Henk placed one firm hand on her left shoulder and said, “Marvelous. Just marvelous.”
“I’ll be back later,” Susan said, allowing her director to spirit her along.
Then the early editions of the next day’s papers arrived.
“We already know what the reviews will say,” Henk said, scoffing. “Don’t even bother to read them.”
But he listened avidly as an unidentified young man read parts of each review to the crowd. “‘
Hester’s Sister
is a cauldron bubbling with darkest emotions, home truths, and terrible secrets.’ ‘Everyone who has ever been a sister—no, make that
everyone
—will weep at Susan Russell’s stunning performance as
Hester’s Sister
.’ ‘A chilling portrait of two sisters and their bleakest hour. Don’t miss Susan Russell.’”
“You know,” Henk said contemplatively, “I have helped bring many shows to the stage. All arrive at a moment of truth—just before opening night, you have a sense, a clear sense, of what will happen to the show. Some you know will fail. Simple as that. Others you hope have a chance for greatness—few do, but you hope. But this play. You just knew.” He waved his hand. “It was perfect, the way each element coalesced.”
“You’ve been an angel before?” I asked.
Henk tossed his blond head back, amused. “Oh, many times. I did
Favorites
. You’ve heard of that, of course.”
“Of course.”
Favorites
had been the hottest show on Broadway two years ago. A waiter delivered champagne to our table. I sipped, feeling myself grow lighthearted. The play’s sober effects were wearing off. Across the room people were toasting Susan, and she was grinning with delight. I felt truly ecstatic for her.
“Well, here’s to Susan,” I said. Lily and Henk clinked glasses with me.
“A
real
actress,” Henk said.
That triggered an alarm in my brain. Was he talking about me? I tried to meet his eyes, but he was smiling at Susan.
“She is wonderful, isn’t she?” I asked, prodding.
“Marvelous. A
truly
devoted artist.” (The “truly” digging in.)
“Oh, I have to use the bathroom. Want to come?” Lily asked me. (A touch panic-stricken, I thought.)
Was I paranoid? I stared at Henk, wanting some clue before I plunged in and extracted things he might not want to say. Yet he seemed to be saying them, however obliquely. I would move slowly. “Henk, did you know that Susan and I were at Juilliard together? Did Lily tell you?”
His controlled blue eyes finally settled on me. “Yes, of course. But you weren’t there for long, were you?”
“Well, for three years.”
He nodded, his attention moving back to Susan. “Yes, most likely you did not feel the need to graduate. For that TV program.”
A definite barb. Quite poisonous. I hated myself, but blood rushed into my face, revealing my hurt feelings to Henk. Lily prodded my foot under the table; I followed her to the bathroom, where ferns hung from black pipes and purplish plant light flooded the pink-tiled room.
“He didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Lily said. “He’s just a terrible snob.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“He really hates soap operas—I don’t know why. He says he can tell everything about his women patients by whether or not they watch soap operas.”
Actually that made some sense to me. Lily, Margo, and I had once discovered you could tell plenty about a person by the shoes he or she wore. A person who watches soaps is sensitive, probably lonely, and probably female. “My producer says that most of our audience are college graduates. I wonder if Henk knows that.”
Lily patted my back. “I doubt it. He just has this thing about soaps. He does love you, though.”
“
Oh, sure he does!
” I said, shoving Lily against the tiles and starting to babble. “You’ve been married to him since
January one
and this is only the
third
time I’ve seen you it makes me sick we’re supposed to be
sisters
what the hell’s the matter is he keeping you
prisoner
does he
hate
me oh God that play really got me.”
Lily and I hugged, weeping together. My head was resting on her shoulder, and I could see my tears spreading in a deep circle on her mauve silk blouse.
“He doesn’t hate you,” she said. “I swear it. He just wants me alone for a while. We’re newlyweds…” Sob, sob, sob.
“I’m trying to understand that,” I said, calming myself. “But when you consider how close we have always been, this new business is shocking.”
Lily began to regard her face in the mirror. She was trying not to hear me. I recognized the mechanism; denying the problem could make it disappear, the way I had tried to handle Joe.
“Can you please talk to me?” I asked.
“All right. Henk seems to need me to himself right now. Like he told you—he’s not used to close families, close sibling relationships.”
It was the old line Henk had handed me at dinner that night, yet the phrase “sibling relationships” sounded too clinical, too textbook perfect to describe what went on among me, Lily, and Margo. And here was Lily, repeating it like a prize student.
“One important fact you seem to neglect, my sweet: Margo and I are the siblings. Don’t you think we’ll do our best to make him comfortable?” I made myself sound surer than I felt. “Don’t you think we’ll welcome him with all we’re worth? And don’t say he’s insecure.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Lily said, looking surprised.
The bathroom door opened and Susan flew in. “Henk said you guys…oh, Jesus. Exit, stage left.”
“No, wait—it’s okay,” Lily said nervously. “I’d better get back to the table.” She left in a hurry.
Susan and I stood in the middle of the bathroom. Her face and the starched white front of her shirt appeared lavender in the strange light. I made a great effort to smile. “See what you can do?” I asked, gesturing at the bathroom door through which Lily had just left. “Your play is so powerful, you’re stirring things up between me and Lily.” It was true.
She looked dubious. “There’s more to it…”
“So what if there is? You’re the catalyst. Now let’s go out there. Louis must be dying of pride for you right now.”
“He is a bit puffy.”
“I’ve got to go kiss him.” We walked into the restaurant, where a few people started applauding instantly. We headed for Louis, who was hugging a fat champagne bottle to his portly chest. I bent him over backwards, planting a wet kiss on his full lips, and then I rejoined Lily and Henk, who were cuddling at the table and hardly even noticed when I sat down.
“Listen, Una,” Henk said, his eyes concerned. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. You ran away so fast, we didn’t have a chance to discuss everything.”
The harder I tried to relax, the stiffer I became. “Oh? What should we have discussed?”
“Come on, Una,” Lily said. “Try to get—”
“
Liebchen
, this is between me and your sister. It is important that she accept me as a member of the family,” Henk said. “I see the problem constantly with patients.”
“Wait one minute—do you think I haven’t accepted you?” I asked, fuming. “I would love to be friendly with you. Haven’t I said that a million times?” I looked to Lily, who nodded but clearly didn’t want to cross Henk by speaking.
He patted my shoulder. “My dear, we somehow started on the wrong foot. It makes my beloved so sad when you and I quarrel. We can start over,” he said sincerely, smiling in a way that cajoled me to join him. “So, we had a misunderstanding tonight. What about it? What’s the harm?”
Wanting to be clear, I asked, “What
was
the misunderstanding?”
“Oh, about the medium, your TV program. I attacked the soap opera, not you. Lily tells me you’re the best actress performing on TV, and I believe her. If she says you’re the best, you’re the best.”
I said nothing, trying to determine whether I had just received an apology. Whatever it was, Lily’s eyes begged me to accept it. I smiled, leaning across the table to shake Henk’s hand. But I wondered. Lily needed him too badly. And even as I smiled at him, his eyes held me at bay. Lily could delude herself, but Henk and I knew just where we stood. He pretended to pull, but he was pushing with all his might.
Chapter 8
O
n
Beyond the Bridge
, Delilah’s life was once again building toward a homicidal crescendo with her, naturally, as the upcoming victim. Her patient, Nancy Vaughn, appeared to be merely a neurotic cub reporter when in fact she was a psychopathic killer. She had killed before, and she would kill again. She had murdered a landlady, an indigent amnesiac, and a previous lover. She had left a trail of bodies from California to Mooreland, along with an equal number of identities. She had been Joralemon Trabert, Mary Smith, Mary Smitten, Gayle Horton, Gail Appleby, and Sandi Greene, but it was Nancy Vaughn who would attack Delilah. Delilah had no idea. Her relationship with Beck was going well, and that made her happy.
Why didn’t Delilah marry Beck? The real reason, according to Chance, was that their often-thwarted love match made the show’s most popular story line. Chance feared that if he ever let the marriage take place, the viewers would let out little sighs of contentment and immediately switch the channel. Thus, the scriptwriters kept throwing spanners into the works of romance, taking Beck and Delilah close to the altar, then giving one of them amnesia, a new love interest, or a death threat as a way out.
During those weeks when spring turned to summer, I continued my crazy pace. I flew around the country making appearances whenever my shooting schedule allowed. Susan and
Hester’s Sister
were featured in the arts sections of newspapers from New York to San Francisco. The play had already been booked for Broadway in the fall; there was talk of a national tour and a movie. I would read those articles and fight down my envy. Susan was having exactly what everyone dreamed about when they began drama school: artistic success. Remaining true to one’s ideals while making a bundle in the process. Alone in hotel rooms at night I would get halfhearted urges to call Joe or Mrs. Finnegan and listen to them tell me what a wonderful actress I was. But that would be no different from the waitresses, flight attendants, women wearing business suits on the streets of St. Louis, Phoenix, and Denver saying, “We love you, Delilah.” It was lovely, but I kept thinking of Edmund Wicklow saying of Susan in
Manhattan News
, “What an exceptional talent!”
When I did return to New York, I slept or worked. Susan had performances every night as well as matinees on Wednesday. Lily had been skittish with me since the opening-night party. I spent all my free time alone, but I no longer tried to avoid Joe. When we met in the building or the stores along Hudson Street, we would smile grimly and say hello. There was nothing left to discuss since that morning after our last night together, but at least we had resolved matters between us.
I was lying on my bed one warm night early in July when my phone rang. It was Margo.
“You promised me you’d come stay at Matt’s inn,” she said.
“That’s right. I did. I remember that.”
“Well, my school year’s over, and I’m in Watch Hill for good. When can you come?”
“I’ll talk to Chance and see what I can do,” I said, and then I listened to Margo coo about Matt.
“Anything new with Lily?” she asked after a while.
“Not really.”
“Well, she called me the other day. We talked about Henk.”
“Did she tell you about the things he said to me at the party?”
“Yes. She doesn’t know what to do about it. My theory is, he wants to scare us off. He needs her all to himself…”
“Margo, if I hear that one more time, I’ll punch a wall. Henk has about four phrases in his vocabulary, when it comes to our family, and they keep going around and around. He thinks his Dutch accent makes them sound less insane.”
“Well, we have to give Lily a chance. She will convert him. From everything she says, he’s quite—”
“Don’t say ‘insecure.’”
“Okay, I won’t.” She giggled.
“They’ve been married for six months. Don’t you think a pattern has been set?
My
theory is that he uses mind control. He exerts a charming sort of influence over her. Every time we’ve been together, Lily has gotten excited over something about our family. And
every time
, Henk nips it in the bud. Cuts her right off. It’s true.”
“Should we rescue her? I mean, do you think she’s being brainwashed or anything? Like Patty Hearst or a Moonie?”
I thought about it. “I do think she’s being brainwashed, but willingly. We can’t rescue her. She’s in love with him.
That
much is obvious.”
“I’ll never let her go,” Margo said fiercely.
I said nothing.
“I’m serious about this,” she continued. “You’ve alerted me—I can’t say I notice anything alarming when I talk to her. But you’re there. I trust your instincts.”
But were they sound? It was the question I asked myself each time I encountered the Voorheeses. Is Henk evil or am I crazy? Or
am
I jealous of Henk for having Lily to himself, of Lily for having a handsome husband who loves her?
“Who knows?” I said to Margo. “We’ll talk more when I visit.”
“Call soon to let me know when?”
“I will. I promise. I love you.”
The annual
Beyond the Bridge
staff picnic was held the following weekend at Chance and Billy’s summer place at North Haven, the peninsula just beyond Sag Harbor on Long Island’s east end. I sat beside Stuart MacDuff on one of the three buses Chance had chartered. “Where’s Margie?” I asked.
“Margie MacDuff is sitting in the back of the bus with Pauline the makeup girl. Says she sees enough of me at home, wants to mingle.”
I chuckled, thinking of Margie and her no-nonsense way of handling Stuart. “Beautiful day for the picnic.”
“Mmmm.”
I leaned back in my seat to read the
Times
and let Stuart sleep. He was notorious for taking quick naps on the set whenever he could find time. I gazed out my window and watched suburbia give way to the Long Island landscape of scrub pines, sand hills, and marshes. “We there yet?” Stuart asked when he wakened.
“Not quite.”
“So, who’s along on this jaunt, anyhoo?” he asked, craning his neck and turning his leonine gray head from side to side, nodding regally at the people he saw. Stuart was loved by the entire cast; he reminded everyone of their fathers or the fathers they wished they had. “Don’t see Jason, but maybe he’s on one of the other coaches. He say whether he was coming or not?”
“He wasn’t sure. He wanted his friend to come, and he said his decision would depend on that.”
Stuart shook his head. “Poor kid. He goes through hell for that friend. I say he should give him the bum’s rush.”
“Jason’s worried about his age. He’s afraid of getting old.”
Stuart smiled at me, his eyes twinkling like Santa’s. “Aren’t we all? That’s the secret Jason should take note of—not one of us is getting any younger.”
Chance and Billy were standing on their front steps when the buses drove into their circular drive. Billy wore one of Chance’s old shirts over her bathing suit, while Chance looked as if he had stepped directly off the yacht club dock: pressed white duck trousers, a navy sports shirt, spanking-white deck sneakers.
“Welcome, halloooo, you’re here!” Billy called.
She and Chance greeted each person and directed them to the bathhouses. Then she came toward me. I liked to think the Schutzes had a special feeling for me; they certainly seemed to. No matter what the gathering, they sought me out and insisted I sit at their table. Billy told me that Chance felt a particular pride for my work since he had “discovered” me. She quickly added, “Of course you were destined for success, but you can imagine how much pleasure it gave him to offer a green kid like you a star spot on the show.”
“Una, dearie,” she said, kissing my cheek. “Chance tells me you’ve been quite the jet-setter.”
“Oh, my public appearances,” I said, striking a campy pose.
“She’s done very well for the show,” Chance said, grave as always, giving me a formal peck on the lips. “Ratings are higher than ever, and we may win some awards this year.”
“Awards?” I asked. That was the first I had heard of it. Usually when
Beyond
was in strong contention for an Emmy nomination or an award given by one of the other broadcasting organizations or publications, the grapevine grabbed onto it early.
“Just a possibility,” Chance said, enigmatically. Of course, he said just about everything enigmatically.
“You must get right into your bathing suit,” Billy said, patting my bottom and pushing me toward the bathhouse. “The water is heavenly.”
Such an idyllic picnic! The Schutzes had set up volleyball and badminton nets, a croquet court, and a lawn-bowling area. Two bars equipped with everything from chilled Russian vodka to fresh lemonade stood at opposite ends of the beach. Wearing my black tank suit, I walked along the seawall to the steep flight of stone steps, and descended to the beach. Scallop beds lay just offshore, and the sand was covered with silver, apricot, and umber shells. I picked up a few small ones and rattled them in my hand. All around me my colleagues were frolicking—in the water, on the beach, on the lawn. I tried to be objective: if I were in a Broadway play and were having an outing, would it be better than this? No. Certainly not. But perhaps it would have been better deserved.
I spotted Jason lying beside a young Asian man on a green wool blanket. Both wore low-rise bathing suits and had tremendous tans.
“Darling,” Jason called to me. I walked toward him and was shocked by his feverishly happy expression. I hadn’t seen him look that way for weeks. “Una Cavan, meet Terry Matsomo.” Terry and I shook hands, then Terry went back to playing indolently with a seagull feather. Inviting myself, I sat down beside Jason. We watched Marilee Duncan, the actress who played Nancy on the show, try to pull up the blue-and-white-striped sail on a windsurfer. Down the beach a few sound technicians and cast members were playing volleyball with a huge yellow beachball. Margie MacDuff and Art Panella walked past with tall glasses of strawberry daiquiri.
“My, such a colorful party,” Jason said, “and so handsomely cast.”
“It is,” I agreed, suddenly recalling my old fantasy about the
Beyond the Bridge
cast as a family with Chance and Billy as our parents. It seemed particularly true that day; the jitneys had transported us to this peninsula far from the city, across the causeway,
Beyond the Bridge
to this
Brigadoon
time warp. On the bus, people had been dozing and talking in low tones, and I sensed that we all felt the same warm camaraderie. On the show we played characters who were lovers, family, enemies; we saw each other nearly every day, during which we filmed intensely intimate scenes with each other. It was impossible for that not to carry over into our real lives. Certainly Jason annoyed me when he forgot his lines, just as Art annoyed me when he forced me to redo a scene because I hadn’t been “vulnerable enough.” But I had been on the show for eight years, and the bonds had grown strong. Like members of a family, we eventually forgave each other.
“What’s that?” Jason asked, watching me rub sunscreen on my arms. “Is that why you’re such a ghost all the time?”
“Unfortunately I don’t have your deep Mediterranean complexion. I never tan—I just burn and peel. It’s my lot in life.”
“Oh, but a little
color
…You should go to a tanning salon. They have experts there who control exactly how many rays you get.”
Tanning experts made me think of radiation therapists. During my father’s treatment for cancer of the lymph system, his radiologist had misjudged how much radium his body could take, and in his zeal to kill the tumors he had also killed my father’s intestines. He shrank them to the diameter of straws. My father’s stomach turned leathery black, and for the rest of his abbreviated life he had to eat baby food and wear two colostomy bags. I looked away from Jason smearing olive oil on his deep-brown stomach.
Chance strolled along the seawall with Hank Ahrens, an associate producer. I reminded myself to ask about time off to visit Margo. A current, deeper blue than the rest of the water, bisected Shelter Harbor Sound and twisted around the headland. Beyond the land lay Gardiners Bay, then the Atlantic, and then Watch Hill. Margo was just thirty or so miles northeast across the water from where I rested. I felt sad then, thinking of truth versus fantasy, my real family versus my television family. Still, it was Jason beside me, not Margo, talking in gentle tones about how I could look and feel one hundred percent better if I’d only get a little color in my face. Presence is everything. I reached for Jason’s hand and held it, out of Terry’s sight, watching Marilee skitter past on the sailboard like a young girl on roller skates for the first time.
Looking for Chance, I found Billy on the wide porch. Four wicker rockers lined the slatted floor, looking east to the water. The ceiling overhead had been painted light blue, to resemble the summer sky. I sat beside Billy in one of the rockers, and we propped our feet on the porch rail.
“How’s it going?” Billy asked, and I knew she meant the party. She was a nervous host.
“It’s fantastic. As usual, everyone is having a ball. Can’t you tell?” We listened for a few seconds to the pitch of voices coming from all over the compound. The bash was in full swing: people were playing games, romances were starting up, the beach resounded with jolly noise. “Do you think Chance will give me some time off? I want to visit Margo.”
“Of course he will. You’ve been such a workhorse this year. Chance says you are singularly responsible for at least four rating points.” She grinned at me and must have seen something in my expression. “Aren’t you proud of yourself?”
“Sure I am.” Doubtfully.
“You don’t sound it.”
How much should you tell the boss’s wife, even if she is a very good friend? Perhaps it was the day, my mood, the fact that we were staring at the sparkling Sound instead of the grimy streets of Manhattan; anyway, I decided to risk it. “I’m not sure it’s enough. Remember my friend Susan Russell?”
Billy nodded.
“Well, I don’t have to tell you how she’s doing. I’m sure you’ve seen the reviews and advertisements.”