Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Most of the mansions are protected from view behind electronic gates and masses of trees and shrubs. Fortunately I have a key to Donna’s door and the security code for the gate. I tap in the numbers on the keypad and hear the soft grind of machinery as the heavy iron gates with the swirly Savoir soap S logo click open and glide apart. Without waiting for me, Chelsea bounds through the gates and walks up the curving driveway.

  I’m about to follow her when I hear my name shouted. I turn around to see a blue Honda cruising slowly down the street with Uncle Joe behind the wheel and Corky hanging out the window filming me.

  Flipping my top hat onto my head, I strike a showgirl’s pose and wave as the car passes by, turns the corner and accelerates up the street.

  By the time I catch up to Chelsea, she’s standing near the orchid pavilion at the top of the driveway. “This is where you live? You must’ve made a mint off Holiday!”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. Jinx didn’t buy this house. The place belongs to a friend.”

  “Some friend.” She pivots slowly, taking in the tennis courts, greenhouse, kitchen garden and sweeping lawns. “How long have you been staying here?”

  “Not long.” In fact, I’ve lived here close to nine months, but it’s not a subject I care to go into with Chelsea. “I’ve been looking for a place of my own.”

  “Why?” She gazes at the Olympic-size pool with its Jacuzzi, individual cabanas and outdoor cooking area. “Why would anyone leave here?”

  I’ve asked myself the same question and I’m not about to answer it now. “That little two-story structure with the veranda just beyond the pool was Donna’s playhouse as a child. She also had a pony.”

  “Of course. Who didn’t?”

  Actually, my brother and I had a pony on our farm in Nebraska, but picking up the edge in Chelsea’s voice, I decide not to mention it. “Donna had the stables torn down some years ago to build her orchid pavilion here.”

  “Nice.”

  We walk across the stone-paved forecourt encircling a fountain banked with ferns and lilies. Rose bushes thick with white blooms line the walkway up to the main house, which has an old-fashioned storybook charm. Wisteria clings to the gables and vines climb around mullioned windows. Wide stone steps lead up to a carved front door fitted with a gated, wrought-iron peephole. Unwarranted pride of ownership washes over me as Chelsea looks around.

  “I have to say, my little rented house would fit in her garage.”

  Donna’s 1972 baby-blue Mercedes sedan is parked next to my Volvo, the only two vehicles sheltered in a massive garage that could house a Jiffy Lube without feeling cramped.

  “Great, Donna’s home. You’ll get to meet her.”

  “Is she old?”

  “Not unless you think I’m old.”

  There’s no immediate response, which makes that affirmative. It also strikes me that in our hike from Holmby Park to Donna’s house, Chelsea hasn’t once mentioned watching any Holiday shows. Generally people gush a bit when they meet me. The series is often mentioned in the hushed tones reserved for shows like ours and The Prisoner. I can’t say I mind. In fact, I like it. “So what’s your favorite Holiday episode?”

  “I just saw my first one last week. They gave me a couple of screeners, including a Fourth of July show with the Statue of Liberty. It was okay. But seriously, it seemed kind of pokey. Not much action.” She looks at me warily, then shifts her gaze back to the house. “Hope you don’t mind me saying that, but I wasn’t born when the show went off the air, you know?”

  “I figured. Well, that’s okay.” I’m sorry I brought it up, especially since I won an Emmy for that particular little “pokey” episode!

  “Besides, I need to make the role my own. I mean, I see Jinx as this whole other person entirely. You know, more real.” She plants a foot on the stone steps, crosses her arms and looks at me. “But, hey, that doesn’t mean I don’t need to learn how to do the hat stuff.”

  More real? I’d like to slug her, then stomp on her half-assed plastic hat, but should probably wait until after I get paid. “Sure. Just the hat tricks. Nothing more.”

  “Right, because I’ve already got an acting coach.”

  “That’s cool.”

  I realize I’m standing with my palms up like I’m surrendering, which infuriates me. I clamp my errant hands to my thighs and wipe any expression from my face. Have I managed to conceal the dreaded thought that Dirck will be on hand out here coaching her—in my role?

  A new game plan is called for. Clearly I will not become Chelsea’s new best pal, certainly not the role model she’ll forever praise for unstinting wisdom and guidance. Roxie, my beloved showgirl-mentor, taught me to stuff lamb’s wool between the soles of my feet and the fishnet stockings to keep the coarse threads from cutting my skin. She told me to roll Mitchum’s antiperspirant on my face before performing so sweat wouldn’t run in rivers down my cheeks. She cautioned me never to use bunched-up plastic bags to fill out a bra (“You’ll perspire and lose what ya got”). Roxie, who shared every trick of the trade, would have flattened me with a roundhouse wallop if I’d shown so little respect—and I would have deserved it! She didn’t take guff from anyone.

  What begins to feel like a Mexican standoff is broken by the sound of a door opening. We both look across the portico.

  Donna, wearing a floor-length caftan that would be a tunic on me, waves and greets us with a sunny smile. “C’mon in. I saw the two of you walking up the driveway.”

  “Thank you, Donna. Listen, I hope it’s okay with you if we have a practice session here. This is Chelsea Horne. She’s going to play Jinx. Chelsea, this is Donna Bendix.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Chelsea. I saw Winner Take All on the Sundance channel. Great work! I love your voice.”

  “Really? Thanks so much. Kids used to tease me about the voice.”

  “Not anymore, I’ll bet. Congratulations on getting the role of Jinx. Come in, come in, I’ll give you the big nickel tour.”

  Instead of her comfy Dearfoams, Donna is wearing platform mules that add at least an inch to her height, but she’s still diminutive next to Chelsea. She’s also run a comb through her springy hair and dabbed on some lipstick, an indication she’s spruced up to meet her drop-in guest.

  Chelsea is pitch perfect, just the right amount of deference and enthusiasm. Is this because Donna watched Winner Take All? Commented on her voice? It’s the conversation perhaps I should have had with Chelsea. Maybe I should have gushed a bit, too. Or at least complimented her on getting the role. What’s wrong with me? Why is this young woman making me feel like something stuck to the sole of a shoe?

  I turn to look across the portico at the eucalyptus, native oak and olive trees that conceal the property from the street. Breathing in the sweet scents of jasmine and rose, I’m trying to come to terms with this sudden bout of insecurity when, behind me, I hear the door slam closed. I’ve been locked out—inadvertently, I assume. I yank my key from my shoulder bag and jam it into the lock. Resigned, and more than a little irritated, I push the door back open.

  Inside, Donna and Chelsea stand on the landing, looking up from the massive stone fireplace to the balcony above the two-story living room. The densely furnished interior, with its eclectic mix of Craftsman, Art Nouveau and Jazz Moderne, has the feel of a 1930s film set. I’ve taken my own “big nickel tour” a few times and still find the place amazing. I hear Chelsea asking the same questions I did, with Donna responding in her hushed museum-docent’s voice.

  “You see that hat with all the ribbons on the piano? It belonged to Mary Pickford. Those spectacles on the coffee table were Harold Lloyd’s. This ice bucket was Charlie Chaplin’s. My grandparents knew a lot of film people, but most of this stuff came from estate sales, including Judy Garland’s black patent tap shoes. Too bad they aren’t the ruby red ones.” She plucks a gray fedora off a hat stand near the stairway. “It’s Fred Astaire’s, and the crystal in that cabinet was a wedding gift to Joan Crawford and
Douglas Fairbanks Jr. The silver tap shoes on the bookcase belonged to Crawford, too.”

  “Um, Crawford?”

  “Joan?” The two women stare at each other as though speaking alien tongues. They are, in fact, speaking across a century of film lore. Donna gives her a doubtful look. “You do know who the other actors I mentioned are, right?”

  “Sort of. Judy Garland, I’ve heard of. I think.”

  This isn’t going well. Donna’s face sags a bit, but she’s not giving up. “Well, let me take you upstairs to see my doll collection. A couple of them belonged to Deanna Durbin.”

  I clap my hand on my mouth before I can say anything. Donna’s display of antique dolls, numbering in the hundreds, each an exquisite work of art, is her pride and joy, a collection she inherited from her mother and grandmother. Yet, I don’t think it’s a must-see for Chelsea. Maybe Justin Bieber’s sneakers or Johnny Depp’s fedora might do the trick, but a doll that once belonged to a teenage singer in 1938 isn’t going to cut it with a gal who doesn’t know who Charlie Chaplin is.

  “Maybe another time,” Chelsea says. “Could I use your bathroom?”

  “Just down the hall there,” I tell her. “Then maybe we should get to work on the hat tricks.”

  “Good idea. Back in a minute.”

  Donna and I don’t say a word until we hear the click of the bathroom door. “Don’t take it to heart, Donna. She loves your house.”

  “It’s a bit of a museum.” She looks around as though sizing it up through Chelsea’s eyes. She shrugs. “Should I invite her for dinner?”

  “Maybe another time. Let me see how it goes.”

  In fact, it goes well and Chelsea is all business. I leave my hat on the hall table and we work with hers, starting out with some flat-disk Frisbee on the lawn. The slick polyester is tricky, sailing faster but not as accurately as my vintage silk hat. But Chelsea is quick and moves well, treating our practice session as more than just an exercise in slinging the hat back and forth. There’s a sense of purpose, some motivation behind each toss, as though she’s intent on using the hat strategically as a weapon.

  Inside the pool house, we move the Ping-Pong table aside to give us more room to work on the showier tricks, beginning with some crown rolls. I demonstrate by extending my arm horizontally, holding the top hat with my fingers inside the crown, the opening facing forward. Then I flick the hat with my fingers so the side of the crown rolls along my arm and I catch it at the top of my shoulder. I toss the hat to Chelsea and she gives it a try. Again and again, it tumbles to the floor.

  “Relax. It takes practice, lots of it. And lock your elbow.”

  We move on to some end-over-end rolls. “Hold the hat with your fingers inside the crown opening, with your thumb on top of the brim and the opening facing downward. Keep your arm horizontal and completely straight . . . that’s it, the same direction your head is facing. Now, use your fingers to flick the hat so that it rolls end over end. Keep your face pointing toward the floor and the hat will roll to a stop perfectly on your head.”

  “Yeah, right,” Chelsea says, as the hat skitters onto the floor. But she’s game and tries it again.

  “Keep your thumb out of the way. You almost have it.”

  We finish up with some throws from hand to head, always my favorite. I ended almost every episode with a double-spin throw, the hat landing on my head, cocked over my right brow. “Jinxed again,” I’d say, and wink. I doubt Chelsea’s grittier, “more real” interpretation of Jinx will allow for this, but I show it off anyway.

  “Cute,” she says.

  “Give it a try. Remember, it’s your head that’s catching the hat, not the hat finding your head.”

  It’s not until long shadows creep through the French doors and darken the parquet floor that I look at my watch. Almost two hours have passed and my arms are starting to feel heavy. “How are you doing for time?”

  “Omigod, I’ve gotta leave. Sorry, but can we wrap it up?”

  “Sure. It’s all practice now. You should be fine. We can work out some more whenever you like. Just call me.”

  “Great. I’ve got your number. I’ll be in touch.”

  “By the way, Donna invited you for dinner. Sure you can’t stay?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve really got to run.” She’s silent for a moment, her thumbs jabbing her smartphone with a degree of dexterity I’ll never master. “I’ve got a friend picking me up at the park.” She slings her bag over her shoulder, ready to bolt. “Do you mind if I find my own way out?”

  “Not at all. I’ll lock up here.”

  Halfway out the door, she turns back. “Hey, thanks. I really appreciate this.”

  “You’ll do great. Just ask the prop master at the studio to find you a better hat, or go online. It’ll make the tricks easier.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  She leaves the door open to the cool evening air and lopes across the lawn in long, easy strides. I don’t know what to make of her, but I like the way she works. She has tenacity and a willingness to learn. Chelsea enters the main house through the side door to the den and I lose sight of her. I shove the Ping-Pong table back in place, fluff some pillows on the divan and lock the door behind me.

  I’ve trained my nose to Donna’s cooking and know as soon as I enter the house that we’re having roast lamb for dinner. She comes out of the kitchen with two glasses of wine and hands one to me. “Is Chelsea joining us?”

  “She’s already left. Didn’t she say goodbye to you?”

  “No, but I was in the kitchen. How did you get on with her?”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s it? Just okay? She’s a good actress, you know.”

  “I’m sure she is.” I sip my wine and go to the front door to turn the lock. On my way, I pass the hall table. “What’d you do with my hat? I mean, your hat.”

  “Nothing. You had it.” Donna heads back to the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready whenever you are.”

  I look at the polished mahogany table, envisioning the pasteboard box with black grosgrain ribbons that should be there. It’s not. Anger sears my brain with the sure knowledge that Chelsea’s found herself a better hat—my hat!

  I set my wine glass on the table, yank the door open and hurtle down the front steps to the driveway.

  There’s no sign of Chelsea, but the gates are just beginning to close. Fueled by a potent mix of adrenalin spiked with rage, I leap across the cobblestones to the grassy knoll, the most direct route to the gate, but catch my foot on the paving trim. I fall, skinning my knees and hands, and slither across damp grass, my body rolling over and over down the hill until I crash into a thick hedge.

  I lie there, winded, watching the filigreed metal gates close with a sharp click. There’s no way I can hobble down to the street and catch up with Chelsea now. Nor would I want to account for my grass-stained, disheveled appearance.

  Taking stock of the damage I’ve done to my body, I’m grateful nothing feels broken. My face and hands sting, my knee throbs, and I have a sore hip that will probably turn purple and green before morning, but I’ll survive. Slowly I roll over and sit up, shaken and feeling foolish.

  Just as the last of the twilight fades into darkness, a timer switches on a Disneyland of twinkling lights, illuminating the trees and walkway. I sit for a few minutes, listening to the muffled sound of traffic whooshing down the boulevard on the other side of the hedge.

  I’m mystified that Chelsea, knowing we’re going to work together again, would steal Jinx’s hat. Slowly, I get to my feet, wincing at the stiffness in my joints. How in the world am I going to explain the missing hat to Donna?

  Chapter Four

  There are few things more startling than waking up to find your ex-husband grinning at you. I’d barely pushed myself up in bed and dragged my laptop onto my belly before I found myself staring into Dirck’s gleeful face. Without thinking twice, I’d answered a call on Skype. Only my mother in Nebraska ever rings first thing in the morning. But
Dirck, three hours away in New York, called bright and early.

  “Gotcha! Hey, there, how’s my girl?”

  “Girl just woke up.” I disable the video icon without hesitation. Not that Dirck hasn’t seen me with bedhead or sleep-swollen eyes before, but I don’t care to explain why my face is marred with scratches and bruises. Besides, his face, close up and leering, sporting Don Johnson stubble and a whiter-than-white toothpaste smile, is way more than I can handle at this hour. Worse, I can tell that his home Skype environment, with its manly-man props and artful backdrop, is professionally lit. Who does that?

  “Hey, what happened? You disappeared.”

  “Why are you calling?”

  “Wanted to catch up.”

  “I’m not up for a personal appearance. How’s the family?”

  “Pru’s good. Priscilla just started walking. I gotta tell you, there’s nothing like a kid to turn your life around. Amazing, huh?”

  “Totally. And work?”

  “Work’s good. Voice-overs. Teaching a coupla classes, which leads me to—”

  “Chelsea Horne.”

  “Yeah, you believe this? Like déjà vu all over again. I hear you’re on board to teach your old hat tricks. Can’t hurt, but I told her martial arts was the way to go.”

  “Thanks for the endorsement.”

  “Hey, no offense, but you gotta stay ahead of the pack. A little hat twirling is fine, but Jinx is combating crime, you know? Karate. Kickboxing. That’s where the action is these days.”

  “Dirck, I haven’t had my coffee yet, much less my Wheaties. Where’s this conversation going?”