Chapter 1 #2
Modern art hung on the paneled walls, a far cry from the tar-papered walls of the tenement where Prescott had grown up. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
Melvin sighed and leveled his gaze at Prescott, hard but not unkind. “With those hands?”
He flinched and rubbed the gnarled skin. In the agonizing weeks in the hospital, he’d lost four of his fingers, two on each hand. Even holding a pen was difficult.
“Listen, kid. I’m not being mean, just realistic. You’ve got a sixth-grade education and no job skills. What’re you going to do? Go back to the boxing ring where I discovered Joe Prescott and turned him into Prescott Duke?”
Heaviness filled his chest, and he shook his head. He had nothing but his voice. But with a mangled face, acting and singing were out of the picture.
Melvin fished a pear from the fruit bowl on his desk. “A lot of men would be happy to be retired.”
“I’m only thirty-five. I shouldn’t be retired.”
“It’s not too late to take up drinking.” Melvin flashed a mischievous smile and bit into the pear.
Prescott was in no mood to play along. “Never.”
“Wish I’d discovered you before you discovered God in that rescue mission. Would’ve made my job easier.”
A tiny smile for old time’s sake. If he’d played the bad boy role, he might have made the jump from B movies to the A list a lot earlier. But at what cost?
Melvin waved his pear in a little circle. “Find a hobby. Take up birdwatching or something.”
“I’ve been reading a lot.”
A quiet cuss, and Melvin’s head drooped. “Whatever you do, promise you won’t take up writing. Every actor thinks he can write. Every actor is wrong.”
Melvin’s secretary leaned in the door. “Mr. Underwood? Call for you from a Miss Margaret Oliver with the USO regarding a Christmas show for the Navy boys in San Diego.”
“Put it through, Edna.” He glanced at Prescott. “You don’t mind?”
Prescott shook his head and waved his agent toward the phone.
Melvin set down the half-eaten pear, sandwiched the phone between shoulder and ear, and slid open a desk drawer. “Melvin Underwood here. How many dancing girls you need?”
Then Melvin’s gaze shot to Prescott. “You want Prescott Duke?”
Prescott sat up straighter, his mouth hanging open.
Melvin held up his hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, Miss Oliver, but you must not have heard. Mr. Duke was badly burned in an accident. He—he has scars.”
Prescott’s face burned on the left side. Burned. But it was better for the woman to find out now than when he showed up for the first rehearsal.
Melvin ran his hand through his silver hair. “Yes. Yes, I understand stage is different from film . . . No, his voice wasn’t affected . . . ”
No, his voice wasn’t affected, and Prescott edged forward in his chair.
“Sorry, lady,” Melvin said. “You must have an old list, from before Pearl Harbor. He isn’t available.”
What? He’d been available for well over a year. Prescott sprang forward and snatched the phone right out of Melvin’s hand. “Miss Oliver? I am very much available. I would be honored to be in your show.”
A feminine gasp. “Is that—Mr. Duke?”
Melvin groaned. “Press, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Prescott jabbed a finger at the phone. “The lady invited me to be in her show, and I want to do it. What else do I need to know?”
“Mr. Duke?” The woman’s voice quivered. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there. How much did you hear?”
“I heard that I have a chance to do something worthwhile with my sorry life for the first time in almost two years. What would you like me to do?”
“Oh. Well. Serve as the emcee and sing a song or two, dance perhaps. I hadn’t thought that far. And we’re doing a short version of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. I thought—with your name—I thought maybe you could play the role of Duke Orsino.”
“Anything. I’ll be a stagehand, water boy, whatever you want. I’m yours, Miss Oliver.”
“Oh.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Thank you.”
Melvin rolled his eyes.
Prescott hadn’t meant to sound flirtatious, and he raised a sheepish smile.
“Fine.” Melvin grabbed his gold pen and took back the phone. “All right, Miss USO. Where does he need to be and when?”
Prescott settled back into the armchair.
This wouldn’t solve his problem, not by a long shot. But for two months, he could fill the void of his life.
San Diego
Thursday, October 21, 1943
Prescott stepped off the trolley at the streetcar terminal on Park Boulevard. He tipped his hat lower over his brow. Miss Oliver hadn’t seen his scars yet. Perhaps she’d change her mind.
A brunette approached with a USO armband around the sleeve of her wine-colored suit, and her smile grew with each step. “Mr. Duke, thank you for coming. I’m Maggie Oliver.”
“Thank you for inviting me to be in your show.”
Pretty blue eyes studied him, and her smile deepened and softened, as if searching behind the scars without ignoring them.
Something about her touched memories. “Pardon me, but have we met?”
“Not formally, but I danced in Hollywood Harmonies of 1938, Hollywood Harmonies of 1939, and Hollywood Harmonies of 1940.”
Prescott chuckled. “And you still asked me to be in your show.”
“That’s why I asked you. Oh, here’s Petty Officer Sebastian.” She waved to a tall blond sailor in dress blues. “He’s our ticket to get in. And this.” She handed Prescott a USO armband.
“Thank you, Miss—”
“Please call me Maggie. As my assistant says, ‘Save a lot of syllables.’”
“Then call me Prescott.” With the clumsy remainder of his hand, he wrestled the armband over the sleeve of his suit.
After Maggie introduced him to Petty Officer Sebastian, the yeoman showed a pass to the guards and led them through the gate.
“Welcome to Balboa Park.” Maggie pointed to a stately white building. “That’s the Natural History Museum.”
“Now it’s a ward for the naval hospital,” the sailor said in a Southern accent. “Nine hundred sixty beds.”
Dozens of men in light blue robes milled about the plaza, walking in pairs, rolling in wheelchairs, lounging on a strip of grass.
Over six months Prescott had spent in an Army hospital. “Will the patients attend our show?”
“Only the convalescent ones, sir.” Sebastian led them along an arcaded walkway with ornate Spanish-style carvings. “That building across the way holds another five hundred patients. Three thousand beds in the main naval hospital and another three thousand in this here Balboa Park annex.”
Six thousand patients. Prescott frowned, pulling at the scar tissue on his left cheek. “Those who are confined to bed—can we do something for them?”
“Please, sir.” Sebastian turned a bright smile to him. “Visiting stars often tour the wards.”
“I’m here for two months. If I can help in any way . . .”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”
The shade of the arcade ended, and they entered a sunshine-filled plaza.
Maggie smiled at a rectangular pool and a long, airy building constructed of arched wooden beams. “The Lily Pond and the Botanical Building. My favorite part of the park. I always thought the Lily Pond would be a dramatic setting for a good cry.”
Only show people would look at the pond in such a way, and Prescott smiled.
“The Lily Pond is now used for rehabilitation.” Sebastian gestured toward the dozen men swimming in the waters.
“Are you from San Diego?” Prescott asked Maggie.
“Iowa, actually. But my mother is a San Diego girl, and we took the train to California every few years to visit my grandparents. And I visited often after I came to Hollywood.” Joy radiated from her voice. “Come along. I can’t wait to show you the Old Globe Theatre.”
“You mentioned a Shakespeare play.” An unusual choice for a USO show.
“Twelfth Night, but a short version, only an hour, plus variety show numbers—two hours total. A fun Christmas show for the boys.”
“Won’t feel like Christmas for most of them.” Prescott waved to the palm trees bobbing their shaggy green heads above the Spanish buildings.
Maggie laughed and tipped up her chin to the tropical greenery. “And a partridge in a palm tree,” she sang in a full-throated soprano.
Prescott laughed in return, and the song tinkled in his head.
“‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’” His feet stopped as the song and an idea revolved around each other like ballroom dancers. “Twelfth Night.”
Maggie spun to him, and her eyes widened to the idea. “What if . . . ?”