The Wrong Girl

by Donis Casey

  ~At last, the stars come out!~

  Mr. Mills yelled at Blanche a lot that first day. But he yelled at everyone, and there didn’t seem to be much venom behind his words, so Blanche didn’t take it personally. Besides, she had been castigated by experts and could tell if a castigator meant business or not. There were a lot of people to feed, but the work itself wasn’t as hard as feeding a gang of farmworkers. There were a number of Indians in the cast, which made Blanche feel comfortable, even if they weren’t her kind of Indians. They were a jolly bunch who called themselves Yavapais, and when they found out that she was from Oklahoma and pretty much Native herself, they didn’t bother to lower their voices in her presence when they cracked jokes about some of the white guys in the crew.

  The Californians were a lot of fun, too. Most of them were cowboys, just like her father and brothers and uncles, and they teased the girl gently in a protective way that she found entirely familiar. She had had long practice dealing with just these sorts of men, joking and pretending that she didn’t understand a thing they were talking about, but wouldn’t they like some more stew and here’s some bread hot out of the oven? By the time the midday meal was over, she had been adopted by fifty guys and a couple of women. Even the ill-natured Mills realized that his young helper knew what she was doing and therefore mitigated his tirades. In fact, he had grown downright fond of her, though he wasn’t going to go out of his way to let her know that.

  Blanche didn’t exactly enjoy the work, but the motion picture people were interesting and had lots of exciting stories to tell her. She was disappointed that no one very famous had shown up for a meal, though. When she asked Mr. Mills about it, he told her that Tom Mix would undoubtedly eat with the crew later, but he had had experience with Miss Bolding on another set and she usually took her meals in her tent.

  This did not surprise Blanche.

  Alma Bolding was one of the most acclaimed actresses of the silver screen. She did not need to speak to make her audience laugh, cry, or break their hearts. Her great dark eyes spoke volumes.

  Mrs. Gilbert came to the mess tent shortly after the dinner dishes had been cleared away and before the supper preparations had gotten well underway.

  “Blanche, honey, Miss Bolding wants to meet you before the story meeting.”

  “She’s here?”

  “I told you she was coming in this afternoon. She’s been having her costumes fitted.” Mrs. Gilbert’s voice took on an edge of impatience. “Come on, now, Mr. Mills can’t spare you for long.”

  Alma Bolding was sitting in a camp chair the first time that Blanche saw her. She was dressed in a long, prairie-style western dress and had on a broad-brimmed straw hat to protect her milk-white skin from the Arizona high country sun. She slowly turned her head to look at them as they neared.

  Blanche felt weak in the knees. If Alma were any more beautiful, no one would ever get any work done in her presence. Especially the men, who would be running into walls and falling off of cliffs. Alma smiled when she recognized Mrs. Gilbert. Her gaze shifted to Blanche and the smile took on an ironic twist.

  “Well, now, Delphinia. I see you’ve brought me a present.”

  Alma talked fast, like she had just stepped out of the Bronx and was about to snap her gum, whether she was chewing any or not.

  Mrs. Gilbert stepped to the side and pushed Blanche forward. “This is Blanche, Miss Bolding. I found her wandering around in the rain up by the cabin, wet as a fish. Seems she hitched a ride with a man who had ungentlemanly designs on her, so she leaped out of his automobile and ran off into the woods.”

  Alma’s smile widened into an intoxicating grin. “Now, that’s the spirit!”

  “I’ve gotten her on here in the kitchen, helping Mr. Mills.”

  A young man strode over and said, “The director wants to see you, Miss Bolding.”

  Alma reached out and Blanche took her hand. It was white and soft and Blanche could feel every bone. “I have a feeling that there’s a very interesting story here, Blanche, but since Elmo has just called me to discuss the shooting schedule, I’m afraid I’ll have to hear about it later.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Blanche managed, overcome with awe. Buck up before you disgrace yourself, she thought, unable to take her eyes off of Miss Bolding as she walked away. She was vaguely aware of Mrs. Gilbert’s hand on her shoulder.

  “When Mr. Mills finishes with you for the day,” Mrs. Gilbert said, when she finally had Blanche’s attention, “come to Miss Bolding’s tent and we’ll all drive back to the cabin together.”

  “Miss Bolding is going to let me stay?”

  “I haven’t asked her yet, but I expect she will, especially if you make yourself useful.”

  The rest of the day was endless, and not just because of Mr. Mills’s bottomless pit of chores for her. She could hardly concentrate on her chopping, serving, and dishwashing for dreaming about her meeting with Alma Bolding. And she was actually going to sleep in the same house as the star!

  ~Was there no end to the adventures

  awaiting Blanche once she took a daring

  leap and flew the nest to freedom?~

  Time marches on, no matter how slowly, and the hour finally arrived when the kitchen was properly packed and secured and Blanche was released from duty. She sprinted across the clearing to Miss Bolding’s tent.

  “There you are,” Mrs. Gilbert said. “Fold that pile of blankets, would you? Miss Bolding will be here…”

  She had barely spoken her name before Alma threw open the tent flap and flung herself onto a stool in front of the dressing table. She was hardly recognizable, and not just because of the thick layer of makeup she was wearing. Her beautiful face was contorted with anger. “What a flaming ass that Elmo is. Remind me to never do another film with him. I swear, if it weren’t for Tom and Olive, I’d be out of here faster than you could spit. Delphinia, get this crap off my face, will you? All I want to do tonight is take a bath and get spifflicated.” She caught sight of Blanche’s reflection in the mirror. “Who are you?”

  Blanche froze, a half-folded blanket over her arm.

  “This is Blanche. You met her earlier,” Mrs. Gilbert said, calm as you please, as she slathered enough cold cream over Alma’s face to render her featureless. Blanche could hardly keep her mouth from gaping wide enough to catch a frog.

  Alma managed a grunt from under her layer of paint stripper.

  “Honey, there is a change of clothes for Miss Bolding in that bag on the floor there. Lay them out on the cot for me, please,” Mrs. Gilbert instructed as she wiped away long runnels on Miss Bolding’s face with a series of tissues.

  Once the makeup was removed, Alma looked more like a real person, still beautiful, but sagging with fatigue. A bit sallow, Blanche observed. Tired, in more ways than one.

  Alma stood and stretched her arms out to her side like a three-year-old while Mrs. Gilbert relieved her of her prairie dress, the petticoats, the long black stockings, leaving her standing bare-legged in nothing but camiknickers. She was thin, almost bony.

  Alma didn’t acknowledge Blanche’s presence again. She threw herself on the cot and covered her eyes with a forearm while Blanche busied herself as quietly as she could, fearing that Miss Bolding’s abrupt personality change did not bode well for her employment prospects.

  She whispered her doubts to Mrs. Gilbert, who reassured her with a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Blanche. We’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

  ~Blanche learns thather idol has feet of clay.~

  Once Mrs. Gilbert had directed the location roustabouts to load Miss Bolding’s trunks into the automobile, she roused her famous employer from her nap and deposited her into the back seat along with the rest of the baggage. She gestured for Blanche to join her in the front seat, and the three of them drove back to the cabin in silence.

  Mrs. Gilbert hauled Alma Bolding to
the upstairs bathroom for a long soak in the tub, leaving Blanche to unload the auto as best she could.

  Blanche made several trips to carry in the dozens of boxes and bags. She had not been told where to deposit them, so she made as neat a pile as she could manage on a credenza beside the front door. The final item, a steamer trunk, was almost as big as Blanche herself and certainly weighed as much. But Blanche was nothing if not determined, and somehow finagled the trunk off the back of the auto and dragged it across the driveway, plowing a long, deep rut through the gravel in the process. In order to avoid scratching up the wood floors, she walked the trunk, corner by corner, across the porch and into the cabin. She abandoned it just inside the door and sat down in an armchair, exhausted, to await further instruction and contemplate the vagaries of the day.

  When she had gotten up that morning, she had been certain that she had landed on her feet and all her troubles were over. Now that the sun was going down, she wondered what she had gotten herself into. Did the seemingly kind and gentle Mrs. Gilbert expect her to be a general dogsbody, lifting, cooking, cleaning, and fetching in exchange for room and board? Was her idol Alma Bolding really the lively woman who earlier had taken her hand in gentle friendship, or the capricious, self-absorbed creature of this evening? And how badly did Blanche want to hang around and find out?

  Badly enough, it seemed. Blanche decided to give her new situation a few days. Maybe even a few weeks. But she also began to formulate alternate plans, in case things didn’t work out as well as she hoped.

  ~An hour later, Mrs. Gilbert finds Blanche

  still sitting quietly in the armchair,

  surrounded by luggage.~

  “My goodness, honey, did you manage to get that trunk in here all by yourself? I figured it would take both of us.”

  Blanche’s mouth tightened in annoyance. “Yes, ma’am. You said…”

  Mrs. Gilbert laughed. “I did say, didn’t I? Well, Miss Bolding is bathed and in her dressing gown and will be down in a few minutes—famished, if I know her. So if you’d be so kind as to see if there’s anything in the pantry that we can make do with, I’ll take some of these suitcases and boxes upstairs. We can unpack the trunk later.”

  Blanche stood up, not pleased to be in charge of supper after a long day of kitchen patrol, but resigned to doing her duty. She had only taken a step toward the kitchen when Alma Bolding swept down the staircase, dressed to the nines, in full movie star mode. She had on a black, white, and gray evening frock, cut in the latest drop-waist style and covered with peasant designs. The full skirt was short enough to bare six inches of white stocking-covered shin. Her sheer tulle sleeves ballooned out from the shoulder and were secured at her wrists by pearl-encrusted cuffs. Her dark hair was almost completely covered by a close-fitting white silk scarf, its tails hanging halfway down her back. Her elaborate Egyptian-styled earrings were a stunning contrast to the plain headdress. She carried a black cashmere wrap tossed over one arm.

  There was a spring in her step and a sparkle in her kohled eyes. That bath worked miracles, Blanche thought.

  Mrs. Gilbert looked stunned. “Alma, what are you doing? I thought you were getting ready for bed.”

  “Elmo is going to pick me up at eight, Delphinia. We’re going into Prescott for dinner and a drink.”

  Mrs. Gilbert’s expression changed from one of surprise to one of disapproval. “You have an early call in the morning, Alma.”

  Mrs. Gilbert’s sharp tone didn’t daunt Alma in the least. “Don’t be an old mother hen, Delphinia. Elmo has to work tomorrow, too. I’ll be back in plenty of time to get a good night’s sleep and be fresh as a daisy in the morning.”

  Mrs. Gilbert didn’t have time to argue. The distinctive crunch of tires on gravel was followed by the loud “ah-oo-gah” of an automobile horn. Alma threw her cape over her shoulders and sailed out the door with a wave and a cheerful “Ta-ta, girls!”

  Well, at least she knows I’m alive, Blanche thought.

  Mrs. Gilbert said nothing. She stood with her arms crossed for the longest minute, looking like she had just taken a bite out of a lemon.

  Blanche couldn’t contain her curiosity. “But I thought she hated Mr. Reynolds…”

  Mrs. Gilbert made a disparaging noise. “Miss Bolding’s moods run hot and cold. She probably had a disagreement with him about the script and now she thinks she can charm him over to her way of thinking.”

  “Can she?”

  Mrs. Gilbert shrugged. “Probably. Alma Bolding didn’t get where she is without knowing how to convince people to do whatever she wants—and think it’s their own idea, to boot.”

  “That’s a talent I’d like to have.”

  Blanche hadn’t realized that she had voiced her thought aloud until Mrs. Gilbert gave her a narrow look.

  ~“Don’t be so eager to be a vamp, darling.

  It takes an awful toll on you.”~

  “I’m sorry,” Blanche said, more meekly than she felt. “Shall I fix up some supper for the two of us?”

  “You go on ahead and eat, honey. I’ve lost my appetite. I’m going to start on this trunk.”

  Blanche didn’t offer to help. She did as she was told and found some cold roasted chicken and a piece of bread to make her supper out of, then cleaned up the kitchen and went upstairs to her tiny bedroom, leaving Mrs. Gilbert sitting in an armchair next to the emptied steamer trunk, knitting.

  Exhausted, Blanche fell asleep in her little bed almost immediately, soothed by the piney aroma on the breeze coming in through her open window.

  She was wakened out of a sound sleep by loud laughter coming from outside. She had no idea what time it was. Very late, surely, or very early. She rose up on her knees in the bed to look out the window. She had a clear view of the driveway, and though it was as dark as it can only be deep in the woods, the lamplight emanating from the open back door illuminated the scene well enough for Blanche to see Miss Bolding staggering out of an auto, so drunk she could hardly stand. Elmo Reynolds, the director of Tom Mix’s movie, was behind the wheel, and judging from the bawdy but barely understandable song he was bellowing, he was as inebriated as his passenger. Mrs. Gilbert came down the steps in time to catch Alma before she ended up splayed all over the gravel. She threw Elmo Reynolds a poisonous look as she guided Miss Bolding into the house. She didn’t ask him to stay and sober up before he drove away. He would have to take his chances on the mountain road back to the camp.

  ~Once again, Alma makes a miraculous

  recovery following her night of debauchery.~

  Blanche had seen people coming off of a roaring drunk before, so when she arose just after dawn the next morning she dressed quietly and tiptoed down the stairs, expecting that Alma would not wake until much later and suffer from a raging hangover when she did. She planned to ask Mrs. Gilbert what would happen when Alma didn’t show up for work on the movie location. Would Alma lose her job before she even started it? Of course, Mr. Reynolds probably wasn’t feeling so well himself this morning.

  The luggage had been cleared out of the living room. A pillow and blanket were tossed over the sofa. Mrs. Gilbert had stayed downstairs all night.

  Blanche could hear activity in the kitchen. She made a detour to fold the blanket, then made her way into the kitchen, determined to order Mrs. Gilbert to bed. Blanche would offer to walk the mile or so to the location this morning and deliver the bad news about Alma to Mr. Mix and Mr. Reynolds.

  She stopped short in the kitchen door. Alma Bolding was sitting at the table, already dressed in her prairie frock, piling jam on a piece of toast. Mrs. Gilbert was at the stove, stirring a pot containing something that smelled delicious.

  Alma grinned at her, showing no effects whatsoever of her earlier inebriation. Her dark eyes sparkled with a brightness that was just short of unnatural. “There’s my lost puppy,” she exclaimed. “You darling thing. Mil
ls thinks you’re just the best little worker since the shoemaker’s elf. Sit down here and let Delphinia feed you before we have to get over to the location.” She was talking fast again, happy and good-natured, seemingly over yesterday’s pique. Blanche shot Mrs. Gilbert a stunned look.

  “Sit down, Blanche,” Mrs. Gilbert said. She had not recovered her own good mood. “We have to leave pretty soon.”

  Blanche lowered herself into a chair across the table from Alma, who was wolfing down her jam-laden toast like she hadn’t eaten in a week. “How do you feel this morning, Miss Bolding?”

  “Fit as a fiddle,” Alma said around her mouthful of toast. “Those pills Dr. Harmon gives me are the best remedy I’ve ever had for a pumpkin head after a night on the town.”

  Blanche shot another incredulous glance at Mrs. Gilbert, but Mrs. Gilbert did not turn away from the stove. “Them pills must be a miracle cure, ma’am.” As soon as she said it, she caught her breath. She hadn’t meant to refer to Miss Bolding’s unfortunate state of the night before.

  But Alma was far too jolly to take offense. “I did throw off the traces last night, didn’t I? But I got what I wanted, so it was worth it. Now, kiddo, tell me about yourself. You sound like the hills of Tennessee or Kentucky to me. How’d you end up wandering through the woods in Arizona after fending off a masher?”

  Blanche forgot about the miracle pills, forgot about Mrs. Gilbert’s stiff, disapproving posture. She related her entire life story in detail—the slow death by boredom on her parents’ farm, the exciting, charming stranger, the rash elopement that was no elopement at all, the escape from the disgusting fat man. She was thrilled that the glorious Alma Bolding was listening to it all with such compassionate interest. Even Mrs. Gilbert had turned around to take in the whole sordid story.

  When Blanche finished, Alma clapped her hands to her cheeks, horrified. “Oh, my goodness, darling, what a sorry tale! I don’t blame you, mind. Any bright girl worth the name would be up for a stab at fame and fortune. I blame that scum-sucking son of a bitch, that immoral violator of the Mann Act who led you on and treated you like a commodity to be sold. What is the scurvy louse’s name? I’ll hire somebody to find him and beat the snot out of him.”