Secrets (5 page)

Shit ' he muttered to himself, but the anger dissipated quickly and by the time he reached their bedroom, he was more depressed than angry. It was dismal living like this, and he had even come to hate the cottage he had once loved. It was a gardener's cottage on a once large estate and it was rented separately for a hundred dollars a month. The owner liked him, and knew he was a starving actor, and it was an illegal rental. It was perfect for them, and he had lived there for three years. It had been spotless before she moved in, but everything was a mess now.

He had gotten the bedroom relatively in order and even changed the sheets by the time he sat down at his desk and rifled through the drawer looking for the envelope that he'd left there. It had suddenly occurred to him to make sure that it was still there. It was all the money they had in the world. Eight hundred dollars, and he hadn't told Sandy he'd put it there, so as not to tempt her, but she'd found it anyway. He found the envelope, but the money was gone. There were tears in his eyes as he stood up and walked slowly to the bathroom, and there he saw a sight that made him feel sick. He'd seen it before, but he hated it even more now. She had left her needle and her cotton and her spoon on the ledge next to the john. She made no effort to hide it. There it was for all to see. The paraphernalia of her addiction. He wanted to cry as he stood there, staring at her needle and knowing that that was where his money had gone. He couldn't take it anymore. She had blown the last money they had, and there was no one for him to turn to. He'd be damned if he'd call his father and beg at the age of thirty-two. He'd pump gas or take a job at Mike's before he did that. Plenty of other actors had done it before him and so had he. He was going to call Adam that night and ask if they needed anyone else to tend bar, or wait table, but before he could call, the phone rang, and it was Sandy. She sounded stoned out of her mind, and he didn't even want to talk to her.

Hi, baby ' She was drifting as they spoke, and he remembered all too clearly the needle in the bathroom.

I don't want to talk to you right now. He was only glad that she hadn't come home. At that precise moment, he could have killed her. He didn't ask her where she was, or who she was with. He didn't care anymore. It was all the same. And it was disgusting. He had a profound feeling of revulsion for her and her friends and everything they stood for. He had seen drugs before, plenty of them, and he'd smoked enough dope in his days at UCLA to be tolerant of other people's recreational indulgences, but what she did was not recreation. It was suicide, and he didn't want to go down with her. That was the only choice one had. He was beginning to suspect that there was no way to save her.

What do you want? His voice was harsh. He hated her just then, not that she was lucid enough to understand that. I don't have any money left, so I assume you didn't call for that. You blew the last of it in your arm, from what I can gather. I don't know how you think we're going to eat after this, although I realize that isn't a high priority with you these days, but Bernie and I have these insane needs to eat and'

I ' uh ' need you ' to help me' . She was so stoned he felt sick listening to her and he didn't want any part of her. Not now. And maybe never.

Call someone else. I've had it.

Bill ' no ' wait ' She sounded frightened and a tiny part of him still cared, but the rest of him didn't want to. I got busted. She sounded like a little girl, and he sat down heavily in a chair.

Shit. Where are you?

I'm in jail.

Great. Now what? Do you realize that, thanks to you, I don't even have enough money to bail you?

Can't you get some, uh ' from someone ' She was having a hard time keeping her mind on the conversation and Bill sighed. He had been this route with her before twice, and once she had almost OD'd. He had had to call the police, and they had sent paramedics to the house to keep her alive till they reached the hospital. She had barely made it.

What are the charges?

It would be the usual, of course. Possession. Possession with intent to sell and, uh ' I don't know ' there's some other stuff' She started to cry. Can't you get me out of here? I'm scared.

Christ. He muttered under his breath, and fumbled for a cigarette. He had quit five years before, and thanks to her he had recently gone back to smoking. The tension of living with her was unbearable. There were days when he wondered if he'd survive it. That and no work and no money. Maybe it would do you good to sit on your ass in jail. But he knew that it was only a matter of time before somebody figured out who she was and called the papers, Ex-star of Sunday Supper gets busted for possession of cocaine, or whatever it was, and then the photographers would arrive and start taking pictures. He didn't want to expose her to that, or himself, in case one of these days someone figured out that they were married. She was becoming an embarrassment to him and it made his agent nervous.

Bill ' I have to go now' . He could hear voices as she hung up the phone, harsh voices, voices of cops, and suddenly it came home to him, where she was, and what it would be like for her. And he couldn't stand it. She was so fucking helpless, and he was so tired of rescuing her, but he felt as though he had no choice. He took a drag on his cigarette and dialed his agent.

How'd you do at the last call? The agent sounded surprised to hear from him at home, but not very. Lots of actors called him at home and he didn't really mind it.

Like shit. Look I'm sorry to call you like this but something's come up ' can I borrow some money?

There was a startled silence, but the agent recovered quickly. Bill was someone he had the utmost confidence in, he would have done anything for him. And he knew for certain that one day he would repay him. Sure, baby, how much?

Bill almost groaned. He had forgotten to ask her how much the bail was, but it couldn't have been too bad. Say five hundred bucks to be on the safe side?

The safe side of what? Sandy's not fucked up again, is she? He knew about Sandy and he didn't like her. As far as he was concerned, Bill Warwick didn't need that headache. No one did. She was bad news, and getting worse all the time, from what he heard. She was poison in Hollywood, and Bill hadn't looked happy for months. It was easy to see why. But Bill was not in the mood to confide in anyone, least of all his agent.

No, she's okay, the damn dog had to have an operation, and I just need some money, that's all.

Okay ' sure ' no sweat. Come by the office tomorrow.

Could I come by tonight?

From the tone of his voice, Harry knew it was Sandy, but there was no point arguing with him. They'd been over it before, and he had all these stupid chivalrous ideas about what was expected of him, as her husband. Besides which, Bill was still half in love with her, actually he was in love with the girl she'd been when they met, a girl who no longer existed. But Harry had learned years before not to argue with his clients about their women. Okay, okay, man. I've got some money at the house. Come over whenever you want to.

Bill heaved a sigh of relief and stubbed out the cigarette. He glanced at his watch. I'll be there in an hour. It was difficult to play knight in shining armor when you had to depend on public transportation to get anywhere, particularly in L.A. But Bill tore out of the house and walked down the hill to stand at the bus stop. It took him less than an hour to get to Harry's house on the fringes of Beverly Hills, and another half hour to get to the Hollywood station on North Wilcox, where he discovered that Sandy had been busted with two black men and another girl, for possession with intent to sell illegal substances, and she and the girl had been additionally charged with prostitution. He stood white-lipped and stunned as he peeled off Harry's money to bail her, and she looked frightened and sick as she stumbled toward him and he caught her.

He said nothing at all to her, but walked outside and hailed a cab, and once in the cab he saw that she was shaking, and she started to cry. She was heavily drugged, and she looked filthy and sleazy. He suddenly saw her as she was, sick and broken and degenerate and dirty, and the idea that his wife had been arrested for prostitution hurt him more than the rest of it. She would have done anything to get drugs, including steal from him, and sell her body to a stranger. He said not a word to her as he walked into their cottage and she followed him. The dog bounded toward them, and Sandy collapsed on the couch, as he went into the bathroom to run a bath for her. He picked up her needle, and the rest of it, and dropped it in the wastebasket. He crushed it with his foot, and came back out again when the tub was full.

Go take a bath. It was as though he wanted her to wash the filth off her, but they both knew she couldn't. He wondered how often she'd done that before, how often she'd slept with him after sleeping with a john to make some extra money for a fix. As he had too often that night, he felt tears burn his eyes as he looked at her. She had nodded out on the couch, looking more than ever like a broken child. It hurt him just looking at her, and he marveled that no one had called the papers before she left the jail. At least they'd been spared that, although it was on of the L.A. Times the next morning. SANDY WATERS ARRESTED ON DRUG CHARGES, the headline on the piece read. The charges were all listed and Bill cringed as he read the paper over the last of their coffee. He had already called Adam earlier that morning and arranged to go in and work at Mike's Bar that day. He was damn lucky that one of the waiters had gotten work the week before, and they were looking for someone new to replace him. At least he'd eat and to hell with the auditions for a while. He wasn't in the mood anyway. Sandy was standing looking pale and fragile in the kitchen doorway as he read the paper. She looked deathly ill, and Bill would have felt sorry for her if he weren't feeling so sickened by everything that had happened the night before. He was determined not to play the game with her anymore. It was all over.

Does it say anything? She walked shakily to the kitchen table and sat down, looking like a twelve-year-old child with a terminal disease. She was thin and pale but she had beautiful eyes and a face like a cameo, and long black hair that lay matted and tangled around her shoulders, like a widow's shawl, and there was the sorrow of aeons in her eyes as she looked at the man she had married. I'm sorry, Bill. Her voice was a whisper and he avoided her eyes.

So am I. And in answer to your question, yes, the paper got all the charges right. The only thing they'd left out was the fact that she was married to Bill, because they didn't know it.

Christ. Tony'll kill me. Tony was her agent, and Bill looked up at her in disbelief. Was she kidding? She'd been arrested for prostitution, among other things, and Tony would kill her? What about him? What about their marriage vows? But he didn't say anything. He lit a cigarette and went back to reading the paper. He could hardly wait to get the hell out, but he wanted to settle some things with her first, and there was no time like the present.

What are you going to do now? He forced himself to look into her eyes, no matter how much it hurt him.

Hire a lawyer, I guess. She shrugged, tossing the tangled hair back off her shoulders.

Really, with what? Or will your new career pay for that too? She flinched visibly at the harsh words, and for once he didn't care. I think you ought to put yourself in a hospital, before you do anything.

I can do it myself. He had heard it all before. And he was tired of it.

Bullshit. No one can. You need help. Now put yourself somewhere where you can get it. He couldn't commit her. No one could. She had to do it herself, or the hospitals wouldn't accept her. He'd been over it with her before, a thousand times, and gotten nowhere.

What about us? She looked searchingly at him, and he looked away for an anguished moment. I get the feeling you've kind of had it. Kind of ' sort of ' the eternal ingenue ' at twenty-five, she was still a baby.

How would you feel after last night?

You mean about my getting busted? She looked helpless and frail, and he fought not to feel sorry for her.

I mean about the nature of the charges, Sandy. Or have you forgotten?

He saw her squirm in her chair, but he also realized that it was not only guilt. She was probably in need of a fix. These days he knew she was using first thing in the morning. That doesn't mean anything ' you know that. I just needed some money ' that's all'

Guess what, so did I, but I didn't hop down to Sunset Strip to sell my ass to the first john who came along. Somehow that isn't exactly how I envisioned our marriage. He was suddenly angry at her. Just thinking about it made the hurt and the rage course through him again. He had always thought of her as an innocent child, a child with a terrible habit. But it was much worse than that, it was a life-style based on a suicidal obsession.

I'm sorry. The words were barely audible, a breath in the still room as the dog panted in his bed in a corner of the kitchen. I'm sorry about everything. She stood up nervously, as though suddenly facing a stranger. And she looked as though she were going out. He had seen that look before. That look that says I need it now ' no matter what you say' . The look that had destroyed their marriage.

Where are you going?

I have to go out. She was still wearing her clothes from the night before and she hadn't combed her hair or brushed her teeth. She just picked up her handbag and looked around, and Bill had the feeling that she was going for the last time and he was suddenly frightened. He stood up and put down the paper as he looked at her.