Born To Be Wild

TWENTY-SIX

Ricky Martin played Miguel, a hunky, world-famous singer, on General Hospital.

BORN TO BE WILD

Thursday morning

Sunday looks up to see her mother, Lydia Cavendish, sweep into her office, while her secretary, Ellis, waves his hands ineffectively behind her. “It’s all right, Ellis. No one can stop a moving train.” She waits until he closes the door, rises slowly but doesn’t come around her desk. She’s wearing a black suit with an open white silk blouse, a black ribbon choker around her neck. Her skirt is short, her long legs ending in black stiletto heels. Her red hair is in her signature chignon, two curls dangling in front of her black earrings. She arches an eyebrow and looks impatient. She says sarcastically, “To what do I owe this pleasure, Mother? Last thing I knew, you weren’t speaking to me. Are you planning to use sign language?”

Lydia Cavendish is wearing a white suit with a bright red silk camisole that shows a good deal of cleavage. She looks more flamboyant than elegant, on the voluptuous side, and as arrogant as her eldest daughter. She’s wearing flashy diamonds at her ears, throat, and wrist. “You needn’t be so snide, Sunday,” she says and tosses her purse on a chair.

Sunday crosses her arms over her chest, remains behind her desk. “I’m very busy, Mother, though you hardly seem to have noticed I’ve even come back from that boarding school in Austria. At least you came yourself, rather than sending another of those little psychos you seem to collect. By the way, how is Bernard? In jail yet?”

Lydia walks to the sideboard, pours herself a big shot of brandy, gulps it down. “You were better off in Europe.” She throws back her head, closes her eyes. “You needn’t bother sleeping with Damian. He’s not worth it.” Sunday is shocked, opens her mouth, but says nothing as she realizes her mother is very upset, almost ready to break down.

Alarmed, Sunday walks around her desk, but no closer. “What’s wrong, Mother? Has Susan done something? Damian? You needn’t cry about Bernard, he’s a dishonest creep and we all know that now. You’re far better off without him.”

“No, this has nothing to do with Susan or with Bernard.” She’s silent again, looks around Sunday’s office, frowns a bit. “How I hate this, Sunday. I hoped you would never know. He swore he would never come back. But he’s here.”

Sunday looks down at her watch. “I’m very busy, Mother. Who’s here?”

“I didn’t have to think about him for a very long time, but lately I see his face all over the TV, he’s gotten so popular, and then of course I have to think about him. And now he’s in town. He’s here. The bastard.”

“Mother, who are you talking about? Stop being such a drama queen and tell me!”

Sunday stares at her mother, her head cocked a bit to the side. And stares, stares-

“Clear!”

Three minutes later, the women’s makeup touched up again, Todd Bickly, the stage manager, called out from the wing, “Ready, continue the scene.”

Sunday is staring at her mother. “What is this all about, Mother? Please tell me who it is you’re talking about.”

Lydia draws a big breath, fans her hands in front of her, her diamonds winking in the light. “Your father, Sunday. Your father is demanding to see you.”

Sunday leans against her desk, her arms folded over her chest. She says slowly, eyeing her mother, “My father’s dead. He died when I was only a year old. He was doing business in Cambodia, and he was kidnapped and killed.”

“Yes, that’s what I told you. He was with the Rand Corporation, and he was indeed in Cambodia, that was true. But he didn’t get kidnapped nor did he die there, more’s the pity.” Lydia picks up a crystal glass and hurls it against the far wall. A painting tilts at the impact.

“Mother-”

“You look like him, do you know that? You look exactly like his daughter, and now that he’s seen you, he wants to meet you.”

Sunday is shocked, confused. She looks blindly around her office, walks out from behind her desk to her mother, grabs her shoulders and shakes her. “Are you telling me you’ve kept me from my father all my life? Why? What did he do to you?”

“Oh, stop it, you stupid girl. It was a long time ago, but he hasn’t changed, his kind don’t ever change.”

“I can’t believe this, I really can’t.”

“For heaven’s sake, haven’t you ever wondered where you got your silly name?”

Sunday slowly shakes her head, takes a step back. “I know it’s unusual, but it’s just my name. Everyone has a name and no matter how weird it is, it’s yours. Are you saying my father named me? For some specific reason?”

“It was after he came home from Cambodia, he was a different man, hard and unreachable, and he no longer wanted me or you, but he insisted on having your name changed, forced me to do it or he wouldn’t give me a divorce.”

“You divorced him?”

“Yes. He didn’t love me, wouldn’t touch me, said he was meant for something else. He said he would give me a divorce and wouldn’t make a grab for any of my father’s money if I agreed to change your name to Sunday.”

“What was my name?”

“It was Angela.”

“Why did he pick Sunday?”

Lydia takes a big breath, stares at her lovely nails, then looks blindly toward the sideboard where there are bottles of liquor. You can tell she’d like a drink, badly.

“Mother, enough of this. Who is my father? What is his name?”

Lydia finally meets her daughter’s eyes. “It’s Phillip Galliard.”

“Who-?”

“Reverend Phillip Galliard.”

“You don’t mean the TV evangelist?”

“Oh yes, that’s exactly who I mean.”

“But my name isn’t Galliard-” She stares at her mother, eyebrows drawn together, confused.

“Clear!”

Todd stepped onto the floor, waving the script about, grinning from ear to ear. “That was excellent, just excellent. I’ll bet pins are dropping in every living room in America and you can hear them hit the floor.” He listened a moment, then tapped his earpiece. “Clyde’s screaming upstairs. He loved it!”