The Fan Letter (7 page)

S
tretched out comfortably on a floating lounge in his pool, a pile of scripts bobbing next to him on a small, inflatable drink table, Phillip Beck was still disgusted. The sky above was a cloudless blue. A motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention as a squirrel from the nearby foothills ran across his terraced backyard and disappeared up the nearest tree. It was peaceful and quiet. Davey was down for a nap and Sarah was learning Japanese from a private tutor to ready her for her trip next month.

It wasn't his wife's sojourn that was bothering him this time. It was these blasted scripts that his agent Bill kept sending him. He had just finished filming a movie where he played a cheerleader's stodgy father. All the part consisted of was five scenes, twelve lines, and was gone before the second half of the film. Next week he would play a grandfather who dies in the first half hour. And these scripts next to him were more of the same. He felt like pushing them all into the pool.

Sarah had urged him to consider switching to her agent, Martin Thomas. That is, she
again
urged him to switch agents. After all, look what wonders Marty had done for her career in just a few short years. Why, Phillip was still just…. She hadn't finished her sentence, but Phillip had done it for her. Many times since, as well. Just where he had been for six long years. Still playing the same types of roles. Still had to audition. Still relatively unknown.

The big opportunity Sarah had pushed and hoped for through Zenith Pictures and Bob Carlson had resulted in a role as a luxury liner captain that began filming next month. He would be required to stroll among the big-name stars tipping his white hat, break up a fight in the lounge, and dance with the dowagers.
My, what a stretch
, he thought.

“It could lead to other offers,” Sarah had perkily told him, the falseness of her tone obvious to both of them. He had seen the disappointment in her eyes after she read his script. She had worked on Carlson all evening at the party—a point that had greatly bothered Phillip then and now. He was quite capable of landing his own roles, thank you very much.

Phillip knew what he needed. A role that was different, unique, fresh. These scripts were from the same writers turning out the same ideas for the same producers. He glanced over at the pile of scripts and shook his head, disgusted. He would call Bill later and demand some improvement in the quality of what he was being sent.

The sound of the patio door sliding open interrupted his sour line of thought and he glanced over to see Sarah come clicking over the patio. She was dressed to go out. Always the model, she could have been going anywhere from a photo shoot to dinner at Maxim's. “Phillip? I've been called downtown. Marty says there's some problem with Davey's passport. I need to take in his records.”

“Why don't you just leave him with me while you're gone? Then there would be no problem,” was his pointed, yet hopeful reply.

Sarah flashed him a smile. He still hadn't given up. “You know this is a wonderful opportunity for him. And Marty can help watch him when I'm on assignment.”

Phillip felt his stomach tighten as he unconsciously made a fist. Her skuzzy agent would be with his son. He wouldn't trust that man with a wad of used chewing gum and now he has to turn over his son.

Sarah saw the muscles in his jaw tighten and knew how he felt. She didn't agree at all, but she knew. Marty's cut-throat business practices had benefited her greatly and had taught her a lot. She followed his every word. “You can't let people walk all over you. Do it to them first,” was Marty's motto.

Not wanting to get into it again and to change the charged atmosphere, she held up some letters. “The mail came. Usual stuff. Who do we know in Amherst?” she asked as she paused flipping through the mail to look at an ivory-colored envelope.

“Amherst?” he repeated, allowing her to change the topic. He didn't feel like arguing again. Now. “I don't know. Where the heck is Amherst?”

Again glancing at the return address, she answered, “Apparently somewhere in California. It's addressed to you,” as she stood by the edge of the pool, holding out the envelope. Her curiosity overcame her need to leave. As he paddled over to take the letter as he knew was expected of him, she waited and was rewarded when a look of recognition came over his face.

“Ah, Bunny!” he declared with a small smile as he opened the envelope and began reading, momentarily forgetting his hovering wife.

“Bunny?” echoed Sarah, her smile frozen unnaturally on her face. “I don't know any Bunny.”

Phillip's eyes darted across the lines. “Hmm? No, that's just a nickname some aide at Majestic gave to her. I guess it stuck,” he frowned, thinking back. Glancing up at Sarah, who was on the verge of tapping her foot in impatience, he continued, “Remember that Western script I was sent on the set? That's her. Linda…. No, that's not right…. Leslie,” as he turned slightly soggy letter over to the signature.

Sarah's smile was still frozen. “That was a fairly interesting storyline, if I remember it correctly. Incomplete, but interesting. Why is she still writing you? How'd she get this address?” Her business downtown was pushed aside. That could wait. This was getting more interesting and worrisome by the minute.

He noticed she had sat down on one of the patio chairs near the edge of the pool. “What about the passport?”

“That can wait five minutes,” she snapped. “Do you think it was a good idea for that idiot agent of yours to give out our home address like that? There're a lot of nuts roaming the streets. Anything can happen. Doesn't he read the papers?” The more she thought about it, the more worried she became. Sarah felt her heart start pounding in her chest. Security had always been an important issue for her—all the more so when her career had taken off. She wondered how Phillip could be so lax.

Having drifted with the gentle waves in the pool, he turned his lounge to face her. His pleasant smile was gone. “First, Bill isn't an idiot and he didn't send the address. I did. And, second, Leslie isn't like that. She has her own agent now and is trying to get published. I don't know why she is still writing me. Probably because she is grateful for the advice and encouragement I gave her before.”

Eyes narrowed, she tersely asked, “Advice and encouragement for what?”

He looked away briefly and took a breath. This was turning into another needless argument. “I told you months ago about her two manuscripts. You read them both,” he quietly reminded her. “I suggested she expand them into novel length and submit them to be published. I thought she had wanted them viewed as scripts. Now she has done just that and they are apparently being considered. This letter concerns a convention she attended last week. She didn't seem to have a very good time,” he concluded, glancing back at the letter with a ghost of a smile playing over his face.

Silent, Sarah now recalled both stories and had liked them. With a little work they would have made excellent episodes for Phillip's character on that television show.
Leave it to Phillip to recommend something else.
That knowledge did little to allay her fears or to extinguish a small spark of jealousy deep within her. Outsiders can be totally unpredictable. Some had turned deadly. This one had their home address and was using it. And, she and Davey would be gone for at least a month.

Since her questions had stopped, Phillip returned to the letter and started reading the second page. “Hmm,” he muttered out loud, “sounds like she's done some stage work herself.”

Sarah sounded nonchalant. “Oh? How nice. Can I see the first page?”

“Sure,” as the letter was handed back, two wet blotches where Phillip had held it.

“
Hello, Phillip,

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to the mailbox….

I wasn't planning on writing you again until I had some word or other from the publishing company. Does time drag this slowly for you when you are waiting to hear whether or not you were chosen for a role you really wanted?

I do have just three words for you: You owe me! Big! Okay, four words. Let me explain. Since your kind encouragement I have paid more attention to “The Time Police” shows to help me with my writing. I was taken, almost by force, to a Time Convention last weekend in Rancho Blanco. I really didn't want to go. My best friend, Janice, forced, begged, and arranged the whole thing, and hey, let's take my car! No problem.

The day was hot, the hotel impossible to locate, and we waited in line for forty-five minutes to be admitted into a room filled with “Time Police” merchandise! Be still my heart.

Okay, I admit I bought a “Police” badge and some pictures (why weren't there any of you? That's want I wanted), and a couple of magazines….”

The rest of the letter rambled on and on about the convention activities and her continued work on her third book. Sarah had trouble with a few of the lines: “You owe me.” The one about wanting Phillip's picture. Her impatience and ambition. Her desire to see a page from an actual script. There were no outright words of admiration or love or anger. It was the familiarity that bothered her and possible subtle meanings that could be hidden within those lines.

“Phillip? How many letters have you received?”

His eyes were closed as if he planned on taking a nap. Hmm? I don't know. Four or five.”

“This one is sure friendly,” she offered pleasantly. “What were the others like?”

“I don't know,” he yawned. “You can read them if you like.”

Her lips parted into a silent “O”.
He kept them? Seriously
? Her mind visualized his private study. They would be in his desk. Third drawer on the right. That's where he kept his correspondence. She looked back at her husband who was now asleep, hands folded in his lap, shoulders starting to burn from the bright sun. Walking quietly so as not to awaken him, she went back into the house and called Marty. She would be about an hour late.

The letters were surprisingly easy to find. Phillip had made no effort to hide them. Ignoring the wrinkles it would cause in her meticulous outfit, she sank down on the floor behind his desk and read every word. A search for a mentioned photograph was fruitless. The only pictures on his desk or in the room were of Davey and her.

In her uneasy state of mind, she read words that weren't there—much like a frightened child sees dangers in shadows dancing on a wall in a darkened room. She focused phrases like “we'll do lunch”, “handsome face”, “next time you are in Amherst”, “fill in the empty evenings”, “555-4029”, “your last call”, and “I
really
wanted to thank you.” In themselves, these words had meant nothing to Phillip. He was probably too flattered to recognize the potential powder keg. As usual, she would have to take matters into her own hands—even if it meant a solution neither Phillip nor Marty would like.

After writing down Leslie's address and phone number, Sarah carefully returned the letters to their original place in the desk. Going back outside, she awakened Phillip and remarked sweetly, “Honey, I've been thinking. Why don't you come to Japan with us?”

The irritation and grogginess at being abruptly awakened left Phillip. The possibility of him traveling with them to Japan never been broached. It was always assumed he would stay at home, out of the way.

“That's impossible,” as he rubbed his eyes and flinched when he touched his red shoulder. “I have commitments coming up.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, those two movies don't amount to anything,” she replied airily and missed seeing the hurt look in his eyes. “Bill could get you more of those when we got back.”

Having gotten out of the pool, he put a protective towel over his shoulders. With a wave of his own hand towards the scripts now piled on a chair, his eyes narrowed. “Might I remind you that one of those movies
you
helped arrange. And now you want me to back out of a contract? That doesn't do well for one's name in this business,” he pointed out angrily.

Sarah dismissed that objection. “Oh, I'll have Marty fix that with Bob Carlson. I just think we should all be together in Japan.”

Phillip looked away from her carefully arranged face. She was trying hard to look sincere. “This job of yours has been planned for months now. For weeks you have been learning Japanese. Now all of a sudden it is imperative that I come along. The heck with my career and promises—just as long as you are happy.” He turned back to face her, his eyes showing the hurt and the anger. “If our family life is so important to you all of a sudden, then stay home! My jobs are just as important to me as yours are to you! They might not be as major as
you
would like, but you know I am waiting to find that one role that will do it.”

Her anger, never far from the surface, flared to match his. “You've been waiting for eight years for that one role! Why don't you have your little novelist write one for you!” Sarah twirled around on her heels and stormed into the house. Grabbing up her purse and papers, she left for her belated appointment.

Silently cursing, Phillip gathered up the scripts and the mail unsure of what just happened. One thing he did know—he wasn't going to Japan.

Sarah's slam of the front door had awakened Davey. He now came slowly downstairs, his eyes puffy and his hair sticking up on one side. “Daddy? Where's Mommy?”

He picked his son up from the stairs and then winced as Davey poked his shoulders. “Your mom had an errand. I don't know when she'll be back.”

Question forgotten, Davey's attention was on Phillip. “Why are you a funny color?”

Smiling as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, Phillip explained, “Because I did what I am always telling you not to do. I was out in the pool too long.”

“Do you want to see what I am going to take to Japan?” was the next eager question.

“Not now, son. Perhaps another time.”

A
fter the passport problem was straightened out, Sarah stood on the sidewalk with her agent, Martin Thomas, or Marty, as everyone except Phillip called him. Her anger and worry had returned.