All for a Sister

by Allison Pittman

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Mary leaned in close. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and trust me, you need friends more than you need fathers. I know talent, and you’ve got it. I don’t want to see a bunch of bimbos taking over the films. All this to say, don’t let them keep casting you as a kid. Three, four more films, maybe. But once you’re sixteen, you need to be playing women. Not a romantic lead or anything, but the best friend. Or maybe a maid if they ugly you up a little.”

  She left then, disappearing into the crowd—not a difficult thing to do, given her not-quite-five-foot stature.

  Left to herself, Celeste scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar face, and recognized few. Like Mother, she’d assumed those she didn’t know were here because they knew and respected Papa, but after that conversation, she wondered if this weren’t just another occasion for people to see—and be seen by—those who might mean an advancement in a career. With his colorization patents and research, he’d caught the eye of several impressive directors, including Werner Ostermann, newly emigrated from Austria and rumored to be brilliant and aloof. Yet there he was, cigarette in hand, conversing with a tall, thin man Celeste didn’t know and one of Papa’s colleagues she recognized from her many afternoons spent in his office, offering her face for experimental filming.

  “Quién era?” At Mother’s insistence, Graciela wore a formal uniform, complete with a white lace collar, the severity of it only accentuating the dark puffs under her eyes.

  “Mary Pickford. She’s a big star.”

  Graciela appeared unimpressed and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. “How are you doing, mija? When should I start scaring people away?”

  “You can’t do that. They’re here for Papa. To pay their respects.”

  “And eat everything in sight. I came to see if you need anything to eat. I have a torta saved at the back of the icebox for you. Come inside? Sit with tu madre.”

  “How is she?”

  “Sad.” Her brown eyes pooled with tears. “Like we all are.”

  Celeste knew Graciela had been working through her grief, having come across her more than once reduced to tears while performing her normal chores. Watching surreptitiously while sitting on the corner of her sleeping mother’s bed, she observed Graciela touching the clothes in the closet, pulling a shirtsleeve to her face and inhaling its scent. She’d lingered over the arranging and dusting of the objects on top of his dresser—cuff links and collar stays and buttons in a dish. In the bathroom, she’d taken the lid from his shaving lotion, dabbed a bit on the back of her hand, and had even put the bottle in her apron pocket before an attack of conscience called her to return it. She’d loved him, just as all—well, most—of the people here did.

  Not caring how her mother would react to such an act of affection with a servant, Celeste took Graciela in her arms, for once giving comfort to the woman who had loved her for so long. Not until this moment, and possibly due to her previous conversation, had she noticed that she’d grown taller than Graciela, whose head now rested on her shoulder. The realization prompted her to plant a kiss on top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut.

  Graciela stepped back and took Celeste’s face in her hands. “Ay, how grown-up you are. Tu papá, he was very proud of you, you know.”

  “I know.” She kissed Graciela’s soft, brown cheek and sent her in to check on Mother.

  Inwardly, she longed for such an escape, but even if her mother dashed all sense of propriety to the wind, she would not. Putting on her bravest face, she moved from one gathered group to the next, receiving their introductions and thanking them for their best wishes.

  “Did you sign the guest book?” she asked over and over, knowing even then she would comb through those signatures to learn who had taken the time to acknowledge her father’s death. One opportunistic mourner in particular, a dark, handsome, brooding young man, she’d seen around the studios. Every slick, black hair was in place, despite the light breeze.

  Valentino. He wasn’t a star, but he might be, someday. And when that happened, she wanted to be on that screen with him.

  Thinking back to Mary Pickford’s declaration that she looked sixteen, she’d just worked up the courage to step off the porch and go thank him for coming, when a soft touch to her elbow stalled her.

  “Oh, Mr. Bittick.” She’d known him since her father’s first visit to the offices at Technicolor, when she’d tagged along and had been made to feel so welcome. “Thank you so much for coming.” They exchanged a quick, paternal embrace, reducing all of her previous thoughts about the young Valentino to a puddling shame in the light of this man’s genuine concern and affection. Besides, who needed to talk to Valentino? Mr. Bittick was about to introduce her to a director.

  The next morning, Celeste awoke to find that she’d fallen asleep in the clothes she’d worn to the funeral, and that someone had come in during the night to remove her shoes and drape a light coverlet over her. That someone, she assumed, was Graciela, as Mother had taken to her bed within minutes after the final guest departed, while Celeste tried to lend a hand to the hired staff as they gathered dirty glasses and cups from the side tables, shelves, and any other possible flat surface throughout the house. Even so, she’d wearily climbed up the stairs and into her bed well before dark, and must have slept for nearly fifteen hours, given the brightness of the sun outside.

  A soft rap on the door accompanied by “Estás despierta, mi Celesita?” prompted Celeste to sit up and stretch while beckoning Graciela inside.

  “I feel like I slept forever.” In fact, it was the best sleep she’d had since before Papa died.

  “But you feel good, no?”

  “Wonderful. How is Mother?”

  Graciela dropped her voice and shifted her conversation into Spanish, prompting Celeste to do the same. “I am so worried about her these days. Something is wrong.”

  “Well, of course something’s wrong.”

  “More than that. Even before your papa, she was eating hardly anything. Not like herself at all.”

  Celeste studied Graciela with new eyes, in light of what she’d noticed over the past week. She was a beautiful woman—likely the same age as her mother, or close to it, but with the countenance and figure of one much younger.

  “Maybe she just wanted to be thin again. Like she used to be, when we first moved here.”

  “Perhaps,” Graciela said, clearly unconvinced. “We’ll see.” Then she clapped her hands, ready to begin the business of the day. “I drew already a bath for you, with some of those good salts you like, and I steamed your dark-blue dress.”

  “Aren’t I supposed to wear black?”

  “Pretty young thing like you, what a shame. There are still some good things about being a child. I stitched a silk band to the sleeve, is all. Mr. Parker is coming this afternoon to meet with you. Do you feel up to it?”

  “Of course.” Another film, another rich, spoiled child. She couldn’t wait to share with him everything Mary Pickford had said.

  Later, scrubbed, refreshed, and dressed, she joined her mother in the kitchen with a plate of leftover sandwiches, of which Mother ate uncharacteristically little. In light of Graciela’s concerns, she noticed that her mother did seem to be losing weight, with a new hollowness right below her eyes, and loose flesh falling jowl-like from her chin.

  Celeste was scraping the uneaten food into the rubbish when Graciela announced that Mr. Parker had arrived, and inquired where he should be shown.

  “Arthur’s office, of course,” Mother said after visibly bracing herself to give the answer.

  In all of her memory, Celeste could recall a handful of occasions when her mother had crossed into that room. Nobody ever did without Papa’s express permission, and anytime Celeste had occasion to sit in on the contract talks, they did so at the kitchen table. It was a sacred place, accessible only to Graciela for its biweekly cleaning, and even then only after much negotiation.
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br />   As Celeste watched Mother get up from her seat and move across the kitchen, she wondered for the first time if her halting gait came not merely from her excess weight, but something else. Pain, perhaps, or a weariness beyond bearing.

  “Are you all right, Mother?”

  She stopped and gripped the kitchen counter. “Why would you ask?”

  “Because you seem—”

  “No.” She turned, steadying herself. “Why would you ask now? Why today, when I haven’t been all right for quite some time.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t notice. You and your father, off with your heads together while I’m wasting away. Now that he’s gone, you finally have to look at me, don’t you? Lord knows he never did.”

  “I look at you every day, Mother. I haven’t left your side this entire time.”

  “And it only took your father’s dying to get your attention.”

  Before she could respond, Mother left the kitchen, moving at a noticeably quicker pace, leaving Celeste no choice but to follow.

  The shades drawn against the afternoon sun cast Papa’s office in an amber light, but Mother declined Graciela’s offer to raise them. He did not have a desk; rather, three of the four walls were lined with shelves and a countertop, with closed cabinets underneath. Books of all shapes and sizes were arranged haphazardly, some on their sides, some open to pages left waiting to be read. There were all manner of beakers and jars of liquids, photographs in various stages of tinting clipped to suspended string, and canisters of film in every possible corner.

  “We should call Mr. Bittick,” Celeste said, looking around in awe. “He’d know what to do with all of this. Some of it might be important.”

  “That’s exactly what we will do.” Celeste hadn’t noticed Mr. Parker standing just inside the open door. She greeted him with a professional handshake, as modeled by her father. “According to his will, all of the contents of this room are to be boxed up and delivered intact to the Technicolor offices. In fact, I’m not so sure we should even be in here.”

  “This is still my house,” Mother said, “isn’t it? Or has that been willed away as well.”

  “It is,” Mr. Parker said.

  The two looked at each other the way actors sometimes did, while off camera a director yelled, More! More intensity! More anger! More fear! More pain! More! It had been the same in the first few days after Papa died, when she’d been shooed from the room while he read Papa’s will. Whether it was his race, or the fact that he got on so well with Papa, Mother made very little attempt to hide her dislike for Mr. Parker, and now it grew like a bulbous mass between them.

  “Shall we sit down, then?” Celeste said at last, clueless as to the protocol of who should offer the invitation.

  While Papa did not have a desk, per se, he did have a good-size oblong table and a collection of mismatched chairs where Celeste assumed he sat to eat all those meals he was too busy to take with them in the dining room. To her relief, they all complied, and Mr. Parker went through the now-familiar ritual of opening his expensive-looking leather folio and producing a sheaf of papers with the recognizable studio logo at the top.

  “Now, it’s a standard contract, looks to be three to five days’ work, with . . .”

  He continued delivering information Celeste could almost recite by heart, until it was time for her to take up a pen and sign her name on the final page. Not on the official line, but just below.

  “And,” Mr. Parker said, “I suppose you’ll be signing as her guardian from now on, Mrs. DuFrane.”

  Mother, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings at first, now sat forward in her seat and said, “No.”

  Celeste and Mr. Parker locked eyes, each daring the other to confront Mother on her protest. Mr. Parker lost.

  “Mrs. DuFrane, if you don’t sign, Celeste cannot appear in the film. No contract, no role, and she’s not old enough to sign for herself, not until she’s eighteen.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid,” Mother spewed. “I know very well how the law works, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Parker? Very well indeed.”

  Celeste implored, “Then why?”

  “I never wanted you to get involved with this movie business in the first place, if you remember. But you wouldn’t listen, and your father wouldn’t listen, and nothing I said ever mattered. Not a bit.”

  “Mother!”

  “Well, it matters now, doesn’t it?”

  “Mrs. DuFrane, please.” His voice was rich like cocoa, and appeasing. He affected a posture that captured Mother’s attention, turning her toward him, making it necessary for her to leave the table if she wanted to escape his gaze. “I understand you’re grieving right now. We all are. But we have committed Celeste to play this role. If you want her to discontinue making films for the time being, until you’ve settled all of Arthur’s affairs, fine. But for now, we need your signature.”

  Mother’s eyes began to fill with tears that splashed unbidden into the folds of her face and neck. “Somebody’s going to see her.” She took on the demeanor of a wild, trapped animal, her gaze darting back and forth as if to find a way around the imposing wall of Christopher Parker, trusted family lawyer and friend. “Somebody’s going to see her, and see her name, take her away. Take her away from me, and she’s all I have, all I have left in the world.”

  “Now, there, there, Mrs. DuFrane.” He looked as if to take her hand, but thought better of it and laid his, strong and dark, next to hers, pale and puffy, almost touching. “Nobody’s going to take her.”

  “She will.”

  An electric chill ran the length of Celeste’s spine, nearly jolting her from her seat. “Who will?”

  Mr. Parker tore his attention away from Mother long enough to give her a warning look.

  “And don’t think I don’t know what you get out of this—” Mother tousled the papers—“arrangement. What’s your percentage?”

  “Ten,” Celeste said. She knew that, too.

  “Well, no more of that, Mr. Parker. Our business relationship is through.”

  A slow grin spread across his face, and he spoke with an unmistakable sense of threat. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “You’re free.” Mother burst forth a mirthless, bitter laugh. “Look at that. I have freed you. Forget Birth of a Nation. I’ve given birth to a lawyer.”

  More laughter, venturing on maniacal, leaving Celeste more frightened and confused than she ever remembered. Mother wiped away hysterical tears with the back of her sleeve, and Celeste felt her own pooling. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Why don’t you go on up to your room, sweetie,” Mr. Parker said, bringing Mother to react with a savage fury.

  “Don’t tell her what to do! Don’t call her ‘sweetie’! She is mine, do you understand? Mine! And she is all I have left. All I have left in the world.”

  Celeste could take it no longer, and she leaped from her seat and ran to Mother, holding her tearstained face to her budding breast and burying kisses in her coarse, neglected hair. She felt the woman physically flinch at the contact, but did not pull away. Not even in the aftermath of Papa’s death had they held each other. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time they touched.

  She sensed rather than saw Mr. Parker lean back in his chair and set the pen on the table.

  “I love you, Mother.” How often had she said those words to strangers, women who couldn’t even stand to be in her presence? “I will always be here for you. Nobody can ever take me away. I’m not going anywhere; you’ll see.”

  “Oh, my darling,” Mother said, holding Celeste at arm’s length, “you might not be, but I am.”

  DANA VISITS THE LAW OFFICES OF CHRISTOPHER PARKER, ESQ.

  1925

  WERNER RODE IN THE front seat with Gustav, leaving the backseat to Dana and Celeste. With the exception of Celeste’s presence, this was very much like the last time Dana and Werner had been together on the long, awkward drive from his home a
fter the violent confrontation with Christopher Parker.

  Dana still hadn’t forgiven him. Either of them.

  “You ambushed me,” she’d said that day as the beach and his home disappeared behind them. “How could you?”

  “I didn’t think you would agree to meet with him any other way. I saw the pain in your eyes when you spoke of him.”

  This time, all parties involved had plenty of time to prepare, including convincing Celeste to reschedule a meeting with Louis B. Mayer, even under the threat of Roland strangling her if she did. This time, at least, Dana wouldn’t be drunk from kisses and sunshine, and most of all, she was wearing real clothes, including shoes, should she be given another reason to kick him.

  “Turn left here,” Celeste instructed. It had been her idea to meet with Christopher Parker in his office, rather than have him visit in their home. Dana supposed she wanted to keep it all businesslike while she studied up on her mother’s hidden life as a monster.

  Parker’s office resided in the Title Insurance and Trust Company building at the corner of High and Franklin, a prestigious address by any definition, according to Celeste, and only occupied in the wake of Arthur DuFrane’s death. Her father had bequeathed all proceeds from his work with Technicolor to Mr. Parker—a fact that made Marguerite furious. When Marguerite died, he worked to pick up Celeste’s career where it left off, capitalizing on the contacts he’d made through her father and landing the occasional small role. Sure, he took a 40 percent cut, and she had to endure the shamefulness of the racial slurs slung in the waiting rooms of casting offices, but he worked tirelessly on her behalf, and stepped quietly out of her career after introducing her to an agent he met—of all places—at the same church where Mother had gone in a desperate search for healing.

  All of this Celeste related on the drive, relieving Werner and Dana of the burden of conversation, for which Dana was grateful. Still, one question nagged. “Even after your mother died, he never told you about me?”

  “No,” Celeste said with neither a hint of apology nor defense. “Not until we read the will, of course. He had a fierce loyalty to Mother that I never could understand. Especially because she was so awful to him most of the time. I don’t think she ever acknowledged how much he cared for us. You know, he sold all of Papa’s experimental film? I found that out later. He used the money to pay off the mortgage on the house so I’d own it outright.”