Viola Avenue

by Pamela Grandstaff

  But she could still be honest.

  “This is only my observation, you understand,” Claire said. “It’s just my opinion.”

  The other students abandoned all pretense of not listening and came forward.

  “Put your phones back in the basket,” Claire said. “I’m not having this recorded.”

  They all did so. Claire then made sure they were all turned off.

  “You want to know how movie stars get to be movie stars,” Claire said.

  “Yes,” Mercedes said.

  “Tell us,” Porsche said.

  “It’s pretty simple, really. It’s rabid ambition, an understanding of the realities of the business, and clever strategy,” Claire said. “Basically, you have to want it so badly you’ll do anything to get it, and be smart enough to manipulate your way to where you want to go.”

  “Anything?” Sophie asked. “Like sharing sexy times with directors?”

  “Or, like, with fat, ugly producers?” Emily said. “Yuck.”

  “I would appreciate a trigger warning next time,” Anna said.

  “Ma chérie, you’re in the wrong business,” Jean Claude said. “You maybe need to re-evaluate your career choice. Hollywood is a trigger-happy business.”

  “I know all about this,” Victoria said. “I have friends in New York, and they get hit on constantly. I’m going to make it on my talent alone, or not at all.”

  “You could maybe teach dance to little children,” Sophie said. “There are other careers.”

  “Don’t condescend to me,” Victoria said. “I don’t need it and I resent it.”

  “Sorry,” Sophie said.

  “I’m going to leave this culture vacuum as soon as I graduate, I’m going straight to Manhattan, and I’m never going home,” Jean Claude said. “I can visualize my stardom and I will attain it no matter what. Vive le Jean Claude!”

  “Your father could buy you any role you wanted,” Porsche said to Jean Claude. “All he has to do is make a call.”

  “I thought you were here on a scholarship,” Claire said.

  “As if,” Mercedes said. “His father owns, like, half the buildings in Chicago. His real name’s John Lipschitz.”

  Claire raised an eyebrow at Jean Claude.

  “Oops,” he said. “I guess that cat’s out of the ten thousand dollar handbag.”

  He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed.

  “You had tears in your eyes,” Claire said.

  “I’m a really good actor,” he said. “If this dance thing doesn’t work out, that’s my back-up plan.”

  “You took advantage of my kindness,” Claire said. “That’s a dishonorable use of your talent. You should be ashamed.”

  “Please,” Jean Claude said. “You can’t have shame in this business. You would know that, if you’re the professional you say you are.”

  “I still have feelings,” Claire said.

  “If we’re sharing our feelings, I want you to know I pity all you losers,” Porsche said. “I’m sorry, Anna. Did you need a trigger warning for the truth?”

  “You’re bullying me,” Anna said.

  “Shut up you guys,” Mercedes said. “This is important. Claire’s talking.”

  “C’mon, Claire,” Porsche said. “We won’t tell anyone.”

  Claire paused.

  How honest should she be?

  “Listen,” Claire said. “As much as I’d love to tell you that all you have to do is be the most talented thespian, the best dancer, or an awe-inspiring singer, it takes more than that. Some of it is hard work and talent, but most of it is luck, being in the right place at the right time to meet the right people. I’m sure there are people who have achieved the highest levels of fame and fortune without sexually compromising themselves, destroying everyone who gets in their way, or being the kid of an award-winning somebody or other … I just don’t happen to know any.”

  The resulting silence was profound.

  “I could do that,” Mercedes said. “Tell us more.”

  “Yeah,” Porsche said. “We need details.”

  Claire hung her head.

  “What have I done?” she said.

  “We’re not children,” Sophie said. “We know how the world works.”

  “That’s why I’m going into arts management,” Anna said.

  Claire didn’t have the heart to burst that particular bubble. The truth was it didn’t matter what career path you chose in show business, or any other business, for that matter, no one was immune to sexual harassment and imbalanced power negotiations.

  “I wouldn’t mind the men,” Jean Claude said, “but I’m not having sexy times with any females of the species.”

  “I’d do anybody or anything for a shot at a good role,” Mercedes said.

  “Everyone here already knows that,” Emily said, and rolled her eyes.

  “It can take its toll on you,” Claire said. “I know actors and actresses with post-traumatic stress disorder from too many rides on the casting couch. It eventually messes with your mind.”

  “I’m tough,” Mercedes said. “You don’t know how tough.”

  “Oh, we know,” Sophie said, not quite under her breath.

  “Listen,” Claire said. “You can be the change you want to see in the business. Get some power and do things differently. I know a few people who have done that. Look for those people. Now, I really need to go; I’ll see you next week.”

  After the students collected their phones and drifted out, Mercedes hung back, telling Porsche she’d catch up with her.

  “Hey, Claire,” Mercedes said. “If you could get me a meeting with someone, either Sloan or her agent or anybody that could help me, I’d definitely make it worth your while. My parents are loaded; they’ll write you a check.”

  “I’m sorry, Mercedes,” Claire said. “I’ve burnt all my Hollywood bridges; my name won’t get you in the door anywhere. It might even hurt you.”

  “I know you got this job through Alan,” Mercedes said. “I’m not judging you; I was one of his special friends, too. He said you had powerful connections.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  Mercedes shrugged.

  “You give me a name I can use and I’ll give you one you can use,” Mercedes said.

  Claire hesitated.

  “Do you know for sure who killed him?”

  “I know who was in his apartment the night he was killed,” Mercedes said. “I know that person took off that night and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”

  Claire was thinking about Cressida, who took her advance and then disappeared.

  “I know a casting agent, a good one; one who doesn’t sleep with her actors,” Claire said. “I’m going to write her name on this piece of paper and I hope to hell you can actually act.”

  Claire held the piece of paper up and Mercedes grabbed for it.

  “We had a deal,” Claire said.

  “Rafe Beauchamps,” Mercedes said, and then spelled his last name. “He graduated last semester and Alan got him an interview for an A.D. position on an independent film. He got passed around like a party favor in the Hamptons all summer but then didn’t get the job; he was really angry about it. I saw him right after he was at Alan’s the night he died. I gave him money for a bus ticket back to New York.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said, and gave her the piece of paper.

  “My pleasure,” Mercedes said. “If you need me to testify against him, just let me know. I’ll say anything you want me to.”

  After Mercedes left, Claire found she was trembling. She told herself she had seen much worse, but such a sociopathic instinct in people so young still had the ability to shock and amaze her. She was sure she had just jeopardized her job in a major way. Those kids would tell everyone what she’d said. It was just a matter of time.

  “Oh well,” she said. “I’m not sure I really wanted it anyway.”

  “Wanted what?”

  A woman was standin
g in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I was talking to myself.”

  Claire introduced herself and shook hands with the woman.

  “Brenda Nichols,” she said. “I’m the Drama Department secretary, back from maternity leave.”

  “You worked for Alan,” Claire said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “Do you mind if I sit?” the woman said. “Embarrassing as this is to admit, if I stand for too long I pee myself. It’s one of the joys of motherhood they don’t tell you about.”

  She took a seat at one of the mirrored stations and then stuck her tongue out at her reflection.

  “Your nose grows,” Brenda said. “Your ears, too. That’s something else they don’t tell you. It’s something to do with your cartilage getting soft preparing to push a basketball out of your delicate lady flower.”

  “Do you have pictures of your baby you can show me?”

  “Please, you don’t need to do that,” Brenda said. “I’ve got thousands, but you’re just being polite, I know that. I used to be childless; I get it.”

  “How are you doing?” Claire asked.

  “I’m sleep-deprived, sore in places I never knew could be sore, and this close to a complete nervous breakdown,” Brenda said, holding up her thumb and index finger to illustrate the inch between her and insanity. “My only hope is that this is all a blur later, when he’s finally weaned and I can drink mai tais again.”

  “Sorry,” Claire said. “I guess you couldn’t take more time off.”

  “Not if I wanted a job to come back to,” Brenda said. “Eldridge is still operating in the Dark Ages when it comes to maternity leave. Six weeks, that’s all I got. Now it’s going to take me six weeks to clean up the mess they made while I was gone. No one submitted their travel expenses all summer and there are three classes without textbooks.”

  “It must have been terrible for you hearing about Alan.”

  “Not really,” Brenda said. “Is that shocking? Sorry. I seem to have lost my social filter along with my abdominal muscle tone.”

  “Do you mind explaining?” Claire asked. “I knew Alan and I think he was murdered.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “It was probably one of their parents.”

  “A student here?”

  “Or younger,” Brenda said. “Barely legal was his preference.”

  “Do you know any names?”

  “Are you an undercover cop or something?”

  “No,” Claire said.

  “Well, you’d hardly admit it if you were,” Brenda said. “But ask away. I’m having trouble caring about anything other than the fact that my breasts leak milk at inopportune moments and every piece of clothing I own has my son’s vomit or poop on it. He peed in my face this morning, actually. Gleefully, too, I suspect. He was smiling as he did it.”

  “Who did Alan mess around with?”

  “Anyone who would tolerate it,” Brenda said. “They only had to be young, attractive, and willing.”

  “Boys and girls?”

  “Yup,” she said. “Ask your students. They all know about it. If you wanted to be the lead in one of his productions then that was the quickest way.”

  “No one reported him? No grievances filed?”

  “Please,” Brenda said. “Staff members who want to keep their jobs or move up to better ones keep their mouths shut. These kids are all legally adults, and as long as it was consensual …”

  “But he was in a position of power,” Claire said. “That makes it illegal.”

  “Colleges are like any other business, really,” Brenda said. “Don’t let the ivy fool you. Someone may have had a word with Alan, but only as a warning to be more discreet. It’s all about the college image, you know; we gotta keep the enrollment up to keep those tuition dollars coming in. What Alan had were relationships with former students of his in Hollywood and New York. He got the little darlings jobs in Broadway shows and in studio films. One of the main reasons drama students came here was because Alan had a reputation for introducing his favorites to the people who could make all their dreams come true.”

  “Is that what he did for Cressida?”

  “I heard she showed up, got an advance, and absconded,” Brenda said. “I’ve known her for over four years so I’m not a bit surprised. I also heard she ran off to some exotic place, like Bali or Majorca, with someone she was having an affair with. You know, one of those impulsive, romantic things only rich people can afford to do.”

  “Was she one of Alan’s favorites?”

  “The most favorite for as long as it took him to woo the parents into underwriting the performing arts center. Unfortunately, Cressida is not very talented. He got her a pretty good gig off Broadway but she was more interested in New York party life than her job. When I heard they hired her for your job I laughed my butt off. She was one of the laziest students I’ve ever known.”

  “Would she have had a reason to kill him, do you think? Or would her parents?”

  “The parents, no, not a chance. They adored Alan. He has no family, did you know that? The Buttercombes are paying for his funeral. It’s being held in the chapel this evening.”

  “I’ll be there,” Claire said. “We can sit together.”

  “Oh, I won’t be there,” Brenda said. “Childcare is too expensive and my husband is not what you’d call hands-on. If I didn’t mind coming home to find my son covered in his own filth and starving to death, I’d go, but I prefer he be well cared for.”

  “Your husband sounds awful,” Claire said. “You’re exaggerating, right?”

  “No, he’s pretty terrible,” Brenda said. “He cheated on me with a student last summer but after I threatened to leave him he swore he’d straightened up; so stupid little old me went and got knocked up, thinking that would change him into a grownup. It changed me into a grownup, but now I have two kids, one who’s thirty-two. But I married him because he was good looking and drove a cool car, so I only have myself to blame.”

  “Brenda, I just met you, but I don’t like your husband.”

  “Me neither,” she said. “My plan is to raise my little boy to school age and then divorce him. We’ll have our house paid off by then and meanwhile I’m making him renovate it from top to bottom. After I kick him out, I’ll sell it to finance my new life as a single mother.”

  “You clearly don’t need my pity,” Claire said. “Sounds like you have a solid plan.”

  “Damn straight,” Brenda said. “I had a lot of time to think during my 27-hour labor. My husband spent that time with his friends playing in a corn hole tournament in Morgantown, and then celebrating their victory up on Sunnyside.”

  They had to pause for a group of students exiting a classroom. All their eyes were glued to their phones as they walked.

  “I don’t know how they don’t run into things,” Brenda said. “I think they’re evolving to have bat radar or something.”

  While they paused, Claire reminded herself she should be picking her new friend’s brain.

  “Did you know Rafe Beauchamps?” Claire asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Brenda said. “A beautiful young man; he gave me a lot of shameful feelings whenever he stood too close.”

  “I heard things didn’t work out for him this summer and he was pretty angry at Alan.”

  “Rafe is one of the gentlest souls I’ve ever met,” Brenda said. “A real talent, with all the ultra-sensitivity that goes along with that. I can’t imagine that boy hurting anyone.”

  “Well, if you think of anyone else, here’s my number.”

  Brenda recorded it in her phone and gave Claire hers.

  Claire and Brenda walked out into the blazing sunshine of a perfect fall day. There were young people everywhere, walking, laughing, fighting, reclining on blankets, tossing Frisbees, and performing tricks on skateboards. There were also many staring at their phones.

  “They’re all so young and beautiful,” Claire said. “It makes me f
eel so old.”

  “They’re fools,” Brenda said. “I wouldn’t go back to that age for any amount of money. Not to high school, not to college, not even to my first job right out of college. I did stupid thing after stupid thing, and now I’m the mother of someone who pees in my face and then laughs about it, married to the corn hole champion of Northern West Virginia.”

  “You were here during the high school internship program last semester, right?” Claire asked.

  Brenda had stopped walking and was staring off into the middle distance.

  “You okay?” Claire asked her.

  “There were some high school students on campus last spring, and one was a local girl, and gorgeous; I mean not just pretty for high school but amazingly, freakishly beautiful,” Brenda said. “Alan was coaching her and her boyfriend for a commercial audition and I had this feeling there was some funny business going on. It bothered me, but then I went on maternity leave and I never heard whether either one got the gig or not.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Probably, but now I have childbirth brain and I can’t think of it,” she said.

  “Did you know about the infamous party with the teenagers?”

  “Oh, yes,” Brenda said. “Everyone knows about that. But if you say I talked to you about it, I’ll deny it. I need this job.”

  “Was that gorgeous teenage girl involved?”

  Brenda nodded.

  “I’m sorry I can’t remember her name right now,” Brenda said. “When I do, I’ll text it to you.”

  An hour later Claire received a text from Brenda; it read, “Charlotte Fitzpatrick.”

  Claire went straight to Ava’s bed and breakfast, and found Scott talking to her cousin-in-law in the front room.

  “Hi,” Claire said as she entered the house. “I never know if I should knock or not, nowadays. Is it still a business, or is it your home? Anyway, sorry to interrupt.”

  Ava was standing behind the desk with her arms crossed, looking irritated. Scott had his hands on the desk, leaning toward her, but stood up straight as Claire spoke. He looked angry.