Chapter 8
eight
On the eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . eight maids a-milking.
It was one thing to read about the immensity of elephants and giraffes and hippos, and another to actually see it.
Prescott leaned on the rail, squeezed beside Maggie and Mr. Curtis. A male hippo named Rube, according to the sign, lounged at one end of the pool, with only his eyes and ears poking above the surface. Closer to the rail, his mate, Ruby, lay on her side underwater while her baby nursed.
Maggie’s hair concealed her cheeks as she leaned over. “I’ve never thought of hippos nursing before.”
Her grandfather gave her a teasing grin. “They are mammals.”
“But underwater—that’s incredible.”
Prescott pointed. “Here comes the baby.”
The little hippo pushed to the surface, gulped a breath of air, and dove for more milk—while dozens of visitors gasped and cooed.
The moment Prescott saw the article in the San Diego Union last week about the baby’s debut, he knew he could overcome Mr. Curtis’s remaining objections to the trip.
Maggie held back her hair to smile at Prescott. “This is worth staying up late tonight to type, isn’t it?”
“It is. Only ten pages left anyway.”
“The ending.” She nudged him. “Can’t wait.”
“Let’s let these youngsters have a look.” Mr. Curtis hobbled back to his wheelchair, and a pair of little girls rushed into the gap.
Prescott pushed the chair, following Maggie, who carried the map. She’d padded the wheelchair handles with fabric for him, which helped. But he wouldn’t have minded bare metal if it meant spending a day with these two.
Maggie dashed to the next enclosure. “Aren’t you the funniest-looking creature?”
Prescott heaved a pretend sigh. “That’s not a nice way to talk about me.”
She laughed and pointed to a large pig-shaped animal with a floppy snout, like a shorter version of an elephant’s trunk. “It’s a tapir, the sign says.”
“That’s Trudy.” Mr. Curtis accepted Prescott’s help in standing. “She’s an escape artist. She got out about two years ago. They found her in a storm drain.”
Prescott wiggled his nose like a tapir until Maggie laughed.
A sky as gray as the elephants in the pen behind him promised rain soon, but he didn’t care with Maggie beside him.
How he would miss their Sundays together—church, lunch, typing, talking.
After opening night on Friday, they’d have a flurry of performances through Christmas Eve. Then . . . nothing.
Maggie opened the colorful illustrated map. “We’ll go up ‘F’ Canyon to see the bears and seals and polar bears and lions. Then down ‘G’ Canyon to see the lesser pandas—oh, they’re new—and the cats and wolves and camels and kangaroos.”
Prescott bore Mr. Curtis’s weight as the man eased down into the wheelchair. “We’ll finish before dark?”
“Nowhere near.” Mr. Curtis settled into his seat. “This is a huge zoo.”
“We’ll come back another day.” Maggie folded the map. “I know. To celebrate when Press sells his script.”
Prescott’s shoulders tensed, but he was committed. He was having lunch with Valentine Ruben on Tuesday when Maggie was holding rehearsals for the ladies.
“Mr. Ruben will love it.” Maggie led the way past the giraffes they’d already admired. “The story is wonderful. Oscars all around.”
Prescott pushed the wheelchair down the path. “Too bad they don’t give Oscars for best performance at a Smith-Corona.”
She tossed him a little smile over her shoulder. “Just put me in the credits.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Not at all. You’ve done the hard work of writing the screenplay and the courageous work of scheduling that meeting.”
Prescott shrugged. Courage? A courageous man wouldn’t choose the zoo for a date with the woman he loved. And he did love her. No doubt remained.
They rounded the corner by the canteen. An older couple eyed his scars in passing, and Prescott gave them a smiling nod. His scars didn’t feel ugly now that he realized they connected him with others who were scarred, outside or inside. The scars might even be a gift.
“Oh no, Grandpa! Bears.” Maggie crouched on the far side of the wheelchair.
Mr. Curtis glanced back at Prescott. “Nothing in the world scared Maggie-mine when she was little. Except bears.”
“Save me, Grandpa.” A giggle bubbled up.
How good to see Maggie’s natural enthusiasm returning after a trying week of rehearsals.
Mr. Curtis snorted. “Asking an old man in a wheelchair? Nah. I retired. You’ve got a big strapping man here. Let him help you.”
Mischief frolicked in Maggie’s blue eyes as she peeked up at him. “Save me, Press.”
Nothing he wanted more than to pull her into his arms. Yet . . . something else felt more appropriate. “Sorry, kid. I’m a city boy. You’re on your own.”
“Press!” She sprang to her feet, laughed, and swatted him lightly in the chest.
“Say, Mr. Curtis,” he said. “I think I need saving from her.”
“I liked you better when you weren’t saucy,” she said. “No—not true. This is better.”
It was indeed better, and he returned her grin full force. Now that he had an aim in life, he intended to pursue her.
Maggie found a spot at the railing around the kangaroo enclosure while Prescott helped Grandpa to standing.
All afternoon, Prescott had assisted Grandpa with respectful regard, never patronizing. Because he understood. What a thrill to watch the change in him, opening, relaxing, gaining in purpose.
Sweet tenderness nestled in her chest. This was more than a crush on a movie star. This felt like love. And not once all day had he mentioned Vi.
Before her, kangaroos rested in the cool gray afternoon or nibbled on the grass.
A couple rolled a stroller to the rail beside Maggie, and the parents chatted with three older children about the kangaroos.
In the stroller sat a baby around one year old with a ruffled bonnet over a cap of dark blonde hair.
Her little face reddened and wrinkled, and she dropped her bottle in her lap. It rolled down over pudgy pink legs.
“Oh no.” Maggie grabbed the glass bottle and handed it to the mother. “Excuse me, ma’am. Your baby dropped her bottle. I didn’t want it to break and spill all her milk.”
“Thank you so much,” the mother said. “What if the nipple tore? It’s hard to buy anything made of rubber with the war on.”
The mother returned to explaining to her other children that a group of kangaroos was called a mob, but the baby squirmed. Soon she’d squall and put an end to the family’s excursion.
Not if Maggie could help it. She knelt beside the stroller and put on the happy voice that never failed her with children. “Hello. Do you see the kangaroos? Aren’t they funny?”
The redness dissipated in the baby’s face, and she sat forward. “Da.”
“That’s right. Kan-ga-roos. See the kangaroos go hop, hop, hop?” Maggie curled her hands in front of her chest like a kangaroo, and she bounced her shoulders. “Hop, hop, hop.”
A smile dipped into the little round cheek.
“Hop, hop, hop.” Maggie made her voice bounce. “Hop, hop, hop.”
A wet little giggle erupted.
“Takes me back,” Grandpa said.
Leaning on the railing, he and Prescott smiled down at her.
“You entertaining your brother and sister,” Grandpa said. “Boy, could you make them laugh.”
Maggie resumed her hop, hop, hopping. Rose would especially love it.
Now the baby’s brothers hopped like kangaroos, and baby giggles turned to full-blown laughter.
The mother gave Maggie a grateful look and pushed the stroller after her mob of little kangaroos.
“So you started your career in entertainment at a young age.” Prescott offered her a hand.
“I did.” Maggie accepted the warm gift and relinquished it reluctantly after she stood. “I loved making Rose smile.”
In fact, she’d loved it too much.
Her cheek twitched.
When Maggie came home sick from first grade, Mama had ordered her to stay away from Rose. But little Rose had begged at Maggie’s door. How could she resist?
Maggie shoved away from the rail and forced a smile. “Shall we find the zebras?”
“Not if you want to do any typing tonight.” Grandpa limped to his wheelchair. “Sun’s getting low.”
It was. The dimness of the sky matched the strange dimness in her heart.
Hollywood
Tuesday, December 7, 1943
Prescott hadn’t eaten at the Hollywood Brown Derby for two years. At a booth in the back sat Valentine Ruben.
The acclaimed producer stood and pumped Prescott’s hand. “Good to see you, Press.”
“Good to see you too, Val.” The man would blow away in a stiff wind, but he carried great weight in Hollywood. “How are Stella and the kids?”
Val motioned to the tufted leather booth, and the men sat beneath dozens of framed caricatures. On the far side of the restaurant, Prescott’s caricature hung on the wall.
“The twins are in their sophomore year of college.” Val picked up his menu. “One at USC, one at UCLA. You can imagine what it’s like when both girls come home.”
Prescott laughed. “And Stella?”
“Wonderful as ever.” Small dark eyes shone. “What are you up to lately? I haven’t heard from you in—what?—over a year?”
“At least that long.” Prescott didn’t want to talk business before ordering lunch.
He planned to have the Brown Derby’s signature Cobb salad, but with his stomach flopping around, how could he eat?
He picked up the menu. Set it down. “Until recently, I haven’t been up to anything. It’s been killing me.”
Val’s broad forehead warped. “I can’t imagine what I’d do . . .”
If he lost his career? But a genuine smile rose. “Right now I’m in a USO show in San Diego, and it’s a peach.”
“That’s swell. I’m glad to hear it.”
After the waiter took their orders, Val leaned skinny arms on the table. “I was a little surprised when you called out of the blue.”
Val knew something was up. Prescott shot up a quick prayer and remembered a fortifying speech by Olivia in Twelfth Night: “Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear that makes thee strangle thy propriety; Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up.”
For too long, fears had strangled Prescott. No longer. “I wanted to discuss something with you—a script.”
“A script?” Val cocked his head of tight black curls. “Melvin found a role for—”