Michael's Secrets

The Girls from
On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg
are back!

Michael’s Secrets

Milton Stern

Herndon, VA

Copyright © 2009 by STARbooks Press

First Edition

ISBN-10:
1-934187-46-1

ISBN-13:
978-1-934187-46-3

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Published in the United States

STARbooks Press

PO Box 711612

Herndon VA 20171

Printed in the United States

Many thanks to graphic artist John Nail for the cover design. Mr. Nail may be reached at:
[email protected]
.

Other Titles

by Milton Stern

The Girls (1985)

America’s Bachelor President
and the First Lady (2004)

Harriet Lane, America’s First Lady (2005)

On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (2006)

Dedication

My life would not be complete without my sweet, toy parti-poodle,
Serena Rose Elizabeth Montgomery
, who keeps me company while I write.

To W. Maxwell Lawton, who supported me during a very rough, yet strange, time; may he rest in peace.

To Wade Brown, my editor and fellow author, for his support and constructive suggestions.

The characters and events in this book are purely fictional. None of this ever happened … but it could have!

Chapter One

May 2005

Michael Bern looked himself over in the full-length mirror in the bedroom of his modest, three bedroom one-story, ranch-style home in Santa Monica and adjusted his tie. At six-foot-four with black hair, green eyes framed by long lashes and olive skin, he wondered if wearing a black suit with a black shirt and black tie made him look seven feet tall and “Lurch”-like. As he adjusted the white carnation in his lapel, he scanned his bedroom, which was decorated in shades of beige and green, to be sure everything was in its place and the bed clothes were wrinkle-free. Satisfied that all was in order, he walked across the hall to his office, where Aunt Clara, his sixteen-year-old pug, was sleeping in her favorite chair, and nudged her. He then picked her up and placed her gently on the floor, watching her stretch her tired, old body.

“Come on, Aunt Clara, let’s go outside, so you can pee before the guests arrive,” Michael said in vain as Aunt Clara had gone deaf over the last year.

She followed Michael down the hallway but was confused when he walked toward the front door instead of the kitchen, where a patio door led to the deck and back yard. Michael decided to take Aunt Clara out front in order to let the caterers finish their work. As he opened the door, Aunt Clara slowly walked outside, and Michael followed her, pulling his car keys out of his pocket. He waited as she found the perfect spot to relieve herself, then he walked over to his recently-restored, 1965 gold metallic Chevrolet Corvair 500 and sat down behind the wheel. Aunt Clara walked over to the car, excited to go for a ride as Michael hardly went anywhere without her. He reached down, picked her up and placed her on the passenger side of the bench seat and started the car.

“I’m just pulling into the garage, Aunt Clara, so don’t get too excited,” he told her as he eased the car into the garage. He then picked her up, exited the car and carried her back to the front yard as he pressed the button on his key chain to close the garage door.

He looked back to his house with its green shutters and light beige brick and scanned the yard to be sure it was free of debris and the hedges and other foliage was neatly trimmed. The gardener had just finished two hours before, and Michael was satisfied with his work. He then walked back into the house and made his way to his office with Aunt Clara right behind him. He was obviously looking for something in the light oak book case, and he adjusted his Emmys, Critic’s Choice Awards, Golden Globes, and various other trophies and statuettes while he tried to find the one last thing he needed before the guests arrived.

He smiled as he spotted a script on the third shelf next to
The Girls
, the screenplay he finally completed only a year earlier.

“How did I possibly miss it here?” he said out loud. He took it out of the bookshelf and straightened what remained, so no one would notice anything was missing. He could have left the space open, but Michael never was one for the lived-in look, preferring his home to look picture perfect at all times.

He carried the script to his living room, which was decorated in shades of beige, yellow and green with contemporary fabrics, reflecting a casual California style the Reagans would have loved, and walked over to the oak casket that was situated in the middle of the room, where the coffee table stood before being temporarily moved to the garage to make way for the casket. He lifted the lid and looked inside.

As he stood there, one of the waiters walked into the living room and watched as Michael took the script and threw it into the casket, saying, “Good fucking riddance, you bastard!” Michael then looked at the waiter and smiled. The waiter returned a nervous grin as Michael walked toward him.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette would you?” Michael asked him.

The waiter said nothing as he fished a pack from his pocket and handed it to Michael. He took a cigarette from the pack. The shocked waiter tried to light it for him, but his hands were shaking, so Michael placed his hands on the waiter’s, lit the cigarette and thanked him as he once again walked out the front door with Aunt Clara close behind.

The waiter watched Michael, and once he was sure Michael was outside, he slowly walked over to the now open casket to see who was inside. He hesitantly leaned over, and what he saw was puzzling. The casket was filled with what appeared to be hundreds of scripts, and the one that Michael tossed on top had written across the front cover, “Los Angeles Live, Pilot, September 25, 1986. Michael Bern and Mark Greenberg.”

Michael stood out front and smoked as he thought about what was next. For eighteen seasons, he had been the head writer of
Los Angeles Live,
a Thursday night, comedy-variety show that had won numerous awards and earned him a great living. He and Mark Greenberg wrote the pilot and worked together for the first three seasons until Mark left to produce a series of sitcoms for the network. Mark had returned at the beginning of the last season in an effort to increase the show’s ratings, but it was to no avail, and
Los Angeles Live
was unceremoniously cancelled at the end of the season.

Since they never had a chance to air a farewell show, Michael decided to hold a wake for the entire cast and crew a week after the bad news was delivered.

Within an hour, the guests started to arrive, all of them stopping to greet Aunt Clara, who was a daily regular on the set, and then hugging Michael, saying how sorry they were the show was over. Many shed tears, but not Michael, who greeted everyone with a smile, enjoying their reactions as they spotted the casket in the living room.

Mark Greenberg arrived an hour into the party, and Michael smiled as he saw him across the living room, also wearing a black suit, but with a white shirt, a pink tie and carnation. At five-foot-nine with a medium build, Mark had aged more than Michael had, which Michael attributed to Mark’s pursuing a career as a producer with all its headaches.

Mark walked over to Michael and after giving him a hug, said, “Michael, I did all I could; I’m sorry.”

“Mark, don’t worry about it; even you couldn’t raise the dead,” he said with the smile that had not left his face.

Mark then turned to the other guests who were gathered in the living room and asked one of the stage hands to get everyone inside from the deck. Once he was sure everyone was in the room, he turned to Michael and raised his glass, offering a toast.

“To Michael Bern, a real trouper who was there from the first day to the last. I know I speak for everyone when I tell you it was a pleasure and great fun working with you. But hey,
Birthright
is set to release in January, so you should be set for life from what I’ve heard around town.”

Birthright
was the screenplay Michael had written two years before, which had just completed filming and was now in editing, set for a January 2006 release. It was the story of twins, one black and one white, born in the South and separated at birth. It was far from the sketch comedy Michael was known for writing, but the initial and sustained reactions were positive.

“Hear, hear,” everyone chimed in as they sipped their drinks. Then someone yelled from the back of the room, “Speech, speech.”

Michael, never one to seek the spotlight, walked over to the casket and placed his hand on it as he smiled to the guests. He took a deep breath then said, “I don’t know what to say. I wish I could say I was shocked, but I think we all saw the writing on the wall. More than anything, I worry about all you unemployed people standing in my living room, which is why I hid all the silver.” A few chuckles were heard around the room. “You think I’m kidding?” Michael smiled again. “Seriously, we had a great run. Eighteen seasons are nothing to scoff at. I just wish we could have made it to twenty.”

Michael then became quiet and started to cry. Most everyone in the room was shocked as they had never seen Michael show any real emotion. He never raised his voice to anyone, and no one could recall a time they ever saw him get emotional or choked up. He turned away from them, embarrassed at such a display, but he need not have been embarrassed because once he started crying, there was not a dry eye in the room.

“It’s over,” Michael said as he wiped his eyes with the black handkerchief he had arranged in his breast pocket. “It just hit me. I may never see many of you again.”

“What’s worse,” Albert Hochman, another writer, said, “is that we will never be regaled with any of the stories of your mother’s friends anymore.” The guests laughed and nodded in agreement as Michael loved to tell of the crazy antics of Florence, Doreen, Rona, Arlene, and his mother, Hannah, to the writers when they were stumped for material. Many of the stories ended up on the show, and one recurring skit was the “The Tuesday Mah Jongg Group,” which was about five menopausal Jewish women who played Mah Jongg and bickered and gossiped about everyone in town. It had become an audience favorite.

“Enough of this, tell a story,” Mark yelled. “Tell us one we haven’t heard before.”

Michael looked over at Mark and pretended to scowl at him. Then, he took a sip of his drink and said, “OK, if you insist.”

The guests applauded as they waited for Michael to begin.

“Did I ever tell you about my birth?” he asked.

The guests looked at each other, and some shook their heads no or said no out loud.

“All these years, and I never told you how I was born in a Catholic hospital on Thanksgiving Day? Well, I don’t know how funny this will be, but here goes,” Michael began. “Picture it, the Lower Peninsula of Virginia, home to Hampton and Newport News, Thanksgiving Day, November 22, 1962.”

“Quick,” someone shouted from the back of the room, “How old is he?”

“Forty-two,” Michael said without hesitation. “I thought all of you knew that? Can I go on? … Anyway …” he began again as he told his story.