The Woman in Black

by Erik Tarloff

But after Sally brought out the lamb and the mashed potatoes and the Brussels sprouts and we started passing ’em around, that’s when Steve started in on the TV show Chance had been on. How stupid it was and how bad it was and what a load of crap it was. He actually used the word “crap,” which was pretty shocking, since Steve didn’t approve of cussing. He even said things like “h-e-double hockey sticks” instead of that other word. As if that somehow made him a good person!

  Well, Chance just shrugged. “No one has to like it,” he said. Not getting riled.

  And, look, he surely knew what Steve was up to. I think he just wanted to stay as calm as possible for as long as possible, if only to make it clear who was responsible for any dust-up that might erupt. “You can like it or not,” he said. “It’s a free country.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “Thanks for the permission. I don’t like it. No one in his right mind could like it.”

  And Chance shrugged again.

  Chance’s shrugging like that was probably more obnoxious to Steve than if he’d yelled. After all, getting him mad was what Steve was all about that night. So he tried something else. “Did they fire you? Is that why you ain’t on the show anymore? Couldn’t cut it?”

  “Nope,” is all Chance said.

  You have to understand that the rest of us were watching all this without a peep. And without moving a muscle. No one was eating, no one except Earl, who was chewing away without a care in the world. But no one else was stirring. We were barely breathing. It was all too nerve-wracking.

  And Steve went on, “Not that it matters if you were fired or not. Doesn’t signify. Those idiots in New York, those Jews and fairies, they don’t have a clue what’s good entertainment and what isn’t.” See, all of a sudden he was an expert. “They think they’re so much better than us, when they’re…I mean, they’re just a bunch of—” and then he used some words I don’t care to repeat. Not swear words, not like “crap” and “damn,” but, you know, slurs about groups of people and other things you’re not supposed to say out loud. No true Christian should say things like that. It’s not just rude, it’s unkind.

  So there was this long tense wait. Dead quiet. You could hear the traffic outside coming from the major road all the way at the end of their block. People were looking down at their plates ’cause they didn’t know where else to look. Nobody wanted to meet anyone else’s eyes, that’s for darn sure. Things had gone way beyond our being able to pretend everything was okay. The dinner was ruined.

  And please understand, we may not have been too enlightened back then in our little town, things have changed a lot in the years since, a colored man even ran for president not too long ago, for the nomination I mean, that Jesse Jackson person, and I surely would never have voted for him, I didn’t take to him at all and besides, I would never vote for anyone from that party of giveaways, but he ran and the world didn’t crumble to pieces or anything…but the point is, even sixty years ago you didn’t have to be too enlightened to know you just don’t say some things. You could think them—I’m sure plenty of people did—but it was shocking to hear that kind of language at the dinner table.

  And of course we all could see what Steve was up to. He had a goal, you know? He wanted to get a rise out of Chance, and he was going to keep pushing until he succeeded. The only thing I don’t know to this day was whether he was mainly trying to ruin the evening for Chance or for Sally. But the truth is, it was kind of a bank shot. You hit one, you’ve taken out the other at the same time. I snuck a glance at my sis. She looked like she wanted to disappear. Her lower lip was trembling. She didn’t have it in her to be mad, though, only to be miserable.

  And then Chance said something like—and his voice was still quiet, nice and even and steady; he wasn’t going to give Steve the satisfaction of getting him to shout—he said, “You know, Steve, I assume you’re already aware of this, it can’t come as news to you, but just to be clear, you’re behaving like a tremendous asshole.” Those were pretty much his exact words, a nicely composed, kind of complex sentence. Chance was always a good talker when he chose to talk at all. And what he said now made us all…I mean, we just gasped. Everybody at the table. No one ever said things like that to Steve. It was, you could almost say it was unthinkable. Until, like so many unthinkable things, until they happen, then all of a sudden they aren’t unthinkable anymore. Steve himself was so startled he didn’t have a ready comeback, so Chance went on, “I mean, look, I’m in town to visit my mom and my sister and my aunt and uncle. You really didn’t figure in my plans at all, you were just part of the package. Not an especially appealing part either. So if you’re not happy being here tonight, if you have a problem with the company, why don’t you fuck off? Trust me, you won’t be missed.”

  You’ll have to pardon my French there, Mr. Frost. I’m not comfortable with that kind of language myself, it’s how I was brought up, ladies didn’t talk like that back then and neither did gentleman for that matter, but I’m trying to tell you what Chance said to Steve, and I believe the words he used counted in this situation. I surely haven’t forgotten them. And I have to tell you, shocked as I was, offended as I maybe even was, I also…some part of me wanted to applaud. It was about time somebody talked back to Steve, put a spoke in his wheels. He was such a bully, and we were all afraid of him. It’s hard to say what we were afraid of—he wasn’t physically abusive so far as I know, and while he may have spanked Dotty if she was naughty, I don’t believe he ever struck Sally or anything of that nature—but there was just something menacing about the man. So then, into that silence—and the room wasn’t exactly silent, since it still seemed to be echoing with what Chance had just said, the sound waves seemed to be bouncing off the walls—Dotty laughed. That was a mistake on her part, but she most likely couldn’t help herself. Partly nervousness, partly delight.

  Well, she was a much easier target than Chance, of course. By now Steve obviously had come to the conclusion that Chance was no pushover, that he could give back at least as good as he got. So he wheeled around on Dorothy. “Go to your room!” he said.

  “Uh uh,” Chance said. “Don’t pay him any mind, honey. You stay right here.”

  “Butt out! She’s my daughter and she’ll do what I say.”

  “Not this time. Nope.”

  Steve stood up. Suddenly. Violently. That was really scary. It rattled every dish on the table. And almost immediately, Chance stood up too, and they were facing off across the table. Sally had already begun to cry, and Dorothy turned pale pretty much instantly, and after a second or two she started to cry as well. Earl looked confused. He started to say something—probably to ask what was happening—but I shushed him. I said, “Not now, Earl.” And he minded me, as he tended to do at that stage of his life. Meanwhile, the two fellas stared each other for what seemed like minutes, although it probably wasn’t even a single minute. And finally Steve said, “Get out of my house.”

  “Right,” Chance said. “I plan to. After I’ve finished my supper.” And at that he sat down again and quietly started eating. And a second or two later he said, “By the way, Mom, this lamb is delicious. I’ll probably want seconds.”

  Well, it was funny—no one laughed, mind you, we weren’t in a laughing situation—but it was funny how Steve just couldn’t figure out what to do next. He stood there watching Chance eat, and you could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to come up with his next move. He couldn’t use force—Chance could probably take him if things actually got physical, and would likely have jumped in if he’d tried to get rough with Dotty—and more yelling and growling wasn’t going to accomplish anything. So he was standing there fuming and looking ridiculous, and Chance was casually eating his lamb, and in spite of having made all those threatening noises Steve didn’t have any way of coming out on top in this little battle of wills. So he finally plopped himself down in his chair again.

  And then Chance rubbed it in a
little. It was mischievous of him, maybe even a little spiteful, but I couldn’t find it in my heart to blame him. He said, “Say, Steve, could you please pass the sauce?” It was clever…Steve could either do what Chance asked or look like a petulant child. There was no third choice. So he grunted and passed the dish with the sauce. “And the wine, while you’re at it? But go ahead and pour a little for yourself first. It’s good stuff. You should try it.” Chance was enjoying himself, you see. He was kind of…kind of spiking the ball, you might say. “And Mom, you really should have a sip. You’ll thank me. Right, Mary?”

  And now I had the guts to say, “Absolutely. It’s scrumptious.” Chance was so merry about standing up to Steve, it was contagious.

  Dorothy Goren Mckenzie

  So right after that awful dinner, one of the worst meals of my life let me say, when Chance was about to leave with Mary and Earl, after giving our mom a hug and a kiss, and waving good-bye to my dad with a big grin, saying “Thanks for dinner, Steve, it was swell,” he got to me. He was going to give me a little pat and a kiss on the cheek, but I couldn’t stand to see him go. I really couldn’t stand it. He’d be gone in the morning, I knew that, and I’d really fallen in love with him this visit. He’d become, he’d almost become a mainstay in my life. Yeah, that fast. He was the first person I ever felt I could talk to and be understood. So I threw my arms around him and I held him tight. I was crying again. I’d cried earlier a little, when he and Daddy were going at it, but now I was really sobbing, getting his shirt all wet and everything, and I said, “Please, Chance, take me with you. Please. Let me come with you. I won’t be any trouble.”

  He was startled. So was everybody else in the room, needless to say. There was a moment when no one knew what to say. And then he stepped back and looked me in the eye and he said, “Come out to the porch.” So the two of us went outside—it was a lovely warm night—leaving everybody to wonder what was happening, and he shut the door behind us and he said, “Look, honey, you know I can’t do that. I wish I could, but I just can’t. It isn’t practical, and it probably isn’t legal. And what would I do with you?”

  “But I could even be helpful,” I said. I was kind of pleading. Willing to say anything. “I can clean house for you and maybe even cook while you’re out trying to be an actor, going to try-outs and things. Are they called try-outs?”

  “They’re called auditions.” He was smiling, but then he frowned and said, “I’m sorry, baby, but it’s just not going to happen. It can’t. Mom would never forgive either of us, that’s one thing, and I can’t be responsible for you that way. I’ve got my own struggles to get through. And like I said, it’s also probably against the law.”

  “But I hate it here!”

  “I know. I know you do. I did too. So here’s what you need to do. Stick it out and finish high school. Work hard, get good grades. It might seem like graduation is a long way off, but then all of a sudden, before you know it, you’ll be marching down the aisle to Elgar.” I didn’t interrupt him to ask what that was. He said, “And then go away to college. Pick one as far away as possible. College’ll change everything. It did for me.”

  “But you quit.”

  “I had a good reason to. You won’t. And besides, I got a lot from it while I was there. So go to college and never look back. Okay? You’ll be done with this town and these people for good. You’ll be free. And able to decide for yourself what you want next.”

  And that was it. He left for LA early the next morning. Really early. Aunt Mary told me he was already gone by the time she got downstairs. But he’d brewed a pot of coffee for her before he left.

  HOLLYWOOD

  Gil Fraser (roommate)

  I’d put ads up on various bulletin boards around town. “Actor seeks roommate for two-bedroom apt. in West Hollywood. Split rent, food, utilities. Easygoing a requirement.” The fellow who’d been sharing the place with me had finally given up and gone back to…to wherever. Kansas or Iowa or Sweden or wherever he was from. He came out to Hollywood, like all of us, to make it in the business, but he got discouraged fast. I don’t think he was hungry enough to put in the time or put up with the rejection. Good-looking guy, I’m sure his friends must have told him he looked like a movie star, so he figured, what the hell, what have I got to lose, nothing much else going on in my life, I’ll give it a shot. And then it didn’t happen right away and he got discouraged. But the truth is, coming out here to be a star is a mug’s game. Every guy and gal who makes the move is probably better looking than you, even if you’re the best-looking person ever to come out of wherever you come from. Which isn’t true of me, by the way. As no doubt goes without saying. I never hoped I’d be a star, I just wanted to act. No glamour boy aspirations.

  But anyhow, the thing is, if you’re smart, you come out here for the experience and ’cause you care about the work itself. If you can make a successful career, great, but if not, you’re part of this world, you’ve got friends who care about the same stuff you do, you take classes, you do small theater productions, you audition for commercials, you eat all sorts of shit, but you keep going for it. This dude, my ex-roommate, I don’t think he cared much for acting as such. He was a good guy and a hassle-free roommate, we got along fine, but he didn’t have the…what’s the cliché? The fire in his belly. It was just a single throw of the dice for him. Snake eyes!

  I was living in this pretty nice two-bedroom in West Hollywood at the time. Much nicer than my situation warranted. I was barely scraping along. West Hollywood wasn’t incorporated yet, of course—it was just a neighborhood. And not even a happening neighborhood. Middle-class, a little staid. Lots of single-family houses, many more houses than apartments at that time. The gays were maybe just starting to move in, it didn’t have that vibe yet. Couple of bric-a-brac shops along Santa Monica around San Vicente had already opened, but that was just the thin edge of the wedge. The wedge itself was still a few years away. My building was on Holloway, a couple blocks west of La Cienega. Near the Strip, but you weren’t too conscious of the Strip unless you walked up there. It was pretty quiet on Holloway. Stretches of it hadn’t even been developed yet. There were still some big empty lots. It wasn’t far from where Sal Mineo was murdered, but that was a long way in the future.

  The rent was reasonable. They probably could have charged twice as much and gotten away with it, but luckily for me they didn’t seem to know that. Still, I couldn’t afford the place all by myself. And I didn’t need two bedrooms anyhow. But I didn’t want to move—apartment hunting and moving are such a miserable business—and I liked the apartment, and the location was super convenient. Near the canyons, near Hollywood. Every studio a short drive away, short by LA standards. So I advertised for a roommate. Always a risk, but when you’re young, you’re willing to take risks. A number of people answered the ads. But there were two things about Chance that made me decide on him. One is that he was an actor too, and a struggling one. He told me he’d been in a soap in New York for a few months, but, you know, that didn’t cut a lot of ice in this town. He’d be starting cold for all practical purposes. So we’d have that in common, could talk about what we were going through, run lines with each other before an audition, consult about approaches to parts, that sort of thing. And the other—[laughs]—this doesn’t speak well for me, maybe, but the thing is…see, he was so fucking handsome, I immediately thought, my very first thought, was, hell, if we go out for a beer or something, the girls will swarm around him like flies, and if I’m in the vicinity, maybe I’ll be able to choose among the rejects. [laughs] Pretty piggish, I know, but hell, this was the fifties. Everyone was piggish in the fifties. And not just guys. Women too. Piggish wasn’t even a category. And you know, we were young then, we were horny, we were hungry, we were pretty much slaves to all sorts of unruly appetites. And this was LA, there was all this pussy around. It was like a candy store. We wanted some of that candy. And when I say “we” I mean me, of course. And
like I say, it’s not like I’m proud of this, I’m just telling you how it was.

  Chance liked the apartment, and we came to terms right away. None of this “let me think about it” bullshit. I helped him move his stuff in. He didn’t have a car back then—he’d driven out to California in some flivver he’d bought for the purpose, but it had apparently died soon after he got here—so I went over to the fleabag near Skid Row where he’d been staying and drove him and his stuff back to the apartment. We managed it in one go. He didn’t have a lot to his name back then.

  I told him right away he’d need a car in LA. Can’t really manage without one. He said he was aware of that. He had a little money saved from the show he’d been on, enough to keep his head above water for a few months and definitely enough to buy a used car to replace the heap he’d driven out in. It was the first item on his to-do list after finding a place to live.

  That first night, I told him dinner was on me. A sort of welcome-aboard gesture. We walked down to Barney’s Beanery, a few blocks down the hill from the apartment. The walk back up was a lot tougher than the walk down, I can tell you that, especially with a few drinks in us. Anyway, once we got there, it was the usual scene, noisy, bikers and musicians and tourists and Hollywood fringe types all thrown together, guys playing pool, the jukebox blaring, people jabbering. Chance took a look around and said to me, “Good choice, Gil.” Big grin on his face. He was thrilled to be there, entranced by the atmosphere. It was like, “Hey, I’m really in Hollywood!” Or maybe, “Hey, I’m sure as fuck not in Kansas anymore!” Or maybe even, “Sure glad not to be in New York!” I don’t think he’d lived there for very long, maybe a year, but he seemed happy to be gone. Because, you know, that’s how the world divides: people who love New York—I guess that’s the hip position—and people who can’t stand it, at least over the long haul. Chance was in the second camp. He was hip enough not to worry about being hip.