cease and desist

by stephen david hurley

  “Claude wants to see you.”

  I feel my shoulders tense, and just as quick Molly’s fingers are kneading the knots in them. God, how I wish I could get that from a boy. She knows I’m afraid. Claude’s the costume designer for this hybrid-reality, and he’s the best there is; he has two Emmys to prove it. Famous Francis may be the director, but as every girl in this business knows, whether you play a princess or a pauper the costume designer determines your fate. Molly presses her lips into my ear.

  “It’s okay. He saw you in Vampire Grrls. He likes your work.”

  I let out a sigh.

  “And you’ve got girl power behind you. I can feel it.” She kisses my ear. I turn and give her a peck on the cheek that comes awfully close to the corner of her mouth. For a moment I let down my guard and feel it. How much I want to fall in love. Does it really matter who you fall in love with so long as the love you share makes you feel whole?

  I have my head buried in my script and accidentally bump into Catherine the Great—the Ice Princess—who’s waiting outside Molly’s trailer.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  We’ve only been in two scenes together and neither were confrontations. I expect a shove or some unkind words, but she just steps back and says, “No problem.” She’s my height, and the morning light through the clouds over the Meadowlands gives her porcelain skin an ethereal beauty that makes me want to run home to Nina.

  Stay cool…There’s a reason I’ve been chosen.

  “Looks like someone’s in a hurry.”

  I scramble for a cool comeback. “Well. The clergy’s got me on the run.”

  She actually cracks a smile, holds out her hand. “I’m Stephanie.”

  “Yes,” I say, as if I don’t know that. As if my Nina and I didn’t comb through her entire online history. As if I don’t know that Stephanie Coombs was plucked from some boarding school in Massachusetts to attend Yale Drama, a year younger than when I made Juilliard. That she’s the only other remaining character who’s had any stage experience; while I was playing Romeo and Juliet off-Broadway, Stephanie had embodied the strong-willed Regina in Ibsen’s Ghosts at the Eugene O’Neill. I study her face—an impenetrable coat of armor, but delicate too. Stephanie is porcelain and silver. I am stainless steel. If perfection is a flaw, she’s got it in spades. No skeletons hanging in her closet. Her eyes have those brilliant kaleidoscope streaks I’ve seen on famous models. She’s wearing a black turtleneck and jeans, which means she’ll probably head over to Claude right after he’s done with me.

  Stephanie dips her face back to catch the morning light. “Well, in the words of a character from a much lesser film, may the odds be ever in your favor.” She delivers the line with such dental precision that I actually look down at my script, because it feels as if we’re rehearsing. But it’s the look she gives that freezes me. Her mouth turns in a knowing smile. Those eyes that tell me she’s been in control since the moment I walked out the door. She has the power to seal my fate. It’s the same look my mother gave me just before she turned the wheel. I step back.

  “Yes,” I stammer. “A much lesser film.” I hurry off to Claude.

  Claude’s a tiny man with a thin, reedy voice who pronounces my name with a thick Italian accent.

  “Miss de Menichi,” he says, and the way he gives it an ending makes me feel as if I really am from an ancient, royal family. The de Menici family or maybe even the house of an emperor. I instinctively take off my purple sweatshirt and look around at the double-wide that’s twice the size of my trailer but crammed so full of costumes on racks that we have little more than a few feet to move.

  I’d stood before Claude after the final callback when I still didn’t know if I’d gotten the part. He had an inscrutable stare that told me the only thing he could see was what I was wearing, and the only thing he was thinking was what I could be wearing.

  I look over at the creation he lays across the bed and feel my heart skip a beat. It is a gorgeous, sequined, little black dress, only it isn’t really black—at least, not all black, for as the track lights play over the glitter it gives off rich umber and crimson hues.

  “My goodness, child, what have you eaten today?”

  I’ve stripped down to my panties, and most of my ribs are showing in his full-length mirror.

  “I thought designers were supposed to starve their models until they get really skinny.” I think about the pukey green concoction the caterer delivered to my trailer. On my first day of shooting I weighed one-hundred thirty pounds. Last night the scale said one-hundred eighteen, not good when you’re five-foot-ten.

  “Not this designer.” He picks up his phone and calls the caterer. “I’m ordering a soup for you that will go down easy and is packed with carbs.” He folds his small arms across his chest. “Trust me. I make all my models drink a whole bowl in front of me before I dress them.” He flashes his mean look. “You will drink it, young lady, or you won’t be wearing a stitch of my creations.”

  I feel my head swim. I never thought famous people could be so compassionate. I imagine myself in that gorgeous dress on the bed, turning and turning, and the sequins making perfect auburn waves that evoke the gentle sounds of crystal clinking and witty conversation in a big house filled with friends and admirers. I want to run outside and twirl and twirl and twirl until I get dizzy the way I used to when I wrapped my legs around my brother’s waist and he cried “Cease and Desist.” But then I imagine Eve watching me from her trailer window, probably telling one of her rich-bitch friends what a poor loser I am.

  An air horn blasts outside. I look over and see my name on a clear plastic bag with drab-colored clothes that he’s taken from the rack.

  Claude measures and nods. “I’ve been watching you, Miss de Menichi…” he says and then he taps his thumb to the tip of his fingers. His mouth opens and his eyes roll to the top of the trailer. He steps back. A knock on the door as the caterer delivers a bowl of soup and hurries away. I’m so hungry I want to gulp the whole thing down. Claude pulls out a chair in front of the vanity. I take the spoon and gently lay the cloth napkin across my thigh.

  “Tell me, child. What are you so afraid of?”

  I look around the trailer. He must be talking to another actor. I give him my furious, cool, mean look.

  “Afraid? Moi? Maybe you should ask that hunk whose nose I turned to mush.”

  “Maybe,” Claude says, nonplussed, “you think you can take the podium just by punching out all your adversaries?”

  “It’s worked so far,” I murmur.

  I don’t know what he means. I can feel that itch under my ribs as I spoon another mouthful of soup. Maybe Claude’s onto something. In the beginning, on the battlefields all I felt was rage. Francis had to hire stunt people to fight me after I’d hurt so many of the untrained extras who faced me in battle. It felt as if I was swinging wildly through a storm of hate. He follows my gaze along his frieze. Some of the famous faces I recognize. I want to be up there, too. That’s what I said in every interview, what I told Nina the day after my brother’s funeral. Maybe all those faces knew the secret I’d only recently discovered; how easily fame comes to the brokenhearted…

  “I’ve dressed some of them,” he says with a sigh. “Hepburn was beautiful and talented, but she was nothing without Tracy.” His eyes through those rimless spectacles are begging me to see something. “Do you know why she became a legend?”

  “Yeah. She was beautiful and talented.”

  “Hollywood and New York are filled with beauty and talent.” He points at the faces. “But all of those actors up there have one thing in common that made them who they are.”

  “What?”

  “They all lost someone dear to them. They all had someone they loved die long before he or she should’ve. I remember Hepburn’s eyes when I dressed her for The Glass Menagerie. Fierce, like a locked door, but I caught a glimpse—just a glimmer—behind that obstinate mask. There was a world of hurt she could barely contain.”
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br />   I drop my head. I feel Claude’s small hands on my broad shoulders pulling me in.

  “Cease. Listen to me. I’m an old man and you’re a dark horse who could take the podium.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  He holds up a small finger beneath my nose. “Be yourself. That’s what got you the part. While all the other girls were praying and acting contrite, you stood up and railed at the gods. That’s a character. That’s Jeanne d’Arc.”

  “What? Did you dress her, too?”

  “Funny. I like you. But there’s one more thing you’ve got to do.”

  “What?”

  “Confess.”

  “Confess to what?”

  “Love. I can see someone in your eyes. I saw what you did to that brute yesterday, and he definitely had it coming. But you can’t hide behind that mask much longer.” He steps back and measures my neck. “Whoever it is you’re running from. You’ll know when the time is right. You’ll feel it in the words. But when it comes, don’t hold back.”

  Claude gives me a long look I can’t read. After a knock on the door a production assistant enters and says Francis needs to see me. I get my things, hug Claude instinctively. He kisses me on the forehead the way Nina does and returns to his work.

  “There’s a storm coming.” Francis studies the treetops and the leaden sky through a viewfinder as he waits outside my trailer. “It’s a blessing in disguise,” he says, “because next to blood, snow’s the toughest thing to fake.” It comes out really creepy, but I smile, stomp my Uggs on the metal steps and look down from the sky to his fat little body.

  “Cease?” He isn’t calling me by my character’s name. Not a good sign.

  “Yes, sir.” I open the door of my trailer and let him enter first.

  “Is your Nina here today?” He looks at the pile of clothes on my bed. I offer him my chair. I sit on the bed.

  “No. Are you firing me?” I blurt out.

  “Whoa.” He slaps his hand on his thigh and says, “Why would you think that?” But it comes out pretty phony. He knows the entire cast is afraid of him. He looks a lot smaller sitting in my threadbare trailer than he did hovering overhead on a crane as I punched my way across the battlefields. I wonder if he hadn’t become a director what he would’ve been. He pushes the fur-lined hood of his parka off his head.

  “We just have some changes to the next scene. In fact, we’re changing some of the rules, letting our viewers—your fans, have more of a say.”

  You’re up to something. My Nina and I are on to you, mister.

  I can feel those words well up in my chest like a clenched fist. I figure Francis could’ve been a plausible dictator, fat and mean with an all-knowing smile that hides his sick satisfaction with other people’s suffering; yes—a mean god all young performers prayed to because he held that potion, that secret called fame we’d all tasted and wanted more of.

  I stare him down. I was chosen for this role to face my past. Why run from it anymore?

  “How did you get the lines my brother wrote in his suicide note?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Francis.” His expression holds a big lie, I think, as if Francis was a clumsy thief I’d caught going through the private files in my head. He shifts in the rickety chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cease—”

  “My brother committed suicide. You—or at least your writers—put two of the lines from his last letter into my dialogue with Rex.”

  I can feel a single tear descend my cheekbone, but I pull back. I’m not going to let Francis inside my head. I level a stare at the mean god. If fatso here wants a wilting fleur-de-lis, he’s found the wrong actress.

  “You probably got it from one of Eve’s rich friends on the Upper East Side. Or that stupid therapist my Nina sent my brother to.”

  “Cease. You’ve got to believe me. None of the writers got any of that information.”

  Was God being nice? He tugs at a sock hanging over his bean boots. He looks like Humpty Dumpty with those spindly legs and that egg-shaped body. But he’s still got that gravelly voice that comes out all stentorian as he says, “I was worried when your agent told me there’d been a death in your family, but he assured me that you had something to prove. And when I watched you put on that armor I thought maybe your brother had opened up a space for you.” He stops, looks at his watch. “I guess I’m not really good at communicating with actors. But so far you’ve been giving me what I need…” his voice trails off and then he props himself up as if he suddenly remembers why he’s come.

  “I’m sorry, Cease. My writers have access to all the interviews you gave to the casting directors, but they can’t do any research on their own. Not with any of your friends, and certainly not with any therapist your brother was seeing.

  I shake my head, defiant. Where the hell did they get that line?

  I close my eyes, see Nina’s face when she said, no one told anyone…there are larger things at stake. Her face was solemn, but more than that; she looked scared, too. What larger things?

  I look down at my feet.

  “My brother was a great actor and my best friend. Together we had chemistry. He had some problems—problems that ran in the family.”

  “Well. You certainly seem to have a lot in common with the character.” Francis hugs himself. “Maybe you’ve found a new space. I remember something Martin Sheen once said to me. He said the hardest character he ever had to play was himself. I guess life really is stranger than make-believe.” I feel the words hang in the air of the threadbare trailer. I think of the line between Nina and me, and how I’ll never be able to cross it until I stand up to my past, my character.

  “I’m quitting, Francis.” It feels as if a new character had just entered the room and taken my role—a grown-up character who’s tired of taking shit from other grown-ups. “This is disrespectful to my family. Whoever is doing it is sick.” I fold my hands across my chest. Fame feels like a strange thrill-ride, wild and exhilarating; but it also feels like an itch I’ll never reach—a promise I made over my brother’s coffin I’ll never be able to keep.

  “I understand.” Francis takes out a wrinkled sheet of paper from the pocket of his parka. “So I guess you wouldn’t be interested in seeing this?”

  He holds it out. I take it, slowly.

  Jeanne d’Arc Monologue.

  A full page. I feel the bolt of grief in my chest shift. Another breath. I read the first line—I’m addressing a crowd of the resistance fighters—I’m standing beside a young man and it feels as if I’m speaking from a podium, the kind of space only the last girl standing could occupy. My legs relax as I feel the texture and shape of the words rise in my chest, as if I’ve just tried on that gorgeous dress I saw on Claude’s bed and it’s a perfect fit—each word as polished, as resplendent as a victory speech only

  Shakespeare could craft. It sounds like that Henry V speech I’d practiced at the rented cottage in Narragansett.

  We few. We merry band of men—yes, Henry V at Agincourt, only it feels much more personal, as if I’ve lived these lines and now am getting to share them with the world. This is the speech of the last girl standing. I eye Francis suspiciously as I realize I can’t hide my excitement.

  “But—perhaps you’re taking too much on,” he says, and slaps his fat hands against his fat thighs. “Perhaps I should call your Nina—”

  “No,” I plead. “I can do this. I’m about to find a new space—this character, Jeanne—I can feel it.” I don’t really know what I’m saying.

  “All right, then.” He rises.

  “I’m glad we had a chance to clear things up,” I say, still trying to cling to my grown-up role.

  “Good. Well, tomorrow in the forest, you’ll help Bradley and you’ll fall in love…” He pats his knees and stands. But I’m way ahead of him.

  “How have the rules changed, Francis?”

  “Well. Now that I’ve assembled an ensemble of
good actors, I’ll stand back and let the scenes take shape on their own—you know I love the way actors can improvise.”

  He’s lying, or at least he’s not telling me the real reason he’s about to change the rules.

  “Francis,” I say. “Just what are you making, here? You call this a reality-drama and you release some scenes on WebTV every night, but you also call it a film. So what is it, really?”

  “I guess I haven’t decided where this project is going to take me.”

  He’s lying…He’s not going to stop the scenes, because he wants to see just how hungry for fame each of us has become. He wants to see more blood and more sex, and I doubt there’ll be anyone who has the guts to stop him.

  At the door Francis says, “You’ll have some competition tomorrow. Susan B. Anthony wants Bradley, and only one of you will advance to the next round.” Francis screws his face into a question mark and asks, “What does that feel like? Having your best friend taken away from you?” And just before he pulls his hood on he says, “After all, Brad’s like a brother to you. And you know what happens to anyone who gets between you and your brother.”

  Francis knows more than he’s letting on. I can stand and fight, or I can cut and run. No. I can’t back down.

  “A little medieval love triangle,” I say. “Great twist. Jeanne and I will look forward to it.”

  “I want you to run some lines with Eve. You’ll be using real weapons and I don’t want any more broken noses. You can use my trailer if you want. I know how you feel about her, but I really think you can learn from each other.”

  Real weapons. New rules. Or maybe no rules at all. But someone out there really is trying to help me. Who?

  I look out my window. Through the morning mist, I can see Eve in the clearing, swinging her broadsword like some cunning Amazon. The fight director’s showing her a few tricks.

  I’ve got a few tricks of my own, sister.

  I wish I didn’t hate Eve so much, but I knew from the beginning we were cast to be enemies. On the surface, we’ve nothing in common. She’s never set foot on a stage. She’s done TV and soaps; her moves are as predictable and fake as her breasts. She’s only here—I’m convinced, anyway—because she’s a rich girl from the Upper East Side whose father’s a famous writer in Hollywood.