Remains to Be Scene

by R. T. Jordan

  Placenta stepped into the bathroom. She was dressed in a black cocktail sheath, her hair coiffed and frosted and several of Polly’s diamonds were clipped to her ear lobes and pinned to a shoulder strap on her dress. She carried two flutes of champagne and handed one to Polly, who gratefully accepted the glass and took a long sip. “This is just until the exorcist gets here to cast out the unclean spirits—which, since this is Hollywood, should take like forever,” Placenta said. She made the sign of the cross. “Honestly, I didn’t think I was going to be this nervous. How are you holding up?”

  Polly uttered a sound that was somewhere between “Don’t ask,” and “How the hell did we get into this mess in the first place?” She busily touched up her eyebrows with a Clinique pencil, while simultaneously examining herself in the floor to ceiling mirrored wall. The look on her face showed that she accepted what she saw: a face that bordered on attractive, but with a still killer body swathed in a dark ivory colored shirred bodice Vera Wang dress. The V-neckline and seamed bust accentuated her still great figure. The gold sequined sleeves and gathered skirt provided all the glamour expected of a star. Then she examined her nose in the lighted vanity mirror and checked her teeth for lipstick smudges.

  “I must have been out of my freakin’ mind to have wanted that stupid role in Detention Rules!” she whined to Placenta. She knocked back the rest of her flute of champagne and set the glass on the marble-top sideboard. “If I hadn’t been so desperate for the ego stroking of getting a film role, I’d be relaxed and probably hosting an intimate dinner party tonight. Instead, I’m lording over this massive variation on the theme of The Last Supper! I feel like I’m going to my execution. Someone certainly better face a judge after tonight, for all the work we’ve put into this event!”

  “Now hush yourself,” Placenta insisted. “We’re all nervous, but we’ve got to act as calm as a corpse.”

  “That’s the best analogy I’ve heard all day, considering the reason for this affair.” The voice came from Tim who had arrived to check on the lady of the manor and to once again go over their much-rehearsed plans. “Let’s get ourselves downstairs and start to mingle. Kevin’s staff is hardly an appropriate substitute for the hosts.”

  Polly sighed in resignation to her fate. “Remind me again that I’m not a complete moron for throwing this party for a million people I don’t even know.” Then, as she used to do in the stage wings before facing her television audiences each week, Polly closed her eyes and passed a hand in front of her face. She changed from mask of tragedy to mask of comedy. With a brilliant smile she said, “Showtime!”

  As the trio made their way out of the bedroom suite and into the second floor corridor, Tim whispered last-minute instructions. “Okay. The caterers know to keep the hors d’oeveurs circulating, but they’re not to serve dinner. We don’t want anyone starving, but we don’t want them to eat and run before the main event either. As soon as we know that all our principals are here, I’ll give the signal and we’ll begin the program. Got it?” He looked at Polly for a response. “You take the microphone and make all the banal introductions. ‘Dana this. Sedra that. Blah, blah, blah.’ Then I’ll pretend to select our cast of readers arbitrarily.”

  “I know we can pull this off,” Placenta insisted. “Now, ‘Smile Baby!’”

  Polly, Tim, and Placenta linked arms and descended the Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase together. When they reached the last step, they involuntarily reached for each other’s hands and squeezed tight before disengaging and going off in different directions. They immersed themselves in the crowd.

  Because Polly knew only a handful of the guests now milling about in her home, she went out of her way to stop at each clique and introduce herself. She accepted with sincerity every carpenter’s’ “Thank you for inviting us,” and craft service worker’s “Gosh, I’ve been a fan of yours ever since I was little,” and production assistant’s “Do you know Brad Pitt?” As Polly found herself enveloped by genuine affection, her nervousness melted away and she began to enjoy herself.

  “Darling Dana!” she cooed when the quasi guest of honor arrived. “Your first time out after wallowing in jail should be with friends,” she said as if Dana had just lost a spouse. “I hope this isn’t too overwhelming. We just want you to feel our love.”

  Dana offered a weak smile of acknowledgment. Then the crowd parted for security guard Duane who wobbled through the masses and arrived at Polly’s side. He hugged her too hard and then offered another bouquet of roses.

  “Aren’t you the sweet one,” Polly said, not exactly knowing what to do with the flowers. “Can you hand them over to one of the caterers to put in water? Lovely, dear. Do say hi to Dana.”

  “Hi.”

  When Missie walked in she looked every inch a rising star, seductively wearing a dress from Neiman’s. Her mother, Elizabeth wore wrap-around black glasses and held onto her daughter’s arm. As Polly kissed the old woman’s cheek, she noticed the distinctive smell of Lithium on her breath. Polly simply smiled and said, “Lovely scent. White Diamonds?”

  Judith and Adam were also arm-in-arm as they entered the house, and each planted kisses on Polly’s cheek when they greeted her.

  Jack Wesley wore jeans and a T-shirt with a cashmere jacket. He introduced his date as the screenwriter Ben Tyler. “I’m so impressed by your work,” Polly gushed to Tyler. “Detention rules!” she made a joke of the title and did a MacCauly Culkin Home Alone fist pull-down to express her approval. “I certainly hope we get to finish the shoot soon,” she said. “You’re in for a treat tonight because some very talented people are going to be giving a staged reading of a brilliant new screenplay. I know you’ll adore it.”

  At that moment, Tim sidled up to his mother, and put his hand on the small of her back. “My mother is the epitome of modesty,” he said, flashing a playful smile at Jack and Ben. “But I agree. Polly has written a fantastic movie!”

  A large fake smile crossed Ben’s lips. “Awesome,” he said. “She sings, dances, tells amazing jokes. Are there any limits to your talents?” he asked facetiously.

  “We’ll soon find out,” Tim teased. He whispered into his mother’s ear. “Imetay orfay unfay,” he said in code. “Most of the principals are now in the tented theatre.”

  “What’s up?” Ben asked. “Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the candlestick?” Polly grimaced uncomfortably. She looked at Tim with unease, then returned to Jack and Ben. “Something like that,” she said. “You two must come along as well. The treat is about to unfold,” she said, extricating herself from the conversation. Together with Tim, they all moved toward the Great Room, which led to the tent, which was attached to the house.

  When she finally arrived at the stage she picked up a microphone that was set on a barstool. She tapped the ball of the instrument. “Testing! Testing!” she said. “Is this thing on?” she groused, looking around for confirmation. When she was assured that indeed the microphone was live and that her voice could be clearly heard, Polly went into her well-rehearsed speech.

  “Welcome, everybody!” Polly squealed, and for the moment she had slipped back in time to every Friday night taping of her variety series before a live audience. “You’re all so lovely and well behaved! Hi, Candice! Hi, Tom! Jane, you look fab! Divorce suits you! Susan. Sweet of you and Tim to come!”

  After a few moments of smiling and waving to various people in the crowd seated before her, Polly asked, “There, now. Are we all settled? Lovely!”

  “Dear friends,” she said in her most endearing hostess voice, “thank you all so much for coming to my little evening of free food and booze. We’re here especially to welcome back from the brink of hell the lovely and talented Dana Pointer.”

  Applause filled the air in the large tent. All eyes scanned the crowd looking for Dana who was found to be sitting alone in a corner sipping a whisky from a rocks glass. She looked startled and morose when her name was called, but soon surrendered and reluctantly stood up to acc
ept the acknowledgment.

  Polly drew attention back to herself. “I hear that the Beverly Hills jail system is a veritable Tower of London horror!” Polly lamented. “Am I right, honey?” She looked at Dana. “Poor baby. No Starbucks? No iPods? No copies of The Peeper to keep you apprised of whom Jennifer Aniston is sleeping with? You’ll have to write a book!”

  The crowd murmured and looked at Dana with pity.

  When her guests once again faced the stage, Polly said, “Dana has returned to us safe and sound. And, as a special treat, we’ve got a bit of entertainment planned for the occasion.”

  Again, whispers circulated throughout the crowd. “Now, my darling son, Tim, the man who makes all of my parties glorious events, is going to select eight lucky guests to join me on stage to read my magnum opus to you. And the most fun part of all is that if it turns out as well as I know it will, Sterling Studios will demand to make my marvelous film. Sundance will flip. HBO will get all the Emmys. Now, who will volunteer? Don’t everybody rush the stage all at the same time!” she joked.

  No one raised his or her hand. Then, on cue, Tim appeared from the house and picked up a microphone of his own. “Hi, yaw’ll,” he said. “I’m Polly’s brilliant son, Tim.” He laughed and the room of now sedate guests politely groaned. “I’ve read this script and it’s really good. I promise,” he said, holding a copy high above his head. “Of course I’m slightly biased. My allowance money depends on how brown my nose gets! But I really like Hollywood mysteries,” he continued. “This one is all about this actress—a diva really…and there’s murder and plot twists and…”

  Polly called out, “Honey, don’t give away the story! You’ll spoil it like Disney does in their coming attractions film trailers!”

  “Not only am I brilliant at throwing parties,” Tim continued, I’ve got a knack for casting too.” Tim wended his way through the crowd. “I know exactly who should play these rich roles,” he said. “Oh, hey, we’ve got two huge stars right in our midst. Dana Pointer and Missie Miller!” He made his way first to Dana and handed her a copy of the script. Then to Missie. “We won’t take no for an answer,” he joked good-naturedly. “Get up on that stage, you two. You’ll both be playing young actresses, so you won’t have to stretch at all.”

  As the two girls reluctantly accepted the scripts it was clear they were silently thinking, “This is one lame party!”

  Tim continued, “There’s a really meaty role for a strong male figure. Someone to play a film director. Let’s see…Oh!” Tim exclaimed again as though he’d just thought of another brilliant choice. “Mother’s most recent director, the handsome and talented Adam Berg! Adam, where are you?” Tim looked around and found Adam trying to make himself invisible. “Oh, you must join our troupe!” Tim pleaded as he squeezed down an aisle of seated guests to reach Adam. “You’ll be brilliant, I’m certain! Oh!” Tim exclaimed again. “Your lovely girlfriend Judith would be great too! You’ll do it, won’t you, Judith?” Tim begged. “You’re star material. I know this! You can be the girlfriend. Again, not a stretch.”

  Glumly, they both took copies of the screenplay proffered by Tim and headed for the stage.

  Polly spoke into her microphone. “Darling,” she called to Tim, “if Dana and Missie are reading, don’t you think that the gorgeous and hunky Jack Wesley should be too? Sort of old home week. And Duane! Sweet Duane! You’ll do anything for Polly, won’t you? Of course you will! Wonderful! That’s so precious. You’ll be amazing in the role. I promise!”

  Tim handed Duane a script. “You can play the security guard,” Tim said. “That leaves, um, let’s see, oh, the role of a screenwriter. Any screenwriters here?” He laughed. “I guess that’s a little like asking if there are any tummy tucks present. Ha! How about Ben Tyler? Is he here? Sure. We chatted a little bit ago. Oh, Ben?” he sang. “Where are you mister sexy and talented screenwriter?” He looked around and found Placenta pushing the reluctant Ben toward Tim. “Please come and read this awesome script,” Tim cajoled, handing a copy of DNA to Ben who looked flabbergasted.

  “You’re forgetting the most important role, dear,” Polly called from the stage.

  “The role of the actress who’s not supposed to be Polly Pepper, but happens to be a mirror image of someone just like you?” Tim joked.

  “No, silly. That’s my role. I mean the one who’s not supposed to be Sedra Stone, but with my limited imagination I wrote a character that just happens to slightly resemble my dear dead friend.”

  “Right. Of course,” Tim pretended to be thinking about who would be ideal to read for this role. “I need someone to play the lovely and talented Sedra Stone—but not really Sedra. I think Sedra’s real-life stand-in is here. Yes? Stand-in? Are you here?” He looked around the tent until a woman finally stood up. “There you are! Your name again?” Tim asked.

  “Lauren. Lauren Gaul.”

  “Great! Come on up. Here’s your chance to finally step into Sedra’s shoes. Or an actress who’s supposed to be something like Sedra,” Tim chuckled.

  By now, all of the scripts had been handed out, and the cast was assembled on the stage. Each was seated on barstools set before microphones and music stands on which to set their scripts. Polly initiated a round of applause and thanked them for being such good sports on such a special night.

  Then, as if forgetting her manners she exclaimed, “I’m not being a very polite hostess! Missie Miller’s lovely mother Elizabeth, who has an eyesight problem—she can’t see worth a damn—should be with her daughter. Where is she?” Polly scanned the room with her hand held against her forehead like a visor. When she spotted Elizabeth trying to walk out of the tent and back into the house she called, “Placenta! Be a dear and escort Elizabeth to the stage, would you please?”

  The audience tittered at the sight of the old woman trying unsuccessfully to swat away Placenta, as if the maid was an annoying Pterodactyl. Embarrassed and caught off guard, Elizabeth wended her way through the center aisle of chairs and was helped by Polly up the three steps to the stage where she took her place next to Missie. Presently, Tim and his waiter friend Kevin carried a chair onto the stage, and set it down for Elizabeth to be seated in comfort.

  Polly said, “Now that we’re all comfy, I’d like everyone to please sit back and enjoy the show! Lights, please,” she called out.

  Chapter 27

  The lights inside the tent faded to black. The room became deadly silent. Pin spotlights suddenly illuminated the stage and the eight people seated there on barstools. With the exception of Polly, they all looked confused and irritated, as though they’d been unceremoniously dumped off in the middle of Detroit after an intergalactic tour aboard the Mother Ship.

  Tim stepped onto the stage and faced the audience. He began in an exuberant carnival barker voice. “Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome. And may I present to you, DNA, a new screenplay by Polly Pepper!” He slipped his copy of the script under an arm and led a chorus of applause, which was only politely echoed by the audience. Sensing that a pall of indifference had already settled over the crowd, Tim became less animated. “This is a story,” he continued, “a tale of an irritable little girl who grew up to be an equally obstreperous and cunning adult. A shrew, if you want to put a face on her,” he said. “But she wasn’t your run-of-the-mill Kiss Me Kate all-singing, all dancing sort of shrew. She became a celebrity shrew, not unlike Ann Coulter. Her name was Sedra.”

  Adam Berg immediately erupted and spoke out. “With all due respect to your lovely opus,” he said, sarcastically addressing Polly in an imperious tone, “I think that’s rather a tad in poor taste. I mean, using your dead colleague as a joke in your screenplay. Not a good move.”

  Tim intercepted. “Please note. This story is a work of fiction. The writer, Polly Pepper, assures that no dead people were harmed in the writing of her screenplay.”

  All eyes turned to Polly for her rebuttal to Berg. “Pumpkin,” she said sounding perplexed, “I haven’t even gotten to the jokes yet
. Tim is merely providing backstory to enable the audience to know who the players are. Still, you bring up a good point about using real names. And this is precisely the sort of constructive feedback that I need as I rewrite my masterpiece. That’s the only reason, aside from wishing Dana well, that we’re all here tonight—to work out the kinks, so-to-speak. Thank you, dear Adam. You’re a true and talented director.”

  Polly looked at Tim and gave a nod of her head, signaling for him to continue his introduction.

  Tim said, “For the sake of brevity, and the grumbling stomachs I hear and that need to be fed, we’re going to jump forward in our story. You can use your imaginations to fill in the obligatory charity hospital breach birth, wrong-side-of-the-tracks lineage, and typical rotten childhood latch-key kid routine, along with the usual ruthless cutting a swath through bodies that are in-the-way to reach the pinnacle of professional success. We flash cut to the present year. In fact, we begin in a time not too long ago. Two weeks ago, to be exact.”

  Tim turned to his assembled cast on the stage. “People,” he said, serving as their director, “would you please turn to page ninety-one of your scripts.”

  The troupe complied, albeit with obvious reluctance. Adam Berg and the others looked at the title page, exchanged questioning glances at each other, then quickly flipped through the text. Adam said, “This looks familiar.”

  Polly teased, “Genius is easy to recognize. I channeled Orson Welles and The Brontës.”

  When the players had settled down, Tim said, “Mmm. I smell Honey Baked ham. So let’s begin because I’m starved and know you are, too. Lights!” he called out. For dramatic effect, the tent once again faded to black. In the darkness Tim’s voice began reading stage directions.