The Love Machine (20 page)

She had to break with Christie Lane! She had only continued seeing him because of her loneliness and longing for Robin. She could never really care about anyone else. But at least she was making Christie happy… .

The story in
Life
caused a great deal of excitement. She actually felt famous, especially on the nights after the show, when she came out of the stage door and all the autograph kids called her by name. But she didn’t hear a word from Robin, until the Sunday before Decoration Day. She had just hung up on Christie. He was playing Decoration Day at Grossinger’s for a fabulous fee. He had wanted her to go along with him—but she refused.

“Ah, come on,” he pleaded. “We’ll have a ball. Even Aggie is taking off from the Latin Quarter—”

“I can’t afford to lose the money. Besides, I’m not Aggie—I’m not a camp follower.”

“What’s with the camp-follower crap? We’re getting married this summer.”

“
If
and
when
we’re married, I’ll go to places where you play. Right now I’m staying in New York and keeping my modeling appointments. I’m not going anywhere as part of the Christie Lane caravan.”

“Ah, shit, you and your highfalutin ideas. I hadda go fall in love with a lady!” He hung up, disgruntled but not angry.

After she had hung up, she thought about it. Why hadn’t she just said, “I’m never going to marry you”? Because she was frightened! She was frightened of what would happen if Robin ever disappeared for good. She would go to pieces. She had tried breaking with Christie once, told him she was never going to see him again. The break lasted only five days. … At least with Christie she was able to keep her sanity. There was always a nightclub opening or a benefit, and being with Christie was better than being alone.

The phone rang. She picked it up lethargically, thinking it was Christie calling back to make one last plea. The crisp voice caught her off balance: “Hello, Celebrity.”

“Robin! Oh, Robin! Where are you?”

“I just came in. I’ve been away, covering the Eichmann trial. I just read all about you on the plane—caught up with all the back issues of
Life
—and, by God, there you were!”

“What did you think of it?” She forced herself to sound casual.

“Just great,” he said with enthusiasm. “It makes you sound almost as exciting as you really are.”

Her throat was tight—but she kept her voice light. “You almost sound like you missed me.”

“I did.”

She barely listened. She was planning their evening, it was five o’clock—too late to wash her hair, but she could put on a fall. She hoped they would stay in. Thank God it was Sunday—Jerry was in the country and couldn’t tag along. She had steaks in the freezer, but she was out of vodka.

“Are you still as beautiful as ever?” he was asking.

“Come see for yourself.”

“Fine. Meet me at the Lancer Bar tomorrow at seven.”

She was so disappointed she couldn’t speak.

He took her silence for indecision. His voice was light. “Or has
Christie Lane cut me out of the picture?”

“No—but he’s asked me to marry him.”

“He might be a good bet at that. His show will go on forever.”

“Would you care, Robin, if I married Christie Lane?”

“Sure I’d care. I’d hate like hell to lose you. But I can’t compete against marriage.”

“Why not?”

“Look, baby, there’s only one reason for marriage, and that’s to have kids. I don’t want any kids.”

“Why?”

“They’re one hell of a responsibility.”

“In what way?”

“Look, Amanda—I have to be loose, be able to pick up and go. You can do that with a girl, even a wife. But you can’t do it to a kid. What kind of a father would I make?”

She was trembling. Marriage had always been a subject he had refused to discuss. But now they were actually discussing it.

“Oh, Robin, I think you’d make a marvelous father.”

“A father should be with his kid.”

“Did your father leave you?”

“No, he had nine-to-five hours. And Kitty was a good mother: we had nurses and cooks, but she was always there. And that’s the way it
should
be.”

“Then I don’t understand—what makes you feel you would run out?”

“My work, baby,” he said tightly. “And although it’s never happened to me, I know that if I was a kid and my father wasn’t there it would kill me—I know it. Don’t ask me why, I just feel it.”

“Robin, we don’t have to have children now… .”

“Then why get married?” he asked.

“To be together.”

“We’re together, except when I need to be alone. Like tonight—I’ve got a desk piled with mail. I feel like tossing it all in the basket. I may do just that.” There was a pause. “I just did. The bills will arrive again, and I don’t think they’ll turn off the electricity if I’m one month late.”

“All right, the mail is gone. Now we can be together tonight,” she said.

“Amanda, that’s why I’m against marriage. I
want
to be alone tonight.” His voice suddenly became gentle. “Do you understand now, Amanda? I’m not geared for marriage. I like things the way they are.”

“And the little setups Ike Ryan arranges!”

“Ike Ryan—now where did you drag that name from? I haven’t seen or thought of him in ages.”

“And what about the baroness? Or is that a name you haven’t thought of in months?” She knew she was destroying herself, but she couldn’t help it.

“Amanda darling, another awful thing about marriage is explanations. I don’t owe you any, nor do you owe me any. Now, how about tomorrow? Are you free?”

“I’ll
make
myself free.” Her voice was sullen.

“Good girl.”

“Are you here for some time? Or are you flying off somewhere?”

“Baby, I’m so tired of traveling, I never want to leave again. I’m going to stay put until fall.”

“That’s good.” Her gloom evaporated. “We go off the air in two weeks.”

“Oh, that reminds me, Jerry Moss invited me up to Greenwich for the July Fourth weekend. They have a great house and a pool. Would you like to come?”

“I’d love it, Robin.”

“Great! See you tomorrow night.”

She sat very quietly for a long time. She lay awake half the night. The following morning, she called Jerry Moss at nine o’clock.

“Jerry, I’ve got to see you. It’s urgent.”

“I’ll probably see you at the Lancer Bar. I’m meeting Robin there at five.”

“I’m not getting there until seven. But I’ve got to see you
alone
. It’s very important!”

“Lunch?”

“No, I have a twelve o’clock session. Can I come to your office? Say, ten o’clock?”

“It’s a date. I’ll even have coffee waiting for you.”

She sat across the desk from Jerry and sipped the coffee. She told him about Chris, implying that there had been no intimacy between them. In a way it wasn’t a lie—there was no intimacy. She merely lay back, gritted her teeth and submitted to him.

Then she said, “That’s why I had to come to you, Jerry. You’re the only one who can help me.”

He looked startled. “Me?”

“If I go to Vegas with Chris, I’ll have to marry him. If I
don’t
go to Vegas, I’ll lose him.”

Jerry nodded. “It’s a simple decision. A sure bet against a long shot.”

“I want a chance at that long shot,” she said. “Robin will be in town all summer. He’s invited me to your place for July Fourth.”

Jerry was silent. Then he said, “Go to Vegas, honey—marry Chris. Don’t waste any more time on Robin.”

“Why? Has he told you something I don’t know?”

“No, but look—did you ever hear of Ike Ryan?”

“I know all about Ike Ryan. But he doesn’t see him—or do those things anymore.”

Jerry smiled. “I have a friend who’s a psychiatrist. When Robin told me about the action he got with Ike, I happened to bring it up with him and he said that Robin probably hates women.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she snapped. “This friend of yours doesn’t even
know
Robin. How can he come up with a statement like that!”

“He’s
met
Robin—”

“Are you trying to hint that Robin’s queer?” Now she was actually angry.

“No. I’m saying that as people—as friends—he likes men. He digs women, but only for sex—he doesn’t really like them. He’s actually hostile to them.”

“And you think that’s true?”

“Yes. But I think Robin likes
you
—as much as he can like a woman. He’ll force your hand eventually;
you’ll
be the one to break this up.”

“Jerry… .”Her eyes were soft. “Help me… .”

“How can I help you?”

“Keep me from going to Vegas with Christie. You can tell Christie I’ve signed a contract for the commercials on the summer replacement show and I have to stay here and do them live.”

He looked at her. “Go to Vegas, Amanda. Christie Lane is offering you a future, a real life, kids—the works.”

“Jerry,” she was pleading. “I want one last chance with Robin.”

“I thought you had more class, Amanda. Where’s your gambling spirit? If I cared that much for someone, I’d toss the dice and go for broke. Give up Christie Lane. Shoot for Robin! So you lose a chance for a good marriage and security. If you were thirty-five, I’d say you couldn’t risk it. But you’re young, and you must have plenty of money saved.”

“I don’t save any. I can’t.”

Jerry shrugged. “Then stop buying all those ‘name’ clothes. God, Mary buys things in Greenwich for forty-five dollars.”

“Mary doesn’t make a hundred dollars an hour. And don’t forget, I use my clothes on the show. Being well dressed is part of my business. And I’m
scared
of not having money, Jerry, scared of being without it.”

“In my book, a girl with two men in love with her shouldn’t worry about being alone. And a girl who makes a hundred dollars an hour shouldn’t worry about not having money.”

She clenched her hands. “Jerry, have you ever been poor? I mean
dirt-poor
. I was. I was white trash. It kills me when Chris talks about Miami, and how he played small clubs, and how he vowed to play the big time in the big hotels. I was born in Miami—in a charity ward. My mother was a Finnish chambermaid in one of those fancy hotels. I suppose she must have been pretty. I only remember her as being skinny and tired. But one of those rich men who stayed at that hotel must have thought she was pretty. I don’t even know who my father was. I just know he was some
rich man who could afford to spend the winter in Miami and knock up some little chambermaid. After I was born we lived in what they called Niggertown, because the only woman who was decent to my mother was a colored girl who worked in the hotel. It was a shanty, a tar flat—you pass them when you drive to the airport. This woman—her name was Rose—she got my mother to the charity hospital when I was born. And then we lived with her. I called her Aunt Rose, she’s the finest woman I’ve ever known. Later on, when my mother worked at night, Aunt Rose would come home and make supper and see that I studied and hear my prayers. My mother died when I was six. Aunt Rose paid for the funeral and kept me with her just like I was her child. She made me finish high school—she worked for me, she clothed me—then she sent me to New York on a bus with fifty dollars she had saved.” Amanda stopped and the tears overflowed.

“I’m sure you’ve repaid the fifty,” he said.

“I sent her fifty dollars a
week
in the beginning. But it would take me a lifetime to repay her for her love. A year and a half ago, Aunt Rose had a stroke. I rushed down to Florida—it was right before I met Robin—and I got her into a hospital. It wasn’t easy, they weren’t exactly thrilled about having a sick old colored woman. But I met a sympathetic doctor, and he helped me get her in a private room. Naturally she had no hospital insurance, nothing. She was there for six weeks—that cost four thousand dollars with nurses and therapy. You try explaining that to the Bureau of Internal Revenue. ‘Is she a relation, a dependent?’ they ask. ‘No: just someone I love.’ But they figure she has Social Security, like one hundred and fifteen a month or something, and she can go in a charity ward. But according to law she’s not my kin—I wasn’t adopted. And those heartless guys down there, they see someone like me come in and they think, ‘A model, one hundred an hour—she makes more in a day than I make in a week.’ “

“Where is she now?” Jerry asked.

“That’s just it. I couldn’t leave her alone, even when she was discharged from the hospital. I tried to get someone to care for her, but it didn’t work. So I brought her up here to a nursing home on Long Island. That cost a hundred a week. Okay, it was fine, and I visited her every week. Then about eight months ago
she had a massive stroke. I had to move her to another nursing home where she gets round-the-clock care. And now I’m paying two hundred and fifty dollars a week.”