by Cindy Brown
Ouch. But he was right. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re forgiven as long as you tell me all about Camelot.”
“You mean Kennelot.”
“No, really? Ooh, this is going be good...”
After swearing him to secrecy, I told Timothy all about the play while perusing racks of clothes.
“I wish I was a fly on that wall. And at the Ren faire, so I could listen to the Cockney belly dancer.”
“Well, you could come out and see for yourself, but you couldn’t listen. I told Timothy all about my new mime gig, and then worked the conversation around to: “So I met this guy at the hat shoppe out there...”
Timothy held a yellow polka-dotted top up to my face. “Oh. No. Not your color.”
“He also works at a milliner’s shop in Mesa.”
“I think you should leave the hats to Jackie. Marilyn didn’t really do hats.”
“No, I’m...I just want to know more about this guy, Benjamin. He’s gay and a female impersonator, so...”
“So you came to the right place,” said Timothy. “Except no one comes to mind. Let me think on it. And...” He thrust a black ballet-neck top at me. “Go try this on.”
I was in the dressing room and had just wiggled my way into a tight pair of pedal pushers when my phone rang. Matt.
I picked up on speakerphone “Hi. I didn’t expect you to call so early. I’m out shopping.”
“Dad and I are going over to the neighbors’ for dinner and cards. Not sure what time we’ll get home so I thought I’d call now. You’re shopping?” Matt knew I wasn’t a shopper. I rarely had any disposable income.
“Costume shopping.”
“Knock, knock,” said a voice outside my curtained cubicle. “Are you decent?”
“Yes, but—”
Timothy pushed aside the curtain. “Oh honey. Just say no to plaid.”
“I’m out shopping with Timothy. And,” I said to Timothy, “these pants aren’t plaid, they’re gingham. I’m sure I’ve seen photos of Marilyn wearing gingham.”
“That was farm girl Marilyn, not bombshell Marilyn. No. Is that Matt on the phone?”
“Yep,” said Matt. “Hi Timothy.”
“Tell Ivy to listen to the man who got her the part. I am Henry Higgins, she is just Eliza.”
“Just?” I said. “Eliza is pretty dang cool and she can sing, which is more than—”
“You saw the Marilyn photos, right?” Timothy continued. I’d sent pics to Matt at the same time I’d sent them to my agent. “That was all my doing. Plus I helped her out with her belly dancer persona.”
“Belly dancer?” Matt said, laughter just beneath his voice.
“Sorry, I could’ve sworn I told you. I’m undercover as a belly dancer at the Ren faire. I’ll send some photos. And I already had my costume, Mr. Wants-To-Take-Credit-For-Everything.”
“But I’m the one who told you you needed an accent. I’m the one who told her,” Timothy said into my phone.
“And look how well that turned out. They want me mute.”
“Pshaw,” Timothy stepped outside my cubicle. “And tata for now. I’m going to find you some more clothes, Eliza.” He let the curtain drop with a swish.
“They want you mute?” Matt asked.
“Yeah. I have to mime everything.”
“A belly dancing mime?” Full laughter now. I loved Matt’s laugh: It was a deep rumbling sound that bubbled up from inside and burst onto the scene like a happy Saint Bernard. It surprised people when they first heard it, coming from a slim bespectacled guy, but the sheer joy of it soon made them join in. Like I did right then. Even though we were sort of laughing about me.
“A mime belly dancer. Different thing altogether.”
“Right.” I could picture him on the other end of the line, taking off his glasses and wiping his streaming eyes. “Are you going to pull an imaginary rope? Or build a box?”
“Already checked off my list.”
“Is your accent really that bad? Say something for me.”
“Oi don’t fink me accent’s that awful.”
Matt laughed again.
“Oi! Cut it out or I won’t do Marilyn for you.”
Matt’s laughter cut off. “You can do her voice, too? It was incredible how much you looked like her in that picture.”
“Of course, I can do Marilyn,” I breathed into the phone in her voice. “I’m an actress, silly.”
“Dad!” Matt yelled. “You’ve got to hear this.”
“Oh. No,” I said quickly. I’d never even talked to Matt’s dad before. “I don’t think—”
“Hello?” said a male voice. Was this really the way Matt wanted to introduce me to his dad? Okay... “Hello sir,” I said in my best Marilyn accent. “I’m so very pleased to meet you. I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
A booming laugh. Now I knew where Matt got it. “By God she does sound like her,” his dad said loudly, then back into the phone, “You sure look like her too. Matt’s hooked himself a good one.” A rustle, then “Thanks.” Matt’s voice again, softer. “First laugh he’s had in days.” He dropped his voice. “I know I said Mom’s prognosis was good, but...she’s not going to be the same. Things are going to be different around here. She—and Dad—are going to need some help. So thanks. For being Marilyn. And for being Ivy. I needed that laugh too.”
“Glad I could do something.” I was, even if it was just to entertain them for a minute. I was also glad Matt hadn’t brought up the living together question, although I knew it was probably because of the shopping-with-Timothy/dad-in-the-room situation. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t expect me to really look like Marilyn Monroe.”
“Maybe you should keep the wig just in case. Or maybe just for dress-up.”
“You mean like Halloween?”
“No...”
“Oh.” Warmth crept up my neck and then...downward. “I do love you, you know,” I said.
“I know.”
We hung up soon afterward. I waited for Timothy in my little curtained cubicle. Its closeness felt comforting, like a hug with no strings attached. But even there, my dilemma crept under the curtain and raised its head. I did love Matt. And I loved acting. But one meant settling down and the other a life on the road. Not even slightly compatible. What was I going to do?
Chapter 37
I left Re-Dud with a new pencil skirt, two pairs of capris, several tops and a bit more information. “I called my friend Frederick when you were trying on clothes,” Timothy said. “I remember him talking about a Benjamin a few times. I asked if the Benjamin he knew worked in a hat shop. He does. And he works at the Ren fair.”
“Did you get anything else?”
“Frederick said he never could understand the attraction to the Ren faire. Too macho for him, and maybe too macho for Benjamin. He got beat up a few times.”
“A few times?”
“Spread over several years. And before you ask, I don’t think Frederick was exaggerating about the beatings. He said that one time someone broke Benjamin’s ribs.”
I thought about this as I made my dinner of red beans and rice. Or I tried to. Mostly what I thought about was Matt. And an acting career. And Matt. And an acting career. Then I thought: Candy.
My best friend Candy had made this same decision a couple of years ago. I’d introduced her to Matt (before I’d recognized his charms) and they dated for eight months until she broke up with him in order to pursue a film career in LA. And though her career did take off eventually, the dark side of the entertainment industry had nearly killed her: She was now in an eating disorder rehab facility in Taos. And she could take calls between six thirty and eight thirty.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Candy said when she picked up. “It’s good to hear from you.”
It was good to hear her voice too. She soun
ded better, more like herself. And I realized I couldn’t ask her about her decision, not now when she was still regaining her sense of self. Turns out I didn’t have to.
After about ten minutes of chat, Candy said, “So you’ve told me about belly dancers and murder and Marilyn Monroe, but you can’t fool an old friend. There’s something else on your mind. Talk to me.”
Maybe if I put it in general terms...“Do you think actors can have successful relationships?”
Candy hooted with laughter. It was nice to hear. Sort of. “Darlin’, you know you are askin’ the wrong person.”
“No,” I said. “I suspect you’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Well. Well, maybe you’re right.” She sighed. “In my experience, an actor with a successful relationship is about as common as a man who does dishes. Our lifestyles are just different from other folks. We keep weird hours. Our schedules change all the time—I can’t tell you how many dates I’ve broken. We work hard, and often for nothing—”
“No, we don’t.”
“Hon, do you get paid to go to auditions? No. And you’re probably giving up work in order to go.”
“...Yeah.”
“Anybody who gets involved with an actor has got to be pretty damn grounded, enough that they can see you having faux sex with someone and be all right with it.”
“What if I—or you—just decided no sex scenes?”
“That’s a possibility. But then you—or I—have got to be willing to give up roles that could make us money or get us ahead in the industry.”
“You don’t have to make those kind of decisions as often in the theater.”
“No, you don’t. In the theater, your partner just has to understand that you may be out of town and on the road for months at a time.”
“Right.” I’m sure I sounded depressed but I couldn’t help it.
“Listen,” Candy said. “I’m just talking about myself and what I’ve seen. There are people who make it work. You ever think about Dolly Parton’s husband?”
“Uh, no.”
“He and Dolly have been married for dog’s years. She jets all over the world while he stays home. They seem happy.”
“Huh.”
“I assume we’re really talking about you and Matt?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
Chapter 38
Of course I hadn’t. Baaawk, bawk, bawk. My brain made chicken noises at me as I hung up with Candy. I would bring up the acting-relationship dilemma, I told my noisy mind. I’d talk to Matt about it all tomorrow. My mind must not have believed me because it clucked at me all night.
The next morning I got into the Marilyn wig and makeup (extra concealer under my tired eyes), dressed in one of my new outfits—capris and a button-up shirt tied at my waist over a cropped tank—and got on the road on time for a change. Traffic was a little lighter too, so I was just getting off the highway when Riley called. He didn’t sound pancake-happy, but not scrambled-eggs-sad, either. “Hey,” I said after we’d exchanged pleasantries. “Do you know a guy named Benjamin? He works at the hat shop at the faire.”
“Kinda quiet gay guy?”
“That’s him.”
“Not really. He lives here in town somewhere, doesn’t travel with the faire. I mostly know him ’cause of what happened with him and Angus.”
Well, that was easy. “Which was?”
“One of Benjamin’s friends came to the faire wearing a kilt. Angus was pissed.”
“Because he was wearing a kilt?”
“’Cause he was wearing a kilt and eye shadow. Angus said something about the pride of Scotland and pushed the guy into a cactus. Benjamin slapped him across the face.” Riley laughed. “You shoulda seen it. Angus was so mad. I think he woulda knocked his block off if Doug hadn’t come up right then.”
Doug again. Interesting. “What happened then?”
“I dunno.” He laughed. “Angus’s face got so red I thought it’d explode.” Huh. This didn’t help—it seemed like Angus would have been the one looking for revenge. Riley’s laugh stopped with a gulp. “Oh shit. Is it bad to laugh about a dead guy?”
“Not sure. Wouldn’t do it in court, though.”
“Court. Shit. Court.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to go there.”
A pause, then, “Is William okay?”
“Yeah. I think he’ll be back at work this weekend.”
“Cool.”
William. His name knocked against my skull reminding of something...yes. Female jousters. Could Bianca have posed as Riley? “Can I borrow your suit of armor?” I’d come up with this idea a while ago but kept forgetting to put it into action.
“Why?”
I had my excuse ready. “A friend’s doing an indie film.”
“About knights?”
“Sort of.” Arghh. You’d think that the Cockney-belly dancer-from-Liverpool-debacle would have taught me to think through my stories. “Yeah...It’s about suits of armor...that come alive.”
“Haunted suits of armor? Cool.”
Phew. “So I can borrow it?” And find out if your girlfriend could have worn it and killed Angus and framed you?
“Sure. Just ask Bianca. It’s in our trailer.”
Dang. “Is there any other way to get it?”
“Not really. You can try the trailer, but I’m pretty sure she keeps it locked, especially after all the bad stuff going on. I’ll leave her a message. She’ll let you have it. She’ll probably let you have all my stuff.” Riley sighed loud enough to remind me he was still there. In jail.
“Riley?” I said. “You holding up okay?’
“I guess so. I was just thinking about Bianca. It’s gonna suck, seeing her at the faire, but not you know, seeing her. But hey,” —this guy just couldn’t stay in a bad mood—“I also want to thank you. For trying to help me, you know, by figuring stuff out.”
“Sure.” I crossed my fingers when I said it, partly because I felt weird about not letting Riley know that the Ren faire hired me, and partly because I really hoped that whatever I figured out about the case would help Riley—because it could just as easily go the other way.
Chapter 39
I stepped through the French doors onto John Robert’s flagstone patio. I loved that he liked to begin our mornings outdoors. I also loved the fact that he provided food. I grabbed a slice of banana bread and poured myself a glass of orange juice, careful not to spill any on my new/used Marilyn top.
Jackie and JFK were already there and chatting, about swimming, it seemed. “But a cold dip is so much more invigorating.” Hayden said this in his JFK voice, so it sounded like “in-vi-gah-rating.”
“I like a bit more warmth. Better for the muscles, I’d think,” Jackie said. “Hello, Marilyn.”
“Where’s John Robert?” I asked between mouthfuls of banana bread.
“He’ll be out in a bit,” JFK said. “Said he’s scrapping the ideas of the last few days, and has something completely different for us.”
“Oh, thank the Lord...” Uh oh. I sensed a presence behind me. Plus Jackie’s eyes got big. “...for thrift shops. And thank you for the compliment,” I said to Jackie. “It is a new top.” I put my hands on my hips, modeling my midriff-baring blouse.
“Did Marilyn have an outie?” asked John Robert, who, yes, had come up behind us.
“Not sure,” I said. “Maybe she did and she had it fixed.”
“Can they do that?” asked JFK.
“Darling, Hollywood plus enough money can do anything,” Jackie replied.
“So,” said John Robert, “before we go inside to the theater today, I’d like to talk to you about my new idea.” We all sat down in the lawn chairs grouped together on the patio. “Though I liked some of the ideas we’ve batted around these past
few days, I felt like it just wasn’t coming together, so I’m going to open up the story by using The Once and Future King rather than just the musical. Camelot was based on the book too, you know.”
“I’m sorry.” I gave a tinkling Marilyn laugh, hoping it would soften my question. “I don’t understand. How does this open up the story?”
“Since the book covers more of King Arthur’s life, we’ll have more time to play. I’m going to add a bit at the beginning with the sword in the stone. It needs to be something that highlights JFK’s service in World War Two. I’ve always wanted to use that great hero quote of his.”
“What quote?” I asked, just because he was dying to tell.
“When asked how he became a war hero, Kennedy said...” He looked at JFK, who smiled. “It was involuntary,” they said together. “They sunk my boat.” Jackie clapped politely.
“One problem,” John Robert said. “What exactly is JFK’s sword in the stone?...Oh! Since so much of the play is going to be about the love triangle and sex, maybe it’s his di—”
“How about a missile?” I said quickly, “Since it takes place during the war and all.”
“Brilliant!” Said John Robert. “That gives us some nice foreshadowing for the joust at the end of Act One.”
“It does?”
“Sure. Didn’t I tell you? That’s going to be the Cuban missile crisis. It’s where we’ll add the rallying cry for the whole play: ‘Might for right,’” he said, “‘Might for right!’”
Chapter 40
After rehearsal, John Robert walked us all to the front door, just as he’d done the last few days, when something caught my eye. “Do you mind if I powder my nose?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s a long drive back to town.”
I slipped into the bathroom, then listened to see if John Robert was walking Jackie and JFK out to their cars like he usually did. The front door shut. I peeked my head out of the bathroom. Yes, they were all out front. I ran to the console table near the door and quickly sorted through the papers there: mail, magazines, and...a map. Of the Phoenix Renaissance Faire.