Chapter 6
six
On the sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . six geese a-laying.
Los Angeles
Only a month earlier, Prescott had sat outside Melvin Underwood’s fancy office on Wilshire Boulevard, hopeless, aimless.
Today he held an attaché case filled with hope and aim. And tomorrow he’d ask Maggie out. He’d already made dinner reservations at the Hotel del Coronado. If she was in love with Frank Sebastian, he’d rather find out now. And if she wasn’t? Well, it was time.
Edna opened Melvin’s door. “He’ll see you now.”
Melvin met him halfway across the office with a firm handshake. “Don’t tell me the USO has already fired you.”
“Not at all.” He returned the grin. “In fact, they’d like to have me in more shows.”
Melvin’s broad nose wrinkled as he rounded his desk. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Since I no longer have a studio contract, I’m free.” Prescott settled into the leather armchair. “I’ve also been performing in the naval hospital. I tell you, something good is coming of it.”
Melvin blew out a long breath. “I preferred it when you were the Hollywood Hermit.”
Prescott didn’t. With a quick prayer for nerves, he opened his attaché case. “The USO isn’t why I came today. This is.” He set his script in front of his agent.
“What is it?” Melvin thumbed through the painstakingly written pages.
Prescott cleared his throat. “Act 1 of my screenplay.”
Melvin chomped off a curse. “I told you—”
“You told me to get it out of my head. I did. Got it out of my head and onto paper.”
Melvin’s jaw dangled. “Handwritten? In pencil?”
Muscles tensed in Prescott’s shoulders. “I don’t have a typewriter.”
“And badly handwritten.” Melvin sat back and tossed his hands wide. “What are you thinking, Press?”
A deep breath, a deep prayer, and Prescott gave his agent a steady gaze. “It’s a powerful story. You represent writers as well as actors. I know you can get this moving.”
Shaking his big head, Melvin shoved the script back across the desk.
Prescott stopped him, both hands on the precious pages, both lungs pulsing air. “Please. Please read it. Out of courtesy if nothing else. Have I ever let you down?”
Melvin glowered, but then he groaned, scraped the script back toward him, and put on his reading glasses.
As Melvin read the first page, Prescott gripped the black leather of his attaché case. Melvin had lifted Prescott from poverty to fame, taught him, nurtured him, believed in him.
Melvin peeked at the second page, flopped the first page back in place, and sat back again in his chair. “You poured your heart into this. It shows.”
“Thank you.” But he heard heaviness in his agent’s tone.
“I’m sorry, Press. I can’t pitch this. It’s a mess. Spelling errors, crossed-out words, almost illegible.”
Prescott’s breath became choppy, and he fought to compose his face.
Melvin leaned his elbows on the desk, and his gray eyebrows drew together. “I hate to say this, but you aren’t a writer.”
The rotten-egg stench of rejection filled his nostrils, and he sucked in a breath. “You only read one page. If you read a few more—”
“I don’t have to.” Melvin’s voice dove low into concern, but concern girded with steel. “I work with talent all day, every day. I know it when I see it. And this?” He whapped the script. “I don’t see it.”
A door slammed in Prescott’s head. With fumbling, aching fingers, he gathered his script, nestled it in his attaché case.
Melvin stood, went to the door, and opened it. “Remember, you have plenty of money, solid investments. You don’t need to do stuff like this.”
Somehow Prescott pushed himself out of the chair and left the office.
“Miss Baker is here to see you,” Edna called.
“Miss Baker, what a pleasure.” Melvin ushered a pretty young blonde into the office and shut the door.
Prescott stared at that door. His heart pounded.
Fourteen years old. Alone in the tenement hallway with nothing but a satchel.
What now? Where could he go? What could he do with his life?
He couldn’t be a screenwriter.
Slam.
He couldn’t go back to the movies.
Slam.
He refused to return to the boxing ring. To life as a hermit.
He slammed those doors himself.
Sensing Edna’s curious gaze on his back, Prescott shoved out a polite goodbye and exited stage left.
Only as a movie star had he ever had any worth. Now he had none.
San Diego
Wednesday, November 17, 1943
In the gymnasium, Maggie tried not to look at Mr. Anderson and Ria as the cast ran through the trial performance.
For the “twelve drummers drumming” curtain call, Prescott sang “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” pausing after each phrase while the performers for the corresponding act came onstage, did a sample of their routine, and took their bows.
During the real show, the band’s drummer would play a jazzy solo for each act. But today, they had sweet Mrs. Chester on the piano, trying to pound chords like a drummer. Since she played like a church organist, not a jazz pianist, she added to the flatness of the performance.
No one’s performance had been flatter than Prescott Duke’s.
“‘Ten lords a-leaping . . .’” he sang.
The men ran onto the tape-bordered stage, and Freddie and Ferdy performed backflips, collided with each other, bonked heads.
“Oh no.” Maggie gasped and rose halfway out of her chair.
Freddie sat on the floor, massaging his forehead. “I’m going to get a goose egg.”
“First you’re going to get off the stage.” Ferdy tugged his twin to standing.
“‘Nine ladies dancing . . .’” Prescott sang fine, acted fine, danced fine. But the spark was missing. Before the performance, he’d been quiet and glum. Had something happened?
Maggie resisted the urge to chew her thumbnail. She’d cured herself of that habit in junior high, but Prescott’s downcast gaze and slumped shoulders churned her insides.
“‘Six geese a-laying . . .’”
Nothing happened.
“Carol,” Maggie muttered under her breath.
Barbara and Greta prodded Carol, who squealed, grabbed her top hat, dashed onto stage, and pulled an egg from her hat, echoing her magic act.
Maggie’s thumbnail gravitated toward her mouth, and she gripped her hands together. That was—appropriately enough—the twelfth major missed cue in the show. Plus countless minor errors, which might or might not escape Mr. Anderson’s attention.
She ventured a glance at her boss’s impassive face. Not once had he even chuckled.
Why hadn’t she streamlined down to a regular USO show format? Three or four acts, each performing song and dance and comedy for half an hour. Each responsible for their own performance. No interconnection.
“‘Two turtle doves . . .’” Prescott extended a hand to Vi, who joined him for a twirl and a bow. Then he stepped aside and gestured to Vi, standing alone at center stage. Vi sang in her soaring soprano, “‘And a partridge in a pear tree.’”
After she curtsied, the cast lined up onstage, alternating men and women—in costume, green and red would alternate in a festive way—and they sang “Happy Holiday.”
At least they knew the lyrics.
What did it matter? It was over. The run-through made the Keystone Cops look like sailors on parade.
She’d lose her job. Grandpa would lose his house. What would he do with Tobias?
After the final note, Maggie stood. “Thank you, everyone. I’ll see you after lunch.” When they would practice Christmas carols to sing trapped on risers.
As the cast dispersed with their usual teasing and joking, Maggie returned to her seat. An apology to Mr. Anderson welled in her mouth, but she swallowed. An apology would be as unprofessional as begging for praise.
What should she do? She offered the thought as a prayer and felt a soft pressure to her throat, as if being silenced. As if being told to wait.
Mr. Anderson’s eyes darted back and forth, and his mouth worked. On his far side, Ria caught Maggie’s eye and gave her a prodding look.
Maggie raised a slight shrug. The man was thinking, and perhaps it was best not to interrupt. For good or ill.
“It’s rough,” he said.
For ill, but Maggie calmed her expression. “Yes, sir. We do have another three weeks.”
His small gray eyes turned to her. “I like it.”
Ria’s brows shot high.
So did Maggie’s. But she injected confidence into her voice. “Thank you. We do too.”
The corners of his mustache turned down. “It needs work, mind you.”
A lot of work. “I know. We’ll practice hard.”
“I’ll write up some suggestions and bring them over in the morning.”
After he left the gym, Ria gripped Maggie’s arm. “Was he watching the same show we were?”
“I don’t know.” Had the Lord blinded him? “He’s a theater professional. Maybe he knows how a show tastes when it’s still half-baked.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I’m glad.”
“Me too. Thank you for all your help. I couldn’t do this without you.”
Ria made a scoffing sound. “Don’t you try to blame me for this mess.”
Maggie laughed, then sobered. “Please tell the cast the good news. I need to talk to Prescott.”
The cast was getting ready to leave for lunch. Off to himself, Prescott stashed props on the rack.
“Prescott? Are you all right?”
“Hmm?” His dull brown gaze turned to her. “Why do you ask?”
Maggie stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Your performance today was flat.”
He set Vi’s green hat on top of her green jerkin. “You want me out of the show.”
Not a question but a statement, and Maggie frowned. Why would he think that? “No, I want you in the show. I don’t know where you were today, but you weren’t here.”
In the background, a cheerful murmur rose to Ria’s announcement.
Prescott’s mouth mashed together, and pain flickered in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I ruined everything.”
“No, you didn’t. Mr. Anderson approved the show. But this afternoon, I need you here. All of you. Whatever’s bothering you—leave it outside the gym.”
The pain washed from his eyes, leaving something else behind, analyzing, pondering, determined. “You could have pandered to me as a star. Or because of my scars. You didn’t. You were honest with me.”