Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  “Yes. Let’s have a late dinner together,” Jahne suggested.

  “A beer. All I vant is a beer,” Mai sighed.

  They were driven back to Cupertino in silence. Even Danny, the driver who would actually get a screen credit for this job, was tired. And in the darkness of the back seat of the limo, Jahne wondered at who she had become and what she was doing here, in a town she’d never seen, working on a film she didn’t really like from a script that wasn’t finished. Beside her was the latest draft, the new version photocopied on pink pages. Each version was on a new color, to prevent confusion. How many colors had she already seen? Light-yellow, dark-yellow, green, lavender, blue. Had there been a white version? A gray? She couldn’t remember anymore. What happened when they ran out of colors? Well, she reminded herself, Michael Curtiz filmed Casablanca without a finished script. The actors didn’t know the end until the day they shot it. She wondered again if she was making a mistake. With the choices she had, why this film?

  It was Sam, of course. Like a moth to a flame. She sighed. And, like a moth, would she wind up burned? Hadn’t she gone through her transformation so that she could be the flame, the center of attraction? Well, her flesh had changed, but her center had not been altered.

  Suddenly, there in the back seat of the lush limo, a wave of terrible loneliness and despair rolled over her. She felt overcome, a million miles away from Mai, sitting there beside her in the dark. If I died right now, she thought, who would know me? Who would really know me? What am I doing in this place? She shivered, though it wasn’t cold. She felt so truly miserable that only a groan or a wail could relieve her. What would Danny and Mai think of that? For a few more exquisitely painful moments, she restrained herself as they rode along in silence, Jahne crushed by the immense burden of her loneliness. Then they arrived at the hotel.

  She was so tired when she got upstairs that she suggested room service to Mai, who cheerfully agreed. Then Jahne showered and got into a robe. Under the hot water, she felt a little bit better, but she also knew she could not go on this way: having more nightmares, sitting through other panic attacks. So, there in the shower stall in that Cupertino hotel, Jahne came to a decision.

  When she emerged from the steaming bathroom, Mai had already dismissed the room-service waiter, and dinner was set, waiting, on a rolling table pulled over to the window. They sat down together, the white linen and sparkling silver between them. Jahne sipped at the hot consommé, and then they began on the mesquite-grilled chicken paillard.

  “Mai, I want to tell you something.”

  Mai put down her pilsner glass and looked up, expectant.

  “I feel as if I have to tell someone or I’ll die,” Jahne said, and then she began.

  Mai was a good listener. She let Jahne cry, and she waited, silent, during the long pauses while Jahne fought for the words and the courage to continue her story. Mai didn’t interrupt, and asked only one question—exactly how Jahne had found Brewster Moore—but she responded through the long tale with little nods and sympathetic sounds. Jahne finally finished, and the two of them sat beside the window, the suburban lights of Cupertino twinkling beneath them. Then Mai sighed, and pushed her chair away from the table. She stood up, walked to the window.

  “Vat ve do to ourselves! Vat they do to us!” she whispered. Then she turned and looked at Jahne. Her face showed no shock, no disgust, but only love and sympathy. “My dear, I am so sorry,” was all she said.

  Jahne actually slept through the night, better than she had slept for a long while. The next morning, Mai was already in the living room of the suite, waiting for her.

  “My dear, I vould like very much to talk to you,” she said. Jahne nodded. “I haff been up all night thinking of this, of your story. And I must tell you, I think you are in grave danger.”

  Jahne sat down on the sofa, her heart beating fast. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “When God gives great beauty, he also gives us time to learn what it is useful for. For beauty is power in this vorld. Men haff made it so. And it can be a veapon or a tool. Most of us haff the luxury of time, first to see our power grow, then to test our powers, and at last to see them decline slowly. A few unlucky vimmen vere given great beauty vithout the knowledge that they had it. It kills them. Alvays. Jean Harlow. Marilyn Monroe. Jean Seberg. You know the list.”

  Mai paused. “I am speaking to you as one who knows. I vas vonce beautiful. But you, my dear…You are beautiful outside, but you haff not come to terms vith your power. I have noticed all the strange lapses. You are shy to look at yourself in front of others. Beauties never are. You are pleased ven someone calls you ‘pretty.’ That is an insult to a beautiful voman. There are many small signs I vondered at.” She sighed.

  “But you need your power. You need to use it, to acknowledge it deeply. Because, if you don’t, the veapon vill turn against you.”

  “Oh, Mai! You’re scaring me. What can I do?”

  “I don’t know. This is indeed a new vonder of science. But I vill help you any vay I can. Maybe I can teach you. If you vant.”

  Jahne felt her eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” she said.

  32

  Marty watched Lila as she talked, her hands moving like Japanese fans, her elegant red nails punctuating the air. They were sitting together on the sofa in Marty’s living room, and Lila had just finished telling him about the role she had turned down in the movie Princess of Thyme. Then she began to talk about Ara Sagarian, what a disappointment he was. Her eyes, he saw, were wide with excitement; her skin had a rosy cast under her golden tan. All this about a part in a movie. How much more passionate would she be in bed?

  Marty had almost given up on Lila. And then, once again, she had called him. This time, Marty was determined that nothing would go wrong. He had sent Sally into town, he’d underplayed everything. No gladioli, no catered dinner. And things were going well. This was simply going to take patience. There was going to come a time when he would have her. Somehow, some way, Marty was going to make love to Lila Kyle. Up to now he had accepted her distance as a temporary thing. But till now it never seemed to waver. Still, she had called him and she now seemed ready for a friendship, at least. Why now? Go know.

  Marty was a lot of things—short, skinny, stoop-shouldered, pockmarked, maybe even ugly—but one thing he wasn’t was a shmuck. Lila had almost made a shmuck out of him. Yet now, tonight, he wanted her more than ever. He would have to get the upper hand. Perhaps advice and avuncular patience were the answer.

  “Ara is just too old, Lila. Family loyalty is nice and all; you need someone like Sy Ortis to manage you.”

  “Really, Marty?” she asked. Marty felt a small thrill. He liked it when she listened to his opinions.

  “Would you like me to call him and set something up? I’m sure he’d love to talk with you.”

  “Sure. Great idea.” Lila wondered if he’d find out she’d already called. Well, she’d tell Ortis’ secretary that Marty had told her to.

  So, what else could he do to help her, to move the friendship forward? Marty wondered. “Do you want to hear my idea for next year’s first episode?” Marty asked. May as well dangle the bait now, tie figured.

  Lila curled her feet up under her. “Sure. What’s your idea?”

  “I thought I might have the opening episode with only one girl. Let the other two be flashbacks, or sidebars, maybe not even refer to them. I don’t know yet.” He didn’t have to look at Lila’s face to know what she was thinking.

  “It might be interesting,” she said cautiously. “It might work, depending.”

  “Depending on what?” he asked, egging her on, getting her into position.

  “Well, to be very honest, Marty, its success or failure would depend completely on which girl was being spotlighted. Like, she’d have to be strong enough to carry that kind of weight, but also…”

  “I’ve already decided.”

  He watched Lila, sensing, almost hearing, her brain whirring.
“Yes?” was all she said.

  “Uh-huh. You.”

  Lila shrieked and threw her arms around his neck and hugged him. Touched him for the first time. Marty felt himself tremble. He hoped Lila didn’t notice. “Me? Oh, Marty, that’s wonderful. You’re brilliant. A genius.” She sat back. “Tell me more. What’s the story line? What’s the setting?”

  She settled back in the sofa, curled up like a cat on a fireplace cushion, ready to listen to every word, to soak up every gesture.

  “It’s you leaving home, showing why you’ve taken to the road.”

  “Great idea. I love it.”

  “You’ll be walking out on a privileged life: wealth, huge house, cars, servants, absent father, domineering mother…everything. Use the Beatles as background. You know, ‘She’s leaving home after living alone for so many years.’ It’s been a living hell, and now you’re leaving. Sort of a sixties thing, but relevant to the nineties, turning against the eighties.”

  “I like it, Marty. It’s perfect.”

  “You walk out, leaving all this behind you, to get away from your mother…”

  Lila was nodding, her face lit up with anticipation and maybe something else.

  It may have been hiatus for Lila, Sharleen, and Jahne, but not for Marty and the production crew of 3/4. Things were going well with Lila, but Marty had to top last year’s ratings. And deal with the problem of Jahne Moore’s schedule. Today the production meeting would be brief, and to the point.

  “Just keep on doing what you’re doing, folks,” George Young, the producer, said as he said at every production meeting. “I’m not going to fuck with a winning formula.” Not that he could. Sy’s contract was ironclad. They couldn’t change a hair in the girls’ coiffures, even if the show took a nosedive. It was all in Marty’s control.

  “But there is one thing we hadn’t considered, George.” Now the guy from publicity was about to come up with another lamebrain idea. Marty sighed. So much for not fucking with a winning formula. Still, he’d sit through the meeting and then try to brainstorm a few more ideas for next season.

  “I’m getting calls, lots of calls. Everyone and her sister wants an appearance or a continuing part on this show. Even Katharine Hepburn, can you believe that? Her agent says Kate sees this as the woman’s TV format for the nineties.”

  Marty spoke softly. “Fine for a cameo, but not a continuing character. From the beginning, I told you I want unknowns on the show. Only unknowns. And aside from cameos, that’s what we got, and that’s what’s working. Now, with what I’ve achieved with them, you want to undermine it with Katharine Hepburn, for chrissakes? There’s no justification for Hepburn on the show. We look like a documentary. She’ll look like an actress, for chrissakes. It’s an obvious manipulation.” Marty kept his voice from raising. “No way.” He looked directly at George Young.

  George shook his head. “Except, the opening episode this season has got to really make a statement. It has to say the second season will be better than the first, no matter how good the first was. And we don’t want to lose even a tenth of a point, even if every other show does that week. In fact, we want to gain points. That hasn’t been done before, and I think this show, of any show, can do it. We need a gimmick, and—quite frankly, Marty—I think a superstar might be just the thing.”

  Marty made it a point to appear to consider every suggestion a producer made before commenting on it. Even though they were almost always empty, stupid windbags, as George certainly was, he pretended to consider. He did that now. But the silence of the room was broken by George’s production assistant, a young girl too young and too pretty to have been hired for her knowledge of the business.

  “How about Theresa O’Donnell instead of Hepburn?” the girl asked. “I mean, she’s both. She was a superstar and she’s Lila’s real mother. Documentary. You know?”

  No one said anything. Finally, George said, “Lila Kyle’s mother?”

  “Yeah, sure. Have Lila’s mother play her mother.”

  Marty smiled at the young woman. Theresa O’Donnell! What Marty wouldn’t give to work with Theresa O’Donnell! The kid was right. The tie-in was perfect—real, commercial but not overpowering. But would she do it? Theresa O’Donnell hadn’t done anything in years. But now, with her daughter on the show…Marty was sure Theresa would see both the artistic and the commercial value in it. “What’s your name?”

  “Leslie Snow,” she said.

  “I’ll consider it, Leslie. Okay, boys and girls. Let’s strap on our steel jockstraps and fight the good fight.”

  33

  Sharleen had been calling the telephone number Dobe had given her for two weeks, but hadn’t been able to reach him. She was more than a little concerned: she still had his cartons all over the house, and she wasn’t sure what she should do if she didn’t hear from him. Should I have it picked up and stored somewhere? What might be in those shoes? Well, with all her other worries, she didn’t have to think about that now, she decided. She’d give him two more weeks. But still, she’d keep trying.

  Sharleen picked up the phone once again and dialed Dobe’s number, as she’d done every day since the auction.

  This time, though, after two rings, Sharleen heard Dobe at the other end. “Hello.” His voice was cheery.

  “Dobe Samuels, you got some explaining to do! I’ve been calling you every day. Where have you been? And what in Sam Hill are you going to do with a hundred dozen women’s left shoes?” she asked.

  “Sharleen, honey. You did it! How much?” he asked.

  “Sixty dollars. Now, you goin’ to answer my questions?”

  Dobe’s voice got serious. “I’m sorry, Sharleen. I had to go out of town on business. I should have called you before.”

  “What kind of business? Dobe, what do you need those sneakers for?” She tried to sound strict. But Sharleen couldn’t stay mad with Dobe. She was just so glad to hear his voice again.

  “Not sneakers, honey. The best aerobic shoes money can buy. See, I’m in the import-export business now, Sharleen,” Dobe began. “And I needed to get those ‘sneakers’ for a customer of mine. But the import duty on pairs of shoes is so high, I’d never make any money, so I had the shoes shipped in two separate shipments, one shipment of left feet to Los Angeles, one shipment of right feet to Portland.” Dobe paused to chuckle to himself. Sharleen joined him—the idea sounded so silly. “And when no one came forward to claim them and pay the duty, I knew they would go on auction, and that no one would want left shoes only, or right shoes only. So I get the whole shipment without paying duty, and saved a lot of thousands of dollars. Sweet, ain’t it?”

  Sharleen didn’t say anything for a minute. He was slicker than a greased goose. “Dobe, now you tell me. Was there anythin’ in the heels of them shoes? You know, like dope or somethin’ like that? Now, tell me true, Dobe Samuels.”

  Dobe’s voice got very serious. “Sharleen, I told you once I would never hurt you. And I won’t. I would never —never, young lady—do anything to harm you or Dean in any way. It’s like…it’s like you’re family, Sharleen. Okay? I need you to trust me.”

  “Dobe, I do. I honestly do. It’s just that I read the other day a guy got off a plane in Miami and got arrested for smugglin’ dope. He had it in the heels of his shoes! So I guess I just got a little scared.” Now she laughed. “Dobe, you still making them water-into-gas pills?”

  Dobe’s laugh came back to her over the miles. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Sharleen asked. “You’re going to be here tonight?” Lord, her momma was coming over tonight, too! But Dobe would be welcome. Maybe he could even give her advice about Momma. “How long are you going to stay? You’re coming to stay for a while, right? Dobe, we got a big house. Wait until you see it. And wait till I tell Dean.” She gave him directions to the house, and told him about the security guard outside.

  “Sounds like you’re in a safe neighborhood, girl. Makes me feel a lot bette
r about you being in that city.”

  “Dobe, it’s more like a prison.” She didn’t stop to explain. She wanted to get home and get everything ready. And tell Dean. “Dinner’ll be ready, Dobe. And we’ll be waitin’ for you.”

  Sharleen hadn’t felt this happy since…Funny, she couldn’t remember feeling this happy—ever.

  Filled with new energy, Sharleen went to look for Dean. She walked through the living room, past the dining room and pantry, then into the huge kitchen she was usually too tired to use. “Dean,” she called out again, as she walked past the gleaming, untouched stove to the back door, where she peered out the window to the hedge-and-brick-enclosed garden. She knew she would find Dean out there, either working on the flower beds or playing with the dogs. Or both.

  Dean had taken the overgrown back yard and transformed it into a garden like you would see in the garden magazines he would look at over and over. Here, in what Sharleen was told was the most expensive four acres of property in America, Dean had created the equivalent of a perfect tiny farm.

  Dean knew the name of every single thing he had growing, could even identify the occasional weed that had somehow missed his eye. He had talked to her so often about them, she now knew them all by heart. There was a small stand of fruit trees—a mini-orchard, really. Two peaches, four apples, and three pears. And a vegetable garden filled with beefsteak and plum tomatoes, three kinds of lettuce, scallions and onions, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, green and yellow beans, carrots, and okra. He even had peas growing up some teepee he’d built of sticks. Beyond the vegetables, there was a small pond stocked with fish—carp, she thought—that Dean fed by hand from the little wooden bridge he’d built across the pond.

  Prettiest of all to Sharleen were the flowers. Alongside one brick wall, extending maybe thirty, forty feet, was a perennial bed. He had planted all the old-fashioned flowers that he loved so much, and, in less than a year, he had made them bloom. There were peonies especially for Sharleen, because she favored them, and also larkspur, hollyhocks, and foxglove. There was a stand of delphiniums almost as tall as she was, but Dean considered them a cheat, since he’d bought them potted and blooming and only transplanted them. Still, they were gorgeous.