Postcards From the Edge (17 page)

“You take things pretty hard,” her grandmother said. “I always tried to get you not to, but I don’t know, you can’t get children to be other than they are, and your nature is you take things rough. You work them over too much. Let things be, I always figure, but you always mull around and check everything out. Oh, you were a nosy little thing.”

“I like to hear stories about me,” Suzanne said. “It’s like I expect to hear some clue one day, like ‘Rosebud,’ where I’ll think, ‘That was the moment.’ See, I don’t really remember feeling like a child, or like I imagine children are supposed to feel-that kind of Yippee! thing like running down a green pasture or something. That’s why I love hearing stories about myself as a child, so it seems like maybe I didn’t just land here.”

“No, you didn’t land here,” her grandmother said. “You were a child. There’s plenty of children in the world that are serious children. You had to grow up fast because of the divorce. That was hard, but it happens to lots of people nowadays. Of course, it’s easier on children when it doesn’t, but there’s no use going over that. I don’t know, you did things children do. You wore big hats and put on your mother’s makeup and wore her big high heels. You directed little shows in the closet. You were a child, and you can still be a child if you want. If you want we can go down to the market and I can get you some baby food. You’re not missing that much.”

“I always feel like I’m missing something.”

“Well, you always did feel that way. You never could even nap. Never.”

“I’ve always had this sense of foreboding,” Suzanne explained, “that something could go wrong and…”

“And what? You think that if you could be there you could

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prevent it? A little person like yourself? If it’s gonna go wrong, it’ll do it all by itself.”

“I know, but I feel like if I were there, I might be able to make it go right.”

“Well, that feeling is wrong,” her grandmother said. “So maybe the foreboding one is, too. You can’t stop things from doing what they’re going to do, unless you’re doing the things. And if you really want to get married and have children and cook, well, you better get a move on, little sister. You’re not doing any of that stuff now. You should shit or get off the pot, pardon my French.”

“Beautiful French,” said Suzanne. “Is that some Berlitz thing I’m not aware of?”

“Don’t you be fresh.”

“Is there a cutoff age for fresh?” asked Suzanne. “Or does it just go on indefinitely as long as you have older relatives?” “Don’t make fun of me,” said her grandmother. “You know what I’m saying is right. Just pick someone and make it work, rather than using all the make-it-work energy saying, ‘He’s too short, he’s too tall, he’s no good …’ Just pick somebody. I’ve stayed with your grandfather now for fifty-odd years. I don’t like him, but I picked him. I’m proud of the fact that we’ve had this long marriage. I can’t say it’s all happy, it’s not always a good life, but we have a life together, and it’s as God intended. You’re there with your partner, and you don’t always like them but you don’t leave just ‘cause you don’t like it. You’re spoiled. Your generation thinks that if you don’t like something, you can do this or do that, take a drug or whatever, but that’s not my generation. We make a choice and we stick with it, and I think you could learn something from that.”

“Yeah,” said Suzanne, “but you and Granpaw hate each other.” “Where did you get that idea? We don’t hate each other. He just mostly stays in the back of the house and I stay in the front, but we see each other. We have our history together. We are each other’s lives, and I don’t hate my life.”

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“So I should just … pick somebody?” asked Suzanne.

“I’m not saying I just went out and picked him, but I stuck by him,” she went on. “I can’t say we’ve had the happiest marriage, but we don’t just get up and walk out when we have a fight. We’ve been faithful to each other, and that counts for something. I love your grandfather. I don’t like him all the time, I think he’s an ornery old grunt, but he’s my husband and I will stay with him.”

“So, what qualities should I look for in a guy?”

“Well, you can’t afford to be so choosy. You know, you’ve got twenty-year-olds also looking around, with their tits way up high and the best years of their lives to throw away on somebody. You’ve already thrown yours away, so you can’t be all that choosy. If you find somebody who likes you and respects you, and if you like each other, then, you know, you can work on the rest of it.”

“That sounds reasonable,” said Suzanne, nodding.

“Don’t think you’re not going to argue with them,” her grandmother said. “You can’t spend a lot of time with somebody and not have them get on your nerves, or vice versa. If you expect to not argue, don’t have a relationship.”

“Well, I haven’t,” said Suzanne.

“Oh, you have,” her grandmother said. “You’ve had a couple. I met Jonathan, I met that fellow Albert…”

“Yeah,” said Suzanne.

“Well, what happened with those? You split up with them.” “We didn’t get along anymore.”

“See, I don’t understand that,” said her grandmother. “This is what I don’t understand about your generation. You just stop getting along? You’ve got to work at getting along. It has to be something you care about, a priority”

“Gran, you should put out a relationship video. There’s Doctor Ruth for sex, and then, once they’ve had the sex, you could tell people how to stay together.”

“Go ahead, make fun of me,” her grandmother said, getting

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up from the bed. “And don’t take this movie thing so seriously. Don’t they always say, ‘It’s only a movie’?”

“Yeah, Gran, that’s what they say.”

“Now, how do you want your eggs in the morning?”

“You don’t have to get up,” Suzanne said. “I’ve got a very early call.”

“I’m up anyway,” she said. “Your grandfather has to have his heart medicine.”

“Poached,” said Suzanne.

“All right. Good night, darling. Sweet dreams. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“You were right there when they handed out cliches, weren’t you?” said Suzanne. “Good night, Gran. I love you.”

She was calmer when she arrived on the set the next morning. The first scene was being shot in a car, which was placed on a platform with the crew and all the equipment on it, all of which would be dragged along by a pickup truck. Rita had just finished connecting Suzanne’s body mike when Simon walked by with Rocky, the first A.D., who was explaining how many extras they needed to do drive-bys in the car scene.

Suzanne followed behind them until Simon and Rocky were through. Then she said, “Excuse me, Simon. Could I talk to you?”

“Certainly, love,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” she said sternly, “is that four people, including my agent, had conversations with me yesterday concerning my low enjoyment level, and it bothered me. I would prefer to receive direction solely from you.”

Simon looked concerned, and the wind almost blew off his hat. “Really?” he said, in an affronted English tone. “That shouldn’t be. I’ll have to have a word with them. Your agent called you about this?”

“My agent,” Suzanne repeated indignantly. “As if I were a child. As if I were difficult to communicate with,” she said, rising

to some inner occasion. “I mean, why don’t I give them my mother’s number! Or better yet, call my grandmother! She’s down here, she can stand by and make sure I’m relaxed!”

“That’s it!” Simon said excitedly, snapping his fingers. “This is her! This is the quality I want for your character. Right there, what you’re doing now. See?”

“But Simori,” Suzanne said, trying now not to give him the quality he wanted in her character, “this is not relaxed. This is incredibly upset. If this is the quality, then maybe-“

“Darling,” he soothed her, putting his arm around her and walking her toward the car on the platform, where the crew was waiting to do a rehearsal. “Just be yourself and you’ll be fine. I know it sounds trite, but trust me. I’ll talk to the producers and make sure that what occurred yesterday is not repeated. Now, try to calm down.” He kissed the top of her head.

Rocky came up to Simon. “They need you behind camera,” he said.

“Oh, surely, surely,” said Simon, going around to the other side of the truck. Suzanne made her way to the passenger side of the platform, where Ted helped her up into the car. Bobby Munch came in a few minutes later, and Suzanne filled him in on the entire enjoyment /relaxation saga as the platform was dragged out to a lonely stretch of desert highway where they would spend the next few hours.

When she finished her story, Bobby smiled gleefully. “Telephone call for Suzanne Vale,” he said. “Brrring! ‘Hello,’ you say. ‘Hello, sweetheart, this is your Aunt Lillian in Tucson,”’ Bobby said in a high little voice. “‘Listen, honey, George Lazan called today and mentioned that you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself. Well, now, I know that it’s harder nowadays to have fun than it was when I was a girl. You know what we used to do for enjoyment, we would go down to the swimming hole and swing in one by one from a tire tied to a rope. Anyway, seems to me that if you want to do this dang fool thing for a living, you might as well try to enjoy it while you’re at it. Well, bye-bye, dear.’ “

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Suzanne was as happy as she’d been in months. “Brrring!” she intoned gaily. “Hello,” she said as herself, then went on, “Suzanne, it’s me, Mary. Now, listen, girl, I been lookin’ after you since you was tiny, and I’m worried about you. This Mr. George Lazan called me, uh huh, he shore did. Says you’re not relaxin’ enough. Suzanne? What are you eatin’? I bet you’re gettin’ too much sugar and not enough proteins and things like that. You know, my Pete, what he do to enjoy himself-now, I know he’s not an actor but he has a lot of tension-often he will take a very hot bath and a cold shower right afterward, and then he’ll… Well, you can’t drink, so that might not work for you, uh-uh. All right now, honey, stay warm. Bye-bye.”’

“Brrring! Brrring!” Bobby said excitedly. “‘Hello?’ ‘Hi, Suzanne? You may not remember me, but I was in kindergarten with you. Louis Bodenfelden? We were in Mrs. Webber’s class together. I threw up scrambled eggs out of my nose one day on the way to the library. On the stairs? Anyway, this guy George Lazan called me. He thought maybe I could talk to you about relaxing in your performance. I don’t know why he called me. He said he tried to reach Mrs. Webber, but she was dead. Anyway, nice to talk to you again. I’ve enjoyed your work over the years. Good luck.”’

Suzanne noticed that Simon and Rocky and all the sound guys were laughing, and she remembered she and Bobby were body-miked. Anyone with a headset was in their audience. She tapped insistently on her window. “‘Miss Vale?”’ she said in a low male voice. “‘Miss Vale! It’s your pool man, Jeff. Sorry to wake you, but this dude George somethin’ or other called and said you weren’t owning your performance. I told him you always seem pretty relaxed to me, but then you’re usually asleep when I get here. Maybe there’s too much chlorine in the pool. Well, take it easy. I say, shine the old guy on. Later.’ “

It went on for hours. Between every take there were new calls from people George Lazan had contacted. Suzanne’s dry cleaner, her exercise coach, her gynecologist, an old water

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skiing instructor, a camp counselor, both her parents and all of her stepparents, Jack Burroughs, and, finally, the New York critic who had once suggested that Suzanne leave show business, and who now restated his position more vehemently.

“You were wonderful all morning,” said Simon enthusiastically on the way back to the set. “Just a delight, on camera and off.”

Suzanne smiled and blushed. Her entire body ached from laughing. She had to admit she felt pretty relaxed.

A week later, on her thirtieth birthday, Suzanne sat in an unmarked police car, soaked to the skin and waiting for Simon to call, “Action!” She looked over at Bobby. “If this is any indication of how my thirties are going to go-” she began.

“Your thirties?” he shouted. “Let’s talk about my forties for a few minutes, shall we? Let’s discuss that I have a wife and two daughters and I’m still soaked to the skin with a big movie wound on my arm, playing cops and robbers.”

“What about that I’m thirty and I don’t have any children?” countered Suzanne. “Or a husband, for that matter.”

Bobby started laughing. “This is a perfect actor conversation,” he said. “‘What about me?”Oh, yeah? Well, what about me?’” “An actress on her thirtieth birthday obsessing about herself,” Suzanne said, also laughing. “I’ve become typical.” “Sweetheart, you became typical long ago, only you were too stoned to notice.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said. “I suppose you’re not typical?”

“I revel in my typicalness,” Bobby said. “Do you think they remember that we’re out here waiting to do this shot?” He squinted down the highway at the crew, where Simon and Rocky were having what appeared to be an important conversation. Simon looked down the road toward their car and held up five fingers. “Five more minutes,” Bobby sighed.

“Hey, babe,” teased Suzanne, “you wanted to go into show business.”

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“Not this show business,” he said. “I wanted to be in the glamorous, fun show business.” A soft warm breeze moved steadily across the desert, carrying the voices of the crew. “You’re awfully cheerful for someone who’s just turned thirty,” he said.

“I’d just hate to remember my thirtieth birthday as an ordeal,” she explained. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m happy and I just don’t…” She paused, looking for the right words. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m happy, but because I expect it to be something else, I question the experience. So now, when in doubt,” she shrugged with true bravado, “I’ll assume I’m happy.”

Suddenly they heard Rocky call them, and Simon made a thumbs-up sign. Roger ran up the hill with a water bottle to spray them.

“Action!” called Simon.

Bobby clutched his wound and started driving down the hill. Suzanne grabbed her movie gun. As they drove past the camera, Suzanne was exhilarated. She was still young, goodlooking, funny, bright, her wet hair was blowing behind her, and she had a gun in her hand. As soon as they were out of camera range she began to sing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.”