Burning Time

Jason looked at her intently. She didn’t put the script down.

“It’s not getting to me, Jason. I’m not going to fall apart because of a few weird letters. I’m not built that way.”

Jason got up and left the room.

“That’s right,” she muttered. “Walk away.”

He came back in a minute and handed her a drink.

“What’s in this?” she said suspiciously.

“Nice things, what do you think?” Jason looked hurt.

“I think you’re trying to scare me so I won’t be in any more films,” she said, getting back to his view of the letters that were now yet another issue between them.

“Why would I want to scare you? That doesn’t make any sense, Emma. Don’t you see it’s transference? You’re feeling guilty about the whole movie thing: the way you went about it, not telling me the whole story about what you were doing in it. And now you’re feeling guilty because you’re a big success.”

She didn’t take the drink he made for her, so he took a sip of it himself.

“My feelings about your career and these letters you’re getting are two separate things. I’m dealing with them in two different ways. Trust me on this. I’m the doctor,” Jason said.

“That’s a lie. You went crazy and slept in the other room,” she said.

“Look, I said I was sorry about that. You caught me by surprise. I had no idea you could hurt me that way.” He drank the rest of the drink and set the glass down.

“And now you’re writing me letters,” she said, angrily. “I know it’s you, Jason.”

“Why would I do that, Emma?” Jason looked shocked.

“Because if I got the part in Wind on the Water, I’d make a lot of money and be more famous than you. I don’t think you could take that.”

Jason shook his head, appalled. “That’s a pretty big indictment. Is that what you really think—that I’m petty and childish, that I would hurt you because you hurt me?”

Emma looked away.

“Is that what you really think?”

She couldn’t answer the question.

“Look, Emma, I trusted you; I loved you. I still love you. If you get the part, then you’ll have to decide if you want to take it. It’s up to you, but you have to face the fact that there’s more to being a film star than what I think about it. It’s a public thing. There are crazy people out there who don’t think it’s a character on the screen. They think it’s you.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She looked back at the script.

“You have to be careful and think about what you’re doing.”

She was thinking about what she was doing, and she still thought it had to be him, writing those letters. No one else knew those things about her. She watched him go into the kitchen for another drink.

Emma was still annoyed by the way the conversation ended as she cabbed down to the same place the first audition had been: 1351 Avenue of the Americas, thirty-third floor. Then she tried not to think about it as she watched the numbers on the elevator as it went up. She tried to concentrate on the job.

The first audition had gone terribly. She couldn’t believe she was called back. Emma took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She had auditioned for the soaps a number of times, but was never cast. Now she didn’t know if she was glad or sorry not to have had the experience of being on one.

What happens when a good woman goes wrong? Breaks a man’s heart like a wheel. Shatters everything he thought was good in the world. Knife in the water. Fire in the sand.

What did it mean? What did those crazy letters mean? It didn’t make any sense. Knife in the Water was a Roman Polanski film. His first hit, if her memory served. Twelfth floor. Was this supposed to be some kind of a threat because of what happened to Roman Polanski?

Wind on the Water also had a bad guy and a body. Was there a connection? It occurred to her that the first letter had come almost immediately after her audition for Wind. Or was it before? She couldn’t remember anymore. Until then, being in films seemed like a path opening up, a way made clear. It was something she could give to herself, something she could do on her way to being old.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that Jason was overcommitted; he was overstimulated by all the sorrows and conflicts of his patients. And slowly Emma had come to understand that it wasn’t enough for her to hang around the edge of his life, waiting for the rare moments when he could tolerate any more demands coming at him. Even if he didn’t want to, she knew that was how he experienced her love, her wish for more of him, for a family. And she knew that it didn’t work to ask for more than a person could joyfully give. Tears flooded into her eyes whenever she thought of growing old without ever having a child.

Eighteenth floor. She didn’t think it was some crazy out there writing letters about her going bad. There were things in those letters, things that happened to her, fears she had, that only Jason knew. Jason wanted to hypnotize her to see if he could dredge up something she had repressed, some person, some event from her past that could explain the letters. She didn’t like it when he said, “Trust me on this. I’m a doctor. My training has taught me to see the obsession, the threat behind the words.”

Okay, okay, forget the letters. This was serious. The movie was what she should be thinking about. Katie. What would Katie think, how would she move? What does she want?

It was difficult without the whole script. How could she do a movie if she didn’t have a script? Emma tried to concentrate on what she knew about the story. Not a lot. Katie’s been poor all her life. She’s the girlfriend of a rich Virginia lawyer who’s putting her through law school.

Katie wants to be a lawyer with all her heart. Well, Emma could relate to that. But then she has a brief fling with a gas station attendant who may or may not be a psychopathic killer. The lawyer she sleeps with likes kinky sex. These two things were harder. If the girl has a character disorder, the fact that her professor in Jurisprudence is a really nice guy—the first decent man she’s ever met—will not matter a lot.

Bill North was the gas station attendant. What a sleaze. Why on earth would a heroine do such stupid things? Emma’s acting teachers always said she had to find the reasons, even when they weren’t in the text. The girl liked to live dangerously? Jesus, was that a reason? Emma didn’t like to live dangerously. She didn’t even want to take a pill to make her feel better. Her thoughts drifted back to Jason. Jason knew how to manipulate the mind. How far would he go to stop her from acting?

Emma’s heart beat faster past the twentieth floor. She breathed in for four counts, breathed out for eight. Oh, shit, this was awful. Ronnie had called her twice to tell her to wear a tight wrap blouse and a short skirt. The tighter the blouse, the more she sweat. She could feel the armpits sticking to her already. Good thing she wore a dark print that didn’t show the stains when wet.

Fire in the sand, the last letter said. What the hell did that mean? The elevator door opened. Emma advanced to the reception desk.

“Emma Chapman,” Emma said, licking her lips nervously.

“Oh, yes, they’re waiting for you. Go right in.”

Blond hair tied in a knot. Rainbow ribbons. Feathers, yellow green red black. Forget it. Forget the letters. Think Katie.

Emma opened the door and looked in. Three men and a tough-looking woman were in deep conversation around the conference table. Jack, the rude producer, who ate a corned beef sandwich during her first audition and belched loudly at the end of it. Albert, the director who had asked her no questions about herself and given her no guidelines about playing the scene, but carefully described the way he wanted her legs crossed. Elinor Zing, the casting director with her stacks of glossies (Emma’s included) and legal pads covered with spidery notes. Yes, no, maybe so.

“Yes, yes, come in. We like you, don’t be afraid,” said Elinor Zing.

Okay. Emma stepped forward. Why on earth would anyone subject herself to this? Her heart thudded as three people graded her walk.

It was then that she noticed there was someone new in the room. Oh, God. He was so