Son of Rosemary Read online

  “Andy—”

  “You weren’t around when I learned about women, and in my teens and all, so now, at the same time we have this tremendous bond between us, you’re someone who just came into my life—older, sure, but more beautiful than any other woman on this whole planet.” He turned her around and mouthed her mouth, clamped her head and waist, rammed hard at her middle, tongued her tongue. She fought free; he drew back—tiger eyes fading to hazel—taking his arms, his hands from her, breathing hard.

  She backhanded her mouth, staring at him, quivering, doubly shocked by what she had seen and what he had done to her.

  She said, “Your old eyes...”

  He drew breath, put a hand up for time out, swallowed. Drew breath. Looked at her, hazel-eyed. Nodded. “They’re still there,” he said. “It’s a way of—willing them to look different. I lost control a little.”

  She stared at him. “A little?” she said. “That was ‘losing control a little’?”

  He leaned to her: “You’re the only woman, the only person, I can be myself with!” His eyes tigered as he spoke, and faded.

  He took a breath, stood straight, shook his head as if to clear it. “With everybody else,” he said, “I’m afraid to let go all the way. Even in the dark.”

  She backed around him, shaking her head, a hand up. “I’m sorry, Andy,” she said. “I feel for you, I love you, but—” She shook her head, backed away a few feet.

  He raised both hands. “I’m the sorry one,” he said. “I lost a lot of control, not a little. Never again. I swear. Please. Please forgive me. Listen, I was going to tell you. I’m going away tomorrow and maybe it’s a good thing. It is. You can go visit your family. I’m going to the retreat for a few days and then I have to go to Rome and Madrid. I’ll be back December sixth, that’s a week from Monday.”

  She let breath out. Nodded. “I guess it is a good thing,” she said. “Maybe we’ve both been—trying too hard to make up for lost time.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “It was me, not we.”

  “Don’t ever,” she said, “ever, let anything like that happen again.”

  “I won’t, I swear.”

  She drew a breath. “Good night,” she said. “When are you going?”

  “Early,” he said. “Joe’s driving me to the airport, but then he’ll be around if you need him. Everybody else too. Whatever you want, just ask. And you’ve got the number I gave you; it works everywhere.”

  She said, “Thank you,” and turned and picked up her coat. And turned again. “Have a good trip,” she said.

  He half-smiled. “You too. Do you think you’ll go?”

  “Probably,” she said. Looked at him. “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you,” he said. “Please, forgive me.”

  “How do I get to the regular elevator?” she asked.

  “Take this one,” he said. “You can get out at the lobby and then just go around to your right. You’ll be at seven while you’d still be waiting.”

  Sighing, she said, “And seasick to boot”—but turned and went to the onyx wall, touched the button by the brass cylinder, splitting it open. She stepped into the Revlon Express, turned and waved at him before the glittering, flickering lights. He kissed at her.

  She touched L, and as the cab closed around her, DOOR OPEN.

  He had turned to the window, the light turned him back. He looked at her, brows up.

  “The candles,” she said. “You were going to tell me.”

  “Oh,” he said. Smiled and shrugged. “It’s just a thing we’re doing, lighting candles, to welcome in the year 2000. Kind of a corny idea, but people went for it, except the PA’s. Even most atheists are lighting them—what’s the big deal?—but there’s this handful, because our name is God’s Children.”

  She stepped out of the cab, peering across the room at him. “You mean, everybody’s lighting candles?” she asked. “Everybody in the whole country?”

  “In the whole world,” he said. “Except a few bushmen maybe. Out in the streets and parks, in homes, stores, schools, churches, mosques, synagogues, cathouses, you name it. In the exact same minute. The first minute of the year 2000, Greenwich Mean Time. Seven p.m. here, midnight in London, morning in Moscow... It’s supposed to symbolize—you know, ‘one humanity, refreshed and renewed.’ ”

  She stared across the room at him, standing there before the moon and the stars and the city. “Andy,” she said, “that’s not corny, that’s a lovely idea....” She took a few steps toward him. “It’ll be like a billion points of light!” The brass cylinder closed behind her.

  Andy smiled. “More like eight billion,” he said. “The candles are neat: sky blue on the outside, with a yellow core. So when you look down on them from the top, it’s like the logo.”

  She said, “There are special candles?”

  Nodding, he said, “In glasses.” He showed juice-glass height with finger and thumb. “We’ve been making them for over a year now,” he said. “It’s one of our biggest projects. Fourteen factories in Japan and Korea. Working day and night, seven days a week.”

  “Oh, Andy!” she said, dropping her coat and going to him. “It’s a beautiful idea! Who thought of it?”

  He did a little aw-shucks shuffling, grinned at her. “Three guesses,” he said.

  She hugged him. “Oh my angel!” She kissed his cheek. “It’s wonderful! It’ll make New Year’s Eve a really significant happening for the entire human race!”

  “That’s the general idea,” he said, smiling at her.

  “It’s glorious!” She hugged and kissed him. “I’m so proud of you!” She hugged and kissed him. He said, “If you expect me to behave myself...”

  “Oops!” Hands in the air, she backed off. Kissed at him, picked up her coat. “Have a wonderful, wonderful trip,” she said. “Hurry home, darling! I’ll miss you so!”

  “Same here, Mom,” he said, beaming at her before his universe of lights.

  She pushed the button, got in the cab, turned and waved, touched L.

  Heaved a sigh as the cab enclosed her.

  What a beautiful, beautiful concept! Everyone, everywhere, all of civilized humanity, lighting sky-blue-and yellow GC candles, in the year 2000’s very first minute, Greenwich Mean Time!

  Too bad a few cranks would be taking the edge off it, but they certainly had their rights, as Andy himself clearly knew.

  What an angel! No wonder the whole world loved him!

  Really: Had any mother, anywhere, ever had so much reason for pride in a son?

  Only Mary, she answered herself—dropping two thousand feet a minute toward the center of the earth— only Mary.

  TWO

  7

  SHE DECIDED to put off visiting Omaha till after New Year’s. Of her five sisters and brothers, all older than she, three were alive, a sister and two brothers. She had spoken on the phone with each of them twice, once as Rip Van Rosie and once as Andy’s Mom—which was probably one time more than she had spoken with them in the whole year before the coven zapped her. Brian, the one she loved best, who had joined AA, thank God, and been dry since ’82, was leaving Monday with his wife, Dodie, on a thirty-fifth-anniversary ’round-the-world cruise—they’d be lighting their candles in Auckland, New Zealand—and Eddie, the one she loved least, sounded unchanged by time. “You tell Andy that his Uncle Ed speaks for thirty thousand union meat packers when he says, with all due respect, he should stop being such a softy about the PA’s. Van Buren’s right; we should make them light candles, at gunpoint if need be.”

  Judy was Vassar ’93 and beautiful, with sleek black hair demurely bunned, cinnamon skin, lavishly black-rimmed eyes, and a dime-size red dot above the bridge of her nose. Her I ANDY button was pinned to pastel saris, her last name was Kharyat. On Monday morning, swathed in lime silk, she brought Rosemary a computer-printed breakdown of the thousands of messages that had come in as of six the evening before, along with suggested response formats that woul
d cover almost all of them.

  She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes every now and then while she and Rosemary worked at the table by the living room window. The mascara wasn’t going to make it through lunch. Rosemary touched her hand and said, “Judy, is something wrong?”

  Judy sighed, brown eyes looking woefully through their black mini-mask. “A guy,” she said, and looked upward. “Listen to me! I can’t believe it!” She sniffed, dabbed with her tissues.

  Rosemary sighed and nodded, remembering her own Guy. “They sure can screw you up,” she said. Patted Judy’s hand. “If you want to talk,” she said, “I’m a good listener.” Dying to hear.

  “Thanks,” Judy said, mustering a smile, dabbing. “I’m surviving.”

  Rosemary spotted crossword-puzzle squares, neatly inked, in Judy’s attaché case when she was getting ready to leave. “Do you play Scrabble?” she asked.

  The beautiful Indian face lit up. “You bet! A two-minute time limit, blanks wild?”

  “Um... One night real soon,” Rosemary said.

  The TV division occupied the northwest quarter of the tenth floor. Approaching Craig’s corner office, Rosemary walked through a few thousand square feet of empty cubicles with barren desks—computers and phones, no people. Pictures and papers tacked to partitions...

  Craig and Kevin, in GC T-shirts and jeans, sat with their sneakers up on a coffee table, watching TV—Edward G. Robinson in a black-and-white movie. They were black and white themselves (you were supposed to use black now, Negro was out). Craig looked like Adam Clayton Powell and Kevin looked like a nineteen-year-old kid named Kevin—except that today some nineteen-year-old Kevins were probably short and Chinese. “Rosemary! Hi!” they said, jumping to their feet. Kevin knocked over his Coke.

  “Sit, sit,” Rosemary said. “Wow, what a view!” She went to the window, looking out across West Side buildings at the Hudson River and the George Washington Bridge in its end-to-end entirety.

  “Isn’t it great?” Craig’s deep voice asked behind her.

  “Fantastic!” She turned, nodded toward the doorway. “Where is everybody?” she asked.

  Craig said, “Vacation between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. The whole shebang.”

  “That’s generous,” she said.

  “That’s Andy,” he said, smiling. “There isn’t much to do here; the New Year’s Eve show is in the can.”

  “What about what’s in the pipeline?” she asked.

  “There isn’t much,” Craig said. “We’re cutting back on production next year. Mostly reruns.”

  Kevin wiped the table with paper towels.

  “What are you watching?” Rosemary asked, looking at Robinson pleading with Hedy Lamarr, no, the one who looked like her.

  “The Woman in the Window,” Craig said. “Fritz Lang, 1944.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen it,” she said.

  “It’s good. Noir.”

  The three of them sat and watched a few minutes.

  Craig said, “Is there anything in particular you wanted to see me about?”

  “Yes, there is,” Rosemary said.

  “I’m sorry, I should have asked right away.” He got up. “You go on watching,” he said to Kevin, “we’ll go inside.”

  He showed Rosemary into an office next door. Here it looked as if work were done; two desks were piled with papers and computer printouts and magazines, a wall was banked with monitors, speakers, and audio equipment, the other walls were shelves of cassettes and records. Craig cleared two castered chairs.

  When Rosemary had seated herself, Craig sat, rolled his chair fairly close, and leaned forward, elbows on the chair arms, hands folded, his head cocked, ready to listen.

  Rosemary said, “I worry that even though Andy has lowered the temperature all around, there’s a hot spot where the PA’s are concerned, and the way some people are reacting to them. I don’t know what you have in the works—”

  “Almost nothing,” Craig said.

  “—and I don’t want to butt in where I’m not needed—”

  “Rosemary,” he said, “we would welcome any suggestions you care to offer.”

  She said, “I know Andy wants their rights to be respected, but doesn’t it look as if he hasn’t done enough about it? I’d like to see a commercial that addresses the issue head-on, and I mean head-on, where he’s talking straight at my brother Eddie the gun collector, while there’s still time to cool things down before New Year’s. So it would have to be done quickly. But simple would be better than elaborate, I think.”

  Craig looked down, a sneakered foot tapping. He looked at her. “That makes a lot of sense, Rosemary,” he said. “Have you spoken to Andy about it?”

  “No,” she said. “I wanted to check first and see if anything was in the works, and to sound you out.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that,” Craig said. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you review the things we’ve done— the specials, the commercials, the whole magilla—and then when Andy gets here—he’s due back, when, Monday?—you’ll be up to speed and we can take a meeting not only about this but maybe also about not cutting back so much on new production. That was Jay’s idea—you know, the bean counter?” He shook his head, tapped his temple. “People like that, I don’t know where they’re coming from.”

  He showed her how to use the tape player and its remote control, and how the tapes were more or less arranged—GC’s own productions, news coverage of its activities, and documentaries on all kinds of related subjects. Movies too, some on records like LP’s that used a different player.

  “This is great!” she said, looking around. “You don’t by any chance have Gone With the Wind, do you?”

  “As a matter of fact we do,” Craig said, smiling. “With screen tests and outtakes and a whole mess of other material.”

  “Oh God!” Rosemary cried. “I’m in HEAVEN!”

  “Good morning, may I ask who’s calling?”—a pleasant female voice with just a hair of a Japanese L.

  “This is Andy’s Mom,” she said. “He gave me this number.”

  “One moment please. Is this Rosemary E. Reilly speaking?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Please hang up, Rosemary. Andy will return your call soon. If you wish him to call you at a different number, press one.”

  She hung up, suspecting she’d been talking with a computer chip. She’d have to watch It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.

  She punched the pillows up higher behind her, settled her glasses, took the other half of the croissant from the plate on the tray, what the hell, and nibbled while she checked the crossword puzzle. She did the upper-left-hand corner in her head and was refolding the paper one-handed to the book review when the phone rang. She dropped the paper and the croissant stub, licked crumbs from her fingertips, brushed them on satin, picked up. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom, everything okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better!” she said. “Breakfast in bed! I feel like I’m in an MGM movie, the old MGM. Norma Shearer, Garbo...” She swooned on the satin.

  He chuckled in her ear. “I think you’d make the cut.”

  Smiling, taking her glasses off, she said, “Where are you, angel?”

  “In Rome, just the right place for one.”

  “You sound as if you’re right around the corner.”

  “Wish I were. What’s up?”

  She said, “I don’t mean to be pushy but I—”

  “If it’s about Craig and the commercial, I called him about something else and he mentioned it. I think it’s a great idea.”

  She said, “You do?”

  “Absolutely. Talk about someone coming to something with fresh eyes; who could possibly have fresher eyes than Rip Van Rosie? Not just about the commercials but about everything that’s going on. You’ve put your finger on something I should have seen for myself weeks ago. We’ll get right to work on it, you included. I’m sorry but I’m really in the middle of something. I’m coming back
Saturday.”

  “Saturday,” she said.

  “I canceled Madrid.” A beat. “I never missed anyone before.”

  She watched a whole batch of GC commercials and specials—the medium’s best, undoubtedly—handsomely produced, stirringly written and visualized, all featuring Andy. Sometimes when he was talking to her, about lightening up, lighting her candle, and so on, she could almost see a flicker of his old eyes in the new ones. She rewound, froze, and stepped the picture forward frame by frame a few times, but no, there was nothing— just his hazel eyes and her memory, seeing his beautiful tiger eyes in the wake of the kiss, the wicked, shocking kiss...

  But really, could anyone blame him? Poor lonely angel...

  And it wasn’t as if she looked like his old mom. Every newspaper and magazine article and TV talking head— well it was vain even to think about what they had to say on that subject.

  She watched, five or six times, a ten-second spot where he was his absolute Jesus best, strong and loving and just plain gorgeous, reminding her to pick up her candles at the supermarket or wherever and put them out of reach of the kids, and to wait and open the shrink-wrap along with everyone else in the world, just before the Lighting.

  After that, as a break, she watched screen tests and outtakes from Gone With the Wind.

  8

  SHE WAS edgy Friday, thinking about Andy being thirty thousand feet in the air tomorrow afternoon.

  And down on the ground tomorrow evening . . .

  Around midafternoon she called Joe to arrange to go to the airport with him. “The spa, the fitness center, whatever,” she said, “it’s coed all the time, isn’t it?”

  “Unisex. Sure. When you thinking of going?”

  “Now,” she said. “I want to loosen up. I’m a little tense, with Andy flying tomorrow.”

  “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll show you around and introduce the guys and make sure nobody pesters you.”