairs,” Judith repeated.
Mayella and Beverlee clasped hands, forming a swing. They carried Pandora to the mirrored bedroom. Judith followed with her camera.
“Would you like to swi
ng with a star?” Delly sang, her head turning cartwheels.
Just like a Mariner cheerleader.
* * * * *
Drew turned off the TV.
“Well, that’s that,” he said. “Rotten, huh?”
“You looked sexy.” Anissa’s brow furrowed. “What happened to Melissa Sue Anderson’s blonde hair? Didn’t she have blonde hair in Little House on the Prairie? When did she become a brunette?”
“Anissa . . . why the hell are we discussing Missy’s hair?”
Clothed in a pair of jeans and nothing else, Drew sat on the edge of a red-bordered Turkish Prayer rug. Anissa reclined on their beige corduroy couch. She wore bikini panties and one of his old pin-striped shirts. Lazily, his fingers Braille’d her feet. She was the only woman he’d ever met who wasn’t ticklish.
The floor lamp cast its muted glow. White walls were filled with posters from his Community Playhouse days, joined by Maryl’s magazine covers. Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe surveyed the room from above the glass screen and brass andirons of a tiny fireplace.
“You weren’t performing Shakespeare,” Anissa said. “Honest, Drew, you were fine. Everybody did a wonderful job.”
“Quote it.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Go on, quote some memorable lines from my wonderful disease-of-the-week flick.”
“ ‘Oh, darling, how strong you look.’ ”
“What the hell was that? No one says—”
“ ‘Strong enough to bring us both back to life, if you don’t want to die.’ Quote, unquote.”
“Oh, I get it. Love Story, right?”
“Numskull. Lawrence Olivier to Merle Oberon in Wuthering Heights.”
“Sorry.”
“Love is never having to say you’re sorry.” Anissa giggled.
“At least you compared me to Olivier.”
“Belt up, Drew. The acting was fine, your emotions sincere, and I lost myself in your character. You looked so sad.”
“I was thinking about Morning Star’s iron-clad contract,” he grumbled. “Speaking of our beloved soap, I have no monopoly in the emotions department. You’re incredible and Delly’s an expert.”
“You know what Delly told me? She said she keeps tweezers inside her smock pocket. When Pandora’s due to cry, she turns away from the camera and plucks a hair from her nose. Makes her eyes water. I’ve been worried about Delly. She shifts into character at odd moments.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s Pandora even after we wrap.”
“We all do that, keep in character until we can shake it off.”
“But I’ve seen Delly transform at home. All of a sudden she’ll evolve into Pandora. It’s weird.”
“Maybe she’s teasing.”
“No way. She changes in the blink of an eye.”
“How do you respond?”
“I adlib Charl to her Pandora. Then I say I have to pee, or fetch a glass of water. When I return from the bathroom or kitchen, she’s Delly again.”
“I’ll have a talk with Jon, find out what’s going on.”
“Thanks.” Momentarily, Anissa remained silent, lost in thought. Then she smiled, stood up, and unbuttoned her shirt so that her breasts were partially revealed. “Hello, Cal,” she said, her voice Charl-husky. “Let’s find an abandoned supply closet and screw our brains out.”
“Are you showing me how Delly transforms?”
“No.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry, honey, but I’m exhausted. So far today I’ve made love to Tabby Cat, three nurses, and Lady Nan.”
“I can bring you back to life again.”
“Forget the supply closet. Let’s celebrate my movie debut with a night on the town. What do you say?”
“I say no.”
Drew stood, stretched, then wandered aimlessly, adjusting a window drape, straightening pictures. “There’s champagne.”
“You can drink champagne, if you think it’ll help.”
“Help what?”
“Stop pacing and listen. I love you. I want you.”
“Anissa, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Yes, I do. Maryl told me what you told her the night I showed up on your doorstep, the night I was so sick.”
“Then you know I can’t.”
“I don’t expect Superman, Drew. I don’t want a super hero. I love you, not some macho fictitious character.”
“I love you, too. Give me time.”
“Drew, listen, please. I adored Randy, worshipped him, but I can’t handle another celibate relationship.” She knelt, crying.
Drew looked down and saw the uncomplicated depths of pure love in her wet eyes. He felt her slender arms clasp him about his legs as she buried her face against his thigh. Hot tears seared all the way through his jeans to his skin.
“Don’t cry.” Kneeling, he gathering her into his arms.
He saw himself in front of a stage curtain. Every woman in the audience looked like his beautiful Anissa. He sniffed her flowery scent and felt her heartbeat, but he had already burned his candle at both ends.
Sobbing, she raised her face and her breath blew out imaginary flames.
Anissa, his only love, the only woman he had ever really wanted or needed.
He finished unbuttoning her shirt and pushed it free from her shoulders.
Rising, Anissa stepped from her panties.
Rising, Drew stepped from his jeans.
Naked, their eager bodies blending, he tasted her sweet breath in a long kiss. Then he tensed, unsure, afraid.
“I lied,” she said. “I lied about a celibate relationship. I don’t care if you kiss me until dawn. I don’t care if we cuddle or fondle or feast on each other. I don’t care if you never penetrate, because you’re already inside me. I carry you inside me every waking moment. I carry you inside my heart. You don’t have to prove anything, Drew, because you’re already a part of me. When I sleep, I sleep you. When I breathe, I breathe you. When I laugh, I laugh you.”
“When I love, I love you,” he said, lowering her to the Turkish Prayer rug.
Prayer, however, was the last thing on his mind. Later he might offer up a prayer of deliverance, but right now he felt delightfully, deliciously pagan.
So did she.
* * * * *
“Oopsie-daisy, don’t fall down,” said Mayella, guiding Delly inside. “Shit, Beverlee, I don’t like this. Pandora’s gonna faint. Or scream.”
“So what? It’s her house. If she screams, somebody’ll find her. I hear a dog. Let’s go.”
The two women shut the front door behind them.
“Oopsie-daisy, don’t fall down,” Delly said, her voice raspy. “London Bridges falling down. Lloyd Bridges falling down. Jeff and Beau Bridges, falling down.”
Feeling Pandora-crazy, sounding Pandora-crazy, she crept along the dark hallway until she reached her bedroom. Damp clothes stuck to her body and her hair still dripped water from the compulsory shower she’d taken after Judith, Mayella and Bev—no! She didn’t want to think about that or she’d scream again. And this time she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Thank God Mayella had driven her home in the Rabbit, Beverlee following, because crazy Pandora would have driven her car into a tree, maybe on purpose.
Samantha’s perfume permeated the house, even the master bedroom. Shivering, Delly undressed and slipped under the quilt.
“Delly, is that you?” Jon’s voice sounded sleepy. “Why are you wet? Is it raining?”
She burst into tears, straining her already raw throat. Then she buried her face against his chest.
“What’s the matter, honey?”
“I hate her. I’m never going there again, Jonny. I’m quitting the show. I’ll give my notice on Monday, help Sami get settled, find another job, learn how to cook.”
“Okay, baby, okay.”
“Do you kno
w the cradle song? Cat’s in the cradle, little boy blue? Mayella’s little boy blue. Beverlee’s man in the moon.”
“God, Delly, what happened?”
“Tired. Sleep.”
“No. We’ve got to talk.”
“Can’t. They gave me tranquilizers.”
“How many?”
“Two, three, I forget. They had to hush me. But I wouldn’t hush so they gave me a shower.”
“Jesus, Delly!”
“I love you,” she said, and promptly fell asleep.
“Wake up,” he pleaded, but she didn’t stir. She slept deeply, her lips slightly parted, her breathing relaxed, rhythmic.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to keep a vigilant watch. Naked, Jon stood by the window. Darkness turned to dawn. Mrs. Grady’s dog watered the palm tree and barked. From Samantha’s room, Montalban sounded a reply.
Samantha. She had offered herself to him on a silver platter. No. A silver spoon. Cat’s in the cradle, silver spoon—what was that all about? He loved Delly, but he was a playwright, an author, not a shrink, and he honestly didn’t know what to do, what to say.
Standing guard against nebulous shadows, watching the world outside his window awaken, Jon found himself humming snatches of Harry Chapin’s popular song. Then, kneeling by the bed, he brushed the tangled bangs away from Delly’s forehead and kissed her pale lips.
“No, please, leave me alone.”
“Okay, baby, sleep it off. Christ, I need some caffeine.”
He tiptoed down the hallway. He paused outside Samantha’s room, walked forwards, backwards, then entered and locked the door.
Samantha was nude, awake, waiting. “Fantasies are fun,” she said. “Don’t you agree?”
“Delly’s asleep. We have to be very quiet.”
“I sing when I fuck, darling.”
She spread her legs and stroked with her fingers until her body quivered, on the verge of an orgasm. Aware that Samantha was addictive, wanton, uninhibited, Jon remembered a Paramount luncheon toast: “May all your pleasures become habits.” He should leave the guest bedroom now, before this “habit” continued, before he was beyond redemption.
Wasn’t he already beyond redemption?
“Come here, Delly’s boyfriend.” Samantha’s voice sounded urgent. “Hurry!”
Jon swiftly crossed the room, covered her mouth with his, and swallowed her orgasmic anthem. At the same time he thrust deep, plunging into a maelstrom of imperative contractions. He was grateful for the dog and parrot since their barking squawks disguised his own involuntary moans. His coming was abdominally painful, a guilty, perverse pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless. He issued forth a steady stream of desire, even while he held Samantha’s hands at bay, avoiding her sharp, scarlet fingernails.
