“To a national TV host she says this,” says Pat. “He didn’t know how in hell to respond, that was clear. The director counted him down and he was still trying to figure it out when we were back up again. Play the rest.”
He hits play.
“We’re sitting here with our amazing . . . our amazing guests,” Choi is saying, “Patricia Cross, her brave daughter, Delia, and their hero dog, Caity. Patricia, tell us about Delia’s recovery process.”
“It hasn’t been easy, Manny. All the surgeries, the home treatments. It’s our whole life right now. But our girls are getting better every day, that’s the most important thing.”
His wife is composed, even if Choi immediately isn’t.
“It’s been pretty tough on you financially, I imagine?”
“I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t. But we’ll get through it . . . somehow.”
“Not only have you had to deal with Delia’s recovery but Caity’s as well, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have pet insurance?”
“We didn’t even have insurance for ourselves, no.”
He settles back in his chair. “When I heard your story, I reached out to one of our sponsors, Flippy Chow, and they were so moved by Caity’s bravery that they sent this, along with their very best wishes.”
A curtain opens behind them stage right and two PAs wheel out an extravagant miniature firehouse, with a fireplug in front of two wide garage doors and three windows above and you can see the old-fashioned slide-pole through the middle one. Choi gets out of his chair.
“C’mon. Check it out!”
They follow him over, and it’s only then that Bart realizes what the thing really is. A firehouse, yes. But also a doghouse. A doghouse just big enough for Caity. Who sniffs at it and then paws at one of the doors, which opens right up for her.
“Flippy Chow’s designers built this especially for her, just for Caity!”
She sticks her head inside and emerges with a dog bone as long as Bart’s forearm only thicker and gnarly, and immediately begins gnawing at it, working it between her paws. Awwwwws and laughter from the audience.
“One hundred percent real beef, ladies and gentlemen. Made right here in the good old USA! Our many thanks to the people at Flippy Chow. And remember, folks, your dog will flip for Flippy Chow! Do me a favor, Delia, and lift that fire hydrant up there.”
His daughter’s hesitant. But she does as he asked. The hydrant slides open on a pair of runners. Inside is a piece of scroll-type paper tied with a big fluffy red bow.
“Hey, what’s this?” Choi says. “Take a look, Delia.”
But instead of opening it, she passes the paper over to Pat.
It isn’t what Choi wanted but he rolls with it.
“What does it say, Mrs. Cross?”
She slips off the bow. Scans it briefly. Then puts her hand to her mouth in amazement.
“A Visa Platinum card,” says Choi, “from our friends at Capital One and PetSmart. Good for anything Caity needs at PetSmart. The veterinarian, great big bones, hey, anything at all. For life!”
The audience erupts into delighted applause, shouts, whistles. And Delia takes exactly that moment to bend down to Caity and start play-wrestling with her, tussling over the bone, laughing. So that her hoodie drops from her head to her shoulders. And there they are, all of them, framed in a wide shot, Pat clenching the paper in her hand, Delia and Caity seeming oblivious, off in their own world, Choi looking stricken.
The audience gasps. Then there’s silence.
The camera dollies in tight on Manny, a wash of sympathy on his face and then to Delia, who for all the world might be any happy young girl playing with her dog. Except for all that scarring. Except for that.
Choi finds his voice. “Delia?”
“Mmmm?” In the tussle Caity’s winning.
“Delia? Can I have you back for a moment?”
Titters from the audience. They’re beginning to relax again. Delia lets go of the bone and turns her attention back to Choi.
“This brings me to our next surprise,” he says. “Please welcome our next guests, Gerald Stone, president and CEO of Stone Pharmacies. And you all know the host of Eye of the Beholder, Dr. Lively Hamilton.”
Polite applause for Stone, a thin gray man in an immaculate dark suit, and a much heavier appreciation for the glamorous celebrity doctor—mid-forties, tanning-bed brown, with wide hoop earrings and probably a dozen bracelets dangling from her left arm. Both of them smiling to beat the band.
Choi invites them to sit and waves Pat and Delia over to their own chairs. They all settle in.
“Patricia, Delia, I phoned Mr. Stone here at his office yesterday, and ten minutes after our conversation he was on his company plane to fly out here to . . . well, I’ll let you explain, Gerald.”
Stone clears his throat. “Thanks, Manny. Mrs. Cross, Delia, as I hope you know, we at Stone Pharmacies are committed to bringing the American people the finest quality pharmaceuticals for every need. And on behalf of my entire executive board and the thousands of employees across this great country, we’ve committed to covering the costs of all your medication needs for the next ten years. This includes retroactively picking up the tab for all the medicines you’ve had to purchase thus far without benefit of insurance. And all of us at Stone Pharmacies hope that helps, just a little.”
Huge applause.
Hell, Bart wants to applaud himself. He’s been expecting a very good paycheck for the show but that’s all. Certainly not this. This was going to help get them off the hook big-time. Fucking amazing.
“Wow,” he says. He looks to Pat, who smiles at him and nods.
Even Robbie’s grin’s back.
“What do you think, mom?” Choi is saying. “Will that work for you?”
Pat’s face is buried in her hands again. He can’t tell if there are tears behind the hands or not. But her body’s shaking and she uncovers her eyes and yes, damned if she isn’t crying again. She wipes away the tears and reaches over for Manny and gives him a hug, then to Stone and shakes his hand clasped in both her own and mouths a silent thank you.
“Will that work, Delia? Is that gonna work for you?”
“Sure,” she says. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”
“We’re going to help, okay? Okay with you, Delia?”
She smiles and shrugs. Clearly not the huge, grateful response they’re looking for. But a smile is all they get. So the camera doesn’t linger.
But Choi is unconcerned. Choi is on a roll.
“Because that’s not all. Dr. Hamilton?”
Hamilton leans in with her thousand-watt smile, familiar to her viewers he guesses but reading totally phony to him. He can almost smell the perfume and hear the tinkle of expensive jewelry.
“Well, Manny, when you phoned last night I was in surgery but as soon as I received your message I also committed myself right then and there to donate my services as a cosmetic surgeon to help restore Delia’s lovely skin to as close to the way it was as is humanly possible, for however long it takes, with everything at my disposal.”
Jesus, Bart thinks, they’re just full of surprises. Why hasn’t Pat told him about all this stuff right away? The bills, the surgery. It’s a fucking windfall!
Onscreen Choi is practically beside himself.
“Wow! Wow! Wowowow! Patricia, you had to pull Delia from the hospital before all her surgeries were complete, didn’t you.”
“It’s true. The costs were . . . too much. So once the life-saving procedures were done, we had to forgo cosmetic surgery for the time being, until I could figure out how to pay for it all . . . ”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore, do you. Does she, Doctor?”
“Not at all. Not one bit. We’re going to cover absolutely everything.”
Bart’s guessing that the applause-meter is off the charts this time.
“What do you say, Delia? Do you want Dr. Hamilton here to help you?
”
And later on he thinks, this is why my wife didn’t want to discuss the show on the telephone, why her demeanor has been so detached and strange watching it, why she’s announced neither of their amazingly generous gifts to him.
His daughter looks down at Caity, then at Manny Choi, and finally at the doctor.
“No, thank you,” she says.
Roman picks up the phone and hits their number on speed dial. He thinks, I can’t believe this. Pat’s not going to believe this. Nobody’s going to believe this.
Talk about your silk purse and sow’s ear.
Moments like these were few and far between in his business which was mostly poring over contracts or prospective contracts, amending them and sending them out again, sometimes over and over until they got things right, all these indies now, these newbies, making the day-to-day deals which keep him and his clients afloat, none of whom are huge clients though certainly damn respectable ones, reliable working actors, actresses, and performers—and he takes pride in the fact that he keeps them working, dammit—fielding ridiculous offers and requests and generally acting as a buffer between them and what he sometimes laughingly refers to as the business-world of entertainment.
So moments like this are fucking priceless.
It was maybe four years ago now that he was rolling his carry-on through the Atlanta airport, hurrying to catch the shuttle for his connecting flight to LAX because Atlanta was a bear on scheduling. He was almost going to be late when he looked down to the high-gloss floor in front of him and there, wafting in a slight breeze, waving as though to beckon him personally amid the hundreds of people who tramped by every hour—no, every few minutes—was a one-hundred-dollar bill and a single, the single resting on top and slightly to the side.
He stooped and pocketed the both of them and caught his plane with fifteen minutes to spare.
Today feels a little like that. Stars in alignment. Lucky and easy, both. These people were total professionals. The contract would be in perfect order.
All he has to do is pass on by and pick it up.
Her phone rings twice and then she’s on the line. She doesn’t sound happy to hear him.
He’ll fix that.
Midway through the call she has to sit down on the bed. And where were her cigarettes?
There. In the table by the flat-screen.
His phone has been ringing off the hook all morning, he says. Everybody wanting a piece of her daughter, a piece of Delia. Newspapers, magazines, another morning talk show, Fox News, feelers for a fucking supporting role in a movie for god’s sake!
And now this.
He laughs. “You don’t know what you’ve got here, do you, Pat. Well I do. Delia rejecting that surgery was a goddamn stroke of genius. And what did she say at the end of it? Her closing lines? ‘I’m just me. This is who I am.’ Just like she did on the Latoya interview. Same thing, like a goddamn fucking mantra. Like she’s proud of who she is, no matter what she looks like. Do you know how many kids out there have image problems? And how many parents are dealing with it?
“Lady Gaga’s got this Born This Way Foundation, right? It’s a fantastic success. And for a damn good reason. It addresses all the kids who feel different, ostracized, left out or left behind. Outsiders. With what she’s saying, so does Delia. And she’s her own most extreme example of exactly what she’s talking about. Exactly what she’s selling. Her own amazing poster child for the cause!
“I want you to think about this. The Pearl show is the number one talk show in America. Makes Manny Choi look like some Gilligan’s Island rerun, ratings-wise. The deal’s all set and all we need are the signatures on paper. We’ll have contracts by tomorrow. Once she’s on the air, and says what she says . . . well, Patricia, darlin’, we’ve got our own foundation. We’ll have every news agency in the country calling—CNN, the New York Times, and don’t even think about the Internet, about social media—hell, this could easily go worldwide, you know what I’m saying?
“Pat? Pat? Are you there?”
She’s there, all right. There and a thousand places all at once.
She is there. Arrived. Patricia Catherine Delancy Cross. With her daughter. With Delia.
THIRTEEN
There’s nothing much for him to do except watch it all go down.
And Robbie can’t say it isn’t exciting. He isn’t bored. There have never been so many people in his house or outside his house for one thing, for sure never this many strangers even with the cops and firemen the night of the accident, and everybody seems to be pumped on adrenaline, not just mom and dad but all of them.
He walks out the front door and around into the garage because there’s so much activity going through the pantryway. Through the open garage door he counts about thirty or more crew members outside on the street rifling through their gear and unloading the three huge trucks parked in front along with three white vans and a fancy white bus, all marked PEARL in bold blue letters along the sides and he gets out of their way as they march the stuff in.
His dad is sitting at the bar talking on his cell phone and nods to acknowledge him.
“I’m calling on behalf of our foundation,” he says, “Delia’s Mirror. Yes. Delia Cross. From the Manny Choi Show, uh-huh, that’s her. We’re actually unloading Pearl’s crew here right now. That’s right. Best platform there is. We’ll be wanting to announce the charity on the show and . . .”
His mom is directing grips and electricians through the pantry hallway.
“Right through there. It gets a little tight around the end of the hall, so watch those hot points.”
His mom knows the lingo.
“Roger that,” says one of the grips.
He knows that the equipment costs a fortune so they’re careful all right.
“I’m calling to make sure our financial structure is solid before we proceed,” his dad is saying. “Taxes, licenses, all that jazz, you know? My wife and I were told you were the man to talk to. Are you the man to talk to? You are. Well, sell me then.” He laughs.
It looks like dad’s having a grand old time.
There’s a break in the flow through the hallway so he decides to check out what’s up inside. His mom leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek along the way. Jeez.
In the living room he watches them, half a dozen of them, throw down wires and set up lights and reflectors without so much as a word to one another. They each seem to know exactly what the other guy is doing and why. Like they’ve been in his house a hundred times before and did the very same thing every time.
He likes watching them. They’re working, sure, but it looks like they’re having fun too working together like this as a team, seamlessly interacting. He kind of envies them. He wouldn’t mind being part of a team like that someday.
He decides a Pepsi would be good so he goes back into the kitchen and snags one from the fridge.
His mom is in there now, bending over a woman seated in front of a laptop on the kitchen table along with some older guy in a ZZ Top T-shirt. He learns later that the guy is the director, the woman, the editor.
“That’s good,” his mom is saying. “From the back and sides the double really does look like Delia.”
“With a haze filter and a little blur you’ll swear it’s your daughter.”
They’re shooting a reenactment of the events just before the fire. Delia getting ready for bed, climbing between the sheets. The fire itself will be shot on a sound stage. They’re leaving his part in it out.
He peers over his mom’s shoulder. The kid does look pretty good. Same build, same height.
“Jane’s a wiz at this stuff, Mrs. Cross,” the director says.
“I hope so. Reenactments are usually pretty silly-looking, you know? Appreciate you guys stepping it up for us.”
“Of course,” he says. “Meaningful consultation.”
“Throw those effects on there and give me a look. If it’s as good as you say I’ll sign off on it right away.”
/>
“Great. We get Pearl’s approval, everything should be gravy.”
His mom’s back straightens at that and he can tell there’s something about what he’s said that’s ticked her off. She doesn’t say what. She turns and walks back into the garage.
He returns to the living room with his Pepsi. The guys are finished in there now and he can hear them working upstairs.
Delia sits on the floor in front of the couch with the little girl from the video, her double, dressed in exactly the same pajamas as the night of the fire, with Caity lying in front of them. The girl is petting her belly.
“Will her fur grow back?” she says.
“I don’t think so,” says Delia.
“That’s too bad.”
“She doesn’t mind.”
He sits down on the couch. They totally ignore him but that’s no biggie. The little girl is staring at Delia’s face, the scars, the stark white imprint of her hands and fingers. Good for her, he thinks, she doesn’t seem bothered much at all.
“Does it hurt? The burns?”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s . . .”
She stops petting.
Caity looks up at her like, hey, where’d the love go?
“Scary?” his sister says.
“At first I thought so.”
“We could tell. I mean, I could tell.”
“Really? Well, now I think . . . I think it’s fine.”
It rings a little false. The girl is being brave.
Delia smiles. “No, you don’t. But that’s okay. Different is scary sometimes.”
The girl looks thoughtful, then starts petting Caity again. Caity can still put on the puppy-dog eyes like a champ and she does that now. It seems to calm the girl.
“It is,” she says. “Sometimes it is.”
There’s a comfortable silence between them. He likes seeing that.
“So. Where’d my mom go?” she says, brightening.
“If she’s anything like mine, she’s doing something she thinks is real, real important.”
The girl laughs, gets up, and scampers out into the hall. Almost collides with his mom and Roman who are on their way in. And then it’s as though he and Delia are a pair of ghosts, not even in the room. Because both the adults are definitely leaning toward the manic. Bearing out what Delia has just said—discussing something real important. Their voices hush-hush.