The Phantom of Oz

by Cindy Brown

  “You didn’t really want an abortion?” Madison’s voice was muffled.

  “Of course not.” Desirée tipped her daughter’s face up so she could look at her. “That mean old witch just made that up.”

  “God, she’s even meaner when she’s drunk,” said Logan. “Didn’t think it was possible.”

  “What about...the other part? Did she make that up too?” Madison’s eyes were pleading.

  “Let’s talk about it later.” Desirée disentangled herself from Madison’s embrace. “We need to go.”

  “No.” Madison slid down the wall and sat on the carpeted floor of the hallway. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me.”

  Desirée looked at all of us.

  “We won’t say anything,” I said.

  “We’re on your side, sister,” said Eden.

  Desirée knelt down next to her daughter. “Yes. Your dad and I are getting a divorce.”

  “But why?

  “He fell in love with someone else. Someone younger and prettier. An actress,” she said, with a meaningful look at us. I suddenly remembered something she’d said earlier, about actors doing anything to get ahead.

  “Bastard,” said Logan.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” said Eden.

  “Maybe it won’t last,” said Madison. “Maybe he’ll realize how much he loves us and come back—”

  “No, sweetheart. The papers are drawn up. It’ll be over in just a few days.”

  “How did Babette know?” I asked.

  “My dad’s famous,” said Madison.

  “Famous in Hollywood,” said Desirée. “He’s an agent. His new wife is one of his clients.”

  “Wife?” asked Madison.

  “They’re getting married next weekend.”

  “But we’ll be in Tucson. With the show.”

  “They thought it best if they...ah...” Desirée looked to us for help.

  “It’s the beginning of a new journey for them,” Eden said. “Sometimes people have to begin new things by themselves.”

  “Bastard,” Logan said again.

  “But...” Madison’s eyes flicked back and forth, trying to visualize answers to all the questions that must have been filling her mind. “What will happen when we get off tour? When we go home? I mean, we can go home, can’t we? Can’t we?”

  “I don’t know,” Desirée said softly. “I don’t know what will happen. But you’ll always have a home with me.” She stood up and offered her hand to Madison, who grabbed it. “So let’s go to our Phoenix hotel room home, my love.” Madison stood up, and Desirée stroked her cheek. “My beautiful, beautiful girl.”

  We were all quiet on the elevator ride down to the hotel lobby. The doors opened and we walked in silence through the lobby and out the hotel door.

  “Could you give us a sec?” Desirée said to Madison. The girl nodded and walked a few steps ahead of us down the well-lit street. “Thank you,” Desirée said to us. “Not just for saving me from Babette, but...I’d been meaning to tell Madison about her dad, but I couldn’t figure out how. Just having you there made it easier.” She turned to Logan and raised her arm, palm flat. Logan seemed to understand, because he gave her a high-five. “Bastard,” they said in unison.

  “All right, sweetheart,” Desirée called to her daughter as she caught up with her. “Let’s go home.”

  We watch them walk ahead of us, hand in hand. “I’m making her the best magic panties ever,” said Eden.

  “Magic panties?” asked Logan.

  “You too.” Eden put a hand on his arm. “You deserve some magic underwear too. We’ll make you an honorary Goddess warrior.”

  “That’s nice,” said Logan. “But I’m not sure about—”

  “Or maybe you can be Captain Underpants,” said Eden.

  “That’ll do.” Logan covered her hand with his own. “In fact, that’d be great.”

  Chapter 41

  Alarmed on Your Behalf

  I slept fitfully that night, mostly because I couldn’t breathe due to the Kleenex stuffed up my nose. Not good. Now I’d be snotty and tired, which was especially bad since I’d have to go onstage tonight unless Candy magically appeared. I desperately wanted to stay in bed, but I needed to go into Duda Detectives for a while, and the tech crew wanted to run through the bubble sequences with me a few times before the show, and…that was enough to get my brain fired up. Just in first gear, but coffee would help. I made a pot, then called the group home. Cody had been on my mind, not just because I was worried about not hearing from him, but because I missed him. “Good morning. Is Cody there?”

  “No,” said whatever guy had picked up the phone. I couldn’t quite place the voice.

  “Is he at work?”

  “Not now.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  Oh, I knew who I was talking to now. Dave was getting better at communicating in person, but he needed visual cues, so phone-talking was hard for him. Conversations ended up being a little like that twenty questions game.

  “Can I talk to one of the staff?”

  “No.”

  “Are they busy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will Cody be home later?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Dave.”

  “You’re welcome.” He hung up.

  Hmm. When Cody didn’t call about missing Monday’s dinner date, I wasn’t worried. He probably thought Sarah would tell me. And the first time he didn’t return my call, I figured the message never got to him. But I was pretty sure Stu remembered to give him the message. He and Cody were great buds, plus Stu liked me. So now I was beginning to worry about Cody.

  I called the Safeway where he worked as a bagger and found out what time he’d be in. I really didn’t like to bother him at work. Cody did a great job, but he needed to focus on the task at hand. An unexpected visit from me could blow his concentration. That wouldn’t be good, but I’d have to risk it.

  I pulled into the parking lot a few minutes after eleven o’clock, hoping I’d see Cody outside helping someone with their bags or rounding up shopping carts. No such luck. I went inside. I didn’t see Cody, so I picked up a few things I needed: oranges, a couple heads of garlic, and three of those big cartons of chicken broth. I went through the self-checkout line, then spotted him smiling at a customer and carefully placing items in a brown paper bag. No one was in line after the woman he was bagging groceries for. Good.

  “Have a nice day,” he said as she passed by. She didn’t reply, and his face fell.

  My brother had a beautiful face. Even people who weren’t related to him thought so. He was a classically handsome guy: nice straight nose, clear blue eyes, sun-bleached blonde hair that could use a cut. People often said he looked like Brad Pitt. He did, a little. He was actually way more handsome. He was also very sensitive, which is why the shopper’s snub hit him harder than most. Cody’s brain injury wasn’t obvious from the outside. The only physical manifestation was a slight wobble, an unsteadiness that happened when he was excited or upset. Other than that, you had to talk to Cody for a few minutes before you realized he was disabled. Only then would you notice the slow pace of his speech, the difficulty understanding abstract ideas, the way he got overly emotional about small stuff. He wasn’t great with written or phone communication, either. Which meant if I went on tour our relationship would probably suffer.

  Cody spotted me. “Olive-y! What are you doing here?” He looked around nervously. He was proud to be a working man, but for some reason he didn’t like it when I came to Safeway. Maybe he thought I was spying on him. Which today I sort of was.

  “I was worried about you,” I said. “You skipped dinner on Monday.”

  “But Sarah told you—”

  “And you didn’t return
any of my calls.”

  Cody shut his mouth tight and turned away, wobbling a bit. Dang. I’d upset him. “Listen, Cody, it’s no big deal. I just wanted to make sure—”

  He turned back to me, a huge grin on his face. Oh, good, an excited wobble, not an upset one. “It’s a secret,” he said, fairly bursting with excitement.

  “That’s what Stu said. Is it still a secret? Can you tell me now?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Is it about an audition?”

  Cody frowned. “Who told you?”

  “Sarah said something when I talked to her on Monday.”

  His eyebrows drew together in consternation.

  “Don’t be mad at her. She had to give me some sort of an excuse, and besides, I think she was excited for you.”

  His eyebrows went back up to where they belonged, and his face relaxed.

  “So...is it for Detour Theatre?”

  “No.” Cody shook his head.

  “Theatre 360?” They were a troupe from the local independent living center, folks with all types of disabilities.

  “No,” he said again. Whatever it was, it was good. Cody’s eyes were shining like he’d just won free hot dogs for life (Cody loved hot dogs).

  “All right, I give up,” I said. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Cody,” said one of the checkout guys, whose cue ball head shone under the fluorescent store lights. “Can you help this lady out to her car?

  “Sure thing.” Cody practically ran to the shopper’s side. He steered her cart along behind her, out through Safeway’s automatic doors into the parking lot. I followed, sidling up next to him. “C’mon, give. Pretty please? I’m dyin’ here.”

  “My secret is...” Cody whispered loud enough for the whole parking lot to hear. “…I’m going to be a model.”

  Wow.

  And oh no.

  “Good for you, young man,” said the shopper he’d been helping. “You’re certainly handsome enough.”

  I arranged my face in a smile. “Yeah. That’s really cool, Cody,” I said, drowning out the objections that rose in my throat like a flash flood. “Talk about it later?” He nodded.

  “And I did call you back. Well, not call,” Cody said. “I texted you.”

  “But...” Cody didn’t have a cell, just the landline at the home.

  “I had to get a cell phone.” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “For my modeling business.”

  Chapter 42

  This Action Could Only Precipitate a Possible Catastrophe

  I checked my phone when I got into my car. No texts from any numbers I didn’t recognize. I should probably sit down with Cody, go over the whole “how to text” thing.

  I threw my phone onto the seat, grumpy, grumpy, grumpy. What was wrong with me? First I wasn’t happy for Candy when she got her big break with Babette, and now I wasn’t happy for Cody, either. Was I envious of their success? Was I really that shallow?

  I asked Uncle Bob that same question when I got into the office. He was about to make some crack until he saw my face. His face changed too, from jolly joking Santa Clause to serious detective. “Let’s think about this,” he said. “Why aren’t you happy for Candy?”

  “Because I’m worried about her.” I poured some of the chicken broth I bought into a stained coffee mug.

  “Why?”

  “Because she looks awful and seems strange, and now, of course she’s disappeared and—”

  “No. For right now, we’re just talking about your feelings about Candy and...what’s this reality star’s name?”

  “Babette.”

  “Yeah. About them. Do you feel like Babette’s taking advantage of Candy?”

  “Not exactly, but I don’t think she’s good for her. In fact, I think she could be dangerously bad for her.” I peeled a clove of garlic and added it to the cup.

  “So you’re worried. That’s not shallow. Now, do you wish you were in Candy’s shoes? Do you want to be ‘it’ or whatever you called it?”

  “Yes.” The answer came out without thinking, but it didn’t completely surprise me. Still, I tried to rationalize my feelings. “I mean, what actress wouldn’t? Even if all this attention doesn’t pan out into a superstar career, it’d certainly get you seen by the right people.”

  “So with Candy, you’re worried and a bit envious. Pretty natural. What about Cody?”

  I put my chicken broth-garlic-concoction in the microwave, timed it for two minutes, pushed “start,” then stared at the revolving turntable in the microwave.

  Hey. I was doing that thing my childhood therapist warned me about, staying busy in order to keep myself from feeling or thinking too much. I tore my eyes away from the humming microwave and looked at my uncle.

  “Do you think he shouldn’t be a model because of his disability?” he said. “That he can’t handle it?”

  “No. That would be...patronizing.”

  Uncle Bob nodded in agreement. “But you’re worried about him?”

  “I guess so. I don’t know why.” My feelings about my brother were all tangled up in years of guilt. He was a capable adult, but I still felt like I should be watching out for him, as if I could rewind that day on the frozen pond, all those years ago.

  “Okay, are you envious? Of the fact that he’ll be a model?”

  “Of course not.” I stopped. Though theater was my big passion, like most actors I also did commercial work, industrial films, small roles in independent movies, the sort of stuff you need an agent for. Years ago, when I was first trying to get one, I took my headshot around to the different talent agencies. The first one I tried ushered me into his glass and chrome office, watching me carefully with eyes that were analytical but not unkind. I took a seat in an uncomfortably angled chair made of straps of black leather, and he sat down behind his desk. He asked about my experience as he studied my resume, stapled to the back of my headshot. I saw his eyes flick over my legs. I’d worn a short (but not too short) skirt to show them off. They were two of my best features. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair.

  “Olive,” he said, “it looks like you’ve got a good theater career ahead of you.” He pushed my headshot back across the desk toward me. “I’d focus on that.”

  “That means...” I was pretty sure what it meant, but I wanted him to say it. Just so I was sure.

  “I’m afraid you’re not a good fit for our agency.” He rose and gave me a so-sorry-it-didn’t-work-out smile.

  “Why not?”

  His smile froze in place. “Do you really want me to be honest with you?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t sure, but I was curious.

  He sighed. “Okay. For theater, you have to be able to act, to remember lines, to hold an audience’s attention for the entire length of a show. This side of the entertainment business—commercials, print jobs, even film to a point—is all about looks.”

  “You’re saying film actors can’t act?”

  “Of course directors want people who can act, but even more—especially for the small roles, which is all you’d get here in Phoenix—they want people who look a certain way. They don’t care if they’re great actors. Directors think they can work with them off-camera or cut around them if necessary. And…your look isn’t quite right.”

  “Why not?” Again I wanted to know, and I didn’t.

  “Our agency is known for a...specific look. People come to us for…well, we rep more model/actor types. You’re pretty, but...” He sighed. “I’ve done this for a long time, and...”

  Couldn’t this guy finish a sentence? “And?”

  “Your face is round—not a great shape for the camera. Your eyes are a nice color, but not big enough to read well. You don’t have strong enough cheekbones. Your hair color is too mousy. You’re what? Five four? That’s not really tall enoug
h.”

  “Really? I’m not trying to be a runway model.”

  “You’re a little overweight—”

  “What?” I was at my lowest weight then, a hundred and five pounds.

  “For the camera. I bet you look great onstage.”

  Okay then. I got up with as much dignity as I could muster, put my headshot back in my bag, and forced myself to shake the guy’s hand. After all, I had asked for it.

  “Good luck,” he said. “I mean it. You seem like a nice girl.”

  “Woman,” I said. “I’m a nice woman.”

  “Woman.” He corrected himself, but I caught a whiff of condescension. “I’ll look for you on the stage.”

  I remembered going to Tokyo Express and sitting there so long my cup of green tea went cold. I needed an agent. Any actor wanting to make a living did. Theater didn’t pay well, with few exceptions, and even talented and lucky actors could only get so many roles a season. Commercial work—whether it was an actual commercial or a trade show or a film—now, that did pay well. It was what kept most actors afloat. I needed that extra income, even with my day job. Luckily, the agent I later contacted at Firebird Talent Agency saw things differently. Sort of.

  “You’ve got a round face, you’re too short, and your hair...” The agent, Vicki, shook her head. “Honey, have you ever seen a hair dye color called dirt brown?”

  “Um, no.”

  “There’s a reason for that.” She looked me over again. “But your eyes are an interesting green, and you’ve got a nice wholesome pretty look. And great legs. So, tell you what: dye your hair blonde, get some new headshots, and every time you go out on an audition, play up those eyes with make-up and wear heels—at least three inches.” She stood up and stretched out a hand.

  Really? Was I about to get an agent? I felt my tense smile crack into a true grin. “Thank you, Vicki. I’ll do a great job for you, I promise.”

  “Welcome to the agency, Olive...Omigod, I forgot. There’s no way.”