Coming Attractions (14 page)

“He was on detail to straighten out the dead for a decent burial.” She grabbed a Luger from a leather holster. “A man, just bones, walked up to my father and asked him to shoot him. Dad refused but didn’t take the gun away soon enough. The man blew his own brains out.” She seized a stack of photographs and flung them against the wall. “That’s what this junk is. He faced this horror. He took these pictures. He ate, slept, and lived death for two weeks.”

She hurried into their bedroom and curled up with a pillow to hug away the hurt. She thought of her father as a young soldier, the revulsion he had faced while the camps were liberated. A hero to the survivors, he had felt more like a funeral director.

A few minutes later, she heard Cory enter the room. She found comfort with Cory curled against her. Cautiously, she slipped an arm around her waist.

“You never told me,” Cory said. “I’m sorry.”

“We talked about writing a book and then he died.” Helen sobbed. “People still don’t believe.” She opened her eyes. “He wanted them to remember.”

“You share his convictions.”

“Not exactly. His convictions would just as soon see people like us shot, yet he despised Hitler for the deaths. I couldn’t convince him that his homophobia was the same prejudice.”

“It explains your passion to make the show happen. You want the world to see.” She ran her fingers through Helen’s hair. “You’re a strong woman.”

“Not so strong, maybe.” Helen sat up, pulled a tissue from the box, and blew hard.

“Why do you say that?”

Helen wiped her eyes and blew again. She looked down at Cory. “There’s another box of Rice Krispies in the cabinet.”

“I know.”

Helen stared at Cory. She loved her hair, thought it beautiful, but was dying to get her hands on it. A cut, just to the shoulders, would transform Cory into a new beauty. Short bangs that could fly all over, if she liked. It seemed their way.

“You have that look in your eyes again.” Cory moved from the bed and held her index fingers up to form a cross. “Stay away from my hair.”

“Aw, please. Just to your shoulders. It’ll be a whole new look for you.”

“I like my French braid.”

“It’ll be long enough. Come on, baby. Let me cut your hair.”

“No!” Cory turned away and scooted down the hall, chased by the lunatic with the scissors. “Go away!” She laughed when cornered against a porcelain Apollo.

“Do it for me. Your audience will love it.”

“I didn’t realize I wasn’t attractive enough for you.” Cory half-smiled.

“You are, but—”

“Then my hair is fine just as it is. End of subject.”

Cory won this time, but Helen was determined to get her one way or another. In her sleep, maybe. No, she might be a Samson, and Helen would hate to take her talent away. Then again, it would put an end to the Boston conversations. She smiled mischievously and released her prisoner.

You’re terrible.

Chapter Fifteen

Given Cory’s status of lover in absentia, telephone conversations filled Helen’s evening hours. Marty, Blair, Jenny, and Kim—who probably continued to smile, even over the phone. The troupe was as excited as she was for what some of them called “the performance of their lifetime.”

There was also plenty of time for the multitude of tasks that fell to her as producer. The toughest was booking a theater or auditorium. Frustrated enough at one point, she would have fought the hookers for territory off Forty-Second Street provided the lighting was sufficient and refreshments were made available for intermission.

Off-Broadway was impossible. Shows were in constant changeover, with one lot of performers being herded out while the next was herded in, leaving no open stage. Marty explained that stage time was so precious that critics were often paid to write negative reviews that would close down a show. True? Helen didn’t know or really care. All that mattered was finding space for their night.

Where would they go? Jersey? Connecticut? Helen thought not. They’d stay in New York. Broadway. Those were the true stages. Right. If her name was Gerald Schoenfeld, the chairman for the Shubert Organization—which probably owned half of the theaters in New York—she’d ace an auditorium in seconds. How could she dare to hope for space for even a single night with nothing but an MA in journalism?

Blair had suggested Hollywood, and Helen almost considered the idea, but had said no. It felt too commercial when she wanted nonprofit.

Pay dirt. After three weeks of relentless hounding, not to mention a little help from Marty, who had cashed in on some favors, Helen received a call from the Stanwyck Theater.

“We have one day open and that’s March the sixth. The theater is also available that morning for rehearsals. You’ve a persistent friend,” the manager said. “Ms. Jamison refused to take no for an answer. There is one last thing, Ms. Townsend—the fee.”

She narrowed her eyes, expecting to hear big money. “Yes?”

“The fee is waived. The box office is yours.” He sighed.

She sighed stronger, in relief. “Thank you very much.” She flipped her pencil through the air and slammed the phone down. Piece of cake.

*

For the remainder of the evening, Helen took off her producer’s hat. After a hot shower, she snuggled onto the sofa and watched her favorite movie once more.
Love Story.

“
I don’t want Paris,
” the dying Jenny said to Oliver.

Helen, a sucker for the pain and Jenny’s devotion to Oliver in the midst of dying, dabbed her eyes.

“It’s you she wants, Oliver. Not Paris,” Helen said to the screen.

“
And I want time,
” Jenny said, “
which you can’t give me.
”

Before she could slip into her old “poor Helen and Chelsea” mode, the phone rang and she answered in the middle of the second ring.

“Were you waiting that close to the phone?” Cory asked.

“Uh-huh,” she said, and lowered the volume of the television. “You’re always prompt. I want every second.”

“My cameo appearances are frustrating for me as well.”

“Are you in Cleveland?”

“Yes, of all places, but I always have a terrific audience here.”

“It sounds wonderful. It means you’ll be home soon.” Helen hugged her pillow.

“Uh, maybe not.”

Helen’s heart sank. “Why not?”

“Liz called. Kirk Janssen wants me to stand in for him Friday.”

Silence.

“You’re never home,” Helen whined.

“I didn’t give an answer,” Cory said to the unasked question. “I told her I would have to discuss it with you.”

“Come home. End of discussion.”

Cory let out a long breath. “It’s a wonderful opportunity for me.”

“So when’s our opportunity?” Helen asked and received no answer. “When will you be home?”

“Saturday afternoon, but I thought maybe you could fly up on Friday, hear the concert, and we could spend the weekend in Boston. It would be our first time together in another city.”

“Is this another get-Helen-to-Boston ploy?”

“No. It’s an idea. I miss you.”

With those magic words, Helen perked up. “It’s a wonderful idea. I’ll hop a flight from Kennedy Airport.”

“Great. My flight arrives at two, so try to work around that time. I’ll let you know where I’m staying, in case we get our wires crossed.”

“Okay, baby. Hey, I’m proud of you, Cory Chamberlain.”

Not long after she reserved a flight to Logan Airport, Helen received another phone call. It had to be Cory at that hour, something she may have forgotten to mention earlier.

“Hey, baby,” Helen said seductively.

“Hello, darling,” a voice whispered deliciously.

Helen was wide-eyed. Cory never called her darling. The whisper was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“Who is this?”

The voice whispered, “One of your Israelites.”

Helen thought. “Ah. Then may I call you Michael? Or would you prefer Mr. Jackson?”

“You’re a snot, Townsend.”

“Me?” She laughed. “What’s that song Jackson recorded about starting with the man in the mirror?”

“Okay, I get your drift. Listen, I’m flying to Boston Friday afternoon. Do you want to have lunch with me beforehand?”

“Really? I’m booked for Boston, too. That’s a strange coincidence. I wonder what the odds are—”

“Slim to none, and stop making it sound so creepy. My departure is three thirty.”

Helen raised her eyebrows. “Mine, too. Wow.”

“Knock it off, Helen.”

“Sorry. Yeah, let’s have lunch first. How about meeting me at the paper, say noon?”

“Fine. By the way, there’s a matter you need to address. I think I’m about to throw a wrench into your queer show.”

“How’s that?”

“I was watching the news tonight. The dock workers are on strike in Oakland, California.”

Like she cared. “What does that have to do with us?”

“Does the word ‘union’ mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does. Unions protect just about any worker in the United States.”

“Like actors? Wardrobe? Makeup?”

“Among others.” When a mental list of those she knew belonged to an organization, and those who had never worked in the theater, flashed through her mind, she sat upright. “Oh, shit. Some of us need union cards.”

“You catch on quickly, Ms. Townsend.”

“I need to call everyone immediately.” Another fifteen phone calls before she could call it a night didn’t thrill her.

Blair laughed. “You sound like your palms are sweaty and your heart’s racing.”

“Yeah, a shock wave of ‘what the hell am I doing?’ just tore through me.”

“Well, relax. Anyone involved knows they need the proper credentials. I just wanted to spook you.”

Helen’s tense muscles relaxed, but now she was pissed off. “You really are a bitch.”

Still, she laughed. “I wish I could have seen your expression. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“I guess so, but you’re buying lunch and the cab. Good night, Blair.”

“Wait. There’s one more matter.”

“You better make it worth my time,” Helen said.

“You may not call me Michael.”

Chapter Sixteen

A fax came over Helen’s office machine. Cory had sent a rundown of her Friday night program. They would open with Mozart’s “The Marriage of Figaro Overture,” a fabulous opening with great power. Helen knew Cory was tickled. Then would come Bach’s “Air On the G String.” Couldn’t he have come up with a classier title? Either way, the piece possessed the ability to lull Helen to sleep. The next one was underlined, with a happy face drawn next to it. Chopin’s “Military Polonaise.” Helen cringed. That music Cory had practiced repeatedly, ad nauseam, and Helen had learned to loathe the piece.

The list continued. Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries,” works by Bizet, Chabrier, Tchaikovsky, and Sousa. Then Copland’s “Simple Gifts,” followed by the last piece, Anderson’s “Sleigh Ride.” A great night for music. “I love you,” the fax ended.

A house gopher poked his head into Helen’s office.

“Helen, some woman on line seven says she’s Michael Jackson.”

“Thanks.” She grabbed the phone and punched in the line. “Hello, Mikey.”

“Our flight’s been canceled.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Blair. I wanted to smack you last night.”

“No fooling. I called to confirm. There’s a mechanical problem, but we’re on a flight at eight.”

Helen pouted. Cheated again. She wanted to see Cory at five, not wait until ten and miss the concert as well as the extra time with her. She appreciated the classics as well as the next person and she’d never heard the Boston Light Orchestra live. She would miss the fun.

“What a bunch of bull,” Helen said.

“Griping won’t get us there any sooner. We can’t drive. We’ll hit every imaginable traffic pocket. An early dinner for us instead of lunch, then?”

“New York Deli at four,” Helen said.

At least she’d have a great Reuben.

*

Inside the flight terminal, Helen removed her coat, but Blair remained dressed. She’d included dark glasses and a wide-brimmed floppy hat to conceal her identity.

“Can’t disturb the natives,” she said and pulled the brim lower to her eyes.

Helen looked up from her boarding pass. A smiling, black-vested, male flight attendant approached their seats.

“Miss Whitman and Miss Townsend?” he asked.

“Yes,” Helen said.

“The captain has asked me to seat you before the normal rush. I’ll take your passes, and you can follow me, please.”

“Great,” Blair said and leaned toward Helen. “It’s good to be the king.”

They entered the narrow ramp to Flight 1201, and the attendant stopped at the third row of first class seats.

“I’ll take the window seat,” Blair said and shoved her hat into the overhead compartment.

With the aisle on her right, Helen got comfy in her seat and pulled her lap belt across and buckled it. When she noticed Blair’s was still at her side, she picked it up and handed it to her.

“Kings of Pop wear them, too,” she said.

Blair took the belt and snapped it into position. “You know, if this plane goes down, that belt won’t do jack for me.”

“And if you don’t wear it, you’ll be thrown off the flight, and I’m not going with you. Isn’t it grand that life offers choices?” Helen smiled at Blair’s kiss-my-ass expression.

The flurry of boarding passengers grew louder, and soon the attendants instructed the standard lifesaving techniques. The captain welcomed his passengers and announced they were cleared for takeoff. All passengers were instructed to remain in their seats, belts fastened, and please observe the no smoking regulation.

Minutes afterward, thundering engines increased power and hurtled the aircraft down the runway. Blair grabbed a firm hold of Helen’s hand. “Do you mind? Takeoff scares me.”

Helen didn’t mind.

The nose of the craft tilted upward and the landing gear tucked into the bowels of the plane. Helen squeezed Blair’s hand. “You okay?” Blair nodded.

A sudden and violent yank on Helen’s belt told her the worst: wind shear. A wing tipped right. Claws from hell ripped the jet downward. They dropped. One hundred feet. Two hundred feet. Helen knew. No way out. Blair and Helen locked eyes. She pushed Blair down by the shoulder. Sounds of heavy metal clashed with concrete; ten thousand screaming nails on chalkboard scratched a path through darkness.