Divas Do Tell

by Virginia Brown

  “I still haven’t figured that one out. Unless she’s referring to my junior high biology teacher. I did have a crush on him all through seventh grade.”

  We both turned to look at Dixie Lee where she sat on a chair in front of the parlor fire. “She may be delusional, but I don’t think she’s dangerous,” I mused aloud.

  “I do,” said Bitty. “Billy Joe’s suicide isn’t the last tragedy we’ll see.”

  “Forever, or just in the next twenty-four hours?”

  “Not forever, Trinket. But I’m willing to bet there’s going to be a lot more trouble before this movie is finished.”

  I must be rubbing off on Bitty. Sometimes she’s absolutely psychic.

  SINCE BITTY HAD given up her acting career—a loss Hollywood must still be mourning—we had been invited to sit on the sidelines to watch filming if we wished. It wasn’t my wish, but Bitty loved to be mingling with the famous. I reluctantly gave in to her request that I accompany her. In other words, she bribed or blackmailed me into going along.

  Two days after Billy Joe’s suicide we sat in folding chairs watching as the crew set up for the next scene being shot. This was the scene in which Sharona falls for Joe Don. Mira Waller, a young lady of twenty who looked to be about thirteen played Sharona. She was exquisite. Her features were perfect, her skin a lovely brown that glowed with youth. If Susana looked anything like Mira, it was no wonder Billy Joe had fallen in love with her. Or at the least, seduced her. Under the lights, caught up in her role, Mira was sweet, innocent, excruciatingly tempting.

  Once the scene ended, her lovely face settled into a permanent pout of discontent. It was as if a curtain had been drawn. Her chin tilted arrogantly, she was rude to the crew, rude to the other actors, rude to everyone but the director. She flounced over to her trailer, a small metal turtle of an RV parked on the fringe of the set. When a fan tried to talk to her she brushed past her with a sharp word, opened the door to her trailer, and slammed it behind her.

  “There goes an ego bigger than China,” said Sandra Brady with a lift of her eyebrows.

  “She hides it well,” Bitty drawled, and they both laughed.

  “Well, she is very pretty,” I said after a moment. “But she swears like a riverboat captain. I heard her on the phone. At first I thought she was just a kid, and I was horrified. Then I saw who she was.”

  Sandra nodded. “It’s like opening a pretty package and finding it full of mud, isn’t it?”

  “Or cow poop,” said Bitty. When Sandra gave her a strange look she said, “My cousins used to put cow patties in paper bags and leave them on the front porch of someone they didn’t like. Then they’d set the bags on fire so when they came out to stomp out the fire—cow poop all over their feet.”

  “Don’t let her kid you,” I said as Sandra started laughing. “It wasn’t my brothers who did that—it was me and Bitty. A girl we went to school with was being mean, so we waited until she was at home by herself, filled up the sack with patties from our fields—we had lots of cows back then—and put it right outside the front door and lit it on fire. She came out, screamed bloody murder and started stomping on it. Of course, we were laughing so hard by the time she realized what had happened that she told her parents, who told our parents, and we were grounded for two weeks.”

  “What happened to the girl who’d been mean to you?”

  “She went on to be class valedictorian,” I answered. “But Bitty and I watched two full weeks of TV shows like Bewitched and The Lucy Show during our unfortunate incarceration.”

  “That’s who you remind me of,” Sandra said with a snap of her fingers. “Lucy and Ethel.”

  “Better than the Three Stooges, I guess. Although we must have seemed like them in Booker’s.”

  “It was an accident,” said Bitty. “I just wanted to add a little extra to the scene.”

  Sandra patted her on the arm. “That’s all right. I think Simon overreacted. No one was hurt, and you paid for the broken butter churns. It wasn’t as bad as all that.”

  “Oh lord,” I said. “Did you see what happened?”

  Sandra shook her head. “No, I was at Montrose. They were marking out a scene for Darcy. It was on the blooper reel, though.”

  “Blooper reel?” Bitty squeaked, and Sandra nodded.

  “I laughed for fifteen minutes. You two were hysterical.”

  Bitty sighed. “It would have been lovely if it’d worked out. Maybe my real talent is here, though. I’m on so many committees, and then there are our Diva meetings. You will come, won’t you? It’s at my house this time. It’ll be a nice break from the movie business.”

  Sandra hesitated. “Production is usually so demanding, you know. Long hours, so many takes that require a great deal of focus, but—well, yes, I’m sure I can come to a meeting if it’s when we’re taking a break from shooting.”

  Once Sandra had gone to make-up for her next shot I looked at Bitty and said, “We just had a Diva meeting last week. What are you doing?”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Trinket. This is a special meeting. All the Divas are just dying to meet her anyway, and it’ll be a good opportunity for Rose Allgood to spend time with her, too.”

  “Rose spent time with her two nights ago when Dixie Lee pitched her hissy fit, remember? She brought the box of cupcakes with those horrible little candy things on top of them.”

  “Oh yes, I remember those. Strange little misshaped hearts like Gummy Bears were on top. They were pretty tasty.”

  For a moment I didn’t know what to say, but then I explained gently, “Bitty, honey, those weren’t misshaped hearts. Remember the stiff little knobs on top? Think about it a moment. The cupcakes were baked for Rose’s side of the shop . . . she sells certain toys for adults. Those were left over from a promotion . . .”

  It took a moment, but I saw awareness hit, and then Bitty’s eyes got wide. “Good lord! I ate two of those obscene things.”

  I patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll be okay. Now come on. It’s going to rain, and I want to be inside somewhere.”

  “We’ll go to my house. I have wine that’s already chilled.”

  There’s something lovely about being inside by a fire on a cold winter afternoon when rain hits the windows, and I’m all cuddled up with a glass of wine. Bitty and I sat in her parlor once again, lazily going over all the gossip we’d picked up on the movie set.

  “Mira Waller has a reputation with the production crew, it seems,” said Bitty as she patted Chen Ling atop her furry little head. “Abby doesn’t like her at all. She’s quite a prima donna.”

  “Ever since her last movie was such a blockbuster she’s been in a lot of demand. So much fame for someone so young has gone to her head. She probably doesn’t know how to handle it.”

  “Someone needs to tell her.”

  I peered at Bitty over my wine glass. “Don’t let that someone be you. Stay out of it.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Trinket, I have no intention of doing anything like that. I’m content to stay on the sidelines and just watch. It’s almost like having front row seats at Entertainment Tonight or one of those shows.”

  “Almost. I noticed that Dixie Lee hasn’t been showing up the past two days. Cady Lee said she’s just staying in her room. Billy Joe’s suicide hit her pretty hard.”

  “Allison Cramer made a lot of noise over it, said Billy Joe would never kill himself and that she’s going to sue Dixie Lee for millions of dollars for driving him to it. I don’t think she even realized that she contradicted herself. Connie told me about it while I was getting my hair done this morning. I’m nearly rid of the burned frizz. She slathered on the conditioner and did a hot oil treatment.”

  “Really?” I mulled that over. Allison Cramer was Billy Joe’s wife. The morning paper had quoted her as saying their marriage wasn’t per
fect, but they weren’t getting divorced. He’d had no reason to kill himself, she claimed. Not until Dixie Lee’s book came out and the movie came to town.

  “Yes, really,” Bitty said. “You should get Connie to condition your hair, Trinket. I don’t know what she uses, but it’s wonderful. And the hot oil treatment does wonders.”

  “I was referring to Allison Cramer, not your hairdresser. And I can’t afford her anyway.” I put my hand up to my hair. “I don’t have split ends, either. It just gets flyaway in the weather sometimes.”

  “You don’t need to be so defensive. As for Allison, she and Billy Joe have been back and forth at each other for years. One time she got so mad at him she took a shot at him, and he ran out of the house so quick he forgot his pants. So there’s Billy Joe, standing out on the sidewalk in boxers with red hearts on them yelling back at Allison, and along come the garbage men. Well, those dogs of his just love to chase the garbage men, so one of them got out of the fence and tore off after the poor worker as he’s trying to dump Billy Joe’s garbage. The worker started yelling and jumped up on his truck, Billy Joe tried to grab the dog, and somehow the garbage can fell off the truck and landed right on Billy Joe and the dog. By the time the police got there, three more dogs had gotten out of the fence and were rooting through all that trash like pigs looking for truffles. The whole street was a mess.”

  Fascinated, I asked, “So what happened after the police got there?”

  “Oh, they just told Billy Joe to clean up his yard and put up his dogs, and if they saw him outside without his drawers again they were going to arrest him.”

  “Sometimes I think there’s more entertainment at home than there could ever be in Hollywood.”

  Bitty nodded. “You might be right. So what should we do about Dixie Lee?”

  “Do? Nothing, I imagine. What do you think we should do?”

  “Well, I guess we can just wait for someone to run her over with a car or something.”

  “You’re a bloodthirsty little thing lately. Why don’t we just hope for the best?”

  “Oh, Trinket, we can hope for the best, but we know that there are some people who just invite bad things to happen. It’s like they send out monogrammed invitations.”

  I thought about that on my way home to feed the furry flocks. Bitty was right. No matter what precautions were taken, far too often some people attracted trouble. Usually it was me and Bitty. This time I had the feeling that Dixie Lee might be the one to send out those invitations.

  The interview with Dixie Lee was held at Bitty’s house, mainly because she wanted to be part of the whole thing, and Miranda Watson agreed. I helped her prepare tea and snacks. Sandra was coming from a shoot at Montrose and would be in period clothes and probably hungry since it was the lunch break—not something movie people often do, I discovered. They eat on the run.

  I picked up a can. “Are these nuts for Dixie Lee? You know she has a peanut allergy, right?”

  Bitty smiled as she pulled a cheese and veggie tray as big as a sedan out of the state-of-the-art refrigerator. “Yes. I know. She doesn’t have to eat any. Do you think all this will be enough, Trinket?”

  “You mean to go with the petit fours, Hummingbird Cake, pimento cheese finger sandwiches, sweet tea, hot tea, coffee, and Jack Daniel’s? Maybe. After all, there are going to be four of us here.”

  “I just like to be prepared. I’d rather have too much than too little.”

  I looked around at her house, a statement in the “too much” category. “You succeed in that quite admirably, Bitty.”

  “Good.” She smoothed her hands over her little apron, an accessory I’d never seen her wear before, and said, “Sandra Brady probably lives in a multi-million dollar house overlooking the Pacific. I don’t want her to think we live like white trash here.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be suitably impressed.”

  Bitty eyed me. “I’m not trying to impress her. I’m just trying to make her feel comfortable. Lord knows, Dixie Lee didn’t exactly give that impression in the book.”

  I immediately understood. Dixie Lee had made it sound like a much younger Bitty had no taste and decorated her home in the Early Hoarder style. It’d been one of the unnecessary things she’d written about Barbie, aka Bitty.

  “Every person who comes through your door is made to feel comfortable,” I assured her. “You’re not one to be ungracious to your guests. Even when provoked.”

  There has been a time or two that someone has provoked her, but Bitty had played the Southern Belle part to perfection and put them in their place without them even realizing it until later, when they must have wondered exactly how she’d meant what she’d said to them. It’s a neat trick that I haven’t mastered, but I wish I could. Insulting someone with a smile and a backhanded compliment is the bastion of social survival.

  “I had to beg Sharita to make up a batch of Mama’s pimento cheese,” Bitty said distractedly. “It was a trade-off. I let her use Mama’s recipe for the movie people, and she shared the pimento cheese with me.”

  I was a little shocked. “You shared Aunt Sarah’s recipe with movie people?”

  Bitty looked horrified. “Only with Sharita. But she won’t give it to anyone else. Sharita is trustworthy that way.”

  Aunt Sarah’s pimento cheese recipe is coveted by half of Holly Springs and probably all of the garden club members. It’s worlds away from the pimento cheese sold in small plastic containers. Ingredients for just one small batch cost well over thirty dollars. I have no idea what her secret is, but once you’ve eaten it you never go back to mass produced stuff willingly.

  “It’s a good thing you have Sharita,” I said. “Otherwise, all Aunt Sarah’s recipes would have been lost to the world.”

  “I know. I’m going to leave them to my daughter-in-law one day.” Bitty no longer pretends she can cook. A recipe might as well be written in Mayan code if she’s expected to read it.

  “You don’t have a daughter-in-law.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, Brandon and Clayton will marry eventually. They have to finish college first.”

  Bitty had her twin sons late in life, right before her thirtieth birthday. Back in those days girls got married right out of high school or college, had babies, and focused on making homes, gardening, charity events, and generally doing what was expected by our parents. Our generation had been on the cusp of women’s liberation as well as Civil Rights. I’d gotten involved in sit-ins for peace, saving whales, picking up litter, and a few other causes as well. My parents had been horrified. Their horror was only slightly mitigated by my marriage to a fellow protestor, whereupon I embarked upon a career of keeping us financially solvent while he rambled happily from job to job across the country. I’ve since regretted the lack of foresight in choosing a mate solely on the appeal of washboard abs. It wasn’t his fault. It was good for the first year, okay for the next three years, and after the birth of our daughter I held on just because I wanted her to know her father. Once she left home we’d divorced by mutual consent. No fireworks, no angst, just synchronized relief.

  Contrary to Bitty’s lively, occasionally headline-producing marriages and divorces. She’s always made a big fuss with everything, including a simple interview.

  “I’m sure your prospective daughter-in-laws will appreciate your kindness,” I said instead of laughing. “So what time are your guests due?”

  “Dixie Lee is due here in a few minutes. So is Miranda. Sandra will get here as soon as she can. It depends on how the filming is going, of course.”

  Miranda Watson arrived first. I wasn’t at all surprised to see her pig tucked under her arm, but it annoyed Bitty and her pug to no end, I knew that. I sensed imminent disaster.

  “Miranda,” I said as I showed her to the formal living room, “we’re so glad you could come.”

 
Bustling inside, she smiled back at me and shifted her pig to a more comfortable position. She’s a large woman even after a recent weight loss, and her bleached blonde hair was tortured into a careful bob that could probably withstand hurricane-force winds. I think she mimics Bitty as much as possible. Bitty is convinced Miranda is bent on ridicule. There’s a fifty-fifty chance we’re both right.

  “You know I’m always glad to interview Holly Springs’ most talked-about residents,” Miranda said as she seated herself in a graceful Louis XVI chair with an alarming creak of old wood. She plopped her purse on the floor next to the Turkish ottoman.

  Chen Ling gazed sullenly at the pig sitting in Miranda’s lap. The pig gazed back, unruffled by the stare. She’s really cute, in a porcine kind of way, all pink with a turned up nose, funny little pointed ears, and tiny cloven hooves. Miranda stroked the pig’s blush-colored head.

  Before I could offer her refreshments the doorbell rang again. Accompanied by a yodeling pug, I went to the door since Bitty had returned to the kitchen. Dixie Lee breezed in, dressed to the nines, smiling as she trotted into the living room on six-inch heels. Then she stopped short, staring at Miranda in horror.

  “What is that?” she asked, and pointed to Chitling.

  “This,” replied Miranda, narrowing her eyes at Dixie Lee, “is my pet.”

  “Good God.”

  Pausing in the living room doorway with a crystal platter of finger sandwiches, Bitty teetered on her own six-inch heels for a moment. Then she pasted a smile on her face and glided into the room. “I do declare, Miranda, every time I see you you’ve lost more weight. You’re looking marvelous.”

  Miranda immediately smiled. Dixie Lee rolled her eyes and sat down opposite her, while Bitty placed the platter of finger sandwiches on the ottoman between them. “I’ll be right back with the tea and cake,” she chirped. “Trinket, do tell Miranda all about your parents’ Mediterranean cruise. I’m sure she’d just love to write about it in her column.”

  I looked at Miranda, who was looking at Dixie Lee, and Dixie Lee who was staring at the pig, and knew that neither one of them gave a fig about my parents’ Mediterranean cruise.