Chapter 4 #2
Prescott swept his arm around the room as if he could wipe out the lie.
“This is not the end. Your mind still works. Your heart still beats. Your character—why, it’s stronger than before, isn’t it?
Let it grow even stronger. As Shakespeare said, ‘In nature there’s no blemish but the mind, none can be call’d deform’d but the unkind. ’”
“So true,” one of the ladies murmured.
Prescott marched down the aisle, pointing at each man. “Let this trial build your compassion for the hurting, build your determination to persevere, build your strength, your patience. Let this heat burn off any arrogance that hinders you and let it humble you in the best possible way.”
In the slits of bandages, eyes brightened.
Prescott’s voice built. “With your mind, your heart, and your character, you can do great things. This world is a mess. We need you. As you are. Burned, scarred, disfigured—and smart and strong and compassionate. We need you.”
His words stopped, and they settled down and filtered in.
Filtered into his own heart too.
A sniffle from the doorway, and Carol and Greta wiped their eyes with hankies.
Prescott raised a self-conscious smile. “Honest, fellows, we came to make music, not speeches. Ladies, how about ‘Blue Skies’?”
Four heads bobbled, and hankies disappeared into pockets.
Prescott gave them a count of four and launched in, singing of blue skies and bluebirds. Of joy and hope driving away the blue days.
“This story—you’ve got to put it out of your head,” Melvin had told him.
But Maggie had told him, “Write a new script for your life.”
Prescott had always been a storyteller. He knew movie people and the movie industry. Screenwriting wouldn’t shine limelight on his scarred face to tarnish the image in the public’s mind. He’d just be a name in the credits.
And he might not be educated, but what made the best writing? Knowledge of people and of the difficulties of life. That he had in spades.
The smells remained in the ward. The sights.
But the heaviness had lifted, because Prescott had employed his story.
More than anything, he wanted these men—and so many others like them—to move on with their lives. To help them do so, Prescott had to move on himself.
Wednesday, November 10, 1943
“That’s the plan.” With Ria beside her, Maggie smiled at Mr. Anderson across the table in a meeting room at the YMCA. And at Mrs. Laverne to Mr. Anderson’s left.
Mr. Anderson reviewed the papers Ria had typed, listing each number, with cast members, music, props, and costs—and listing what would happen in the intervals between numbers.
The plan was streamlined, yet contained spectacle, music, and laughs. And it remained true to what she and Prescott had envisioned that morning in Balboa Park.
Mr. Anderson moved his finger down the paper. “This is much improved.”
“Thank you, sir.” Maggie let her smile beam. “The entire cast worked together on every aspect.” Especially Prescott.
Mrs. Laverne sniffed. “The whole thing is silly and overblown.”
If only she’d heard some of the ideas tossed out in jest—like when Freddie and Ferdy suggested doing bird calls.
“It’s still too complex.” Mr. Anderson sat back and scooted his glasses higher. “You’ve solved the problem of transitions, but you have too many numbers and a Shakespeare play, to boot.”
Dimples of concern pocked Mrs. Laverne’s full cheeks. “As I said, it would be easier and more reverential to sing carols.”
Mr. Anderson grumbled, and his chin wagged in the way of a man about to agree.
Panic ripped through Maggie’s chest, but she glued on a confident smile. “Sir, I know we can do this. The cast is hard at work, making great progress. There are only four big dance numbers. The rest are small acts—solos, comedy bits, acrobatics.”
Ria folded her hands on top of the table. “Remember, sir. You hired Miss Oliver to put on a big Christmas show, not a singalong. USO-Camp Shows is known for quality productions, and that’s what our servicemen expect—and deserve—especially so far from home.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fernandez,” he said. “They deserve quality, not a fiasco.”
“It won’t be a fiasco,” Maggie said.
“If only you could guarantee it. No, I—”
“How about this?” Ria’s dark eyes flashed. “How about a—a trial performance?”
“A trial?” Maggie said at the same time as Mr. Anderson.
Ria motioned to Maggie. “What if Miss Oliver has the cast run through the show for you next week? If it’s coming along well, she can proceed. If you’re still concerned, we can do the sing-along.”
Maggie’s mouth flopped open. The show wouldn’t be ready next week. It would be ready by opening night. All shows were like that.
A smug glint shone in Mrs. Laverne’s light blue eyes.
“Excellent idea,” Mr. Anderson said. “Don’t worry, Miss Oliver. I don’t expect perfection, just proof that it will work. I know the costumes and sets won’t be ready, and the actors can use scripts if needed. A week from today.”
“One week?” Maggie’s voice sounded thin and hopeless.
“One week,” Mr. Anderson said. “Plenty of time to pull the essentials together.”
Mrs. Laverne’s smile returned to cherubic. “Plenty of time to switch to a proper choir concert.”
Mr. Anderson looked to Maggie with an expectant smile.
Only one answer was expected. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
Two decades before, Ma had turned her back on Prescott. He refused to turn his back on others.
If his story could help, he had to write it.
Wearing a sports shirt and swim trunks, Prescott carried a towel and his attaché case across Ocean Beach in the warm air. Cool sand threaded between his toes.
His aimlessness was far uglier than his scars, and he had to kill it before it killed him, had to overcome it if he wanted others to overcome.
Since his performance in the hospital on Sunday, he’d argued with himself. He was too busy with the show to write. He had no business writing. And how could he write? Typewriters were only available for purchase with a certificate from the ration board, which Prescott would never qualify for.
Besides, the thought of pounding keys with the fried nubs of his fingers was even less appealing than using the fat pencils they’d given him while recovering in the hospital.
Prescott passed a group of mothers seated on towels with a passel of tots laughing and squabbling and digging in the sand.
He found an isolated spot right before the sand turned from fluffy to slick, and he spread out his towel.
Four seagulls dove toward the water, calling to each other.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked the gulls. “You think I’m doing this to impress Maggie, don’t you? Show her I’m not an idle loafer?”
Sitting cross-legged on his towel, he opened his attaché case and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil meant for a first grader. Maggie had given the men the morning off. She had a meeting, then was working with the ladies on their solo acts.
He’d rather be with her than facing a fat pencil and a thin piece of paper.
A pale blue sky spread above him, streaked with airy white clouds and contrails from the Naval Air Station on North Island. Gray-blue waves trimmed in foam slapped the golden sand.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked the waves.
The first scene would be heart-wrenching, but it took place at sea, on Charles Anthony’s luxurious yacht, so sitting at the ocean’s edge felt right.
Now Prescott knew that Charles was a wealthy politician. He’d invited four powerful men out on his yacht. Pillars of the community. Admired and respected by all. Their wives. His own wife and children. A sumptuous party to raise money and prestige and influence.
His captain warned him about a coming storm. His wife begged him to postpone.
Charles insisted.
The yacht was lost with all aboard—except Charles.
In the ensuing scandal, he lost his seat in the House and his positions in companies and committees and philanthropies.
He’d lived for his image. Many souls died for his image. Then he lost that image.
All he had left was money and a beautiful empty house.
Prescott groaned, and his head sagged to his chest. That was all he had left too. His image had been destroyed by scars, not scandal, but destroyed it remained.
Who was he now? He certainly wasn’t Joe Prescott anymore. He couldn’t go back and didn’t want to. But who would he become?
And who would Charles Anthony become? For Charles to move forward, Prescott Duke had to move pencil over paper. So he did.
EXT. CHARLES ANTHONY’S YACHT AT SEA—CONTINUOUS
Five wealthy couples mingle and sip champagne. The yacht rocks in a rising wind. Smiles turn to nervous glances. Champagne sloshes to the deck.
FELICIA ANTHONY approaches CHARLES, holding back her hair in the wind.
FELICIA
Charles? Don’t you think we should turn back? The weather . . .
CHARLES
It’s fine. The captain worries too much. I tell you, Felicia, I’m so close to—
Prescott winced and paused to stretch his hand. Holding the pencil between thumb and his two remaining fingers—middle and ring on his right hand—was difficult enough without the pain and stiffness.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked the pencil.
Perhaps as he walked alongside Charles Anthony and helped him figure out his purpose, Prescott would figure out his purpose too.
God’s love was more than enough, but God had created him for meaningful work and relationships. Without those, Prescott had been wasting away, and Charles would too.
In this story, Prescott would take Charles low, then help him rise.
The breeze ruffled Prescott’s hair. “Lord, help me rise too.”