Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

“I’m just saying, you know? That dainty, prancing-around stuff with cute winks isn’t going to work. Jinx can’t strut. Badass attitude and new technology, that’s where it’s at. Jinx has gotta be cutting edge. Lethal. Sexy.”

  “I’m going to hang up now, Dirck.”

  “Wait—”

  I don’t wait. I embrace new technology and badass attitude. Without prancing around, I disconnect with an easy tap of my finger. If only shutting up a noisome, preening, irritating, brainless, narcissistic former husband could always be so easy. But it never is. I’m about to set aside my laptop when the Skype ringtone sounds again. Why so persistent? I haven’t seen or heard from Dirck in almost a year. I answer with another tap of my finger, curious to hear what he’s really calling about.

  “Hey, there, a little touchy this morning? Sorry about that. No offense, okay? You had your day in the sun—no one did it better than you, Megsie!—but now you just gotta let it go, know what I mean? New day, new play.”

  Got it. I should have known. Chelsea’s assertion that she would portray Jinx entirely differently from me—grittier, more real—has come straight from Dirck’s playbook. Of course Chelsea has to make the role her own, but is there any need to be so combative about it? Why is it necessary to denigrate the original, the role I originated—for which, I never tire of mentioning, I was awarded an Emmy?

  As though hearing my thoughts, Dirck says, “No one can take that Emmy away from you, Meg. You deserved it. But that was a very, very long time ago. Times change. Gotta mooooove on.”

  I climb out of bed and dump the laptop on my pillow. The MacBook rocks slightly, but there’s no alteration in the rolling, rich tones of Dirck’s superb announcer’s voice, for which he earns a hefty session fee, plus residuals. He’s at his best selling trucks and trust, the latter category including insurance, pharmaceuticals and financial planning.

  Perhaps his greatest pleasure is hearing the sound of his own voice, so I leave him to it while I go about my morning routine. His deep, sonorous voice reaches me above the gush of water splashing in the sink and the buzz of my electric toothbrush. The sound cuts out as I close the shower door. I’m not surprised when, minutes later, I step out of the stall, wrap myself in a towel and hear him still blathering on about what it takes for an actor to make the grade these days.

  “Competition is tough,” he says in Jeep Wrangler mode. Then, putting a smile in his voice, he purrs, “But this gal’s got the stuff. I knew it the moment I heard her.”

  “Where was that?” I sing out, while applying antiperspirant.

  “Weren’t you listening? What’re you doing, anyway? I told you, I met her at a voice-over session. Man, she’s something else. Didn’t have much dough, so I told her she could audit my class for a couple of weeks. I don’t usually do that, but I could see the potential.”

  A low rumble creeps into Dirck’s voice, the kind he deploys for the taglines of “you owe it to your family” insurance commercials. “It’s what I live for, Meg. Giving back.” He repeats the line softly to himself a few times, dropping “Meg” and sounding more reflective, with a faraway lilt in his voice. Who is he trying to sell?

  I exhale several times to keep from screaming, then ask, “So where is she from?”

  “Who?”

  “Chelsea.”

  “Wisconsin, maybe? Could be Indiana. One of those places out there, but without the twang and that terrible O sound. She’s a natural.”

  “So you’re through coaching her, then?”

  “No! You kidding me? This is Big Time. She needs all the help she can get. I’ve got a Skype session with her later this morning. I just thought that you and I should be clear on parameters. Just stick to showing her the hat tricks and I’ll take care of the rest, okay?”

  “You’re the boss.” I exhale a few more times, although it’s beginning to feel a lot like hyperventilating. “Listen, I gotta run.”

  “Wait, hang on. I was calling to let you know I’ll be flying out on a red-eye to work with Chelsea in person. You know, before she goes on set.”

  “Great. Weather’s fine.”

  “What I mean is, could you put me up? Just for a night or two.”

  “No!” My yelp is so vehement I lose my grip on the hairbrush. It clatters into the sink, overturning a water glass on its descent, sending shards flying. “I mean, no. No. I couldn’t do that. Sorry, no.”

  “Oh. Right.” His voice is dull, heavy with meaning. “Can’t move on, can you? You’re living in this big, fancy house and you can’t find room for me?”

  “You don’t understand, okay? This isn’t my place.”

  “So you can’t ask to have a friend stay there? You’re something else, you know that, Meg? I’ve got a wife. A kid. You and me? That’s over. Long over. I don’t need you. And you know something else? Life’s been good to me. I like to pass it on. Give back. But that’s just me, you know?”

  The call ends in Skype’s mechanical gulp. I’m left to stare at a decades-old headshot of Dirck on my computer screen, one from a biker movie, with tough-guy smoldering eyes and pouty lips. Ringing in my ears is not his winning voice-over voice, but the downtrodden marital voice I’d like to forget—the “everyone gets a break but me” whine.

  In Dirck’s estimation, life has not been at all good to him. Somebody else always got the breakout role, the big-bucks contract and all the Emmys and Oscars at the end of the rainbow. He was geared for Big Things, but all poor Dirck got was a wife who worked more than he did, earned more than he did and stole the limelight from him. In his equation, had it not been for me, he would have been a star. Excuse me, a STAR! I somehow held him back even as I paid his bills. Go figure.

  Nerves jangling, I scrape up glass shards in wads of toilet tissue and wonder how Dirck knows where I’m living. The thought is barely a question before I have the answer: Chelsea. She must have called him last night after our work session. Fair enough; she was probably just checking in with him, confirming their Skype call this morning.

  Still. Did she have to give Dirck a floor plan? Did she lay it on with the pool, tennis court and orchid pavilion? That would’ve been red meat to Dirck, who’s still living in our old New York Westside walkup with a wife and toddler. The fact that I actually own nothing more than a Volvo with four decent tires and a capacious trunk would be meaningless to a guy who still dreams of champagne on a beer budget.

  I whip my hair into a frenzied cyclone with the blow-dryer and imagine Pru negotiating three flights of stairs with a stroller and a squalling child. Yet, it’s the life I imagined for myself in that very apartment.

  I pull on a tee shirt and jeans, the unhip kind I bought on an outing to Costco with Donna. Now, she’s someone who really passes it on! As I walk down the hallway, I hear a mewling sound that tells me Donna is still in her boudoir, not flipping gourmet crepes or whatever she’s got on tap for breakfast. With a passing nod to discretion, I knock once on her door before entering a suite of rooms cast in twilight by heavy drapes at the windows. The dusky, high-ceilinged room, illuminated by low-wattage track lighting, smells of lavender moth repellant.

  “There you are,” she says, turning over two AARP-vintage baby dolls, both of them making that distinctive whaaaa sound of newborns. “I was going to ask you to give me a hand with these, but then I heard you talking to someone on the phone.” There’s a lingering pause I realize I’m slow to fill. Donna gives me a questioning look. “I didn’t want to interrupt. Everything okay?”

  “Fine. Just business.”

  I open a cabinet and pick up a fashionably dressed French bisque poupée, with an all-wooden articulated body, that’s drooping on its perch. I gently tip a veiled, satin-ruched hat in place atop a finely coiffed painted head, then tether the doll securely to its Plexiglas stand. I’m only too happy to pitch in. But as I brush my finger across the ermine collar of a miniature velvet coat, I feel Donna’s eyes assessing me. At least I didn’t lie and tell her my mother called, but I’m not about to mention
I had a half-hour Skype chat with my ex-husband.

  “You spoke to Chelsea?”

  “Just her acting coach.”

  “Funny she hasn’t called to tell us what she did with the hat. You haven’t been in touch?”

  “No. I’d rather see what she does.”

  “How’re you feeling this morning? I hope the Bengay eased the muscle aches.”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Just a little stiff. The scratches are already healing.”

  “Thank God. You looked like you’d been in a barroom brawl. I kind of wish you’d caught up with her.”

  “Just as well I didn’t.”

  I carefully remove a flaxen-haired bébé Bru from a showcase. She’s wearing a straw boater and sailor suit, a miniature tin pail and shovel attached to her porcelain hand. Like old folks, underneath their lace, ribbons and fancy bloomers, their skin—in this case, finely stitched kid leather—shows age. Glassy blue paperweight eyes meet mine, unseeing and fathomless. I could read anything into the empty doll-stare.

  What was Chelsea thinking? She had to know I’d realize immediately that she’d stolen the hat. She knew I valued it. She knew it belonged to Donna. “I don’t get,” I mutter aloud. “Why would she take it without asking?”

  “Maybe she misunderstood. Did you tell her she could practice with it?”

  “No, of course not!”

  “Okay, okay. How about some breakfast? I can finish this up later.”

  “Sorry, Donna. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just—I don’t know, irritated? I can’t figure her out. Why would she do a dumb thing like steal a hat?”

  “Doesn’t make sense. But if you want me to call her, I will. After all—”

  “I know. It’s your hat. Your house. You have every right—” A quick look at Donna’s startled face tells me to make amends fast. “Sorry! I really didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

  I sink onto the edge of the bed, holding the doll with the inscrutable stare. Feeling slightly unhinged, I turn the glassy-eyed bébé to face her sisters still in the cabinet. “What I mean is, it’s my responsibility. I have to deal with it. She had no business walking off with your hat. But I just don’t understand what this is about.”

  “Let’s go downstairs and have some coffee.” She opens a cabinet door and adjusts a baby doll with a carved wooden face inside its miniature antique crib. “Frankly, I’m sick of this. I just don’t want to do it anymore, you know?”

  “Huh?” I gasp, feeling walloped in the chest. I squeeze out words in a strangled rush. “Sick of what? Me? Sorry, I know I’m probably getting on your nerves. I’ve way overstayed my welcome and I’m sorry, but—”

  Donna turns and stares at me. “I didn’t mean you.”

  “Sure. Chelsea, I know, and I shouldn’t have brought her here like that. It was very presumptuous and I’m sorry. If you want me to leave—”

  “Stop, already! It’s the dolls I’m sick of.” Her arm swoops in an arc encompassing three walls of handcrafted mahogany cabinets brimming with antique dolls of every description. “Just sick and tired of it all!”

  Stunned by her vehemence, I pivot to take in the full extent of Donna’s collection. Any one of a number of these miniature life-like creatures, all dressed in custom-crafted finery, is worth the price of a luxury sedan. I glance back at Donna, surprised that she would disparage what I thought was a cherished family possession. She looks stricken, her hand clamped to her mouth.

  “Donna, are you okay?”

  “Shhhh, we’ll talk outside,” she whispers, as if hundreds of tiny porcelain ears are listening to us.

  She takes the sailor doll from me, tenderly places it back in the cabinet and quickly closes the door. The room is hushed, but one can almost hear expressions of hurt and indignation behind the glass panes. I fear Donna’s rash words will not soon be forgotten in these quarters.

  I need coffee more than ever. I wait in the hallway, feeling vaguely uneasy, until Donna pulls the door closed.

  “It gets to me sometimes,” she says, still whispering. “They’re just so demanding. Someone always needs fixing or doing. A ruffle here, a frayed arm there, it never ends.” She sighs. “And I didn’t collect them. It was all Mama and Granny’s doing, but I’m the one left to take care of these little narcissists!”

  If Donna is a little nuts, who am I to judge? “I’m sorry, Donna. I’ll try to help out more.”

  “How about some coffee?” Back to full voice, she heads down the hallway with me at her heels, hoping breakfast will be forthcoming and hearty. She stops abruptly on the landing and peers over the balcony railing. “I mean, look at this!”

  I follow her lead and look down at the vast living room and entryway, a space that could accommodate the film set for Philadelphia Story if it weren’t cluttered with props from Philadelphia Story and a few dozen other vintage MGM, RKO, Paramount and Warner Brothers films. Donna’s grandfather, an inveterate collector of movie ephemera, hobnobbed with studio moguls, set designers and prop masters to ensure he got the choice bits and pieces hot off the soundstages.

  One reason Donna doesn’t employ much household help is that she can’t risk breakage; therefore, she takes on most of the upkeep herself. Living with Humphrey Bogart’s fedora from The Maltese Falcon and Dooley Wilson’s piano from Casablanca is somewhat thrilling; keeping everything tidy is not. Besides, Donna doesn’t entertain on the grand scale her grandparents did, and these collectibles beg to be shown off.

  The few guests she regularly invites for lunch or holiday dinners already know the answers to her “gotcha” questions. Sample: Who actually played “As Time Goes By” on the piano for Dooley Wilson? Whoever answers “Elliot Carpenter” takes home the jackpot.

  Donna sighs. “I’m sick of dusting and polishing. Who needs to live like this? I just need a change.”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s hard work.” After serving as resident houseguest for nine months, I can sympathize. After a while, a constant stream of trivia questions wears thin. I just want to pour water into a glass that didn’t once belong to Jimmy Stewart. But then a terrible thought comes to mind. “Wait, what kind of change? Are you thinking of moving?” Say it ain’t so!

  Donna’s give-me-a-break look is sufficient to quell my panic. “I’m not selling up, okay? And you’re not leaving. You can’t afford it. I’m not talking about that. I just need more spice in my life. And less clutter.” She heads for the stairs and I follow. “Do cinnamon-apple griddlecakes sound good to you?”

  “Great! And listen, whatever you decide to do about the house, let me give you a hand, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a couple of ideas.”

  “Anything you want to share?”

  “Hmmm, maybe later.”

  Unspoken is a plea to give me some notice before she does something irrevocable. I’ve had a belly full of change and I’m not certain my system could tolerate anything too abrupt. It occurs to me that Donna and I demonstrate the yin-yang of copacetic living: one has too much, the other too little.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Donna barely swallows the last bite of her griddlecake before she’s on her feet, running her syrupy plate under the faucet. “You mind clearing up? I’ve got a couple of things I want to look into.”

  “That’s fine. I was going to offer anyway. What else can I do? Laundry? Water plants? Fluff Greta Garbo’s divan?”

  “Very funny. Actually, thanks, the plants need watering.” She dries her hands on a dishtowel and heads for the door. “See you later.”

  “Don’t do anything too rash.”

  My words are spoken a beat too late. Donna, who is as impulsive as anyone I know, has streaked out of the kitchen at warp speed. The dolls have reason to worry. I envision the closing frames of Citizen Kane, with Donna’s living room becoming a storehouse jammed with packing crates and dustsheets—and there’s no reason not to think a few props from the Orson Welles film might actually be on hand.

  Aside from washing up breakfast dishes and
watering plants, my day is unencumbered until Chelsea decides to call. Technically speaking, I’m on the studio’s clock. Thanks to Pat, my stint as hat-trick consultant pays handsomely. I’m on call not only to coach Chelsea but to choreograph fancy hat maneuvers whenever required. My marching orders are supposed to come through the production office, but Chelsea knows how to reach me, too.

  I check my cellphone once again. No text messages light up the screen. For a moment, my finger hovers over the miniature keyboard. Should I text Chelsea? How r u doing? Where’s my hat? I think not.

  With the weather Southern California perfect, I head out for a brisk walk, phone in hand. At the bottom of the drive, I decide to take a swing around Holmby Park, although I doubt I’ll find Chelsea practicing hat tricks near the bowling green.

  The very thought of it brings back memories of my practice sessions with Roxie. She was a stickler for form. It wasn’t enough that I got the hat to behave and land on my head properly, I had to do everything with—Roxie’s term—flair. “Give it some ritz!” she’d trill in her put-on swanky voice that didn’t quite mask its Bronx origins. “Must see some flair, darling!”

  After exiting the park at the north end, I head into the maze of residential streets, knowing as I do so that my memories of Holiday have triggered thoughts of Dougie Halliburton, who directed most of the episodes. I first met him the day of my camera test for the role of Jinx. I was so in awe of him I could barely speak, but the thought of working with him made me want the role more than anything.

  Jinx, the Magician’s assistant, was a fabulous character, and thanks to Dougie taking a chance on a newcomer, I got the role of my career. He was a legend at the studio, a features director with a deft hand for comedy and a reputation for working exceptionally well with women. More than one actress won top acting awards for work she did with Dougie. He engendered confidence and always managed to say the thing that made you want to take a different tack, push the boundaries of what was expected.

  I’ve taken to checking in on Doug regularly since his wife, Edie, died. He doesn’t mind a drop-in visitor. I round the corner and spot him sitting in a rocker on the veranda, newspapers spread on a side table. Ridley, his Irish setter, lies in a heap at his feet. In dog years, I’d guess Ridley to be the senior member of the duo.