Catch a Falling Star

By R. O. Hatley

In the spring of 1970, twenty-two-year-old Jerry Holtzman is determined to follow in the footsteps of his wealthy father, the most ruthless and powerful attorney in Dallas.

He delivers a pizza to Gina Croft, a lady trapped in a wheelchair and imprisoned by her husband in a ghostly house dripping with movie memorabilia.

He wonders who

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. O. Hatley
• Release date: Jul 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532367632

Book preview

Chapter One

Jerome Holtzman – May 1970

The house on the corner stood out like a scar on the face of a model. Jerry checked his watch again. Less than an hour before the last final of his first year of law school. This test would cover his most difficult and least favorite subject. Property. He should be at school, close to the action, studying. Once the door to the lecture hall closed, no one could enter. Latecomers flunked. No exceptions.

He wasn’t at school because, of all things, he had a pizza to deliver.

The address on the sales slip matched the location. So far, so good. The surroundings, though, pulled his focus. Enormous oak trees that provided shade to the other houses in this old-money Dallas neighborhood drowned this one in shadow. Snarled grass begged to be cut, layers of leaves remaining from the previous fall pleaded to be raked. Dank, damp, dead foliage created a sickening smell. On the house itself, shuttered windows beat back the sunlight. Not that there was much to fend away. Today, the clouds reigned.

Deep breath.

Two minutes and he would be on his way.

Jerry balanced the box on his right hand and headed up the stairs to the porch. He rang the bell. While waiting, his mind furiously floated between cases of property law. Shelley v. Kraemer. Johnson v. McIntosh. Schley v. Couch.

A short woman in her forties with a hawk nose, thin lips, and stringy hair answered. Her neat, paisley dress was of a style more than twenty years past its time.

Good afternoon, he said.

She cocked her head. Why are you here? We don’t allow solicitors.

Jerry presented the pizza, ticket, and a smile a half size too large.

No one ordered a pizza, she said.

He shook the paper like a mistress ringing a summoning bell. Someone did. We don’t make these up. And … he checked the ticket again, … someone here requested that I deliver it.

What’s your name?

Jerry. At your service. He resisted the urge to offer a mock bow, figuring it would only hold things up.

She took the paper from him, studied it a moment then handed it back. Wait here.

Whoa, hang on, he said to the closing door, extending his arm as though that would bring her back.

Now what? After this would come a twelve-minute drive to the pizza parlor to drop off the money and sales slip. Five minutes in and out. A seven-minute drive to Forsburg University. A ten-minute walk from the parking lot to the law building.

Not much leeway. He would need to bust it to get there before the doors closed.

He spent a minute tracing fissures of cracked paint on the wood before pacing the porch, reciting cases. What were they, again? Shelley v. McIntosh? Schley v. Kraemer? He looked to his car, longing to be in the driver’s seat peeling out. His notes were in his backpack. Man. This final would be hell in a blue book. And … enough was enough. He headed toward the street.

The front door opened, freezing him halfway down the steps. He looked back to the house. The lady stepped into the doorframe.

Come in, she said, a sprinkling of resignation over a dollop of sarcasm.

He stepped back onto the porch. How about you give me the money and I give you the pizza? That’s the way it works. And can we do this like quickly? I need to jam.

If you want to deliver it, you’ll come into the house.

We don’t do that. That’s not … we don’t come into people’s houses.

You will if you want to deliver it and get paid. Your customer is an invalid and can’t come to the door. You were right, she requested you specifically. Or at least some boy named Jerry.

The woman stood aside and beckoned him in. A sense of impending doom grabbed his heart and squeezed. His breathing grew shallow. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Why? This was a house at the end of a neighborhood block. Nothing to worry about, right? He slipped past her and into the entryway.

The interior appeared to be fading into the past. Framed movie posters and still pictures polka dotted the walls. A pink and a blue chaise lounge flanked a grey sofa. Two wing chairs faced them. A couple of lamps provided just enough illumination to tease the stuffy-smelling room.

This way, she said, walking up a flight of stairs that branched at the midway point.

He followed her left to the top then down to the last door along the hallway and stopped.

Two minutes and I’ll blow this joint.

She opened the creaky door, propelling icy air over him and down the back of his shirt. Mrs. Croft, it’s here. He’s here.

Send him in, a quivering, haunting voice requested from the other side.

Go on, the lady said with a Bela Lugosian wave of her hand. Deliver your pizza.

Jerry considered handing the woman the pizza and bolting. He tried to hold on by putting his left hand in his pocket and squeezing his fist.

He stepped into the threshold, then looked past two sheet-covered recliners with lopsided cushions, each with a side table topped with a low wattage lamp. In the darkened corner opposite, a lady in a wheelchair trembled as though freezing.

My God.

He tried to remember whether he’d seen her before. Decided that he hadn’t but wondered how she could know to request him. Maybe he’d once delivered to a friend of hers.

Another step inside, the temperature of the room seemed to drop twenty degrees and goose bumps appeared on his bare arms. He tried to grab onto the legal cases sliding out of his mind with one mental hand and the time slipping away with the other.

He took a third step.

The woman appeared to be fading along with the house and everything in it. The feature exhibit of the place, one might say.

Come in. I won’t bite. And thank you for venturing this far out of your element. I heard you downstairs telling Shirley you didn’t come into people’s houses.

The lady in the wheelchair’s words surrounded pauses of varying lengths, occasionally crossing the Rubicon into a full-fledged stutter. Jerry took a breath to slow his heart. His tennis shoes squeaked on the floor planks with each tentative step. Stale air seized his nostrils and held tight.

He offered the pizza. Where would you like it?

He looked around for a place to set his burden. It appeared as though a large spare bedroom had been converted to a den, including television, radio, phonograph, and records, both 45s and LPs. Couldn’t set it on any of those places. The furniture was spaced far enough apart to accommodate the girth of the wheelchair. Bookcases adorned the left and right walls surrounding the recliners and side tables. Maybe he could set the pizza on one of those. A couch occupied the back wall, but the mantle of dust over the seat and back whispered that it hadn’t supported a human ass in a long time. More movie posters and stills hung from wall space unobscured by the bookcases.

Any other day, he would have wanted to take a closer look. He loved movies. Fancied himself a film buff like his father.

Thank you, Shirley. You may go.

Shirley. The hawk has a name.

You’re Jerry? Mrs. Croft’s weak voice brought him back to reality and the mental clock ticking its way toward examination time.

He walked to a round table with a lace covering. A small green purse rested at the near edge. How did you know …?

… my neighbor recommended you.

Should I put it here?

She nodded.

He set it in the center, then pulled out the sales slip. That’ll be …

Pick up my purse and open it. Take one of the twenty-dollar bills.

He did as she asked. Here it is. He handled it with the tips of his thumb and index finger to demonstrate that he only had one. He reached into his pocket for change.

Keep it. Her voice trembled as badly as her limbs, but he would have staked his trust fund she was sober.

No way. The pizza is only three-sixty.

It’s yours. I want you to have it. You came all the way into the house. I appreciate that.

That’s cool of you, but it’s way too much.

Mrs. Croft wheeled from the shadow into the light. Her thin body contrasted sharply with her round face. She wore a flowered skirt just covering her knees, and a pastel blouse with a hint of ruffle. Old-fashioned hose covered her legs, and, from an angle, he noticed the straight seam up the back, the kind he remembered his mother wearing once upon a time.

Put it in your wallet.

Mrs. Croft approached the table. He drew back, and his heart rate spiked—but not because of his upcoming final. Thank you.

He stuffed the bill into his pants pocket.

She stopped next to the table. The light accentuated her pallid complexion. She raised a trembling arm and, with the back of her hand, flipped the pizza box top over.

She shook wildly, nearly uncontrollably.

He had to go. Wouldn’t have much time to relax and focus as it was. But he stood in place, like a mongoose facing a cobra. Do you need anything else?

Thank you, no.

He turned to leave, but in his peripheral vision saw the woman raise her arm ostensibly for some pizza. The box and white lace flew across the table, upending in midair and falling to the floor, slices of pizza surrendering their cheese and sauce to the grain of the hardwood.

He stopped. Looked back to Mrs. Croft. Paused.

He opened the door and bolted from the room. Behind him he heard …

No. No. No.

He took the stairs two at a time, out the front door and to his car. Started the engine and peeled out leaving skid marks on the road. He saw them through his rear-view mirror, reminding him of the wash left behind a speeding boat.

For the first time in his life he understood pity. Felt it intensely for the lady in the wheelchair. But, it was short lived—he had more important things to worry about.

On his way back to work he tried pushing her image and that of the spilled pizza from his mind. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Turned on the radio and listened to the Rolling Stones. Nothing worked, not even turning his thoughts to the cases he would soon be tested on.

Shirley v. Couch? Johnson v. Croft? Schley v. Hawk?

If he didn’t focus soon, he would flunk.

* * *

Gina Croft

The young man with the Peter O’Toole blue eyes saw the pizza fall to the floor and left.

That hurt. Made Gina feel diseased, like a leper isolated on that Hawaiian island called Molokai. Confined to the wheelchair for the rest of her life, however long or short that might be, her options leaked from her pores like water from a rusted bucket. She had so wanted to show the boy that she wasn’t as bad as the repulsed look on his face suggested. To open the box and take a slice with him standing there so that he would … what?

No. She couldn’t blame him for running, but that didn’t ease the pain.

Stupid pride.

Her attention wandered to the floor.

Tendrils of steam rose from the ruins, reminding her of dying campfires she’d seen in her youth. What a waste. Considering all of her trouble though, she deserved a slice. Clinched her teeth and determined to have one. Inhaled the savory aromas then licked her lips. Her only option was to wait for the kindness of Shirley. Unless? That’d be the day. Ah, yes. Unless she could slide out of the chair onto the floor close enough to grab the pizza.

Damn this body of mine.

Gina picked up the copy of Daily Variety from her lap and tossed it behind the chair, riffling pages as it fell. She slid her twitching foot between and below the foot rests. Moved it under the plate and lifted. No movement. She took another deep breath. Held it, then tried again with all her strength. The metal rest moved up slowly, but enough. She took a moment to catch her breath then managed the same with the left. This time it took a yell and a herculean effort to raise it. She did, clearing her way down to the hardwood floor.

The wafting fragrance squeezed her stomach into a ball of hunger. Her mouth watered. She grasped the armrests tight. Scooted forward until she hung precariously over the edge of the seat. Legs unable to support her, she released herself and tumbled down, the momentum of her fall launching the chair to the back wall where it hit with a crash and rolled over, large wheel spinning.

Cataclysmic pain flashed through her like bolts of lightning before settling to an intense steadiness, throbbing and pulsing. She moaned as much from relief as agony. Her mind took her back to a time when she could have scooped up the pizza from a standing position with little more effort than it took to shoo away a fly. Back to a time when she had freedom and power. To a time when she was human.

Gina shook her head.

Such memories were dangerous.

She steadied herself. Extended her arms forward, pulling herself an inch at a time toward her prize. Just a little way to go. One massive effort.

The door opened.

Shirley walked in.

Oh, my gracious. Mrs. Croft, what have you done? Did you fall? I heard a crash. Shirley knelt and checked her pulse at the wrist. Are you all right?

I’m fine. I ordered it, and by God I’m going to have some.

It’s all over the floor. Shirley let her wrist go and stood. Let’s get you back in your chair and we’ll talk about dinner.

Gina reached a little further, straining. No talking. I’m having pizza.

Well, give me a second to get the chair.

Gina closed her eyes and took one final gasp. She pulled with the little strength remaining in her arms. The slices remained tantalizingly out of reach. The familiar sounds of the chair rolling up to her and the wheels locking into place took away the hope that she would eat pizza today.

Three or four inches would do it, but she had spent all of her energy. All she could smell now was the Simonize floor wax. Shirley was her only hope.

Let me help you into the chair, Mrs. Croft.

The only way you can help me is to hand me a slice of pizza, Shirley. I mean it. I’m not getting into that chair until I’ve eaten at least one slice.

They’re full of germs.

Just a few bites, then. There’s three pieces sitting on top of the pile off the floor. Please hand me one of those. I’ll eat it here.

Let’s set you in the chair first, Mrs. Croft. We’ll take it from there. You can’t eat face down on the floor. You won’t be able to swallow well, and I don’t want you breathing all that dust.

Shirley had a point. Eating from where she was would be uncomfortable, dirty and worse, desperate. Fine.

She cooperated and helped Shirley as she’d always done on those occasions when she would fall out of bed, usually caused by a nightmare. Once back in the chair she sighed. Could I have the top one, please? The one that’s still complete.

No, Mrs. Croft. I’m sorry.

You lied to me, Shirley.

I had to get you in the chair. And I didn’t want to fight with you. I apologize for treating you that way.

The ones on top are still good. They’re not touching the floor. Hand it to me, or I’ll slide back out of this chair and get it myself.

Shirley walked over and kicked the top pieces onto the planks.

The mouthwatering anticipation dissolved into the stale air of the room like vapor. Why?

You bring this on yourself, Mrs. Croft. You’re way too demanding. You have no idea how hard we work to please you and keep you well at the same time. It’s hard to balance everything, so you have to understand that there’re some things we just can’t do. Serving you pizza is one of them. Or any food off the floor. And if I have to perform a little slight of hand from time to time, I will.

Gina sat straight, the intense cold of shock shrouding her. That was mean, Shirley.

You may not believe this, but I’m looking after your best interests. I want you to be well. Sometimes, I wonder if you want the same thing.

Gina glanced at her trembling hands. Shirley leaned over and put the spilled pizza into the box.

I’m hungry, Gina said, conscious that she was pleading.

I understand that, Shirley said, standing and closing the lid of the box. I’ll have Haskins fix dinner early. How about some baked cod with a nice rice pilaf? That’ll be good. You always like the way she makes the rice with the diced carrots and baby green peas. Oh, and those roasted slivered almonds. Don’t forget about those.

To hell with it all.

And I’ll see that you have some mixed fruit for dessert, maybe with a small portion of whipped cream. That’ll be good, too. A fine healthy dinner. And I’ll put on whatever movie you want to see tonight. I think we can even manage some popcorn, with a little salt and butter. Just a little, but popcorn is good roughage.

Gina made no reply. Regardless of what she said, Shirley and Haskins would make sure her food was their choice. As always.

I’ll be back in a few minutes to clean up the sauce. Shirley retrieved the folded copy of Daily Variety and set it into Gina's lap. You dropped this.

Shirley stepped out of the room box in hand, easing the door closed.

Gina looked down at the item on page three, the article she had been reading before Jerry arrived.

Where is Regina Wilkes?

Fifteen years ago, this beautiful actress pulled a Garbo and disappeared from Hollywood. Her husband, television producer Lawrence Croft, refuses comment.

Hollywood misses this former starlet of such classics as Rain on the Mountain, Ribbons and Lace, and Summer’s Lament. We miss the strong, Romanesque features highlighted by fiery green eyes. The sultry voice whose command no sane man could resist, and curves that, for many, matched or exceeded those of the late legend Marilyn Monroe.

- continued on page 34 -

Gina couldn’t turn the pages to read the rest of the story. She slapped the paper away. It came to rest on top of the pizza sauce.

Regina Wilkes has been dead for years, you bastards.

She swung her twitching limbs against the chair's arms and the wheels of her solitary confinement and wept, unable to wipe the tears from her eyes or prevent snot from running into her mouth.

Chapter Two

Christine Martin

Someone said his name was Jerry. Someone else said he was in his first year of law school. Her father concurred and fell silent.

Today, Christine would track him like a lioness would an antelope, introduce herself if it came to that. He had been her obsession since she first saw him in the student union building back in January, two days into the spring semester of her junior year.

She’d been in the commissary picking at her toast passing time before negotiating through the cold to her class on the American novel. She’d seen the most handsome man on campus, or anywhere outside of the movies, loping down the stairs to the food court. Meeeeoooowwww. So much for the soggy toast. Her heart rate rose. She leaned forward. He stepped up to the counter.

She was hooked.

And later confused.

Why did she have to mention it to her mother?

Jean Martin perked up, swirling the ice in her rum and Coke. Hoisting sails with Captain Morgan, Christine called it.

Is he handsome and well-dressed? her mother asked.

Christine glanced around their living room, a large sunken model of southwest decor. She gazed at the large dreamcatcher above the fireplace. Yes, and yes. He’s gorgeous.

You need to find out if he’s worth marrying.

Mom! College is about education.

Of course, college is about education, sweetheart, her mother said, the sun long since having past the yardarm somewhere in the world. I’m not saying otherwise. But it’s also a sacred place to secure a husband.

That’s bogus, Christine replied. You might want me to snag a hubby, but my song is on the flip side. I want to teach college. I can only do that if I work hard and get the degrees. And there’s something smarmy about using college as a hunting ground.

Her mother refilled her glass and paused to smooth her dress. Was there anything wrong with me obtaining a Ph. D. and your father in the same year?

But you don’t teach anymore. And do you two really love each other? I mean do you? ‘Cause sometimes I don’t think so.

Of course, we do. We’re a little older, and quite a bit of water has passed beneath us.

Yeah, most of it eighty proof.

Her mother chuckled then took a sip. Learn all you can about Whitman and Dickinson, my darling. Inhale them if you must. But make sure that on your road to a degree you find a man to walk with you. A bachelor with your Bachelor’s, if you like. As unhappy as your father and I seem to you, we would be much worse alone. No pain compares to loneliness. Take that under advisement, as your father would say. From what you tell me, this young man you fancy is worth a closer look.

It makes me look like a huntress with men as my prey.

Her mother brought her drink back to the couch. Good. You finally took my point. Haven’t you ever noticed that men are bees looking to pollinate every flower they see? And that the ones not doing so aren’t worth a second look? It’s the same game, different goals. Or, different games if you prefer.

Christine poured herself a glass of wine, silently challenging her mother to say anything.

Games? No. Not games. Instincts too inbred in the species to be passed off as diversions. They melded into a dance, where two people circled each other, came together, then decided whether to form a couple or move on down the line. Each possessed an agenda, and a will.

Christine tried to keep Jerry’s wavy brown hair and sparkling blue eyes (both of which she noticed on a quick reconnaissance pass) out of her mind. She couldn’t, and occasionally caught herself dreaming of him in class. Mr. Darcy to her Elizabeth. David to her Agnes. Lawrence taking a swan dive into her Arabia. She could lose consciousness in the ocean of his eyes; bask in the glow of his smile.

I’m not here to find a husband.

Oh, yeah?

Law school finished a week before the rest of the university. Only grades remained. And her heart raced as it usually did when she thought of him. This would be her last chance before end of term to meet him.

Her father explained one evening over his Cutty rocks that, though grades had been mailed since he walked the hallowed halls as a law student, The Posting remained a time-honored tradition. It summoned the next generation of lawyers to a ritualistic gathering in the rotunda of the John B. Connally building to seek their future through the past.

Her desire crystallized into a plan. Step one: Make herself available to Jerry. Step two: Determine whether he was marriage material, and, if he was: Step three: Make him want her so much that it hurt.

Her inebriated mother would be proud.

At The Posting, she leaned against a pillar inside the rotunda. The throng waited inside the center of the circle leaving the perimeter free, like mice on a small island. She thought it might be an unspoken understanding to allow those who posted the grades sufficient space to do so.

No sign of Jerry. Yet. But no sign of the graduate assistants with the grades either. She silently gave her target high marks for that. Refusing to be one of the many. She liked that in a man.

And there he was. Hanging at the edge of the hallway apart from the others. Not looking for the grades, it seemed. Nothing had been posted, and no one appeared to be candidates for the job. He looked toward the top of the dome, possibly to the portraits of the past faculty hanging high on the walls. Something almost supernatural brightened his face, as though he was a priest looking into the eyes of God.

Definitely worth a meet.

Within five minutes, the graduate assistants arrived, each with long sheets of white paper and masking tape. Another three minutes and the grades were secure on the wall and the students collapsed around it leaving the center unoccupied. Jerry hung back. Why?

He walked around the perimeter and looked above the crowd with a pair of opera glasses. Oh, so smart. Oh, so casual. A look. A nod. A thumbs up. A stroll to the next section. Another look. Another nod. Another thumbs up.

Perfect opportunity for her to stroll by and give him a view. See if he notices. If he didn’t, then an accidentally-on-purpose bump might be in order. And, she thought of the words of her favorite song by Shocking Blue, I’m your Venus. I’m your fire, at your desire.

She tossed her hair back ready to rock and roll.

Miss Martin. What are you doing in the law building? Chris turned to greet the fading baritone voice, the owner of which was a thin gray-haired man in a tweed jacket. My father is an attorney, Dr. Roach, and an alumni.

That would be ‘alumnus,’ my dear. Unless, of course, you have more than one father, then it would be subject verb agreement.

She giggled and put her hand delicately over her mouth. Oops-a-daisy. Anyway, he said he would meet me here at The Posting. Of course, that begs the question. What is a professor of literature doing at a first-year rite of passage?

She turned back to make sure she still had a bead on her target. Jerry continued his circle.

Was