The Lonely Lady (20 page)

The dawn was breaking in the east. The morning air was cold. I shivered but it wasn’t from the cold. I fished a cigarette from my purse and was about to light it when a large calloused hand held a burning match for me. It was Chief Roberts.

“I’m sorry, JeriLee,” he said. There was genuine sympathy in his voice.

“I know.”

“I don’t like to bother you at a time like this, but there are certain questions that have to be answered.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

“The car registered and insured to you?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to notify your insurance company. I ordered it towed to Clancy’s garage on Main Street.”

I looked at him.

“It’s totaled. There won’t be anything they can do with it.”

I was silent.

“I can come by the house later and you can sign the accident report. You don’t have to come down to the station.”

“Thank you.”

“Chief Roberts,” I called as he started to turn away.

“Yes?”

“That girl, Anne?”

He nodded.

“Tell her to call me. Maybe there’s something I can do.”

“I’ll do that, JeriLee,” he said. “I’ve known her as long as I’ve known you. Since she was a baby. She’s a right nice girl.”

“She has to be if my brother loved her.”

He nodded again, then looked up at the sky. “It’s going to be clear today.”

“Yes,” I said and watched the pudgy figure in the baby-blue uniform walk away from me.

He was right, I thought as I looked up. It would be a clear day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

***

The funeral was on Tuesday. Walter sent flowers from London and Guy came to hold my hand. When we came home afterward, Mother went right up to her room and closed the door. “I guess I’ll pack,” I said to my father. “Guy offered to drive me back to the city.”

“I guess so,” he said. He looked tired. It had not been easy for him. He loved Bobby too.

“If you want me to stay, I will.”

“No. We can manage. It will be all right.”

“But will you be all right?” I asked pointedly.

He got the nuance. “I’ll be fine.” He hesitated a moment. “Don’t be angry with your mother. She’s gone through a great deal.”

“I’m not angry. I just don’t understand.”

“Then be charitable. Don’t push her away. You’re all she has left now.”

“I can’t get through to her, Daddy,” I said. “You know how many times I’ve tried. We don’t think or feel alike about anything.”

“Keep trying,” he said. “That’s what love is about.”

I went over and put my arms around him. “You never stop trying, do you, Daddy? You must love her very much.”

“I do. I see her faults. But they don’t matter. I also see the good things about her. The strength and courage she had to go on with you two children after your father died. Do you know she said she wouldn’t marry me unless you approved? That she would never do anything that would make you unhappy?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Your aunt and uncle wanted to take you both off her hands so that she could be free to make a new life for herself. She wouldn’t do it. She told them that you were her children, her responsibility, and that she was going to take care of you. The first thing she asked me about when I proposed was how I felt about the two of you.”

I kissed his cheek. He was lovely. And naïve. But then he loved her. He said so himself. So how could I expect him to see that all these wonderful things she said and did were not because she loved but because she thought they were the right things to do? I kissed his cheek again. “I’ll try to remember what you said, Daddy.”

The telephone rang. He picked it up, then held it out to me. “For you.”

I took the phone from his hand. “Give Guy a drink, will you, Daddy? I have a feeling he’s dying of thirst.”

“I’m okay,” Guy said quickly.

Father took his arm and led him into the living room. “I think I could use a whiskey myself,” he said.

“Hello,” I said into the phone.

The voice was soft and young and tired. “Mrs. Thornton?”

“Yes.”

“Anne Laren. Chief Roberts gave me your message. I wanted to call and thank you.”

“I meant it. If there is anything I can do…”

“No,” she said quickly. “Nothing.” She hesitated a moment. “Was everything all right?” My flowers get there?”

“Yes. They were lovely.” I remembered. A blanket of yellow roses with just the small card and her name on it.

“I wanted to go, but the doctor wouldn’t let me get out of bed.”

“Are you okay?”

“I am now,” she said. Again the moment’s hesitation. “I lost the baby, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” she said. “At least that’s what everyone says.”

“I guess so,” I said.

She began to cry softly. “But I wanted his baby. I really loved him.”

“I know.”

She stopped crying. I felt the control in her voice. “I’m sorry. It’s bad enough for you. I didn’t want to make it any worse. I just wanted to thank you.”

“Anne,” I said, “when you’re feeling better, give me a call and come into the city. We’ll have lunch. I’d love to meet you.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “I will.”

My mother was standing at the foot of the stairs when I put down the telephone. “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“Anne.”

Her lips tightened slightly. “Did you thank her for the flowers?”

“I thought you would do that.”

“If she loved him as much as she said she did, why didn’t she come to the funeral?”

“Why didn’t you ask her?”

Mother’s eyes met mine. “I called. But she wouldn’t speak to me. I guess she was too ashamed of what she had done.”

“That wasn’t the reason, Mother.”

“Then what was the reason?”

“She was probably too sick. She lost the baby.”

My mother’s face suddenly went white and she seemed to stagger. I put out a hand to steady her. “I’m sorry, JeriLee, I really am.”

I didn’t speak but I could see the color slowly coming back into her face. A very strong lady, my mother. “Now he’s really gone,” she said.

We looked at each other for a long moment, then she took a tentative step toward me. I opened my arms. She came into them as if she were the child, and the tears finally came.

Chapter 6

It was Wednesday, matinee day, and Sardi’s was already crowded with ladies from the suburbs.

The bar was crowded too, but mostly with regulars. I nodded to several of them and the maitre d’ came up to me. “Mrs. Thornton.” He bowed. “So nice to see you again. Mr. Fannon is expecting you.”

I followed him to Fannon’s usual table. It was back against the wall separating the restaurant from the Little Bar—the most important location in the place. Everyone coming in or going out could see or be seen. I had heard he hadn’t missed a weekday lunch there for fifteen years, except when he had been in the hospital, and then they had catered his meals.

He was sitting on the banquette. As I approached he tried to rise but his potbelly pressing against the table forced him to remain in a half crouch until I sat down next to him. He sank back into his seat with a sigh and kissed my cheek.

“You look beautiful, my dear,” he said in his hoarse voice.

“Thank you, Mr. Fannon.”

“Adolph, my dear,” he said. “Call me Adolph. After all, we’re old friends.”

I nodded. We had known each other almost two years. That was a long run on Broadway, even for friendship. “Thank you, Adolph.”

“A champagne cocktail for Mrs. Thornton.” The waiter went away and he turned to me beaming. “Nothing but the best for you.”

I liked champagne, but champagne cocktails made me nauseous. Nevertheless I smiled. “Thank you, Adolph.”

“Taste it,” Fannon urged when the waiter returned with the cocktail.

I began to raise the glass toward my lips.

“Wait a minute, we must have a toast.” He picked up his own glass, which was supposed to look like vodka on the rocks but which everyone knew was nothing but water. Ulcers had taken away his liquor license. “To your play,” he said.

I nodded and took a sip. The sickeningly sweet cocktail turned my stomach but I manage a smile. “Very good,” I said.

A serious look came over his face. “I have a very important announcement to make,” he said, putting his hand on my knee.

“Yes, Adolph,” I said, my eyes on his face.

“I’ve decided to do your play.” His hand was now halfway up my thigh. “We’ll go into rehearsals in August. I’d like to bring it to New York in October.”

Suddenly I forgot about his hand on my thigh. “You mean it?”

“Yes. I loved the rewrite. I’ve already sent the script to Anne Bancroft.”

“You think she’ll do it?”

“She should. She’ll never find a better part. Besides, she always wanted to do a play with Guy.”

“Is he going to direct?”

“Yes. I called him in California this morning and he’s agreed.” His hand went the rest of the way up.

“Adolph, I never knew anyone who moved so fast,” I said pointedly.

He cleared his throat. “When I like something, I like it. I don’t believe in playing around.”

“Neither do I,” I said, looking into his eyes. “But I’m soaking wet already and if you don’t take your hand away, I’ll come right here.”

He flushed and put his hand on the table. “I’m sorry. In my enthusiasm I forgot myself.”

“It’s okay. I just happen to be very excitable. And I’ve never known a man quite like you before.”

“No?” he asked in a questioning voice.

“You’re something else. In a business full of wishy-washy people you have the strength of your convictions.”

“I make decisions,” he said, looking pleased. “Like I told you, I know what I want.”

“That’s what I admire about you.”

“We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other. I’m not the kind of a producer who leaves it all up to the director. I get very involved with my plays.”

“I know. That’s why I’m glad you’re going to do it.”

“There’s still work to be done on the script. We’ll have to get started soon. I would like you to have my ideas before Guy gets back from the Coast.”

“You let me know when. I’ll make myself available.”

“Good,” he said, obviously delighted with the way things were going. I had calculatedly told him everything he wanted to hear. His hand was on my knee again. “My office is drawing up the contract. I thought a ten-thousand-dollar advance would be very fair. It’s more than twice what I give anyone else for a first play.”

I believed him. Both Guy and my agent told me not to expect more than thirty-five hundred. “That’s very fair. Thank you, Adolph.”

“You deserve it,” he said, smiling. “Besides from what I have heard you could use the money. I understand Walter didn’t give you any alimony.”

“I didn’t want any,” I said quickly.

“Most girls in this business don’t feel like that.”

“That’s their bag. I can work. I can take care of myself.”

His hand began to travel. “That’s what I respect about you.”

“I’m getting hungry,” I said, trying to divert him. “I haven’t had any breakfast.”

“Let’s order then.”

But before he could signal the waiter, Earl Wilson of the
New York Post
came in and spotted us. His round face broke into a smile. “Adolph, JeriLee, what are you two cooking up?”

“You’ve got a scoop, Earl. I’m putting on JeriLee’s new play.”

“What kind of a part are you playing this time, JeriLee?”

“She’s not acting in this one, Earl,” Fannon said. “She wrote it.”

Earl whistled enthusiastically. “That is a scoop.” He smiled at me. “Did you have any help from your ex?”

“Walter had nothing to do with it,” Fannon said quickly. “JeriLee was a writer before she was an actress. She only went into acting because Walter wanted her to do his play.”

“You got someone in mind for the lead?” the columnist asked.

“Anne Bancroft.”

Earl looked at me. “How do you feel about it?”

“I’m thrilled,” I said and almost jumped out of my seat to prove it. Fannon’s hand was on my cunt again.

***

The story was the lead item in the
New York
Post
the next day.

That was it. Walter Thornton’s ex-wife. Although it had been two months since the divorce he never even mentioned my name.

I left the paper on the kitchen table and went into the living room just as the telephone began to ring.

It was Guy returning my call from California. “Congratulations,” he said.

“I wanted to thank you. If it weren’t for all the work you did on the play, Fannon would never have bought it.”

“I just made suggestions. You did the writing.”

“I’m glad you’re going to direct it.”

“So am I.”

“He sent the script to Anne Bancroft.”

“He told you that?” Guy’s voice was skeptical.

“Yes. He even told Earl Wilson, who ran it in today’s column.”

Guy laughed. “Don’t you believe it. I’ll give you ten to one she never got it.”

“Then why would he say something like that?”

“It’s a flyer. He’s smart. He figures she’ll hear about it and be curious enough to ask her agent to get her a copy. That way she’s asking him, he’s not asking her.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I said.

“Did you get the contract yet?”

“My agent called this morning. He’s got them. By the way, I’m getting a ten thousand advance.”

“That’s great. How are the payments scheduled?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“He never pays more than thirty-five hundred until the play opens on Broadway. What you’ll probably get is a thousand on signing, a thousand when we go into rehearsal, fifteen hundred when we go on the road and the balance when and if we open in New York. Just don’t spend it until you get it.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He said a ten thousand advance.”

“Everything you get before the show opens on Broadway is considered an advance,” he said. “Check it with your agent.”