Teddy's Family,
Now In Its Sixth Season!
by
Steven D. Bennett
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Steven D. Bennett
Published by DeadLife Books
****
Also check out "Trace the Dead Eye"
and "Humor of the Gospels" on Amazon.com
****
"Make-up!
"A little darker under the eyes. We have to make him look older, at least twenty. You know the premise; he's on the boat and staring at the girls in the bikinis and hits his head on the mast and falls overboard and dreams what he will look like as he gets older. Twenties to forties to sixties to eighties and then back to the original. But we've gotta get this going: we need to be on the set in fifteen minutes and the whole sequence--sans boat--is getting shot today.
"Teddy, want to go over your lines? You fine, kid? Okay, okay, you're looking good, everybody's looking good. How are you doing? Who is this guy?"
Gus extended his hand wearily. "Gus Rogers, Daily Post."
"Rogers, Rogers. Don't seem to know you. Have we met before? Whaddya doing here? Somebody get security!"
"I'm here to interview Teddy for a segment in our Sunday Entertainment section."
"Oh, good! Publicity, that's what we need. You know that they say: any publicity's good, just spell my name right; Beniamino Ascari Lee. That’s spelt L-E-E.
"All right, people, let's get moving, we've got a show to do..."
Gus exhaled as the man moved off.
Teddy looked sideways at Gus from his stool in front of a well-lit mirror as a make-up girl worked years into his face. "Rogers. Gus Rogers."
Gus turned to the boy, the star, who looked like any other ten-year-old with heavy rouge. He tried to force a smile, couldn't. "Hi, Teddy."
"Aren't you a sportswriter?"
"Once upon a time," Gus said, surprised. "Who told you that?"
Teddy's expression seemed to harden momentarily. "No one had to tell me, Mr. Rogers. I read the Post every day. And twice on Sundays."
"Oh, well, Teddy," Gus said slowly. "Teddy, I did cover sports...I cover a lot of things now. The Post, like many papers, has gone through some...financial..." He trailed off, letting it die. The kid wouldn't understand. The Post was a regional paper, and like many was in desperate competition with the LA Times and the dozen or so outlying regional papers as well as the internet, which was slowly chewing up all printed word. And, like many papers, The Post was down-sizing and cutting costs. Staff was no exception and everyone was asked to make sacrifices. Ten, twenty years earlier he could have called the shots, perhaps. But it had been a long couple decades and there were twenty years of bad choices and problematic behavior behind him. An errant–though deserved--punch in a locker room. A threatening--though justifiably so–disagreement with a coach in a dugout. A few other spats that frothed over like foam on a tapped out keg and Gus found the door of sports slammed in his face. But through much politicking (and more ass-kissing than Gus thought himself able) he had kept his job as long as he kept a low profile. That, he had thought many times since, was what would probably be on his tombstone. He Kept A Low Profile. So though invisible, Gus was glad to do whatever he was asked. Even leaving the land of magic--sports--for the land of make-believe. Only too happy, as long as the checks came in.
"How long has Teddy's Family been on the air?"
"Not big on research, are you Mr. Rogers?" Teddy said tonelessly. "Teddy's Family is now in its sixth season."
"And you started acting when you were how old?"
"I started in commercials when I was five. I was 'discovered',” he made finger quotes, “by the producers of Teddy's Family when I was six. This is our sixth season."
"That's quite a long time," Gus said. "How long do you foresee yourself playing Teddy?"
Without hesitation Teddy replied: "Forever."
Gus scanned his scribbled notes, looking for questions that might elicit interest, if even from himself. He found none. "How has being famous at such a young age affected you?"
Teddy's eyes met Gus' briefly in the mirror. "Good and bad. It's made me rich. But on the plus side," the boy said, smiling, "it's given me great insight."
"Insight? Into what?"
"People. How people think and what they want. That's what acting's all about...giving people what they want. Making them see what they want to see, feel what they want to feel. It's all about manipulation."
"What do you mean?"
Teddy picked up the paper in front of him. "People want Teddy. Here's the ratings from last week. Teddy's Family, number one. But that was last week. What about this week? What about next week? What if I don't give them the Teddy they want? Ratings will slip. I give them what they want, they tune in and Teddy goes on. Manipulation. But if I don't...what happens to Teddy?"
"Are you concerned with the ratings?"
"I'm very concerned with the ratings," he said solemnly.
"But Teddy's Family has been at or near the top for so long," Gus said, "is seems Teddy could go on for ten more years."
Teddy's reflection stared at Gus. "I'm very concerned with that."
Gus dropped his eyes to his notes. "What do you see yourself doing after Teddy?"
"After Teddy? I can't even see that far."
"Do you see the show going another five years?"
"Yes."
"Do you fear being typecast as Teddy?"
"I am Teddy."
"Let me ask it this way," Gus said, trying to hide the frustration. Actors, athletes...you never got a straight answer. "It seems every child star wants to break away eventually from a character or type they've played before; would you like to do a Broadway play or movie?"
"I can't ever see that happening. Not with Teddy around."
"But in the future..."
"Teddy won't allow it. I'm Teddy. He's me. And people want Teddy."
"And when they don't?"
"Then I'll die with him."
"You mean the show," Gus said. "You feel you won't have a career..."
"I won't have a life until Teddy's dead. But when he dies, so will I."
Gus held his pencil over his notes, stuck in frustration, and peered into the boy's face for answers. And in that moment, in the reflection from the mirror, the make-up which had aged Teddy fifteen years for comic affect seemed quite natural now. And the boy who sat and stared back into the mirror with him suddenly looked like an aging, worried man trapped inside a boy's body. Teddy's voice seemed to deepen in desperation when he repeated:
"When he dies, so will I."
His eyes pleaded with Gus in the mirror and he found himself transfixed...
"Five minutes!"
...until the call brought a darting look of distraction and in that flick-of-an-eye instant the person who spun in the chair with a smile had reverted back from a middle-aged man with the world on his shoulders to a small boy, grinning comically beneath the fake lines.
"Thanks for the interview, Mr. Rogers," Teddy said. “Showtime."
Teddy bounded off the chair and away as the make-up artist rolled her eyes.
"What do you expect us to do, shut down the entire show for one lousy interview?"
Gus had been trying to pin down the producer for over an hour, chasing him from shot to shot, scene to scene...a word here, a sentence there as the blur of production got the most out of Teddy's extensive make-up. Gus thought briefly of trying to assure the man that the interview wouldn't be "lousy," but the conviction was missing.
"I need to spend some time with him."
"Time, time. No, over there, lights! If I could add one percent of all the time wasted here to my life...what exactly do you want?"
"A few hours."
The producer looked to the heavens. "A few hours. Might as well ask for a few years. Everything needs to be shot today and tomorrow."
"You have to break for lunch, don't you?"
"Says who? And keep your voice down, you want everyone to hear? No, I'm kidding, hey, I have a sense of humor, too, you know. Lunch, I don't care about lunch, take your lunch. But longer than lunch it's not up to me."
"Who do I talk to?"
The man pointed to a woman sitting alone in a corner. "Her."
"I'm Gus Rogers, Daily Post." The woman was beautiful, in spite of Gus' age and marital history. She had strawberry-blonde hair, green eyes and a body that screamed twenty-five. Screamed, Gus thought, was not a word he should be thinking upon meeting the woman. "Are you Teddy's...?"
"Aunt," she replied. "Josie Kane."
"Are you the sole...?"
"His legal guardian," she said, clipped. "And only relative. I was told you're doing a story on Teddy and that you might want to see him after hours."
"Who told you that?"
"Teddy."
"Oh, yes," Gus said, looking around foolishly. "I haven't gotten much time with him today."
She had the bored look of apathetic youth, giving nothing. Gus cleared his throat.
"I'd like to take him to lunch today, but I need at least half a day another time. So..." he started, "...is there a time we can...get together?"
Lunch was okayed, and Gus was surprised at his disappointment that Miss Kane would not be joining them. As for the half day, Saturday would be fine. She gave Gus the address and would expect him at 11:30 sharp. She had plans.
Gus kicked himself as he walked away for the excitement he felt at meeting the woman in her home. It would be a brief meeting, probably the last. Maybe not. That one meeting could lead to others. One could always hope. And even at the difference in their ages (one Gus refused to calculate)...well, there was still that same worn-out hope. Gus made sure the address was safely folded inside his wallet.
For the rest of the day Gus simply observed. He'd been on a few sound stages in his days in the Enchanted Kingdom and was not unfamiliar to the routine, enough so that nothing about the industry impressed him anymore. But as in any field it was a pleasure to watch a professional at work. As he aged magically through his twenties, forties, mid-life and past Gus' own age, into his sixties and beyond, Teddy was the center around which all revolved. And in the midst of blown lines, missed cues, starts and stops of equipment and lights, Teddy never dropped a beat. Always prepared, always animated, always in the character of the moment. Gus' admiration for the boy grew. Maybe he was only a kid of twelve but he had the presence of a well-seasoned actor.
Except once.
A childish outburst brought on by the boy wonder himself which stopped production for a good five minutes.
"I don't see why Teddy can't be a little introspective here."
"Intro what?" the director asked.
"As he's aging," Teddy said, "he could be thinking about the direction his life's taking and what he's accomplished. We could do a narrative, a voice-over."
"Kid, this is a comedy show."
"Or earlier, he could have a wife and maybe kids."
"Teddy having kids!"
"Why not? And, along that same line, why can't Teddy start dating."
"Dating? Kid," the director said, putting his arm around the boy. "Teddy dating would be like...like child porn. Everything is fine the way it is. Am I right?" he asked the crew, getting mumbled acquiescence. "And Teddy's just fine the way he is. The ratings prove that. Kid, when Teddy grows up we'll tackle that problem. Let's just pray," he added with a pat on the back, "that never happens. Lunch!"
Teddy stood for a minute, arms folded, as the cast and crew melted away. Gus walked over as Teddy wiped the wrinkles off his face with a towel. When he spoke he was a little boy again. "I guess we're going to lunch."
When Teddy told Gus where he wanted to dine Gus laughed. Then, seeing the boy's face, had a dilemma. Solved with a shrug, he drove to the restaurant and they went inside.
Gus had been to the place a few times, never with kids. It was famous less for its food that its waitresses: girls in well-filled halters and tight black skirts. Athletes would be found there after games, businessmen always, kids almost never. But here was Teddy, wide-eyed. Gus shifted uncomfortable in his seat.
"Coffee," he told the girl, trying to focus on the menu.
"Me, too," Teddy had said, and Gus gave the girl a side-long nod, as if to say: it's okay, he's with me...little man trying to act big.
"No scotch or bourbon?"
"What?"
"I thought all newspapermen drank."
"Not if they want to stay newspaper men. I used to drink. You get older."
"Yeah. I guess some people do."
Teddy stared at a beautiful blonde waitress coming towards them who smiled briefly at him in passing. Teddy turned his head to admire her exit. "Nice. That's why I like this place: the girls are all..."
"Pretty."
"I suppose. I haven't seen any faces yet. Look at that one. Wow."
A tall brunette was squatting to pick something off the floor and the angle revealed the shortness of the skirt and a patch of white satin underneath, and when she turned her tanned breasts were on full display.
"She's hot!"
"You shouldn't be..." Gus started, then realized he was about to sound like his grandfather. But it was too late to stop. "You shouldn't be noticing those things...not yet."
"Why not? They're made to be noticed. Both of 'em."
Gus cleared his throat. "When I was your age all I cared about was baseball."
"Really? When you were my age...I wonder. Well, what do you want to talk about?"
"Your parents," Gus said, and waited. It was an old ploy; shock to catch someone off guard.
"They're dead," the boy answered unemotionally.
"I understand they died when you were young...younger."
Teddy nodded, stirring his glass of water with his fork and watching it swirl. "They got me into the business, of course. My mom more than my dad. She was the one driving me everywhere. He was just along for the ride. When the money started coming in he was happy."
"How did they die?"
"Car accident. L.A.," he added in explanation. "It was the first season of Teddy and we were shooting episode twelve: Teddy's Lost Dog. The shoot was running into lunch--" Teddy smiled slightly, "--the dog kept blowing his lines--so instead of waiting, mom and dad went to their favorite place, had some drinks, and never came back. They were going to pick me up a sandwich and a surprise. I guess I got the surprise."
Gus searched Teddy's face. All expression was lost in the cleavage of the woman coming to take their order. Gus hesitantly ordered a burger, thinking of fat content and Josie Kane. Teddy ordered a ham and Swiss on rye.
"You seem to remember it well," Gus said when she'd gone.
"Like yesterday."
"You must have been pretty young. Six, seven?"
"It was five years ago. You don't forget things like that."
"Then you went to live with your Aunt?"
"Right. Rather, she came to live with me. Hollywood doesn’t move."
"How has that been?"
"Okay. Harder for her."
"Why do you say that?"
"It's hard for her to go out, you know, when guys find out I'm part of the baggage. I don't mind. She probably does."
"How old was she when you came to live with her?"
Teddy shrugged. "I don't know. Twenty-two?"
"So that would make her--"
"About twenty-seven, twenty-eight."
Gus winced inwardly, then noticed the boy was smirking as if he knew what Gus was thinking. He looked back at his notes. "You said something earlier...about expectations people have about you. Do you feel a lot of pressure being the star of a hit show."
"Yeah. A lot. But not how you'd think."
"How?"
Teddy shifted in his seat and took a breath. "People expect me to be Teddy. A lot of people depend on me being Teddy, week in and week out. A lot of people want me to stay Teddy. Because of that, Teddy can't change."
"What do you mean?"
"Teddy can't age."
Gus nodded. "When a child star begins to show his age his show is cancelled or career ruined, that type of thing?"
"Exactly, Kids are cute when they're young. But even Shirley Temple was out of work by sixteen, or nineteen. Something. You get older and it's over."
"But there's nothing you can do about that."
"Isn't there?"
"So you're concerned that when you grow up the show will end."
Teddy shook his head. "You don't understand. No one does. I can't grow up. It all comes down to expectations. Nobody wants Teddy to change so Teddy doesn't change. Now do you understand?"
Gus frowned and leaned back. "No."
"I've been doing some reading about psychology," the boy went on, his voice low but steady. "Group psychology. If a group of people begin telling one individual person over the course of time that they don't look well, it won't be long before that person will begin to feel physically sick, even if nothing is wrong with them. Or if you tell a child that they're stupid over and over they'll begin to believe it and pretty soon their grades will fall. Or tell them they're smart or pretty or whatever. People rise or fall to the level of the expectation presented."
"I've heard something of that sort."
"What if people have other expectations?"
"Such as?"
"Teddy," he said, looking Gus in the eye, "can't change. He hasn't for a long time." His voice began to rise. "He can't go on like that. He'll die. Do you understand yet? And when Teddy dies, so will I!"
Gus tapped his pad with his pencil as Teddy looked around quickly and dropped his eyes. He wondered if he should call someone. A psychiatrist. No, an Aunt. He was used to people talking about themselves in the third person. It was very popular with athletes, actors, others whose ego's were too big for one head. But he'd never interviewed anyone who believed that third person was actually different from themselves. He studied the boy again, looking for signs of a put-on. He couldn't find one, and considered ordering something stronger than coffee.
"What if...?" he began, stopping helplessly.
"I'm trapped," Teddy said. "I'm trapped and I can't get out. There's no escape. The ratings are too high. And if they sink...that's the end. Where do I go from here? Tell me, what do I do?"
Gus shook his head. "You need to talk to someone. Someone you trust."
Teddy snorted. "You don't know the business. Besides, who would care? They only care that I stay Teddy."
"Your Aunt."
"She's too...busy. She thinks it's a stage I’m going through. Pre-adolescent adulthood."
"Why tell me?"
"Because I don't know you," he said, "and you don't know me. You don't want anything from me...except the truth. I have no reason to lie to you. And if anything happens...I want you to tell Aunt Josie."
"If what happens? What are you talking about?"
"Teddy can't live forever," Teddy said quietly. "All those years that have been held back...they'll all hit at once."
"I don't--"
"Excuse me." The waitress had come back with the food, but there was another girl with her, smiling and bending low. "But you look awfully familiar."
Teddy smiled weakly and looked everywhere but her eyes. "I'll bet you say that to all the guys," he said in a very deep voice. Even his face, Gus thought, looked suddenly older.
"You are him, aren't you?"
"If you mean Mister Right, yes I am."
"You're an actor, right?"
"Why? Would you like to make a movie?"
"You're the kid on TV. Teddy!"
Teddy's smile faded, the years faded, and he shrunk back to normal in the booth. "Yup, that's me. The kid."
"I knew it. See, Marie, I told you. Would you sign this for me?"
Teddy took the pen and paper the girl was holding out and sighed at her body. "I'd rather connect the dots..."
And suddenly every waitress in the place was there, snuggling close to take a picture with America's favorite boy, while Teddy, ears full of breasts, smiled without joy as the cameras flashed.
Teddy was silent on the drive back to the studio. Gus had prodded him with a few questions but got short, one-syllable answers in return so he backed off. There was still Saturday, after all. Maybe he could do a series, he thought. A two or three-parter on the psychosis of the child actor. The trials, tribulations and tremendous pressures brought to bear on those ill-equipped to handle them. And the ways they coped with those pressures. Even to the point of escaping reality.
A three-part series, Gus decided as they got out of the car and Teddy went inside the sound stage, would bring some much-needed cash, as well as much-needed credentials. But the money was the big motivator. He followed the boy, not unhappy about the idea.
He watched the taping for a short time but the ensuing article crept in along with more ideas. He escaped out a side door and walked the studio lot. No one looked very happy, he noticed, and he wondered at the similarity of these surroundings and a psych ward. Both dealt with fantasy, both dealt with people who believed the fantasy reality, both just an outstretched hand away. He looked beyond the fence surrounding the studio to the city. Some fans stood clustered, autograph books and cameras in hand. Was the fence there to keep the crazies from getting in, or to keep the crazies from getting out? Which was the true reality?
It was an angle, and every article needed one. Maybe expound on Teddy and his obviously distorted view of life...tie it into the fine line between reality and fantasy. How fame was keeping him from normalcy, how the big dream of Hollywood led many to that fantasy, keeping them from normalcy. Something like that. Not all the pieces were there. He needed inspiration.
He found it in the commissary. He assumed it would come in the form of a cup of hot coffee, but it came in a much nicer container. She was sitting at a table, alone, reading the paper. Josie Kane. He zig-zagged his way through chairs over to her, making sure not to spill on his clothes.
"Mind if I sit down?"
Her youthful face and blue eyes made his heart pound. He wondered, briefly, what those eyes looking back at him were seeing.
"Go ahead."
She returned to her paper as he sat. The Daily Post, of all things.
"That's my paper."
She hummed.
"Anything interesting?"
She shook her head and put it down. "A lot of fluff."
He sipped, nodding, resentful. The Post was trying to be all things to all people and in the process was a lot of nothing. He was all too aware of the fact but did not appreciate hearing it.
"Do you, uh, work, Miss Kane?"
"I'm taking some night classes at UCLA.."
"Studying what?"
She folded the paper and spun it away disdainfully. "Journalism."
Gus sipped and said nothing.
"Aren't you going to give me some advice?" she asked. "Tell me what a great profession I've chosen? How you can help me get my foot in the door...if other doors are opened?”
Gus didn't realize until then how truly young she was. He blinked his eyes a few times for clarity. Hollywood was having its effect.
"I doubt there's anything anyone can tell you...about anything."
Surprisingly, she laughed. "Okay, okay. I’ll stop being a bitch. For a while.”
Gus lifted his cup to her symbolically. "Can I ask you some questions about Teddy?"
She raised her cup in reply.
"Has Teddy ever mentioned how he feels doing the show?"
She shrugged. "Sure. Some days he loves it, some days he hates it."
"He told me he feels a lot of pressure, that he's the one holding the show together."
"As if he doesn't love that," she said. "Teddy loves being the center of attention. All actors do."
"He told me he feels trapped."
"I don't know what that means."
"He said he feels that he can't grow up while he's doing the show."
"He hasn't."
"No, really. He actually feels that the show is keeping him from growing up."
"That's ridiculous," she said. "He's seen and learned more at his age than most people do in a lifetime. If anything, it’s the opposite. Show business has a tendency to cause people to grow up too fast...and stunt their growth from then on. "
Gus nodded. "I guess you're right."
"Actors aren't like real people," she said. "They're always on, always playing a part. It allows them to hide from who they are, or more accurately, who they really aren't."
Her tone gave Gus the impression she'd been led down the yellow brick road by one or two actors herself. But Gus let it go; he had his own fantasy world he wanted to protect.
"I hear tomorrow the show is on location."
Josie Kane nodded. "Santa Monica Pier. They're shooting at the beach for sweeps week. Even Teddy's Family," she added at Gus' confused expression, "could benefit from Hollywood's best bodies in string bikinis."
"Will, uh, you be there?"
The girl smiled very slightly. "I suppose I could use a tan."
Gus gulped down his coffee.
Six a.m. found the crew set and ready and Gus, sans bathing suit, walking on the sand with coffee in hand. The time frame of the scene, the director had told him, was sunset, but the usual factors made it necessary to get out early and finish as soon as possible. Not the least of which was impending lawsuits by disgruntled residents unhappy with movie and television crews having unlimited use of their beach. Gone, Gus thought, looking over a group of unimpressed onlookers, were the days when people welcomed any bone Hollywood had to throw. Like everything else, the world of television had become one large inconvenience.
But Gus had more important things in mind and he found her under a large tent sitting at a table. Teddy and his Aunt, Josie, who was not wearing a string bikini but sweat pants and a sweatshirt. Of course, who knew what was underneath, and the day showed promise of heat.
"Hello," Gus said, looking at Josie.
"Mr. Rogers," Teddy answered. "Welcome to my farewell performance."
"Your what?"
Teddy chuckled. "Of the episode. The beginning and end. Teddy falls off a boat and while unconscious dreams he's aging. Then he's pulled out and revived. Look who I get to have mouth-to-mouth with."
He pointed to a voluptuous blonde wearing Gus' long-awaited string bikini.
"I can't wait for that scene."
"Excuse him," Josie said. "He's a little giddy."
"I wanted to talk more about what you said yesterday, Teddy." Gus said.
"About what?"
"Expectations. Being bound by others..."
Teddy waved his hand theatrically. "That was yesterday. I've reconsidered. I'm a free spirit, born to ride the ratings wave until Teddy's Family wipes out on the big tsunami."
He looked at Josie who rolled her eyes as if to say, I told you. Actors!
A few minutes later the shot was ready. Waves were small, though choppy, and the boat Teddy would fall off of was just beyond any breakers. Josie had gone for coffee and Teddy was about to head for the boat. He extended his hand to Gus.
"It's been nice talking to you."
"We still have Saturday to finish our interview."
Teddy shrugged. "Whatever. I just hope I can make it through this. I don't much like the water. I can't swim." He turned and took a few steps, then turned back. "My birthday's in three days. Guess how old I'll be."
Without waiting for a reply he ran down to the shore.
Gus thought about that for the next ten minutes as he watched Teddy being taken out to the boat. Then Josie Kane came back. She had changed into her bikini. Gus forgot the question.
"I hoped," he stammered, "I could show you and Teddy my appreciation by taking you out to dinner later."
"That's really not necessary."
"I want to," he said. "And, maybe another day, I could take just you..."
Josie Kane looked at Gus curiously, then as comprehension came she touched his arm. "That's sweet." And added as if complimentary: "If only you were thirty years younger."
Which is why neither of them were watching as Teddy fell into the ocean and drowned.
They heard the commotion which ensued and ran quickly to the shore, but in that short a time it was over. Whether there were rip tides in the vicinity was never determined, but there was the spot Teddy fell into, on cue, and there was where he should be. But minutes dragged on and divers dove down and Teddy had somehow disappeared.
The anxious first moments became a heavy lethargy as the endless search went on and people waited with folded arms, disappearing now and then for refreshment. Coast Guard helicopters flew back and forth over the water, soon joined by every news station. But minutes were now hours was now dusk was now over. Cameras packed, trucks loaded, stars went home.
Teddy was gone.
Gus' article turned into an obituary.
Post Script.
It was two months later when Gus called Josie Kane. Respect and fear put off the call until then. "Gus Rogers," he said. There was silence. "The Daily Post."
She remembered, of course, and after stilted greetings Gus said: "I've been thinking a lot about Teddy."
"As have I."
"I never did write that article," he said, opening a folder and taking out an 8 x 10 of Teddy, smiling. "I thought it would have been--"
"Inappropriate?"
"Yes."
"I wish the studio had felt the same way."
Gus paused. Teddy's disappearance caused the show to come to an abrupt halt, and the emotional publicity statement released from the studio made it clear that Teddy's Family was now television history. But the true truth which came out later was that the studio execs had begun a very quiet search during the second week to find a replacement for Teddy. Mercifully nothing came of it and Teddy's Family was thrown into syndication.
"I've been going over my notes," Gus said, "and realized that Teddy had some very bizarre ideas."
"Such as?"
"He felt a lot of pressure was being put on him to remain young."
"Maybe," she said. "Not every show ends because a child star gets older."
"He had this idea...and this will sound crazy...that he couldn't grow up."
"Most men can't."
"No, I mean physically. He felt that people wanting him to stay young kept him from...aging."
"That's crazy," she said. "Look, Mr. Rogers..."
"Gus."
"Teddy loved putting people on. Don't forget, Teddy was an actor."
"Meaning?"
"To actors everything's a scene, everything's dramatic. They say and do things normal people don't. I'm not saying Teddy liked to lie, but he did it often enough. Maybe he did have fears that by getting older the show would suffer. He never mentioned them to me."
"No, it was the opposite. He was afraid the show would keep going and he wouldn't have a chance to get older."
"Do you know how silly that sounds?"
Gus frowned. Unfortunately, he did. And it probably wasn't getting him any closer to Josie Kane. "You're right." He forced a laugh. "I guess I've been in Hollywood too long."
"Then you should know better," she said. "Well, I have to go. It was nice..."
"Can you tell me," Gus said, "before you go: how old was Teddy?"
"Not big on research, are you Mr. Rogers?"
"He told me he started the show when he was six, and in its sixth season it would make him--"
"Twelve. I guess that's about right."
"How old was he when you became his guardian?"
"Seven, eight. I remember throwing him his...eighth, that’s right, his eighth birthday party right around that time.”
"Are you sure?”
“That’s what the cake said.”
“Can you find out? Do you have his birth certificate?"
"I really have to go."
"Please."
"Oh, all right. I have it somewhere in my files...here it is." There was a rustling of paper on the other end. "No...this must be wrong. Has to be a mistake."
"What?"
"The year he was born. That can't be right. That would make him..."
She told Gus the date. He picked up the picture of Teddy, dated early that year. A boy of ten, eleven, twelve at the outside. But according to the date on the birth certificate it was a man of twenty-two.
"I'm sure it's a mistake," she said. “Obviously, it is. Besides, this isn't the original, just a copy of an abstract. And a blurry one at that. But I'll check into it and call you."
Knowing he could find out for himself, Gus quickly supplied his phone number.
"The only thing stranger than that," she said before hanging up, "is how he died."
"What do you mean?"
"In the water. Teddy could swim like a fish. He'd be in the pool at least once a week, and always trying to scare me."
"How?"
"Typical kid," she said. "He'd stay under water for so long I'd think something was wrong and find him floating like he was dead. He thought that was pretty funny. Not too funny now, though."
"He told me," Gus said, "that he couldn't swim."
"That’s Teddy for you," she said, and it was the last words Gus ever heard from Josie Kane.
Gus stared at the picture in front of him. A mistake. And an accident. And a case of a journalist wanting to hang onto a story that was long gone. As was the girl.
He spun the picture onto his desk and went to lunch.
Post Post Script.
Almost two years later Gus was at the same desk working on a story about the high rate of unemployment in the movie industry and the latest looming actor’s strike and the irony wasn't lost; his employment depending on their lack of same. It had been a weary day of talking to bus boys and waitresses and cab drivers all awaiting their big break and he'd been glad to get back to the sanity of his desk. He sifted through the day's mail, discarding bills, tossing ads. He stopped at a postcard, but it wasn't, really. Someone had taken a photo and adhered paper to the back, drawn a line through the center, put on a stamp. The picture was a young couple holding a baby with large trees looming on the surrounding mountains. Montana, Colorado, perhaps, though the postmark was Los Angeles. Probably Universal Studios, he thought, turning it over. The woman was brunette, somewhat plain, plaid shirt. The man early twenties, slight beard, plaid shirt. Both smiling, both waving. Gus couldn’t place them in his family or lineage. Distant relatives, perhaps? Hard to remember. But there was something familiar in the man's smile.
He turned the card over again. Gus Rogers, c/o The Daily Post. The message was only one sentence, and he read it with anxiety and fear and guilt and even some satisfied joy.
Teddy's Family, now in its second season.