Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  “You still haven’t heard from her?”

  I shake my head. “She and your hat are apparently doing fine on their own.”

  “It’s so disrespectful!” Donna splits an English muffin and slides the halves into the toaster oven. “I hope she hasn’t wrecked the hat. It’s irreplaceable. By the way, your face is better this morning, but it still looks like you tangled with an alley cat. Have you got some concealer?”

  “That bad?” I gingerly touch my chin, feeling the sore ridge of the cut. “I’ll put more makeup on it.”

  “Careful, don’t let it get infected. Are you in for dinner tonight?”

  “What’s the theme?”

  “Nothing special, but I want to try a recipe for pot roast in Guinness.”

  “Sounds good. Count me in.” I devour my muffin and head upstairs to shower. On my way, I pass Donna dismantling her Phantom of the Opera set. “Would you mind if I bring a friend home for dinner?”

  “Not at all. Who?”

  “A guy who could use a good home-cooked meal. And he’s Irish.”

  Bounding up the stairs, I somehow know I’ve made Donna’s day. She loves company, especially someone new who will appreciate her collection of old Hollywood memorabilia. And Dougie Halliburton could use some tender care and attention, if not pot roast soused in Guinness.

  On my way out the door, Donna hands me a stack of flyers advertising Hollywood on a Plate. “Pass these out at the studio, would you? I’d love to cater some movie star supper parties. Maybe even a premiere,” she says, without a hint of modesty.

  “Sure thing. There’s always the chance I’ll bump into Steven Spielberg.” I tuck the flyers under my arm. “See you tonight.”

  Most people in Los Angeles have nothing to do with the movie business, but Hollywood leaves its mark everywhere and always attracts an audience. I swing my Volvo around a slow-moving van filled with tourists gawking at what was once the site of a Sunset Boulevard mansion known as the Pink Palace. It was the home of 1950s bombshell Jayne Mansfield, mother of actress Mariska Hargitay, and boasted a pink heart-shaped swimming pool. Built by 1920s crooner Rudy Vallée, the house was also home to Beatle Ringo Starr, and singers Engelbert Humperdinck and Cass Elliot. The house was demolished in 2002, but apparently the location is still worth ogling on the tour of celebrity homes.

  I have my own Hollywood map of places that no longer exist: eateries, boutiques and even film studios that were once special places to me. I still find it hard to think of MGM, where I filmed the original Holiday series, as Sony Studios. The new Jinx is to be filmed in the heart of Hollywood in a studio where Mary Pickford made her first film. Small, with only twelve working soundstages, the studio is dwarfed by giant Paramount across the street. I pull off Melrose Avenue and turn into the Bronson Avenue gate, wondering if the production assistant in charge of such things has left me a drive-on pass.

  No, the PA has not arranged for me to park inside the studio gates. I’m obliged to make an awkward three-point turn to pull out of the entrance and look for street parking. Fifteen precious minutes later, I squeeze into a spot, technically legal, with only a few inches of my fender protruding on the red-painted curb. I chance it, stuffing enough quarters in the meter to give me two hours, and sprint up the street.

  Unfortunately the PA hasn’t arranged for a walk-on pass, either. The guard, eyeing me frostily, calls the production office. No one answers, of course. Everyone is probably at the table read, which I am missing. Fuming, but unwilling to give up, I call Dirck on his cellphone, which he’s probably turned off for the duration of the table read.

  Surprise. He answers immediately. “Meg? Where are you? Everyone’s expecting you.”

  “Oh, please, don’t tell me they’re waiting for me. I can’t bear it.” My cheeks grow hot with mortification. “I’m here at the gate. There’s no pass for me and the guard won’t let me in.”

  “What? Hey, stay where you are. I’ll be right there to take care of it.”

  Swell. Former husband to the rescue. He probably got a drive-on pass. Lovely. But then my rational self asks, why would they wait for me? My presence isn’t critical. I’ve only been invited to the reading as a courtesy. I shift from one foot to the other, misery seeping into every fiber of my body.

  The Actor’s Waking Nightmare attacks: I’m late because (a) nobody told me I had the job; (b) nobody sent a script; (c) nobody gave me a call time; (d) my alarm clock didn’t go off; (e) “I died. Didn’t my agent tell you?” I would happily die rather than be late. By the time I see Dirck sprinting down the hallway toward me, I have lost feeling in my legs.

  “Did you tell them why I’m late?” I yelp. “There was no drive-on pass!”

  “Hey, easy. It’s okay.” Dirck grips my shoulders. “You all right? What happened to your face?”

  “I walked into some tree branches. Nothing to worry about. God, how I hate being late!” Then I see the panic in Dirck’s eyes and calm down. “What? Tell me, please, what’s going on?”

  “Chelsea’s late. She’s not here. Looks like she’s a no-show.” Dirck reiterates, as though I may not have gotten it, “She’s. Not. Here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Wish I knew.”

  “But it’s a table read.”

  I have now stated the obvious. No actor would miss a table read. Dirck knows this. I know this. Chelsea must be dead. We take a moment to let this sink in before Dirck eases his grip on my shoulders.

  “I’m taking a lotta heat in there, Megs.” He shakes his head and I hear the voice of a little boy owning up. “I sort’ve gave the impression Chelsea and I were really tight, you know? Like she doesn’t make a move without me? Truth is, she’s one very secretive chick. How the hell am I supposed to know what’s going on with her? But everyone’s looking to me for answers. I’m supposed to know where she is, why she isn’t at the table, you know?”

  “It’s okay. I understand. Take it easy.” Even as it registers how quickly we’ve fallen back into our former marital roles, I forge on, taking over. “Did you bring me a pass? Let’s get in there and find out what’s going on, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Here.” He hands the guard a pass, then turns his troubled eyes back to me. “This could wreck me, you know. I shouldn’t have shot my mouth off.”

  Dirck leads the way. With so much riding on Chelsea, my hunch is that Dirck’s become a convenient scapegoat, paying the price for having overplayed his role as the guy holding the strings in her career. Chelsea’s agents and manager must despise him!

  We enter the space set aside for the table read, a corner of a soundstage with bare lights illuminating a long folding table and a dozen or more chairs. People mill around, voices low, no one looking happy. It feels as cozy as a KGB interrogation center. A short man sporting a shiny baldpate, encircled with a fringe of steel-wool hair, glares at Dirck. “So? You found Chelsea yet?”

  Showman that he is, Dirck flings a hand in my direction. “Not yet, ladies and gentlemen, but I’ve brought you Meg Barnes, the original Jinx!”

  Faces light up and there’s a smatter of applause. I bow my head, smile and eat it up. “All in a day’s work!” I respond, enjoying the hearty comments.

  “So glad you made it!”

  “Hoping you’d come!”

  “Wow! You look great, Miss Barnes!”

  “Thanks! Thank you so much for inviting me today. It’s a privilege to be here and I wish you all the best with the new series.”

  More squeals of “My God! I loved you! I grew up with you!” I even hear someone say, “Miss Barnes, you haven’t changed a bit!”

  The balding man claps his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, I’m Ed Ackerman. We wouldn’t be here without you, Meg. You created the iconic Jinx, after all. Glad to have you aboard teaching Chelsea the hat stuff.” He turns and calls into the darkness, “Billy? Come on over. I want you to meet Meg.”

  Emerging from the shadows is a slim, lanky young man in blue jeans and a bomber jacket, wh
o gives me a tentative smile before taking my hand. “Hi. Billy Gibbons. Nice to meet you.”

  “He’s our director,” Ed tells me. “I gave him all your DVDs to watch. You know, to get the tone, the flavor. Of course we’re going our own route. Believe me, no same-old, same-old, you know?”

  “Yes, of course. I understand, Ed.” Well, so much for my iconic contribution. “It’s nice to meet you both. Thanks for bringing Jinx back. I’m grateful to be here.”

  “Well, lemme just say,” Ed says, glancing at Billy, “we’d be grateful if you could solve our real-life mystery. Where the hell’s Chelsea? She’s forty minutes late. No one’s seen her since—when?”

  I shrug. “I haven’t heard from her.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dirck slinking into the shadows. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

  “Yeah, well, her agents are onto it. We even sent a car to her house to check. Anyway, we gotta get this show on the road. Everyone else is here. How about you reading her part until she shows up? That okay with you, Billy?”

  “Yeah, cool. Sure.” Billy nods, looking uncertain.

  “Me? I couldn’t, really.”

  “Why not? It would be an honor.” Ed grabs my elbow. “You’ve read the script, right?”

  “Of course, love it. It’s great, but . . . ”

  But what? Ed is already leading me to the table and I’m not dragging my feet. The actors, coffee containers in hand, take their seats. Ed steers me toward a tall, pale man with flaxen hair and a hawklike nose, who peers at me in round-eyed wonder.

  “Meg, this Cedric Mickelthwaite, who plays the Magician. Cedric, meet Meg.”

  My first thought is that there is something to be said for made-up names. The second: Omigod, he’s taking over for Winston Sykes?

  Winnie, who has since grown portly, was matinee-idol handsome, with a raffish air that perfectly suited a debonair sleuth. Cedric Mickelthwaite looks like an addled egret anxious to take flight. He stares at me for a moment and says, “You were so marvelous as Hattie.”

  “Hattie? You saw me play Hattie? How amazing!” It’s my favorite role, one written for me in a play I hoped would make it to Broadway. Instead it died a grim death after a brief run, mired in backers’ woes and litigation. “You must be from Chicago.”

  “I am. My parents took me to see you. My dad loved you as Jinx.”

  “Of course, of course. He must be thrilled you’re playing the Magician.”

  “And Cedric is a real magician!” Ed says, jumping in. “Does all his own stuff. Wait until you see!”

  Cedric gives me a crooked smile. “I took it up as a kid because of Holiday. I can’t believe I’m going to read with you.”

  “Well, let’s see how it goes, Cedric.”

  I take a deep breath and sit. Only a moment before, I wasn’t nervous. Now I am. I open the script the PA has placed on the table in front of me and turn to the first page.

  Ed settles back in a director’s chair, with an assortment of writers and staff members seated behind him. Billy perches on a stool. The script woman, stopwatch in hand, sits in a chair next to him. “Ready, everyone? Let’s begin act one, scene one. We fade in on Jinx backstage.”

  I settle in quickly and find Cedric to be a deft sparring partner for Jinx. His timing is sublime. He infuses the role with a sly, elegant wit, a light comedic touch that doesn’t undermine those moments when he has to be tough and serious. His eccentric appearance works for him. He’s mesmerizing as the Magician. I imagine him with Chelsea, her deep-throated voice and cocky manner playing to his suave man-about-town, and realize why they were cast opposite each other.

  Chelsea, you fool! Don’t blow this! If only I could reach her, shake some sense into her. As much as I loved playing Hattie Osborne in a turn-of-the-century stage drama, I know that Jinx Fogarty is the role I’ll always be remembered for and the one that made so much else possible. It could be Chelsea’s ticket, too.

  Approximately fifty-two minutes later, Cedric and I stand and give each other a hug. It’s over, and I am both relieved and elated. It was fun. Cedric stretches his arms out, still looking like a bird about to take flight, but his pale face is glowing. He’s grinning. I’m sure he’s imagining the phone call home to his father.

  I look around the room, listening to the buzz of voices. Ed is huddled with Billy and a cluster of people I’m sure include the writers and key crew members. The actors have broken into small groups hovering near a craft services table laden with snacks.

  Where’s Dirck? I realize he’s the one I’ve been looking around for, but he seems to have disappeared. Then my eyes fall on him, half-hidden in shadow, leaning against a wall near the soundstage entrance. His arms are folded tight against his chest, his head tilted to the side, and he’s looking directly at me. Our eyes lock for a moment and I realize that he’s not going to come over to me. I sling my bag over my shoulder and go to him.

  “So?”

  “So? Nothing like the limelight, eh? You jumped right in.” His lips curl in what tries for a smile, but his voice is cold.

  “Hey, wait a minute! I didn’t ask to read Chelsea’s part. Ed asked me to sit in.”

  “But it felt good, didn’t it? You liked letting ’em know you still have the chops. That’s okay, but I wouldn’t try to show the kid up anymore. You make yourself look bad. It’s a little embarrassing, you know?”

  “Dammit! That wasn’t my intention and you know it!”

  “Yeah? Okay. And just for the record, you held your own. Not bad. You still do that thing with your mouth, though. That nervous thing. You should work on it.”

  “Oh, really? Thanks for the critique. On the house, I hope, but feel free to send a bill.” I smile, just to show there are no hard feelings, and brush past him. “Good seeing you, Dirck. As always.”

  The heavy soundstage door isn’t conducive to slamming, but the loud click of the lock has a satisfying sound of finality. Jaws clenched, I march down the cement walkway toward the studio entrance. All I need is a parking ticket to make my day truly dismal.

  I pick up speed and almost knock over the young redheaded PA barreling full steam around a corner. We bump into each other and I instinctively grasp her upper arms to steady her. “You okay?”

  “Sorry, wasn’t looking.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m Eden, Mr. Ackerman’s assistant. Please forgive me for not leaving a pass for you. But it’s been such a day, you wouldn’t believe!”

  “I know. Any word from Chelsea?” I venture.

  “Not yet.” Eden groans and shows me her clipboard full of messages. “I’ve called and called. Even sent a car to her house to check if something happened up there. Her agent is beside himself. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  “It’s not good,” I mutter while my eyes scan the clipboard for Chelsea’s address. “She’s up in Laurel Canyon somewhere?”

  “Yeah, a rented house off Wonderland Avenue. Sorry, I’m not supposed to give out the address.” She hugs the clipboard to her chest, which is fine since I’ve already memorized the street number. “You were just great in there. It must’ve been fun for you to play Jinx again.”

  “Thanks! I hope it was okay for me to do that. After all, it’s Chelsea’s role now. I don’t want to butt in.”

  “Oh, you didn’t! I sat in on all the casting, so it’s fascinating to see what each actress brings to the role. You’re funny and lighthearted. Great timing. Chelsea’s really strong, tough, but she’s got this vulnerable side.”

  “I know. And her voice. Great voice.” We smile at each other. I’m aware that Eden is jiggling her clipboard against her chest, anxious to move on. “Well, you’ve got to get back, so I’ll let you go. Nice to meet you, Eden.”

  “And you! Sorry, got to run.” She takes off at a gallop, then turns back. “And, hey! You were really great! So funny!”

  “Thanks! See you around.” It’s a terrible thing to acknowledge, but I really needed to hear those reassuring words. The fact that a young persona
l assistant, a neophyte in the business, who essentially works as a gofer for the producer, thinks I was “great” and “funny” carries more weight than I care to admit. Why do I let Dirck get to me?

  I race to my car, grateful to see that there’s no ticket stuck under the windshield wiper. I open the windows to let in cool air, fasten my seat belt and head for Laurel Canyon Boulevard. The winding, congested thoroughfare snakes up a hilly route from West Hollywood to the crest on Mulholland Drive, then down to the San Fernando Valley on the other side.

  Along the way, my eyes travel up to the hodgepodge of bungalows clinging to the canyon walls, surprised to recall how many of these houses I’ve visited over the years. Laurel Canyon, long known as a counter-culture haven, has always attracted its share of actors and celebrities, beginning with cowboy star Tom Mix, up through musician Frank Zappa and his family. I even lived for a few months in a small rental on Lookout Mountain.

  I swing off the boulevard and head up Wonderland Drive, the streets becoming narrower and more winding. Eventually I find the house Chelsea has rented, an almost shack-like structure painted pale blue with white trim. A brick walkway twists uncertainly up a grassy rise, skirting around a giant sycamore shadowing the house, and ending at a set of cracked cement steps. The windows are shuttered. There’s no car parked in the sagging carport.

  I continue on up the street, turn around and park about twenty yards north of Chelsea’s bungalow, my wheels turned tight to the curb. I’m in no hurry. I wait, occasionally checking my cellphone for messages. Few cars drive by. No one appears on the street or leaves any of the houses.

  Slowly I get out of my car, an old envelope from my glove compartment in hand. If anyone is watching me, I want an excuse for opening her mailbox. I find a handful of circulars and an envelope inside, perhaps two days’ worth of junk mail and a telephone bill. I slide my envelope, an untraceable advertisement, inside the box. There are no newspapers yellowing on the doorstep, but then Chelsea is young. If she reads a daily paper, she probably does so online. I glance around, then head up the twisting walkway to her front door.