The Love Machine (45 page)

For the first time Ethel understood the temporary insanity of blind fury that caused murder. She wanted to leap at Dan’s throat. But this was no time for her to come on tough—not as long as Christie was carrying the ball. She clutched the arm of the sofa until her knuckles went white. And dredging her resources for a final gust of control, she managed a voice as cautious as his own: “You seem to forget, dear Danton, that Amanda had left Chris for Ike Ryan. She died as Mrs. Ike Ryan, not as Christie’s girl.”

Dan’s tone was conciliatory. “Ah, but the greatest lovers of all are the lovers who lose and go on loving. To me Christie Lane is that kind of a man.”

Christie jumped up. “What is this bullshit? Is that your idea of a great lover? To me it sounds like a number-one shmuck! A shmuck who sits around weeping for a broad that walked out on him! Oh no, Danny boy, I’m Christie Lane. I’m a big one, Buster! I came up the hard way—I’ve gotten real kicks in the gut. One little blond broad is no earth-shattering event in
my
life.” He walked over to Ethel and took her hand. “Take a good look, Mr. Miller—this is a real broad. A great broad. Sure, Ethel and I started out as just two people on the town together. But after a few dates I forgot I ever knew Amanda.”

Dan’s smile was sad. “I reread the
Life
story just the other day, and it really got me. Especially when you said Amanda was the only girl you ever thought about marrying. The girl you
wanted to have a child with.” He sighed. “But it’s really too bad, the Amanda thing was going to make a great part of your special.”

“What has Amanda got to do with my special?” Christie asked.

Dan’s voice was low and intense: “We were going to show blowups of the pictures you took together for
Life
. Get a clip of Amanda doing the commercial—and use the tape of that great moment when you sang ‘Mandy’ to her. Remember—when we cut to the wings and took a close-up of her face listening to you?” Dan shook his head sadly. “Can you see it? There wouldn’t be a dry eye in the audience. Every newspaper in the country would write about it—the special with the love story of the century. Amanda—the only girl in Christie’s life. And when she married someone else, he bore her no ill will. But when she died, a little bit of him died with her. The public will lap it up. That explains the models, the debutante—because after Amanda, there can’t be any
one
girl in Christie Lane’s life. Then, as you sing, the announcer’s voice will say, ‘Women love to listen to Christie sing—but Christie will always sing his love songs to a girl who can never hear them.’ Then we show you on the town, proving that you’re trying to forget. Christie, the public adores a lover; they’ll dismiss the fact that she married Ike Ryan. They were only married for a short time. Tell me, how many girls do you recall being with Sinatra? There’ve been plenty—but the fans think he still sings only to Ava Gardner. The lyrics take on a stronger meaning—the world loves a lover, especially if he’s lost someone. We can say that Ethel Evans is your most constant companion, that she cared for Amanda too—they were friends and worked on the show together, she understands the loss you’ve gone through. Christie, can’t you see it?”

Christie’s expression was bland. “You should be a movie writer, Dan.” Then his voice went hard. “What kind of shit-kicking show do you expect me to do? Is
this
the Christie Lane Happening? The story of a man who came up the hard way, who was still just a second-rater when he hit his fortieth birthday? Everyone wrote him off—and two years later he made it big!
There’s
your story—the heart of it—right there! That’s the Christie Lane
Happening
. Get
it? My Happening—about
me!
If the day ever comes when I need to rattle a dead girl’s bones to have a show, then I’ll sell shit! But right now I’m selling my talent, my life. And neither you nor Mr. Robin Stone is going to dictate to me what I am. I am me! Get it?
Me!
And I’m marrying the only broad I care about—Ethel Evans.”

Dan walked to the door. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I just took the
Life
story too seriously—all that talk about how much you wanted a baby with Amanda, so it would look like her, be like her… .”

“Bullshit!” Christie yelled. “You bet your ass I want a kid. I want a son. I want to give him everything I didn’t have. And Ethel and I will have one hell of a kid together!”

Dan bowed slightly. “May I wish you both happiness. I think it’s wonderful. Christie, after listening to you, I’ve changed my mind. You and Ethel—well, one might almost say it’s a marriage made in heaven.” Then he left the room.

Christie stared after the closed door for a moment. Then he turned and started toward the bedroom. Without glancing at Ethel, he said, “Call Lou Goldberg. Tell him to come to town. Call Kenny and Eddie. Tell them to find out about blood tests and all that jazz. Call the mayor. See if we can get him to marry us.” He disappeared into the bedroom.

Ethel sat on the couch. She couldn’t believe it. He really meant it! She was going to be
Mrs
. Christie Lane. She looked up as Christie came from the bedroom, carrying his topcoat.

“Well, what are you sitting there for?” he asked. “Don’t you want to get married?” Then as she nodded mutely, he snapped his fingers. “Well, move it—start making the arrangements.”

She leaped from the couch and with one convulsive dash landed in his arms. “Oh, Christie.” Her tears were genuine. “You really mean it?”

He seemed embarrassed as he gently broke her embrace. “Sure, sure. Now make the calls, doll.” He started for the door.

“But where are you going?”

He paused. Then with a weak smile he said, “I’m gonna buy us wedding rings.”

When Christie left the Astor he walked uptown. He reached Forty-seventh Street, and headed toward the block known as jewelers’
row. Several guys he knew had booths—the Edelmans always gave him good bargains when he sprung for gold cuff links for the writers and crew at Christmas. He saw them through the window as he passed their store. He waved and wondered why he hadn’t stopped. But he continued to walk east. He found himself heading toward Fifth Avenue. His pace quickened as he slowly became aware of his subconscious destination. He broke into a run. By the time he reached Fiftieth Street he was short of breath. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked up the stone steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

Christie had been born a Catholic. He accepted this fact the way a person accepts the color of his skin. He didn’t practice the religion, he couldn’t even remember his catechism though he had known it by heart when he took his first communion. But with his parents’ divorce his formal religious training had come to an abrupt end. His mother had remarried—the guy was a Baptist and his half brother was raised as a Baptist. Or was it Methodist? He hadn’t gotten along with his stepfather and had left home at fourteen. Now, as he stood in the soft darkness of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, all the forgotten rituals slowly came back from his memory. Unconsciously he dipped his fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. He walked past tiers and tiers of burning candles and gazed at the Stations of the Cross. He saw a woman enter one of the small confessionals. Suddenly he had an overwhelming urge to make a confession. He approached a confessional nervously. Then he stopped. It had been so long. The last time he had gone was when he was fourteen, after the first time he got laid. He had hoped that the act of confession might prevent him from getting the clap. He had been so eager to get into the girl, he hadn’t realized what a beast she was until it was over. But what could you expect in a doorway for fifty cents? A woman came out of a confessional and crossed to a pew. He watched her kneel and take out her rosary. Her eyes closed, her lips moved as she fingered each bead. All he had to do was go in, kneel: “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He walked into the confessional, knelt and mumbled, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Yes, my son?”

Dimly he saw the shadowy outline of the priest behind the screen.

“I have committed many mortal sins,” Christie began. “I have lived with a woman who is not my wife. I have taken the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Do you intend to make amends?”

“Yes, Father. I am going to marry this woman and have a child and I will—” He stopped. He wanted to say, “I will love and cherish her,” but the words stuck in his throat. He jumped up and rushed out of the confessional. He walked to the front of the church. He knew there must be a side exit somewhere. His gaze wandered along the wall where the rows and rows of lighted candles wavered in the dim light. Several people were kneeling before the Virgin Mary. He wandered down the side of the church toward the back. Under each statue was a blaze of lighted candles. It looked like a sea of light—each flame representing a personal prayer. Suddenly he passed an altar that was dark. It took him a moment to realize that only one solitary flame flickered—one candle among two trays of unlit candles. It glowed, defiant and proud in its pathetic loneliness. It didn’t seem fair—the only saint in the whole place who wasn’t doing any business. He looked at the plaque. St. Andrew.

He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then he slipped to his knees. The stone steps were hard. He put his head in his hands, then he looked up. “Okay, Andy, old pal, I’m gonna give you my business. From the look of things you got nothing much to do but listen to me. This one lone candle you’ve got going for you is almost burned out, so you probably already attended to it.” He stood up. Was he nutty or something? Talking like it was real, talking to plaster… . Besides, there were no saints. They were just radical nuts who got killed for a cause. And what did it all matter in the end? They were dust and gone, and people were still sinning and fighting and dying. Like Amanda. Amanda. … He stopped and the tears came to his eyes. He put his face in his hands and sobbed quietly. “Oh, Mandy,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean a thing I said in that room. Oh, dear God, if there is a heaven and You are listening, tell her I didn’t mean it. Mandy, can you hear me, doll? I love you. I never loved
no one else. I never will. And it doesn’t matter that you didn’t love me. I loved you and that’s all that counts. Maybe that’s why I’m marrying Ethel. I loved you and you went off with someone and it hurt. I guess I kind of remembered it today and suddenly I thought—why should I hurt Ethel? I don’t love her, but she loves me. So why not make her happy? So you see, doll, indirectly, you’re the reason Ethel is gonna be happy. And when I have my kid, then I’ll be happy. Why is it like this, Mandy? Why does Ethel love me and I loved you, and oh shit—excuse me doll—but why can’t people love together? But I’m gonna give my kid everything… . And look, Mandy, maybe when I walk outa here I’ll think I’m crazy, but right now, this very second, I believe you can hear me. And I believe this St. Andrew is with you, and maybe there is something after we kick off. I can’t start being a knee bender and going to Mass, but I’ll tell you this—I’ll raise my kid as a Catholic, and I’ll never say a wrong word in front of him. And, doll, I’ll never stop loving you. I think you know it, don’t you, Mandy? You’re not down in the earth in a box. You’re up there somewhere—and you’re happy. I can feel it. Jesus—I
can
feel it!” He paused and for a moment her lovely face seemed so close and she was smiling. He smiled too.

“Okay, doll, take care of yourself up there. And who knows? If there
is
a second time around, maybe we’ll make it together.” He shut his eyes. “St. Andrew, help me be a good father. And give me a good healthy son.” He stood up, then suddenly he knelt again. “And by the way, thank the Head Man up there for all the luck He’s thrown my way. And pray for my intentions.”

He stood up and dropped a quarter in the box, took a taper and lit a candle. Now two candles flickered together. But oddly enough the one extra light seemed to make the tiers of gray unlit candles more prominent. He gazed at the statue of St. Andrew. “I know how you feel—like I did when I played to empty nightclubs with maybe two tables taken. I used to look at those white cloths on all the empty tables and go snow-blind.” He reached into his pocket and took out a dollar, jammed it into the box and lit four more candles. It still looked meager compared to the other saints. Christie shrugged. “What the hell, I’m not gonna be chintzy.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill and stuffed it
in the box. Then he studiously lit every candle. He stood back and proudly surveyed the effect. “Andy, old boy—when them priests come around to check the house tonight, are they gonna be surprised—you’re gonna have the biggest Nielsen of them all!” Then he walked back to the wholesale district and bought two gold wedding bands.

The wedding received enormous press and television coverage. Even the events leading up to the nuptials made news. Lou Goldberg took over the second floor of Danny’s and threw a tremendous “bachelor” party for Christie. Every male star who was in New York attended. The columnists printed some of the jokes told at the dinner. Television comics pulled good-natured gags about it. But there was not one joke pulled about Ethel. They all sensed that the slightest stab could blow the lid off the pressure cooker, which held Ethel’s past.

But Ethel had several bad moments. The first hurdle was the arrival of her mother and father a week before the wedding. Christie sprung for a double room at the Astor. Ethel didn’t argue on the “room” bit. Her parents had never been to a hotel, they probably wouldn’t know what to do with a suite anyway. As it was, she had to warn her mother
not
to make the beds. She had been stunned when she met them at Penn Station. (Of course they wouldn’t fly! The idea of New York was traumatic enough!) But she couldn’t believe that these two tiny people were her folks. Had they shrunk?