"Want to play some Monopoly or somethin'?"
Regan shook her head and then stared at her mother with unfocused eyes that seemed to be retracted into infinite remoteness. "I'm feeling sleepy," Regan said in a voice that belonged to the eyes. Then, turning, she climbed up the stairs to her bedroom.
Must be the Librium, Chris reflected as she watched her. Then at last she sighed and went into the kitchen. She poured some coffee and sat down at the breakfast-nook table with Sharon.
"How'd it go?"
"Oh, Christ!"
Chris fluttered the prescription slip mto the table. "Better call and get that filled," she said, and then explained what the doctor had told her. "If I'm busy or out, keep a real good eye on her, would you, Shar? He---" Dawning. Sudden. "That reminds me."
She got up from the table and went up to Regan's bedroom, found her under the covers and apparently asleep.
Chris moved to the window and tightened the latch. She staffed below. The window, facing out from the side of the house, directly overlooked the precipitous public staircase that plunged to M Street far below.
Boy, I'd better call a locksmith right away.
Chris returned to the kitchen and added the chore to the list from which Sharon sat working, gave Willie the dinner menu, and returned a call from her agent.
"What about the script?" he wanted to know.
"Yeah, it's great, Ed; let's do it," she told him. "When's it go?"
"Well, your segment's in July, so you'll have to start preparing right away."
"You mean now?"
"I mean now. This isn't acting, Chris. You're involved in a lot of the preproduction. You've got to work with the set designer, the costume designer, the makeup artist, the producer. And you'll have to pick a cameraman and a cutter and block out your shots. C'mon, Chris, you know the drill."
"Oh, shit."
"You've got a problem?"
"Yeah, I do; I've got a problem."
"What's the problem?"
"Well, Regan's pretty sick."
"Oh, I'm Sony. What's wrong?"
"They don't know yet. I'm waiting for some tests. Listen, Ed, I can't leave her."
"So who says to leave her?"
"No, you don't understand, Ed. I need to be at home with her. She needs my attention. Look, I just can't explain it, Ed, it's too complicated, so why don't we just hold off for a while?"
"We can't. They want to try for the Music Hall over Christmas, Chris, and I think that they're pushing it now."
"Oh, for chrissakes, Ed, they can wait two weeks. Now come on!"
"Look, you've bugged me that you want to direct and now all of a---"
"Right, Ed, I know," she interrupted. "Look, I want it; I really want it bad, but you'll just have to tell 'em that I need some more time!"
"And if I do, we're going to blow it. Now that's my opinion. Look, they don't want you anyway, that's not news. They're just doing this for Moore, and I think if they go back to him now and say she isn't too sure she wants to do it yet, he'll have an out. Now come on, Chris, talk sense.
Look, You do what you want. I don't care. There's no money in this thing unless it hits. But if you want it, I'm telling you: I ask for a delay and I think we're going to blow it.
Now then, what should I tell them?" "Ahh,
boy," sighed Chris.
"It's not easy. I know."
"No, it isn't. Well, listen..."
She thought. Then shook her head. "Ed, they'll just have to wait," she said wearily.
"Your decision."
"Okay, Ed. Let me know."
"I will. I'll be calling. Take it easy."
"You too, Ed. Good-bye."
She hang up the phone in a state of depression and lit up a cigarette. "I talked to Howard, by the way, did I tell you?" she said to Sharon.
