“They don’t allow kids under twelve at grandmother’s condo,” Jenny reminded him. She’d been deeply offended when she first learned of this flagrant age discrimination. Now it came to her rescue.
Besides, “She’s too persnickety, Daddy,” they said. Their grandmother’s condo was carpeted wall to wall in white, and glass-topped tables stretched as far as the eye could see. Their grandmother played bridge and watered her plants and spent the rest of the time wiping off fingerprints. She was all right, but not cozy.
“Please, Daddy.” Jenny moved in on her father, her big eyes all moony with wanting to stay put. “Let us stay.”
“I don’t think you give us enough credit,” Mary said, running in place as if warming up for the big race.
Their father patted his pockets, looking for a cigarette.
“We’re very responsible children,” Mary said, still running.
“I never doubted that,” their father said, still patting. “I just think you’d be better off with her than staying here by yourselves. I’d take some time off, but this project I’m working on now is important and must be completed soon. It’s not right for you to be on your own so much. Yet you’re too old for baby-sitters, and the only housekeeper I called wanted an arm and a leg.”
“What do we want with a housekeeper?” Jenny asked scornfully. “She’d probably watch TV all day. We keep house fine. Why, I scrubbed out the bathtub only last week. Wasn’t it last week, Mary? You know, Daddy, I really hate to scrub out the bathtub, but I did it anyway,” Jenny told her father, to prove what a good housekeeper she was.
“Susan told us some fantastic news today, Daddy,” Mary said to change the subject. “A movie company’s coming to town to make a movie here. Right here! Isn’t that cool? And they’re choosing people to be extras in the movie next week. Jenny and I are going down there to see if they choose us. They pay a lot, Daddy.” Inspiration took Mary by the throat. “And we’re giving you part of what we make.” Beside her, Jenny gasped. Mary plunged on, not looking at her sister. “It isn’t fair for you to have to pay all the bills, so Jenny and I are going to help.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jenny muttered.
Their father took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “That’s extremely kind of you,” he said. “Extremely kind. I’m indeed fortunate to have two such thoughtful daughters, and I know it. When I’m old and gray, you can treat me to an ice cream soda, but until then it’s all on me. You save whatever money you make to buy Christmas presents or something. How did you find out about this movie?”
“Susan’s mother heard about it at the bank,” Mary told him. “They hear everything at the bank before ordinary people hear about it. Banks are like that.”
“Oh? Since when are you privy to what they hear at banks?” They could tell their father was amused.
“I thought a privy was an outhouse,” said Mary.
Their father looked startled. “You’re right, it is,” he said, “but privy also means participating in the knowledge of something private or secret. You keep me on my toes, Mary, I’ll say that.” He looked pleased, as did Mary. Jenny wished she could think of something that would make him say that she too kept him on his toes, but at the moment she couldn’t think of anything.
“Sue said they pay extras big bucks, and if we got chosen, we wouldn’t even have to ask you for our allowances anymore. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“That it would.” Their father opened table drawers, lifted up lids of boxes, and they knew he was looking for a stray cigarette. He went out to the closet in the hall and checked out the pockets of his coat and still came up zilch.
“Daddy, you’re addicted to nicotine,” Mary said severely. “It’s bad for your heart and your lungs, you know. It can kill you.”
“I know, Mary, I know, but it soothes me,” their father said.
“It’s kind of like my thumb,” Jenny said. “I’m addicted to my thumb. I know only babies suck their thumbs, and it might make my teeth stick out, but it soothes me too. I understand your problem, Daddy. I feel for you.”
Their father laughed out loud, something he did not often do. “You are good children,” he said. “I love you very much.”
They didn’t know what to say. Their father seldom, if ever, told them he loved them. They couldn’t remember the last time. They knew he loved them from the way he acted, so that was all right, but now he’d come right out and said it.
Fortunately, the phone rang just then. Mary got to it first.
“My father says not to sign anything until he gets a chance to check out these movie guys,” Tina said in a shrill voice. “He says those movie bozos will steal the gold fillings out of your teeth if you don’t watch ’em. My father also says not to do anything without getting something in writing.”
“I can’t talk now, Tina,” Mary told her.
“Too bad your mother’s not home. She might get a job acting in the movie. You better call her up and tell her. I bet she’d hot-foot it home if she knew.” Tina laughed. “My mother says a regular pay check beats a glamorous job. Being an actor is chancy, my mother says. And my father says …”
Mary hung up quietly.
“Was that Sue?” Jenny asked.
“No, it was Tina. Her father says not to sign anything, to get it in writing, and they’ll steal the gold out of your teeth.”
“Oh, boy,” said their father, “this is only the beginning.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
And he was right. Rumors flew. The movie Company was hiring five hundred extras and paying each one a daily wage that would be enough to buy a new car. Or a pizza. The movie company was out to fleece every merchant in town. The movie company was a large and benevolent employer who would treat each and every townsperson like a king. The movie company was out to trash Millville.
The owner of the Shady Side Motel hung out his “No Vacancy” sign—a first for him. He walked around, smiling foolishly, rubbing his hands together, planning expansion. Even when the motel ran out of hot water and the septic tank backed up, the owner’s good temper and foolish smile stayed put.
The motel’s parking lot filled up with gigantic vans carrying cameras, sound and electrical equipment. Daily the company ordered food from the town’s only caterer, who padded his bills, figuring that if he was going to strike it rich, now was the time.
A local real estate broker became rich and famous overnight when she rented out the Standish place to the stars for the duration. It was written in the contract that the movie company must pay for any and all damage done. If they tore down walls or erected strange statues in the garden, things would be put back exactly as they had been. Mr. Standish, vacationing in his villa in Tuscany, telephoned the broker at least once a day, checking on things. Mr. Standish, a notorious skinflint, always called collect, so the broker’s profits weren’t quite as much as she’d planned on. Still, “We’re talking a whole lot of bread here,” people said, nodding wisely. “A whole lot of bread.”
The long-standing relationship between the leading man and the leading lady began to crumble under the stress and strain of too much togetherness. Angry words wafted on the soft summer air around the Standish place. Lights blazed, sometimes all night long.
Millville’s cash registers had never had such a workout. The tradespeople grumbled about the crowds, the parking problems, but their faces filled out and their wallets bulged. The village green resembled an oversize pool table, its grass so thick and lush and green and trimmed within an inch of its life. Rain fell, though only at night. The sun shone down benignly, making no distinction between the natives and the interlopers. Tour buses, apprised of the action in Millville, careened into town, disgorging senior citizens with cameras dangling from their necks, in search of luminaries and action.
Mary’s hair had never been so clean, so gleaming. She bought a new length of black velvet ribbon to replace the original, which was getting shabby. The pinafore was gone from Breslow’s window. Just as
well. She couldn’t have afforded it anyway, although their father would’ve given her the money. If she’d explained she needed it in order to be chosen as an extra. But then Jenny would’ve found out. And told.
“Hey, there’s a neat movie on tonight,” Jenny cried. “It’s one of those really scary ones.” Their father, an early-to-bed person, had put them on their honor to turn off the set by eleven. With their mother gone, they seemed to be staying up later each night. They had seen a great many scary/sexy movies lately. That night, after their father went to his room, they settled in front of the television. The movie turned out to be everything they had heard it was. It was full of blood and heavy breathing, heavy footsteps, screams. Jenny snuggled close to Mary on the couch as they watched.
“We can always turn it off, you know,” Mary said, about halfway through.
“No, no, don’t turn it off!” Jenny cried, shivering. “I want to find out what happens. I want to find out who the murderer is.”
“I know who the murderer is,” said Mary. “Want me to tell you?”
“Don’t you dare.”
About three a.m. Jenny woke up screaming. Mary got into bed with her and said, “There, there,” in imitation of their mother. But it didn’t work. Finally Jenny made such a lot of noise their father came stumbling into their room, sat on the end of Jenny’s bed, and explained she was awake and she had dreamed, had had a nightmare. They didn’t tell him about the movie.
“It’s not easy, you know,” Mary said sternly, “being your own mother. If Mother had been here, she would’ve made us go to bed.”
“Next time you make us go to bed when it gets bad,” Jenny said.
“I’ll try,” Mary said.
In addition to being a piano player and a track star, Mary was also an optimist. She knew that, in the long run, hard work and perseverance would get her where she wanted to go. The trouble was, she wasn’t absolutely sure where that was. Now her optimistic nature took a turn for the worse. She had tried, very hard, to keep things happy. It seemed she had failed. Jenny crept about the house, pulling a long face, picking her toenails. “Why do you do that!” Mary cried. “You know it drives me crazy when you pick your toenails.” Jenny only smiled and kept on picking.
Jenny, in addition to being a gymnast and a reasonably good second baseman, was a pessimist. She was sure things would turn out badly, and about half the time she was right. Now her pessimism hung in until the bitter end. Nothing was turning out right. Nothing. To prove it, rain fell steadily for five straight days. Plus, they had no postcard from their mother for five straight days, either. It was too much to be borne. So what if a dumb movie company was coming to town. They wouldn’t get to be extras. None of them would be chosen, on account of the director’s whole family, plus his brother-in-law, would be chosen instead of them.
Mary spotted the ad in Saturday’s paper:
WANTED: EXTRAS FOR MOTION PICTURE.
And alongside the ad was a large star. The rest of the ad said, in smaller print:
Sonia Sims will be seeing nonunion extras for the motion picture All’s Well That Ends, shooting in Millville. Must be available to work a full day, Monday thru Friday. Will pay $40 a day, and lunch will be served. All ages needed. Interviews will be held July 30 between nine a.m. and four p.m. at the Presbyterian Church hall.
“What’d I tell you!” Susan hollered. She had been vindicated. Some had implied that Susan was full of hot air. “I told you so! I told you so!” Sue shouted while thumping herself on the chest and letting out several earsplitting Tarzan yells.
“It’s at the church hall. I thought you said the Sweet Shop,” said Mary in a futile attempt to take the wind out of Sue’s sails.
“What’s nonunion mean?” said Jenny.
“It means they pay you a lot less than if you were union.”
“What do you want to bet lunch is peanut butter and jelly,” Jenny said.
“No, it’s probably one of those darling little box lunches they make at Fabulous Food,” Mary said. “They give you fried chicken and goat cheese and a ripe pear.”
“Goat cheese!” Jenny shouted. “I’m not eating any old goat cheese, and that’s that! You ever smell a goat?”
“No, did you?” Mary asked, not hanging around for the answer.
Sunday night, lights went out early all over town. The strong scent of shampoo hung in the sticky air, and the hot-water supply dwindled and died in many a household. Folks tossed and turned as they considered the possibilities of life in the fast lane. What would it be like to be asked for one’s autograph? To wear furs and diamonds and drive a Ferrari?
“Holy smoke, forty bucks a day!” shouted Mary, sitting straight up in bed as the magnitude of it hit her.
And on Jenny’s side of the room, a sour voice said, “I’m worth much more than that.”
In the morning, at sunup, they fumbled their way out of bed, their eyes clotted with sleep. The thermometer stood at eighty-one at 5:46 a.m. The birds bumbled around in the trees, chirping without enthusiasm, lacking the energy to fly, goofing off. The sky was brassy with heat.
“I’m not sure I want to go,” Jenny said, putting on her red dinosaur shirt.
“Then don’t. Stay home and I’ll tell you all about it,” Mary snapped.
“How do I look?” Jenny smoothed the shirt down over her flat front. It was a little too small, but the dinosaur was as exuberant as ever.
Mary’s jeans seemed to have shrunk in the wash. She had spent most of yesterday in front of the mirror, deciding between the jeans and the dark green dress. There was no mention of a pinafore. Jenny didn’t quite dare.
“I don’t think I want any breakfast,” said Mary, looking at the bowls and the package of cereal they’d set on the table the night before. To save time, they told their father. Mary’s stomach turned wonky when she was excited, as well as when she first woke up.
Not so Jenny’s. She shoveled in the Cheerios and said, “We better get going. What have we got to lose? I heard a lady say that yesterday. ‘I’m only going to find out what it’s like,’ she said. ‘What have I got to lose?’”
“You both look very fine,” their father told them. “I’ll be anxious to hear how it goes. Perhaps your mother will call tonight and we can tell her about it.”
“Tina said she bet Mother would hot-foot it home if she knew about the movie,” Mary said. “Do you think she would?”
“She can’t. She has a commitment to the Little Theater group. She can’t just up and leave them.”
“Do you miss her, Daddy?” Jenny asked.
They held their breath, waiting for his answer.
He had to think it over. They noticed it took him a while. “Yes,” he said at last, “I miss her. But she’s doing what she wants. That’s important to your mother. Or to anyone, for that matter. But especially to her.”
“What happens if she turns out to be a star?” Jenny said.
“We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”
“Daddy’s sad,” Jenny said as they started out. “I think he’s lonely.”
“He’s got us, hasn’t he?”
“That’s not the same. He misses her.”
“I’ll tell you one thing. When I have kids, I’m not going off to do my own thing.” Mary’s scowl filled her face. “A mother ought to stick by her children and see them through their difficult years.”
“How do you know when their difficult years are?” Jenny wanted to know.
“I don’t know. But children have a lot of difficult years. I’ve read about them.”
“When do they begin?” asked Jenny.
“How do I know?” Mary shrugged. “How many extras do you think they’ll pick? It’s a good thing I’ve had some acting experience,” Mary said.
“Acting experience?” Jenny stiffened. “What acting experience have you had?”
Mary’s eyelashes fluttered. “You know perfectly well I played a violet in my first-grade play,” she said, not meeting J
enny’s eye.
“Yeah, I remember,” Jenny drawled. “You were supposed to say ‘Please pick me,’ and you forgot your lines.” She giggled. “Your line, I should say.”
Mary shot ahead. “If you don’t get the lead out of your shoes, we’ll be last in line instead of first. Get moving,” and they were off and running, acting experience forgotten.
When they arrived at the church hall, there must’ve been fifty people ahead of them. Two old men who’d brought along their own chairs were placidly playing cards. Questions flew: “When do they open the doors? How many extras will they choose? Do you have to have acting experience?” Hordes of people of all sizes and shapes and ages surged back and forth, reaching as far as the parking lot.
“I haven’t got all day, you know,” said an ancient lady who’d forgotten to take off her apron. “I have to get back and watch my TV programs. I’ve better things to do than stand around here all day.”
Two self-important teenagers, wearing short shorts in order to show off their tan legs, rushed from nowhere to join a friend standing at the head of the line.
“Oh, thanks for saving us a place!” the teenagers cried, showing their teeth, twitching their behinds to show how young and gorgeous they were. Giving everybody a big treat just by being there, Jenny thought. If I ever get like that, I’ll kill myself.
A man’s rough voice called out, “Get to the back of the line, you! We been here a long time. Everybody waits their turn around here.”
Pretending not to hear, the teenagers laughed louder at something their friend said. Several others took it up. “Get on back to where you belong,” said a lady with flat black hair that looked as if it had been painted on her head. “Wait your turn. No slipping in—that’s cheating!” The lady shook her fist at the girls.
“That’s right! Get to the back of the line, where you belong!” others shouted.
Faces red with embarrassment, the teenagers sauntered to the end of the line, pretending they’d planned to do so all along.
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