Yeah, he's starting to blow, thought Chris and quickly changed the subject: she explained about the script and her chance to direct.
'Oh, good,' Dennings muttered.
'It scares me.'
'Oh, twaddle. My baby, the difficult thing about directing is making it seem as if the damned thing were difficult. I hadn't a clue my first time out, but here I am, you see. It's child's play.'
'Burke, to be honest with you, now that they've offered me my chance, I'm really not sure I could direct my grandmother across the street. I mean, all of that technical stuff.'
'Come along; leave all that to the editor, the cameraman and the script girl, darling. Get good ones and they’ll see you through. What's important is handling the cast, and, you'd be marvelous, just marvelous at that. You could not only tell them how to move and read a line, my baby, you could show them. Just remember Paul Newman and Rachel, Rachel and don't be so hysterical.'
She still looked doubtful. 'Well, about this technical stuff,' she worried. Drunk or sober, Dennings was the best director in the business. She wanted his advice.
'For instance,' he asked her.
For almost an hour she probed to the barricades of minutiae. The data were easily found in tests, but reading tended to fray her patience. Instead; she read people. Naturally inquisitive, she juiced them; wrung them out. But books were unwringable. Books were glib. They said 'therefore' and 'clearly' when it wasn't clear at all, and their circumlocutions could never be challenged. They could never be stopped for a shrewdly disarming, 'Hold it, I'm dumb. Could I have that again?'
They could never be pinned; made to wriggle; dissected. Books were like Karl.
'Darling, all you really need is a brilliant cutter,' the director cackled, rounding it off. 'I mean someone who really knows his doors.'
He'd grown charming and bubbly, and seemed to have passed the threatened danger pointy.
'Beg pardon, madam. You wish something?'
Karl stood attentively at the door to the study.
'Oh, hullo, Thorndike,' Dennings giggled. 'Or is it Heinrich? I can't keep it straight.'
'It is Karl.'
'Yes, of course it is. Damn. I'd forgotten. Tell me, Karl, was it public relations you told me you did for the Gestapo, or was it community relations? I believe there's a difference.'
Karl spoke politely. 'Neither one, sir. I am Swiss.'
'Oh, yes, of course.' The director guffawed. 'And you never went bowling with Goebbels, I suppose.'
Karl, impervious, turned to Chris.
'And never went flying with Rudolph Hess!'
'Madam wishes?'
'Oh, l don't know. Burke, you want coffee?'
'Fuck it!'
The director stood up abruptly and strode belligerently from the room and the house.
Chris shook her head, and then turned to Karl. 'Unplug the phones,' she ordered expressionlessly.
'Yes, madam. Anything else?'
'Oh, maybe some Sanka. Where's Rags?'
'Down in playroom. I call her?'
'Yeah, it's bedtime. Oh, no, wait a second, Karl. Never mind. I'd better go see the bird. Just get me the Sanka, please.'
'Yes, madam.'
'And for the umpty-eighth time, I apologize for Burke.'
'I pay no attention.'
'I know. That's what bugs him.'
Chris walked to the entry hall of the house, pulled open the door to the basement staircase and started downstairs.
'Hi ya, stinky, whatchya doin' down there? Got the bird?'
'Oh, yes, come see! Come on down, it's all finished!'
The playroom was paneled and brightly decorated. Easels. Paintings. Phonograph. Tables for games and a table for sculpting. Red and white bunting left over from a party for the previous tenant's teenaged son.
'Hey, that's great!' exclaimed Chris as her daughter handed her the figure. It was not quite dry and looked something like a 'worry bird,' painted orange, except for the beak, which was laterally striped in green and white. A tuft of feathers was glued to the head.
'Do you like it?' asked Regan.
'Oh, honey, I do, I really. do. Got a name for it?'
