Miracle (39 page)

The next morning she carried a briefcase full of production schedules outside and sat in a pink lounge chair beside the pink-tiled pool. But she couldn’t work. She could only look blankly at the surroundings. “I have arrived,” she said out loud. “But I’m not sure where I am.” She put a Walkman over her ears and listened to Edith Piaf sing mournful French ballads, which made her feel like crying.

Elliot burst out of the house, whooping. Naked, smelling of bourbon, he pounced on her, tossed the Walkman and the paperwork aside, pulled her from the lounge chair, and stripped the black maillot from her body. “Isn’t this great?”

She struggled playfully, relieved by the distraction. “I’m glad you leased a home with a privacy fence.”

“Decadent Californians. That’s what we are!”

“You were decadent before.”

“But now I’m getting a tan!” He tossed her into the pool and jumped in after her. By the time she came up, slinging hair from her eyes and coughing, his hands were between her legs, pulling her to him. “Hitch your wagon to a star. Hmmm. Nice wagon.”

“Nice star.” He flipped her over and jammed himself into her from behind. Off-balance in water that was too deep for such activity, she flailed about, feeling ridiculous and trying to keep her head above water. “Elliot! Elliot, I don’t want to drown like this! It would be too embarrassing!”

His rhythmic pumping quickened. A second later he groaned and stiffened against her, jerking her even tighter against him. Then he slumped over her and, breathing heavily, kissed the nape of her neck. “Fantastic. Flipper would be proud of us.”

She disengaged herself and turned to face him. His hair was plastered to his head, his face was red; he grinned at her. He made a handsome, mischievous picture, but as she searched her mind she couldn’t recall the last time she’d really wanted him to touch her.

“Elliot, when we make love there ought to be a laugh track. And most of the time, I don’t get the joke.”

He looked wounded. “Baby, we have a lot of fun.”

“Sometimes I’d like to be sentimental, you know, with soft music, and candles, and a few sweet words.”

He put his arms around her. “Okay. You mean everything to me, right? You work your ass off to keep me out of trouble; you take care of my business so that all I have to do is be a fucking star. And you don’t ask for much in return. I love you for it.”

Amy shivered. He loved her for being a dutiful helpmate. Who wouldn’t love someone who gave everything and expected nothing? But she needed to take care of him, she needed to make him happy, because it made her feel worthwhile. Confused, she shut her eyes. No, she was being cranky. She had everything she could want. What was wrong with her?

“Marry me,” he whispered.

She jerked her head back and looked into his eyes. “How much did you have to drink before you came out here?”

“I’ve thought about this for a long time. Now that everything is perfect, we should make it more perfect. Say you’ll marry me. Hey, you know all my faults. What have you got to lose?”

“That’s one way of looking at it. Aw, Elliot, comeon now. You’re joking, aren’t you?”

He frowned. “No. I expected you to be happy about it.”

“I am, but it’s just such a shock. We never talked about getting married before.”

“Don’t you want to be Mrs. Elliot Thornton? Don’t you
know how much money I stand to make in the next few years? I’m going to be a comedy
mogul
. Don’t you want to be part of that?”

“I’m part of it already.”

“Yeah, but you always get weird when I try to buy you things. You’ll live with me but you won’t let me give you presents.”

“I’m an old-fashioned sort of groupie.”

“Look, my parents love you. They think you’re a good influence on me. My father says you’re a taller Sally Fields—and he’s crazy about Sally Fields—with a southern accent.”

“They like me,” she intoned dramatically. “They really like me.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

She ducked her head under his rebuking gaze. “Sorry,”

“Why the doubts, baby?”

“I … they’re not doubts. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

“Say yes.”

A breath shuddered out of her. Her temples throbbed.
Overwork and stress. That’s all this is
, she told herself. Of course she wanted to marry Elliot. “Yes.”

He held his left hand where she could see it. A large diamond solitare glimmered on his little finger. “For you.”

“I already have two little fingers.”

“Cut the crap! I want to be serious, for once.”

The ring was beautiful; she kicked herself for making a joke. Who would have thought that anyone would be offering her a life like this? Wasn’t this what she had worked for—respect, security, love? “Oh, Elliot,” she whispered, tears sliding down her face. “It’s great.” He put the ring on her left hand. She began to sob and buried her face in the crook of his neck.

“Amy? Baby?” He stroked her hair anxiously. “Well, I guess I ought to be the strong one sometimes.” After an awkward moment he added, “Is this, hmmm,
happy
sobbing?”

When she didn’t answer he made soft, bewildered sounds of comfort. She continued to cry and clutched his
shoulders, her control racked by the knowledge that she wanted something indefinable, something that taunted her like the shadows of wings because she still couldn’t fly.

The charmed progress of
Thornton After Hours
crashed to a halt. That spring the Writers’ Guild threatened a nationwide strike, and every writer on Elliot’s staff prepared to join it. Television executives across the country blanched at the thought of lucrative shows going on involuntary hiatus, of fall schedules dissolving.

Elliot was inconsolable. Amy woke alone one night and went to look for him. He was sitting cross-legged beside the pool with an ashtray full of joints and cigarettes beside him. His complexion was sallow in the light of the patio lamps. He gave her a droopy look as she sat down. “Gone. All my momentum. Pfffft. If there’s a strike Letterman and Carson can show reruns. Months and months of reruns. I can’t. I’m just a syndicated nobody.”

“Elliot, don’t overreact.” She laid a tentative hand on his arm. He began to cry. Amy hugged him and shut her eyes, gathering courage. She’d been planning to approach him with an idea, but only if the strike came to pass. She couldn’t let him go on torturing himself this way, however. “Elliot, do you think, hmmm, I know this will sound crazy, but, do you think that the show could keep going as it is now, if I helped you write the material?”

“What?” He stopped sniffling and drew back to look at her in the light of a poolside lamp. His mouth dropped open. “You?”

“Nobody would have to know. I’m not a writer, so I wouldn’t be violating any union rules. I think we could do it, I really do. It won’t be easy, but it’s worth a try. I mean, what’s the big deal with writing a monologue and a couple of simple bits every day? And we could try more ad-lib segments, send you to strange places with a camera crew and just let you react, the way Letterman does.”

“You? Writing for the show every day?” Even stoned, he sounded amazed.

She scowled at him. “I’ve been giving you material for
years. Oh, I know I’m not as good as a professional, but you can take my basic ideas and make them work. You always do.”

She could see the light go on in his mind. He swayed. He thumped his knees. “You’re right! You always have ideas out the wazoo! If even half your stuff is usable, we might get by!”

“Of course we will. And think how impressed people will be, with you doing fresh material every night even though you don’t have a team of writers to back you up!”

He laughed and draped an arm around her shoulders. “My secret Miracle. You’ll make me a legend in my own time. I tell you what, baby, we’ll plan to get married as soon as the strike ends. Deal?”

Be good and I’ll reward you. Earn my love and you’ll be happy
. Amy shoved the troubling thoughts aside. She was getting an opportunity to do work she adored. She trembled with anticipation. “Deal,” she answered.

The reporter from
People
magazine leaned across the patio table, eyes fixed on Elliot. “The writers’ strike has been going on for months, but you keep going, turning out fresh shows. If anything, your work has gotten
better
since the strike. People are using words like ‘genius’ to describe you. Where do you get your inexhaustible supply of ideas?”

“I work at it. I never stop. I’m driven, and I love it,” Elliot answered, looking weary but satisfied. He glanced over his shoulder as Amy set a pitcher of tea on the table. “I have a lot of moral support from my lady, here. Thank you, baby.”

She bared her teeth in a smile and glided back into the house, where she went to the main bedroom and flopped amidst dozens of notepads. She grabbed a mug of coffee from a nightstand and took a deep swallow, then rubbed her gritty eyes and tried to concentrate.

An hour later Elliot sauntered in and collapsed beside her. “I was brilliant.”

“What do you think of this idea? You take a camera crew to an elementary school and interview kids.”

“What’s the hook? What makes it funny?”

“Didn’t you ever see Art Linkletter? I’ve got a list of questions worked out. You ask ’em, then wait for the answers, then react.”

“Like what kind of questions?”

She picked up a notepad and scanned it. “Like, ‘What kind of bird is a Dan Quayle?’ ”

Elliot chuckled. “Not bad.”

“Good. Let’s get back to work.”

“I can remember when Saturdays were fun.”

“It’s hell being a genius, I know.”

He cut his eyes at her. “Testy bitch. Excuse me while I go to the kitchen.”

“The percolator’s full. Bring another cup of coffee, please.”

“You bet.”

He was gone for a long time, and when he returned he began pacing the room and talking excitedly about the interview idea. Amy looked up wearily. “What did you do—drink the whole pot of coffee? And you forgot mine?”

He laughed with a high, brittle sound that set off a warning in her brain. She straightened, scrutinizing him. She felt the pulse throbbing in her throat. “Elliot, did you snort some coffee up your nose?”

He halted and stared at her, nostrils flaring, his whole body stiff with defense. The sudden switch from laughter to fury stunned her. He jabbed a finger at her. “I am
tired
of your goddamn overbearing attitude.” His voice rose to shout. “I’m not hurting anybody! I need all the energy I can get!

“How much coke are you using, Elliot? How often?”

“I’ve got it under control! Stop grilling me! Stop it! Stop it!” He grabbed a pottery vase from the dresser and slung it at the wall beside the bed. Amy covered her face as shards of pottery struck her.

There was a sharp pain in her hand. Shaking, she looked at the bloody cut on one knuckle. Her horrified gaze rose to Elliot’s. He stood at the foot of the bed with his mouth open. He tried to speak, had trouble, and shook his head.

Nausea welled up in her stomach. Her teeth chattering,
she whispered, “If you ever do something like that again, I’ll leave you.”

“If you do, I’ll kill myself.”

While she stared at him in shock, he crawled across the bed to her. Tears pooled in his eyes. He took her injured hand and licked the blood from it. She sat there numbly, watching. “You need h-help. Elliot, you’ve got to talk to a doctor.”

“No!” He gulped for breath. “I need
you
. I need the coke, too, but just until things get back to normal. I swear.” He buried his head in her lap and wrapped both arms around her. Sobs convulsed his shoulders. “Don’t leave me. I’m so tired. I’m so afraid of fucking everything up. Please, baby, please. Try to understand.”

The caretaker in her was a compulsive mistress. Pity and concern overcame anger. She
had
to help him, because nobody else could. Amy stroked his head and crooned to him, crying as she did.