Regan looked blank for a moment; then turned around to Sharon and grinned, her mouth full of braces and shy rebuke. "You told." Then, "It was a surprise," she snickered to her mother.

"You mean...?"

"With the long funny nose, like you wanted!"

"Oh, Rags, that's sweet. Can I see it?"

"No, I still have to paint it. When's dinner, Mom?"

"Hungry?"

"I'm starving."

"Gee, it s not even five. When was lunch?" Chris asked Sharon.

"Oh, twelvish," Sharon answered. "When

are Willie and Karl coming back?" She had

given their the afternoon off.

"I think seven," said Sharon.

"Mom, can't we go to the Hot Shoppe?" Regan pleaded. "Could we?" Chris lifted her daughter's hand; smiled fondly; kissed it. "Run upstairs and get dressed and we'll go."

"Oh, I love you!"

Regan ran from the room.

"Honey, wear the new dress!" Chris called out after her.

"How would you like to be eleven?" mused Shalom.

"That an offer?"

Chris reached for her mail, began listlessly sorting through scrawled adulation, "Would you take it?" asked Sharon.

"With the brain I've got now?" All the memories?"

"Sure."

"No deal."

"Think it over."

"I'm thinking." Chris picked up a script with a covering letter clipped neatly to the front of it.

Jarris. Her agent. "Thought I told them no scripts for a while." "You should read it," said Sharon.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes, I read it this morning."

"Pretty good?"

"It's great."

"And I get to play a nun who discovers she's a lesbian, right?"

"No, you get to play nothing."

"Shit, movies are better than ever. What the hell are you talking about, Sharon? What's the grin for?"

"They want you to direct," Sharon exhaled coyly with the smoke from her cigarette.

"What!"

"Read the Letter."

"My God, Shar, you're kidding!"

Chris pounced on the letter with eager eyes snapping up the words in hungry chunks: "...new script... a triptych... studio wants Sir Stephen Moore... accepting role provided---"

"I direct his segment!"

Chris flung up her arms, letting loose a hoarse, shrill cry of joy. Then with both her hands she cuddled the letter to her chest. "Oh, Steve, you angel, you remembered!" Filming in Africa.

Drunk. In camp chairs. Watching the blood-hush end of day. "Ah, the business is bunk! For the actor it's crap, Steve!" "Oh, I like it." "It's crap! Don't you know where it's at in this business? Directing!" "Ah, yes." "Then you've done something, something that's yours; I mean, something that lives!" "Well, then do it." "I've tried; they won't buy it." "Why not?" "Oh, come on, you know why: they don't think I can cut it." Warm remembrance. Warm smile. Dear Steve...

"Mom, I can't find the dress!" Regan called from the landing.

"In the closet!" Chris answered.

"I looked!"

"I'll be up in a second!" Chris called. For a moment she examined the script. Then gradually wilted. "So its probably crap."

"Oh, come on, now. I really think it's good." "Oh, you thought Psycho needed a laugh track."

Sharon laughed.

"Mommy?"

"I'm coming!"

Chris got up slowly. "Got a date, Shar?"

"Yes."