Best to Laugh: A Novel

by Lorna Landvik

  “How did you know that?”

  “I am fortune-teller,” she said, fingering a tress of the long gray hair that trailed out from under the scarf she wore like a pirate. “Also, Melvin Slyke told me.”

  She poured a cup of tea and handed it to me. “He is your neighbor, yes? He is hoping you someday make that cake, and that when you do, he will get a piece. I too would accept same. It’s not so common that a young person makes cake.”

  “I love to bake,” I said. “My grandmother taught me . . . well, not so much taught me—she was no cook—as allowed me. So yes. Absolutely. When I bake my next cake, you will definitely get a piece.”

  I knew I was nattering, but how was I supposed to have a normal conversation with someone who announced, “I am fortune-teller”?

  Madame Pepper cut a thick slab of bread and slathered it with a half-inch of butter. I followed her example; the bread was good and yeasty with a chewy crust, and as the two of us sat eating and drinking to the companionable clink of silverware and china, I began to relax. That is until the seer looked at me from under the awning of her eyebrows and said, “I could read your fortune but it might frighten you.”

  “Really?” I said, coughing a bit.

  “Yes. Some people don’t like to know what lies ahead. Mr. Gable, for instance—”

  “—the King of Hollywood,” I said, hoping to impress her with my grasp of Hollywood history. “I couldn’t believe when the apartment manager told me Clark Gable used to live here!”

  “Now and then, when he needed to stay in Hollywood,” said Madame Pepper. She stirred milk into her tea and fussed with the pot of honey, signals I took to mean, You interrupt me, I make you wait. Silence hung heavy as the drapes before she spoke again.

  “His home-home was a big ranch in Encino. Now, as I was saying, Mr. Gable, he always tell me, ‘Magda,’—not many I give permission to use my given name!—‘Magda, even if you see a bus hitting me tomorrow, don’t tell me of it. I only want to hear the good stuff.’”

  “Who else did you see?” I asked, a cub reporter wanting the full scoop.

  “See? I saw many.” She spiraled a hand in the air. “Anybody who was anybody came to see Madame Pepper. Still do. Most wanting of course to know not their fates so much as their fates in Hollywood.” Her hooded eyes squinted at me. “You are wanting to be an actress? Because I am seeing cameras.”

  Even though I thought she was as much a clairvoyant as I was a go-go dancer, my scalp tingled.

  “Well, I . . . I am going to be on a game show this weekend.”

  She slapped the carved wooden arm of the sofa.

  “Bingo. Although I am seeing for you more than one dinky little game show. Which is odd because I am not needing to look to the future to see you have none as Hollywood actress.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, a flush warming my face.

  “You don’t have looks for Hollywood actress,” she added, in case I wasn’t insulted enough.

  “Okay, then.” I patted my mouth with a yellowed linen napkin. “Thank you very much for the—”

  “Sit, sit,” she said, only she pronounced it “Zit, zit,” and I, who’d been preparing to make a run for it, zat.

  As she smiled, remnants of dimples flashed in her sunken cheeks.

  “There are reasons to be touchy, but truth should not be one of them.”

  I didn’t disguise rolling my eyes; if she were going to continue to cut me down, I wasn’t going to censor my reactions.

  “And what if I don’t believe that what you’re saying is the truth?”

  “In general, or as a predictor of the future?”

  “Take your pick,” I said.

  A low guttural laugh crawled up her throat.

  “I like you, I am seeing that,” she said, nodding. “But it is of no concern to me whether or not you think I am fraud.”

  “I didn’t say you were a fraud.”

  “In so many words, yes. And I was saying nothing against you, only against Hollywood. You are pretty in your own way, and you could have the acting talent of Sarah Bernhardt, but if you are not pretty in their way, forget about it.”

  “I’ve seen actresses who look like me in the movies,” I said, defensively.

  “Yes, tending to markets or laundromats. Or on that M*A*S*H show.” She shook her head. “Not for you. You are too big a star.”

  I came very close to doing a spit take. As it was, I coughed and sputtered and felt tea warm my sinuses.

  “Sorry. I just thought I heard you say I was ‘too big a star.’”

  The old woman smiled, understanding that I was not confused but only wanted to hear her repeat what she’d just said.

  “You heard correctly. And now you are thinking, ‘Oh, maybe I judged Madame’s abilities a little harshly,’ yes?”

  “No,” I said, causing her to snort again. “But, well . . . what do you mean?”

  Madame Pepper’s bracelets jangled as she arranged them on her wrist.

  “Maybe you should hire grammar teacher.” She wiggled her awning of eyebrows. “To spell it out for you.”

  ANY KID WHO LOOKS A LITTLE DIFFERENT gets called names—when I was in the first grade, a big red-faced sixth grader raced over to me on the playground and with chubby hands on his hips asked, “Hey, what are you—a gook or something?”

  Occasionally subject to names like Chink, Jap, or Slant Eye, I’d usually ignore them—at least outwardly—but didn’t when a boy sitting next to me in seventh grade science asked me if I was related to Charlie Chan.

  “Yes, I Charlie Chan,” I said in an over-the-top Asian accent, “and you Number One Stupid Shit Head.”

  The boy gaped at me, and it was obvious from his wounded expression that my response to his slight joke was way out of line.

  “Geez, I just—”

  “Stupid Stupid Shit Head,” I hissed, before sleepy Mr. Sonneborg looked up from his desk, swiveling his head trying to detect the noisemakers.

  Now the word star had been used by a Hollywood fortune-teller in regards to me, and as I alternately skipped and ran back to my apartment, a maniacal giggle burbled in my chest. Madame Pepper was right in thinking I thought her a charlatan, but still, even a charlatan can’t be wrong all the time.

  9

  “LOOK AT MY GOOSEFLESH!” said the woman next to me, offering for view her textured forearm.

  “Yes, it is cool in here,” said Chip, the freckled game show coordinator. “Research shows it keeps the energy up.”

  “If we freeze to death,” said a man behind me, “won’t that bring the energy down?”

  “All right, people,” said Chip, “let’s try to forget about the temperature. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  He led the small group of contestants into a room furnished like a den with vending machines.

  “This is the greenroom. This is where you’ll take your breaks and have lunch. If you need to use the ladies’ or men’s rooms, Abby here will escort you.”

  A young woman with an earnest overbite said, “You really can’t do anything outside this room without me tagging along!”

  The man who’d complained about freezing to death nodded. “It’s because of that big scandal back in the ’50s. When they fed that one guy all the answers ahead of time.”

  “Yes,” said Chip quickly. “We are scrupulous about avoiding scandal. Now, everyone, please find your name tags on the table and prepare yourself to be Word Wise!”

  With that cheerful exhortation, he left the room, leaving Abby alone to stave off scandal.

  After we contestants helped ourselves to beverages, we sat at a big oval table and exchanged mini-biographies. Dorothy from Iowa, the woman who’d earlier shown me her goose bumps, was an avid sweepstakes player and was listing the prizes she had won (a boat, a set of real leather luggage, a year’s supply of BlockOChoco bars) when Chip reemerged, outfitted with a headset and a clipboard.

  “All right, people, it’s show time. Up on the d
ocket are Jerry and Carrie.” His strictly business contestant-coordinator persona was offset by a surprised smile. “Hey, rhyming contestants. Anyway, Jerry and Carrie, follow me. Abby will take care of the rest of you.”

  Herded together into a tight group, my (stifled) impulse was to moo as we followed Abby through the studio and into the front row of the bleachers, where a small audience was assembled. We had been advised not to acknowledge any friends or relatives—“We can’t risk any passing of signals”—and every contestant took meticulous care not to look up and wave, jeopardizing their eligibility.

  “Isn’t this thrilling?” whispered Dorothy, sitting to my left. I nodded, and Tina, the fifth grade teacher who was at my right, leaned forward, her hands clutched under her chin.

  “The set looks so glamorous!”

  It was shiny, that’s for sure. On a silver lamé curtained backdrop, metallic letters spelled out Word Wise! The host’s podium was also silver, and flanked by silver cubes at which the contestants were sitting; Jerry looking relaxed and Carrie looking terrified.

  “I hope she doesn’t lose her lunch,” said Leon, a pharmaceutical salesman from Santa Ana.

  As cameramen and people with clipboards and headsets positioned themselves, a man with a lopsided afro raced toward us, clapping his hands.

  “Hey, everybody, I’m Jimmy Jay, the show announcer as well as the guy who’s going to warm you up!”

  His half-dozen so-so jokes about the Flying Wallendas, the Susan B. Anthony dollar, and Love Canal failed to bring up my temperature, but when he asked, “Are you warm yet?” the crowd responded with a hale “Yeah!”

  “Good,” he said as a camera rolled into position. “Because now it’s time to introduce today’s celebrity game players. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Filo Nuala!”

  A dark-skinned man who could nudge aside an ox with his shoulders emerged from behind the silver curtain.

  “Filo Nuala!” whispered Bob, a blinds and drapery installer. “Holy shit!”

  Filo Nuala was a quarterback for the Los Angeles Rams. I knew this not as a fan but as a person with intact senses. You couldn’t watch TV, read the newspaper, or listen to the radio without witnessing the American Samoan exhibiting his exploits on the gridiron, hosting a big charity event, or pitching this shaving cream or that breakfast cereal.

  Pressing a big hand against his tie, the man sat down at his cube, dwarfing it.

  “And joining last year’s MVP is this year’s Emmy-award winning actress Precia Doyle!”

  Now I was getting excited. Precia Doyle was an actress who’d made a career of playing British aristocrats on lots of high-brow miniseries, several of which I had watched through the years with my grandmother.

  “She’s so tiny!” whispered Dorothy.

  After Precia offered a funny little curtsy to Filo Nuala, Jimmy Jay said, “And now, the man who makes Word Wise the preferred game show of Mensa members, our host, Yancey Rogan!”

  The show’s jazzy theme music came on, and a tall, gangly guy in a checkered sport coat loped onto the set, his puffy shag as unmoving as plastic.

  “Thanks, Jimmy Jay,” he said and looking into a camera that had glided to a stop in front of him, he pointed his finger and said, “Now let’s play Word Wise!”

  It was a tease; first Yancey Rogan had to honor the game show law of engaging in banter before the game playing began, which meant chatting about football with Filo and plugging Precia’s upcoming miniseries about all the sexual and political intrigue in Queen Victoria’s court.

  Next the contestants were introduced, and after Jerry told about his police work—“I’ve got a pretty quiet beat; seems I chase down more truants than bank robbers”—Carrie, still looking like she needed Dramamine, explained that she was a veterinarian’s assistant.

  “So I imagine you get on-the-job training as to how to keep the wolves away,” said Yancey.

  Carrie’s head bobbed in several directions so that you couldn’t tell if she was agreeing or disagreeing.

  “All right, then,” said Yancey, smiling into the camera. “You’ve met our fabulous celebrities and our fabulous contestants—now let’s play Word Wise!”

  I had spent the week watching the show; there wasn’t much to it, really; it was sort of like word volleyball, except they kept throwing in a new ball.

  The game begins and one team is given a letter, say, A. A beep sounds, a light goes on and Yancey gives the celebrity a category of speech, say, noun. So the celebrity might answer, “Apple.” The play then goes to her partner, and after another beep and light, Yancey gives the contestant another category of speech, say, adjective. He might respond with “Anxious.” Throughout the round, Yancey can change the category at any time and the players’ answers have to reflect that.

  If a team misses an answer, if for instance the celebrity says, “annoyed,” and her category was still noun, the letter A and the remaining seconds go to the other team. When that time runs out, that team is given a new letter and a minute to play their full round. Whichever side racks up the most words at the final bell goes to the Big Dictionary. Occasionally a whistle blows, which means a speed round will be played and the winner of that wins a bonus prize—usually a trip.

  “Filo and Jerry,” said Yancey, “your letter is E and Filo, your category is adjective.”

  A beep sounded and a light on Filo’s cube went on.

  “Empathetic.”

  Another beep and Jerry’s cube lit up.

  Yancey said, “Verb.”

  “Enter,” said Jerry.

  When Filo’s light blinked on, he said, “Egregious.”

  Whoa, I thought. Here was a football player whose helmet actually protected something.

  “Entertain,” said Jerry.

  “Erroneous,” said Filo.

  “Jerry,” said Yancey after the beep. “Adjective.”

  “Erratic.”

  Another beep.

  “Filo,” said Yancey. “Noun.”

  “Elephant.”

  “Elk,” said Jerry.

  A buzzer sounded.

  “I’m sorry Jerry, your category was still adjective.” He turned to the women. “Precia, the letter is E, category is adjective, and there are still twenty seconds remaining on the clock. Go.”

  Precia said, “Enormous.”

  “Carrie,” said Yancey after the beep. “Verb.”

  Carrie looked stunned, as if the light that flicked on her cube was a headlight and she was the proverbial deer, but just when I thought she was going to lurch out and crash into the windshield, she blurted, “Elapse!”

  Precia nodded approvingly at her partner and when her light flashed on, she said, “Eminent.”

  “Exit,” answered Carrie.

  Beep.

  “Precia, noun.”

  “Existence.”

  A lower buzzer blatted.

  “Congratulations, ladies, you won the rest of your opponents’ round; now we’ll start your own. Carrie, the letter is J and your category is verb.”

  The game continued until the final round, and Yancey told Filo his letter was N and his category noun.

  The light and Filo’s word arrived at the same time. “Nimbus.”

  Beep.

  “Jerry,” said Yancey. “Adjective.”

  “Noisy.”

  We were all sitting forward in our seats, taking everything in. In my mind, I shouted my own answers, Nadir! Nullify! Nymph! and imagined my fellow contestants were doing the same thing.

  Filo Nuala, who played football in stadiums filled with raucous, beer-drinking fans, didn’t seem adversely affected by the respectful quiet of this tiny audience; he was focused and sharp, and it didn’t surprise me when he and Jerry won the game.

  “Carrie, I’m afraid we’re going to have to say good-bye to you,” said Yancey. “But let’s let Jimmy Jay tell us what you’ll be taking home.”

  “Yancey,” said Jimmy, standing in front of a display. “Today’s parting gif
ts include beautiful and unbreakable Melnor dishes—a place setting for six—along with a guarantee that when company comes over, the only thing you will break is bread! Also, Yancey, our lucky contestants will be taking home this beautiful Zirconian pendant and matching earrings by Gerral Jewelers, a case of delicious Rice Doodles, and this very timely clock radio, courtesy of K&H Electronics!”

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, there were only three contestants left in the stands and I was resigned to not being called that day when Chip came up to us during a commercial break and said, “Candy, you’re up.”

  Those words had the effect of a blast of desert heat: I felt a deep flush and all saliva in my mouth evaporated.

  As I walked toward the set, my legs turned to jelly, their bones to sponges. My heart, which had been running like a steady reliable Ford engine, now revved up like a Ferrari’s. My palms sprouted geysers and I wiped them on the sides of my skirt before I shook my partner Precia’s hand.

  WHEN THE RED CAMERA LIGHT CAME ON, Yancey introduced me to the home audience and then asked, “So what do you do here in Hollywood, Candy?”

  I hadn’t planned to say anything other than I was new in town and looking for work, but unplanned words tumbled out of my mouth.

  “I’m Dooby Carlyle’s stunt double.”

  Filo’s laugh was sharp and quick—Dooby Carlyle was his former 6’5” three-hundred-pound teammate who’d parlayed his fame on the field into a new career as a cowboy/detective in the hit action/thrillers Rodeo Cop and Rodeo Cop II.

  I relaxed in the laughter of the audience and the game began. My team, as the contender, got the first turn.

  “Precia, your letter is G and your category is adjective.”

  Beep. Her light went on.

  “Gigantic.”

  At my beep/light I said, “Gracious.”

  “Gleeful.”

  Beep.

  “Candy, verb,” said Yancey.

  My mind made a sharp turn. “Guarantee.”

  Beep.

  Yancey told Precia her new category was noun.

  “Gutter.”

  Back to me. “Give.”

  “Giant.”