The Most Dangerous Time

by David LaGraff

  Chapter 5

  She was halfway through a hot bath and a decent shaker of room-service martinis when Hirschfeld's familiar polite quiet knocking at the door of the suite brought her adrenaline surging. Against her better judgment, she threw on the extra-thick hotel robe and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on, receiving a blast of hot, boozy breath from the large, white-haired, irritable man in the soaking wet Armani suit outside. Rickie was not surprised to find him drunk.

  Hirschfeld was a man whom, she knew, used up huge amounts of energy swimming around all week neck-deep in movie production politics and thus required a requisite amount of high-powered refueling at week's end, especially when things appeared to be out of control.

  "I'm here to take you to the hospital, Rickie. We need to make sure the baby's safe."

  "You can't come in," she said, exercising a firmness she didn't feel, but which, bolstered by the chained door, seemed safe enough. "Judy told me over dinner that I've got to start some new habits. The first habit I've adopted is not to let you push me around anymore, especially when you're drunk. Don't think that you can turn on the charm and get me to do whatever you want."

  "I've never seen so much rain outside," he said. "It's some kind of El Nino thing or whatever. There's a crew out on the beach working under portable lights with bulldozers building berms even as we speak. Can't I at least come in and dry off?"

  "You didn't even hear me. I said you can't come in. Earlier, I said I'm not coming back."

  "I heard you. I couldn't believe my ears. That's why I'm here--to hear it again--especially the part about you being with child. We've got to work this thing out. This is no time for you to be isolating."

  "We're a dysfunctional family," she said. "We need treatment and therapy to break out of our loop. You're right. I shouldn't be alone like this. I should be back at The Dell with a loving husband, sharing the joy of being pregnant. Which is why I’m asking myself how I came to be here in this hotel with a cramp in my belly on a night when the whole building may be swept away with me in it?"

  "We can work it out. We can't do it through a crack in the door. Let me in and we'll talk. If you're smart, you'll realize that to find the right answer for what we're facing, we have to sit down and talk like two human beings. You're pregnant. You may need medical attention. That's a sacred trust God has given us. We need to talk."

  The remark about God did it. She opened the door and instantly regretted it when he swept past her. She'd been excited at her decision to go it on her own, and now that she'd opened the door, she hated herself for her weakness, for her easy forsaking of the vow to seek higher ground in her own emotional storm.

  By the time she turned around, Hirschfeld was already pouring himself a martini. "I'm sorry about my behavior earlier. I had no right to hit you. I can only say it's been a crazy day. A real battle against the entrenched powers who preside over us mere mortals from their established dominions. I had to fight like a wild man to get them to see it my way. I don't know where they're getting these new writers. You'd think the ones working for us never heard of a cop picture before. This new breed can't seem to focus, or get in tune with the straight-line energy which usually drives a good project."

  "Don't try and change the subject. You hit me because you'd been drinking. You're drinking now. Personally, I think we're alcoholics. All the signs are there."

  "What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?"

  "Think about it. An alcoholic is the sort of person who is prone to spectacular disasters without remedy. For instance, they drink and drive and wind up killing somebody, or they destroy perfectly good marriages. Their kids are all screwed up. Look at me. You beat me up, you may have caused me to miscarry, my kid just got out of rehab, and I'm working on my third martini."

  "Okay," he said. "We may have failed in our duty to face reality, but how many alcoholics make the kind of money I make, day after day and year after year? How many alkies have Beverly Hills by the balls the way I do?"

  "It's not about money and power. It's about being tired. Right now, I'm very tired and very alone. I'm inwardly freaking out, wondering at what point I will finally crack. You really hurt me tonight. I've got a sharp pain in my stomach that seems to be getting worse."

  "We're going to the hospital."

  Rickie pushed forward with her false bravado. "We're not going anywhere. I'm staying right here. Besides, do you really want to risk coming under a doctor's scrutiny? They'll know you abused me. They might even call the police and have you locked up. You won't make bail until the Judge comes in on Monday."

  "You gonna press charges?"

  "Do you know why I don't? Because I know you'd con the cops into thinking you were sorry about what you'd done and they'd let you out with a slap on the wrist. That's why I don't call them. They'd let you go, like they let O.J. Simpson go. If they'd put you away for twenty years like you deserved, I'd call them in a minute."

  "I like this suite," Hirschfeld said. "I'll tell you what. We've both been under a lot of stress lately. Why don't we make it a weekend right here, the two of us? Tonight, we'll relax in the Jacuzzi. I'll have them send up some champagne and caviar. In the morning, if you're feeling up to it, we can walk on the beach. If it's still there."

  Rickie sank into the deep leather cushioning of the couch. "I'm sitting here wondering, like, have I lost my mind? I've begun to realize that you aren't the answer to my life. Maybe when we first started out, I thought you were. At this point, if I'm totally honest about it, I must admit that before you got here, I was really enjoying sitting in the tub alone. We don't have a real marriage. It’s something that we're doing inside our heads. It's not real."

  "What's this about, if it isn't real? Tell me, Rickie, you're so smart."

  "You know, Hershey, all the times I've taken you back before, we go through the same routine. We smile awkwardly once again and in a demeanor that would shame a dog we mumble something about how we're going to try harder. Blah, blah, blah. All this time, I've never said it like I really want to say it. It's like every time you've beaten me before, I’ve wanted to erase the whole thing and start over. Why, you may ask do I always take you back? Because I'm afraid. I'm afraid of you Hershey. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

  "Okay! For the last time--I'm sorry! What more do you want? Shall I go out in this wind and rain and find a Torah and prostrate myself before it? What's this about, Rickie?"

  She arose and drained the last of her martini. "You ask me what it's about ... all I can tell you is ... it's about everything, you idiot!"

  "I'm trying to be patient with you. You're not making it easy."

  Rickie's fear was about to reach the point of overwhelming her, but something deep inside her urged her to keep going, to get it all out once and for all. Perhaps it was the growing knowledge that this time, something had been taken from her--a baby in her womb, perhaps denied existence, a chance casualty of their little game.

  "I finally figured it all out," she continued. "You say you're working on trying to be patient. You're the kind of man who has no patience. You're the kind of man who has bought in to the whole package of deadlines and calendars and the expectations of others. You’re a performer trying to play the game of delivering this or that at a certain place or time. You can do it because you get everybody around you to agree what the place and time is going to be. You know what? None of it's real. Your life is as insincere as your movies!"

  "I'm tired," he said. "You're drunk. You're making no sense. What do you mean, none of it's real?"

  "Do you know what Judy told me tonight? She told me that if God stopped loving you, you would cease to exist. She wanted us to pray and ask God to quit loving you. I personally think God saw what you did to me tonight, and He's seriously considering hating you. You'd become the first person on earth God hates. Think, Hershey. What would happen if that
were true?"

  "Rickie. Stop talking crazy." He set down his drink and took a menacing step forward.

  "You'd simply disappear," she said, walking to the door and holding it open.

  Please, God, she prayed. Give me the courage to stand firm. Don't let him come at me now. "I want you to leave now and think about what I said."

  "I can make you come back. I could probably even have you committed. It's obvious you've lost your mind."

  "You know what I hate most about you, Hershey? It's the way in which you beat me. You never lose control. Sure, you yell and scream and turn red, but way deep down, you're in perfect control of yourself. You know exactly what you're doing to me. My only question is why do you do it?"

  In a quick, angry movement, he snatched up a vase, as if to throw it at her, paused, and put the vase down. "I don't know why. I love you. I always have. Isn't that enough?"

  "You'd better get started on your way," she said, her voice trembling. "That's a bad storm outside. The visibility's near zero and it's a long way between here and there."