Mary Clark - Weep No More, My Lady

When Craig and Henry finally left him at quarter of five, Ted felt drained. Restlessly he switched on the television set and in a reflex gesture switched it off. He certainly wouldn't clear his mind by watching soap operas. A walk would feel good, a long, long walk where he could breathe in the salty spray of the ocean and maybe wander past his grandparents' house where he'd spent so much time as a kid.

Instead, he elected to shower. He went into the bathroom and for a moment stared at his reflection in the paneled mirror that covered half the wall around the oversize marble sink. Flecks of gray around his temples. Signs of strain around his eyes. A tautness around his mouth. Stress manifests itself both mentally and physically . He'd heard a pop psychologist deliver that line on a morning news program. No kidding, he thought.

Craig had suggested that they might share a two-bedroom unit. Ted hadn't answered, and obviously Craig got the message; he hadn't pursued the idea.

Wouldn't it be nice if everybody understood without being told that you needed a certain amount of space? He stripped and tossed his discarded clothes into the bathroom hamper. With a half-smile he remembered how Kathy, his wife, had gotten him out of the habit of dropping clothes as he stepped out of them. "I don't care how rich your family is," she would chide. "I think it's disgusting to expect another human being to pick your laundry off the floor."

"But it's distinguished laundry."

His face in her hair. The scent she always used, a twenty-dollar cologne. "Save your money. I can't wear expensive perfume. It overwhelms me."

The icy shower helped to relieve the dull, throbbing headache. Feeling somewhat better, Ted wrapped the terry-cloth robe around him, rang for the maid and requested iced tea. It would have been enjoyable to sit on the deck, but too much of a risk. He didn't want to get into a conversation with someone walking by. Cheryl. It would be just like her to "accidentally" pass. Good God, would she never get over their casual affair? She was beautiful, she had been amusing and she did have a certain hardheaded ability to cut through the bull-but even if he didn't have the trial hanging over his head, there was no way he would get involved with her again.

He settled on the couch, where he could look out on the ocean and watch the sea gulls arcing over the foaming surf, beyond the threat of the undertow, beyond the power of the waves to crash them against the rocks.

He felt himself begin to perspire as the prospect of the trial loomed in his mind. Impatiently, he got up and pushed open the door to the side deck. Late August usually carried this welcome tang of chill. He put his hands on the railing.

When had he begun to realize that he and Leila wouldn't make it, in the long run? The mistrust for men so ingrained in her head had become intolerable. Was that the reason he'd overruled Craig's advice and put the millions in her play? Subconsciously had he hoped that she would get so caught up in a smash hit that she would decide she didn't want to accept the social demands of his life, or his desire for a family? Leila was an actress-first, last, always. She talked about wanting a child, but it wasn't true. She had satisfied her maternal instincts by raising Elizabeth.

The sun was beginning to lower over the Pacific. The air was filled with the humming of the crickets and the katydids. Evening. Dinner. He could already see the expressions on the faces around the table. Min and Helmut, phony smiles, worried eyes. Craig trying to read his mind. Syd, a certain defiant nervousness about him. How much did Syd owe the wrong people for the money he'd put into the play? How much was Syd hoping to borrow? How much was his testimony worth? Cheryl, all seductive enticement. Alvirah Meehan, fiddling with that damn sunburst pin, her eyes snapping with curiosity. Henry watching Elizabeth through the glass partition. Elizabeth, her face cold and scornful, studying them all.

Ted glanced down. The bungalow was set on slop-ing ground, and the side veranda jutted out over a ten-foot drop. He stared at the red-flowered bushes below. Images formed in his mind, and he rushed back inside.

He was still trembling when the maid came with the iced tea. Heedless of the delicate satin puff, he threw himself down on the massive king-size bed. He wished that dinner were over; that the night, with all it entailed, were over.

His mouth curved in a grim attempt at a smile. Why was he wishing the evening away? What kind of dinners do they serve in prison? he wondered.

He would have plenty of evenings to find out.

Dora arrived back at the Spa at two o'clock, dropped her bag in her room and went directly to her desk in the reception office.

Min had allowed her to keep the sacks of unanswered fan mail in a closet in the file room. Dora usually took out a handful at a time and kept them in the bottom drawer of her desk. She knew the sight of Leila's mail was an irritant to Min. Now she didn't care if Min was annoyed. She had the rest of the day off, and she intended to search for any further letters.

For the tenth time since she had found it, Dora re-examined the poison-pen letter. With each reading, her conviction grew that there might have been at least an element of truth in it. Happy as Leila had been with Ted, her distress over the last three or four films had often made her temperamental and moody. Dora had noticed Ted's increasing impatience with the outbursts. Had he become involved with another woman?

That was exactly the way Leila would have been thinking if she opened this kind of letter or a series of these letters. It would explain the anxiety, the drinking, the despondency of those last months. Leila often said, "There are just two people I know I can trust in this world: Sparrow and Falcon. Now you, Sammy, are getting there." Dora had felt honored. "And the Q.E. Two" -Leila's name for Min- "is a do-or-die friend, provided there's a buck in it for her and it doesn't conflict with anything the Toy Soldier wants."

Dora reached the office and was glad to see that Min and Helmut weren't there. Outside, the day was sunny, the breeze from the Pacific gentle. Far down on the rocky embankments over the ocean, she could see the traces of ice plants, the henna-and-green-and-rust-shaded leaves that lived on water and air. Elizabeth and Ted had been water and air to Leila.

Quickly she went into the file room. With Min's passion for beautiful surroundings, even this small storage area was extravagantly designed. The cus-tom-made files were a sunny yellow, the ceramic-tile floor was in shades of gold and umber, a Jacobean sideboard had been converted into a supply cupboard.

There were still two full sacks of letters to Leila. They ranged from lined paper torn from a child'* notebook to expensive, perfumed stationery. Dora scooped a batch of them into her arms and brought them to her desk.

It was a slow process. She could not assume that another anonymous letter would necessarily come addressed with snipped and pasted words and numbers like the one she had found. She began with the letters already opened, the ones Leila had seen. But after forty minutes she'd gotten nowhere. Most of the mail was the usual. You're my favorite actress… I named my daughter after you… I saw you on Johnny Carson. You looked beautiful, and you were so funny … But there were also several surprisingly harsh critical notes. That's the last time I spend five dollars to see you. What a lousy movie… Do you read your scripts, Leila, or just take what roles you can get ?

Her rapt concentration caused her to be unaware of Min and Helmut's four-o'clock arrival. One minute she was alone; the next they were approaching her desk. She looked up, tried to summon a natural smile and with a casual movement of her hand slid the anonymous letter into the pile.