The Bridge Across Forever: A True Love Story

"What's that?"

She looked up. "The telephone number of the Writers' Guild."

"You know the number?"

"M-hm."

"How come you know it?"

"I know lots of numbers." She went back to the proposal.

"What does that mean, 'I know lots of numbers'?"

"I just know lots of numbers," she said sweetly.

"What if I wanted to call . . . Paramount Studios?" I said suspiciously.

"Four six three, oh one hundred."

I squinted at her, sideways. "A good restaurant?"

"Magic Pan's good. It has a no-smoking section. Two seven four, five two two two."

777

I reached for a telephone book, turned to a listing. "Screen Actors Guild," I said.

"Eight seven six, three oh three oh." She was right.

I began to understand. "You haven't . . . Leslie, the script yesterday, you don't have a photographic memory, do you? You haven't memorized . . . the entire telephone book?"

"No. It's not a photographic memory," she said. "I don't see, I just remember. My hands remember numbers. Ask me for a number and watch my hands."

I opened the huge book, turned pages.

"City of Los Angeles, Office of the Mayor?"

"Two three three, one four five five."

The fingers of her right hand moved as though she were dialing a push-button telephone in reverse, taking numbers off instead of putting them in.

"Dennis Weaver, the actor."

"One of the sweetest human beings in Hollywood. His home number?"

"Yes."

"I promised I'd never give it out. How about The Good Life, his wife's health-food store?"

"OK."

"Nine eight six, eight seven five oh."

I looked up the number; of course she was right again. "Leslie, you're scaring me!"

"Don't be scared, wookie. It's just a funny thing that happens with me. I memorized music when I was little, and every license plate in town. When I came to Hollywood, I memorized scripts, dance routines, phone numbers, schedules, conversations, anything. The number of your pretty yellow jet airplane is N One Five Five X. Your hotel number

is two seven eight, three three four four; you are staying in room two one eight. When we left the studio last night you said, 'Remind me to tell you about my sister in show business.' I said, 'Can I remind you now?' and you said, 'I think you might as well because I really want to tell you about her.' I said, 'Do I know . . .'" She broke off remembering and laughed at my astonishment. "You're looking at me as if I'm a freak, Richard."