Stars Screaming (27 page)

Sandra stared off. “How is he?”

“He’s doin’ great.”

“That’s good.”

“He really likes Berkeley. Up there, having a mom in prison makes him a hero. You’re considered a political prisoner.”

Sandra laughed, but when she stopped her face was trembling.

Burk said, “I think about us a lot.”

“You and me?”

“And Louie. The three of us.”

“It’ll never be like it was.”

“I know.”

“Neither will I.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Sandra.”

Sandra reached into the pocket of her dress and took out a wrinkled envelope. She gazed at Burk blankly for a moment before she handed it across the table. “Open it.”

Inside were several articles clipped from the entertainment section of the
LA Times.
In each there was some mention of
Pledging My Love.
When Burk’s name was included as the screenwriter, Sandra had underlined it in red ink.

“I’m really proud of you,” she said. “You did it.”

Burk glanced up at her. He was smiling. “Yeah, I did.”

“You know who must be really surprised?”

“Who?”

“Dicky Solomon.”

Burk was silent. He waited for her to go on, observing her closely. “Why did you say that, Sandra?”

“Because . . .”

“Because what?”

“Because . . . I met with him, Ray.”

“You met with Dicky Solomon?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Sandra stared at Burk for several seconds, in no rush to provide an answer. Finally: “I wanted to help you.”

Burk stole a look at the guard. With her eyes directly on him, he stood up slowly and walked over to the window that looked out on the prison yard. In a small fenced area, children who were mostly black and Hispanic played on the jungle gym and the swing set while their mothers sat at picnic tables in the shade, visiting quietly with their husbands or boyfriends. Louie stood off to the side underneath a large elm tree, smiling quietly, the wind moving his hair as he watched two female inmates shoot a basketball at a netless rim.

“Tell me,” Burk said, trying to sound relaxed. “When did this happen?”

“Right before you got fired from the network.”

“You called him?”

“I told him who I was. He asked me what I wanted, but I said we had to talk in person. We had lunch the next day.”

Burk came back to the table and sat down. Sandra dropped her head and looked guiltily at the floor. “Go on, Sandra. Tell me.”

“It was this little French place near the studio, on Cahuenga. I knew what I wanted to say, but I was really scared, like I am now,” she said. “Right away I told him how smart you were, how much you hated being a censor. I told him you were really creative and suggested that he give you a job.”

“A job?” Burk said with a pained look. “As what?”

“I don’t know. Part of his staff. I said you wanted to be a writer. He liked you, Ray. He really did.”

“But he didn’t think I could write.”

“He didn’t know. But he thought you were really bright. He told me that several times.”

“Over lunch? He told you that over lunch?”

Sandra hesitated while Burk looked at her face, tapping his finger on the table, waiting for her to continue.

The guard said, “You’ve only got twenty minutes left.”

Sandra said, “Maybe it was after lunch. I’m not sure.”

“Because you were drunk.”

Sandra shrugged. “Maybe. I guess.”

Burk sat very still, trying to breathe slowly. “You slept with him,” he said, still managing to keep his voice under control. “Didn’t you, babe?”

Sandra’s eyes were now filled with tears. “He said he was going to help.”

“Help me get a job.”

“Yes. He was going to call his friends at the network. He said he had pull. He said he would get you out of Standards and Practices.”

“All this he told you . . . after lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

Sandra made a breath to speak, then stopped.

“
Where did he tell you this
?”

Burk’s voice startled the guard, and she quickly came to her feet. She said, “I can’t have no fightin’ in here.” Sandra turned slightly away. Tears started falling out of her eyes. “Pull yourself together,” the guard said. “I’m bringin’ your son up here soon. He don’t want to see his momma cryin’ like that.” Sandra nodded, using the sleeve of her dress to wipe her face. The guard’s eyes moved over to Burk. “No more yellin’ or I’ll terminate the visit.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Then Burk leaned back in his chair, acting as if he were going over something in his mind. “So Dicky took you to a motel,” he said, softening his voice. “Is that what happened?”

Sandra nodded. She said, “I couldn’t feel you anymore, Ray. You were pulling away. You weren’t there.”

“I was there.”

“But I couldn’t
feel
you.”

Burk felt his anger boiling into rage. He had to grip the end of the table to stop himself from reaching out and punching her face.

“That was the one and only time I was unfaithful,” Sandra said.

“You were pregnant.”

“I know.”

“And drunk.”

“I’ve made so many mistakes, Ray. I’m not perfect. Don’t ask me any more questions about Dicky Solomon,” she said. “Okay? I barely moved. I just let him fuck me. That’s all.”

Sandra stopped speaking and nervously bit down on her lower lip. When their eyes accidentally met, she said, “I want to see Louie now. But I want to be alone with him. I don’t want you here. Okay?”

Burk nodded.

Sandra glanced at the guard. “Do you have to be in the room too?”

“Yes.”

Burk got to his feet. Sandra looked up. “He beat me with his crutch, Ray.”

“Who?”

“Shay Carson, the man I killed. He fractured his foot during the calf roping, which meant he was out of the all-around. He got drunk and came back to the motel and tried to manhandle me. Manhandle. Isn’t that a perfect word?”

Burk nodded. He wanted to change the subject.

“Sandra, listen—”

“No.
You
listen,” she said, in a voice that was surprisingly hard. “I want to tell you this so I don’t tell Louie. Do you understand?” Sandra sat forward and challenged him with her eyes. “When I wouldn’t let him in, he broke down the door to my room. He didn’t know I had his gun, and when he saw it he laughed. I laughed too, making him think everything was okay. But it wasn’t, because I was really scared. I told him to leave, but he sat down on the bed and started taking off his clothes. I told him if he didn’t leave I was going to call the police. He laughed some more and swung at me with his crutch. He caught me on the forehead. That’s when the gun went off. No. Wait. I didn’t say that right. That’s when I pulled the trigger.
Boom!
I saw a flash come out of the end of the barrel, and he fell back off the bed onto the floor. A few minutes later the police came and took me to jail. That’s it. That’s how it happened.”

Burk was silent. Sandra stood up and walked over to the window. In profile a tear fell off her double chin and left a dark mark on her collar. Down below a thin ponytailed guard came up behind Louie and tapped him on the shoulder. She said a few words and he nodded
his head, his gaze giving away none of his feelings as he followed her across the basketball court.

“Here he comes,” Sandra said, still staring out the window. “Here comes my boy.”

Driving back to Los Angeles, Louie would tell his father how frightened he was inside that room. “She was standing by the window with her back to me. She was hugging herself, like she was cold or scared. I was scared too. Scared that she wouldn’t look at me, that I would just stand there forever holding my breath.”

“But she turned around, didn’t she?”

Louie nodded. “Her face looked different, didn’t it, Dad? It looked . . . wider. And her skin didn’t look the same. It used to be so smooth. And she chews her nails, too.”

“Was it good to see her, Louie?”

“It sure was. But it was over so fast we hardly got a chance to say much.”

“I know.”

“She says she’s getting out pretty soon. Real soon. Right?”

Burk shrugged.

“She is. But she’s not going to live with us. Right?”

“Right.”

“But it will be okay for me to see her. That’s okay.”

“Yes, Louie, that’s okay.”

Burk switched on the radio and punched the buttons until he found an all-news station. Nixon was bombing Cambodia and someone was strangling and torturing young women in Hollywood. A boy drank poison, and an estranged husband was killed by his wife’s lover. In each story the word “anguish” was used once. At the end of the newscast, Burk turned around and looked at Louie in the backseat. “Are you glad we came?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You sure?”

Louie nodded his head, but Burk could see that he’d already begun to cry.

“She loves you, Louie. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She does,” Burk said, and he slammed his fist on the dash. “She loves you more than anything in the whole goddamn world.”

It was near midnight on Sunday evening when Bobby Sherwood and Ricky Furlong left the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The light had gone out of the sky, and the hotel’s facade now looked more peach than pink.

After they crossed Sunset, they walked south three blocks on Rodeo Drive, then turned left. At the intersection of Elevado and Bedford, a small elderly man was standing on the corner, puffing on a long cigar. He was wearing a maroon bathrobe over baby-blue silk pajamas. Nearby, a toy poodle turned in small circles while its tiny paws scrabbled a patch of grass next to a mailbox.

Bobby was halfway across the street when he abruptly turned and moved quickly back to the curb. His heart was banging but everything else about him remained calm. “You don’t know me,” he said, blinking a little as he approached the elderly man. “My name’s Bobby Sherwood. I’m from Omaha, Nebraska. My uncle is Daniel Schimmel.”

“Bobby Sherwood from Omaha.”

“Yes.”

The elderly man took the long cigar out of his mouth and peered into Bobby’s face. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know you.”

Ricky was at Bobby’s side. He tried to gently move him up the street but Bobby pulled away.

“Don’t you know who he is?” Bobby said.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t you get his autograph?”

“Because I already have it, stupid. That’s why.”

“Daniel Schimmel,” the elderly man said, his face taking on a thoughtful look. “Schimmel and Rheingold. Comedians.”

Bobby’s face lit up. “Yes, Mr. Burns. They were on the same bill with you and Gracie when you played the Ritz in Indianapolis. My uncle has the poster.”

“Terrible act. Absolutely dreadful. You said Rheingold was your uncle?”

“No, Daniel Schimmel.”

“Him I don’t remember. Rheingold was a pig. Used to hang around the kid acts backstage with his fly open.”

“My uncle stayed in Omaha.”

“Good for him. He’s probably much happier there. And funnier.”

“He owns the Hotel Sherwood.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s on Dodge and Sixteenth. One hundred and seventy-six rooms. I lived on the seventh floor, in the east wing. Room seven-sixteen. The rugs in the hallways are the same color as your robe.”

“No kidding.”

“And the walls are painted green.”

George Burns puffed on his cigar, still staring at Bobby through the whorls of smoke. “This is a very odd conversation,” he said, then turned and looked at Ricky. “And you say you have my autograph?”

“My dad got it,” Ricky said, taking out the small leather-bound book he always carried in his rear pocket. “Here,” he said, opening to a page with three signatures. “He got you on the same day as Bob Hope and Jane Russell.”

George Burns took the book and stepped under the streetlamp, holding the page away from his eyes. “
Blue Skies.
No, wait, that was Bing.
Paleface.
1948. That was it. I remember visiting Hope on the set. Who’s your dad?”

“Nobody.”

“He was there. He was somebody.”

“He was a grip.”

“What’s wrong with that? So he wasn’t a star or a big shot. He was your dad. Be proud of him. Where is he now?”

“Dead.”

“May he rest in peace,” George Burns said. “What cemetery is he in?”

“Hollywood Memorial.”

“Know it well. Nelson Eddy is buried there. I visited his grave not long ago. I was with Jessel. We came by after we had lunch at Perino’s.”

Ricky said, “My mom picked out a plot by the pond so my dad’s feet would be pointing toward Paramount Studios.”

“If he sat up he could see the Hollywood sign,” George Burns said, grinning.

“Marlon Brando was born in Omaha,” Bobby said, after a moment. “When I was fourteen I sat next to him at Chloe’s, this diner on Dodge. He had a Reuben sandwich and an order of fries. He said he’d been coming to Chloe’s since he was a kid. He knew all the cooks
and waitresses by name. Our waitress that day was Edna. One of the cooks was named John.”

Bobby stopped speaking when he saw that George Burns was giving his face close consideration. A phone rang inside one of the houses on the street, and Ricky said, “Bobby moved to Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago. I met him the morning he arrived. He was polishing a star on the Walk of Fame.”