Beyond the perennials, around the lawn, he had annuals bedded out—pansies, johnny-jump-ups, lots of zinnias, their colors sweeping the rainbow, strong-smelling marigolds, and nasturtiums. The grass was trimmed perfectly; he did it himself. And a rose garden, his pride and joy, had center place. But despite his garden, Dean was glum. Sharleen could tell.
Well, she knew what they’d do to cheer him up. They’d have a barbecue for Dobe and Momma. She saw him romping with the three pups on the emerald lawn. “Howdy,” she called to him as she walked across the grass toward him. “Whatcha doin’? Teaching the girls new tricks?”
“Yeah, and watch this, Sharleen.” He was like a little boy. Whenever he got the three dogs to do somethin’ new, he always presented the trick to her like a bouquet of flowers. Just as well, because Dean hated to cut the flowers out of the beds. “They’re dead once you do that,” he’d explained. And to Sharleen, the dog tricks were just as good, if not better than a bouquet. She liked to see him happy, and she knew she had news for him that would really get him goin’. But she decided to wait a little bit before she told him who was comin’ tonight. He’d be pesterin’ her the rest of the day if she told him now.
Dean called the three dogs and made them sit in a row. It took some coordinatin’, but they finally were all sittin’ at the same time, their eyes turned up adoringly at Dean. He stood back and took a ball from his pocket and called out, “Cara, go git it, girl,” and Cara ran and jumped into the air and grabbed the ball in her teeth. “Now, give it to Clover; good girl.” And Cara walked over to Clover and dropped the ball in front of the other puppy.
“Clover, give the ball to Crimson,” he instructed, and Clover picked up the ball in her mouth and walked to Crimson and dropped the ball, then walked back to her place. After their performance, he was beaming, and gave each of them treats from his pocket.
“That sure is something, Dean. How long did it take you to teach them that?”
Dean was stroking the dogs. “Just a few days. Ain’t they smart, Sharleen? Now they know eight tricks. Smart dogs,” he said to them, then stood up and looked at Sharleen. “You tired, Sharleen? Let’s go inside, I’ll get you a pop.”
Sharleen sat at the kitchen table sipping the cold soda from the can. She could see something was botherin’ Dean, and considered telling Dean the surprise she had for him. But first she wanted to know what was wrong.
“Momma was here yesterday, while you were out,” he said, as if answering her unasked question.
“I forgot to tell you she was comin’. I left an envelope for her on the table. She run short,” Sharleen explained. “Was she…okay?”
“Yeah, she was, but not for long, I could tell. All she wanted was to get the envelope and leave. And she asked a lot of questions about…” He paused. “Well—about stuff. Like how we slept together.” Dean paused, then looked directly at Sharleen. “Sharleen, it ain’t like I thought it was goin’ be, having Momma back. Like bein’ a family. It’s like she’s someone different. I don’t remember her like this. She’s old, and smells like whiskey all the time. It’s like she ain’t our momma, you know?”
Sharleen did know. She wasn’t like their momma. Not the momma she had known when she was a kid. Before she left them. All these years, Sharleen and Dean had believed that their momma was going to get them some help or something, and even when she didn’t come back, they kept believing.
Now it was hard to believe anything good about Momma. She was a drunk, and only thought about herself. She’d quit beauty school, and it looked like she was planning to live off of them. Sharleen remembered what Jahne had told her about not trusting anybody. Would Momma talk to newspapers about Dean and her? What a terrible thought! Well, Sharleen wasn’t exactly sure why, but she didn’t trust her momma. She did trust Dean. And Dobe.
“Dean, honey, have I got good news for you,” Sharleen suddenly said, then sat back and crossed her arms, a teasing smile on her face.
Dean opened his eyes wider. “What, Sharleen?”
Sharleen stood up and started to leave the kitchen. “Oh, I think I changed my mind. I don’t think I’ll tell you about the surprise. About who’s coming tonight.”
“Momma?” Dean asked, his face dark.
“Momma and someone else,” Sharleen sang out, teasing, “Me to know, you to find out.”
Dean smiled and jumped up and ran after her, and grabbed her around the waist as she got to the stairs. Sharleen shrieked and squirmed her way out of Dean’s grasp and ran up the steps. “No, Dean, I ain’t telling you,” she yelled, and continued to run. Dean grabbed her by one foot and got her down.
“Oh, yes, you are,” he said, now straddling Sharleen, “or I’m goin’ tickle you to death.” He held one hand up, squiggling his fingers threateningly.
Sharleen shrieked again, and begged Dean not to do it to her. “Okay, then, you gotta tell me the surprise.” He loosened his grip, but didn’t let Sharleen stand.
She gave up. “But first take one guess. And it ain’t only one person. It’s two.” Dean looked perplexed. “What two people would you want to see more than anyone else in the whole world if you had your wish?”
Dean’s eyes squinted as he tried to think. “Oprah and Dobe?” he finally asked, his question spoken softly.
“Right, honey. Oprah and Dobe are coming here to visit. Tonight!”
Dean scooped Sharleen up in his big arms, and ran up the stairs with her, two at a time. He was yelling like a hound dog in the bayou. “Sharleen, wait till I show Dobe the dogs! And all the tricks they know. Oprah, she’s going to love them, even if they’re only babies.” He kicked open their bedroom door and dropped her on the huge bed. “Yippee!” he screeched.
That night, the four of them sat around the dining-room table, the first time since Momma’s dinner that they had laid out a spread like this. Left on the table were remains of the fried chicken, ribs, and fixings Sharleen had had prepared, along with the fresh vegetables from Dean’s garden. Dobe was sitting back, wiping his fingers on a wet towel Sharleen had given him. Momma seemed to be staring at Dobe, a big smile on her face. Sharleen wondered how much she’d had to drink. “You are one hell of a man, Mr. Dobe Samuels. I bet you’ve put a smile on a lot of ladies’ faces.” Flora Lee smirked. All through dinner, she kept laughin’ at his jokes and sayin’ how smart he was. Dean hadn’t noticed, thank the Lord, because he had Oprah’s head on his lap the entire meal, and was feeding her a piece of food for every bite he took.
“Did you get enough for the guys at the gate?” Dean asked Sharleen. Usually he made sure before he started eating that the security guards got food also, but tonight, with Momma and Oprah and Dobe here, he’d been so excited, he forgot until now.
“Sure did, Dean. I got something for them, too. Just like you told me.” Sharleen looked over at Dobe and saw him smiling.
“Well, I’ve got to go to the little girls’ room,” Flora Lee declared, and left the table, her walk affected by all that she had drunk.
Dean got up and began to gather the rib bones. Oprah began dancing around him, and the three pups joined her. “Let’s go, girls. Let’s go out,” he coaxed. “When I come back after taking them for a walk, you all want to watch The Andy Griffith Show with me, Dobe? I got practically all of them on tape, if you want to start from the beginning.”
“Sure. I love that show. I love what’s-his-name—the barber. Floyd.” Dean was rushed out the door by the pack of dogs, who knew they were going to have fun. “He’s one sweet boy,” Dobe said. “And it looks like you got one sweet life, from what I see and read.”
Sharleen looked at Dobe. “Dobe, it ain’t how it looks.” She had to tell him, had to tell someone, what it was really like. She didn’t want to complain. But Dobe was the only person who would understand that just because things got better didn’t mean that things got good.
Sharleen told him the whole story. How she got the job as an actress on TV, and what it had been like since. Not all the good stuff�
�that he already knew—but what she had lost when she gained so much. She never thought that the success, the money, would be a trade-off, a phrase Jahne had once used that Sharleen now understood all too well. If she had been asked back then, when she was offered the job, she would have said that she had nothing to give up in return for great fame and wealth.
Now she knew different. She had lost her freedom. “I can’t go out by myself. I can’t go to a movie like other people. I can’t go into a supermarket, even though I can afford to buy the whole store. I have to go everywhere in a car with a driver and a security guy. A bodyguard, for goodness’ sakes, Dobe. I need a bodyguard!” Sharleen wasn’t concerned whether she was sounding ungrateful or not, or whining. Dobe understood. “When I’m work-in’, I’m tired all the time. Men are always hittin’ on me. Worse than ever. And I have no one to talk to.”
“What about your momma, Sharleen? Now that you found her. Can’t you talk to her?”
Sharleen wiped tears from her eyes on the linen napkin and grunted a laugh. “We didn’t find her. She found us. I never thought we was goin’ see her again, although we wanted to. Then, one day, she shows up at the studio. At first, I was real happy. Now? Now she’s never sober long enough to hold a conversation with. She just comes by for her money, then goes back to the bars, where she throws it all around. Dean don’t like her. I know it’s a sin, Dobe, but I can’t blame him. ’Cause she don’t want to be nice. She don’t, Dobe. I give her lots of money. But it seems there’s never enough. She keeps coming back for more and more. And she’s started askin’ questions. Nosy, like. And it upsets Dean. He still remembers her as our momma, but now…well, he don’t like her. Momma ain’t Momma no more.” A tear rolled down Sharleen’s cheek. “I wish she’d never found us.”
Dobe stood up and went over to Sharleen. He pulled her out of her chair, put her head on his shoulder and his arms around her. Sharleen felt herself grow limp in Dobe’s arms, and she cried like she hadn’t cried since she was a little girl. Since then, she’d always had to be strong, to take care of herself and of Dean.
“Your momma’s had a little too much to drink. Why don’t I just take her home and make sure she don’t get into any trouble.”
Mutely, Sharleen nodded. Somehow, she already felt much better.
34
I have never had the advantage of beauty. Somehow, you’re not surprised, right? Who ever heard of a beautiful writer? Writing—even the kind I do—is hard and lonely work. Who’d do it when they could be out getting laid? Not that I haven’t had my share of men. A bad first marriage (that’s where I got Richie as a last name) and then several bad affairs. But beauty wouldn’t have ensured any better men. Just different ones. I figure it like this: Beautiful women have a better early life. Then they have to suffer more later. Us plain ones have a tougher beginning—you know, no date for the prom, and the usual heartbreak—but if we work at it, life does get better. Maybe.
Hollywood has made it worse for all of us women: the expectations are higher and more unrealistic than ever while the “life expectancy” of an actress is shorter. Female stars used to reign for a long time. A decade was a short career. Now a year is. Men want novelty. Younger, fresher, newer. And there is always some kid ready to fill the void.
There aren’t any women—with the notable exception of Barbra—who can open a movie. The days of the Crawfords, the Hayworths, the Grables and Hepburns and the like are not just over, they are almost forgotten. And the women on our screens today most often play whores or victims or sluts or long-suffering secondary roles. Dehumanized, turned into a body or a stereotype, a simpleton or a cliché, the actresses are angry and sad. And none of them are bankable.
But the saddest ones are not the ever-more-quickly fading stars. The saddest are the body doubles. The girls who are not quite good enough all over for a part, but whose breasts or stomachs or asses or legs get to star in a feature. Each time they get called in by the director for the close-up of their navel, there are a hundred technicians and movie people glorifying a piece of them and insulting their face and talent. Think about it. Would you like to play Julia Roberts’ belly in Pretty Woman or Jane Fonda’s breasts in Klute?
Most body doubles are paid very little and have to sign an agreement swearing them to secrecy. After all, none of the stars want to publicly admit their bellies and breasts aren’t good enough. Spoils the illusion. The illusion that you, dear Reader, buy.
Anyway, there’s an old adage in Hollywood: the director gets to fuck the star; the AD only gets the body double. And Birth of a Star would be no exception to that rule.
A. Joel Grossman was more than eager to do what he could for Sam. But it wasn’t as easy as he had expected to curry favor on the Birth shoot. He’d been lucky to get the job, which so often went to the director’s sidekick or his longtime bag man. Walking into an assistant directorship on an important film like this one was sheer luck, made possible only because Sam was such a loner and had no sidekicks or pals. That was the problem now. Sam gave him little to do, barely talked to him, didn’t seem to trust him. Oh, Christ, let’s face it, Sam didn’t trust anyone.
And things weren’t going so well. In his opinion, Michael McLain was a putz, and a washed-up old has-been. Plus, the rumor was that he had been shtupping Jahne Moore, but now it looked like Sam was interested. Although the rumor was that Sam had been shtupping April Irons as well. Or perhaps that was before he was shtupping Jahne Moore. Joel sighed and shook his head. How did these men let a little thing like sex get in the way of their careers? He couldn’t understand it. Anyway, something was making the shoot go particularly slowly and be as difficult as hell. There wasn’t one take in ten with any warmth or feeling. But Sam, of course, wasn’t asking for his help, though Joel would have been happy to give it.
So, when the call came, Sam sounding so urgent about the need for a body double, Joel felt it was a godsend, his chance to do something, anything, that would give him a shot at the next job, through either Sam or the studio. Sam had asked for his help in casting the body double, something he could do. “Total security on this,” Sam had insisted. “No middlemen, no publicity. I mean it. Can you do it?” “A mere bagatelle,” he’d answered. Now he was desperately going through his messy pile of cards and torn bits of paper, looking for the girl’s name. The one that Paul Grasso had brought over that time. The one with the so-so face and the body that would melt molybdenum. He hadn’t used her, but he knew that in Hollywood she couldn’t afford to hold that against him.
There it was! Adrienne Godowski. Jesus, what a name! He picked up the telephone and stepped out onto the veranda overlooking the little sapphire-blue pool. He punched Adrienne’s number into the receiver.
“Hullo?” a voice said. Christ, it sounded like she’d just woken up. What time was it? He looked at his Oyster Rolex.
“This is Joel Grossman. Adrienne Godowski, please.”
“Who’s this?” It was a woman, but the voice was so gravelly, it was hard to tell at first. Christ, was she drunk? Or dying?
“Joel Grossman. I interviewed Adrienne once, through Paul Grasso. Is this Mrs. Godowski?”
There was a pause, then a deep cough. “Oh, yes, Mr. Grossman.” The woman’s voice sounded like it was an effort to speak. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a part in a movie, small part, no lines, and I wanted to see Adrienne for it. Can she come over right away?” He gave her the address.
“I’ll put her in a cab. I got a very bad virus or I’d bring her myself.” The woman coughed again, as if to prove the fact. “She’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she slurred.
Fifteen minutes was more like it. “My mother said you would pay the cab. She didn’t have any change,” Adrienne announced, as she stood on the front steps looking at him. Joel went out and paid the driver in the beat-up Chevy.
Adrienne was still standing outside the door when he returned. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “Got your résumé with you?”
; Adrienne dug into the large, beaten-up leather bag, pulled a dog-eared sheet of paper out, and handed it to him. He looked at her résumé. Jesus. L.A. was the kind of place where an actress would put a CAT scan down as a film credit, but this was ridiculous. What the hell was “lead…Girls in White Satin” supposed to mean? If it was a lead role, why didn’t it have a name? He looked at the misspellings and the ragged margin.
“You need a manager,” he said.
“I got one. My mother.” Her tone was flat, affectless.
“No, I mean a professional,” he told her, though he knew it was useless.
“No one could be more loyal than a girl’s mother,” Adrienne said, but she said it in the same dead tone, as if she were merely parroting something repeated to her a million times. Was she all right in the head? She gave him the impression of being hypnotized, or mildly retarded, or both. And it gave him the oddest reaction: he could feel the boner growing against his pants.
He decided it was best to ignore both her answer and his hard-on and just get on with it. “So, we need a body double for Jahne Moore, and when the director asked me, I said you’d be perfect for it.” What the hell, build it up a little. “He had someone else in mind, but I’m pretty sure I can get it for you. I need some pictures, though.” He stopped.
“I got these,” she said, and handed over a messy pile. He rifled through them.
“No, no. I mean some special pictures. Ones where we’ll have to show all of your body. Because you’ll be a body double. You’ll do all the love scenes. And some other stuff.” He stopped, waiting for a reaction, but there was none. “So is it okay?” he asked.
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