“I had a pen pal, once,” he said proudly.
“You did, when and why?” I asked.
“It’s rather nice. I was in my first year of high school, and she lived in San Francisco and was nice-looking.”
“That’s called trying to get an American girlfriend,” I informed him.
“She was nice,” he said, with a smirk.
“You slept with her, right?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“I got to come over to the U.S. for the first time at fifteen-and-a-half, and I stayed with her family for a month,” he said, and then he winked, which meant that he had done it with his American pen pal.
SOS the text read; it was from Paloma. I hit redial. “My best friend’s in trouble,” I said, as I sprang away from the canopy bed.
“Meirda, el esta casado, el me mintio. Shit, he’s married, he lied to me,” Paloma started screaming into my cell phone.
When she’s really upset and really angry she always talks really fast, while translating Spanish to English or English to Spanish.
“Va a tener un divorcio, he’s getting a divorce, but she’s in no hurry, she’s an actress in the film. Meirda, shit, meirda, shit, shit.” Paloma was hysterical.
So I told her that international men are different, because that was what Laurel had told me (only I left out how I knew that) and that if he had said he hadn’t gotten divorced yet, she would never have agreed to date him, let alone be an actress in his independent film. And I told her that at the end of the day, it was about being actresses—that was the key to our identities. Paloma and I had both wanted to be known on the silver screen or the TV screen, to leave our mark, like Rita Moreno, her hero, and like Faye Dunaway, my hero. And that we could never forget that.
“Think of Rita Moreno, you’re going to be a success like her,” I said.
Then she reminded me how once when Rita Moreno was young she dated Marlon Brando, the once public rumor was that she had had a breakdown over the ending of it, but she did overcome it—and she did go on to find another man—a healthier one.
“Did you sleep with him?” I asked, suddenly worried.
“Mine is mine, he never got any,” Paloma cackled, because the day she was planning on letting him in between her legs, his wife came over and introduced herself. And we both laughed; it was like the timing couldn’t have been any better.
“Tell her thanks,” I kidded. I mean, the worst is to give your body willingly to a guy you think is single, only to find out he’s not. Then you have to feel not only cheap, but also dumb.
I couldn’t tell her about what happened to Laurel when she was twenty-five, because it was Laurel’s story and I kept the friendships separate, like I said before. Laurel had gone to France to take a summer cooking class, okay, really to meet French men, and to fall in love while learning to cook French cuisine. She had dated an Israeli journalist who was working for a French Newspaper for the summer and anyway, they dated, they spent 24/7 together, and she went to bed with him.
“Israeli men make love like they might die tomorrow or in an hour; their soldier training makes them extremely passionate.” That’s what Laurel had said, quote un-quote. Anyway, a short-haired, well-toned Israeli woman came to the apartment one day and he introduced Laurel to his wife, and she never heard from him again. I can’t even begin to go on about how many pounds Laurel lost. It took her six months of therapy, until she was ready to meet a new international man.
Thirty-five minutes later Paloma said, “Soy un actriz. I’m an actress, Thank God, gracias!”
“You bet. FYI, you could end up meeting Romeo at the Sundance Film Festival if the film gets in, so the best is yet to come,” I said. And that got her daydreaming again, and we hung up. I walked to Laurel’s bed to find Tristan’s face twisted as if he was in pain.
“She’s in trouble,” he said, with concern.
“No, she’s okay. She’s going to focus on the film and being an actress,” I answered.
“I’m talking about the pen pal,” he said with uneasiness.
I looked over his shoulder at the letters. He had turned them all over, revealing the ink drawings Cassidy had done on the back of each letter, her self-portrait in the middle. There was a drawing of two girls with halos floating above their head (stepsisters), with their feet above the ground, followed by one of a woman who looked out of shape, wearing a super-huge dress (her mother). The next three were of a man who looked like Freddy Krueger’s twin (Nightmare on Elm Street) with a hook (the kind the animation character Captain Hook has). The others were of flowers with knives as stems. I looked at the nine ink drawings and then at Tristan; he was, after all, from the homeland of Sherlock Holmes.
“Well, Sherlock, what’s she telling us?” I asked.
“She’s being abused,” he said.
“Wait a second, she’s sixteen, she was writing to my eighty-plus aunt. It was just a high school teacher’s project, not a social worker’s,” I tried to explain.
He picked up one of the images of the ‘Freddy Krueger twin,’ the stepfather.
“This guy has to be stopped. See, the buckle keeps getting bigger,” he said, and that’s when I saw that the hook wasn’t a hook—it was a belt buckle.
“My dad gave me some more letters,” I said, and quickly pulled them out of my Chanel bag.
Tristan tore them open. The last two drawings were of an old lady with the initials GM written under it and a map of Florida.
“GM stands for Grandmother, we have to get her there,” he said.
“Get her where?” I asked.
“Florida,” he pointed to the map.
Wow, this girl talked in codes; how she imagined my Aunt Helen would have figured it out was too sad to think about.
“We can’t pass up the chance to save her, she’s crying out for help,” he said.
“See something, say something…do something,” I said as it hit me in the pit of my stomach, “Okay, let’s rescue her,” I added.
I had saved stray dogs and cats—why not a teenage girl? Why not?
26
RESCUE
Okay, so every actress waits to land her biggest, leading role—the role whereby playing that character she will forever be changed. Incidentally it’s the same for male actors. I hadn’t booked it in Hollywood, and now I was about to play ‘it’ and play it for ‘real’. Of course, not in front of a film crew, or TV cameras, or on the radio—but person-to-person. I felt a rush; just the thought of performing to fool a troubled mother and a dangerous, treacherous stepfather gave me the drive. So when you accept your role, you have to review the script—and really know how the scene has to be played out. That’s just what Tristan and I sat up doing for several nights in a row.
We decided not to do the 911 thing (chances were the girl would hide the abuse out of fear), or the call to a social worker (who may or may not be able to get her out of the house or even have enough time to meet her due to backed up case loads). And also Tristan had had a friend who was never saved because of red tape, and now sits in jail because the abuse ate way at his non-violent soul and he fought back with a gun.
In movies, the victim is usually safely rescued, okay, so sometimes it doesn’t turn out well on HBO. But our made-for-not-TV-movie was going to have a happy ending. I knew he needed to be the cop and me the social worker in order to get Cassidy safely to her grandmother’s. We figured that when she turned eighteen, she could decide whatever she wanted.
“Just tell me what to say, and I’ll fake a Boston accent,” Tristan said, like an actor entering his first acting class.
Suddenly, I was not only setting up our ‘rescue’ scene, but training Tristan, and we were about to form a seamless rescue ensemble. I only wished that my Aunt Helen could have seen us, she would have been proud.
I had left my father a ‘SORRY’ note hung across his reading chair. It was painted on a scrap of canvas that Tristan had in the back his Land Rover. Incidentally, he has the Defender model—ho
w perfect an auto name is that? It was his idea for me to use the canvas, because he said paper notes get tossed away too easily.
The ‘sexy’ cop uniform was still in my suitcase from sexing the grip/actor—only now it looked serious and authentic on Tristan. I had to stop myself from becoming aroused. “No, no, he’s your roommate, and you’re on a mission,” I thought. I don’t think he saw my mouth almost pucker up. I hope not. I had three wigs, a reddish with bangs, a blonde and a brunette one that was perfect for a bookish person. I had belly and breast padding and very cheap makeup. My acting motto-have costumes will travel. All I needed was the outfits.
“Check Laurel’s mum’s closet,” Tristan suggested, as if he had worked on the stages of Paramount.
“You’re good,” I said, as I leapt up and he followed.
“I think so,” he added.
Laurel’s mother had left a lot of clothes hanging in a bedroom closet, like any smart woman who likes to travel lightly. I needed two outfits, one for the social worker role and one to wear when I met Cassidy for the first time.
Okay, so before you act in any role in any film or TV show, it has to get the green light, meaning the official ‘yes’, the project is happening. And for us with our real life rescue, we needed to be sure that Cassidy wanted to be rescued, and that she was indeed being abused. So I decided that a blonde girl, a friend of Aunt Helen’s would show up and talk person-to-person with her. Then, if it was ‘yes,’ I’d wear the brunette-bookish wig for the social worker with belly and breast padding to age me a bit and give me a more professional appearance. When Tristan pulled out a bright jacket and skirt, we both laughed.
“I can’t wear cherry red,” I said. Then he selected a dark, conservative blue suit with pants and a semi-matching jacket.
“Social worker?” he asked.
I put it on and walked around the room, imagining the padding.
“That’s her,” he said.
“I’ll need a fake ID,” I said, anxiously.
“No worries, I know a guy who makes ID’s, real ones, but he’ll make us fake ones.”
I couldn’t believe how focused Tristan was on getting our rescue job accomplished.
“Try this sweat suit on, with the blonde wig,” Tristan said, like he’d been in show business for years.
“I can’t believe Laurel’s mother wears that. So, have you ever wanted to be an actor?” I asked.
“God no, that’s a tough biz,” he said.
I tried on the brown velvet sweat suit. It had no logo on it, and was tight and clingy, not the kind I’d ever wear as my real self. For the blonde character, though, it was perfect.
The pen pal letters had been sent care of the high school, but on the second-to-last letter Cassidy had scribbled out her home address, another example of her cry for help. We practiced the way my conversation with her should play out; I would ask if she was being physically abused, and I would tell her what could happen, as in a cop and social worker arriving to take her away and having her mother sign a form that left her in the ‘legal’ care of her grandmother (who we were 99% sure lived in Florida). And that, if her grandmother agreed to care for her, we would buy her a one-way ticket, and the rest of her life would be up to her, and that my Aunt Helen had wanted to help her as her last dying wish. It was Tristan’s idea to mention her for sentimental value.
We ended the night watching the first Hangover movie, because Tristan had the DVD and thought we should watch something funny. I’ll admit it, I love to laugh, but the whole time I just kept thinking about Cassidy’s mother. Why was she allowing her daughter to be abused? Why didn’t she send her to her mother’s? Then I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t want to wake Tristan, who had fallen asleep before the movie ended, so I got up and started ironing the red and white frilly cotton table cloths that Deeda was going to be using in less than a week for Laurel’s wedding.
Early in the morning, Tristan took off; he wanted to get a few things covered in case our rescue plan was a go. I walked Shadow and continued to prep things for Laurel; just to stop myself from thinking about my first meeting with Cassidy.
By one o’clock I took the Red Line to Park Street, and from there I caught the Green Line to Haymarket, all in less than thirty minutes. I’ll admit that I was nervous during the train ride, until some white-collar-type guy gave me a flirting look. Oh yeah, I was a blonde. They have to have more fun, because at least four other men smiled at me in that ‘hint-hint’ way. Everyone who’s a non-blonde woman should wear a blonde wig for a day, just to see what it’s like.
I jumped on the 111 bus and headed to Chelsea via the Tobin Bridge. I felt keyed up and energized. We decided that it was better if I tried to meet Cassidy on her way home from school. After arriving in Chelsea, I walked by her home, which I found through a map on my Smartphone. Actually I stared at it from across the street—it was a regular single-family house that looked unkempt, but not out of place on the block. No one was around, not that I would have looked suspicious. From there I headed over to Chelsea High School. I got there early, so I walked around for a few minutes. I knew what she looked like, thanks to Facebook, so I didn’t have to carry the ink self-portrait drawing. I figured she would walk out alone, because in her pen pal letters she had mentioned having difficulty maintaining friendships, and I knew the stepsisters went to a local middle school.
The high school doors flew open and a pack of students rushed out. I spotted her, in baggy pants and a large pink sweatshirt. Her hair was in her face, but I saw that she was wearing some makeup. Her left arm was in a cast and that spooked me. Still I followed her until we were two blocks away.
“Cassidy?” I asked. My heart pounding.
She just gave a blank stare.
“Your pen pal Helen sent me,” I said, with full conviction.
Cassidy’s eyes went wide.
“She says you’re being abused, that I have to rescue you, and send you to your grandmother’s home, ASAP,” I said, all in one breath.
That’s when her tears started—there wasn’t anything she had to say; her pain was all over her face. I pinched myself to stop myself from crying, we couldn’t both be seen crying, not with other teens ambling by.
“Walk near me, I’m going to go over everything that is about to happen.”
She nodded, and then I told her. She repeatedly asked about Aunt Helen, but I didn’t tell her that she had passed away. I couldn’t. We were about a block from her house.
“Are your stepsisters being abused?”
“No, because they’re his kids. He doesn’t like me.”
“Does he beat you with a belt?” I asked. I felt guilty asking, but I had promised Tristan that I would, and that promise I had to keep.
“Yeah, all the time. He blames me for everything,” she said.
“And your arm?” I asked, deciding that I needed to know.
“Yeah, he broke it, but I didn’t tell anyone. I said I fell.”
Then I asked the hardest question of all, “Does your mother know?” and she nodded.
“Say it out loud, when you say it out loud you own the truth,” I said. Those words basically flew out of my mouth unrehearsed.
“Yeah, she does know he hits me,” she finally said.
“Okay, I need your grandmother’s phone number. Then you’ll need to keep your head up, because tomorrow morning it will happen,” I said. She gave me her grandmother’s info and I walked away.
After that I jumped back on the 111 bus. And the whole ride back into Boston, I found myself thinking about the movie Mommie Dearest, and how much courage it must have taken Christina Crawford, (the adopted daughter) of famed actress Joan Crawford to go public by writing a tell-all book about the abuse she experienced. Who would want to believe that ‘The’ Joan Crawford abused her kid? Wow, would I have told if I had been her daughter? I don’t know, I really don’t know.
Forty minutes later I reported everything to Tristan. I was shaking when I told him, I felt frightened
and so out of my comfort zone. We talked about calling child protective services, but in the end we decided to stick with our rescue plan. I quickly rattled off her grandmother’s number that I had memorized, since I didn’t want to be seen writing something down. He had scored his friend’s dark blue; four door Ford that would be our ‘unmarked’ cop car, since so many Massachusetts cops drive them. I glanced at the outdoor wedding bar—it was done. Tristan winked; he knew his woodworking was beyond just good, it was the highest-quality.
“Come on, we need to get our ID’s made,” he said, so I raced upstairs and changed into my social worker outfit, with the padded belly and breasts and brunette wig—in full character to the max. Okay, so I’m going to brag: I really looked like a ‘social worker’. Wow, how could I ever give up acting? I dashed downstairs, but when I heard the doorbell ring, I scurried into the living room, while Tristan intervened in perfect timing. More wedding packages for Laurel—we laughed after the UPS guy drove off. Tristan’s Land Rover was in the driveway and I hopped into the back seat. Okay, so we were acting like a cast in a spy film.
Tristan drove us to Marblehead to his friend Mark’s home, his Boston accent (no R’s) was what Tristan was copying for his cop role. FYI, the easiest way to practice the Boston accent is to say, “Pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd (translation: “park the car in Harvard Yard”). Try it!
I took my ‘social worker’ pose in front of an off-white poster board. It was so professional, the set-up. Mark had the real name of a social worker who had passed away that he put on the ID.
Tristan had disappeared into the bathroom, only to reemerge with a shaved head. He was going to play a bald headed cop. I couldn’t believe it. It was smart, he wouldn’t have looked real in a wig and with the shaved head—he seemed completely authentic. On the cute ‘cop’ side too, in my opinion, which I didn’t share. We all laughed as Tristan practiced his cop walk and flat footed stance.
After that I needed to call the Grandmother pretending to be the social worker to find out if she could take care of Cassidy. It was Tristan who wanted me to double-check. Mark gave me a throwaway phone, and I felt like I was in a James Bond film, minus the sexy outfit and sensuous name. Note to self, audition for action films. Tristan and Mark went into the kitchen to make something to eat, because I was worried about getting nervous and we didn’t want Mark to know everything. He just knew a teenager was in trouble and that was enough for him. So I altered my voice because I love changing into different characters. I looked at the ID, and then I dialed Cassidy’s grandmother in Saint Augustine, Florida. A sweet old woman named Rena-Jo answered, and when I introduced myself to her, she sounded suddenly shaky.
Girl Act Page 17