“I’m sure you do. A year without friends is a long time.”
“Sometimes I see kids at church.”
Livy wrinkled her nose. “Church sounds lame.” She poured herself Diet Coke from a two-liter, then looked to Mara, “You want pop, apple juice, milk or water? Friday night is kid’s choice.”
“Water, please.” Mara extended her crystal glass and Livy filled it from the pitcher. “Thanks.”
Mom looked at Livy. “Mara brought some special candles with her. I told her we could find a table to display them on in your room.”
“I thought we weren’t allowed to burn candles in our rooms,” Livy said.
“Well, as much as it breaks a mother’s heart, my children are growing up. You’re allowed to burn candles, but if I see one lit when you’re in another room... dishes for a week.”
Livy nodded. “Sweet.”
“I have a bronze statue of St. Michael too.” Mara added, then flinched suddenly and nearly knocked over her glass.
Before I could ask what happened, Livy cut me off. “Do you wanna hang out tomorrow?”
Mara nodded. “Sure.”
“James’ll be playing pogs with Whitney or working on his stupid movie–”
“I don’t play with pogs!” I blurted. “I gave half my collection to Sean Bullard! You can ask anybody!”
Livy looked at me like I was three, then slowly turned back to Mara. “Anyway... I’ll introduce you to Kimmy and Haley tomorrow morning. Kimmy’s grandma bought her a tie-dye set for her birthday, and Haley’s bringing her bedazzler and some t-shirts.”
Mara’s smile was genuine.
I tried not to whine. “I was gonna show her the woods tomorrow!”
Livy rolled her eyes. “I thought your woods were a ‘girl-free zone?’”
“Just girls who are dumb enough to get poison ivy,” I snapped.
“Whatever, doofus.” She looked at Mara. “For real, you don’t wanna go in those woods.”
Mara washed down a bite of pizza with water. “We had trees behind my house too, but I never really–”
“Your hair’s wicked cute,” Livy said. “I’d do anything to have hair that soft.”
“Thanks.”
Mom patted Livy’s hand. “When Livy was a little girl–”
“Aw, Mom,” she groaned. “Not this story!”
“–all of her friends had either blonde or light-brown hair, but hers was so coarse and nappy that we had to get it professionally braided or she’d look like a member of the Jackson Five.”
Mara laughed.
“And braids are expensive! So whenever I gave her a bath I would tell her, ‘Olivia Jean, do not take out those braids!’”
“For real,” Livy said, “I was like, four.”
“But if I ever left her alone for more than a minute, I’d come back to a pile of rubber bands on the rug and the braids would be gone. I watched her once from the doorway. She had conditioner in her palms, then dunked her whole head under water and slowly pulled her fingers through her hair. She noticed me watching. And all she said was, ‘It feels like silk, Mom.’” She squeezed Livy’s hand. “How could I be mad at that?”
“That’s a great story,” Mara said.
I leaned forward. “One time, I convinced Livy that her real Dad was the guy from Reading Rainbow.”
“James,” Mom said with a clear undertone of watch it mister.
Livy rolled her eyes. “Such a nerd.”
“Hey,” I said, poking my sister in the side. “Did you talk to Ryan yet?”
She glanced around the table sheepishly. “No, James, I didn’t talk to Ryan.”
“Will you ask him soon. Please? For me?”
“He doesn’t wanna be in your little-kid movie. He’s too mature.”
“But I need an evil prince. You know that Whit can’t sword fight!”
“Ryan’s in high school now. It’s not gonna happen.”
“Pleeease! If he does it,” I finished in a sing-song voice, “you’ll get to do his maaakeup!”
She kicked my shin under the table.
I looked at Mara and leaned forward. “Livy’s in love with Ryan Brosh.”
“Am not!”
“They passed notes back and forth in Algebra last year. He’s a whole grade older, but he got held back in math.”
“Uhg!” Livy said. “You’re such a baby!”
“I know you are, but what am I?”
“Good comeback, dork. Mom!”
“James...” Mom said, “Cool it.”
I snickered and looked to Mara for a reaction, but she was silent, unfocused, circling her index finger around the rim of her glass.
“Hey Mara,” Livy said, “Do you use face cream?”
“I–”
“You do, I can totally tell. Your skin is seriously gorgeous.”
“Thanks.”
She reached across the table and grabbed Mara’s hand. “I can’t believe how soft you feel–”
“Olivia Jean,” Mom said. “Pass the apple juice, please?”
“Ugh.” She released Mara’s hand, grabbed the juice and unscrewed the cap. “I was just telling our guest that I like her makeup.”
Bobby piped up. “If you like it so much, why don’t you marry it?”
Mom held out her glass as Livy poured the juice. “Have you ever been to the Grand Harbor Art Show, Mara?”
“No, Ma’am. What is it?” (She flinched again but no one seemed to notice.)
“James will be showing his movie there.”
I nodded. “It’s gonna be sweet! It’s a contest and anyone can enter. It’s part of The Lakeshore Celebration. Have you heard of it? There’s an art show, a firework display, a farmer’s market, and a huge carnival with elephant ears–”
“Oh, I’ve seen that!” Mara said. “With the colored lights and all the kids?”
Livy and I looked at each other. “A carnival,” I repeated. “Right.”
“We drove past it last year. It looked like so much fun. Are we... allowed to go?”
“Of course,” I said. “We can buy a wristband that’ll get us on every ride for the whole night. But Lakeshore Celebration isn’t ‘til the end of August.”
“James,” Mom said, “maybe Mara would like to help with your fairytale.”
“It’s not a fairytale, Mother... it’s just a movie.”
“Do you like to act, Mara?” she asked.
“Oh!” I said before the girl could reply, “Mara was in a radio commercial for Great Lakes Family Diner!”
“Really?” Livy asked.
“Whoa!” Jake said.
“Hey Mara, tell ‘em what you say!”
Her eyes flicked from person to person. “I don’t–”
“Say your line!” I implored. “You know, Great Lakes–”
The twins chimed in, “Faaaaamily Diner!”
Her cheeks flushed. “I really don’t–”
“Pleeease? Come on!”
“James!” Mom said. “If Mara doesn’t want to do it, she doesn’t have to.”
“It’s not a big deal!” I said. “Mara, come on. Just show ‘em how you–”
“James Parker!” Mom glared at me, head cocked in apparent disbelief. “What has gotten into you kids?”
Mara flinched again and Bobby giggled. The table fell silent as the children avoided Mama Bear’s burning gaze.
“I like to act,” Mara said quietly. “If you need help... I think it’d be fun.”
I nodded and chewed my pizza with a satisfied smirk. “Cool.”
With the tension relieved, Livy, Mara and Mom began discussing the intricacies of the new living situation.
The pizza box was whispering my name, so I pushed away my plate and forced my attention on Dad. He was unusually quiet since Mara’s arrival. He was staring at her.
Mara flinched again and cut my musings short. This time, her knee thunked the table and everybody noticed.
“Are you okay, hon?” Mom asked.
“Yes, Mrs.
Parker,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I think Bobby just likes pinching the new kid.”
Bobby’s eyes lit up like a frightened pinball machine. “Nu-uh!” he exclaimed. “Ms. Mara’s a liar!”
“Bobby!” Mom shouted. “Are you pinching our guest?”
Fantasia wailed from her basket and Mama Bear rose to her hind legs.
“It’s really okay, Mrs. Parker–”
Bobby blubbered his tongue at Mara, then pushed back his chair and zipped away with Mom at his heels.
Livy and Jake snickered. Mara looked terrified.
From the parlor to the dining room, Mom’s anger echoed against the painted brick as she sentenced Bobby to a time-out.
Through all the commotion, Dad never took his eyes off Mara.
* * *
Mom rarely tucked me in anymore.
Was I in trouble for asking Mara to say her line? Maybe Mom caught a whiff of my infatuation and wanted to pry.
My room was dark except for a crack of parlor light that highlighted my mother’s silhouette. “Mara and I had a long talk before she decided to stay with us,” she said.
“About what?”
“Well, I told her about the castle and the beach and the extra bed in Livy’s room... the usual ‘get-to-know-ya’ stuff. She’s a very excited little lady.”
“I believe it.”
“You need to be sensitive around her, James. Mara looks normal, but she’s in a very sad situation.”
“Sad how? I thought we helped her.”
“Well, she doesn’t know who her parents are. She’s lived with Ms. Grisham for as long as she can remember. You remember Mr. Anderson?”
“Your old mentor. He was at the house when you rescued Mara.”
“He’s going to do everything he can to find her mom and dad.”
“How’s he gonna do that?”
“It’s a long process, but he’ll check Mara’s records in Michigan and in other states, and he’ll do a background check on Ms. Grisham. If he still can’t find anything, he’ll put a special notice in the newspaper.”
“Think he’ll find ‘em?”
Mom touched my hair. “There’s another thing we need to talk about. Remember the tape you showed me?”
“It’s film...”
“Ms. Grisham forced Mara to sing like that all the time. That’s a form of abuse, you know that?”
I nodded.
“Things like that can be very hard on a child.”
“I knew it was bad when I saw it.”
“I’m proud of you for telling me. Mara and I talked about it, and she doesn’t want to sing anymore.”
No! screamed my gut. “She said that?” I asked.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“But... but what about at Christmas carols?” A silly question, but it was the first protest that popped in my head. “There’s all kinds of songs to sing at Christmas...”
“If she wants to sing again, that’s wonderful. But we’re going to let her do it on her own time.”
“I understand.”
Mom touched my cheek. “Your cut is almost gone.”
“Yeah.”
“Mara’s a pretty special lady, huh? Very down-to-earth.”
“Yeah. She’s nice.”
Mom pulled tight my dinosaur sheets and kissed my temple. “I was going to do linens tomorrow, but your bed smells fresh. Must be the new detergent.”
* * *
The tripod legs extended with a trio of swooshes and clicks. The canvas tote unfurled with the satisfying grind of a plastic zipper. The inside smelled like new car. A square mount screwed into the underbelly of my brand-new Canon A-1 camcorder with the twist of a spare penny, then easily snapped onto the head of the tripod.
I stepped back to admire the beautiful machine with Hi-Fi stereo sound, large LCD display, ten-X zoom, state-of-the-art autofocus, and endless promises of joy. I flipped the “on” switch, held my breath, and looked through the viewfinder at the black-and-white girl framed by the twenty-foot ballroom window, arms behind her back, nylon toes planted on cut-loop carpet roses, twirling her shoulders to and fro in a darling dance that showed her impatience. My heart skipped at the seamless union of girl and machine; two obsessions conjoined in a digital crucible of fantasy, creation, and love.
Peals of distant laughter broke the spell; Livy and her friends were still coloring shirts in buckets of dye in the driveway. They were having fun. I pulled my eye from the viewfinder and looked at Mara. “If you’d rather go back–”
“Nope,” she said. “And if you say you’re sorry one more time, I’m gonna make you play dress-up.”
That smile again. Teeth like polished pearls. Dimples!
“Now...” she said, “whatcha want me to do?”
My lungs heaved as I scrambled to remember the plan. “Well, I stole some makeup and a mirror from Livy–”
“She’s gonna be ticked.”
“It’s fine. She’s the makeup artist anyway.”
“Cool!”
“I brought the costume chest from the playroom to the tower so you have a place to change. It’s mostly Livy’s crap from dance competitions and old Halloweens, but we might find somethin’ that works for the movie. Dad’s gonna give me money for fabric after I propose the costume budget, then Mom’s gonna help me sew your dress.”
Mara grabbed the rim of her blouse and wiggled it over her head, snapping her strawberry hair through the hole and reducing her ensemble to a pleated undershirt and a blue-jean skirt. “Your mom can do anything, huh?”
“Pretty much.”
“What a sweetheart. I like her a lot.”
I avoided the sentiment in a panel of camcorder buttons and knobs. Yesterday I feared Mara’s resentment for what I did... but not today.
“So!” she said, twirling her blouse and shattering the moment’s sobriety, “who do I play in this crazy fairytale?”
“You’re the main character. The Girl.”
“Do I have a name?”
“No. Is that bad?”
“The Girl... kinda neat!”
The tiny affirmation lifted my spirits more than the culmination of praise from my family and friends.
“What does The Girl do?” she asked.
My brain flipped into pitch mode and I answered her question with elaborate hand gestures. “Right at the beginning, The Girl goes back to her home and discovers that her father is missing. He was killed by an evil prince, but she doesn’t know that. She’s just a kid and doesn’t even know that people die. All she knows is that her father’s gone, so she goes on a quest to find him. She has lots of adventures on the way. There’s this war between humans and monsters and she gets caught in the middle, then there’s this lair with a monster who captures little girls–that was Whit’s idea–then she gets to the castle where the prince lives and learns that her father isn’t being held captive, he’s actually dead.”
Mara’s eyes were wide with genuine excitement. “That. Is. Awesome. How are you gonna make a whole war?”
“Dunno yet. Guess we’ll figure it out when we get there!”
She grinned. “This is gonna be a good summer.”
Any response would have fallen short, so I nodded then pointed to the tower. “Everything’s ready. Just try not to touch my dad’s bird stuff or he’ll know.”
“Okay, okay!” Mara tossed her blouse over the wrought-iron railing and bounded up the spiral steps using her arms like an extra set of legs.
While The Girl prepared for test number one, I pulled the mesh curtains across the massive window to soften the sunlight. I double checked the tape deck for a fresh Hi-8 cassette; it was firmly in place. I smelled my armpits–a growing habit–then repositioned the camera to face a whitewashed brick wall lit by the diffused sunlight.
Ten minutes later, a sensual voice beckoned me to the steps. “I’m ready for my closeup, Mr. Parker.”
Mara emblazed the balcony like a cabaret Juliet; top hat, cane, and a sinister
-red sequined leotard sculpting her petite waist and chest. Her makeup became apparent as she swaggered down the steps; lips that matched the sequins, crooked eyeliner, and long, fake eyelashes on her right eye.
When she reached the last step, Mara slipped her arm around mine, and I escorted her from the staircase to the illuminated wall.
“Face the camera,” I said and positioned her shoulders at the proper angle.
Without breaking her stoicism, she lifted her right hand–a slight gap between her forefinger and middle–and I knew what she needed. I removed a pretend zippo from my pocket, flicked the chrome lid, cupped my hand around hers, and lit her invisible cigarette. Raising it to her lips, she thanked me with a lofty smirk and a bout of make-believe smoke.
I hit record. “Look left,” I said.
She did.
“Good. Look right?”
She did.
“Nice.”
All the famous directors tested their cameras, wardrobe and actors before filming; I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but if George Lucas did it, I had to do it too. I tested the zoom and autofocus (bitchin’!), then reeled back to view the whole costume. There weren’t any Vegas chorus girls in my mediaeval fairytale, but it was important to test the camera’s functions against a variety of colors and textures. Plus, I wanted to see Mara act.
“Smile for me, Ms. Mara?”
She swiped back her hair, widened her eyes, and bore into the lens with a carnal gaze. Her lips didn’t move but I felt her smile.
She spoke with a dry purr. “My name? The Girl. My home? The woods of Fairytale Land. My mission? To find my father.”
I held the shot for an extra beat... then hit stop. “Annnd, cut!”
Like a popped water balloon, Mara shed her gravitas, grabbed her tummy, and keeled in a fit of giggles. “I could only find one set of eyelashes.” she said. “I must look like such a dork!”
I shook my head and smiled. “You were perfect.”
“For real?” she pulled herself together, spread her feet, and held her hips in a classic Peter Pan stance. “Ready for more?”
* * *
Lust is primal. Lust, like violence, must be repressed to maintain civil order. We’re born with lust. We die with lust. Adults deny the ability of precious children to wander into black fantasies or to seek unfamiliar excitement. But lust, like all primal urges, unites us; boys and girls, young and old, humans and animals. No one is spared.
I haven’t read Nabokov’s “Lolita,” but I saw both movies in a college course titled “Controversies in Contemporary Cinema.” Some would call me a heretic if I suggested that Adrian Lyne’s made-for-TV interpretation is better than Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece... but it’s true. Lyne bests Kubrick in the first ten minutes of film by including Humbert Humbert’s adolescent romance and depicting his deplorable deeds in golden light. Of course it’s unfair to compare the movies as Kubrick’s version was made during the era of the Hollywood Hays Code which restricted the sensuality needed to tell the complete story. But this limitation doesn’t change the fact that Lyne’s version is a more realistic portrayal of forbidden lust.
The Accidental Siren Page 7