Born To Be Wild

Sunday walks into the club dining room, by herself, sees her mother sitting alone, drinking coffee, a sweet roll at her elbow, untouched. Sunday pauses, then slowly walks to her table, stands over her, stares down at her. She despises this woman in her bright red power suit, the red lipstick and the red fingernails that are surely too young for her. She despises her for casting her aside when her half sister, Susan, came along, for continually trying to sabotage her, and yet-she looks so alone, so vulnerable, so infinitely sad-and this is reflected on Sunday’s face.

“Mother.”

Lydia jerks, looks up at Sunday with naked pain on her face, then her mask slips smoothly back into place. An elegant eyebrow goes up, and there’s a slight sneer on the lips.

“May I join you?”

A look of surprise, or wariness, but Lydia doesn’t say anything, merely sweeps her hand toward the empty chair opposite her.

Sunday sits down, sets her purse and briefcase on the floor beside her.

“When I saw your red fingernails I thought they looked like blood.”

Lydia looks at her fingernails, then shrugs, says, “You saw your father again. That would make me think of blood too.”

Sunday nods slowly. “Why? Did he abuse you? Hit you?”

“No.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence, then, “He came to my house on Saturday. So did Susan, only apparently she didn’t leave when my father showed up. Draper told me later she was lurking about, probably eavesdropped outside the living room window, and she heard my conversation with him.”

Lydia flushes, shrugs, finally picks up a white linen napkin and begins to rub her hands with it. Sunday looks at her mother’s hands, then says, “Ah, so she told you about it. Did she give you all the juicy details?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that simplifies things, doesn’t it? I don’t have to do a he said/she said and have you accuse me of lying or accuse him of lying. Of course, Susan would lie in a flash to get something she wanted, but you’ve never questioned her, have you? You buy everything that comes out of her mouth.”

“Your sister doesn’t lie.”

“She’s my half sister. So what do you think? Why is Phillip Galliard here in Los Angeles now, after twenty-seven years?”

“He wants something, but not money. Phillip doesn’t need money, he’s never been about that. He’s always wanted power.”

“Money is power, you know that. But I tend to agree with you. I get the impression that money, in and of itself, doesn’t motivate him. Do you know why he’s here then?”

Lydia folds the napkin, lays it beside her plate with its untouched roll. “How would you expect me to know? I haven’t seen him in twenty-seven years.”

“All right. Then maybe you’d like to tell me why you two broke up all those years ago.”

A waiter appears at Sunday’s elbow. Not just any waiter, but the majordomo, Jacques Trudeau. “Mademoiselle Cavendish? Can I bring you some tea? Earl Grey?”

“That would be wonderful, Jacques, thank you.”

“Madame? May I freshen your coffee? Perhaps bring you something else?”

Lydia doesn’t look at him, merely shakes her head. He leaves.

Sunday looks at her mother straight on-her face shows sadness. Her mother sees this, sees her daughter’s pain and weariness, and presses back against her chair.

But Sunday doesn’t look away. “Did you ever love him?”

Lydia tries to evade her, but can’t, not with her daughter looking at her like that. She draws a deep breath. Her hand trembles a bit as she reaches for her water glass, then drops away. She flattens her hands on the white tablecloth, then slowly clutches them. Lydia finally whispers, “I loved him more than I loved myself. I would have given my life for him.”

“Then why did you let him leave us?” The pain on Sunday’s face, the pain in her voice, is palpable, thick between the two women.

Lydia’s face is pale. She slowly moves her fisted hands to her lap.

Sunday’s eyes sheen over. She says slowly, “I have never loved a man like that. But I know if I did, I would never let him go. Never. Mother, if you ever loved me, tell me what happened.”

Lydia shudders, then looks her daughter straight in the face. “The truth-dear God, Sunday, it’s been such a long time. Memories blur.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. Memories of the man you say you loved more than your own life would never blur. Tell me.”

“All right. All right! My father-your grandfather-believed Phillip was not right for me, not right for you-or for the family.”

“A man of God-not right? Now that makes a whole lot of sense. Why?”

“I-I never knew, Sunday. Phillip refused to discuss it with me, he never told me.”

“Mother, please-” Sunday reaches out, grasps her mother’s hand. Lydia looks down at that lovely white hand clasping hers. There’s shock on her face, but she doesn’t move her hand. “You have his hands. Odd how I never before noticed that.”

“Please, Mother, tell me the truth.”

Her eyes still on Sunday’s hand, Lydia says, “I can’t swear this is true, but my mother told me she overheard them talking the day Phillip left. She said Phillip told my father he’d found out he’d used extortion, manipulated stock, ruined lives and reputations to get what he wanted. He said my father was responsible for a friend’s suicide. Can you begin to imagine anyone saying such things to your grandfather? He was enraged, beside himself with fury-”

“My grandmother told you this?”

Lydia nods. “She said that he-oh God, Sunday, she claimed my father almost killed Phillip. She said he was panting he was so furious, that he pulled a revolver out of his desk drawer and started screaming at Phillip-that he was a sheep, he was weak, he’d never amount to anything. And that he’d see him dead before he allowed him to stay in the family.

“My mother said there was a shot. She rushed in to see that Phillip had taken the revolver from my father and he was white as death, but unhurt. Then he threw the revolver in the fireplace and walked out. He didn’t say anything to either of them, simply walked out. I never saw him again.”

“But you don’t know if this really happened.”

“Unless my mother dreamed it up to protect me. I know you always believed your grandmother was weak because she never stood up for herself, pathetic because your grandfather controlled her completely. Well, after your father left, I was a wreck. I was told that he’d simply said he was sick of me and sick of the baby. I locked myself in my bedroom and wouldn’t leave it, wouldn’t eat. Until one day she came into my room, sat down beside me, took my hand, and told me this is what happened.”

“My father never talked to you about any of this?”

Lydia shakes her head. “I told you, I never saw or heard from him again. There were divorce papers with his signature at the bottom, that was it.”

“So many lies. All lies, from you, from my father, from my grandparents.” Suddenly Sunday freezes. She whispers, “Grandfather has never said my name. Never.”

Lydia looks startled, then nods. “No, he hasn’t. He hated Phillip so much that from that day on he refused to see you, to admit you carried his precious blood, my blood, as well as Phillip’s. He certainly didn’t want to call you by that name your father gave you. It was he who insisted on sending you to boarding school in Europe-”

Lydia’s face contorts as she places her palm over her own mouth, as if to hold the words in. She leaps to her feet, knocks the chair over, grabs her purse, and runs from the club dining room.

Jacques Trudeau rushes after her, then stops. He turns and looks at Sunday, starts toward her, and stops again.

The camera rests on Sunday’s face. Tears sheen her eyes, slowly begin to slide down her cheeks. She doesn’t move, then her lips form the word Father.

“Clear!”

There was silence on the set, and then, something that rarely happened, there was applause.

It took Mary Lisa a good minute to bring herself back. She blinked, but the tears continued to fall.

She heard Bernie yell, “You just won the Emmy for next year, sweetheart!”

Betsy walked up to her, marveled at the tears on her face, and grabbed her hand. “You were incredible, Mary Lisa, and you know what? You made me better. You drew me right into it. Well done, well done. Hey, sweetie, maybe we’ll both get Emmys next year. Hey, are you all right, Mary Lisa?”

“Huh? Oh, I’m fine, Betsy. I’ve got stuff on my mind, I guess. I’ve got to get changed now.”

Betsy, besides being a good actor, was also a shrewd woman. She lightly touched her fingertips to Mary Lisa’s arm. “It’s amazing you can function at all, with all you’ve been through, Mary Lisa. You keep your chin up. I want you to know that all of us are on the alert. Come along now, let’s walk to the dressing room together. Hey, Lou Lou, are you free to touch up Mary Lisa’s makeup?”