by Ray Succre
“Right, sorry. I get it. Uh, Emery.”
The restaurant was not so busy and the staff was according. Beth was relieved to see him, as were the girls; the lunch they had planned the previous week would now, though shortened, come to actual fruition. They had attempted this family time the week prior, but a sudden call from Jamison to the restaurant’s telephone had caused Emery to have to exit his family lunch quickly. The previous second assistant, Ralph Morozov, had quit with a sudden relish late in the prior week, causing the re-writes he carried, and that Emery had made over the entirety of the previous week, to be lost. Emery had been forced to rush to the set and, after some searching, found his rewrites thrown in a garbage bin just off set. Apologies had been made, anger had been suppressed, Carl Fiedler had apparently been hired as Bob’s new second assistant, and the show would go on. Thursday.
This week, Emery would have a dedicated, problem-free lunch with his family, one that would not face interruption. This was assured by the fact that Emery had misled Sol Jamison and Bob Keith about where he was heading to eat with the small amount of time he had been granted. There would be no phone calls interrupting him.
“Well, I’d rather you be a little late and stick around than what happened last week,” Beth said, “You’ll just have to find a way to keep better track of your keys.” Rebecca and Vivian sat at the table as well, each antsy and wanting to move about.
“I should wear them around my neck, is what I should do,” the husband conceded.
“Just make another spare set.”
“Agreed. I’ll do that Sunday.”
“So how is it over there?” she asked, setting her cola back on the table, out of reach of Vivian, who had several times made an ambit for it. The newest Asher was approaching her toddler-hood and had entered into that common phase of seeking to grab and jostle everything within grasp.
“Good. Busy. Bob has the flu but he’s a trooper. Hope I don’t get it.”
“Oh, please don’t. That’s the last thing you need. Or me,” Beth said.
“I know. How was school?” he asked, turning his attention to Rebecca.
“Fun,” the little girl responded.
“Yeah? What did you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t, huh? Did you play?”
“No.”
“No?”
A smile of trickery crept across her face and her eyes grew fluorescent.
“Yes,” she said then, following with a giggle.
Emery fought down the urge to get out his manuscript and add a note or two. He suddenly wanted to add in the giggle of a little girl for the final act when the main character gets off the train and finds himself in his own private utopia. A little girl being there, giving a giggle, would have a nice effect and a slightly upsetting feel to it. A touch ominous, but pure. Better yet, a little girl the main character has seen on the train during his long commutes, but who never speaks, and only looks at him at times as if entreating him to like her. There was something to that… something to add into the climax a bit. The little girl would be like a ghostly shepherd to that hidden world only reached by a chosen, tenacious few. Something come to get him. Lure him. More likely, this detail would find its way into a different script. Yes, it would be better to save it for later than to try shoe-horning it in during production. Emery thought this over and promised himself not to forget it. He kept his manuscript in his briefcase, tried to clear his head and enjoy lunch away from the particular sort of grind he had created. This was family time. He had promised.
“Your brother called this morning,” Beth said.
“Did he? What about?”
“Just to talk to Rebecca. Say hello. He had the day off.”
“That was sweet of him,” Emery noted.
“I think he’s feeling the kid bug,” she mused.
“I certainly hope so. Will would be a good father, I think. And I know Helen wants children.”
“Her sister, Vera, has five already. And four of them are boys.”
“Five kids… can you imagine? Too much to handle. Especially with boys. At any rate, I suspect Helen is being very patient with my brother.”
“More grandkids would make your mother quite happy, too.”
“Undeniably.”
Beth then bent from her chair and reached into her purse, which rested on the floor. After a moment in which Emery cautiously watched Vivian tug at the tablecloth, to no avail, Beth rose in her chair again and handed him a newspaper clipping.
“You did bring it, thank you!” he said.
“Mmm hmm. It’s a good review.”
“And you cut it out, even.”
Emery leaned back in his chair and began to read the clipping. Through the course of the five short paragraphs before him, his eyes lifted and the crow’s feet at their edges faded into a smoothness only attained by the brief surges of relief one might find in much-craved praise. He grunted at one point and his mouth drew into a sideways smirk. Then he gave a slight nod.
“Well, I don’t quite feel like a ‘product of great skill who’s undoubtable narrative in television is an intelligent act in an otherwise drab circus’, but I’ll take it,” he said, folding the clipping and placing it in his breast pocket.
“I thought you’d like that,” Beth said with a smile.
“So will Bob. They called him a ‘worker of the dark’. He’ll fall in love with that line. Thank you, hon. When Dozier mentioned the review on set, he only said I needed to see it. Made me uneasy. Part of me thought it would turn out to be a screed.”
The discussion swiveled into orders at the arrival of their waitress, and neither husband nor wife went cheap. The waitress suggested a child’s cup for Vivian, and both parents were impressed that the restaurant, somewhat upscale, would have these on hand. Lunch was designed for their relaxation, after all, and the world was providing them with the opportunity to be themselves without dawdling over the details of their meals and preparing the little one’s space to avoid a large mess.
“So, have you given any thought to the 20th?” Beth asked once the orders were made. He smiled at this. He had given much thought to that day, which would arrive in three weeks. Their eighth wedding anniversary. This was not as spectacular in tradition as the tenth, twentieth, and so forth. The public tradition gave those anniversaries special names and symbols. The eighth was still two years away from the first of these novelties, but the upcoming anniversary was unique in that they were now in Los Angeles, they had money, the girls were healthy, Rebecca was in a good school, and all had been set in motion for the future. It was the first wholly secure anniversary they had known. Emery had thought it over much, and come up with several ideas for the anniversary. The most prominent in his mind was not the first he spoke however; this utterance was based on another form of celebration entirely.
“Well, I have heard there is a book that outlines many varied acts one might describe as intimate, and that have been constituted illegal in many of the more conservative states in this great country. I suggest you and I get good and soused, and then make an attempt at them all.”
Beth’s eyes widened and she glanced at Rebecca, who seemed to be focused on her meal and not listening, or at the least, not comprehending.
“Husband!” she said in a hushed voice, looking about for possible eavesdroppers. Emery leaned back and enjoyed the quiet restaurant for a moment.
“You’re rather stunning when you’re shocked, you know.”
“We’re in public,” she said with a frown.
“We won’t be later tonight. Once all good children have closed their eyes, we’ll be quite exclusive.”
Beth waved her hand at him with a frown and lowered brows, omening him to cease his cozier approaches while out in the world of wait-staff, menus, and children.
“Voila. Now that I’ve got that off my mind and foreshadowed the wondrous things the evening might have in store,” he said, “I’ll admit I have given a lot of thoug
ht to the anniversary, and I have an idea I think you might like.”
“Cleanly, please.” He gave a small laugh.
“I’m thinking about a trip.”
“Oh?” Her interest in this seemed small, and he faltered a moment.
“Eh… well, we pack up the kids and get out of Hollywood and all this rush for a few days. All of us, as a family.”
“I think I’d like that. Might be fun. Where do you have in mind?”
“I know you’ve always wanted to go, and well, we’re out on this side of the country now, and it could be a lot of fun… so I thought maybe we’d take the drive to the Grand Canyon.” Beth alighted at this and her shoulders lost a touch of their rigidity. She had wanted to see the landmark ever since taking the geology courses she had aced in college. Emery knew this, of course, but his thoughts on the Grand Canyon had been augmented the year prior, when a two passenger planes had collided over the canyon, a tragedy that became a large and heartfelt story in the news. Those passengers that had survived the collision and resulting fiery explosion in the sky found their end eighteen long seconds later, when the poor citizens struck the canyon floor.
Having been a paratrooper in the Pacific, Emery couldn’t help but imagine that fall. Those thrown clear of the explosion would have been deafened. What followed for them had been a horrifying, utterly silent plummet through the clouds and then toward one of the most beautiful things the Earth had ever created. And then into the canyon. All the way down. It had happened in the morning, in June, a time when everything, even the sky, would have felt fresh and crisp. It had happened in that time when the warm summer sunlight always fell upon and lit the world perfectly. The canyon would have been at its most vivid. To Emery, this would have been a dead terrifying, and yet somehow lovely, serene way to arrive at one’s end.
“Could we? Let’s do that!” she said.
“Then that’s it. The Grand Canyon. I know you’ve wanted to go. I figure we’ll drive out, spend a few days, have some fun and see the sights, then drive back. That is, if one of us doesn’t fall over the edge. And we can stay in a lodge.”
“I would love that. So would the girls. It’s terrible about those planes, though.”
“I know. They may have raised prices because of that, too. I imagine there has been a lot of journalists and visitors this last year.”
“But can you get time like that away from work?”
“Not really,” Emery said with a frown, “But I’ll find a way. I could arrange it between shoots and I should have a few writers by then.”
“Please do it, if you can. That would be so nice.”
“Well, there’s a young man starts next week. Lawrence Belmont. Bright kid, hired him after the interview, and he’s got a script or two; knows his way, I think. Publishes in The Gentleman, too. Mostly articles, but a few stories.”
“I don’t like that magazine.”
“I know, but the photographs are just one part of it. There are good writers in The Gentleman, and the fiction editor can really stand on the knife’s edge. Anyway, Larry will be a great help. He’s only been around a little, but he’s done it in a lot of the right places. He said he wrote a few for scripts Oboler, one for that Mitz character, and I know he has a book of short stories out. He’s been working on The Detective Files for the last few months, but he’s more apt for what we’re doing. I could give him a shot at an episode early, see how it pans out. Pick a story that I know would fly and have him pull a conversion, maybe. This would give me a little extra time off.”
“Good. You’re gone most of the time.”
“It’s unending. Having other writers will change quite a bit for me, and the sooner, the better. I have to be careful, and I have to get to know Larry, first, but I think it could work out, and if he’s responsible, you and I could use that as a chance to get away for the trip. You realize there is the chance I might wind up affixed to a telephone a few hours here and there while we’re gone? In fact, more than a chance; it’s assured.”
“Well,” she said, thinking this over, “I suppose I can accept that, if it needs be.”
“Great. I’ll book us a room and talk to Jamison about the time away, get Belmont set up and move things along. Jamison will say no, but there are ways around what Jamison says.”
“I wish there were a way you could be home more often,” she voiced then.
“Writers. That’s all. I’ll have a staff of them, and when that happens, I’ll be on set less. Maybe the same hours as a regular job. Spread out, but not too many. I’ll be home more then.”
“I hope so.”
“It’s inevitable. The pilot aired and the second episode airs Friday. We have the third through sixth episodes shot and cut, working on the seventh and tenth at the same damn time because of near identical locations and sets… we’re just about ahead enough that I can take time off. Regular time off. Scheduled. I’ll be with you more then, that’s a promise.”
This had been promised before; more time together. It had never happened however, and the promise, made every few months, was always hinged on more than Emery’s simple want, or an adjustment of his work schedule. He had been able, before moving to Los Angeles, to compound his work into three-day-long jaunts to New York. He had missed her terribly during those spans, but would then return home and have several days (even a week or two, at times) to be with his family and work on his manuscripts. He was available during this time home, mostly, but now that they had relocated and he was riding the saddle of an anthology program all his own, he was gone most of the day and night, every day and night. He might attempt to adjust his work schedule, gain more time with his family, but Beth knew better; he would try, yes, but it was more likely that his work schedule would adjust him, as had happened before.
Emery glanced at his napkin, the blank white, felt the need of the pen in his pocket. He could jot down a quick note. The windows on the train wouldn’t open, but he could use the shades. A scene presented itself in his mind. He thought of where in the script he could place it. Second act, just before the conductor returns. Emery then swallowed and lifted his gaze from the napkin; put the script of his mind. He made himself present.
“The girls need you, too. Not just me,” Beth said, trying not to sound pushy, but needing to make certain he understood. He was beginning to seem annoyed with the conversation, however. As was his habit, he then swiveled into a more light-hearted mood. Beth’s husband never changed a subject when annoyed. He preferred to start dancing around in it and acting the fool.
“I know. I’ll be home more soon. I can assure it. And listen to me: This is my assurance tone. I’ve practiced it, and I’m using it right now. Do you feel assured? Because my appearance is exuding authority and I think I sound like I’m really assuring.”
“It doesn’t sound that way, no. It sound’s emphatic,” she said.
“Really? I didn’t know I was using my emphatic tone. I’ve been working on that one for awhile, but it’s not ready yet. I thought I turned it off when I left work.”
She drifted off in thought then, behind a slight and noticeably fake smile. His guilt rose. She did not believe him when he promised to be home more. He wanted to be a more usual father and husband, of course, and she no doubt saw this, but Emery was quite shackled to The Other Side, and for necessary reasons. He could see this and began to wonder if he was falling into the hole of being a bad husband, and worse, a bad father. He did not feel this to be the case, but he had a mistress named The Other Side, and she was a demanding, tantrum-throwing, all-consuming creature that wanted a lay at every turn of a clock’s long arm. He needed writers, and quickly.
Belmont would help, if he worked out as well as Emery suspected he would, but there would have to be more. Perhaps the most shame Emery felt was not due to the neglect his family was undergoing, but that he knew he was neglecting them and continued, that he saw them drifting back from his mind a bit with each day, and had run out of ways to apologize. Beth lifted her he
ad then, giving him that look of acceptance, of compromise. This look reached into him expertly and had done so many times before. Beth was so giving. This turned the potentiometer of his guilt up to ten.
“The Grand Canyon,” she mused then, “How many miles away is it?”
“I have no idea,” Emery conceded, “but I’m hoping it’ll feel like a million.”
Dear William,
These are the wine and cheese days, you. Or else the bourbon and Twinkie days. No matter. The same. I’m wasting mine on directed print, I suppose. I have been forbidden from working while on vacation (you’ll remember I told you we were going to the Grand Canyon), and now that the Asher brood has arrived at the edge of its dire heights, and seen them more than the once, I am listless. Empress Beth has allowed me to write a letter, if I deem that I absolutely must. Alone for the moment in our hotel room (Beth is having a swim in the pool and the girls are watching the television), I have to hit a few keys. Keeping my hands away from these keys feels uneconomical and I grow bored with ease. You know me; I can’t sit about.
Well, you’ll be pleased to know that my body is devolving into ape-hood while my understanding of the more usual world has solidified into cold, bronze oarlocks. I row forth with a damp brow. Yes, it should please you that I have contracted the middle-aged twitches and no longer feel to be the scamp out to tease you. Things have never made more sense to me, and yet I have never been so disturbed by other people. Even when I spent time sleeping in the car alongside the highway between New York and home, I had a belief that most people could be counted on to not let things go too far down the troublesome routes, that they thought greatly for themselves and others, and when applicable, acted somewhat on those thoughts. I know better now. They’ll clutch onto the saddles and ride their horses straight into the cold sea if someone with an expensive opinion tells them the grass is greenest there. They fall for things. And stupid things. And bicker over those things with an irascibility I can barely comprehend. I do it too, but I don’t feel any of it. Not really. Therefore, I don’t understand it.