by Denise Dietz
* * * * *
With Bobby behind them, still pointing his gun, Maryl leaned against Anissa. “Birds?” she asked, her voice low and breathy. “I adore Hitchcock’s movie about birds?”
“Speaking of birds, wait until we reach the top floor. The ceiling grid lights look like a flying flock. Everybody instinctively swerves the first time they see it. Bobby might hunch down, too. Should we try and rush him together?”
“I don’t think I could rush a marshmallow right now. I’m trying to keep my sense of humor, but baby’s awfully pushy.”
“Hang on, Maryl, it’ll be over soon,” Anissa whispered. “I’m so glad we told Drew about Jake Smith. If he didn’t get my ‘Delilah’ and ‘Rome burning’ hints, he’ll snap to the Hitchcock allusion. He once told me about your loft shoot and the freaked-out parrot.”
Crew members had left a few lights glowing but the studio was cloaked in gloom, as if carpenters had nailed together rooms, loaded them with furniture, and forgotten to add ceilings. It smelled like the new paint that covered the smoke-blackened walls from Delly’s fire.
No, thought Anissa. Bobby’s fire.
Gritting her teeth, she guided Maryl toward a bed on the Lady Nan set.
* * * * *
Susannah Benton sat in her husband’s office and stared at the knife she’d ordered from a TV ad. They hadn’t lied. Damn blade could slice anything. Pennies. Cable wire. Political aspirations.
Glancing at her watch, she sipped the last of her club soda, stood, walked over to a window, raised her arms high, and aimed the knife, Kamikaze style, toward her left breast.
Sunset spiked her husband’s Jaguar. She heard Rusty’s footsteps—right on time. He was never late for dinner, except tonight there’d be no dinner.
“What the hell!” His voice was sardonic and just a little bit alarmed. “Are you planning to audition for a role in Madame Butterfly, Suze?”
She lowered the knife. “I’ve already auditioned, darling, for Morning Star.”
“What?”
“You heard me. It was going to be a small part, what they call an under-five. But they loved the idea of Rusty Benton’s wife performing on Delly Diamond’s soap, so they contracted me on the spot. Thirteen weeks, Rusty, with a renewable option. We start taping Monday since they plan to cash in on all that delicious Grand Jury publicity. Guess what part I’m playing? Come on, guess. Aw, you’re no fun. I’m the district attorney who prosecutes Hannah’s murderer. They killed off this character named Hannah and blamed it on this chick named Tabby-Cat, so they need a D.A.”
“Jesus, you must be drunk.”
“No, darling, and that’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” Walking forward, she severed his suspenders. “I haven’t had any martoonies since the night you played Bruce the Shark. In Hollywood, America, a wife doesn’t have to take her husband’s abuse, not if she’s sober.”
“Why’d you cut my suspenders, Suze?”
“Because that’s what they do to clowns. I saw it at the circus.”
“The circus?”
“You’re not usually so dense this early in the evening, Rusty. Haven’t you been listening? I’ve been cast on a soap opera and you’re gonna’ be a clown.”
“No way! I’ll beat you black and—”
“Blue? I don’t think so. This knife can slice more than suspenders.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You bet your life.”
“But Suze, you can’t appear on that soap opera. I’ll be the laughing stock—”
“Leave me alone, Rusty. Prepare a brief or summation or something. I want to study my script. There are so many ways to perform the part. For instance, I considered Scaramouch, you know, that French buffoon? On the other hand, I could play her with more . . . shall we say dignity? Then you might not be such a laughing stock. Would you do me a small favor? Call my beauty salon and tell them to send over someone to dye my hair red?”
“Red?”
“There’s this actor who plays Dr. Ron. He says he likes red hair and he looks a little like James Dean and he’s already insinuated that we might ‘get it on,’ his words. But I swear to God I won’t cheat on you, Rusty, not if you toe the line.”
* * * * *
Drenched with perspiration, Maryl hugged her stomach. “I want Jonah, I want Jonah,” she kept repeating, her voice raspy.
Anissa dabbed at Maryl’s bloody nose with the pillowcase, then reached out blindly and grasped the first thing her hand encountered—a green cloth. The cotton cloth covered a bird cage. Jon had given Samantha’s parrot to Echo. Echo must have placed the parrot and cage on the Lady Nan set before she left, another one of her practical jokes. There was seed and water, so Echo’s shtick was planned for Monday’s taping. Great! Just what Maryl needs. A parrot. Thanks a lot, Echo.
Anissa readjusted Sinbad’s cage cover and, instead, wove the bedspread through Maryl’s fingers. “Pull on this when the pain gets too overwhelming, love.”
“My body’s not built for having babies. Should have stayed a virgin. Hope she looks like Jonah—without the quick. Damn quick got me into this mess.”
Anissa felt like laughing and crying at the same time. “I’d tell you to scream your head off, Maryl, but I think it would drive Bobby even more bonkers and he might gag you. Listen, I know these sets better than he does. I’ll think of something.”
“What are you two whispering about? Get over here, Nissa. On second thought, find a cord and tie up your friend.”
“No. I won’t do that, Bobby. If I tie her up, she won’t be able to move with her pain.”
He shrugged, then ripped at his dress until it tore apart. The gown had a built-in bra stuffed with shredded foam rubber. Shifting the gun from hand to hand, Bobby wriggled out of his panty hose. Finally, he stood there, clad in his shorts. “Is there another bed, Nissa? Never mind. I like the nightclub better. It has more light. You know what? You look like a bride in that dress. A beautiful bride. Take it off.”
“Go to hell!”
“Take off your dress. I’m not kidding. I’ll make sure your friend can never have her baby if you don’t. I want some fun before I kill Cal, and once you see what I can do, you won’t care if he’s dead.”
“I know what you can do. I talked to Betsy Crown.”
Bobby laughed. “Betsy-Wetsy? I taught her lots of things. Now I’m gonna’ teach you. Take off that damn dress.”
* * * * *
Judith Pendergraft walked toward her white Cadillac.
Directly in front of Delly’s lawn stood a small, elderly woman and a large dog.
“Squirt pee, Jack Benny,” the woman said. “Or better yet, squat and shit.”
Crazy! Everyone in Hollywood was crazy, including Delly’s boyfriend.
Judith had come calling, in person, to offer reinstatement. If Delly wasn’t indicted, Judith would write her back into the show.
Jon Griffin had told Judith to get lost.
Mayella, Beverlee and Scottie were waiting in the car. Judith had suggested they to go easy on Delly during the Grand Jury investigation, but they’d ignored her advice. Was her control slipping? Maybe she should seriously consider the offer to produce that new east coast daytime drama, Chantilly Lace.
* * * * *
Anissa stepped from her dress.
Bobby grinned. “I couldn’t see the baby so good when you were all covered up. There’s a nice little bulge ’neath your panties, Nissa. Shit! Wish I had a camera. Jacob would love a picture of his grandson. Do you know how to work this stuff?”
“I guess so, if the cameras are loaded with film.”
“What’s this thing called?”
“A dolly. The cameraman can move around and shoot from different positions.”
“Aim it toward the top of the bar. Does the jukebox work?”
“Yes. All you have to do is plug—”
“You plug it in, Nissa. I want music.”
“What song?”
/> “Anything mushy.”
The machine whirred into life. Doris Day. “Once I Has a Secret Love.”
“Turn on the camera,” Bobby said. “Hurry.”
She fumbled at the dolly and camera. Bobby stood on the other side, watching.
Doris sang about how impatient she was to be free.
Free, thought Anissa. She would have to figure out how to free Maryl from this maniac.
“Okay, lie down on top of the bar,” said Bobby. “This time Joe’s not here to stop our fun.”
“You’re insane.”
“If you say that again, I’ll shoot.”
“Shut up,” squawked the parrot.
“Oh, no, help!” Maryl screamed. She had dropped the bedspread and reached for the green cage cloth.
“Lady Nan has great tits,” Sinbad squawked.
Bobby instinctively glanced toward the parrot. Anissa ran around the dolly, grabbed Bobby’s gun hand, lowered her mouth and bit his wrist. Despite his angry howls and Maryl’s frightened screams, a thought flashed through her mind: Bobby Hoffman pinching a little girl until she cried.
This is for me and Maryl, Delly and Maxine, she thought, biting harder, tasting blood.
* * * * *
Jon Griffin stared at his computer screen.
He tried to concentrate, but all he could think about was the Grand Jury. He had testified that Delly was resigned, not angry, and her jump-from-the-roof threat had been caused by personal stress. Then Benton had snapped his suspenders and sprung his trap, asking Jon about the hacked-up piano. How did Benton know about Samantha’s goddamn piano?
Jon heard someone cry his name. Leaping to his feet, he raced toward the bedroom.
“Jonny! Oh my God! Jonny!”
“What is it, Delly?”
“I remember.” Her green eyes blazed. “I fell asleep and dreamed about Samantha and Maxine and Southern Comfort.”
“Yes. We know you dreamed.”
“I opened my eyes for a minute and saw that guy who delivers sandwiches. I think he stole something from my purse.”
“What did he steal, baby?”
“It wasn’t my tongue,” she said.
“Delly!”
“I’m not crazy, Jonny. That was a joke.”
“Sorry. I’ll call the cops and tell them about the delivery guy. First, do you remember the roof?”
“Yes. I tried to jump but Cal . . . Drew talked me out of it.”
“Anything else?”
“I lost our baby,” she said, and burst into tears,
“Okay, good, cry it all out.” Jon pulled Delly into his lap and pressed her face against his chest.
“After you call the police, call Drew,” she said, her breath catching on a sob. “I never thanked him.”
* * * * *
“Drop your gun and freeze! Police are at the entrance and I have a rifle aimed at your head.”
Anissa recognized Drew’s voice, booming from Maxine’s sky-booth.
With his free hand, Bobby pulled Anissa’s hair and slapped her face.
Like a bulldog, her teeth gripped harder.
Bobby dropped his gun.
Heels drummed the floor as two policemen ran toward them.
“Up against the wall,” ordered one of the cops.
“I can’t,” Bobby yelped. “She won’t let go.”
Anissa felt Drew wrap his arms around her shaking body.
“It’s over,” he said.
Doris Day sang about how her secret love wasn’t secret anymore.
Sudden silence.
Except for Bobby’s anguished howls.
Anissa clenched her jaw and held on. Drew gently tugged at her shoulders. “Cut, that’s a wrap,” he said into her ear.
Releasing Bobby, Anissa shouted, “Maryl’s in labor, Drew! The Lady Nan set.”
“Maryl’s here? At the studio?” Unbuttoning his shirt, he followed Anissa.
“Call an ambulance,” she said to the cops, who were handcuffing Bobby’s injured wrist.
Maryl lay on her back. She had knocked over the parrot cage and Sinbad fluttered, squawking obscenities.
Drew tossed Anissa his shirt. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his sister’s perspiration-soaked hair. “Marilyn Monroe Bradley Florentino Wiggins,” he crooned. “You’re always so difficult. Why can’t you have your baby on the back seat of a cab, like everyone else?”
“Oh, Drew. Thank God. Please make the pain go away.”
“I guess it’s time I learned how to deliver a baby. Listen, Miss Scarlett. Atlanta’s burning and Sherman’s marching through Georgia. The countryside’s a mess but Tara’s still standing. Take a deep breath. Rhett Butler Flory’s here.”
Maryl winced. “You sound like Clark Gable impersonating Clark Gable. Did I kill the parrot?”
“Just ruffled his feathers,” said Anissa, swallowing a sob.
Approximately forty-five minutes later, Norma Jean Wiggins made her entrance. She received a standing ovation from one uncle, one aunt, and two paramedics.
“Norma Jean?” Anissa sat on the bed. “What happened to Joan of Arc Wiggins?”
“Norma Jean was Marilyn Monroe’s real name. I must remember to tell Jonah that labor pains are like his commercials. Toward the end they’re much longer and closer together.”
“Jonah’s on his way to the hospital. We’ll join him there. How do you feel?”
“Sore. Like someone just pulled a bowling bowl through an opening big enough for a ping-pong ball.” She patted her wet, tangled curls. “Rosebud hair products are supposed to withstand windstorms and humidity. But they never mention childbirth, clever bastards. Did you film the big event, Anissa?”
Both women glanced at the camera, whose red light blinked. During her struggle with Bobby, Anissa had swiveled the dolly toward Lady Nan’s bedroom.
“Good show.” Maryl smiled. “Norma Jean’s first starring role. She’s perfect, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” Anissa clasped her friend’s hand. “Delly’s innocent and you’re safe. Oh Maryl, it’s true. The morning stars sang together and all the sons and daughters of God shouted for joy.”
With a grin, Drew handed his sister the baby. “Here’s Joy.”
“Jonah’s Joy,” said Maryl.
“Jeannie Joy,” said Anissa. “Great stage name.”
As if on cue, the baby began to cry. For joy.
Curtain Call
September 8, 1985
Propped against plump pillows, Delly could smell the roses outside her open window. Funny how New York always reminded her of roses, not California. It should be the other way around. Rose Bowl. Rose Bowl Parade. Happy New Year. Auld Lang Syne. Time for auld acquaintances to be forgot.
Especially one auld acquaintance. She’d missed Sunday night’s sixty minutes with Judith Pendergraft.
During their first visit to the hospital, Anissa and Maryl had told Delly about the Volkswagen driver who’d been drunk as a skunk. Then there was the tourist from Tulsa, who kept screaming look-at-all-that-blood-is-she-dead until someone sat her down on the curb. Whereupon, she’d passed out and the ambulance personnel thought the woman from Tulsa was the accident victim.
Anissa said Delly had broken her leg—again!—and sustained a concussion. When she was released from the hospital she’d stay at the Flory residence, okay?
Okay. Drew and Anissa could support her. Why not? She always played the supporting role. The only leading role she’d ever successfully performed was Duck Pond’s Virginia.
From her pillowed perch atop a four-poster, Delly glanced around Anissa’s guest room. Pale yellow curtains fluttered in the gentle breeze, a backdrop for the zebra-colored kitten who slept draped across the windowsill. Maybe Toto Too dreamed about the fish populating Long Island Sound. The other kittens, Dolf Too and Schatzi, were curled up under the bed. Late afternoon sunshine haloed Toto’s dotted muzzle and quivering whiskers.
Against one wall, bookshelves were filled with haphazar
dly-stacked paperbacks and scripts. A second wall showcased a photo collage of Anissa and Drew’s little girl, Randi Theresa. In one photo Randi posed with Jeannie Joy, Maryl’s fiery-haired toddler. Another photo flaunted Jeannie Joy’s baby brother, Richard Gere Wiggins. Maryl had virtually given up her modeling career. Instead, she was churning out historical romances. Her third Civil War saga, Charlotte’s Reb, had hit the N.Y. Times bestseller list.
Anissa’s refinished maple dresser sported a portable TV, turned down low. A local channel televised Jon’s Groundhog Murders, the movie that had led to Drew’s successful series, Casey’s Castle. Jeff Casey, a New York detective, lived in his “castle”—a large boat anchored off the Sound. A toy company had recently issued Jeff Casey dolls and Jeff Casey boats.
Delly’s gaze shifted so that she could enjoy the sight of Jon entering the room.
“How’s my girl?” he said.
“In better shape than you, Tarz. You’ve lost so much weight. Cheetah the Monk could carry you with one arm while he swings through Hollywood and Vine.”
“I look better than I did two weeks ago. What good is Tarzan without his crocodelly?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Jon turned off the TV, sat on the bed, and placed a large manila envelope near her pillow. “After the accident, during my flight to New York, I kept wondering if I’d lost the chance to apologize and tell you how much I love you. I once said that emotions should be up-front. I said if you were unhappy I’d cuddle and protect you.”
“But you did. Pandora, the fire, you couldn’t have been more supportive.”
“When it was all over, I shut out your problems. You wanted another soap, but I was afraid the whole thing would start again, those damn character flip-flops. I couldn’t deal with it, so I ignored your desperation. I even convinced Drew’s agent to allow you time to recover. He’s a busy man and you got lost in the shuffle. That was my biggest mistake.”
“I had lunch with Judith on the day of the accident. We’ve both made mistakes, Jonny.”
From another room came the sound of a radio. Samantha Gold. During the last two years, Sami had appeared briefly on Morning Star, then completed a whirlwind concert tour. She’d won a Grammy, and last month she had begun rehearsals for an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, inspired by Joan of Arc. As Saint Joan, Samantha would die heroically in one of history’s most famous bonfires.
