Remains to Be Scene

by R. T. Jordan

  And then Tim was out the door and headed down the hall to his own room. Earlier, he’d selected one of his sexiest but casual outfits to wear for the evening: Givenchy slacks with an untucked Armani purple tuxedo stripe shirt. The tailored cuts of both accented his toned body, and never failed to receive a double glance from men as well as women. He wouldn’t shave—he liked the two-day beard stubble—but his ablutions would take as long as his mother’s.

  Time raced by, and he and Placenta were soon dividing their attention between the kitchen and the front living room, making last minute adjustments to floral arrangements as well as the tune stack on the CD player. They set out coffee table books of riotously colorful fall foliage in Vermont, to give the guests the impression that the famous Polly Pepper had paid close personal attention and recalled their New England roots.

  Just as Placenta had finished changing the potpourri dish in the entrance hall, chimes rang out in the house. It was the security signal from the call box at the main gates. Although she was immediately next to the intercom and button for the automatic gate opener, Placenta was momentarily flummoxed and quickly walked away. “You answer it,” she called out to Tim as she hastily retreated to the kitchen to dispose of the empty potpourri bag in her hand.

  Masterful host that he was, Tim took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and exhaled all of his anxiety. Then he pressed the intercom button and said, “Come on down.” He then pushed another button to open the gates.

  “Battle stations,” Tim called out loudly enough for Polly to hear on the second floor of the residence. “All hands on deck!” Then, just as Missie had done when the Pepper clan had visited her in Fryman Canyon, Tim opened the front door and stepped out into the evening to welcome their guests personally.

  Missie maneuvered her black Mercedes along the driveway and came to a stop next to Polly’s Rolls. When Missie opened her car door and stepped out, Tim called, “You found us!” He walked over and hugged the young star. She sounded out of breath as she half complained and half laughed that the streets in Bel Air were very confusing. Tim quickly moved to the passenger side of the vehicle to lend a hand to Missie’s mother. “Hope you didn’t have a problem finding us,” Tim said to her. “I should have given you better directions. I always presume that everybody knows where Pepper Plantation is located. Heck, there are enough tour coaches that drive by every day.”

  Tim started to chuckle at his bit of humor, but was interrupted by Mrs. Stembourg who declared, “We may be from out of town, but we’re not tourists.”

  And the evening is off to a fine start, Tim said to himself as he deftly guided Missie and her mother up the steps and into the house.

  Missie was immediately struck by the thought that she was actually standing in the fabled Hollywood home of Polly Pepper. With the expected “Ooh’s” and “Ahh’s” and “Oh, my God’s” tripping over themselves to reach Missie’s lips, she admitted that she had saved the issue of Architectural Digest in which Pepper Plantation had been the cover feature several years ago. “What’s it like to actually live here?” she asked in awe and reverence.

  “It’s a house for God’s sake,” Mrs. Stembourg said. “People just live here like anybody else.”

  Missie appeared embarrassed. “Obviously, I’m unsophisticated and overwhelmed.”

  Just then, Placenta came into the front living room acting as nonchalant as Wal-Mart employees avoiding customer assistance. “And we’re overwhelmed to have you,” she said, having caught the last of Missie’s comment. “Welcome! I’m pouring drinks. We’ll all have champagne, unless you’d like something different.”

  “Then we’ll give you the ten-cent tour,” Tim promised, winking at Placenta.

  Both Missie and her mother agreed that would be a lovely way to start the evening. As Placenta departed for the kitchen to retrieve the drinks, Tim made small talk about the easiest route to get to the house and he hoped that traffic wasn’t too terrible. “Sunset Boulevard’s a bitch this time of night,” he said. “Especially around the UCLA campus. Of course, rush hour is twenty-four seven in this town, isn’t it? I mean you have to plan well in advance just to go to the beach,” he laughed.

  Missie agreed wholeheartedly and said what everyone in Los Angeles says, that traffic was getting worse. “It’s that damn Pasadena Rose Parade,” she laid blame. “On New Year’s Day, as the rest of the country is freezing their buns off, they’re tuned in to the floats and see nothing but blue skies and those mountains that we never see in summer because of all the smog that’s probably giving us black lung and emphysema.”

  “I don’t count us among the throngs,” Elizabeth said. “We’re just here to become a star,” she spoke as though Missie’s celebrity was her own. “We’re cashing in and too bad for the poor folks back home.”

  Tim was slightly taken aback. “With production closed down on Detention Rules!—and who knows when you’ll resume—maybe your time’s finally up,” Tim tried to joke. Missie gave a weak smile and remained silent. Tim was suddenly uncomfortable, and looked around hoping to spot Placenta.

  In the next moment, she came into the room with a silver tray on which she carried the aperitifs. She set the tray down on the coffee table and made the gesture of carefully handing a glass to Missie’s mother. “Mrs. Stembourg, I’m handing you a glass,” she said, a bit louder than was necessary. Placenta reached for Elizabeth’s hand and guided it to the cold glass. When she was certain that Elizabeth had a hold of the flute she let go. Then she offered one to Missie and to Tim. They all took sips and acknowledged that after their respective rotten days, this was their just desserts.

  Tim looked at his wristwatch and made a show of craning his neck in search of his mother. “So sorry that Mom’s a bit tardy,” Tim confided. “She rushed home from wrestling with Bruckheimer. Then she had a long phoner with The Peeper. It may take her a while to put her face on.”

  Placenta stood up. “In the meantime, while we’re waiting, if you’d like to see the rest of the house, we’d be delighted to show you around,” she said, as a prelude to ushering the guests out of the room.

  Missie was overjoyed, but Elizabeth said, “I’ll just sit here and play with myself. Don’t know why I came in the first place since I can’t see the damn place.”

  Immediately, the gracious host that emerged from Tim whenever a guest had even the slightest problem, came to the fore. “I’m so inconsiderate,” he said. “Placenta can show Missie around. You and I will sit here and chat. Okay?”

  Elizabeth harrumphed and took another sip of champagne. “Never mind,” she said. “I’m used to being alone. I’ll just sit here and wait for the mistress of the manor to put in an appearance. Don’t worry that I might get bored out of my skull, or that I’ll have to use the bathroom and have no idea where it is.”

  Missie sighed heavily. “Mother,” she said as patiently as possible, “I don’t have to have a private tour of Pepper Plantation. It’s not that important. I can look at the magazine pictures in my scrapbook when we get home.”

  “Don’t play martyr!” Mrs. Stembourg snapped. “Go! You too Mr. Docent. I’ll sit here quietly and listen to…it sounds like Peggy Lee.”

  As Tim and Placenta led Missie out of the room, they could hear Elizabeth make a long sigh of resentment, as if she were a spoiled child being forced to sit in a corner as punishment. “She’s in a mood,” Missie whispered an apology to her hosts.

  Tim dismissed the problem. “She’ll be cool once Polly arrives and takes over.”

  Alone in the living room, Elizabeth became aware of how vast the area was. For a moment she concentrated on Peggy Lee’s voice emanating from hidden speakers and vibrating throughout the room. From the distance she could distinguish the giddy sound of her daughter and her escorts moving off to a farther area of the house. She could hear ambient sounds coming from the second floor, presumably from Polly’s boudoir. After a moment, already bored from sitting alone, she stood up, removed her dark glasses, and moved a
round the room. Elizabeth closely examined the paintings, framed autographed pictures of Roddy MacDowell, Virginia O’Brien, and Valerie Harper, and other object d’art. She drained her glass with one swift swallow and set it on the sofa table among a heard of antique elephants collected from the many locations around the world to which Polly had traveled.

  Elizabeth stealthily prowled around, opening the drawers in the side lamp tables, and then the tall hutch. She sniggered at the mess she found inside the cabinet—a stark contrast to the everything-in-its-place order of the rest of the room. She let her fingers wade through a pewter plate, that seemed to be a catchall for coins, keys, mismatched earrings, an assortment of pins, and several small gold ornaments for a charm bracelet. She came across one, which was the icon of the Academy Award. “Oscar,” she said in a whisper. “In your dreams!” she spat. “Missie will have hers by the time she’s twenty-one if it kills me.”

  As her mind flashed on a recurring image of seeing Missie accepting an Academy Award and thanking her mother for making her life possible, Elizabeth was startled back to reality by a sound at the top of the stairs. Then the sound of Missie’s distinctive laugh approaching from the opposite direction down the corridor toward the living room made her quickly close the cabinet door and hurry back to her place on the sofa. When Tim, Placenta, and Missie returned, she tried to appear annoyed that she’d been left alone for the ten minutes that it took to tour the first floor of the mansion.

  Tim immediately noticed that not only was Elizabeth’s drink glass empty, it was on the sofa table among Polly’s collection of pachyderms. “More champagne, ladies,” he said, which was Placenta’s cue to return to the kitchen, open another bottle, and signal for Polly to make her entrance.

  Placenta collected Missie’s and Tim’s glasses before spotting Elizabeth’s. Without a word, Placenta moved out of the room to fulfill her duties. She returned with a tray of five filled flutes and passed them about. Then, just as the guests took a single sip of their champagne, Polly Pepper appeared in the doorway, as if conjured up by a magician.

  With her hands on her hips and displaying her radiant smile Polly bellowed, “I’m completely ashamed of myself! Do forgive me, please! You can ask anybody and they’ll tell you that I’m never tardy! After years of starring on television every week, it’s simply not in my nature to keep even the lowliest production assistant waiting just for little ol’ me! Please! Accept my sincere apologies!”

  Polly swirled into the room, wearing a form fitting, magenta-colored ruched taffeta top with turned back cuffs, and a black column skirt, cut and darted with an off-center slit along the left leg. This flattered her still amazingly well-preserved figure. “I should have greeted you at the gate! But I’m confident that my darlings Tim and Placenta have made you both feel right at home. Yes?”

  Polly then made the rounds of kissing Missie and Elizabeth on their cheeks. “Heavenly scent,” she said to Elizabeth as she grazed the air next to her face. “Lilac?” And in the same rhythm she swiped a glass of champagne from the tray. Polly raised her glass and said, “To reunions and long-lasting friendships. We’re so delighted that you could join us for the evening at Pepper Plantation.” With that she drained her glass and the evening officially began.

  Chapter 17

  “…and that’s the last time that Mother Theresa ever appeared on a musical/comedy variety show,” Polly said triumphantly telling one of her favorite behind-the-scenes show business stories. “I guess after starring as my special guest that week, and having such a blast playing Bedpan Bertha’s unlucky patient, she knew she’d never have more fun in Hollywood. So she skipped town. Back to Calcutta. Poor dear!”

  “Too bad, ’cause after those incredible ratings she could have booked Merv and Johnny and Dinah Shore,” Tim added to the story he’d heard a gazillion times. “The network suits wanted her to host a fashion awards special. She could have healed NBC!”

  Polly sighed. “Mother Teri had a mean streak though. She really irritated dear Bob Mackie. Something wasn’t right about the bugle-beaded life-size crucifix designed especially for her to drag in the sketch about The Virgin birth of Liberace.”

  After a half hour of anecdotes and noshing on hors d’oeuvres, Polly looked at her watch, stood up and trilled, “Ding-dong! Soup’s on. Follow the leader to the dining car, please.”

  As Polly led the conga line, Missie walked beside Tim, still chatting about the new Pavarotti documentary, “Belly and the Beast.” Placenta held Elizabeth’s arm and carefully guided her behind the others.

  From the moment Missie arrived at Pepper Plantation, she was wide-eyed with wonder at every amenity in the big house. As she entered the formal dining room, she was completely overwhelmed when she spied the genuine Rembrandt around which the entire room had been decorated. She examined it closely before Polly pooh-poohed the period in which it had been painted and criticized brush strokes that prevented it from being acquired by the Getty. Then she called out, “You sit here. You sit there,” speaking to her guests and pointing out the seating arrangement.

  The long mahogany table could easily accommodate twenty, but tonight it was set for five and only at the near end, closest to the kitchen door. “This is like a state dinner at the White House,” Missie marveled. “Or high tea at Buckingham Palace!”

  “You’ll get to Buckingham Palace eventually,” Elizabeth said.

  “In my dreams,” Missie smiled. “I’ll probably have to be a tourist standing in a long line. But this is darned close. And Miss Pepper is the queen.”

  Polly agreed, then took her seat at the head of the table. To her left and right her two guests took their assigned seats. Tim sat next to Missie, and Placenta sat down for a brief moment beside Elizabeth before realizing that someone had to serve the dinner and Polly was not about to share the agreed upon duties. Placenta graciously excused herself from the table and glared at Polly as she picked up the plates at each setting and left the room. She returned with the dinners on a serving cart.

  “You sit,” said Tim, “I’ll serve.” He rose and set the meals before the guests, then served Polly and Placenta, before finally laying a plate at his table setting and returning to his chair.

  “What have we here?” Polly beamed, pretending to be surprised and impressed, as Tim praised Placenta for outdoing herself in the kitchen (although the food was delivered).

  “Same thing we always have on Wednesday nights,” Placenta bluffed, “Kofta balls in tomato sauce and spicy vegetable pilaf.”

  “And nary a face in the crowd,” Polly added, touching Missie’s forearm as a subtle knock to her vegan friend. She looked up at Placenta. “I see you’ve garnished with a few prunes to give it a sort of Middle Eastern flavor,” Polly said and turned up her nose.

  “Fiber,” Placenta said, ignoring Polly’s obvious dissatisfaction with the meal. “You need the extra push.”

  Once Placenta had seated herself and draped a napkin across her lap she called out “Dig in, folks!”

  But just as Polly, Tim, and Placenta’s forks were simultaneously poised at their lips, Missie asked in a small voice, “Shall I say grace?” Three pairs of eyes looked at her in momentary bewilderment before Tim said, “We nearly forgot.”

  Missie cleared her throat and reached for Tim’s and Polly’s hands. Polly intuitively knew to take Elizabeth’s hand, then Missie began her prayer. And when Missie finally got to the last “bless this, and thank you for that,” the five voices joined in with a simultaneous, “Ah-men.”

  “Allah, be praised,” Placenta added as a tease. “Hey, I’m just practicing…in case,” she justified her comment. “You read Daily Variety, and I’ll scan the Qur’an. The way things are going with Washington’s foreign policy I’m expecting a pop quiz from an Ayatollah one of these Ramadans.”

  Polly sighed with a tone of dissatisfaction then turned and complimented Missie on how lovely she performed her prayer ritual, and that she completely agreed that they were all inordinately blessed
people. “And blessed to have you both at our table,” she added, raising her glass.

  After the initial, nonverbal expressions of satisfaction with their meals, Polly skillfully launched into the topic for which she’d summoned her guests. “And speaking of being blessed,” she said, “glory be that Sedra’s killer has been apprehended. Believe me, I sleep better. But I would never in a gazillion years have guessed that the lovely and talented Dana Pointer was the sinister henchwoman behind such an atrocity. What do you suppose got into her pretty head?”

  Missie shrugged her shoulders and said, “Pride. Envy. Lust. Greed. You name the sin and Dana has transgressed.”

  For the first time since being seated, Elizabeth spoke out. “I warned my Missie to stay away from Dana Pointer, and that Lohan girl, too. Trouble! But did she listen to me? No! I can spot a bad seed a mile away, and the moment I laid my eyes on that kid, I said to myself, there’s Jezebel. She’ll be eating rats in hell.”

  Shocked by Elizabeth’s medieval thinking, but not wanting to jeopardize her evening’s plan of action, Polly simply said, “It’s a mother’s duty to protect her little darlings from ruining their reputations and getting engraved invitations to an eternal vacation at the lake of fire. You’ve done an amazing job of raising a perfectly delightful and talented daughter. Just as I’ve raised the ideal son. More prunes, dear?”

  Elizabeth waved away Polly’s offer. “The way that Dana dressed—wearing such revealing outfits that showed her navel!” Elizabeth looked at Polly, as if finally becoming comfortable and taking her into her confidence. “Did you see her hideous tattoo of a tongue? Like the logo of that satanic group, The Rolling Stones.”

  “Mick still has that indefinable sex appeal, doesn’t he?” Placenta beamed. “He can still light my fire. Oh, I’m getting him confused with Jim Morrison. Now there was a real rocker.”