Sellevision (14 page)

As Leigh headed for the checkout counter, a copy of
Women Who Love Selfish Bastards
tucked under her arm, title facing inward, she thought she saw Max reading a book in the Witchcraft & Occult section. Looking closer, she saw that it was, in fact, Max.

Feeling slightly guilty that it had been partly due to his misfortune that she was now on daytime as opposed to overnight (of course, the fact that she was romantically involved with the head of broadcast production probably didn’t hurt things), along with the fact that she had always really liked Max, she decided to walk over and say hello.

Spells and Incantations for 2000 and Beyond
nearly flew out of Max’s hands when Leigh tapped him on the shoulder.

“Oh, Max, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, I just saw you and thought I’d say hello.”

Tapping the book against his chest and closing his eyes for a second, Max then smiled warmly, genuinely pleased to see her. “I guess I, I just wasn’t expecting to be touched, that’s all.” Then he added, “But hey, it
really
is great to see you. How have you been? How’s Sellevision?”

Leigh faked a smile. “Everything’s been okay, you know, same-old, same-old.”

“Yeah? Well I’m glad to hear stuff’s going well for you.”

“Max, I feel awful about what happened to you. I really think Howard totally overreacted.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s probably going to turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, my agent is talking with the Discovery Channel and Lifetime, plus there’s some anchor spot open at KRON in San Francisco, so . . .”

“That’s great, Max, really great. How exciting.”

“Yeah, exciting. You know, change and everything. Change is good.”

Noticing the title of the book in his hands, Leigh said, “I didn’t know you were interested in . . . the occult.”

Fumbling to put the book back on the shelf, Max said “Uh, well, I’m not actually. I was just, you know, sort of . . .” He watched as the Italian in bicycle shorts he had been tailing for the past twenty minutes left the aisle and began heading toward the front exit. “ . . . just looking around. For a gift. Anyway, what’s that book you’ve got tucked under your arm?”

Immediately realizing it had been a mistake not to ditch the book before approaching, Leigh sheepishly held up the title.

Max laughed. “I’ve read that.”

Leigh’s eyes widened and she smiled. “You read
this?
”

“Uh-huh. Last year.” Confessing, Max told Leigh, “I got involved with my chiropractor who was divorced from his wife. And then not really divorced, but separated. And then not really separated, but expecting their third child.”

“Oh, Max, how awful. I’m sorry.”

He brushed the memory away with his hand. “Nah, don’t be, I’m over it. Thanks to this,” he added, tapping Leigh’s book.

Not wanting to go into the details of her own relationship, Leigh decided on a small fib: “Yeah, my sister is involved with something really similar, and it’s just killing me to see all the pain she’s in.”

Max gave Leigh a knowing look. “Sure, I understand. I hope it helps . . . your sister.”

“Anyway, I guess I should get running, I have to go over to Mr. Spotless and pick up my dry cleaning.”

“Yeah, I should get moving along too,” Max agreed.

As Max headed for the exit and Leigh for the checkout, he stopped and turned. “You know, it’d be really great to stay in touch. I mean, I don’t know about you, but these days my best friend is the television.”

Leigh thought of Valerie Bertinelli, of sobbing into the cushions on her sofa, and said, “I would really love that, Max.”

They exchanged phone numbers and said good-bye, promising to get together for lunch sometime soon.

When Max arrived home to his condominium, he saw that the red light was blinking on his answering machine. Tossing his keys and wallet in a bowl on the kitchen counter, Max pressed play.

It was a wrong number, a bass player looking for some guitarist named Ned.

nine

“Y
ou didn’t think I was crazy? You didn’t think it was too much?” Eliot asked Bebe over dinner on date number two.

“I didn’t say I didn’t think you were crazy, I just said that you were incredibly romantic.”

Bebe was wearing the sheer black dress she’d purchased at Henri Bendel. Around her neck was an eighteen-karat gold Stampato necklace that she had ordered during Trish Mission’s live show from London.

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that you made a really big impression on me,” Eliot said, breaking off a piece of bread from the small loaf on his bread plate and dipping into the little bowl of olive oil in the center of the table.

“You made a big impression on me too, Eliot,” Bebe said. She took a sip of wine. “I just really feel like you’re so easy to be with, so funny, and, I don’t know . . .” She didn’t finish the thought.

“I was thinking,” Eliot began, “that maybe we should do something
different
for our third date.” Then, immediately correcting himself, he added, “I mean, assuming you would want to go on a third date with me.”

Bebe smiled. She reached across the table and touched Eliot’s hand. “I would love to go on a third date with you. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I was thinking we’ve done Italian both nights we’ve gotten together, so maybe we could do French.”

Just as Bebe was about to tell Eliot that she loved French food, he added, “I mean, in France.”

Bebe looked at him, unsure of what he was saying.

“No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting we go on vacation or anything, I was just thinking that we could take the Concorde to Paris—it’s only three hours—and have dinner at my favorite restaurant on the Left Bank, and then I could have you back home just after midnight.” He looked down at his plate, feeling like an idiot for suggesting such an extravagant third date.

Bebe burst out laughing. She wadded up the crust of bread on her plate and threw it across the table at Eliot’s chest. “You are certifiably crazy. I mean it:
crazy
.”

Eliot grinned, plucked the bread bullet off his lap and popped it into his mouth. “Is that a yes?”

“I’m probably the most gullible woman on the face of the earth but I’ve never been known for my common sense.”

“So it’s a yes?”

“Oui.” Then she added, “You know, I thought you were going to say something like we should go to the aquarium or, I don’t know, to a monster truck rally.”

“The monster truck rally was sold out,” Eliot said, smiling.

B

ecause of her Navaho Indian heritage (no matter how distant or slight), Adele Oswald Crawley had already hosted two American Indian theme shows. Both had been raging successes. Although operating full steam ahead, Sellevision’s search for a recognizably ethnic show host had thus far produced no candidates. As such, any minority bloodlines among the hosts were being fully exploited.

Although raised all her life as an Irish Catholic, Adele had fully embraced whatever Navaho blood she may have had. Her medium-length red, wavy hair was now a much darker reddishbrown. And she blew it straight before each show, parting it in the middle, as opposed to sweeping it back, like before. Even her freckles were less obvious, as she’d begun wearing more makeup, and dramatically highlighting her cheekbones.

On camera, Adele answered a viewer’s question, “I actually don’t know what my given Navaho Indian name is, but if you’d write this question down and send me a letter, I’d be more than happy to ask around my family and get back to you with the answer. Just remember to please include a SASE.” Adele smiled.

Adele thanked the caller and then immediately took another call. As of that night, Dream Catcher Jewelry was going to become a permanent show on Sellevision. Adele had hit a nerve with America’s Indian community, and they were embracing her by the thousands.

“My very own great-great-grandmother may have crafted a belt buckle just like this with her very own hands. Think of the
history
and
pride
involved in making such a piece. I really believe that it’s so important to respect and honor the
original
Americans, because we are all connected, and by claiming our past, we claim our
selves
. Once more, this is item number J-7330, it’s sixty-eight dollars and thirty-four cents, and it’s the Running Wolf simulated turquoise cabochon belt buckle.”

A
SOLD OUT
graphic appeared on screen.

“Another great show, Adele—congrats,” the assistant producer said. “And those beaded moccasins are darling,” she added, pointing to Adele’s feet.

“Thanks, Amanda. I added the beads myself. I’m just really getting into my whole heritage thing, it’s like
Roots
or something for me.”

“I wish I had some Indian blood in me, but no such luck—Wisconsin bred through-and-through.”

Adele waved good-bye to the various cameramen, stylists, and backstage crew. Before leaving the set and heading to her office, Adele paused to thank a lighting technician.

“I just wanted to let you know that I really appreciate what you’ve done for me in terms of lighting. The overhead thing for my cheekbones is great.”

He smiled at her. “Sure, Adele, no problem. It’s always fun to do something different.”

She walked through a set of double doors that led from the soundstage to the hallway where all hosts’ offices were located, along with the lounge.

“Hi, Trish, what’s up?” Trish was checking Leigh’s hours on the hosts’ schedule.

“Oh, nothing.” She spun around.

“Oh my God, is that the ring? I haven’t even seen it yet, let me have a look,” Adele said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

Trish automatically extended her hand for Adele to admire the ring.

“It’s incredible. Have you set a date yet?” Adele asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. No, not really.” Then an image of brown leaves scattered on the ground, dried grass, and bulky, unflattering sweatshirts entered her head. “Maybe the fall.”

Adele smiled. “Oh, the fall is my favorite time of the year.” She thought of Thanksgiving and maize. “Well, I better get back to my office, I have tons of research I need to get started on.”

After Adele walked away, Trish looked back at the schedule, silently tallying the hours that each host had on-air.

Adele sat down at her desk and did an Internet search. Keywords: Unusual American Indian Artifacts.

P

eggy Jean kept a chart on her refrigerator door, a chart with the names of her three boys, the days of the week, and the numbers one through ten. It was their Behavior Chart, an easy way for her to keep a motherly eye on her children. At the end of the week, she reviewed the chart with the boys and they talked about any dips. As a concerned parent, Peggy Jean kept a close watch on her boys’ emotional well-being. It seemed so many children these days were ignored, became violent, brought guns to school, and performed mass executions. Not to mention drugs and premarital sex. And each time the parents of these deviant children were interviewed on television, they said the same thing over and over: “I had no idea.” Peggy Jean was determined not to lose touch with her children.

So on Thursday evening, the evening she had agreed to take them to a movie, she saw on the chart that each boy had exhibited an exceptionally good level of behavior all week long. Nines across the board. Behavior deserving of a treat.

“Tonight at the movies,” she told them as they were sitting on the living room sofa, all three in a row, “you may each have a special treat.” They looked at her, and she was struck by how beautiful they were, how precious they looked in their overalls, six sweet little eyes so pure and vulnerable. “Any treat you want, popcorn or a chocolate bar or a diet soda, anything!” she said, beaming. “And do you know why?” she asked them. “Do you know
why
you get an extra-special treat?”

They shook their heads, having no idea whatsoever.

“I’ll show you why,” she said, and walked into the kitchen to take the chart down from the refrigerator. She carried this, along with her second glass of cherry cordial (which, she thought, tasted exactly like expectorant) back into the living room. She displayed the chart for them to see. “Not since April have you boys had such an exceptional chart! This one goes into the family album,” she said almost tearfully, hugging the chart to her breast.

“Can we see
High School Slaughterhouse 2?
” asked her oldest boy, Ricky.

The dreamy expression left Peggy Jean’s face and was replaced by one of alarm. She set the cherry cordial down on a daisy coaster atop the mirrored coffee table and swallowed. “Most certainly
not
,” she said. “We will see nothing of the sort.” Then, resting the chart on top of a copy of
Modern Woman
magazine, she announced, “We are going to the seven
P.M
. showing of
Gone With the Wind
. It was one of my favorite pictures as a young girl.”

The boys looked at the floor. The middle boy, who seldom spoke, asked, “Can we just stay home instead?”