by Rona Jaffe
In his mind’s eye he saw that white carpet, thick and clean, the red blood the color of a velvet petal seeping and staining, her sad pale face with a look of surprise at what she had actually done. If he had been delivering an order, and if he had been allowed into the house, and if there had been no one there, he might have been the one who found her. It would have been a lesson to him that money could not buy happiness, and that other people’s marriages held strange and terrible secrets. It might have changed his life.
And as it was, it did. Perhaps some other incident might have, for it was inevitable, but this was the one that did. Four years later, when Clay escaped his hometown and went to New York to City College, he found himself sitting in someone’s small apartment with a group of students, all talking about their lives, and he realized that nothing interesting had ever happened to him. He remembered Rose. He had thought about that dreadful suicide off and on through these past years, and every time it became more real to him, more as if the grisly discovery had really happened to him, that he was there. Rose had happened to him, and her death had happened to him—who was to say not? And in that instant, that small click of the mind, the delicate difference between truth and fantasy, between creativity and lying, disappeared.
He told his new friends the story of how he had found Rose’s body. As he told it his voice caught in his throat and his eyes filled with tears. They were moved. Years later he would tell the story to Laura Hays.
Changing the truth was always easy after that. He saw it as it was, and then as he wanted it to have been, or to be, and he believed it. Sometimes, if it was necessary for his career, he was quite aware he was lying. But even then, there was a sincerity about him, because a part of him wanted so much to believe what he was saying, wanted it to be true.
After a year at City College, Clay couldn’t wait any longer: he got a job at Artists Alliance International, at that time the most prestigious and powerful talent agency in America, starting in the mailroom and lying, saying he was a college graduate. He said he was twenty-one. With charm, intelligence, and long extra hours, he quickly worked his way up to being an agent with his own clients, and by then when he finally admitted to his boss that he wasn’t a college graduate and was really two years younger than he’d said he was, his boss laughed and thought it was great. They called him the prodigy, and later, the golden boy.
He thrived on action and success, and became indispensable to his clients, spending as much time with them as they wanted. He was best friend, nurse, sounding board, adviser. He stopped short of being lover, to the difficult female client who wanted him, because he knew that was a way to make a future enemy. He managed to put her off and keep her as a friend, which was not easy, since saying no at the beginning was as dangerous as saying it in the end. He knew some other agents had affairs with their clients, but he didn’t want the aggravation.
He knew he wasn’t going to be an agent forever. His goal was to be head of a studio, or even a television network. It was the Fifties now, the cable link between the East and West coasts was complete, and America had nationwide television. Clay had a creative mind, and he put together ideas for shows for his own people, selling two to the networks in one year. He put together packages, which was what the large agencies like AAI wanted because they could get work for more of their clients and take a percentage off the top.
His shows were hanging in there, his clients had become famous, and in the business they knew his name. Everyone said he would be a wonderful producer—someday. Clay knew it would happen sooner. He was on a lifetime roll. It frightened him a little, like being on a ride at the amusement park, but this one was for real.
His first attack happened at the Emmys. Several AAI actors, writers, and producers had been nominated, and Clay felt proud to be a part of the agency and eager to be on his way to bigger things. He looked around the enormous room filled with people; so many household names, so many kingmakers, so many sweaty palms. These were his peers and his competition; his world. And out there, unseen, was the bigger world, the real kingmakers: the public. You could laugh at them and say they were stupid, you could jeer at their level of taste, but they owned you. His future, all he had ever wanted, was in the control of people he only pretended to know. He suddenly felt very sick.
His heart was pounding so hard he could feel the beat of it in his ears. It seemed ready to rip itself out of his chest. He broke into a cold sweat. The room began to reel, the faces in it seemed distorted and out of focus, and he thought he was going to throw up. He thought of running to the men’s room, but he was too dizzy to stand, or to even move. He couldn’t catch his breath. He felt the perspiration pouring down his body, soaking his suit. For a moment he was sure it was a heart attack. But, a man in his mid-twenties with no history of heart trouble didn’t.… People were looking at him.
“I ate a bad clam,” he said. His voice sounded like a croak. Had he eaten a bad clam? No, he’d been living on black coffee and lukewarm hamburgers at his desk. And he hadn’t been out to dinner for … He felt his heart pounding at his temples now, his head threatening to explode. His fingers had turned numb.
If he could only catch his breath … just breathe … he was going to die, he knew it. Or pass out … maybe it would be better if he passed out, then he could relax and breathe.…
And then, slowly, slowly, his heart began to return to its normal beat, and he was able to breathe again. His shirt looked as if he’d taken a shower in it. He closed his fingers into fists and opened them; he could feel them now. One of the clients from the agency had won and he hadn’t heard the announcement. These had been the most terrifying moments of his life. He didn’t even know how many moments it had been. He would go to the doctor the first thing in the morning.
The doctor he found through someone outside the agency, so there would never be any gossip if he were seriously ill, gave Clay a thorough checkup including an EKG and pronounced him in excellent health. It had been an anxiety attack. Was there something bothering him? Some problems at work? No, nothing. He was on a roll. Life was good. The doctor prescribed a mild tranquilizer in case it happened again.
Back at the office Clay told the people who had seen his anxiety attack that clams were really dangerous. It turned out that although he had looked very sick and peculiar it had been nothing compared to the way he felt, and no one was particularly interested anyway since it was a new day with new work to be done. The next attack didn’t happen again for a long time, and Clay began leaving his little vial of tranquilizers at home. He didn’t want to wonder why it happened and he didn’t want to think about it. He knew who he was and who he wanted to be. Self-examination only screwed up your life.
Time went by, he was almost twenty-seven now, and most of his friends were married. You took out a girl, and if you didn’t propose after a few months she did. Then you broke up. One of these days he’d have to marry somebody, he supposed, but she would have to be the best. A man should marry and have a child, that was part of a normal life, but Clay wanted a wife who would be able to keep up with him as he rose in his career, someone who would attract attention and be admired, but who would also think he was the best. He was getting too old for his stark, sophisticated bachelor apartment; it had become a cliché. He wanted a real home and antiques. He also wanted to be in love, or at least completely infatuated, swept away. He didn’t know who this future mystery woman would be, but he’d know her when he saw her, and he wanted her to be his trophy.
One night a client dragged him to the ballet. Since the ballet was not apt to produce any interesting contacts for him, Clay never went. But this was the Metropolitan Ballet, his client told him, and Rudofsky was the best, and his ballet Sinners was amazing because of the presence of the dancer Laura Hays. Afterward they would go to dinner and meet her.
Onstage, Clay liked her grace, discipline, and form. She seemed like a tiny aristocratic racehorse; a Thoroughbred. She was so agile and limber he wondered what she would be li
ke in bed. He studied her photograph in the program because she was wearing such strange makeup it was difficult to tell what she really looked like, and even though the photos were usually retouched he was interested by her look of coldness: Don’t touch me, I’m too good for you. He wondered if she had buck teeth. At the end, when she stepped out from behind the closed curtain to receive her ovation he saw she did not, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He had never heard such applause, such cries of Brava!, such acclaim. She was brought bouquets of red roses so big it seemed she wouldn’t be able to carry them. She bent her graceful neck to accept all this, she curtsied, and when she stood up again there was a look on her delicately chiseled face that said: I deserve it.
What a position to be in, Clay thought. That little creature on the lip of the enormous stage, in this vast hall, receiving wild homage from multitudes of people—worship even. You didn’t see it in the theatre because the theatres weren’t as large as this, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. He was looking forward to meeting her.
He had expected a prima donna, but Laura Hays was not. She was sweet, a bit reserved, perhaps even timid, but aware of who she was. And everyone else was aware of who she was, too. He was attracted to her immediately, and set out to charm her. At the end of the evening he knew he was on his way. He also knew he had found what he had been looking for: his romantic mystery woman, his trophy, his future wife.
He was swept by infatuation, and when he began courting her with all the powers he had at his command the infatuation combined with the challenge and joy of winning to the point where he was unclear whether he was in love with Laura or the situation, but he didn’t care or even really try to separate them. It was like making the perfect package deal.
She obviously loved him. His work and energy fascinated her, his charisma soothed her. She would be the worshipful wife. His glittering conquest would sit beside him and make his life complete. No more bachelor apartment. A luxurious co-op with huge windows overlooking the park and rooms filled with shining antiques. A child, preferably a beautiful daughter who would be daddy’s girl. He had come a long way from Glenville.
And so, quite quickly as befitted a perfect romance, Clay Bowen and Laura Hays were married. He married his trophy. He had no idea how soon she would become an annoyance.
7
1969—NEW YORK
“You are going to win an Academy Award for this,” Ergil Feather said. He was holding Susan’s article in his hand. They were in his very expensive pastel-colored suite in his very expensive New York hotel, having lunch. An opened bottle of champagne was in a cooler beside the table, and there was lobster salad. Susan did not like to drink at lunch and she was a little high, but the man would have impressed her anyway. Six feet tall, very tan, with grayish hair and piercing blue eyes, every line on his face that came from sun, cigarettes, or squinting seemed a mark of character and sophistication. He was in his early forties, an older man, and only a dead person would have thought he wasn’t sexy.
“Do you really think so?” she said.
“I’m sure of it. I’m very excited. This is so timely, and says so much about what’s going on now. The writing is exquisite. Perceptive, sensitive, funny. Everyone will identify. Gabe Gideon is a wonderful character.”
“Person,” she said. “He was a person.”
“Of course.” He smiled at her and lit another cigarette. “Do you think you could come out to Hollywood in June or July?”
“Sure,” Susan said. “But I’d like to write the first draft here and bring it out with me.”
“Fine.” He refilled her glass of champagne. She noticed that it was Dom Pérignon. Not bad at all. Magno must have given him a very big budget. Or maybe Ergil Feather was just used to living well. Or maybe he wanted to impress her. Academy Award …!
“How long would you want me to stay?”
He looked her over. “Six weeks should be enough time to get a script. I’ll arrange for you to become a member of the Writers Guild. I’ll also arrange for the hotel and get you an office at the studio. I’ll handle all your expenses. Do you have any preference about the hotel or do you want to leave it to me?”
“I’ll leave it to you,” Susan said. She couldn’t believe all this was happening to her. She knew nothing about the relationship between producers and scriptwriters, but she was determined to bring to Hollywood a first draft he would love, so he would be proud of her and think she was worth all this professional attention.
“What kind of car do you want?”
She was going to say ‘Anything with an automatic transmission,’ but then she thought how completely insane all this was, as if she were starring in the movie, not writing it, and she said, half joking, “Oh, just a Cadillac convertible, preferably baby blue.”
“Done.” He wrote it down on a pad. “You’ll like the Chateau Marmont, I think. A lot of New York writers stay there.”
“Does the Garden of Allah still exist?” She had read about it—Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, some of the literary greats who had written movies there.
“Oh no, it’s long gone. But the Marmont’s much the same thing. I’ll get you a nice suite, maybe a bungalow if they have one. Summer’s an easy time, we should have no problem.”
Summertime, and the livin’ is easy, Susan thought.
“We’ll have to think about casting,” he said. “I’ll give you a list for your opinion. I want your input on everything.”
“Thank you.” She was so impressed with this man that she thought it would be no effort at all to have a crush on him.
“Is there anyone you want to bring with you?” he asked.
“Bring?”
“A husband … boyfriend?”
“No. I don’t have either one at the moment.”
“Well, that’s good. They like to hang around and make suggestions.”
“This is a world I don’t know,” Susan said. “Boyfriends making suggestions.” But of course she did; they all tried to be creative, especially if they had nothing else to do.
He smiled so broadly he almost laughed. “You are turning out to be an extraordinary woman,” he said. “We should have fun together.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said.
“So am I.” He nodded. “The Academy Award. I can’t wait.” He took a pad of lined legal paper from the desk and tore off the top several sheets. “I laid out the scenes for you,” he said. “It will make things less difficult for you since you’ve never written a script before.”
She took the pages. They weren’t a treatment; they were actually a list of scenes, all numbered in order. He’d broken it down; how nice of him. She looked at it and was touched that he would do it for her. “This must have been a lot of work,” Susan said.
“It’s what I do,” said Ergil Feather. “I’m a producer. I want to be helpful.”
“Thank you.” She folded the list and put it into her handbag.
He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting at two.” He stood up and held out his hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow before I leave for California.”
“Thank you for the lovely lunch,” she said, shaking hands.
He put his arm around her shoulders and steered her to the door. “There will be many more,” he said.
She was so excited that she walked all the way home, thinking about the script. But the image of receiving an Academy Award kept intruding, even though she didn’t believe it for a minute. Yet he had seemed so sure. Whom should she thank? I want to thank Seltzer, for putting the make on Dana, so I had to come along and meet Gabe? I want to thank Dana? I want to thank my Smith-Corona electric typewriter and my el cheapo bargain typing paper for making this script possible? I want to thank my good friend and collaborator Ergil Feather? Let’s not get carried away here: Ergil Feather is not my collaborator, he’s the producer. He gave me my chance, but I’ll be the one to write the script. I owe it to myself and to my career.
She wondered if when she made her acce
ptance speech she should wear a black strapless dress.
When she got home she read Ergil’s notes, and then she called Dana and told her all about the lunch. “The man has eyes for you,” Dana said.
“Do you think so?”
“You bet your sweet bippy.”
“He’s probably married,” Susan said.
“Since when has that ever stopped any of them? But it happens he’s not.”
“Not married?”
“Not at the moment. Not gay either. A bit of a ladies’ man, but who isn’t?”
“You are a very good little detective,” Susan said. “I think I have a crush on him.”
“Flattery and the promise of fame are powerful aphrodisiacs,” Dana said.
“But he’s gorgeous!”
“He could be a toad—it works anyway.”
“Come out to L.A. with me,” Susan said. Suddenly the prospect of six weeks in a strange city frightened her, even though she would be working. “I don’t know anybody, I’ll have a whole bungalow, and you can go to auditions.”
“God, do I need them,” Dana said.
“So come.”
“I’ll make Seltzer set things up. He’s always promising me. If I could get a part in a movie … even a one-shot on TV … I was trying to get something in summer stock, but this sounds better.”
“We’re bound to meet people,” Susan said.
“I know lots of people on the Coast. Half my acting class has defected. It will be just like here; boring, boring; people sitting around the bars crying that they have no luck.”
“The thing I like about you,” Susan said, “is that you’re always so positive,” which of course meant that neither of them could wait to go.
It took Susan only four weeks of concentrated work to write the first draft of her script. Her agent and Dana had given her other people’s movie scripts to learn the correct form from, and she had a book with all the proper technical terms. But she saw the movie before her eyes in a way that was so real that most of the time she simply wrote what she saw. This story had happened to her in actual life, it had happened on the pages of her article, and now it was happening up there on an imaginary screen, and throughout the entire time she was working she had the eerie feeling of automatic writing. Her fingers flew over the keys of her typewriter; the only thing holding her back was decisions about what kind of shot to say it was, or to say it at all. Perhaps the director would think she was being presumptuous, but she saw that other scriptwriters did it, and even if her shots got thrown out at least putting them in made everything seem so much more vivid.