Night Night, Sleep Tight by Hallie Ephron Read Free Book Online

“You’ve reached Arthur Unger . . .” Deirdre flopped over and pulled a cushion over her head. When she heard the beep, she lifted the cushion.
    “Hello? Henry, Deirdre? Are you there?” Hyello. Deirdre recognized the slightly accented voice before he added, “It is Sy.” Sy Sterling, attorney to the stars, was the closest thing Deirdre and Henry had to an uncle from the old country. “I heard the news. I cannot believe this is happening. I talked to your father just the other day. Yesterday, for Chrissake. And”—he paused; his voice turned raspy and his accent thickened—“we were saying how we had to get together. Pick up some corned beef sandwiches and go to the track.”
    Henry lurched from the chair, dropping the box of noodles, which exploded onto the Oriental rug. He cursed, then tripped on the rug’s raveled edge halfway to the phone and cursed again. In seconds, Bear and Baby had Hoovered up the spill.
    “One of you call me back as soon as you can? I am in my car right now but I will be home later. Two seven six—”
    Henry finally grabbed the phone. “Sy? It’s Henry.” Henry sounded winded. “Thanks for calling. Yeah.” He paused, nodding his head a little. “I don’t know. He was in the pool when Deirdre got here this morning. The cops were here most of the day. They think he died last night.” Henry listened. “Are we okay?” He looked across at Deirdre. “I guess.” He listened some more. “Of course I didn’t let them into the house.”
    Henry turned his back to Deirdre and walked toward the window. The phone cord stretched from coiled to straight until it wouldn’t stretch farther. Henry stood quietly, listening, a long silence with just the occasional “Uh-huh,” “Sure,” “Okay.”
    Deirdre got up again. She limped over to the wall of bookshelves and picked up a framed photograph of all four of them, scrubbed and polished and posed against a backlit scrim of blue sky and palm trees. Ten-year-old Deirdre wore a demure black velvet dress with a white lacy collar, her hair skinned back in a ponytail. Henry, a year older, looked downright military in his little suit. What you couldn’t see was that he’d been wearing flip-flops. That year he’d refused to wear real shoes.
    Alongside the family portrait was a framed black-and-white photograph of eight-year-old Deirdre in a sparkly leotard and skirt of layered ruffles. Deirdre knew the ruffles were pink, and the black patent leather tap shoes had been bought a size too big for her so that she could “grow into them.” More girls in similar getups stood posed behind her looking supremely bored as Deirdre danced her solo.
    She turned the picture facedown on the shelf.
    Behind the pictures were videocassettes, each with a handwritten label—some her mother’s careful printing, others her father’s scrawl. Also lined up was a row of their leather-bound movie scripts, the titles embossed in gold on the spines. Deirdre ran her hand over the leather. Gloria had let Arthur keep all their scripts when she’d walked out. She’d left behind most of her clothes and jewelry, too, along with her perfume and cosmetics. She’d probably have shed her skin and left that behind if she could have.
    The shelved scripts were in chronological order. There was Lady, Be Good, their first movie, a remake of a 1920s silent film of the Gershwin musical comedy that was long on jazzy score, glittery costumes, and dance numbers and short on plot. Next to it, A Night in St. Tropez . Deirdre opened that script and paged through hand-typed pages until she got to one of the nine-by-eleven, black-and-white glossies that were bound into the book. Carmen Miranda winked at the camera, wearing ropes of pearls and a skirt that looked like it was made of bananas.
    At the end of the row were two copies of Singing All the Way Home, the last script her parents wrote together, and one of the last romantic musicals in an era that had been full of