Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

He thought too many things in the few moments before he answered. He thought, It’s a crummy pilot, but maybe we can place it. He thought, I would probably get to see Gillian again, I’d have to if Sonderman were packaging the thing. I’d have to fly out to the Coast once or twice, wouldn’t I? I’d have to meet the people in the show, I’d have to watch some of the shooting. It’s a crummy pilot, he thought.

What’s the use? he thought.

What the hell is the goddamn use? What’s the use, because the world always closes in on you. The world is full of people like George Devereaux and Mike Arretti and Mr. Harrigan from California who takes the train in, I don’t trust airplanes, and who puts his foot on the back of your neck and squeezes you thin like a cockroach, send this son of a bitch the cockroach letter, what’s the use? The world was full of spoilers, yes, and some of them were named David Regan, at least one of them was named David Regan, what’s the use? You could see Gillian again maybe, you could okay this quality trash, you could commit your firm to a year’s option and you could break your back trying to sell the pilot to a network and an agency, you’d be giving Gillian a break, but it’s a lousy show.

Yes, let’s start worrying about lousy shows and good shows. The Sam Martin spectacle was certainly a terrific show, and you were its chief office boy and bottle washer, that was a magnificent show. As was the science fiction presentation every Wednesday night at 7:30 P.M. on a channel featuring wrestling, assistant to the producer, David Regan, that was a tremendous little show, so let’s start worrying about what’s lousy and what’s good. The afternoon live soap opera was wonderful, too, associate producer, David Regan, and so was the first real show you produced, the half-hour filmed Monday-night thing, that really was a masterpiece, so let’s turn up our noses at a private-eye show that has already signed the only girl who ever meant anything to you in your life, let’s turn arty and, it is good, my Thursday night show is good, yes, but what did Harrigan do to you this morning, what did Harrigan force you to do, so let’s get arty, right? You stepped on a good story, you knuckled under to the money, so now let’s suddenly find scruples when it involves a continuing series for Gillian, David Regan, with the neat gold-lettered PRODUCER on the door.

Yes, who squashed a good script this morning.

Producer.

With scruples. Big-scrupled producer. Go on, take the pilot. Tell Goff you’ll handle it on a 65–35 split and he’ll kiss both your feet and buy his clients a magnum of champagne. Tell him the girl stays, tell him the girl whose image filled that screen, the girl who came back like a ghost walking down that Beverly Hills staircase in a walk remembered, a walk familiar, her face, her eyes, her mouth, tell him the girl stays, tell him we’ll sell the pilot, I’ll see her again.

If.

If, of course, nothing has changed. If, of course, this is still the David Regan who entered that Sixth Avenue loft on November 20, 1947, oh yes, that was the date, if this was the same David Regan flinching from the world, unchanged, who found the girl with the big brass bed. Yes, the same David Regan. Exactly the same. Nothing changed. Yes. Certainly. And the same Gillian. The same Gillian, open and innocent and wanting only to be loved, and standing still while I slapped her open-handed across that wonderful face and the skyrockets exploded over Long Island Sound, slapped her with words as effectively as if I’d used my hands. Will you marry me, David? Slapped her with no after no after no, and left her feeling cheap and foolish, assuming she is the same girl, not destroyed, not thrown away and discarded by David Regan, television producer extraordinaire who blew it completely on the Fourth of July, 1949.

Four years.

More than four years.

And one day look at yourself, simply look at yourself in the mirror one day, startle yourself with the image staring back at you, and then ask yourself where the kid who stamped books disappeared to. Ask. He disappeared somewhere, yes, we know that, he vanished someplace, the way the buffalo and the bison vanished, and on Sunday I’ll be twenty-nine years old, happy birthday to you, make a birthday wish.

I wish I could run out into a street covered with snow, holding Gillian by the hand.

I wish the world were still and white.

But it isn’t.

“It’s a piece of cheese,” he told Goff. “I’m sorry, but it’s not for us.”

JANUARY 1

Snow. Snow outside. The world is still and white. It is New Year’s Day. The new year. Matthew is still asleep. He drank an awful lot last night. Julia Regan never drinks, I hadn’t noticed that before. The children are in the living room, still fascinated with the Christmas gifts. I think we give them far too much. Why doesn’t the new year start in September?

I would like to resolve so many things for 1954, but I can’t seem to put them in order.

I would like to be a better person.

I don’t know exactly what that means. A better woman? A better wife and mother.

A better person, that’s all. Better. I think I know what I mean. The house is so very still, the children are so absorbed. I called home last night to wish my parents a happy new year. Mother cried on the telephone.

I will be. Better.

It is still snowing.

JANUARY 4

Matthew off to station at 7:45. Orange juice and coffee, as usual. He doesn’t eat enough breakfast. I don’t know how he gets through the day. Kate asked me at table when she could begin wearing lipstick. I told her she was only 12. She said, “ Agnes wears lipstick, and she’s only 12.” I told her I didn’t begin wearing lipstick until I was sixteen, and she answered, “Well, you’re from another era.” Another era! She barely caught the school bus. Drove Bobby to nursery school, came back to empty house. Limbered up with Czerny for an hour, fingers very stiff, before men came to clean windows. Something wrong with washing machine.

JANUARY 13

Wednesday. Meeting of P.T.A. at Talmadge School. Matthew refused to come, is working on Daley brief. Roads very slippery. I am afraid to drive at night on icy roads. Bobby has slight temperature. Called Dr. Anderson. He said to give him a few St. Joseph’s and call him in the morning. Meant to try jazz arrangement of “Clair de Lune,” but that was before I remembered darn P.T.A. meeting. Must remember to call Phipps tomorrow, accept cocktail invitation. Are we running out of logs for the fireplace? Ask Matthew to call the man.

JANUARY 23

Bobby to dentist in afternoon before party. Says he may need braces by the time he’s 12. When he’s 12, Kate will be 19, and probably married. She asked me again about lipstick today, and I said firmly NO! Matthew asked why not. I said because she was still a little girl. “A little girl?” Kate screamed. “I’m as old as Agnes!” I told her I was not Agnes’s mother, and I didn’t care what Agnes did. End of argument.

SUNDAY

I tried to play “Rhapsody in Blue” today, made a total mess of it. Reminded me of Gillian, somehow. Children in a squabble stopped my effort.

I have an idea.

FEBRUARY 12

Received a Valentine card from Matthew and also one marked “From your secret lover.” Kate got 6 cards, all from boys at the school. Bobby complained because he didn’t receive any, even though he sent a beautiful handmade effort to a girl named, of all things, Melody!

February is so depressing.

FEBRUARY 14

My secret lover was Matthew.

He confessed all today. Also bought me an evening bag which must have cost him at least $100 at Lord & Taylor, the idiot. I knew it was Matthew all along. Other men just don’t seem to... well, I think there must be something wrong with me. At a party Saturday night, a man dancing with me said I was very pretty and I said thank you and changed the subject. He started telling me about the restlessness of modern American women, and again I changed the subject. I don’t know how to flirt. That’s the truth of it. Matthew is an unconscious flirt, and Julia Regan is an expert flirt, though it looks sort of silly on a woman who must be approaching 50, if not there and gone already, however well-preserved she may be.