Page 18 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Prescott’s heart jolted. Melvin had returned the call he’d placed this morning. With a quick prayer, he grabbed his notepad and followed the concierge upstairs and to the bank of telephone booths in the lobby.

His breath came out jittery, so he summoned his acting experience to sound more confident than he felt. “Melvin?”

“Press! Great to hear your voice. How’s the USO treating you?”

“Enjoying every minute. It’ll be a swell show.”

“Great. So, what’s up?”

This wasn’t the time to say he wanted to do more USO shows, nor to mention his upcoming performance in the naval hospital. Any distractions would chew away at his tiny morsel of courage.

One more deep breath. “I called because I have an idea for a screenplay.”

“A screenplay?” A quiet cuss. “How many times—”

“I know. Every actor thinks he can write. Every actor is wrong. But this is different.”

“Every actor says that.”

Prescott puffed out a breath. “I can’t describe how the story came to me. All I know is Charles Anthony is here, in my head, and I need to tell his story.”

“Press . . .” A growl rumbled over the line.

Prescott gripped the receiver harder and read his pitch from his notepad. “Charles Anthony had it all. Important job, impressive house, beautiful family, but one tragic act—”

“No, Press. Don’t. It’s been told. It’s been told a million times and by—no offense—by actual screenwriters.”

“But this story—”

“No. This story—you’ve got to put it out of your head. Find a gym and a punching bag and beat it out of your head.”

Prescott squeezed his eyes shut. “What if I’m right? What if it’s a phenomenal story?”

Melvin fell silent, then sighed. “I’ll be honest. Even if you could write it, the studio wouldn’t want you to. You’ve heard about television. After the war, it’ll be big. Huge. All those older films sitting in vaults—the studios plan to sell television rights. There’s money in it. But not if you tarnish your image.”

Prescott drew back his chin. “How would writing tarnish my image?”

“Come on, Press. Everyone remembers you as a handsome and debonair star. The studio needs to keep that image sharp to sell those film rights.”

“My scars.” Prescott’s voice rasped over his throat. “You think they’ll scar my image.”

“In this business, image is everything. You know that. Why do you think the studio clamped down on the press after your accident? Sure, at first it was good publicity—the heroic star. But when it became clear you’d be scarred . . .”

Burning in his chest, his face, his hands.

“I’m sorry, Press.” And Melvin sounded truly sorry. “I let you do this USO show against my better judgment. But a screenplay? Put it out of your head.”

How could he put the story out of his head when God had put it in?

four

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me . . . four calling birds.

Saturday, November 6, 1943

Sitting in the Little Theater, Maggie tried to follow the scene in the script, but how could she when Prescott and Vi were so riveting?

After only the slightest coaching from Maggie on pronouncing the more obscure words, Prescott had found the music and rhythm of the language all on his own.