Director's Cut (14 page)

I studied the door to Dressing Room 2 as if doing so I could peer through and see all that Catherine was doing. The others were staring at me, waiting for me to do . . . what? Materialize on the other side of a locked door?

I gave the smooth surface three or four raps with my knuckles. “Catherine, it's Maddy.”

Nothing.

“Catherine, I know you're in there. I know you're upset about something. Now let me in so we can talk.”

“No. I'm fine. Go away.” Her voice was muffled, but I could hear enough to know she had been crying.

“Catherine,” I said firmly, “you need to open up.”

“I don't want to.”

“Actors can be so temperamental,” Harold said. “I can't tell you the number of times I've had to—”

“You're being childish, Catherine.” I didn't want to hear about Harold's other adventures with the sensitive thespian set. I wanted to get into the dressing room and find out what had set off Catherine. There was no response.

Gill moved forward with the key, but I stopped him with a raised hand. “Not yet,” I whispered. “It would be better if she opened the door herself.”

“I don't understand,” Floyd said.

“That's because you're not a woman.” I knocked on the door again. “I'm not going away, Catherine. I can be as stubborn as you.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Floyd said.

I cut him a harsh glance. He backpedaled. “I'm just agreeing with you, Mayor. That's all.”

“I'll take care of you later.” I winked at him.

“What now?” Harold asked. “She's acting like a teenage girl.”

“She hasn't been out of those years for very long,” I said. “And she's had a rough couple of days.”

“So you think we should be patient.” Harold rubbed his chin.

“No, I think if she wants to act like a high schooler, I should approach her as such.”

Harold began, “What do you mean—”

I banged on the door with my fist hard enough to make the locked doorknob jingle. “You listen to me, young lady,” I shouted. “I'm coming in there. I have the key. Now you can open this door yourself and allow me in, or I'll open it myself and everyone out here will come in with me. What's it going to be?”

I've never had children, but I have been a child and a rebellious teen. I used the same tone on Catherine that my mother used on me. The imitation was spot-on. Mom would be proud.

I heard a sniffing sound near the door. I waited. I had played my trump card, now there was nothing to do but wait for Catherine. If she didn't respond, then I'd have to use the key, but that had the feel of invasion.

Another sniff. My gaze drifted to the doorknob. It moved, then stopped.
Come on
,
come on
,
Catherine.
The knob turned some more, the door opened an inch, but that was all. Catherine had unlocked it, unlatched it, then stepped away. It was as much of a concession as I was going to get.

Pushing the door open, I crossed the threshold. Three sets of feet shuffled behind me, moving closer. I stopped and turned. “Thank you for your help, gentlemen.” I took another step back and closed the door in their faces.

I locked it.

Chapter 13

H
er eyes were red, her stage makeup marred by running tears. She stood across the room, near a long counter with a series of mirrors above. Lights lined the perimeter of the mirrors. The dressing room was wide but narrow. Costumes hung on metal racks along the wall with the entry door. Folding chairs were strewn about as were stylish duffel bags with brand names on them, no doubt the personal items needed by actors. The floor was bare concrete. Posters and photos of previous plays covered the walls.
Man of La Mancha
,
42
nd
Street
,
Dial M for Murder
, and a dozen more.

I wondered what words would be useful; what phrases would kick-start a meaningful conversation. Speech making is second nature to me. On more occasions than I can count, I have been called to give an impromptu discourse to one group or another. The words flow easily. For some reason, I was tongue-tied.

Catherine looked as frail as an ice sculpture. Her face was pale, but much of that was due to the heavy stage makeup she wore. In her hands was a tissue which she turned over and over. On the counter behind her were several tissues that had endured the same torture.

We stood like cowboys facing off in a quick-draw competition, neither willing to speak first. My family has a history of obstinacy. This could last for a while.

I heard something behind me and I glanced at the door. I raised a finger, turned, unlocked the door, and snapped it open.

“Go away,” I said. I smiled, then closed and locked the door again. I heard muffled footsteps moving away. I shook my head. “Men! They have to be told everything and then be made to think it was their idea.”

Catherine lowered her head but I heard a soft chuckle.

Silence rose again but this time I wouldn't tolerate it. I crossed the room, set my purse on the counter, and took Catherine in my arms. It was the most eloquent thing I could think of to say. She stood stiff as a board but then softened as the facade crumbled. She didn't cry, and I wasn't surprised. My guess was that she was cried out. For now, the reservoir of tears was dry and that was fine with me. I hate it when other women cry in my presence. Something about it affects my vision, and things get blurry.

A moment or two later, maybe it was a minute, I couldn't tell, we parted. I pulled up one of the folding seats and lowered myself into it. Catherine did the same.

“Okay, kid, dish it,” I said.

She dabbed at her eyes. “I got my new script today.”

She looked to the makeup bench. I followed her gaze and saw a thick stack of canary yellow paper, three-hole punched but held together by two brass fasteners.

“Did they write you out or something?” I couldn't imagine anything in a script that would cause such a reaction. Maybe they had reduced her part or—“Wait, they're not asking you to do something . . . inappropriate, are they?”

“No, no. It's worse than that.”

What could be worse than that? “I don't understand.”

She pulled the script close, touching it like it was covered in green slime. She paged through the papers, then handed it to me. “It's the end of act one; it's the plot point.”

I didn't know what a plot point was but I looked at the page. It read:

INT. THE FRONT ROOM OF LACY'S HOME—AFTERNOON

The room is sparsely furnished. Curtains hide a window wall. Lacy starts up the stairs. Her woman friend MADDY remains on the first floor.

LACY

Six bedrooms, an office, a rec room, a media room, and a den, plus the usual kitchen, breakfast nook, dining room, and five bathrooms.

MADDY

And you plan on living here alone?

LACY

I hope not.

MADDY

(Smiling)

Oh? You have a husband-to-be waiting in the wings?

LACY

Lacy picks up the remote and points it at the wood blinds over the windows. She pushes the button and the blinds open. Light streams in.

No, Maddy, I don't. Not that I haven't been asked. In fact, I get about twenty proposals a week from love-struck fans.

MADDY

If not a husband . . .

LACY

I'm hoping to convince Mom and Dad to move back to Santa Rita. It's one reason I built my home here. They're not getting any younger and I would love to have them around.

MADDY

You're a good daughter. Not many people your age would want to have their parents around. It would cramp their style.

LACY

I don't have a style. I'm just a very fortunate actor. No one knows how long fame will last. This time next year, I may be a used-to-be.

MADDY

Somehow I doubt that.

LACY

(Looking around, frowns)

I wonder where Ed is. We've made enough noise to wake the dead.

MADDY

Bathroom? Or the media room?

LACY

There's nothing in the media room.

Lacy sets the remote down.

I'm going to take a quick look around. I'll be right back and we can continue the tour, then I'll buy your dinner.

MADDY

And I'll let you.

Maddy picks up the remote and studies it. After a moment she opens the drapes. The wall of curtain pulls back to reveal tall and wide windows overlooking the ocean and a wide and deep backyard.

LACY

(Screams)

MADDY

What? What? What is it?

LACY

(Points out window with shaking hand.)

Maddy races up the stairs and looks out the window. She gasps.

EXT. LACY'S BACKYARD POOL

A body in chauffeur's uniform floats facedown in the pool. Clouds of blood billow in the water.

MADDY

(Softly)

Ed?

LACY

Yes.

MADDY

Call 9–1–1.

Maddy races down the stairs toward the window wall and door. Lacy is frozen in place.

MADDY

Call 9–1–1 now!

Maddy runs outside, kicks off her shoes, and plunges into the pool. She swims to the dead man, grabs him, and tows him to the shallow end of the pool.

The last half of the page was blank.

I felt sick. Thoughts raced through my head at such speeds they collided, leaving me unable to pull a cohesive notion together. I said nothing, knowing that if I tried I would do little more than babble like a two-year-old.

I was holding an account of what had happened at Catherine's home yesterday. It was as if someone else had been in the room.

“How could anyone know this?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Catherine said. “Someone was watching us.”

That sent a cascade of ice water down my spine. “It has my name but not yours. It says Lacy, not Catherine.”

“Lacy is the part I play. It's my character in the movie.”

She was tearing up again, and she would get no criticism from me. There was a grapefruit-sized knot in my belly. No wonder Catherine had been so upset.

I closed the script and looked at the title page. Like the rest of the pages it was canary yellow. The title page read:

A LONG WAY FROM NOWHERE
Original Screenplay by
Anita Gorman

The words were centered on the page. In the lower right-hand corner was a list of dates tucked next to the right margin:

August 30, 2006

REV. 9/15/06 (BLUE)

REV. 9/30/06 (PINK)

REV. 10/1/06 (YELLOW)

“Every revision gets a different color paper?” I was doing what I always did when stressed—I analyzed.

“Yes. Scripts get changed throughout the whole movie-making process. After a while there are dozens of scripts floating around. By changing the color the actors know which is the latest version. There's nothing worse than showing up having studied the pink script only to find out everyone is reading off the yellow.”

“Who is Anita Gorman?”

“She's hot property. Her last two scripts did super at the box office. Both were Academy Award nominees. She's the best.”

“Do you know her well?”

“No. I've met her at script meetings. She seems pretty together and has been nice to me.”

“Would she write something like this? I mean, these pages weren't in the original, right?”

“Of course not.”

I flipped through the pages. The offending ones were formatted like the rest. “Whoever did this knows something about scripts. I wouldn't know how to format a screenplay.”

“Producers and directors are very fussy about that. Each page is supposed to represent about one minute of screen time.”

I looked at the last page. “One hundred and twenty pages. Two hours?”

“About. Things change in the process but that will be close. Comedies are about ninety minutes and dramas around two hours.”

“Is anything else different in the script?”

“I don't know. That was as far as I got.”

“I can understand that. Who brought the script to you?”

“Andy Buchanan.” She raised the tissue to her face and blew her nose. “He's the director's son. He's sort of an assistant-assistant director. He's just out of film school.”

“Did he come with the new limo driver?”

“The new driver hasn't shown up yet.” She sniffed again.

I started to ask another question when there was a loud knock on the door. I jumped from my chair, my heart in overdrive.

“Catherine, baby. It's me, Franco. Open up.”

Great. Frankie the Ego.

He knocked again.

Catherine looked at me with fearful eyes. “I'm not ready to be seen by others yet.”

“I'll take care of it.” I walked to the door, unlocked it, and opened it just a foot. There was Frankie Z., the man who had sat in my home and insulted me and my city without batting an eye. I spoke before he could. “Catherine is fine. We'll be out soon.”

“I want to see her.”

“Not now.”

“Listen, lady, I said I want to see her.”

“And I told you no—man.”

He started to push his way in, but I had placed my foot on the door in a reverse door-to-door salesman trick. He reached through the opening.

“Before you touch me, pal,” I said with concrete resolve, “I need to remind you that the entire Santa Rita police department works for me.” It was hyperbole but true in its essence.

He withdrew his arm.

“You may wait with the others. Have some dinner.”

“When will you be out?” I saw his jaw tighten.

“When we're good and ready, Frankie.” I closed the door and quickly turned the lock.

I walked back to Catherine.

“I should have let him in,” she said.

“Nonsense. The guy needs to learn a few manners.”

“He is a little brusque, but he's been good to me.”

I placed my hands on her shoulders and turned her in her chair until she was facing the mirror. “I'm glad to hear that, but he irritates me, and when I'm irritated I like to share it with others.” She smiled. “Why don't you clean that stuff off your face? It looks like you put it on with a trowel.”