Born To Be Wild

FORTY-THREE

In 1951, on Love of Life, there were only two commercials, one at the beginning, one at the end. Today, actual soap time runs about thirty-eight minutes out of an hour.

BORN TO BE WILD

Susan slams out. You can hear the front door hitting hard from the living room. Not three minutes later, the doorbell rings and Draper, Sunday’s butler, bodyguard, and confidant, answers it. She hears low voices, then her father walks into the living room. To Sunday’s surprise he’s in casual dress, an open-collared shirt and slacks. He looks very handsome.

She’s surprised to see him, but she is over it quickly. “Since you’ve come, Mr. Galliard, you might as well tell me why you and Mom split up. Why you left and let me believe I didn’t have a father.”

“Good morning to you too, Sunday. Do you mind if I call you Sunday? After all, it’s the name I gave you when you were born.”

“You can call me Ducky, I don’t care. It’s time for some answers. If you’re not ready to give me any, you can leave.”

He looks at her, studies her.

Sunday calls out, “Draper-”

Draper appears in the doorway.

Her father slowly nods, says, “Very well, I’ll answer your questions.”

Sunday nods to Draper. He disappears.

“Let’s get to it then. I have a great deal to do today and you weren’t on the schedule. Why did you leave Mom?”

He spots a coffee carafe on the sideboard and walks over to it, pours himself a cup, raises it slowly to his mouth. He sets the cup back down on the sideboard.

She taps her watch face. “I’m waiting.”

He draws a deep breath, as if steadying himself. “Your mother didn’t want to be a preacher’s wife. It’s as simple as that.”

“No, nothing’s that simple.”

“All right. Don’t forget, Sunday, the Cavendish family is old-time wealth, on the social A-list for too many years to count. They run foundations, control large charities. They own more commercial and private real estate than anyone in the state. You know that very well, since you run the Cavendish empire. They were at least as dominant when your grandfather ran the show.

“Lydia was young, fresh, spirited, and bright. She expected to shop in Paris, ski at St. Moritz-to live the life her wealth could give her. When I told her I planned to enroll in the seminary, she thought about it, and told me it was over, with her family’s backing.”

Sunday says meditatively, “My mother always thinks of herself, I’ll grant you that. And it’s true she was spoiled all her life, given anything she wanted, she had only to ask. When she was only thirty, Grandfather had a heart attack and she took over. She ran everything until she tried to grind me under-” Sunday shrugs. “In any case, she is, regardless of her machinations, the head of the Cavendish family.” Sunday suddenly smiles. “One thing I’ll say for her-she never gives up. When she wants something, she goes after it.”

“You paint an estimable woman, Sunday.”

“I’ve wondered if her dislike of me all these years was because of you, because I’m your daughter. You walked out and she was stuck with your offspring at a young age, a child of a man she felt-what did she feel about you?” She nails him, her eyes hard on his face. “There must have been more between you than you’ve told me.”

“Of course there was more, there’s always more when human beings try to relate to each other, but in essence, what I said is the truth. Why don’t you ask her?”

“She’d never tell me the truth unless she knew it would hurt me. Would it?”

“You were barely on this earth when we went our separate ways. We wanted different things from life.”

Sunday mimics him. “‘We wanted different things from life.’ Now that’s a despicable old chestnut.”

He shrugs. “It’s the truth. I don’t know how better to say it. We both moved on.”

Sunday rubs her hands over her arms as if she’s cold. “All right, I’ll believe you for now. I suppose I’d hoped it was something deeper, more intriguing, not simple selfishness, on both your parts.”

“But I-”

“Yeah, I know, you were a budding saint. The fact is, you married her under false pretenses. How did you present yourself to her in the first place? Not as a future preacher, I’ll bet.”

Phillip Galliard shrugs again. “No. I’d graduated from Boston College. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I was looking, searching within myself.”

“And? Where did Mom fit in? Are you saying you came to Los Angeles to find yourself?”

“No, my aunt and uncle lived here. I decided on graduate school in philosophy at UCLA. I lived with them.”

“How did you meet Mother?”

“She’d just graduated from Vassar. She was flitting all over L.A. in those days, partying, shopping, drinking too much. I met her when I was working in a small pipe boutique on Rodeo Drive. It was fast. We married three weeks later.”

“And I was born right away?”

He nods. “I was thrilled, Sunday. You were gorgeous, and you had my eyes. Your grandparents decided to name you Angela. I wanted Sunday because it was the miracle of your birth that made me decide what I was meant to do with my life. I cannot tell you what it felt like to hold you in my arms that first time.”

Sunday looks at him, says finally, with a nice big sneer, “So I come along and you get carried away with the miracle of life and want to go preach in Timbuktu. You held me in your arms and couldn’t wait to get out of there. What a wholesome image that is.”

They stare at each other, antipathy alive in the air. Stare, stare-

“Clear!”

“Good, excellent,” Bernie said. “We’ll look at it, but it’s probably finished.” He gave Mary Lisa a big hug, and bounded off to speak to the director.

Norman said, “I’m not on with you tomorrow. I’ve got a heavy-duty scene with Betsy. I think she’s going to hit me.”

Mary Lisa patted his arm. “Hopefully she won’t send a psychopath after you like she did me once. See you tomorrow, Norman.”