Once Is Not Enough (6 page)

He tried to be philosophical. Everyone had to have one flop. And this was long overdue. He had been on a winning streak since 1947. He told it to himself. He told it to the press. Yet
as he sat beside his daughter’s bed, the thought nagged like an exposed nerve.
Was
it just one flop—or had his luck run out?

He had two more pictures to release through Century, and he could amortize the loss of this picture against the profits of the others. And he didn’t see how the next picture could miss. It was a spy story from a best-selling novel. He started principal photography in London, in October. Each weekend he flew back to Rome; forcing himself to walk into that hospital room with a smile to match the one she always had for him. He tried not to be disheartened at her lack of progress. She would make it. She had to! On her eighteenth birthday she surprised him by taking a few laborious steps with the aid of the therapist and crutches. Her right arm had improved, but she still dragged her right leg. Her speech was coming back. There were times she halted or stuttered on a word. But he knew that was just a matter of time. But damn it! If she could talk and use her right arm, what was holding up the progress of the leg? Certainly not the concussion anymore. But her smile was so bright and victorious. Her hair had grown back short and shaggy—she looked like a frail little boy. His throat felt dry. He felt it tighten as he forced a smile. Eighteen years old, and so many months lost.

After her birthday he had to go to the States to film the chase scenes in New York and San Francisco. Then there was the editing and final scoring in Los Angeles. He had high hopes for the picture; it had the smell of a winner. And somehow he tied up his hopes for the success of the picture with January’s recovery. Like a mind bet. If the picture made it big—her recovery would be rapid.

It opened with a big charity premiere in New York. The klieg-light bit; the celebrities; Barry Gray interviewing the V.I.P.’s. The audience applauded and laughed in the right places. When the lights came up, the heads of Century walked up the aisle with him . . . back-slapping . . . smiling. Then on to the party at the Americana, where they heard that the first reviews on TV had been bad. But everyone said it didn’t matter.
The New York Times
was all that counted. At midnight they learned the
Times
had murdered it (that was when the
heads of the studio left the party). The head of Century publicity, an optimistic man named Sid Goff, shrugged it off. “Ah, who reads the
Times?
For movies, it’s the
Daily News
that counts.” Twenty minutes later they learned the
News
had only given it two stars, but Sid Goff was still optimistic. “I hear the guy at the
Post
loved it. Besides, word of mouth will make the picture.”

But neither the
Post
nor word of mouth was good. Business was weak, but Sid Goff was still cheerful. “Wait till it plays across the country. The people will love it. That’s where it counts.”

It received a lukewarm reception at the Chinese in Los Angeles. It limped along in Detroit. In Chicago it bombed completely. And Philadelphia and other key cities refused it at first-run houses.

He couldn’t believe it. He had been so sure of the picture. Two flops in a row. And now he faced the old show business superstitution. Everything bad comes in threes. Deaths . . . plane crashes . . . earthquakes—and flop pictures. Obviously the heads of Century pictures felt the same way, because when he called, everyone was always busy in meetings or had “just stepped out of the office.” And the final clincher was when word came from the New York office that they would allot him only two million dollars (including advertising) for his third picture.

He couldn’t bring it in on that kind of a budget unless he settled for actors whose names went under the title and a new director or an old one with a long backlog of flops. But he had no choice. He had to do the picture; it was part of his contract. He had a three-picture deal. Well, if that’s the way the cards were stacked he’d get the third flop out of the way, pack it in, go back to New York, and do a smash Broadway show. The more he thought about it, the more his confidence grew. His return to Broadway would be an event. Money would be no problem. Hell, he’d back it himself. He was worth several million. What was a few hundred thousand bucks? The only thing—he had to come up with a hot script.

These were his emotions that summer of ’68 as he started his third picture. He was in high spirits when he flew to Rome to
see January, but when he saw her hobble toward him, still dragging her leg, it hit him for the first time that she just might not walk again. Her bright smile and eager excitement only added to his feeling of despair. She wanted to know all about the new picture. Why had he picked unknowns? Who was the leading man? When could she read the final shooting script? He forced himself to invent stories and gossip with an enthusiasm that came hard. He held his panic until he was alone with the doctors. Then his rage and fear exploded. What was all this crap about her making steady progress? All the good reports he had received during the past few months? She hadn’t improved one iota.

They admitted she was not responding as quickly as they had hoped. But he must realize . . . They had not been able to start the physical therapy as soon as they should. Then they told him the facts. She would improve. But she would always limp and possibly have to use a cane.

That night he went on a wild drunk with Melba Delitto. And when they wound up at her apartment, he paced and raged about the doctors, the hospital, the hopelessness of it all.

Melba tried to calm him. “Mike, I adore you. I not even hold my one big flop against you. But now you have done another bad picture. You must not let your daughter’s misfortune destroy your life. This next one must be good.”

“What do you want me to do? Just go to work and forget about her?”

“No, not forget. But you have your own life to live. Stop fighting for the impossible.”

His anger made him suddenly sober. His whole life had been a fight to attain the impossible. Son of a mother who deserted him when he was three. Father, an Irish prizefighter who died from a lucky punch from a third-rate kid. A life of growing up on his own in South Philadelphia. Enlisting in the Air Force at seventeen because anything seemed better than the world he knew. And then the war . . . being in the midst of it . . . seeing guys you lived with and slept with catch a bullet at your side . . . wondering why
they
got it and not you.
They
had families who were waiting for them to come home. Families and sweethearts who wrote long letters and sent food packages.
And gradually the idea hits you that maybe they got
your
bullet because there was something back there, waiting to be done . . . by
you
. And it’s your job to go back and do it. He felt he had been given luck—luck to accomplish the impossible. And he had to make good so that the guy who got his bullet would understand. He wasn’t religious, but he believed in paying his dues. That had always been his philosophy, and it still was.

“My kid will walk,” he said quietly.

Melba shrugged. “Then try Lourdes. Or if you really want to spend money, take her to the Clinique of Miracles.”

“What’s that?”

“In Switzerland, in a remote section of the Alps. It is very expensive, but they have accomplished great things. I know a racing driver who crashed at the Monte. They said he’d be paralyzed for life. He went to the Clinique of Miracles—they made him walk.”

The next day Mike flew to Zurich, then drove to a rambling château hidden in the mountains and met with Dr. Peterson, a fragile-looking man who seemed incapable of creating even the smallest miracle.

It was just another wild chase. Another blind alley. But he was there. So he toured the Clinique with Dr. Peterson. He saw old people who had suffered strokes wave cheerfully at the doctor as they struggled with crutches and braces. He followed the doctor into a room where small children were singing. At first glance, it appeared to be an ordinary songfest, until he realized that every child was performing against odds. Some had cleft palates . . . some wore earphones . . . some had facial paralysis. But they all smiled and forced some sounds through their lips. In another wing there were Thalidomide children working with their artificial limbs, smiling as they made some slight progress with a new and cumbersome prosthesis. Mike felt his mood changing. At first he didn’t quite understand. But then it hit him. Everywhere he went, there was an absence of despair. Everywhere he looked was an attempt at accomplishment. The fight to attain the impossible.

“You see,” Dr. Peterson explained, “every waking moment is spent in therapy. In striving to get well. We have one little
boy who lost both his arms in an accident with a tractor on a farm. With his prosthesis he has learned to play the guitar. We have songfests every night. Sometimes we put on plays and ballets—all part of the therapy. But there is no television or radio.”

“But why cut out the outside world?” Mike asked. “Aren’t they segrated from life as it is by their illnesses?”

Dr. Peterson smiled. “The Clinique is a world of its own. A world where each patient helps the other. News from the outside world concerns wars, strikes, pollution, riots. . . . If it is not a world that healthy people enjoy, why should our patients want to fight insurmountable obstacles just to return to it? Also, a child born without legs who has worked six months to take two steps can be disheartened if he sees the violence or apathy of people born more fortunate. The Clinique of Miracles is a world of hope and the will to recover.”

Mike looked thoughtful. “But there is no one here my daughter could relate to. Everyone is very old . . . or very very young.”

“Who is she relating to in her hospital room in Rome?”

“No one. But she’s not surrounded by sickness and mutilation.”

Dr. Peterson looked thoughtful. “Sometimes seeing others less fortunate helps one to recover. A boy comes here with one arm and sees a boy without any arms. Suddenly, having one arm is not the end of everything. And the boy missing two arms takes great pride helping the boy without legs. And that is how it happens here.”

“One question, Dr. Peterson . . . do you really think you can help my daughter?”

“First I must study her records and the reports from the attending physicians. We accept no one whom we cannot help. And even then we cannot always promise a complete cure.”

Three weeks later Mike chartered a plane and flew January to the Clinique of Miracles. He had not spared her. He told her what she would find, the condition of some of the patients. But at least—here—she had a shot at getting well. He did not tell her that Dr. Peterson had some reservations about her complete recovery.

The nearest village was five miles from the Clinique. He checked into the inn and remained a week to see how she would take it. If she felt any revulsion she did not show it. Her smile was always bright, and she praised everyone at the Clinique.

He returned to the Coast and went through the motions of making the final picture. It was a dog and nothing could save it. But he had already started the publicity going on his “return to Broadway.” Agents, actors and directors began calling. Each night he holed up in his bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel and read scripts. Scripts from established playwrights, new authors, amateurs. He read everything, including galleys of new novels. His attaché case was stacked with them when he flew to Switzerland. January had been at the Clinique two months. Her speech was perfect. Her right arm was as strong as it had ever been. But her leg still presented a problem. She was walking better, but with a decided limp.

The picture was finished in December. He gave it to the director to edit and score and walked away from it. He had a long meeting with his business manager. He sold his plane and some stocks. But he refused to relinquish the suite at the Plaza.

On the day before Christmas he flew to Switzerland five hundred dollars in overweight, with three suitcases loaded with toys for the children. He brought January a record player and albums of all the show tunes of the past ten years.

They celebrated her nineteenth birthday in the little dining room at the inn. She chattered about the albums—how much she liked them, how she wished she hadn’t missed the shows of the past year. Then her face grew serious and she reached out and took his hand. “Tell you what. Next time you come, I’m going to be able to dance with you. That’s a promise.”

“Take it easy.” He laughed. “I haven’t danced in a long time.”

“Well, brush up,” she said. “Because I’ll be waiting.” Then she smiled. “I don’t mean discotheque stuff. But maybe a quiet little waltz. At least it’s something to shoot for.”

He nodded and managed a smile. Just that day he had a long talk with Dr. Peterson, who also was concerned over the lack of improvement of her leg. Dr. Peterson suggested they send
for one of the top orthopedic surgeons in London for consultation.

A few days later Mike met with Dr. Peterson and Sir Arthur Rylander, the English surgeon. After Sir Arthur studied the X rays, it was his opinion that the bone had healed improperly. The only chance for a cure was to rebreak it and reset it.

When Mike put it to January, she didn’t hesitate. “Let’s break it. I’ve always thought wearing a cast in the Alps was rather chic. Didn’t you do a picture like that, where the heroine sat in après-ski clothes and looked beautiful?”

“I’ve done three of them.” Mike laughed. “And all my heroines always recovered. Remember that.”

The operation was performed in a hospital in Zurich. Two weeks later she was back at the Clinique of Miracles. Those who were able signed her cast, and her unbelievable spunk sent Mike Wayne back to the States with fresh determination. Anyone with her guts deserved to have a kingdom waiting on her return. Nothing could stop him now.

He went to the Coast, cleared out his office at Century pictures, and went to the races at Santa Anita. He bet a long shot. It came in and he won five thousand dollars. He wasn’t really surprised, because he knew his luck had changed. And that night he read a script from a new author, and knew he had found his play. He decided to back it himself. He went to New York, put extra phones in his suite at the Plaza, took a lavish office in the Getty building, and called a press conference. Michael Wayne was back on Broadway!