Belinda (62 page)

"Oh, Belinda," I whispered. "Just be here for your own sake, honey. I want you to see this."

I was really losing it. I was coming apart inside. Up till now the whole thing had been endurable moment by moment, but after so many days shut up in the cocoon of the house, this spectacle worked on me like sentimental music. Yes, really, coming unglued.

Susan picked up the phone and spoke to the driver:

"Listen, you stay out front till we come out. Double-park, take the ticket, whatever-OK, OK, just so long as you're there when we come out the doors." She hung up. "This is a fucking mob scene all right."

"Worse than New York?"

"You better believe it, look."

I saw what she meant. The side of Castro Street opposite the theater was packed. The oncoming traffic wasn't moving at all. A couple of cops were trying to loosen up the jam ahead of us. Another pair were trying to keep the intersection clear. Everywhere I saw familiar faces, waiters who worked in the local diners, the salespeople from the local shops, neighbors who always said hello when they passed. Somewhere out there was Andy Blatky and Sheila and lots of old friends I'd called this afternoon. Everybody I knew would be there actually.

We were moving closer inch by inch. There was no air in the limousine. I felt like I was going to start bawling on the spot. But I knew the worst hadn't come yet. It would when Belinda appeared up there on the screen. That is, unless Belinda appeared right here first.

And it was happening at the Castro, of all places, our neighborhood show, the elegant old-fashioned theater where she and I had seen so many films together, where we'd snuggled up together in the dark on quiet week nights, anonymous and safe.

The limo had angled to the curb. The crowd was really pushing on the red velvet ropes. The box office had a big sign saying SOLD OUT. The local television stations had been allowed to set up their video cameras just beyond it. And a little group of people were arguing at the far right door, where a hand-lettered sign read PRESS ONLY. And somebody was shouting. It looked like a woman in spike heels and an awful leopard skin coat was getting turned away, but not without a noisy fight.

People looked bewildered as the plainclothesmen got out of the car in front of us and went straight towards the lobby door. Dan was right behind them. He turned when he got to the video cameras and watched as our driver got out of the limo and came around to open the door.

"You go first, darlin', this is your audience," Alex said to Susan. Susan put on her red cowboy hat. Then we helped her to climb over us and get out.

A roar went up from the young people on either side of the ropes. Then cheers went up from everywhere, in the intersection up ahead and across the street. Camera flashes were going off all around.

Susan stood in the brilliant light under the marquee waving to everybody, then she gestured for me to get out of the car. The flashes were blinding me a little. Another cheer went up. Kids were clapping on either side of us.

I heard a chorus of voices shout: "Jeremy, we're for you! .... Hang in there, Jeremy!" And I gave a little silent prayer of thanks for all the liberals and crazies, the gentle freaks, and the plain ordinary tolerant San Franciscans here. They weren't burning my books in this town.

There were screams and whistles coming from everywhere. G.G. got his big round of applause as he stepped out. Then I heard a shrill voice:

"Signora Jeremiah! Eeeh, Signora Jeremiah!" It was coming from our right. In a thick Italian accent it continued: "Remember, Cinecittá, Roma! You promise me a pass!"

Then an explosion went off inside my head. Cinecittá, Roma. I turned from right to left trying to locate the voice. The coat, the awful leopard coat I just saw, it was Belinda's! Those spike heels, they were Belinda's. Italian accent or no Italian accent, that was Belinda's voice! Then I felt G.G.'s hand clamp down on my arm. "Don't make a move, Jeremy!" he whispered in my ear. "But where is she?"

"Signora Jeremiah! They won't let me into the theater!"

At the press door! She was staring right at me through big black-rimmed Bonnie-style glasses, the dark-brown dyed hair slicked straight back from her face. And it was that ghastly leopard coat. Two men were trying to stop her from coming forward. She was cursing at them in Italian. They were pushing her back towards the ropes.

"Hold on there, just a minute there," Susan called out. "I know that gal, everything's OK, just calm down, it's OK."

The crowd erupted suddenly with a new explosion of cheers and shrieks. Blair had gotten out of the limousine and was throwing up both his arms. Whistles, howls.

Susan was striding towards the men who were shoving Belinda. G.G. held me tighter. "Don't look, Jeremy!" he whispered.

"Don't move, Jeremy!" Blair said under his breath. He was turning from right to left to give the crowd a good view of the lavender tuxedo. They were really eating it up.

Susan had reached the scene of the ruckus. The men had let go of Belinda. Belinda had a steno pad in her hand and a camera around her neck. She was talking like crazy to Susan in Italian. Did Susan speak Italian? The plainclothesmen from the car behind us were glancing over as they went to join the first pair, who were standing behind the video cameras right by the doors. Dan was watching Belinda. Belinda let loose with another loud, shrill riff of Italian, obviously complaining about the people at the press door. Susan was nodding. Susan had her arm around Belinda, was clearly trying to calm her down.

"Move forward," G.G. said between his teeth. "You keep looking and the cops will be all over her. Move."

I was trying to do what he was telling me, trying to put one foot before the other. Susan was there. Susan would handle it. And then I saw Belinda's eyes again, looking right at me, through the little knot of people around her, and I saw her beautiful little babymouth suddenly smile.

I was paralyzed. Blair shoved right past me and G.G. He was throwing more kisses to the crowd. He let the cloak swirl around him.

"Five minutes till midnight, ladies and gentlemen, time to put on your best Midnight Mink."

More screams, catcalls, whistles. He beckoned for us to follow him now. "Jeremy, go to the door," G.G. whispered.

Another roar went up as Alex stepped out of the car. Then there was solid applause, respectful applause, moving back from the ropes all through the people on the sidewalk on both sides of the street.

Alex nodded his thanks in all directions, took a long slow bow. Then he put his hand on my arm and gently propelled me forward as he greeted those who pressed in.

"No, darlin', I'm not in the movie, just here to see a really good film."

"Yes, sweetheart, good to see you." He stopped to sign an autograph. "Yes, darlin', thank you, thank you, yes, and you want to know a secret? That was my favorite film, too."

The plainclothesmen were watching us. Not her, us. Two of them turned and went on into the lobby. Dan hung back.

Belinda and Susan were at the press door. Belinda gave Susan a peck on the cheek, then went inside.

All right, she was in! I let G.G. practically shove me into the lobby, too. Dan and the last two plainclothesmen brought up the rear.

I was as close to heart failure as ever in my life. The lobby too was jammed, with ropes marking off our path to the doors. We couldn't see over to the right side, where Belinda had gone in.

But within seconds we were inside the theater proper. And I saw the very back row of the center section had been marked off for us. The plainclothes guys sat down across the aisle from us in the back row of the side section. Dan stayed with them. The three rows in front of us, clear across the center, were already full of reporters, some of whom had just been outside my house. There were columnists from all the local papers, several beautifully turned out socialites, and a number of other writers and people connected with the local arts, some of them turning to nod or give a little wave. Andy Blatky and Sheila, who'd gotten their special passes, were already down front. Sheila threw me a kiss. Andy gave a right-on fist.

And there was Belinda standing over on the right side, chewing a wad of gum as she scribbled like mad on her steno pad. She looked up, squinted at us through the glasses, then started across the center section through the empty row right in front of the roped-off seats.

"Mr. Walker, you give me an autograph!" she screamed in the Italian accent. Everybody was looking at her. I was petrified. That's it, I thought. My heart is going to give out now.

Alex and Blair had gone on into the row ahead of me. So had G.G., and I could see him watching her, blank-faced, probably as scared as I was. Susan was standing in the aisle with her thumbs in her belt.

Belinda came right up to me, her mouth working fast with the gum, and shoved the exhibit catalog in front of me along with a ballpoint pen.

For a second I couldn't do anything but look right at her, at her blue eyes peering out from under the brown eyelashes and brown eyebrows and the slick brown hair. I tried to breathe, to move, to take the pen, but I couldn't.

She was smiling. Oh, beautiful Belinda, my Belinda. And I could feel my lips moving, feel my own smile coming back. The fucking hell with the whole world if it was watching.

"Sign the kid's autograph, Walker," Susan said. "Before they let in the thundering herd."

I looked down at the catalog and saw the color print of Belinda, Come Back circled in red. Under it was written: "I love you." Her unmistakable script.

I took the pen out of her hand, my hand shaking so badly I scarcely control it, and I wrote: "Marry me?" the pen skittering like skates on ice.

She nodded, winked at me, then let loose in Italian again to Susan. The plainclothesmen weren't even looking at her. What the hell was she doing?

Suddenly Susan broke up. She threw back her head and let go with a loud, deep laugh and, doubling her right hand into a fist, she hit me the arm: "Sit down, Walker!" she said.

The doors to the lobby were being opened. I moved into the seat next to G.G. as Susan took the aisle seat next to me. And then Belinda sat down in the aisle seat across from us, right in front of the plainclothesmen, utterly oblivious to them, and flashed another great big smile.

"Susan!" I whispered in panic.

"Shut up," she whispered back.

The crowd was already streaming down all four aisles.

My heart was so loud I wondered if the plainclothes guys could hear it. Belinda, when I could catch a glimpse of her through the people passing us, was scribbling again.

"Now what do we do?" G.G. whispered to me.

"How the fuck should I know?" I asked.

I couldn't tell whether Alex had recognized her or not, he was charting with the ladies in front of him, and Blair had a similar conversation going with a young reporter I recognized from the Stanford Court.

Susan sat there, with her red hat on, and her long fingers spread out on her knees, just watching the people stream in.

It didn't take long for the theater to fill. Pretty soon only a few were left combing the place for seats together, then splitting up to take the last empties on the far aisles. The lights went dim. Somebody tapped Susan on the shoulder. And she started slowly down the main aisle towards the stage.

Belinda was staring right at me, but I didn't dare look directly at her. Then I saw that G.G. was looking at her and she was beaming at him. "G.G., she doesn't know the cops are behind her!" I whispered.

"The cops are everywhere, Jeremy," he whispered back. "Just try to keep very calm."

Then Belinda turned and asked one of the cops very loudly in that accent if it was OK to smoke in the theater, and he said no, and she threw up her hand in exasperation, and then I heard him lean forward and say something in Italian to her, very apologetic in tone.

Suddenly she was talking to him in Italian. And he was talking to her. "Christ, G.G." I whispered. "The fucking cop is Italian."

"Just take a deep breath, Jeremy," G.G. said. "Let her handle it. She's an actress, remember? So she's going for the Academy Award."

All I could catch were a lot of place names, Firenze, Siena, si, si. North Beach. North Beach! I was going to lose my mind.

But Susan had just gone up the little steps to the stage. The spotlight hit her, setting her red satin clothes beautifully on fire. The theater was alive with enthusiastic applause.

Susan smiled, took off her cowboy hat, got another big volley of whistles and claps, and then she gestured for quiet.

"Thank you all for coming out tonight," she said. "This San Francisco premiere of Final Score is kind of a special event for us, and I know we all wish Belinda could be here, too, to see the show."

Loud applause. Everybody was clapping, even the cool people in the press rows in front of us. Everybody that is, except the cops, and Belinda who was again scribbling on her pad.

"Well, I'm just here to remind you of what I think you really do know ... that there are lots of other people in this movie, lots of people who helped to make it a special experience, including actress Sandy Miller, who is really the star." More applause. "Sandy would be here tonight if she wasn't in Brazil scouting locations for a picture. And I know she thanks y'all for your warm applause. Now y'all will pay close attention to the credits, won't you, because all of these people did a fine job, but I can't leave this microphone without thanking Belinda's mother, Bonnie Blanchard, for financing this picture. Because without Bonnie it would never have been made."

She didn't wait for the crowd's reaction on that one, but left the stage immediately, and there was only one beat, maybe two, of hesitation before the crowd applauded again.

The lights were out by the time Susan reached her seat. The theater fell dead silent. Final Score had begun.

I could scarcely see the first few scenes-or hear them. I was sweating under the boiled shirt and hot dinner jacket. I rested my head in my hands.

And then I was jolted suddenly by Blair pushing his way out of the row, whispering, "Stay where you are," as he went by.