Dean didn’t move, but his eyes found Sharleen’s and locked on them. Sharleen met his gaze, for a moment. “Momma, why don’t you come sit over here?” She guided Flora Lee to the end of the sofa, and eased her gently onto the cushions. “Now, if you just sit a bit, Dean and I will get things ready in the kitchen. We’ll be right back, okay?”
“Don’t you think this calls for a drink? It’s a celebration, ain’t it?” Flora Lee suggested.
“Okay, Momma,” Sharleen said, guiding Dean through the kitchen door before her.
“That ain’t Momma,” Dean said, the moment the kitchen door closed behind them.
“What do you mean, Dean? Course it is.” But Sharleen felt her stomach sink.
Dean shook his head. “No, it ain’t. I remember how Momma smells, and she don’t smell like Momma.”
“Well, people change. She ain’t so young as she was. Remember when you were a little boy, and Momma took you to school your first day? Remember? You told me the other day you did.”
“Yeah, I remember that. Momma was pretty and not fat, and had brown hair. And she didn’t wear no makeup, or smell like Daddy.”
“You kids comin’ out?” Flora Lee yelled from the living room. “We got to have a drink together, remember?”
“Dean, just give her a chance. You’ll remember more in a little while.”
When they got back to her, Flora Lee was sitting on the sofa, the Bible open on her lap. She looked up at them, her painted face crumpled in surprise. “Why, you kept my Bible the whole time since I saw you.”
“We try to live by the Good Book, just like our momma taught us,” Dean said, and he took the Bible out of her hands before he handed Flora Lee a glass of vodka and ginger ale. “Ain’t that right, Sharleen?”
“Yes,” she said. “Just like you taught us, Momma.”
Holding up her glass, Flora Lee said, “Now, what should we drink to?”
Dean stared at Flora Lee for a long moment. Flora Lee saw the scrutiny, and reluctantly lowered her glass. “Well,” she said. “Maybe I’m jumpin’ the gun. Maybe you all aren’t as happy to see me as I am to see you.”
“Of course we’re glad to see you,” Sharleen said, and hugged the woman. “Aren’t we, Dean?”
Dean stood there, still holding the battered white Bible in one hand. He didn’t say anything.
“I’ve got a nice supper for us,” Sharleen said. “Why don’t we eat it?”
Over fried chicken and slaw and biscuits, Flora Lee did most of the talking. She wanted to know all the details about TV, about how Sharleen got the job, about what her costars were like. She complimented Sharleen on her dress, on the cooking, on the house, and she complimented Dean on his suit and the behavior of the dogs. Then she pushed away her plate and asked for another “teeny-tiny drink” and a tour of the house.
Reluctantly, Sharleen led her around, through the big dining room to the even bigger kitchen and den, then upstairs to the three empty spare bedrooms and the room she and Dean shared. Flora Lee stopped on the threshold. “You both sleep here?” she asked. She looked over at Sharleen, who felt herself blushing.
“Dean’s still afraid of the dark,” she told her momma.
Flora Lee raised her eyebrows. “Ain’t we all?” she asked.
“You got plenty of room here,” Flora Lee remarked as they trooped back downstairs. “Empty rooms. Why, you should see my teeny-tiny place. You could put it in a corner of your bedroom.”
“Maybe you want to live here, Momma,” Sharleen offered. She felt Dean stiffen beside her.
“Well, that’s a right nice offer, dear,” Flora Lee said. “But I might bother you with my guests.” They had walked into the living room. “But do you want me to, Dean? Do you want your momma back?”
“Why did you leave us, Momma?” Dean asked.
Sharleen watched as the expression on Flora Lee’s face changed. The smile, along with the rest of her face, seemed to disintegrate. For a moment, Sharleen thought she glimpsed the other face of Momma, the face she had back in Lamson. “Honey, I had to. If I had stayed, your daddy would have killed me. I needed to get away…to find us a safe place, get a job and all. Then I was going to get you both.” Flora Lee eyed the almost empty drink in her hand.
Dean lowered his head. “Then why didn’t you come back for us?”
Sharleen was aware of the silence that fell over the room. She, too, waited for the answer to that question, although, to be honest, she could never have brought herself to ask it. Finally, Flora Lee spoke.
“Honey, things were very bad out there. A lot worse than I thought they was going to be. I couldn’t keep a job long enough to settle down. I was laid off so many times, I finally lost count. And when I was working, I couldn’t hardly make enough to live on myself, never mind support two children. And, after all, only one of you was mine.” Flora Lee paused, then forced a small smile. “Honestly, you was better off with your daddy. At least he could give you a place to live.”
“But you said you was coming back for us. We waited for you. Waited and waited.”
“I know, baby.” Now her smile was back, broader than ever, but her face still had the collapsed look of an empty paper sack. “But Momma’s back now, so let’s drink to our all being together finally. Like I promised.”
Sharleen felt stung, but also sorry for Flora Lee. “Sure. And soon Momma’s going to have a job as a hairdresser, just like she always wanted. She’s going to school and everything. Right, Momma?”
“Well, I don’t really think that place was for me, Sharleen,” Flora Lee said. “They started at eight A.M. Now, who comes in at that time for beauty appointments? Got angry if I wasn’t there. Chewed my ass in front of those little snot girls. I don’t want to waste my time on an amateurish place like that.”
“Oh,” was all Sharleen could say.
“But let’s have a drink”—Flora Lee raised her glass—“to a happy reunion.”
“We don’t drink,” Dean said, and walked out of the room, calling his dogs after him.
Sharleen had sent Flora Lee home, and it had taken the better part of two days to stop Dean from cryin’ and mopin’ around the house. And it was real hard to do, because Sharleen felt like mopin’ and cryin’ herself.
And then, in the mail, she’d gotten a package that she thought might help. She coaxed Dean out of the bedroom and sat him on the sofa. “I got a real nice surprise for you,” she said, and slipped the CD out.
At the studio, Sharleen had been amazed at the sound of her voice they had recorded. In fact, she couldn’t believe it was her voice, but Mr. Ortis and the others insisted it was, that with modern electronics they could do anything. Well, they’d done a good job of making her sound like a real singer. Sharleen was impressed. Still found it hard to believe, but impressive. She guessed that all those exhausting lessons had paid off.
“Dean, listen to this.” Sharleen inserted the new CD and pushed “play.” She sat back, and watched Dean’s face as the music began to fill the room. “What do you think?” she asked him.
“That sure is pretty, Sharleen. I like it.”
“See, you said I could sing and you were right,” Sharleen chided, smiling.
“Sure you can. But who is that singing?”
Sharleen grew serious. “Dean, that’s me. That’s my new album. Mr. Ortis sent it over. Remember, I made a record?”
“Sure I remember, but that ain’t it.” He paused for a moment more, listening to the voice more closely. “Sharleen, that ain’t you. I don’t care what you say, or what Mr. Ortis says. I know how you sound, and you don’t sound like that. You can sing all right. But, Sharleen, don’t let anyone tell you that that there is your voice, ’cause it ain’t.”
Sharleen stared at Dean, the chill of the truth creeping up her spine. “What makes you so sure, Dean? I mean, I trust you and all, but why are you so sure?”
“Why? Sharleen, you could never sing that high. Remember how we used to laugh when you tried to sing
the ‘Star Spangling’ song before baseball games? You could only go so high, and no higher. This gal can go way up there, and more. Nope, it ain’t you.” Dean paused, and continued to listen to the music. “But, hey, it sure is pretty,” he said.
29
Sam Shields was working feverishly on Birth, both the script and preproduction work. He was also sleeping with April. And he was thinking more and more about Jahne Moore. Surely these were four full-time jobs. No wonder he was tired.
Principal photography began in only a week, and there were still several smaller parts to cast, a body double to locate, a Northern California location to finalize, and lots of rewrites to be done. Sam sighed and looked over at April. If he had to cut something or someone from his overcrowded life, it would be his affair with her, but he knew that wasn’t possible. She had allowed and forgiven the dalliance with Crystal Plenum, but she’d made it clear that Sam was not to stray like that again or she’d take it personally. The specter of a vengeful April Irons was not a pretty thought.
Now he needed help, and was casting about for an assistant. Sam knew that an assistant director was a necessary evil, although he wasn’t completely convinced, even after Jack and Jill. He had barely consulted the AD on that one, and wouldn’t hire the same guy again. But that, April kept reminding him, was a small movie.
On the stage, there was no AD. Only in the movies, where many sets, and location and studio shots were called for, was it necessary. The AD could save time and money by shooting exteriors, location shots without the actors, or establishing shots—those quick cuts to street signs or skylines that told the audience where you were.
Casting for AD was going to be easy. Since Sam wasn’t looking for someone with creative ability, just a gofer mentality, the field was wide open. He supposed that A. Joel Grossman was as good as anyone. But he didn’t say that right away.
“What do you think?” April asked, after the interview was done and Joel walked out of the room.
“He hasn’t had very much experience,” Sam said.
“But he comes well recommended.”
“He’s your boss’s secretary’s son. What kind of a recommendation is that?”
April dismissed Sam’s question with a shake of her head. “He’s done those jeans ads. They were hot. And about a thousand other commercials. And he’s been on enough sets to know how to handle himself. He’s dependable. And I think he can be inventive, if not creative. You’ll get your money’s worth, Sam. Trust me on this.”
That was the whole point: Sam trusted no one. But he did think A. Joel would work out, just because he had little experience, and had artistic pretensions. If he could shoot those jeans ads, he could walk around behind Sam carrying a clipboard. This guy wanted a job in features, any job. “Okay,” Sam finally said. “But I hope it doesn’t come back to bite me on the ass. And you owe me.” Sam looked down at his list of actresses scheduled for readings today. “Who’s next?” he asked.
April raised her empty coffee cup in the air without looking up from the script notes in front of her, and the cup was immediately taken by an unobtrusive hand. When a refill was placed in front of her, she took a sip, then suddenly spit it out on the floor. “Who the fuck did this? Goddamn it, Melanie, this has Equal in it.”
The young woman came running up to her. “I’m so sorry, Miss Irons…”
“Sweet ’n’ Low—how many times do I have to tell you?” Melanie ran off to get a fresh cup. “Christ!” April said to Sam on her right at the table. “Where do these people come from? Can’t even remember how I take my coffee.” April pushed the script aside, along with a stack of rejected résumés. “And I can’t get an actress to read a few lousy lines through without a flub. Read them, for chrissakes. Not memorize and act them, just fucking read them.”
Sam thought of Jahne Moore and how she’d blown him away with her audition monologue. At night, alone, he ran the film of it over and over. Sam brushed his dark hair back on his head, then let his forehead rest on his palm. He was tired. They’d been at the casting table since eight this morning. It was now almost four. Seventeen readings, and not one even adequate, let alone good enough for a screen test. It was going to be a long night. “I got better reads from the kids trying out for my group in New York. At least they could read. Hollywood,” he said, shaking his head. He’d better stop there. Sam knew April didn’t want to hear another attack on Hollywood by “Mr. Off-Broadway,” her derisive nickname for him. But now, apropos of nothing, Sam remembered Mary Jane Moran, and the time she had come for that first cold reading of Jack and Jill. She had been one of a slew of actresses, all good. Except she was the best. By far the best. Why couldn’t there be another Mary Jane in this town?
He realized that lately what he missed the most was playing mentor. Mary Jane had been a wounded bird who had blossomed under his direction. And she had also bloomed in their personal relationship. Why did he so like the role of director, of Pygmalion to Galatea? He enjoyed being needed, being wiser, being more experienced, more in control. Was it a power trip? Yes. Was it because he was insecure? He didn’t think so. What was so wrong about wanting to teach someone, wanting to help someone? How would he find that fulfillment? Where was another pupil for him?
Well, perhaps, in a way, there was. Jahne Moore, Sam knew, had already memorized the entire new script, and they weren’t even in rehearsal yet. She was intelligent, hard working, and she was good. He was sure of it. But she was young, and needed direction. He had been working with her for a little over two weeks, every day, and was amazed at what a quick study she was. He knew filming Birth of a Star was going to be a breeze with her. He’d calmed her down about the nudity, and he enjoyed their give-and-take. Jahne was professional, refreshing, beautiful, and funny. Yet not hardened, the way April was. A dynamic woman, he thought. Yet still vulnerable.
Sam had been impressed first with Jahne’s looks, then her talent, and now by her brains and professionalism. He found that, more than any other part of his job, directing Jahne was what he most looked forward to. It would be…satisfying. There was something special about Jahne Moore.
But now April was talking. “You’re wasting our time, here, Sam. And time is money. You have to change the way you motivate actors, Sam. Movies are different than plays. I’ve been telling you that. You’ve got to approach movie actors in a different way. They’re used to a scene-by-scene prep. You’re giving them the script overview. Just do the moment. Don’t waste your time. Or mine.”
“Look, that’s just not the way I work.”
April looked at him coolly. “Well, this isn’t working. We haven’t cast one more part.” She paused. “Maybe it’s not the direction, Sam. Maybe it’s the script. Try using the word ‘abandonment’ in a sentence. It can’t be done. But this character has to say the word three times in a page and a half of dialogue.”
Of course she was right. No one had ever accused April of being stupid. His script was rough—very rough. And Sam was, he had to admit to himself, scared. And he didn’t like the feeling. Always before, he’d been the most powerful person in any group. Back on off-Broadway, at St. Malachy’s, even on Jack and Jill. He hadn’t just been the shmuck writer, he’d also been the director; it was his movie. The line producer Seymore LeVine was a nothing, the son of Bob (International Studios) LeVine, and Sam had bedded Crystal Plenum right away. Although she’d been the real star of the movie, once he’d slept with her, he had the power.
Of course, he told himself, he hadn’t slept with her for the power. Who wouldn’t sleep with her, if they could? An entire nation of men wanted to sleep with her. And they’d had a good time, until the end of the picture. Then he had started up again with April…Well, being with April was a whole other scene.
Sam knew the world of acting, of directing. Hell, he’d been at it all his life. But April seemed to know everything. Including that grown-up world of money, deals, and percentages of the gross. She was as smart and as tough as any of the men, and as sexy as
any of the women. And he liked that. With April, he felt like he was with the very best, the Rolls-Royce of women.
It was only that with April he sometimes felt different about himself, almost, well, inadequate. It wasn’t the way it had been with the other women. When he slept with April, instead of gaining her power, it was as if she’d stolen his. Not sexually. She was a tigress, but he could keep up with her. And it wasn’t anything she said or did. It was just that he didn’t feel any submission from her. Not that he asked for any. Certainly not. And he knew she liked him. But with other women he had felt his leaving them would matter. With April, he knew she would continue, as seamlessly as before.
It unnerved him, and on top of that there was the problem of Michael McLain. Let’s face it, I hate the prick and he hates me, Sam told himself. The guy was a coaster—he’d coasted through on his good looks and his reputation as a womanizer, not as an actor. Perhaps April was right. That as a guy on the slippery slope down, he’d be perfect.
But the problem was that the prick had accepted the role and now didn’t want to play it. Christ, the guy couldn’t act, but if he simply read these lines he’d get an Oscar on this one. This part was Michael McLain. All he had to do was show up. But now he wanted to “improve” on it, to sweeten it. He wanted the character to have an upbeat, charming slide, not a desperate one. He’d actually suggested that, instead of a suicide in the sea, James should die saving Judy from drowning! What bullshit!
So the son-of-a-bitch was taking every cheap shot he could at the script to try to get his way. His way, which would weaken or kill the goddamn thing.
Sam didn’t have to tell April there were problems with the script. Act Two was weak as hell. She knew it, and had said as much this morning, both to him and to Michael. But she’d stuck up for me, Sam thought. “James is a suicide,” she told Michael. “He has to be.” But what, Sam thought with a little chill, what if she hadn’t sided with me? Because that was the least of Michael’s script suggestions. The script had already gone through five revisions even before this casting call. Sam looked over at April. How long would she side with him, and what would happen when she didn’t? She looked at him now, with that unnerving look, as if she were reading his mind and found it amusing.
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