I reach my hand forward to push at the bathroom door, when it just seems to open by itself, and my eyes catch sight of an image I don’t think I’ll ever be able to expel from my brain: Jheri curl Jerry, standing there, dressed in Mama’s striped robe. And it’s not quite closed all the way.
“Oh, hey there, Junior,” he says as he fumbles to tighten the belt. “You have pretty good timing. ’Cause Uncle Jerry’s all done here. All done.”
I’m pretty sure I’m in shock because, despite the bizarre image on display before me, the only thought going through my mind is, When did Jerry become my uncle?
“Uncle Jerry?” I mumble.
“I’m an only child, so I’ve never been able to hear those words. But since I’m fixing to be spending a lot more time with your mom now, I think Uncle Jerry will have a real nice flow to it.”
“Yeah, well, to be honest, I think I prefer Jerry. Or I could call you Mr. Adams.”
“Oh, no need to be that formal. Whatever you feel comfortable with. Guess I’ll just have to wait a little longer to hear how Uncle Jerry sounds.”
When I finally get into the bathroom, I turn on the cold water and stick my head under it.
It’s not until a couple of weeks later, toward the middle of May, that we get our first really nice day of the year—our first day without overcast skies or too much wind or a heavy chill in the air. I’ve been spending most of my afternoons at the old lady’s place, doing chores for her, drinking tea, and talking about random things. Not in a million years would I ever have thought that things would work out like this between us.
Today at school, Keisha goes into stalker mode, trying to get me to go shopping with her and Nicole.
“Seriously, Faye. I mean, I guess I understand you not coming to my house. I understand you not wanting to run into Curvy one on one again, but you can’t possibly have anything against shopping,” she says, hovering over me as I stand at my locker. “Year-end ceremonies are just around the corner—”
“They’re six weeks away. That’s not around the corner. That’s like through the woods and over the hills in the distance,” I interrupt.
“You’re such a smart-ass,” Keisha says as she shakes her head. “Look, with final exams and the weather getting warm, those six weeks are gonna go really fast. And the last day of school is the only time we get to dress up and wear whatever we want. You don’t start looking for an outfit now, it’s gonna creep up on you and you’ll be panicked that you have nothing to wear. Come on, Faye. It’s gonna be great.”
“Great how?” I ask. “It’s not like there’s gonna be some big celebration at Madison Square Garden or down at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, like the seniors have,” I continue as I load the books I’ll need for homework into my bag. “Middle periods of the day, they’re just gonna pile us into the auditorium. The same auditorium we get piled into for every boring assembly. And they’re gonna give us certificates saying we completed our freshman year studies. Big deal. It’s not like we can get a job for having it. Then they’ll say stuff about what we have to look forward to sophomore year. Blah, blah, blah. That’s it.”
Truth is, I wish we could just wear our uniforms to this event. The great thing about having uniforms is that everyone is equal in the wardrobe department. No one can really show anyone else up fashionwise. And since the uniforms fit so poorly, no one looks that much better than anyone else, with the exception of Charlene Simpson, whose uniforms fit as if they’ve been tailored to every bend and curve of her body.
With real clothes thrown into the mix, I’m presented with quite a dilemma. See, none of my clothes are all that spectacular to begin with, and with my extra-special stick-figure build, none of them fit particularly well either.
“It’s not like it’s a black-tie event or anything,” Keisha says. “All you need is a nice dress, so why not come to Macy’s with us?”
“Look, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I have an appointment,” I say as I grab my jacket from my locker.
“What kind? You’ve been so secretive lately about what you do, I’m beginning to think you don’t like hanging out with us.”
“I love hanging out with you, Keisha.”
“Then is it Nicole?”
I guess I pause a little too long.
“It is Nicole. What? You don’t like her? But she’s so cool.”
“I never said she wasn’t. It’s just that you two have a different kinda thing going, with shopping and clothes and jewelry and getting your hair and nails done. And you have boyfriends, and well, that’s not really me. So when it’s the three of us, sometimes I feel like I don’t really fit. When it’s just you and me, it’s more about stupid things that I can relate to better. You know, music and videos and stuff happening at home and school.”
I leave out the part about being embarrassed that I can’t afford any of the things they can. See, they get actual allowances—substantial allowances that they can save up and buy some really nice stuff with. Now that I seem to have developed an allergy to ripping people off, the only thing filling my pockets is air. I suppose I could go with them and act like it doesn’t bother me to only be able to look while they stock up on new clothes and cassette tapes and posters, but what fun is that?
“I never knew you felt that way,” Keisha says.
“It’s stupid. It’s me. You guys just go have a good time.”
“So do you really have an appointment, or are you just saying that to get out of hanging with us?”
“I really do have one. It’s with a friend.”
“Who?”
“No one you know. It’s someone from my neighborhood.”
“You mean those girls, Caroline and Gillian?”
“No. Not them. Another friend.”
“Well, what’s her name?”
“Evelyn. Evelyn Downer. Look, she asked me to come over. Said there’s something she wants to share with me and I told her yes, so I can’t go back on my word now.”
“Fine,” Keisha says. I can hear the disappointment in her voice. “If you promised.”
“Okay, well, have fun shopping,” I say before walking off.
* * *
For the first time since I’ve been coming to the old lady’s apartment, the door opens almost immediately when I knock. But it’s not Ms. Downer who’s standing there. I’m looking into this white man’s face. He’s wearing a blue sweater-vest and dark slacks, and he has on these little round glasses. I can’t decide whether he’s a professor or a cop.
“Ms. Downer is expecting me,” I mumble.
“Then you must be Faye?”
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Bill Franklin. Archivist,” he says as he opens the door wider. “Come on in.”
“Um, I can just go if she has company.” But before I can finish, he’s pulling me into the apartment, closing the door behind me, and putting his arm around my shoulder like I’m his long-lost friend.
“You’re an archaeologist?” I ask as he guides me along.
“No. Archivist. Historian. Film buff. And you’re just in time.”
“In time for what?” But he doesn’t say anything. He just walks me into the living room, which is all dark on account of the thick drapes being closed. He sits me down on the puffy purple couch, next to the old lady, then hits a button on her videocassette recorder and takes a seat in a nearby armchair.
“What’s this?” I whisper to her.
“You’ve been very curious about who I used to be” is all she says.
Before I can even finish taking off my coat, this loud, bold music comes from the television. And the screen is black-and-white with little scratches and dots and glitches shooting across. “RKO Pictures” pops up, then a couple of guys’ names, then the name Evelyn Ryder and the title Lady in the Blue Fedora. And this woman comes gliding onto the screen, all graceful and regal. When she smiles, there are these wonderful sparkling white teeth. And her hair is swept up under this big hat, with a couple of curls dangling from the sid
es.
“Is that you?” I ask, because as young as the woman on the television is, there is something familiar about her. “It said starring Evelyn Ryder. Are you Evelyn Ryder? Because I thought your last name was Downer.”
“It is me,” the old lady says without taking her eyes off the screen. “Or rather, it was.”
So Caroline was right. The old lady really was a movie star. And I’m in complete awe. The woman on the screen is stunning.
“You were so beautiful!” I whisper.
“Yes, hard to believe, isn’t it?”
But as I steal a glimpse at the old lady, I can make out some of the same features as the woman on the screen. Only, they’re a bit clouded by wrinkles and sun spots and time.
“Not that hard to believe,” I say.
And then the film buff starts talking. He’s excited and happy and sad and surprised all at the same time. I can’t tell whether he’s about to laugh, burst into tears, or pee his pants.
“One of the most talented stars of the early years of film.”
“If you can say that for someone who only made six pictures,” the old lady says.
“Oh, it’s not the quantity that counts.” The film buff has a really long, skinny head. It’s as if it was made of putty and stretched to the maximum. His nose is equally long, and turned up at the end. And his Adam’s apple is about as big as I’ve ever seen one. It’s as if he actually swallowed a real apple, whole, and got it stuck there in his throat.
“A star who never got her due,” he continues. “But look how brilliantly she shines. Not a twinkle, but full-on combustion.” When he says this, he’s looking not at the old lady, but at the television screen. And he hardly blinks, as if he’s afraid he might miss something. It’s as if he’s in love with that young image of the old lady on the screen. Weird.
But I’m still focused on the whole name thing.
“I don’t get it. If your name’s Evelyn Ryder, why does it say Downer on the bell out front?”
“People in Hollywood often change their names,” the film buff answers instead of the old lady. “So much of Hollywood is an illusion. It was, and still is, about always looking your best, sounding your best, being the best. Downer’s a bit depressing-sounding, don’t you think? But Evelyn Ryder … magic!”
The old lady’s character has two love interests in the movie, and she’s running around the whole time trying to juggle them and hide one from the other. Her clothes seem to get fancier in every scene. And her hats get bigger and bigger.
“Did you always wear a hat?” I ask.
“The movie’s called Lady in the Blue Fedora,” the film buff answers again. Only, I wasn’t talking to him. And I’m starting to wonder if something’s gone wrong with the old lady’s tongue.
“It’s the very definition of a screwball comedy. Only the third movie Evelyn ever made. The first two, she was little more than a glorified extra. She was twenty-nine at the time, quite long in the tooth in those days for her first starring role, but her beauty couldn’t be denied. Wasn’t she the most beautiful?” Only, he really isn’t asking me this. He’s telling me. And he’s hypnotized by what’s on the screen once again.
I start thinking about how small and lonely the old lady looked when I helped her into her bed that day. I start thinking of her not having anyone to share Easter dinner with. I start thinking of that old-as-dirt picture she keeps framed on her kitchen counter and the fact that she hasn’t seen her kid in all that time. What is it, again? Forty-two years. That’s three times the number of years I’ve been alive. I’m thinking of all this and trying to figure out how she went from being the glamorous star I’m watching on television to the lonely old woman sitting next to me.
“The movie opened surprisingly well, so the studios did everything to get as much publicity for it as possible,” the old lady finally says. I shoot a glance at the film buff, who I’m expecting to jump in at any moment. But he doesn’t. Instead, he gets up and fumbles with the video machine so that the movie is paused. Then he turns back to the old lady and stares, as if he’s a little boy admiring his mother.
“They actually told me never to leave the house without a hat,” Ms. Downer continues. “They treated me as if I were the same person as my character. It became, ‘What kind of hat will Evelyn Ryder turn up in today? How big will it be? Will there be feathers? Will it be satin, silk, plaid?’ I got so sick of the whole hat drama. Truth be told, I think I was jealous of my hats. I wanted people to see me for me, for my acting, and I felt they were only seeing me for my wardrobe.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“So I refused to wear hats altogether. Then I realized that as an actor, the worst thing that can happen is that no one is talking about you at all. And I realized that as a woman, you have to find your own style. You have to discover what fits your body, your personality, and make it work for you.”
“I never have enough money to get the clothes I want,” I blurt out. “I don’t get anything in the way of an allowance. Sometimes I see all the neighborhood kids wearing Lee jeans and Gloria Vanderbilt. And Pumas and Adidas sneakers. And I wish I could look just like them. And now we have this school celebration at the end of the year and everybody’s dressing up for it. I’m talking clothes from Bloomingdale’s with major designer names on the labels. They’re all acting like it’s the high school Oscars. But Mama doesn’t believe in wasting her money on anything that has a brand name. She doesn’t believe in wasting her money on clothes for me at all, unless I’m about to burst out of them.”
The old lady doesn’t say anything. She just nods at the film buff and he restarts the tape. I shake my head. What do Lee jeans and a fourteen-year-old’s allowance problems have to do with the style of a big glamorous movie star, anyway? When the movie finally ends, the film buff starts clapping and panting and wringing his hands. Then he takes out a notepad, asks a few questions about the making of the movie, and begins scribbling away. I’m not so sure they even remember I’m there, so I go into my bag and take out my geography book. We have a test in a couple of days. I look down at my watch and realize that since the movie ended, I’ve been sitting there getting ignored for a whole fifteen minutes, so I start gathering my stuff together. That’s when the film buff jumps out of his chair and gets extra-terrifically excited.
“Oh, would you, Ms. Ryder? Would you?” And he’s clapping like a trained seal. The old lady stands slowly and walks into the hallway leading to the bedrooms. She’s not using her cane anymore.
“Faye, will you come in here with me?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say a little uncertainly, not quite sure what I’m about to get myself involved in.
I’m standing in Ms. Downer’s bedroom, just in front of the closet, as she points to the shelf with all the hatboxes she made me restack.
“If you’d grab the top four for me …,” she says.
I do as she asks and put them on the bed. Ms. Downer takes the cover off the first box and removes a giant purple hat that looks as if it belongs in Alice in Wonderland.
“Is that from a movie?” I ask.
“Sometimes I bribed them into letting me keep some of my wardrobe. Believe it or not, I actually wore this out a few times, away from the movie set. I liked being an original.” She turns to me.
“You talked about all the other kids in their jeans and tennis shoes … and how you want to be like them. But why? Why look like everyone else? They’ve all just found a way to blend in. They’re afraid to stand out. And part of figuring out who you are is finding that special thing that expresses you, even if it’s the craziest thing ever. Even if it’s something no one else on the planet will understand.”
I check out the old lady in her shapeless brown pants and beige sweater.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “I guess the more life beat me down, the less energy I had for playing dress-up.”
“But you have such nice clothes here.”
“Maybe I hold on to t
hem as a reminder of what used to be. Anyway, you’re young. You need to find your own unique style.”
“I don’t really know if there’s anything that unique about me,” I say. “I’m pretty average.”
This strange smile comes across the old lady’s lips. “We haven’t known each other so long,” she says. “But the last word I’d use to describe you is average.”
“Well, average-looking. I’ll never look like you did.”
The old lady gets up and puts that Alice in Wonderland hat on my head and turns me in the direction of the mirror on her dresser.
“I had people who picked clothes out for me, people who put on my makeup, styled my hair. I had people who drove me around town, called me in the morning to make sure I was awake. Sometimes all that fussing and fawning makes you lose touch with reality.” She closes her eyes for a moment.
“How do you like this one?” she asks once her eyes open up again. I shake my head and shudder a little.
“You’re probably right about that,” she says with a little laugh.
I follow her back into the living room wearing a green hat with feathers sticking out and what looks like three squirrel tails hanging from the back. She wears a giant black one with a brim wide enough to block out the entire sun.
The archivist lets out a loud gasp, and I turn toward him, wondering if he’s choked on his Adam’s apple.
“It’s like the calendar has been flipped back to the thirties,” he says before pointing to the hat I’m wearing. “Summertime Harvest. Another RKO picture. Release year 1934.”
“That’s very impressive, William,” the old lady says.
“I told you,” he says as he shoots me a look. “I worship this woman, for she is a goddess.”
The film buff then points to the old lady’s hat. “Bolero, also 1934.” And he just sits there grinning and staring at the old lady with these wide, excited eyes. He looks as if he’s about to burst.
We model another couple of hats before the old lady excuses herself and goes off to the bathroom, leaving the archivist and me alone. I have to will myself not to stare at that lump in his neck as he writes on his notepad.
Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl Page 15