Flickers

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by Arthur Slade


  “That makes you a breath of fresh air. Every dame within sight of the Hollywood Hills wants to pose for pictures.” He blew air between his lips, making a horselike sound. “You can lower your arm. I won’t be taking any snapshots.”

  She did so and turned toward him. He eyed her without any sign of discomfort, as if he had expected to see the birthmarks and her irregular-shaped face. Perhaps as a reporter he’d seen worse things.

  “Your scarves are spectacular,” he said. “So colourful.”

  She touched one of them. “They’re from Paris.”

  “I’m not surprised. Have you been there?”

  She shook her head. Felt her scarves move on her shoulders.

  “I have. Once. Tried to write a novel and failed miserably. But I write for the New York Times now.” He said this with pride, seemed to stand a bit straighter. “The Russel Hollywood Report. Have you heard of it?”

  “Of course. I—I’ve read your writing.”

  “You’ve read me? You have exquisite taste.” His laugh was gentle. “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Same age as Isabelle, of course. It’s like I’ve stumbled on a unicorn.”

  “A unicorn? Have you been drinking?” she blurted. Then she covered her mouth.

  “I never touch the stuff at work. And I have a hundred million questions. I mean, are you really from that farm up north? With the house that burned down, leaving you an orphan? Is all of that true?”

  “I’m not supposed to answer any questions.”

  He slapped himself on the forehead. “Oh, sorry—stupid me. I completely understand. Then let’s you and I just chat. You likely don’t talk to too many people. That’s my guess. I got my job by being a good guesser. ‘Hunches’ we call them in the business.”

  “I don’t trust hunches,” she said. “I construct theories and then I test them.”

  “A regular Marie Curie.” Beatrice puffed up a bit. She’d often made imaginary scientific discoveries side by side with an imaginary Marie Curie.

  Russel jerked his thumb toward the party. “You and me, we don’t belong here. I’m just a reporter. I’ll never be a star like them. And you . . . well, you aren’t one of them either. You’re . . .” He searched for the right word.

  Ugly, Beatrice thought.

  “. . . smarter than them. We have that in common. So maybe we could just chat like old pals.”

  “I don’t have any pals.” Immediately she realized she was wrong. Raul was her friend. And so was Jolly. Well, she was dead and you couldn’t be friends with the dead. And Beatrice had never actually spoken with her. But they could have been friends if the situation had been different.

  “Ha! In the news biz you don’t have any friends either. Just contacts and sources and stories to dig up.”

  “It must be very interesting work.” He did have attractive green eyes, she decided. Trustworthy eyes.

  “On days like today it’s interesting. Right now. But mostly it’s sifting through the manure people want you to believe and trying to find out what really happened. It takes a lot of digging to find the truth.”

  “I try to find the truth, too. And breakthroughs. Scientific ones.” The cream puffs were melting in her hand. A cry of joy came from The Party She Was Not Invited To—it sounded like Aunt Betty. Beatrice tightened her grip.

  “Speaking of breakthroughs, did you know any of the orphans?” Robert Russel asked.

  “The orphans? No. No. I didn’t.”

  “Do you know where they went?”

  “No.”

  He took out his pen as if he were going to write something down, then slipped it back into his pocket. “Sorry. I have this annoying habit of writing everything down.”

  “I do, too.” She pulled out her own pad of paper and her pencil.

  “A girl after my own heart.”

  Something about the black feather in his fedora made her think of Peter Pan. He did look young for a grown-up. “It’s a good habit to write things down,” she said.

  “Yes. I suppose it is. I was asking about the orphans because the story of that girl drowning got the soft treatment. It was sold as if Mr. Cecil had lost his own daughter. But I’m a stickler for details. Thought I’d get the orphans’ point of view. I went looking for the kids from Cecil’s institute the next day to interview them. I couldn’t find a single one. Not even a strand of hair. And I’m damn—I mean darn—good at finding people. But for the orphanage to close up shop and for all of them to disappear was rather curious.”

  “I didn’t know any of them.” She slid her pad of paper back into her pocket. “I don’t know where they went.”

  “Thanks for answering me, anyway.” He motioned toward the mansion and up to the tower above them. “It’s rather amazing what Absalom has built here.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Absalom Cecil. You mean you didn’t know his first name? No one seems to know it. I had to sift through a million dusty property records to find that out. It’s curious that he doesn’t use his first name.”

  “He has good reasons for everything. He’s a really smart man. He notices everything.” She bit her lip. He might somehow be able to see me right now. “It’s been very pleasant talking to you, Mr. Russel.”

  “You don’t want to talk anymore?”

  “I’m supposed to be inside.”

  “Oh, is that some kind of rule or something? A law?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, it shouldn’t be that way. A girl with a brain like yours should be out in the world.”

  “This—this brain has to go now.” She was proud of that. A clever statement.

  “I won’t stand in your way. I really appreciate your speaking with me.” Then he gave her a smile that looked like he really meant the following words: “I’d like to chat again, Beatrice. We all need people to talk to in the world. Just look me up.”

  “How?”

  “Write me care of the New York Times.”

  “I’m not allowed to do that.”

  “Ah, I see. Then I’ll find a way to get a message to you. I’m good at that sort of secretive spy thing. Just to say hello and check up on my new pal.”

  Her heart was beating fast. “I’d like that. And . . . I look forward to reading your writing. It’s good.”

  “That’s a high compliment. Thanks. Take care, Miss Beatrice Thorn.”

  She walked away, went in the south door, and slowly climbed the stairs of the white stucco tower—La Torre Blanca. The words from the conversation followed her with every step.

  9

  Three floors of books—walls made of words and ideas—rose above Beatrice along the open spiral staircase. The tower stairwell also served as the mansion’s main library and she’d read nearly the entire collection. All of her favourite thinkers were there: Archimedes, Marie Curie, Henry David Thoreau. There were novels, too, and history and mythology books.

  She stopped in the education quarters, a term Mr. Cecil had given the room. He’d even had it set up like a prairie school, with row desks, a blackboard, and a larger desk for Mrs. Madge. It was all done that way, he’d explained, so they’d remember their simple roots and how far they’d come. Beatrice spun the globe with one hand as she passed it, then sat at her chair and laid the remaining cream puffs on top of her teak study desk.

  She pulled out her notebook and wrote: Can Mr. R. really be my pal? He was a young man, but far too old to be friends with her. It wasn’t like he’d want to play cards or go for a swim. Maybe they could have a game of tennis. No, she realized, they’d likely never meet again. Unless there was another party and he found her in one of her hiding spots. Or if he was somehow able to get a message through to her.

  She stuffed a cream puff in her mouth and ate it in one gushy bite.

  “Does the second one taste better than the first?”

  Mr. Cecil was in the doorway holding a paper bag in one hand.

  “Oh. Hello.” She palmed the final cr
eam puff and closed her notebook. “How—how are you, today?”

  “I’m exceptionally well, Beatrice. Nothing like a party to get the nerve endings tingling. But I’m curious as to why you made an appearance at my little soiree.”

  “I didn’t.” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean no one saw me. So I wasn’t really there.”

  “I saw you. And I’m not no one.”

  Beatrice scratched her earlobe. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cecil. I should’ve stayed inside.”

  He crossed the room, still clutching the bag, and set it in front of her. He was handsome. Not movie-star handsome like her uncle, but he had a solidity to his presence and appearance. “It’s my fault, Beatrice. I’ve been making too many rules for you. Did you feel excluded?”

  “Not really. I mean—I didn’t work on the film and I’m not an actor.”

  “We’re all actors. It’s a survival skill. Did you come on a dare from your sister?”

  “I—I just wanted to be closer to everything, that’s all.”

  “Almost like a safari in your own backyard.” It was as if he’d plucked the words from her mind. “You’re growing up. It’s what young girls do. You need to grow outward, and test the edges. Like a butterfly emerging from its pupa. We all go through our metamorphosis, some for the better, some for the worse. Why, if you’d seen me in the earliest stages of my life—let’s say the larva stage—you’d be surprised at how different I was. Unrecognizable. And how much I’ve changed since.”

  “You were never a larva worm. I just can’t see it.”

  “I was. Perhaps I still am. Waiting to emerge.” He let out a friendly laugh. “I can only have these types of jokingly scientific conversations with you, Beatrice. No one else on this estate has a mind as brilliant as yours.”

  The words hung in the air for a few moments. Beatrice didn’t blush.

  “Anyway,” Mr. Cecil continued. “I sense you’re tired of being trapped in this tower.”

  “I—I like the tower,” she said. “It’s my home. It’s all I’ve ever known.” She let those last words hang in the air. She wasn’t certain whether they were a complaint or a statement.

  “I’ve been far too busy on this last film. I wish I could slow the world down and play a game of chess with you. Maybe in the India room like we did only a few months ago. Would you like that?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course!”

  “Then it’ll happen after Frankenstein is done.” He patted her on the shoulder. “It’s not enough for you to be your sister’s pillar, is it?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “But nothing has changed outside these walls. The actors—all of my employees—I trust them. They’ve signed their contracts. But the newspaper people are leeches. Did any of them talk to you?”

  “No, no one.” She lowered her eyes.

  “Good,” he said. “They want to bring the mighty down and make us all as petty as them. You’re not unattractive, but they would paint you as a monstrous replica of your sister—as a Medusa.” She had read the myth of Medusa several hundred times—a beautiful woman turned into a snake-haired monster by the jealous goddess Minerva. The sight of Medusa would turn onlookers to stone. But even Medusa had her own strength. And she had sisters. “I’ll do everything in my power to save you the pain of reading those hurtful words.”

  “I don’t waste much time on the papers.” She paused. “Well, I do read about Isabelle.” And myself, she could have added.

  “Remember Fatty Arbuckle?” Mr. Cecil said. “The papers accused him of being involved in that young actress’s death. He was acquitted, but the reporters and the public had already convicted him. People want to believe the worst story.”

  Fatty had been one of the funniest and most popular actors in the film world. Beatrice loved his movie The Cook, with Buster Keaton. When a young actress died in his hotel room under mysterious circumstances his name was plastered across the front page of every paper in America. “I—I don’t want to work in the movies,” Beatrice said.

  “I want to protect you. But I should give you more of a role in your own life. And I’ll proudly show you to the world when the time is right. You’ll leap out of your cocoon and have your debut! When we can control the story, that is. Will you promise to follow my rules until that time?” She nodded slowly. He put his left hand on her shoulder. Despite his missing finger, the grip was strong and warm and compelling. “Your words are your bond, Beatrice. Speak them.”

  “I promise, Mr. Cecil.”

  “Good girl.” He smiled. It was not the stars-in-the-sky smile of her uncle. It was much more subtle. “We’re alike, you and I. We collect things. I collect pieces of art, pieces of history to remind me of what I’ve seen. I collect actors, too. And you collect insects and ideas. We are both survivors: I came from the old country and built all of this from nothing. You come from nothing, too. If it was possible for me to have a daughter I’d want it to be you.”

  Adopt me, she almost said. “You’ve been so good to me. To us. You’re my other father.”

  “That’s extremely kind of you to say. I did bring a gift.”

  He motioned at the paper bag. Beatrice grabbed it and thrust her hand in the top. “It’s empty.”

  “It depends on where you look.” In his right hand he was holding a rectangular box wrapped in gold foil.

  “Misdirection. A magician’s greatest skill.”

  His grin was genuine. “Yes. Forgive me. I do sometimes miss my simple days of being Cecil the Magnificent in The Wondrous and Amazing Travelling Excitements Show. Ah, my younger years have fled. Watch over my gift and it will watch over you.” He patted her head. “And don’t forget to have that final cream puff.” He winked, then strode out of the room without a backward glance.

  The box was so expertly wrapped that it was seamless. It took Beatrice several moments to find an edge to the gold foil so she could unfold it. Inside was a framed insect. The unfamiliar specimen looked like an elongated hornet with large clear wings and the tail of a scorpion. There was a skull-and-crossbones pattern on the wings. Its compound eyes reflected a hundred Beatrices.

  Mr. Cecil had brought her a rare insect!

  She stuffed the last cream puff in her mouth. The sugary goodness spilled out onto her tongue, but she was too busy examining her new prize to notice.

  10

  The moon rose and the Frankenstein bash continued into the silver-lit darkness. The orchestra’s playing was no longer crisp and perfect. Drunken singing, along with a cool breeze, drifted along the tops of the palm trees and through the open window of the twins’ bedroom in the west wing of the mansion.

  Isabelle sighed. “I guess the party doesn’t end when I leave.” She had changed into a pink nightgown with gold lace trim and combed out her long flaxen hair, and was now filing her nails in bed, her feet up on a pillow.

  “It’s turning into a catastrophic cacophony.” Beatrice set the August issue of Scientific American down. “By now Aunt Betty and Uncle Wayne must be truly sauced.”

  “They were sauced before I left, along with everyone else. Me, I need my beauty sleep. And you have no idea how painful dress shoes are.” She wriggled her toes. Each toenail was painted hot pink. “My feet are killing me.”

  “They smell like they’re already dead.”

  “Beets! That’s no way to talk. These are the feet a thousand actresses would kill to have.” She brandished one toward her sister. “Rub them for me.”

  “Not on your life!”

  Another toe wriggle followed. “I’ll get Rauly-Pauly to rub them. Doesn’t he rub yours?”

  Beatrice smacked her with the magazine. “No!”

  “I’m just curious what you two get up to when I’m not around.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Isabelle giggled her actress giggle. “Aw, don’t get your dukes up, sis. It’s funny, isn’t it, how his mom died in that farm accident—”

  “She had cancer.”

  “Yes, that�
��s right. But she died and he ended up here with his father. And we ended up here after our mom died, too. Well, and our father.” It wasn’t the first time Isabelle had mentioned this connection between their story and Raul’s, and Beatrice was certain she knew what was coming next. “Do you think it’s fate? That our lives were . . . were meant to be this way?”

  “There’s no such thing as fate,” Beatrice said. “There is just a series of things happening that look like they’re fated. But it’s all numbers.”

  “Oh, you and that brainy brain of yours. Always letting the air out of all the fun in a room.”

  “It’s just logic.”

  “Well, I’m glad you have Raul to keep your brain occupied. It’d be wonderful to frolic around the grounds like you kids. But I have scripts to memorize, cameras to pose for, and reporters to wow with my cleverness.”

  “I bet that last bit takes the most work.”

  “Ha! I’m a natural.” She flipped her hair back. “They find my wittiness both droll and charming. They fall all over themselves at the press gallery. You have no idea what that’s like.”

  “I’m sure they’re amazed that a hot-air balloon like you can even talk.” Before her sister could give her a playful slap she added: “You’re not the only one to chat with the press.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing—I don’t mean anything.”

  “No.” Isabelle repeatedly poked Beatrice with her index finger. “You’re keeping a secret, Beets. You can’t keep secrets from me. Tell me. Tell me, now.”

  Beatrice used the magazine to ward off her sister’s finger. “Promise not to speak a word of it?”

  “I promise a thousand times over.”

  “One of the reporters tracked me down. Robert Russel.”

  “Rob?” Isabelle waved her hand as if the heat had gone up in the room. “Handsome, isn’t he? I mean, for a reporter.”

  “Well, no . . . yes. I guess so.”

  “He’s one of the important ones. He has his own column.” Isabelle made a kissy face. “Did you smooch him?”

  “What? No! He’s too old.”

 

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