Threes

Tabloid, umbrella and shopping bags in tow, Rebecca Starr entered her cozy midtown penthouse and opened the sliding glass door that led to the terrace, letting in the summer breeze she loved. She went to her answering machine. All messages were business-related - agent, producer of her current project, publicist, personal secretary - except one, her ex-roommate.

"Hi, Becky. I just called to see how you were and to remind you that the twins' birthday is in two weeks and that we really want you to be there. It's been too long. We miss you. Call me."

Although Jennifer was one of the few people in the world she loved, Rebecca cringed at the thought of attending a party for ten-year-olds. She did not understand how anyone could be happy with domestic life. She suffered a chill at the thought that Jennifer had nearly died giving birth to her girls. She did not understand why Jennifer and her husband, Steve, were not embittered by their failure to crack the profession. She would rather be dead than not working steadily, earning a living as an actress. And yet they were happy. She was happy only when the cameras were rolling. She had no idea why the public had taken to her and not to Jennifer or Steve, who were every bit as talented and attractive as she. She'd known them since Circle in the Square, when they were students committed to art, to serious works of the stage: Shakespeare, Chekhov, Ibsen. They were founding members of an off-off-Broadway troupe that did several plays a year and attracted the attention of even the Times. It'd been a springboard for several members of the company, she the first and by far the most successful. A few others were still involved. The rest, like Jennifer and Steve, had entered the mainstream of life. She didn't know what she would do if roles stopped coming her way. Hemlock, she supposed. She was 35, an age when most actresses went into precipitous decline.

She poured herself a drink, sat at the kitchen table and gazed at the front page of the Post. She trembled, as she had upon seeing it at the newsstand. A rock star had leaped to his death from a hotel room in Asia. They would have been lovers had not his girlfriend walked in on them as they were tearing the clothes from each other in the bathroom at a gala years ago. She slapped him - not only because he was cheating but because he had a girlfriend at all. Why had he needed one when beautiful women were throwing themselves at him? One positive thing she could say about herself - she never cheated, unlike the men she'd dated in her '20's. And when she hit the height of her sexuality, she wouldn't even dream of a relationship, as she bedded several men and an occasional woman a week. Her career was her mate. And now that her hormones were no longer at full tilt, she turned to a vast collection of toys whenever desire called. They were infinitely more reliable than men.

She scanned Page Six. It'd been months since she'd been mentioned, months since her picture had appeared. For a time it seemed she was there every day, dubbed "our favorite wild girl." She was thrilled even when the gossip was erroneous. She believed the only bad publicity was no publicity. She feared her star was falling and was filled with dread. She knocked back the rest of her scotch, poured another and lit a cigarette.

In the obituary section she learned that one of her favorite actresses, 90, had died a few days ago in a nursing home. She tensed. Everyone knew celebrities died in threes. Who would be next? She felt her tic return. Fortunately, it disappeared whenever she reached a set. She was afraid one day soon it would not. She rose and paced, keeping her distance from the sliding glass door, afraid she would be sucked out, pulled 20 stories to her death by some mysterious force.

"You're being ridiculous," she said aloud. "You're young and strong. Smoking and drinking take a long time to kill you."

She went to the phone. Jennifer, a rock from a large, loving family, had always been there for her. Her own parents divorced when she was 13. She was an only child.

"Jen?" she said, feigning excitement, disgusted that she was putting on an act.

"Hey."

She promised to attend the party, knowing full well that when the time came she would come up with an excuse not to go. It would be easy. She was in the middle of a shoot. Jennifer would understand.

"Hear who died?"

Jennifer, having attended to the twins, had not heard. "Oh, my God."

"I can't believe it. I still remember the way he kissed. He was the first guy I ever sucked face with that had a stud in his tongue."

"Ugh."

They laughed. Rebecca mentioned the old actress.

"Aww," said Jennifer, saddened. "She was so sweet. I loved waiting on her."

"That's two."

A pause ensued. Rebecca could hear Jennifer thinking.

"Two what?"

"You know that thing about celebrities dying in threes."

"That old myth? Sometimes it's twos, sometimes fours."

"Easy for you to say."

Now the pause was pregnant.

"You're kidding. Are you strung out, Becky?"

"No! I stopped doing drugs a long time ago."

"You're scaring me. That's not rational."

"You know how warped actresses can be." Now she was disgusted at making light of it, of being a phony. "Maybe I should ask my doctor for a different
prescription."

"Maybe you should go away for a couple of months and get totally clean. You can certainly afford it."

"Yeah, right - drop out two months and expect the roles to be there when you get back."

"Your name'd be in the paper."

"For how long - a few days?"

"Look, go online and check the obits. Another celebrity must've died by now."

"Good idea. I knew you’d come up with something."

"It doesn't get to the root of it, though."

"I'll mention it to my shrink."

"Do that. You...."

"Hold on. I have another call. It's my producer." She looked out the window. "The sun's out. They're probably getting ready to shoot. I'll call you."

"Think about what I said."

"I will."

"Love you."

"Love you too."

She decided to take the subway, as the set was just outside a station. She would not risk getting stuck in traffic in a cab. Age was closing in on her. She dared not be difficult or late. She adopted her eccentric old woman look: kerchief, scarf, sunglasses, black gloves. Although she enjoyed the public's attention when she wasn't working, she did not want to be bothered when she was. And she hated when people asked if her real name were Starr. She took pains to be unpretentious, grounded - and the press and public still asked her that. What actress in her right mind would take such a name?

She left the sliding glass door open, although rain was in the forecast. Her chest tightened as she rode the elevator down. She feared it would get stuck – or worse. She was relieved no one else boarded, certain her distress was obvious. People in the building were the only ones liable to recognize her in her get up.

Underground, as soon as she pushed through the turnstile, she felt panic rise within her. She skirted to her immediate right, sidling as far from the tracks as possible.

"Are you all right, miss?" said a young man in a tailored suit.

She looked away, ashamed. To her relief, he was the only commuter on the platform. She took a seat on a wooden bench and closed her eyes. She did not open them until a train stormed into the station. She stepped on quickly, leery of the narrow space between the car and the edge of the platform. When she reached her destination, she hurried, almost ran to the street.

In the next week she was online continually. To her chagrin, no one famous died. The exercises her shrink suggested proved useless. She was unable to reach Jennifer. She was on her own. When one night she heard the rumble of thunder in the distance, she jumped from bed and unplugged all the appliances in the apartment. When the storm intensified, she curled into a fetal position on the couch, crying, and pulled an afghan over her head.

During an indoor shoot, she ran screaming from the set when a short caused lighting to explode. Fortunately, her reaction was attributed to the demands of the production, the long hours. She was in almost every scene. She did not know how she would board the plane when the crew moved to Europe next month. She prayed someone famous would die by then.

During a break on Sunday she locked herself in her trailer and opened the Post to the color spread of celebrities. She drew a bull’s-eye over the heart of a rich girl columnists said was "famous for being famous." She put an arrow through the head of the shock jock who'd been so mean to her. She set a lightning bolt in the direction of a singer whose booty drove men wild. She burned a hole with a cigarette through the face of an athlete for whom she once lusted, whose privates had been shriveled by steroid use. She believed the world would be a better place without all of them.

Leaving the set late one night, head down as she made her way along a Village street, she was startled by the touch of a hand.

"Rebecca?"

She let out a breath as she looked into the famous blue eyes now dull with age. "Donald. You scared me."

"Sorry, my dear. I couldn't let you pass without a greeting."

He was tipsy. His voice had grown thinner, its wonderful timbre diminished.

"Guess my Garbo disguise isn't as clever as I thought."

"I'd know you anywhere," he said suggestively.

She couldn't believe she'd slept with him. He'd been her first celebrity and must have been 65 at the time. She attributed it to the drug haze she was under in those days..

"Club hopping? I'd heard you'd reformed."

"I was about to hail a cab. We're shooting up the street."

"I’m on my way home. How 'bout coming along and keeping an old man company? I'm nearby, if you remember."

"Of course I remember. How could I forget a night with one of the world's greatest stage actors?"

"Not the greatest?"

She laughed. He was still charming.

"We can have a little soiree, just the two of us."

"Still vital after all these years."

He shook his head, flushed. "No, no, my dear, not that."

He raised an eyebrow. She knew exactly what he meant. He’d provided her first taste of heroin. She did not understand why she wanted to accept.

"You can walk to work in the morning."

She shrugged. "Lead on, MacDuff."

"That's the spirit."

She was relieved as they turned on to his block. There wasn't a soul in site. His building didn't even have a doorman. He was still in the same studio apartment, his income having been eaten by alimony and drug use. He'd become so unreliable he now worked only in small parts in film and television.

He reached behind some books in a case and withdrew his stash.

"Would you mind mixing, love? The needs of my bladder are incessant these days. You do remember how, don't you?"

"It's like riding a bike."

He smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Yes - all except for a few of my ex-wives. Some even disapproved."

"They weren't as enlightened as we are."

"How true."

She now knew why she'd come. It seemed fate had thrown them together. He was old, past 75 – and, unbelievably, still doing H. He would not be missed. Her eyes were forced shut by the memory of having shared a needle with him. It was a wonder she wasn't dead from AIDS. His proclivities were no secret.

She did not take off her gloves. She doubted he would say anything, as it was a kinkiness he used to love. By the time he returned, she had everything prepared. He sat beside her, relaxed. She was poised at the edge of the couch.

"Ladies first."

"I've decided to stay on the wagon."

"You have a wisdom beyond your years. Will you do the honors?"

He rolled up the sleeve of his white silk shirt and tapped at a vein. Her heart was pounding, her hand trembling as she took aim - and she wasn't acting.

"Better let me, love," he said softly. "Waste not, want not."

She repressed a smile. Things had fallen into place so quickly and perfectly. She watched intently, curious as to whether the death would be violent or peaceful. It was fast and quiet.

She seized her bag and looked around. She hadn't touched anything but the paraphernalia, and it had all been with the gloves. Even if someone along the way had recognized her, she would draw on her skills and pretend she'd panicked and ran.

Her heart rate subsided. She was surprised at her cold-bloodedness. Then again, he was likely to have died of natural causes any day. And it was rumored that he'd seduced boys in his hey day. And he’d tried to make her a user again. And he’d expected her to share a needle with him! He deserved to die.

Before opening the door, she listened for sounds in the hall. There was silence. As she hit the street it occurred to her she'd experienced something new - what it was like to kill. And she'd thought she'd done it all. She was sure the experience would extend her range as an actress. It would pay dividends immediately, in fact, as her current role had her character making several kills. She was eager to do those scenes.

The next morning she hurried to the newsstand. There was no word yet. She resisted the temptation to make an anonymous call to the police.

As she waited in her trailer, she read the Post. A musician who'd come to prominence in the '60's was dead of kidney failure attributed to long term drug use. She reflected - just like that the murder of Donald had been rendered unnecessary. She shrugged, telling herself she’d done the world a service.

She was called to the set and was at her best.

"Awesome, baby," the director hailed, beaming.

The next evening, at dinner in a Village restaurant, her cell phone rang. She was teased by her companions. It was Jennifer.

"You hear?"

She feigned surprise. She was frightened by the thrill she experienced. Suicide, not foul play was suspected. She almost laughed aloud, especially when told authorities wished to contact an old woman seen speaking to Donald on the street. She was herself again.

The next morning, fresh from a shower, poised on the couch, brushing her hair as she watched the news, the anchor woman announced the death of an Olympic gold medalist in a car wreck.

"It's the second major celebrity death in two days."

"Third in three," her co-anchor reminded her.

Rebecca burst into tears.

"What d'you do now?"

Brief History of Author
Stories, articles, a novel, a one-act play

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