Coming Attractions Part 13

Helen raised an eyebrow and grumbled a word. "Meaning?"

"Sensationalism." She splashed into the bowl with her spoon. Cereal scattered onto the table.

"Is that how you see my profession?" Helen asked, an edge to her voice.

"Not always." She dunked the spoon again. Whoosh went the cereal. "But you do hype stories."

Helen counted twenty-seven bits of toasted rice that were scattered about the table, to her annoyance, while Cory chatted endlessly and looked disgustingly well groomed for that hour of the day. Well groomed, but sloppy in her eating habits. Helen wished Cory was as careful at her own breakfast table as she was in a public restaurant. Cory turned the page of her paper and her hand knocked the bowl.

"I know a woman," Helen said calmly and got up. "She worked with me on fiction." She walked to the cabinet. "She got me so crazy that I called her a word-sucking vampire." She pulled a large crystal salad bowl from the cabinet and slammed it onto the counter. "She told me the characters needed conflict."

"Uh-huh." Cory's nose remained in the paper.

With fluid motion, Helen dragged the bowl from the counter, reached up, s.n.a.t.c.hed a ladle from above the butcher block, dropped it into the oversized bowl, and stopped beside Cory. She banged the bowl onto the table. Cory jumped.

"I wish I'd known you then," Helen said.

Cory looked puzzled. "Is there a problem?"

Helen glared. "No. No problem." She grabbed Cory's cereal bowl with both hands, dumped its contents into the larger bowl, and slammed it back down on the table.

Cory folded the paper. She looked at the bowl and then at Helen. "What's the matter?"

Helen picked up the large bowl. "Hold this," she said and then scooped the spilled cereal into her palm and held it over the bowl. "This is the matter." She emptied the stray pieces into the bowl. "Every morning-dunk, splash, snap-crackle-pop. I've asked you lovingly and then politely. Now I'm telling you. No more snap-crackle-pop if I gotta clean up the mess."

"I wash my dishes," Cory said.

"This isn't about dirty dishes. Every morning you turn our breakfast table into chaos."

"Well, I'll alert the media: 'Chamberlain Gets Careless.'"

Helen stomped to the cabinet, grabbed the box of Rice Krispies, and trashed it. "I am the media, and you'll get shredded wheat."

"What is it with you? You complain if I'm not here and you complain when I am. Eat in the dining room if you're unhappy in here."

Helen stormed out of the kitchen, into her writing room, and slammed the door. She powered up her computer, popped a disk into the drive, and watched the flickering green light. She needed a moment to come down from her anger and pondered whether she should work, in her current state. If she started a column, she might sensationalize, bend the arrow.

"My readers eat it up and my lover criticizes me. Even weathermen get to exaggerate."

They don't merely say it snowed, they'll tell you how high, how long, how fast, how deadly. Gale force winds. Major storm blowing in. Major power outages. Major roadways impa.s.sable. Major this, major that, none of which should be confused with the Major Deegan Bridge, and that is, by the way, closed.

And now for local conditions.

Helen shut down the computer and headed for the door. She yanked it open.

"Al Roker from NBC wouldn't take that c.r.a.p from you," she yelled toward the kitchen.

One. Two. Three. Helen counted the seconds before Cory charged down the hallway.

"You want to fight?" She pushed past Helen. "Look at this room. Reams of paper. Reference books. Piles of...stuff everywhere."

"It's my work and it's not in your way."

Cory picked up a silver lightning-bolt SS insignia from the desk. "This is work? Surrounding yourself with death? Look at the walls! You have more photographs than the Holocaust Museum. It's wallpaper, and badly hung. The n.a.z.is had a better sense of organization than you have."

"Don't ever glorify those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to me."

"I want you to clean up the room." She picked up a small battered aluminum vial from the top of Helen's monitor. "Look." She wiped the dusty cap. "What is all of this junk?"

Helen grabbed the vial and shook it in Cory's face.

"A hair ribbon. My father opened an oven door and saw a little girl wearing two pink hair ribbons. The n.a.z.is were less organized at that point."

She pulled a black-and-white photograph from a pile near the desk. Bodies filled a trench fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. She shoved the picture toward Cory's face.

"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 h.o.m.ophobia was the same prejudice."

"It explains your pa.s.sion 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 mult.i.tude 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 s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce 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?"

"Sat.u.r.day 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."