Angels All Over Town Read online

  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.”

  “In fact, I’ve seen the play.”

  “I’m wondering whether I should be doing more…serious acting.”

  Billy frowned and looked truly perplexed. “I’m not sure I know what you mean by ‘serious.’”

  “Plays. Movies.”

  “Oh, you mean chic. It’s not fashionable to do soaps.”

  I watched a large white sloop tack around Shelter Island’s southern end toward Gardiners Bay. It made me think of Manaloa sailing away from Newport. I tried to decide whether Billy made any sense or not. “I see what you mean,” I said, “but that’s not all. Wouldn’t it be more artful to create new characters?”

  Billy shrugged. “If you want to create new characters, then by all means do so. But you are superb at what you do on the show. You should take great pride in that. Certain assholes I meet now and then at cocktail parties ask me why I don’t sculpt instead of build pots. They think sculpting is something to aspire to, that pottery is simply a stage I must pass before I qualify. I tell them I haven’t settled for anything—I don’t build pots because I can’t sculpt. They’re two different art forms, and building pots is the less fashionable.”

  I truly admired Billy; she could deliver an answer like that with perfect credibility and conviction. Perhaps Billy was as fine a potter as Marisol was a sculptor, but I remained unconvinced of her analogy. I must have shrugged or something, because she continued. “In fact, you have turned Delilah Grant into a living, breathing woman.”

  “Albeit suffering.”

  “That’s part of Delilah. People believe in her. If you only knew how much mail Chance gets, praising Delilah and your portrayal of her. Not all women are strong, my dear. They respond to your Delilah. And people certainly do not respond with that sort of vitality to cardboard cutouts.”

  I half rose from my rocking chair to kiss Billy on the top of her head. Fine auburn wisps had blown free of her French twist; they glinted red in the sun. “You’re right about that,” I said. She was. Whenever I felt inferior for acting in a soap opera, I would think of the intelligent women who watched me every day and think, “They can’t all be wrong.”

  For the rest of the day I felt contented and dreamy. I swam the length of the beach and back seven times, then reapplied sunscreen and fell asleep on Jason’s blanket. When I wakened I was alone on the beach and the orange sun had started to set; the land across the Sound gleamed in the declining light. A chilly breeze blew across my legs, and I wrapped myself in the blanket. Ghostly sanderlings raced across the high-tide line. Translucent brine shrimp leapt from drying clumps of kelp. From the house a hundred yards away came the first strains of dance music; the orchestra was warming up. The party went on.

  Chance promised me three weeks off in September. September: my favorite month. I spent the rest of the summer looking forward to leaving. Chance never mentioned my dissatisfaction with soap opera acting, so I guessed that Billy hadn’t told him about our conversation. Delilah was in jail. Nancy had charged her with a hunting knife; they had struggled, and Delilah had turned the weapon on her patient/attacker. Now she was imprisoned for first-degree murder. The sentence would likely be death by electrocution. Beck, horrified by the thought of Delilah behind bars and eventually dead, was plotting a breakout. They would go underground and gather evidence to clear her good name, proving that Nancy had been a serial murderer out to get Delilah. Meanwhile, in prison, Delilah was adapting to the life by volunteering to counsel her fellow inmates. The corrupt guards and warden, who passed out drugs and any other contraband for a price, were unnerved by Delilah’s probative counseling technique and by Beck’s position as editor of the Mooreland Tribune. A group of the most violent inmates had paid the guards a gigantic fee, insuring that they could break out without interference, and the warden wanted them to take Delilah as a hostage. Breakouts galore! Delilah, lonely and frightened, was resisting lesbian advances by her cellmate, a lovely radical imprisoned for her part in a robbery gone wrong.

  I felt pleased that Chance had allowed the screenwriters to incorporate my suggestions into the story
line, but the rest of it offended my sensibilities. How could Beck, a smart editor, encourage Delilah to escape and hide out until they could “clear her good name”? That sort of warped logic pervaded the show. In real life, would the Law forgive a prison escape (a felony in its own right) just because the escapee was able to prove herself innocent of the original crime? Have they not heard of the appellate court? As parents through the ages have been telling their children, two wrongs do not make a right. But in Mooreland, the kindly district attorney would take one look at Beck’s indisputable proof and offer Delilah a full pardon. Quite possibly along with a new job as head of the newly created Mooreland Psychological Commission.

  The show was loaded with those sorts of inconsistencies. For the sake of drama, Beck would keep secrets from Delilah, Delilah would keep secrets from Beck, and, finally learning the truth, they would call each other liars and break up amid tears, accusations, and hurt feelings. Our intelligent viewers would bristle at this, firing off letters that said, “Why can’t they learn from their mistakes? I’m so sick of the same thing happening over and over.” So was I.

  Greenwich Village had been vacated along with the rest of New York for the summer. At night I would come home from work, change my clothes, and go out for a walk. The antique shops along Hudson Street were closed now. All spring the owners had filled the wide sidewalks with oak tables, maple desk chairs, walnut cabinets, mirror-front wardrobes, brass coatracks; now the shopkeepers had taken leave of the city to search the Adirondacks, Bucks County, Vermont, New Hampshire, and the Maine coast for new treasures. Walking south at sunset, I would see the Twin Towers standing in pink haze, their lights twinkling like a mirage through the heat and vapors of lower Manhattan. My route took me east along West Tenth Street, past the police garage and the narrow row houses. Often I would stop in the bookstore, where other roamers would line the display tables, reading a few pages or flipping slowly through picture books, taking advantage of the shop’s air conditioning. On winter evenings the shop and sidewalks had been more crowded; now people were vacationing or too hot to leave their apartments.