Breach of promise, p.14
Breach of Promise, page 14
Bottom line, he said, Jesus was indeed a sacrifice in the Old Testament sense, when they used to sacrifice animals all the time. Jesus was different. His sacrifice was for everyone. Once and for all.
I still didn’t get it all, but it sounded better by the time Starkey was finished. It made me want to come back for more.
Afterward, several in the study went for coffee at a little café on Franklin. Nikki asked me if I wanted to tag along.
It was fun. For the first time in a long time, it was actually fun to hang out with some people. They were into movies and theater and music. Topics flew around like birds. I laughed and let the troubles drift to the back of my mind for a while.
When I talked to Nikki, they went away almost completely.
She was from San Diego, had been a theater major at the University of California down there. “Got to LA about three years ago,” she told me. “Been knocking on doors ever since.”
“How’s it going?”
“I’ve been up for a few things, nothing big yet. Doing theater with the co-op has been a godsend.”
“Too bad it doesn’t pay.”
“It does in other ways.” She took a sip of coffee. “Acting for the soul can save your life.”
“How so?”
She smiled. “I’m a preacher’s kid. You know what happens to them?”
I shook my head.
“We usually start rebelling around fourteen, fifteen. Smoking after school. Hanging out with the wrong boys. I put my dad through what must have been a meat grinder for him. One reason I went to UCSD was to party. Actually didn’t talk to Dad for three years.”
She said all this with a certain sadness and took a breath. “Came up here more or less lost. Knew I was running away from God. Also knew I wanted to be an actor. Didn’t care how or what. It was rough for the first six months. I didn’t get a single thing. And then I was looking through Back Stage Westand saw Actors Cooperative was having auditions for The Hasty Heart.
“Great play.”
“You know it?”
“Sure. Great movie, too. With Ronald Reagan and Richard Todd.”
“Yes!” Nikki smiled. “I got the Patricia Neal role. And that’s what did it for me.”
“Did what?” I was intensely interested.
“My friend, Cheline, you met her at Jerry’s? She has this saying about great art. It doesn’t preach at you, but it makes you homesick for heaven. There’s that part in all of us that seeks God, even if we choose to ignore it. The play opened up that part of me again. It brought me back to God. And that’s how acting saved me.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Nikki looked momentarily embarrassed that she had opened up so much. Without thinking about it, I put my hand on her arm.
“Thanks,” I said.
She looked at me and I melted into her eyes.
“I needed to hear something like that,” I said. “I got dropped from a new TV show that I was supposed to get.”
“Oh no.”
“Old story, different tune. I just need to regroup, figure out why I’m an actor.” I took a sip of coffee. “I wonder if I could join,” I said. “The theater group and the church.”
“Really?”
“Think I can?”
“Church, of course. There’s a new member class. And we have auditions every quarter for the company. If you want, I can set one up.” “You would do that?”
Nikki smiled again. “All you have to do is prepare a scene.”
My mind clicked like a well-oiled machine. “Would you do one with me?”
“Me?”
“Only if you have time.”
She looked at my left hand. “What would your wife think?”
It was like an ocean wave hitting me square in the face.
“That’s kind of a difficult question right now,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re right to ask. She’s living with another man. She wants a divorce.”
Nikki’s face reflected sympathy. She didn’t have to say anything.
“I’m just trying to lead a normal life,” I said, “in the midst of all this. Which means trying to be an actor.”
There was a long silence. “Okay,” Nikki said.
“Okay?”
“I’ll do a scene with you. As a favor to a fellow actor.”
I could not have begun to tell her how good that made me feel. We spent another hour or so chatting it up, laughing with the others, talking movies and theater and the bottomless pit of TV.
I left feeling good. It was a feeling that would last exactly nine hours.
3
“The court has taken into consideration the report of the evaluator,” Judge Winger said the next morning, an unseasonably cold Thursday. “I have also considered the testimony offered in this matter, and the court rules that the respondent, Ms. Montgomery, shall retain physical custody of the child, pending final resolution.
The court will allow two supervised visits by the father, Mr. Gillen, on the following two Tuesdays, for two hours each, with a third party present . . .”
His words faded in and out of my brain. Paula had custody? But I was going to see Maddie?
“ . . . as appointed by the court. Costs for the monitor to be paid by Mr. Gillen. We’ll set this matter for hearing September 25 if that is acceptable to both parties.”
And just like that it was over. Head swirling, I followed Alex out of the courtroom. (Paula didn’t appear at the session. At least I was spared that.)
“So I get to see Maddie?” I felt like a kid asking about going to Disneyland.
“Yes, supervised,” Alex said.
“Why? The judge thinks I might do something?”
“He went along with the evaluator.”
“That thirteen-year-old? Bonner?”
“This is just temporary. Now we go to work on the formal custody hearing.”
“When do I get to see my daughter?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Alex, please.”
She grabbed my shoulders, looking at me as much like a parent as a lawyer. “Mark, this is the first round. I told you to be prepared for a tough fight. Here is the good news. You will get to see Maddie again. And soon. It’s a matter of setting things up—”
“Supervised visit. He said supervised.”
“That’s not unusual. Focus on this. You will be holding your daughter in your arms soon. Think about that, will you?”
I was more than happy to.
There are, they say, five stages in an actor’s life. In stage one, the casting director says, “Who is Mark Gillen?” Stage two: “Get me Mark Gillen.”
Stage three: “Get me a young Mark Gillen.”
Stage four: “Get me a Mark Gillen type.”
Stage five: “Who is Mark Gillen?”
The great fear of actors is that they’ll go from stage one to stage
five without those other steps in between. What’s that line from the Dionne Warwick song about San Jose? Years pass so quickly, and the actors who thought they’d be stars are parking cars or pumping gas.
That fear is a little ferret in the belly of actors, and the only way to keep it quiet is to do something.
Well, I did something, all in the grip of this elation over Maddie. That emotion does funny things to your mind, especially after you’ve been hammered. You start to feel that the momentum is changing, like in a basketball game. Not something you can measure, but you have the feeling you’re about to go on a roll, can’t be stopped.
Sure it was only a small victory, getting supervised visits, but it was huge to me. I wanted to see Maddie again, hold her, laugh with her, more than anything in my life. And soon I would get to.
But this sort of mind-set can create a false sense of confidence, too. So I took my giddiness, mixed it with the fear of failing as an actor, and went out and did something really stupid.
I drove from the courthouse over to the Burbank Studios. I told the guard it was Mark Gillen to see Lisa Hobbes. He made a call, then gave me a temporary parking pass.
I was in.
Lisa met me outside the office of DiBova Productions. She did not look happy. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see Barbara.”
Lisa’s nostrils flared in what was her characteristic gesture of disbelief. “Without an appointment?”
“I need an appointment?” I said with mock surprise. “Idiot,” Lisa said. “What do you want?”
“Really. I just want to ask her a question.”
“But you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She’s in a meeting.”
I folded my arms. “That’s the oldest one in the book.” “She really is in a meeting, Mark.”
“I can wait.”
“I shouldn’t have let you on the lot,” Lisa said. “This is about Number Seven,isn’t it?”
“Ding ding ding ”
“You can’t change that, Mark.”
“I just want to know why.Is that so unfair? I had the thing and then it’s pulled out from under me. Maybe you can you tell me.”
Lisa shrugged. “Things happen. Decisions get made. You know the drill.”
“But I killedthe reading.” I tried not to let desperation make my voice all squeaky. “Barbara was hot to get me, my agent says. I want to know what changed.”
“You know how this business is. Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense. I’m really sorry—”
“What happened, Lisa? You know, don’t you?”
She did not answer.
“You do know why.” I almost jumped down her throat.
“Mark, don’t.” She put up her hands and took a step back.
“Why, Lisa?”
“Just let it go, Mark. You’ll have other chances.”
“I want to know about this one.”
“I need to get back—”
She started to turn but I grabbed her arm. She jerked it away. “Don’t.”
“Please,” I said.
“I can’t tell you anything.” But from her look I knew she could. There was more here and she wasn’t letting me in on it. Which only made me crazy.
“You can’t do this!” I shouted.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“I thought you were a friend.”
“Mark, don’t put that on me.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Before Lisa could say another word a security guard with a shaved head seemed to appear out of thin air. He looked like he chewed bones.
“Problem?” he said, glaring at me.
“No,” Lisa said. “He was just leaving.”
I told myself it had to be the publicity angle. Barbara DiBova and the powers that be decided my profile in the papers made me too, what, unstable to work with?
But part of me argued that in a world full of Sean Penns and Russell Crowes, having negative publicity didn’t really matter. In fact, it might even raise ratings.
At the same time, I knew that wasn’t really it. There was something else going on, beneath the surface.
Or maybe I was just losing it, becoming another paranoid actor who ends up old and unemployed, muttering lines to himself on the corner of Hollywood and Vine.
The bone-chewing security guard made sure I found my way to my car, and watched me drive off the lot. I sort of lost track of time after that.
4
Maddie had a spell there where she had frequent nightmares. She’d wake up screaming. I’d jolt out of my sleep like someone getting a cattle prod in the back and run to her room to calm her down.
One time, when Paula was off shooting her movie, Maddie screamed for me around midnight. I ran into her room and she made me get in bed with her. She buried her head in my arm.
“He’s in the closet,” she said.
“Who?”
“The bad man.”
“What bad man? Was he in your dream?”
She nodded, keeping her head buried.
“Why is he in the closet?”
“He wants all our Cheerios,” Maddie said.
That made me crack up.
“It’s not funny,” Maddie insisted.
“Why does he want our Cheerios?”
“I don’t know. He wants to eat them all up.”
“Do you want me to get rid of him?”
Nod.
“Wait here,” I said. I slipped out of the bed. Maddie put the
pillow over her head as I went and opened her closet. A little part of me wondered if there really might be a Cheerio bandit inside. “You have to leave now,” I said to the little dresses. “And don’t ever come back again.”
“No, Daddy,” Maddie said in a muffled voice. “He’s in the hall closet.”
“Oh, sorry.”
I tromped out to the hall, opened the closet, and picked a mean-looking jacket. “You hear me? Get out! Don’t come back, ever!”
Maddie was out of the pillow when I got back.
“Was there really a man in there?” she asked.
“What do you think?”
She thought for a long moment. “If he wasn’t, who were you talking to?”
I cradled her in my arms. “I was showing you what I’d do if there ever really was a man who wanted our Cheerios. Or anybody else who tries to scare you. I’ll always protect you, okay?”
Her little head went up and down on my chest, happily. I loved that.
I was thinking about that moment eating my own bowl of Cheerios the next morning. Ron Reid called to tell me his new address. I wrote it down, though I still didn’t know what to do about this guy. He did not seem like my father, and I was sure he never would. That hole in me was going to stay.
After breakfast I walked to Samuel French to pick up a couple of fresh paperbacks of Hamlet,the scene I decided to do with Nikki. It was good to be in there, surrounded by plays. Made me feel like I was still an actor. Out of work, without pay. Still hurting from betrayal. But hey, I could still say lines. I could still act.
Around noon I got a call. From Lisa Hobbes.
“This is a surprise,” I said.
“You free to meet?”
“What are we doing in the back of a used bookstore?” “Looking for The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Being an Idiot,”
Lisa said. “By Mark Gillen.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Lisa had asked me to meet her at Book Central in North Hollywood, a big used-book store that does a heavy trade. It was housed in a two-story building off Lankershim, near Blockbuster Video. Inside it was all wood and musty smell. So the meeting with Lisa seemed clandestine and mysterious, something out of a forties film noir.
I found her in the back corner of the first floor, actually wearing dark glasses.
The first thing she said when she saw me was, “You almost got me canned.”
“Nice to see you, too.”
“You hear what I’m saying?”
“What did I do?”
“Barbara saw you.”
“DiBova?”
“No, Bush. Of course DiBova.”
I slapped a shelf of books, hitting, I think, a volume of Victor Hugo. “I’m sorry. All I was looking for was a reason.”
“Yeah, with this big chip on your shoulder. So Barbara asks me what you wanted. More to the point, she asked me what I was doing out there talking to you.”
“What, did she think I was packing heat or something? Going in to shoot up the place?”
“You never know. You’re the actor. You’re one of the crazy people.”
“So what did you tell her?”
“I told her you’d left your SAG card with me and came to pick it up.”
“Why did you do that?”
Lisa put her hands on her hips. “To save your sorry butt, that’s why. You are on thin ice right now. You can’t afford to make things worse.”
“What do you mean thin ice?”
“The whole Paula thing. You’re not exactly smelling like a rose.”
“Is that the reason they decided to stab me in the back? They were so afraid of bad publicity?”
“That’s part of it.”
“Excuse me. Didn’t Barbara DiBova do time at Betty Ford? That didn’t seem to hurt her any.”
“She’s a name. She’s a player. Drug rehab can be a career boost if you’ve got game. But who are you?”
“Thanks again.”
Lisa sighed. “Look, sorry. I’m blunt. You know me. I always have been. But I like you, Mark. Would I be here if I didn’t?”
“You said that was only part of it, the publicity. What else?”
Lisa ran her finger along the spines of some books. “Don’t say anything about this, okay? Don’t tell anybody, ever, we had this conversation.”
“This is starting to sound very All the President’s Men.
“If this ever gets back to Barbara, I’m toast.”
“You’re really serious.”
“Yeah, genius, I am.”
“What’s wrong?”
An old man with a crooked, wooden cane and smelling of Old Spice and older wool, shuffled to the shelf next to us. He put his nose near the titles and started scanning. He was obviously going to be awhile.
Lisa motioned for me to follow her to the staircase at the back of the store. They creaked like a haunted house as we went up. We were in paperback fiction now, mysteries. Which seemed appropriate.
I was busting at the seams. “So what is going on?”
Lisa spoke in a low voice. “I hard-copy Barbara’s e-mails, the ones she marks. And then file them by date. Other ones she marks for trash. Usually, she trashes them herself. Sometimes not. It depends. I’m supposed to go through the trash at the end of the day and make sure nothing was put in that wasn’t marked for it. Doesn’t take long. Just a quick scan. Last Monday I did that and saw one in the trash with the subject line Seven.Which obviously meant Number Seven.”
“And?”
“I read it. Barbara has a special file for Number Seven,and I thought she’d put this in by mistake. Turns out this e-mail was about you.”
My throat started to close. “From who?”
“Leonard Remey.”
No way. Remey was a big-time agent at AEA, one of the top three agencies in town. Paula’s new agency, in fact. “Remey was talking about me?
