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.Prologue.

Hotel 1212: Day One

Dear Mouse,
Coming out of treatment is like coming out of a womb. It’s a whole, real world Out There, exciting, new, utterly untrustable. Not many of its people have the slightest interest in my sobriety. I have to learn how to live among them all over again.
I walked away from the treatment center. I’d sworn to myself I would. Nobody to pick me up. No limo. No photographers getting pictures of Matt Logan, Strongbow himself to the movie buffs, coming out of treatment with his face half-rebuilt.
Actually, the only people I could ask to pick me up would bring tequila—or vodka, if they can’t deal with the worm. I don’t want to go through all this again.
My watch said two o’clock: time enough to make it to your school for a last good-bye. Sure, I’m not supposed to; I almost have the restraining order memorized. I didn’t see why it ought to stop me. I had to talk with you one more time. I headed toward the subway.
Five minutes before school was over, I waited in the alley across the street. I knew which gate the first graders come out, so I wasn’t looking anywhere else. A bell rang inside the building, and a single finger tapped my shoulder. “You’re in contempt of court,” someone said.
I didn’t take my eyes off the boil of children pouring down the steps. I might miss you.
“We can’t bring Michaella out if you’re here,” he said.
I pulled my attention away from the schoolyard and turned. A three-piece suit stood there, maybe an inch taller than I am, with a carefree, moustache-framed smile, and absolutely nothing else remarkable about him. Beside him stood your mother like a perfect, petite mannequin, and almost as warm. Her eyes were huge, luminous blue, made up like an Egyptian dancer’s, in a face as pale as she could make it. Her hair was coifed close to her head, a shining black cap.
I activated what’s left of the Famous Grin. “Uh—Hi. I guess you’re wondering why I’m—”
He offered a friendly hand. “I’m your wife’s lawyer.”
“Mister Wyndham to you,” Nancy said. “To you, he doesn’t have a first name.”
I reminded myself to breathe, pitched my voice low and calm, tried not to stammer. “I only want to tell her—to say—”
“No.” Tiny, delicately boned and combat-ready, Nancy poised on high heels like a game hen defending its only chick. “You could have killed her. You stay away from my child.”
Anger came too easily, blocking my breath. I pushed words past it. “M-ickie’s my child, too.”
“Michaella,” Nancy said. “She’s Michaella, now. We want her to forget the name Mickie.”
The lawyer quieted her with a gesture. “Matt, if you didn’t understand the order—”
“I understood it. I only want to tell her—”
“You’re not to try to contact her. You are not to see her. You are to stay at least five hundred feet away from her. You can catch a glimpse of her from that traffic light down there, if you want. I’d say that’s about five hundred feet away.”
The light turned and a taxi’s brakes shrieked. Windows of your school were blank as windows are in direct sunlight.
“The room she’s in is on the other side of the building,” Wyndham, Esquire said. “It doesn’t have windows.” As I turned back, he smiled, the only reasonable voice in all this chaos.
“Hey.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re very lucky; you know that? If you weren’t Matt Logan, you’d be in jail right now. We decided not to push for that. A little girl needs to be proud of her Daddy, even if he’s out of her life. Let’s not make your wife file a complaint for contempt of court.”
I knew who was to blame, of course, and I couldn’t do anything about it there. “Okay, Nance. You win this round. Look, will you p-please at least tell her—”
“No messages. Sorry,” Wyndham said. “And if you have anything to say to my client, have your lawyer contact me.”
“She’s m—Nancy’s still my wife—”
“Not for long, I’m afraid. Matt, please don’t make us pull Michaella out of her school—”
“No!” I spun around to face your mother. “Nance, no—you can’t do that! She loves this school—”
He stepped between us. “The child needs to be protected from harassment.”
I gave in. “Okay.” I moved off. “Okay, you’ve made your p-point. I’ll go. I wish—”
“Nobody here cares what you wish,” Nancy said from behind her lawyer. He touched her arm and she was quiet. At least Nancy’s lawyer behaves like a human being.
I picked up my bag, walked to the light, turned in time to see you come out. You ran to Wyndham, leaped into his arms, locked your legs around his waist, collected kisses from him.
He put you and your mother into a cab, strode off down another street. I stayed where I was, watched the cab swerve into traffic and disappear. I don’t know how long I stood staring at the place where you weren’t. A single finger tapped my shoulder. “She’s a very special little girl,” Wyndham said.
“Yeah. I only wanted to say Good-bye.”
“I know,” he said. “But New York has anti-stalking laws. Perhaps it would be best if you stayed out of sight.”
“I’m in compliance with the order.”
“The order’ll probably get tightened,” he said. “Hey. You got a place to stay?”
None of his business.
“Some friend or something?”
None of my friends want tow know me, sober.
“Because Nancy’s changed the lock on her apartment.”
Surprise, surprise.
“Trust me, I know how you feel. We won’t press charges, but don’t do this again, will you?”
“I won’t.” I swung around to face him. “I won’t, I p-promise. Look, t-tell Nancy she has my word—I’ll leave her and Mickie alone. Please. Whatever Nancy wants from me is fine, but this isn’t Mickie’s fault. Don’t let Nancy p-punish her.” In treatment you don’t bother to hide your feelings; everyone knows how you feel anyway. I haven’t got back into the habit yet.
The lawyer smiled. “That isn’t the issue here. It’s my job to protect them. Both of them.”
I don’t mind his job. More power to him. What I mind is your mother’s glitzy, vindictive smile. It says, “Now I know where to hit you.” Mousy, it scares me out of my tree.
I got to the hotel the center referred me to, off Sixty-First Street near Broadway. It’s small, sure, but the privacy is worth the rates they charge. It’s run by a pair of alumni, so they weren’t surprised when a zoned-out zombie approached the desk. I am not in any way unique.
The room is tiny on purpose. It’s supposed to make us feel secure. I have a bed, a dresser, and a desk and chair. A little, padded stool lives under the bed. The maintenance program I’m in involves a lot of prayer. Me, I’m not a praying man. I feel silly making elaborate demands of a Power that I’ve always believed knows who I am and what I need already. My praying usually consists of “Why are you doing this to me?” or—more and more lately —“Thank You.” The Serenity one happens, too, sometimes.
I unpacked the bag, phoned your Gammer and Gaffer to say I was Out. Mother said she’d tell Father, ended the call. I used up more than my share of her patience the second time I came home with alcohol on my breath. Her father died drunk.
I hung up and sat with my elbows on the desk and my eyes on the heels of my hands, and tried to think. Nothing. Not a single coherent thought existed in the world. My brain had that tingly numbness you get in the Recovery Room, just before the anaesthetic wears off.
This was going to hurt.
I could stay and wallow in it, or I could let it hurt while I did something constructive. I have a life to put together. The sooner I confronted the real world, the sooner I could get started. I got up and went out for a newspaper.
It’s odd, going into public with a face like this. Nobody wanted to look at me long enough to wonder who I was. One glance at me, and people found the nearest theater poster very interesting. This must be what ghosts feel like. I walked fast, trying not to see them trying not to see me. It’s easy to say we shouldn’t regret the past, but Mousy—Never mind.
The corner newsstand displayed the Probe among all the other magazines and papers. That tabloid must be having a slow week; it’s running a story about my getting Out. As usual, they have their facts wrong. It says I got Out last week and retired to Monte Carlo. It’s just as well. There’s a picture from last year, one of the better ones—the ideal Everyman.
Honey, I don’t look anything like that now. I probably never will again. The plastic surgeon is an artist, but I’ll never look any better than average. “Forgettable” is the best I can hope for, they tell me. I’m about a third of the way there: physical therapy and blunt stubbornness have overcome the limp. The nose is ruler-straight, and the jaw, just out of wires, is human if no longer heroic. But the boyish face with the Famous Grin is seamed with scars like a crazy quilt. One eye opens too wide; the other lid droops too low. Overall, this is the face of a great radio artist, on the way to becoming ordinary. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that. I left the Probe, got a daily paper, and headed back to the hotel.
Apartments For Rent is well stocked this time of year. I spread the paper across the desk, marked off ads. I don’t need anything fancy, but it has to be within walking distance of the Acute Care Hospital at Central Park East. I start a year and a day’s community service in the emergency room tomorrow, and I won’t be driving any time soon.
I got to the bottom of the first column, started working up the next. So far, there were about half a dozen possibilities. I was doing pretty well, and then the pen ran out of ink. I scribbled a hole into the paper, threw down the pen. I did a few neck rolls to get out the kinks.
It went deeper than neck kinks and I knew it.
I got up and walked, rubbed my neck, tried to think.
No thinking could hold this back. I’d put it off too long.
Against my will came the picture of your mother, vengeful, triumphant, her lawyer Wyndham barely keeping her civilized. And you, jumping into his arms, your legs around his waist, while he kissed and kissed and kissed you. I had just enough sense not to put my fist through something. One shattered hand is enough for this life. Your mother’s lawyer’s a decent guy, but he doesn’t have to—never mind. It’s probably my fault. Everything else is.
They tell you to remember the word HALT: never let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. Great. What do you do when it’s already happened?
There’s the prayer for Serenity: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” I can’t change this. I have to accept it. I can accept a year of face reconstruction; I can accept having my hand broken and reset so I can play my piano again. I have to accept losing you.
Geez, it hurts. Nothing ever hurt like this, not the crash, not surgery, not those hellish first weeks in treatment.
At least then I could cry. I cried for two weeks. The third week, I got so disgusted with myself that I stopped. I haven’t put out a tear since. Not even now, when I need it.
I walked harder. In this room, that’s five strides up, turn, five strides back. If I took shorter steps, I could make it six each way. I took deep breaths until I hyperventilated. I laced my fingers behind my neck and squeezed until it hurt.
When it’s physical, there are painkillers. When it’s mental, there’s tequila.
Not.
Wrong.
You don’t scream in hotels. There are people in other rooms to be considered.
Five strides up, turn, five back—and there was the stool. I aimed a kick at it, and stopped. What could it hurt? I dropped to my knees on the stool, dug my head into folded arms on the edge of the bed, and let ’er rip.
No tears. No words. No sound. Only pain.
I don’t know how long I knelt there, trying to hold together. I was shivering when somebody knocked at my door. That meant I had to get up, do something about it. My knees hurt. I rubbed my dry eyes, breathed, tried to put on a civil face to answer the door.
The desk clerk had brought towels. “You try to go back to your family?”
I didn’t need to be asked that.
“It’s the roughest time you’ll have,” he said. “After this it gets easier. It does.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Find a meeting and go to it.” He handed me the linens and a much-copied list of meetings in the area. “Go tonight. You got to stop being sorry for yourself.”
Right. As if everyone has gone through what I’ve gone through. They tell you to try to get to ninety meetings in ninety days after you get Out. At first I’d said, “No way.” I closed the door, fished out my glasses to decipher the list. I think staying sober will be my full-time job for a while, Mouse.
Having something to do pushed the pain back somewhat. I had to plan to eat, shower, shave, think up something to wear—not that the bag had held any bewildering choice.
I think that meeting saved me tonight. Nobody understands an alcoholic like another alcoholic. You don’t get pity, or lectures, or much poor-sweet-baby. But when you say you hurt, they know exactly what you mean.
Funny. One kid was putting in meeting time to get his license back. He’d caused an accident that injured several people. And I thought, “At least I’m the only person I damaged when I wrapped my car around the tree.” Nobody knows why you weren’t hurt, Mousy. You should have been smashed. I’m told I was too drunk to see that you were buckled in. It makes everything else bearable. All this and ten times more I can take, as long as you’re okay.
I caught that boy staring at my face once or twice. Like most people, I had a container of coffee in front of me. I took my right hand from under the table and fooled with the cup, let him have a good look at the crooked bones and the scars. I could see him thinking, “At least I didn’t mess myself up like that.” If anything can keep me sober, it’s the fear of hurting someone else. Maybe my scars will do the same for him.
Someone was advised to start a journal, write their feelings out. It sounded good to me. On my way back, I stopped and bought this clipboard, pad, and a couple of new pens. I can write anything here, and you won’t ever see it. My head feels straighter already.
I may have inherited the alcoholism, but I don’t have to inherit the drinking. Not if I don’t want to—hang on. Someone’s at the door. . . .

. . . Mouselet, what can I say? What is there to say? “I’m sorry” doesn’t mean anything. Not this time.
That was a process server, with two envelopes. One was a summons, of course. Your mother’s filing for divorce. I don’t know why she didn’t do it a year ago.
The other envelope blew me apart. In it was a copy of the revised restraining order, forbidding me to come within sight of you, and a typewritten note.
They’ve taken you out of your school.
I should have left you alone. I should have left you alone, Mouse. I should have obeyed the order, not made trouble. Your mother’s taking it out on you, and you can’t do anything about it. I should have left you alone. Now you have to find new friends in a strange new school, in the middle of the year.
I won’t do it again, Mousekin. I can’t let your mother think I even want to communicate with you. Ever. I’ve done you enough harm. I wish I could see you one more time, just long enough to say, “I will love you forever” —but I won’t try again. I won’t. From now on, I have two ways to say I love you—paying your child support, and writing in this journal.

I’ll write it here as often as I need to:
I love you.
I’m sorry.
Good-bye.

.1.

April Fool’s Day: Year Three
On Location: Beller Mountain

Dear Mouse,
Everyone behaved nicely at this year’s hearing. It says
a lot for my lawyer’s clout. The restraining order still stands, of course, still forbids me to see you. I’ve been sober for three years now, but so what? Your mother and Wyndham teamed up like heart and lungs, and I lost again.
I got back to work yesterday. Work keeps me sane. We’ve set up at a motel in Beller Mountain. Sure, it’s out of the way. Shooting on location costs less than studio production. We’re filming in the North Carolina Appalachians, practically in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain, surrounded by golf courses, ski areas, Christmas tree farms, and tobacco fields.
The scenery is sensational; the local people work hard and don’t pitch tantrums. The county movie commission rented us a studio, and Tony Pornada’s script keeps on getting better. This is the first decent movie I’ve landed since before the wreck. Work is good.
One thing about low-budget projects, Mousy: I can have a hand in almost any phase of movie-making I want. It’s been a long time since I’ve done more than recite lines, hit marks, and get photographed. It’s like finding a whole, new way of doing what I’ve been doing for the last fifteen years.
Some doll broke into our motel room last night, hoping to make us “discover” her. She must have poked around in the room for several minutes before her heavy perfume woke me. I sat up. “Good evening. Who are you?”
The girl startled and recovered fast. Her fur coat slipping from naked shoulders, she—No.

(Mousy, some things Daddy doesn’t discuss with his little girl, even in his journal. It’s late now, past your bedtime. Sweet dreams, wherever you are. Daddy misses you.)

Moonlight and that new scent “In/Tense” filled the room. One of the old video cameras crouched on the dresser, its red light blinking. The girl floated toward me, her frosted nail polish glinting in the moonlight. “I’m Crystal Beller.” Her voice was soft and childlike. She probably works hard on it. The coat slithered to the floor. “I came to make you happy.”
Right. With those claws. I flicked on the light. The girl was tiny, like a sixth grader, exquisitely developed, expertly made up. This was a woman, fully grown and deliberately dangerous. If stars were made her way, the world would be full of bad actresses’ children. I cocked an eyebrow.
Tony rolled over in the other bed, growling. Demon Dun’s budget doesn’t run to single rooms. “What to hell is this?” Tony hates waking at night. The girl snatched up her coat.
“Crystal Beller,” I said. “She came to make us happy.”
“My God’s sake.” He looked her over. “You’re in the wrong room, Gorgeous. Matt here can’t help you. I’m the director and I never listen to him. You’re not my type.”
She shook tawny curls, moving to his bed. “I can be any type you want me to be. I got experience. I sing four nights a week at Starling Resort—and I can give you the best—”
“Not tonight, Beautiful. Get an Inflate-a-Date.”
“Oh, yeah?” She curled a pretty lip. “I got news for you—the Probe’s going to love this story. You got me in your motel and you raped me. In every grocery store in the U.S. of A.”
“The P-Probe?” This wasn’t funny. If my Mouse saw a story like that in the tabloids—
And Tony laughed. He fell back to the bed and cackled. “Nobody’d buy that, Baby.” He pointed at the camera. Its red light winked. “We got all this on tape. What d’you think, Matt? The TV show—what’s its name—Practical Jokes and Out-Takes? Should we sell it to them?”
I gulped a breath. “Er—no—How about that Funniest Bloopers show? It pays better.”
Crystal Beller wrapped her coat around her and left. As the door slammed on the spring chill, I leaped out of bed, grabbed the camera, pressed eject. Nothing happened.
“Hey, be careful, it’s old.” Tony said. “We’re running the battery down to recharge it.”
Dear God. “Tony, if we don’t—the Probe would p-ublish anything—if she sells that to a tabloid—”
“She won’t go near it. Stupid people can’t stand being laughed at. Go back to sleep.”
I didn’t. That perfume of hers stuck around, nauseatingly. This morning, my journal in its manila envelope wasn’t on the dresser, and the pants I pulled on had a broken zipper. Tony was already next door, setting up the room to conduct interviews for the part of Sarah the bitch. This would be the interview of a lifetime for some of these actresses. I could at least show up on time, and the phone trilled under Tony’s rewrites.
I dug it out. “This is Matt.”
I could hear Tony’s growl through the thin wall. “Matt? That first Sarah—what’s her name? Halla McKee—is due here any minute. Where to hell is my bright particular star?”
“I haven’t been particularly bright since Strongbow IV. Did you say Halla? Where have I heard the name Halla—okay, never mind. I’ll be there in—”
Behind me, the doorknob rattled, and fresh “In/Tense” blew into the room. Last night’s doll stood in the doorway, holding the plastic card she picks motel locks with, and my manila envelope. “Hey, Matty. You know that tape—the one y’all made of me last night?”
Damn. “Tony, I have company. I’ll b-be there.” I shut the phone, made myself breathe. I did not want to stammer in front of Crystal Beller. Acutely aware, suddenly, of the broken zipper, I stepped behind the overstuffed chair. “Do you ever knock, wait to be invited in?”
She stared through the upholstery, her smile lilting with fun, challenge, invitation. By daylight she is stunning. She lifted eyes the color and size of Olympic swimming pools. The sun backlit her skimpy dress. Nothing lay between it and a honey-gold salon suntan. She held up the envelope. “You want to, you know, toss for this? Trade that tape for your diary, and—me?”
If she touched me, I’d be in quarantine for the rest of my life. “I don’t want what you have, thanks.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Sugar, I can get good money for this. You want to give me that tape, or—” She shook the envelope “—read this in the Probe? Or are you queer?”
Crystal Beller has the face of guileless innocence and the mind of a troll. I said, “We prefer the word ‘gay’” (to all my friends who are gay—Sure, I lied. I can only plead self-defense, but I plead it desperately). I reached for the envelope. “That’s mine. Give it back.”
Crystal retreated to the doorway, my envelope held high. Someone nipped it out of her grasp from behind. “This is yours?” and my envelope flew spinning to my hands.
The first Sarah hopeful, Halla McKee, had arrived for her interview, dressed to impress and in the nick of time. The look was right—a bony, mobile face, an active body. Her eyes lit up with the relish of action, and Crystal attacked her, spitting obscenities. Glimmer-frosted nails slashed for eyes, fists struck at the breasts and face. Halla dodged, fending her off. “Hey! Crystal, you brat, watch it—this shirt’s silk!”
I tossed my envelope to the dresser, stepped in to the rescue. “Halla, stop it!” I barked. “Don’t hurt her!” Catching Halla from behind, I swung her out of the way of those pink claws. “Get out!” I hissed at Crystal. “I won’t let her hurt you! Quick!”
Halla picked up my cue like a pro and struggled, kicking and flailing in my arms. Poor Crystal stood gawking as if she had the next line and forgot it. “Go on,” I panted. “I can’t hold her much longer! Go!”
With a last, lost glance, Crystal leaped for her truck.
Halla struggled theatrically until Crystal’s truck merged with highway traffic, then she relaxed against me. Her short curls, the color of dark sherry, brushed my moustache. She smelled clean, fresh; her body fitted solidly with mine.
We both spoke. “Are you okay?” We both nodded.
She pulled away, stepped back to the sidewalk. I clutched at my pants and slid behind the door, a bit embarrassed. Crystal had awakened a part of me that I’d thought was dead for the past three years, and my pants were unzipped. “I—Th-anks. How did you know—?”
“I’ve worked with Crystal before. She’s pretty ruthless.”
“She’s—” I searched vainly for the word—“incredible—”
“Yeah.” Halla’s face is too freckled for prettiness. Her gaze never fell below my chin. Heaven bless her. “Crystal can look like anything you want her to be,” she said. Turning away, she poked her silk shirttail into trim jeans. “See you.” She headed next door for her interview.
“Give me five minutes—max.” I could work with this one for the rest of my life. “I’ll b-I’ll be there—” Halla McKee was gone. I took a moment to watch her walk to the room next door. She didn’t float or glide or waft; she walked, with good rhythm and no nonsense. Suddenly I found myself wondering if it had really been Crystal who awakened my interest.
Never mind. I shut the door, opened the packet. The letter on top caught my eye:

“Dear Mouse,
“Tonight I woke in cold horror from another dream about the wreck. I have no memory of that day, except in dreams. . . . Reality keeps me sober, now. . . .”

I lifted that page. The next was blank. All the other pages were blank. I held half a hundred blank pages, with one page of my journal stuffed in there to make the packet look real. My whole day was crammed with actresses like Halla McKee to interview, and some bimbo with the body and brain of an adolescent Barbie doll was out selling my personal life to a tabloid.
It was after six before I could call my lawyer in New York. Brewster Beane wasn’t excited. “Easy does it, Matt. Who’d want your journal? You’re not that famous. Stop worrying.”
I don’t pay him to stroke my ego, fortunately. “Look, can’t you get a Cease-and-Desist order or something?”
“I’ll warn Nancy to keep tabloids away from the child. Hey, I got news. You’ve made your last alimony payment. Your ex-wife married her divorce lawyer yesterday.”
“Nancy’s married Wyndham?” I gave it a thought. Nancy deserves a good marriage. Wyndham never drank or raised his voice in his life. At the divorce hearing, I lost my temper, and he took out a gun permit. “Sure, tell them congratulations,” I said. “He’s a great guy.”
“If he wasn’t your ex-wife’s lawyer, you might mean that. Matt, forget the tabloids. You’re a free man, except for child support, and—anyway. We’ll talk. Sleep tight.”
I couldn’t leave it—and I got it: Meranda! If anyone can handle tabloids, she can. Pit bulls avoid my sister because she’s meaner and hangs on longer. It’s why the network put her on the White House beat. Tony had to finish a call before I got the phone back and punched in my sister’s number.
Meranda was not in a good mood. “Oh, for God’s sake, Brat, are you drunk again?”
“No.” I never expect civility from my sister. “Meranda, I need help,” I said.
“That’s Baroness von Kozak to you.”
I could have disputed her claim to the title, but you don’t bandy words with my sister unless you have a permanently unresolved death wish. I said, “Huh?” The only wise response.
“Some charmer came up at my book-signing, prattling about getting my brother’s John Hancock on something. I thought it was you till I had a good look at him. You look like half the men on the planet. We had a deal: to the public, we are not related.”
“I’d never tell anyone. Will you help me, or do I hang up?”
“You don’t—ever—hang up on me. I can make you very sorry. Tell me your troubles.”
I told her all about Crystal Beller. “ . . . and if it’s printed, Nancy can say I’m trying to get in touch with M-Mickie—”
“Reality check, Brat: your journal will never see light of day. Nobody’s going to pay for maudlin drivel about Daddy’s Little Darling. Take it from the Baroness—”
“Sure, B-Baroness. Only by m-marriage, and not any more. You never were a b-bar-baroness anyway, because the marriage was an-annulled. Good-b-bye, Mer-randa.” I hung up on her. My sister can get me to the stammering point faster than thought, always could. I hate stammering. She thinks it’s funny.
And my journal was still gone. What a day.
Tony’s assistant director knocked and poked her head around the door, her blue-black braids swinging like rope curtains on either side of her face. “Tony, I got Tara.” If Tony ever went straight, Dora’d be his first love. She gave up smoking because he doesn’t like the smell. “Everyone get packed,” she said around the pen between her teeth. “We’re moving. The budget can pay for a motel with bolt locks, people.”
“It’s why I keep you around,” Tony said. “Matt, you finished with the phone?”