by Denise Dietz
“That’s what I wore when I met you, Tarz. I guess Jane swings like a pendulum do. I guess Panda’s not so pure after all. She’s a slut. No. A slug. Slug is what you put in a slot machine if you want to cheat the house. Everybody cheats.”
“Christ, what’s wrong with her?” Samantha began walking toward the bed.
“We’ve only just begun,” Delly said. “Jules gave me a mink teddy, drenched in semen. I had it dry-cleaned.”
Samantha’s mouth twisted into an ugly scowl. “Jules said he loved Delly best. I kicked him in the balls. He never slapped me, that was a lie, but you swallowed it, Jonny, hook, line, and sinker. So I swallowed you. Don’t you want me, Delly’s boyfriend? Why pretend?”
“Samantha, if you don’t get out of here—”
“Oh, shit. I broke my sworn vow, promised I wouldn’t confess to Delly-Dog, promised I wouldn’t mention the marathon sex on her dopey couch.”
“You’re right, Jonny,” Delly said. “My antiques are junk.”
“I’ve already been offered contracts,” Samantha said. “You can see the slobber on the pages. They’re all drooling, crawling on their hands and knees, trying to lick my butt. You can have my butt, Jonny, anytime. He loves my butt, Dell.”
“You bovine bitch!” Enraged beyond reason, Jon clenched his fists. In another moment he’d sent her reeling.
Samantha’s eyes glittered. “When you come crawling, I’ll kick your balls,” she said. Then she left the room, slamming the door behind her.
Jon lay on the bed and pulled Delly’s body close to his. “It’ll be all right, baby. I’ll make everything right again.”
She sat up and stared at her thumb. “Danny Kaye sang about an ugly duckling, but he also sang about Thumbelina. She was a tiny little thing. I feel so tiny, Jonny. I want to fly away, find some place soft, and disappear.”
“I love you, Delly. I’ve always loved you, from the first moment we met.” He swallowed a sob. “Mercy, Delly.”
“It’s merci, mon—”
“Je lai pardonne de m’avoir offense.”
“I forgive him for having offended me,” she translated. “You speak French. That bit at the restaurant . . . you’re such a fraud . . . just like my sister.”
“Forgive me.”
Momentarily, she was silent. Then she said, “I’ve been captured and locked inside a box . . . Pandora’s box. Do you know what I think? I’ll tell you what I think. Those stupid gods sent Pandora the very first television set and told her not to plug it in. If she did, they said, she’d let loose a swarm of evils upon mankind.”
“Forgive me, Delly. Please. I love you.”
“You can’t love me, Jonny. I’m stuck inside a TV—Pandora’s box. Don’t you see? If you divide an image into a collection of small colored dots, your brain will reassemble the dots into a meaningful image. I’m just a pixel, Jonny. You can’t love me because I don’t exist.”
Intermission
He was surprised by California’s grit and grime. In the movies it looked so clean—bleached beaches and bleached blondes.
The first woman he met was dark-haired and her legs looked like a burnt field of weeds. She said her name was Jane but people called her Doe, and she was a Notre Dame football fan. He said his name was J.S. and he was a Packers fan. They had a lot in common, he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “We got a lot in common. Like, legs. You got hairy legs and I don’t shave mine. I’ll get them waxed after you’ve paid.”
“Pay? Jesus!”
“He’d pay, too. This is Hollywood. Unless you’re a big-shot producer or director, you pay.”
“How much?”
“A hundred.”
“For a C-note, I get to shave your pussy.”
She laughed. “There’s a razor in the bathroom.”
An hour later she wasn’t laughing. Notre Dame had lost a fan and the morgue would soon have a new Jane Doe.
Christ, the porn, he thought, strolling down Sunset Boulevard. Los Angeles was an X-rated movie, projected on an outdoor screen.
Splitting the smoggy sky, a billboard advertised Sean Connery’s new film, Never Say Never Again.
Men and women sported pierced ears.
Sounds from a ghetto blaster pierced his own ears: Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes were up where they belonged.
He felt as if he was where he belonged, and nobody would never say he was a failure again.
A fancy apartment didn’t suit his needs, so he found himself a nondescript motel that rented by the month. All he needed was a bed and a color TV with good reception. “My wife is hooked on soap operas,” he told the motel manager.
He didn’t have a wife.
A wife, however, justified the magazine pictures taped to his wall. Let others get their jollies jacking off from posters of Farrah-the-faucet. His imaginary wife preferred Anissa Cartier. So did he.
He loved Charl. But if she didn’t love him back, she’d die.
ACT THREE
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hollywood, California
Vanessa Williams briefly won the Miss America title.
“I know why she was disqualified,” Maryl said, her voice smug.
“Her provocative photos?” Clearing dirty dishes from the TV tables, Anissa grinned when Maryl captured the last microscopic crumb of chocolate mousse pie with her index finger.
“No, not her photos.” Drew turned off the TV. “It’s because Ms. Williams doesn’t have three names. Right, Maryl?”
“Right. You’re so smart. And they say a man’s brains are in his quick.”
“My quick is feeling very patriotic these days. It keeps wanting to salute.”
“What the bloody hell are you nattering about?” Anissa implored the ceiling.
“Explain it to her, Drew.” Maryl grabbed her purse. “I have to go home now, check out Jonah’s patriotism.”
On October 16, 1983, the Baltimore Orioles defeated Philadelphia four games to one, proving that birds were more powerful than Phillies, and Delly collected her World Series bet from Anissa—fifty cents.
Samantha Gold appeared on The Jonah Wiggins Show, following guest star Pat Huxley. “Poor Python, she’s no match for your sister,” said Maryl, watching the show with Delly. “Jonah will have to bleep half their conversation.”
New story lines developed on Morning Star. Cal investigated Hannah’s murder with a vengeance. Charl recovered from her “mental illness” and moved back into the hub of Wayne County’s social sphere. Her romance with Cal was consummated.
Despite her numerous deceptions, viewers still regarded Charl as a pure goddess. Aware of that attitude, the writers scripted changes. On a visit to Pandora, Charl said that Hannah had been killed before her escape from the mental ward. “I’m not sure I could have gone through with it, Panda,” Charl admitted. “But it doesn’t matter. Hannah was already dead.”
“She was?”
“Yes.”
“Like Robin?”
“Yes, dear. God wanted Robin for His own nest,” Anissa improvised, because Delly’s dialogue hadn’t been in the script. “Play with your baby now, Panda, and I’ll visit you again real soon.”
Afterwards, Anissa confronted Delly inside the makeup room. “Are you feeling all right, love?”
“Sure. Why?”
“That Robin bit was an adlib.”
“It was?”
“We’re lucky Maxine didn’t catch on. I guess she’s preoccupied with Marybeth.”
Ratings had soared when Nurse Marybeth became infatuated with an elderly, distinguished drifter who had mysteriously appeared in Wayne County. The viewers were just beginning to realize that the stranger, played by Christopher Coombs, was really Marybeth’s long lost father.
“Topher” Coombs was Maxine’s latest coup. The gracefully aging actor had been a movie staple for three decades. In his early films he sported a pencil-thin mustache, and he always played the hero’s best friend. During the 1970s he’d starred as a dete
ctive in one short-lived TV series. Until recently, he’d toured the regional dinner theater circuit.
His hair had silvered attractively. His mustache and beard framed a sensual mouth with very white teeth, and he appeared much younger than sixty-something.
One afternoon he invited Delly to his dressing room. “I hear you’ve been given your walking papers,” he said.
She winced. “My contact hasn’t been renewed.”
“Damn shame.” His white teeth flashed. “We’ve hardly had a chance to know each other.”
“Damn shame,” she repeated while her mind raced. I wonder how much influence he has with Maxine. I wonder if he can get Panda reinstated?
Topher rummaged through his wardrobe, pulled a bottle from the pocket of his topcoat, and poured straight bourbon into a couple of water glasses. “Here, baby.”
“I don’t drink anymore, Mr. Coombs. I had a sort of nervous breakdown.”
“Dear child, I understand.”
No, you don’t. Samantha Gold’s a shooting star while Delly Diamond’s a falling star.
“Maybe I will have one drink.” As Delly shook her bangs away from her eyes, she caught her reflection in the dressing room mirror. She had just finished her last scene with Anissa. The shapeless gowns had long ago given way to a variety of sleepwear, and today Pandora wore ruffled shortie pajamas.
Seated on a wooden chair, Topher leaned back against the dressing table and patted his legs. “Sit on Daddy’s lap, baby.”
Anissa said that Randy said that Topher has a thing for whores dressed up as little girls. “I must change my clothes now, Mr. Coombs. Good luck on the show.” Delly drained her glass and headed for the door.
“Maybe I can talk to Miss Graham, convince her to let you stay.”
“Would you, Mr. Coombs?”
“Call me Daddy, baby.”
“Panda would be ever so grateful, Daddy.”
“Pour yourself another nip and sit on Daddy’s lap.”
“I shouldn’t drink, Daddy.”
Because Panda was sick this morning. Delly’s pregnant. Las Vegas. Strip poker. Delly forgot to pack her pills, so Panda has to suffer. Will Topher really talk to Maxine if Panda lets him touch her jammies?
It was worth a try. What did she have to lose? Anyway, Topher’s casting couch was preferable to Judith’s, and booze would help dull her senses.
Delly filled her glass with the last of the bourbon. She took deep gulps.
Panda’s tummy flip-flopped then settled.
Delly aimed the empty bottle toward a wastepaper basket.
“No, no, baby, not there,” Topher said. “Hide the bottle in my coat pocket. That’s a good little girl. Come here and finish Daddy’s drink.”
She did, again gulping quickly. Then she straddled his lap and felt his hands fondle her breasts. He panted and his breath smelled like a Peppermint Patty wrapper. He unzipped his slacks. Above his shorts, he wore an elastic band to flatten his belly.
“Panda drank too fast,” Delly whimpered. “Panda’s dizzy.”
“Daddy will make you feel better.”
Leaning back in his chair, Topher tugged her ruffled panties down her hips and thrust his fingers between her thighs, just like Mr. Hailey, the man in the drugstore, the man who’d given her all that free candy. The come-out-come-out-wherever-you-are, ollie-ollie-income-tax man. Topher even had a Santa-belly and whiskers. Delly then did something she’d wanted to do for more than twenty years. She slapped Mr. Hailey’s face.
Topher’s very white false teeth plopped out and fell into his lap.
Wriggling backwards, Delly screamed, afraid she might get bitten.
Then she screamed again. And again.
On the Jonah Wiggins Show, the one with Samantha, Pat Huxley had told of an actress who auditioned for a famous horror film director on the proverbial casting couch. The ingénue’s orgasmic screams had led to a starring role in one of his movies.
“Stop it,” Topher said. “Shut up! Somebody will hear . . . what do you want, missy? Money?”
Delly swallowed her next scream. “I want to stay on the show. You said you’d talk to Maxine.”
“Yeah. Okay. Sure. You got it.”
Delly stood and hitched up her panties. “For every part, scream, scream, scream,” she sang.
“Get out of here, I’m not kidding. You’re a nut case.”
The bourbon was playing silly buggers in her tummy. Who used to say silly buggers? Randy. She was afraid to move, afraid if she did she’d throw up.
Topher’s face dripped perspiration, revealing age-wrinkles beneath his carefully applied make up, and all of a sudden Delly knew he’d never talk to Maxine. Not in a million years.
So she threw up all over his false teeth.
* * * * *
“What’s the matter, baby?”
“Don’t call me baby.” Delly lifted her face from the pillow and stared at Jon through swollen eyes.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No.”
“Delly, you run inside the house without a word, gulp down three aspirins, bathe for an hour, hit the bed, and—”
“I’ve been fired.”
“Fired?”
“My contract wasn’t renewed.”
“So you’ll find another role, one that’s different, better.”
“True.” Sitting up, she retied the sash on her red kimono. “Drew’s agent has agreed to represent me.”
Jon watched her light a cigarette, a new oral addiction. But cigarettes were preferable to thumb, even though you couldn’t get cancer from thumb.
“Has Samantha returned from Vegas?” Delly blew smoke toward the Humpty Dumpty bank.
“Yes. She flew in for Jonah’s show, flew back, then returned for good today. She cleared out her things while we were both away from home and left a note on the piano, which by the way is now ours, a thank-you gift. Do you want to see it?”
“The piano?”
“No, the note. Are you okay, honey?”
“Sure. Tell me what it says.”
“She’s moving in with Rattlesnake.”
“Did she take Montalban or is he another thank-you gift?”
“He’s gone.”
“Sinbad?”
“He’s still here, inside the guest room.”
“Maybe I should pluck his feathers and roast him for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Jon walked toward the doll shelf. Then he turned and said, “Marry me.”
She shook her head. “Duck Pond’s a success. They say you and Amy will be nominated for Oscars. Sami’s songs have hit the charts. And I’ve been fired.”
“So?”
“I have to get my career on track first, Jonny.”
“Why?”
“Arthur Treacher once said—”
“Anissa once said.”
“Anissa once said, ‘In Hollywood success is relative. The closer the relative, the greater the success.’ By the way, she’s pregnant. Drew looks cocky. So does Cal.” Rising from the bed, Delly grabbed an ashtray and snuffed out her cigarette.
“Do they plan to get married?”
“Yes. Listen to this, Jonny. Morning Star will use an authentic minister when Cal and Charl tie the knot. Then Anissa and Drew will repeat their vows for real. Before I forget, keep a week from Friday night open. The cast plans to give me a goodbye party at the Sawmill. Maxine and Judith have not been invited. Anissa and Drew will be there, of course, along with Echo and Peter, Lizzie and Marshal—remember them?”
“I think so. Doctors, right? Didn’t they once operate on Robert Wagner?”
“You have a phenomenal memory.”
“Fee nominal? Doesn’t that mean insignificant? Trifling?”
“A trifle is candy made from chocolate, butter and sugar.”
“Have some sugar, sugar.” Tilting her chin, Jon kissed her. “The new movie I’m working on has a perfect part for you, and I have enough clout to insist you be cast.”
>
“I thought Barbra Streisand wanted to read your script.”
“She does, but there’s a great supporting role.”
I always play the supporting role.
* * * * *
An organ sounded a wedding march, but the tune that ran through Anissa’s head was “Frankie and Johnnie.”
She glanced up at Drew. He looked resplendent in a black tuxedo whose color matched his eyes. Even here, even now, thick, dark brown hair fell across his forehead and she ached to push it back.
Would he ever do her wrong? He’d have many opportunities. Why had she agreed to this marriage? Because of the baby? Because she was so head over heels in love with Drew Flory, she couldn’t release her breath without sighing his name?
Oh, lordy, how they could love!
Anissa wore an empire-style gown, designed to hide her slight tummy bulge. Multiple layers of tatted antique lace fell to the tips of her heeled sandals. Creamy ribbons had been woven through the lace. A square-necked bodice enhanced her breasts and her gauzy veil was attached to a circlet of fresh flowers.
She and Drew stood before the minister.
“To love, honor and cherish, until death us do part,” she repeated, thinking how Randy would approve. He believed in reincarnation. Maybe a compassionate divinity had slipped Randy’s soul into the fetus that now rested beneath her heart.
Drew placed a gold band on her third finger.
“I pronounce you man and wife,” intoned the minister.
“Beautiful,” said Peter. “Maxine?”
“That’s a wrap,” she said, her voice booming from the overhead speakers.
Drew kissed his new bride. “Okay, darling,” he said, “let’s get married.”
“Yes, let’s,” Anissa replied without hesitation.
* * * * *
An aroma of singed beef and hot au jus filled the room. The house specialty, prime rib platters, had just been delivered to Morning Star cast members. Seated at sawmill tables under redwood beams, other diners gaped at the familiar performers. Several people approached, brazenly asking for autographs.
After the platters had been removed, Drew tapped his water glass with a fork. “I’m not going to make a speech,” he said, and grinned at the spontaneous applause. “Charl?”