Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “I know that. Dean’s only my half-brother, but…but that don’t make it only half wrong.”

  Dobe interrupted her with a brusque wave of his hand. “Dean ain’t your brother at all. Flora Lee told your daddy he was, but it wasn’t so. And there’s a birth certificate that proves it. Flora Lee was carrying Dean before she even met your daddy. He’s a Deluce, her first husband’s boy. Well, her only husband. She never even married your daddy. He was only a port in the storm.”

  Sharleen sat there quiet for a minute. “Dean wasn’t my daddy’s son?”

  It was too much to grasp. All the secrets, all the shame, for so long. And for nothing. The surprise and the relief flooded her, and she began to sob. “It’s all been so hard. So hard. Lila bein’ mean, and then Mr. McLain, and the album, with Mr. Ortis lyin’ to me and makin’ me a crook. And Marty so hard to work with now, and me so slow. Then this. I can’t…Even if it ain’t true, I just can’t go to them Emmys and then to Ara Sagarian’s party with all them people laughing at me, whispering about me and Dean behind my back.”

  “What do you care what a bunch of misfits and perverts have to say about you? Why should you care what anyone thinks of you?”

  “Did you read some of them stories? They would make you vomit. I wonder why Momma never told me this. Woulda saved a heap of worryin’. I hope Momma wasn’t upset if she found out what they been saying, wherever she is. It would kill her dead, and that’s the truth.”

  “Don’t you worry about your momma. Truth wasn’t really her strong point, Sharleen.” He watched the tears course down her cheeks. Then he shook his head and sighed. “Honey, I got something for you. But, before I give it to you, I gotta ask that you don’t question me ’bout how I got it or nothin’. We got a deal?”

  Mutely, Sharleen nodded.

  “Okay, then, honey. You never told me much about your growin’-up years, but I got a powerful strong imagination, and I ain’t stupid, neither. So I thought you might need these someday.” He went to his bag and took out an envelope of papers. He handed the sheaf to Sharleen.

  “Your birth certificate. And Dean’s. See, Sharleen, Dean’s not your brother. Dean ain’t your blood kin at all. These are just copies; you’ll find the originals in the lockbox at the bank. You got the key I gave you.”

  “But how…” she began, remembered her promise, and stopped, then abruptly sat down. “Dobe, I just can’t believe this. I just got to ask, is this for real? Not some fake papers, like a fake driver’s license?”

  “No, this is strictly legit. And the newspapers will be gettin’ a copy of this as soon as you want them to. Plus, you can sue ’em for slander.”

  “Dobe, you got all the proof here I need?”

  “Well, I think I got it all, Minos a Paige or two.” He chuckled.

  “Where’s the missing page?” Sharleen asked.

  “Oh, probably in the hospital, minus a few teeth.”

  Dobe shook his head. “Just a little joke. Now’s not the time to go into it. You got everything you need here to disprove everything. Most important thing is, you know the truth now, and there isn’t anyone out there who has the right to judge you. You go and marry Dean if you want to. I know you, Sharleen, and you’re a real good girl. A fine girl. So stop your cryin’.”

  ROBOACTRESS?

  The disclosure that Jahne Moore is the product of expert transformational surgery has hit Los Angeles, the entertainment capital of the world, like a ton of pâté de foie gras. In a town with the largest per-capita number of plastic surgeons—or “transformational specialists,” as some now prefer to be called—everyone is looking over her (and his) shoulder, waiting for another disgruntled nurse or lab technician of one of the multimillionaire surgeons to make public another list of names.

  Many in the Hollywood community are considering going public about their cosmetic surgery before someone takes it into his (or her) mind to tell all. As names are being named, and reporters are being deflected from one big name to another, a small but radical group of surgery-philes have reacted to the public outcry against this type of elective surgery. Raquel Welch, the national spokesperson for the group known as America the Beautiful, asked, “What’s wrong with a nip and tuck? Or a full-body make-over, for that matter? I have nothing but respect for Jahne Moore. It’s just like using any other cosmetic device. Men think nothing of using a blade every day to improve their looks, but as soon as a woman tries to do the same thing, she’s branded a fake.”

  Michael Jackson, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Cher have each called a press conference to talk about the impact of the media’s negative coverage of a private issue. “It’s a form of rape,” Cher said.

  “He’s Not My Brother”

  SHARLEEN SMITH ISSUES DENIAL

  In a new twist to the ongoing Three for the Road scandals, Sharleen Smith today in a public statement denied a blood relationship to Dean Deluce, known as Dean Smith, her alleged brother. She provided birth certificates and a written statement from Deluce, who declined to be interviewed.

  Asked whether she would sue those publications that may have slandered her, Miss Smith told the assembled media, “I think enough damage has been done.”

  Lila rolled over onto her stomach. Around her, the stack of torn and wrinkled newspapers and magazines defaced the otherwise immaculate room. A breeze blew in at the window, rifling the neat pile of carefully scissored clippings before her. If she felt cheated out of publicity on her engagement, at least she was compensated by this avalanche of bad press burying Sharleen and Jahne.

  Right now she was being cheated out of filming the next 3/4 episode. Marty and the Network had suspended filming for the next week while they decided what to do. If Marty knew it was Lila who had started this shit storm, would he be angry? She had sympathized with him, and then suggested that they fire and replace Sharleen and Jahne. He was going to take it up with Les Merchant at the meeting next week. Lila felt cheated that she couldn’t go to that, either, but a girl could only do what a girl could do. She smiled to herself.

  And she wouldn’t be cheated out of the Emmy, that she was sure of. Voting was taking place next week, and no one in the Industry would vote for a monster or an incester. No matter, or because of, whatever monstrous surgery and incestuous secrets they had of their own. She had the Emmy for sure, and maybe Three for the Road would become her private show.

  7

  Since Dobe had appeared like an avenging angel with the good news, Sharleen had felt happier than she had in a long, long time. It wasn’t just that she no longer had to be afraid of exposure. And it wasn’t just that she no longer was a sinner. Dean wasn’t a murderer, and while her daddy wasn’t dead, it was good to know he was safely put away. And if having the spotlight of fame on them had given them this knowledge, it was almost worth it. And reading about Flora Lee’s degradation was sad but not surprising. Sharleen would send her money, but make sure she didn’t bother Dean again.

  The best part of the news, she realized, was that she and Dean could be together. That there was nothing wrong about them loving each other the way they did.

  The news was so good, so big, so enormous that it would take some getting used to. She had sat down with Dean and spent some time trying to make him understand. They sat outside, in the safety of the night darkness. Night was the only time they could go out into the yard without being photographed.

  “Dean, I got some good news to tell you. You ain’t my brother.”

  He looked up at her with pained eyes. “I ain’t?”

  “No. Momma lied to us and Daddy about it.”

  “But I want to be your brother.”

  “No, you don’t, Dean. ’Cause brothers and sisters don’t sleep together.” For a moment, Sharleen longed for some romance from Dean. For him to give a pretty speech about how he loved her, how he needed her, and for him to woo her with gifts and flowers. But Dean spoke only through his eyes. She could see how he felt. She sighed.

  “Dean, you want to stay with m
e always?” she asked.

  “Sure, Sharleen. You know that.”

  “Well, I was thinking that we could get married. I could be your wife instead of your sister.” Dean was silent for a moment.

  “Can’t you be both?”

  “No. It don’t work like that.”

  “Well, then, let’s get married.” It wasn’t a romantic proposal, but it was real, and dependable.

  “You mean it, Dean? You want to?”

  “Sure do. We could still keep the dogs, right?”

  Sharleen smiled and took his hand. “We surely could.”

  And there, in the dark behind their house, in the midst of their beautiful garden, she was flooded with such love for him, such a deep and full and pure swell of love, that she thought, for a moment, she might not be able to go on living. Her heart seemed so full it might burst, and she stood drinking in the fullness and the pain. Dean was imperfect: she knew he wasn’t what most other women looked for in men. But he was what she loved and what she wanted. His goodness, his clarity and pureness were the most important things in the world to her. He was her anchor and her compass, and he had always been the mechanism that helped her steer a clear path through dangerous waters.

  Sharleen woke up on the day of the Emmy awards full of joy and gratitude. Copies of the birth certificates and appropriate statements had gone out to the press. And, inevitably, a new avalanche of publicity had started. The awards would still be a horrible ordeal. But, after breakfast, Dobe insisted that she should go—and go with Dean.

  “But I never take him to business stuff.”

  “No reason not to now.”

  “But he’ll hate it.”

  “So do you. But he’s a big boy.”

  “Dobe Samuels, I don’t want no award, and I don’t want to go to no party where everybody will look at me like I’m a freak. All I want…” She paused, thinking her words out very carefully. “…is to live quiet, in the country like, on a ranch with horses for Dean, and a bunch of dogs, and lots of trees and open fields and lakes and hills. And kids running around, all over the place. They don’t got to be mine. Just some kids got no place else to go. And no other people. Just you around, close by. And no fancy stores, or fancy parties, or gossipy magazines. I just want some peace and quiet for Dean and me. To be left alone, and never to have to wear a formal dress again.” She paused, imagining it. “You ever been square dancin’, Dobe?”

  “No. Never stayed in one place long enough to learn how.”

  “I’d like to learn. I always wanted to, but never got around to it. Now, if Dean and me had a nice country place, we could learn square dancing, and have some real fun. And maybe we can afford to do that soon.” She didn’t want to make Dobe feel guilty about the money she had given him, so she shut up.

  But Dobe didn’t seem to even remember about the money. “All that’s possible, Sharleen. And sooner than you think. Now, all you’ve got to do is show up tonight like you own the world, and, believe you me, ninety percent of them bastards—excuse me, honey—ninety percent of them will actually believe you do. No matter what anybody’s been saying or writing. ’Cause, to make it in this town, one of the things I learned, you act as if you don’t give a rat’s ass about nobody, and they eat it up.”

  Sharleen was beginning to hear Dobe, and had to agree with him, for the most part. She usually did, because he usually was right. “But I’ll still feel like a freak in a sideshow.”

  “Well, honey, to be really honest, that’s exactly what you’ve been, since the first day you set foot in front of that there television camera. And so is every other one of them television and movie stars. All freaks. But you’re also one of the sweetest and most beautiful women in America, and you can go anywhere and hold your head high. Most of them women gonna be there tonight would trade places with you in a Tennessee minute, publicity and all. Maybe even because of the publicity. Shows you how sick some of them really are. This ain’t the real world, Sharleen. Don’t make that mistake. It ain’t even Planet Earth. We’re on some separate planet that spins around the sun backwards, at ten times the normal speed. Hell, a woman gets old in this town in two or three years, instead of two or three decades. This is a town out of joint. Only you and I know that. Every one of them other jerks thinks this is heaven.” Dobe paused, seeing Sharleen was beginning to feel better. “And not one of these Hollywood people could shine your boots, and that’s the truth. Maybe Jahne Moore. Sounds like she got some backbone, but not one of them others. Remember that.”

  Sharleen’s eyes filled with tears. “Dobe, you’re one lovely man. You deserve the best there is in this life. But I’ll only go on one condition: we get another ticket and you come, too. Okay?” She waited until he nodded. Was that a blush she saw? She rose, kissed him on the cheek, and started to leave the room, to go upstairs to get ready for the awards.

  “Sharleen,” Dobe called, “after tonight, after all this mess is over, you and me have to have a really good talk. I know some things that I think you’re ready to hear, but we’ve talked serious enough for one day. You get ready now. I’ll save the rest of it until all this is all over.”

  Sharleen ran back to Dobe and kissed him. Perhaps Dobe had talked her out of some money, but it didn’t matter now. He was a good friend, one who had proved his loyalty, and she loved him.

  “Thank you for everything,” she said, and went to get dressed for the awards.

  Jahne woke up on the morning of the Emmy awards with a bad case of the shakes. She’d taken two Xanax tablets the night before, but that didn’t explain the tremors that shook her. And she simply wasn’t able to get organized or to focus. She keyed in Sharleen’s phone number, and her hand shook so badly that she misdialed twice. When Sharleen answered, Jahne just managed to croak out a “hello.”

  “Come on, Jahne. It ain’t so bad,” Sharleen said. What? When they had last spoken, Sharleen had agreed that life was shit. What had cheered her up so?

  “Are you going?” Jahne asked. She didn’t need to explain. Sharleen knew what she was talking about.

  “Yes. And I’m going with Dean. What about you, Jahne? Come with us. There was nothing wrong in what you did.”

  “I don’t know. Who would I go with? Sy said he could set something up, but I haven’t agreed. And then Gerald La Brecque offered to take me. But that’s too much—being so desperate that you have to go with your paid bodyguard.”

  “Oh, Jahne. Come. Come with us. I’ll ask Dobe to take you. He’s a good friend. What do you say? We can’t let Lila have all the glory.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll call you back.” Jahne hung up and paced up and down the living room. She shivered. This house was always cold. She hated it.

  Could she face the barracudas tonight? Could she afford not to? Lucky Sharleen, to be rescued. No one could rescue her. And what would she wear if she went tonight? It wasn’t such a frivolous question as it sounded. The only point to showing up would be to demonstrate that she looked good, felt good, was good. But could she manage to look good? Without Mai, she had no guide, and no confidence in her own choices. Let’s face it, she told herself, when Mai died, you lost both your best friend and your sense of style.

  It all seemed like so much trouble, too. Finding the right dress, getting her hair done, the manicure, the pedicure, the leg waxing, the makeup, the perfume, the jewelry, the whole thing. She was exhausted just thinking about it. And then, then, the ordeal began—being watched and judged by thirty or forty million people. She imagined the cameras closing in, the commentator recapping the scandal, the audience at home straining their eyes, looking for a telltale scar. And how the cameras would pan the audience, seeking close-ups of the losers when the winners’ names were announced.

  “No way,” she groaned, walked back to her bedroom, and threw herself back into bed. She shook two more Xanax into her palm and swallowed them dry.

  It was more than an hour later when the phone rang. She picked it up, almost as if it were a snake that might
bite. “Hello,” she murmured, hesitant.

  “Jahne? Thank God. It’s Brewster.”

  “Brewster? Oh, God, Brewster. It’s so good to hear from you.” Warmth flooded her. It was a physical feeling. “Brewster. Hello,” she repeated.

  “Are you all right, Jahne?” he asked. The phone clicked and spit with static. He must be calling from far away. South America, she thought. Wasn’t he making a clinic trip there? It was so good of him to call. “Are you all right?” he repeated.

  “I’m just so embarrassed, Brewster. It sounds stupid, but it feels terminal.”

  “Which terminal?” he asked. “Jahne, I can hardly hear you. What terminal did you say?”

  “Life is terminal. Oh, Brewster, I feel so bad! Nothing has worked out the way I planned. I got a second chance and I wasted it. I simply couldn’t swing it.” Her voice wavered. Even to her it seemed weak and far away.

  “This connection is awful,” Brewster cried. “It keeps cutting out on us. What did you say about swinging?”

  “Brewster, aren’t you ashamed of me? That horrible movie, and now this tabloid blitz. Are they driving you crazy at the office? Did I ruin your life?”

  “More to the point, did I ruin yours? Are you okay, Jahne? You sound so far away.”

  “Do you still like me, Brewster?” she asked.

  “Of course I do. Jahne, I…” His voice faded out.

  “Brewster? Brewster, are you there?” There was another wave of static, then the line was dead. Stupidly, she shook the phone in frustration. “Brewster? Brewster?” she cried. But he was gone. She began to sob, but in the weak, disheartened way of a hopeless child. Oh, God, Brewster was gone. She couldn’t talk to him. She sobbed on, her nose dripping, and picked up the quilt to wipe her face. Then the security buzzer sounded.