Jinxed

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Dougie spots me, too, but doesn’t bother to get to his feet. Neither does Ridley. Both watch me turn up the drive and mount the stairs to the wide, shaded veranda. Dougie is wearing his trademark safari jacket and blue jeans, his hair a tangle of gray curls.

  “You walk here?”

  “Yup, and didn’t get arrested.”

  “Looks like you got mugged instead. What happened to your face?”

  ”I just tangled with some bushes in the garden. Bushes won.” I tap my finger against a scrape on my chin that still stings when touched. “I didn’t think it showed. I dabbed some concealer on it. Anyway, how’re you doing?”

  “Not so bad. A bit of gout is all.” He scratches the stubble on his chin and glares at his right foot, which is nestled on a pillow atop a wicker footstool. “It’s the curse of kings. Or, in my case, revenge on a country boy’s love of biscuits and gravy. Helluva thing, growing old.” He gives me a sidelong look, his rheumy eyes lighting up. “Hasn’t stopped me, though. My nephew in Chattanooga sent me a Smithfield ham. Want to fix us up a coupla biscuits?”

  “No,” I laugh. “You’re bad, and I’m not going to be your enabler.”

  “Shucks. Well, put the pot on before you settle in. I could go for some coffee. Strong.”

  “Right. Black, lots of sugar. Be right back.”

  I know Dougie’s kitchen better than Donna’s, where I’m barely permitted to make my own cup of tea. When Dougie means strong, he’s talking coffee boiled with chicory in an old tin pot, some sort of odd Southern delicacy that could strip paint.

  I cook his dose of poison while brewing a cup of Earl Grey for myself, all the while registering the sure signs of a widower living alone. Uncapped medicine bottles line the windowsill. Biscuits sit on tinfoil in the toaster oven, a sprung Pillsbury vacuum pack on the counter providing evidence of their origin. If I looked, I’m sure I’d find a side of ham and a saucepan of leftover gravy in the fridge. While waiting for Dougie’s coffee to boil, I fish a skillet and a week’s worth of plates and forks out of murky dishwater that looks like a swamp in August.

  After cleaning the kitchen counter, I pick up my cup of tea and Dougie’s steaming coffee mug while trying to figure out the best way to finesse regular visits from Meals on Wheels. A dose of nutrition would do more for him than a shelfful of medication.

  Dougie’s cleared a space on the side table and looks up expectantly as I deliver his coffee. “Here you go. Liquid tar, just the way you like it.”

  “Nothing finer,” he says, after sipping the scalding brew.

  “So, how’s everything else with you?”

  He knows what I mean. Evie has been dead for five months. The neighbors have stopped delivering casseroles. I’ve told him I’d help with any clearing out whenever he’s ready, but my offer’s been met with silence and a vacant look. Her clothing has hung in their closet for forty-eight years and there isn’t a lot of motivation to change things. He hugs his coffee mug in both hands and looks into the middle distance as though giving my question a considered response.

  “Good. Okay. You know, miss her.” His voice is thin.

  I sip my tea, backing off, letting the silence do its healing. A minute or two later, he reaches down and scratches Ridley’s ruff, then runs his hand along the dog’s silky, titian coat. “We’ve got each other here. Can’t ask for more.” He rocks back and turns his rheumy gaze on me. “What about you? I hear you got a new gig. Keeping it a secret?”

  “Boy, you don’t miss a thing!”

  He nods toward the newspapers on the side table. “It’s in the trades. Besides, I got a piece of the action, remember?”

  “Of course! My God, what an idiot I am. You created Holiday! Sorry, Doug. I wasn’t thinking.” Then the obvious finally dawns on me. “Wait a minute. You knew the series was coming back and didn’t tell me. Damn it, why not?”

  “Couldn’t. All under wraps. Besides, I’m no longer in the saddle. Not even on the ranch. I just did my deal and climbed into my rocker.” The corners of his mouth settle into a clown’s pout.

  “Yeah, right. Poor, sad old you! C’mon Dougie, you’re not out to pasture. If I know you, you’re in the thick of it. Wait!” I bounce to my feet, sloshing tea on my Costco jeans. “You’re the reason I’m coaching Chelsea Horne. You made that happen.”

  A lazy smile slides across Dougie’s face. “Had to provide some sort of antidote to that up-his-ass acting coach she’s got.”

  I shake my head, thoughts tumbling through my brain too fast to give them voice. I sit back down, realizing what a dimwit I’ve been. “Okay, so you didn’t give me a heads-up. But then, it didn’t occur to me to call you, either, when I got the coaching job. So we’re even on that score. Still, I’m sorry. What was I thinking?”

  “That I’m past it. A tired, old geezer best left on the back burner.” There’s an edge to his voice, a flicker of anger in his tired eyes. “Okay, so I’m not the newest, shiniest pot on the stove, but it was my damn stove! I’m not going to let ’em forget it!”

  “I know how you feel.” My voice is barely a whisper and I know there’s a shameful tinge of grief lurking in its undercurrent. “I couldn’t say this to anyone else, but—”

  There’s no need to finish the thought. Dougie nods. “Some young kid’s gonna be wearing your top hat.”

  “Yeah.” It’s my turn to look into the middle distance. “She’s good, though. She wants to make Jinx grittier, tougher. More real.”

  The snort I hear is enough to make me laugh. I turn to see Doug shaking his head. “Slick. Lots of cookie-cutter attitude. They all know the game, but you’re right. She leaped off the screen in her camera test. No one else was even considered.”

  His words hang in the air between us, lingering just long enough to make me think a change of subject is in order. Then Dougie adds, “Almost as good as you, kid. You knocked my socks off when I saw your screen test for Jinx.”

  I swallow hard, keeping tears at bay. This conversation couldn’t happen with anyone else. I know not a morsel of it will ever be repeated. “Thanks, Dougie. I appreciate that.”

  We both sit back, savoring our shared confidences, but the echo of our sincere, heartfelt sentiments sets off my irresistible need to throw a curve. “In fact, Doug, I’m so darn grateful for your kind words I’d consider it an honor to make you a gravy biscuit.”

  Dougie bursts into laughter so explosive that Ridley lifts his head for the first time since my arrival. “If that’s all it takes! Bring it on.”

  “Okay, coming up. But first, tell me about the scripts. Do you have approval? Are you going to direct?”

  “Consultant. Advisory only. Yeah, maybe I’ll helm one toward the end of the season. We’ll see. What do you think of the pilot script?”

  “Honestly? It feels more like a procedural. I realize it’s a weekly hour format, not like our ninety-minute specials. But given that, a lot of the rich, character stuff is lost to plot and pacing. The story goes into territory we couldn’t have touched. This pilot about sex trafficking is gripping, torn-from-the-headlines stuff, which I know is what audiences expect now, but I miss the humor, the fun. What do you think?”

  Dougie leans over and takes his time stroking Ridley. He cups the muzzle in weathered hands and looks into the dog’s watery, brown eyes.

  “It’s a tale for our so-called post-ironic times. These are not whimsical days. The news blares terrible stories that scripted TV drama can’t ignore. The horrors have to be dealt with, albeit in an entertaining manner, because that’s what the medium demands. Is that post-ironic enough?”

  Doug seems to be asking Ridley, so I don’t bother commenting. Ridley, on the other hand, looks bored. He snuffles wearily, obviously having heard these observations from his master before. He makes a throaty sound that could be a dignified growl and lays his head back down on his paws.

  “You see that? Ridley knows,” Doug says, his voice soft. “The scripts we did back in our day, with that style of acting and
directing, just wouldn’t work now. The audience is three steps ahead and probably texting or paying online bills if they’re even watching. It’s a new day. Did I say post-moronic?” He tousles Ridley’s ears and leaves the dog in peace.

  We observe a moment or two of silent contemplation. While irony is my friend, and whimsy gets me through a day of hard-knocks reality, what would I do without Dougie in my life?

  “Listen, there’s a kid I’d like you to meet. Wants to be a director. Writes his own stuff. And he’s got a thing for Ida Lupino and I think you knew her. Anyway, I just wrapped a little film he did, a backyard kind of production. You mind talking to him?”

  “He’s in film school?”

  “Nope. Don’t think he’ll be able to afford it.”

  “Excellent. Send him around. I’ll have that gravy biscuit now, if you don’t mind.”

  I nod. “Coming up, sir.”

  I head for the kitchen, thinking that if the man wants a gravy biscuit, shouldn’t he ask permission from his swollen, throbbing big toe? But if a gravy biscuit is worth more than the gouty pain it invites, then give the man his damn gravy biscuit!

  With that, I yank open the fridge. Inside are two Samuel Adams pilsners, a wedge of ham in cling wrap, a puckered tomato, three stalks of something stringy and beige that could be the ghost of celery, and a plastic container with congealed white stuff, resembling gravy, that’s devoid of any suspicious hairy green bits on top. I look at my watch and take a moment to consider before retracing my steps to the veranda.

  “Dougie, you want a beer with the gravy biscuit? It’s lunchtime.”

  “Sure.” He glances at my shoulder bag hanging on the back of a chair. “Is that your phone making that racket?”

  Indeed it is. Set to vibrate, my cellphone is burring noisily inside its leather pouch. I snatch it from my bag and catch the call before it goes to voicemail. “Hello? Hello?”

  “Hey, hi. I’ve been trying to call you. Where’ve you been?”

  It’s Dirck. He’s barely spoken and I’m already on the verge of rage. Do I really need to account for myself to a former husband? “What do you mean, where have I been? What do you want?”

  “Hey, easy. I left a message. I thought you’d get back to me.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been with a friend. What’s up?”

  “Not sure. It’s just that I was supposed to have a Skype session with Chelsea and I can’t reach her. It’s not like her, you know? Just wondered if you’d heard from her.”

  I’m struck by an odd sense of foreboding. In the time it takes me to realize I’m holding my breath, Dirck’s voice, his real one that just sounds like a guy from Queens with a rasp, says, “Hey, Megsie, sorry, but I just wondered if she’s been in touch with you.”

  “No. No, I haven’t heard from her this morning. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. If you do, tell her to call me. I got a couple hours free if she wants to work.”

  “Sure. Will do. And, Dirck . . . you still there? If you hear anything, let me know.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, will do.”

  I look at Doug as I disconnect. His eyes are alert. “What’s up?”

  “Chelsea.” I shrug. “Probably overslept. She was supposed to work with Dirck this morning but didn’t call in.”

  “No harm there. She’d do well to lose his number.” Doug’s comment is offhand, but I sense he’s picked up on my concern. “Anything you’re not telling me?”

  “Nope. That’s it.” I head back to the kitchen. “Gravy biscuit coming up.”

  There’s no reason to go into the story about Chelsea stealing my hat, or that I have cuts and bruises because I fell into a hedge while chasing her. How do you explain that without sounding infantile—or post-moronic?

  Chapter Five

  Avoiding rush hour is a luxury only the unemployed can afford. The teeming sprawl is a world away from Donna’s doorstep, choking every boulevard and side street leading to the traffic-clogged parking lots known as freeways. It happens to other people and is safely over by the time either Donna or I venture out.

  Therefore, the chug of a diesel-powered engine laboring up the driveway and the squeal of thick tread on paving stones is a rare and terrible sound intruding on the customary morning quiet. I sit up in bed, listening to the metallic scrape of a roll-up door opening, followed by the sound of a hand truck rattling across cobblestones.

  Still drowsy, my first awful thought is: Donna’s moving! The packers are here!

  I leap out of bed and stagger to the window. Indeed, a large truck is parked in the driveway, but the driver appears to be delivering, not picking up. The doorbell rings. I yawn. My bed is safe for another night.

  I consider crawling back under the covers, but with sunlight streaming through the window, sleep loses its appeal. It hasn’t been a good night, and for that I can blame Chelsea. I tossed and turned, playing out one scenario after another, complete with overwrought dialogue in which I chastised her for being irresponsible, ungrateful, disrespectful and duplicitous. Even as I spent sleepless hours churning out choice diatribe after choice diatribe, I realized I probably wouldn’t deliver a single word of it.

  Trumping all my scenarios is the one where Chelsea hands over the hat with a sly smile and no apology. “Oh, were you looking for this?”

  When I finally did descend into sweet oblivion I was met with one of my strenuous Furniture Dreams, in which I leap from end tables to chiffoniers and sofas while being chased by someone. But I was also searching for something lost—what? My hat? Chelsea? Why would I lose sleep over a spoiled, arrogant little thief? I’m not her babysitter. Besides, I’m on the production payroll whether or not I give her the coaching she needs, and it’s money I sorely require.

  But then, in the wee hours of the morning, when I awoke in a panic, it struck me that what I might be striving to recover was the lost role of Jinx. Admitting that to myself permitted me to sleep dreamlessly until the arrival of the delivery truck.

  I wash my face, skirting the red, puffy scratches on my cheek and forehead. I’m hoping a dab of makeup will cover most of the damage, but the deeper cut on my chin will take a couple of days to heal. Dressed in blue jeans and a tee shirt, my feet stuffed into well-worn Uggs, I pad into the kitchen to see what Donna’s up to. I stop in my tracks at the sight of the breakfast nook. I was expecting hot coffee and Donna’s usual gourmet spread, but not served this way: in an elaborate display of vintage crockery in a mocked-up movie set. She is not a slapdash sort of person, but this is way over-the-top even by her standards.

  “You shouldn’t have,” I manage to say. “Just buttered toast would be fine. Maybe cornflakes.”

  “It’s my new venture!” Donna, decked out in a chef’s toque, traditional white jacket and black-checked pants, beams at me. “What do you think?”

  “Nice outfit. Have I stepped into Moulin Rouge?”

  “Guess again. Sit, please.”

  She pulls out a chair. I sit and she snaps a napkin into my lap. Above me, a crystal chandelier wobbles at a strange angle, glittering brightly in the darkened alcove. Red velvet drapes cover the mullioned windows. Red roses burst from a silver vase on a sideboard that’s overflowing with a sumptuous still-life of artfully arranged delicacies. A crystal pitcher of orange juice nestles in an ice-filled urn on a table laid with gold-rimmed china and fine cutlery. On a small scroll of parchment curled around a pair of ornate opera glasses, I see my name written in fancy script.

  “Place cards for breakfast? Who else were you expecting?”

  “For now, just you. But I want to get the atmosphere right for guests. You know, set a theme.”

  I look at her in horror. “You’re not opening a bed-and-breakfast here!”

  “No, but that’s an idea. Actually I’m starting a catering business called . . . ta da! Hollywood on a Plate!” She spreads her arms wide and beams at me. “Get it? Meals based on old movies. Hollywood. On. A. Plate. I love to cook. I like keeping busy and I have all these vintage
props. So I came up with the idea for Dine with the Stars! Hollywood on a Plate.”

  “Got it. And this is Gaslight?”

  She shakes her head vehemently, almost toppling her chef’s toque. She points a finger at an antique Venetian mask that I somehow overlooked, lying near a trio of jams and marmalade. “Phantom of the Opera!”

  “Of course. But do you think Phantom of the Opera lends itself to breakfast?”

  “Dinner, probably, but I wanted to try it out.”

  She hands me a shiny black business card emblazoned with silver lettering: Dine with the Stars! Hollywood on a Plate.

  “My business cards and stationery were delivered with my new computer this morning, so I’m set to go. The plan is that you choose your menu based on a vintage movie. I figure it’s a way I can put all this memorabilia to work for me.” She waves her hand at the props on the table. “Ingrid Bergman’s opera gloves. Fred Astaire’s top hat.”

  “Great idea. But you better hope nobody tries to swipe your décor, thinking they’re party favors. When are you starting up?”

  “I’m already open for business. My first booking is lunch for my golf partners. We’re doing Shanghai Express because everyone liked the idea of Chinese food, and I can show off my Anna May Wong kimono collection and Marlene Dietrich’s lace fan.”

  Donna is almost breathless with excitement. I’m parched, longing for a plain cup of coffee in a mug no one famous ever used. I reach for the orange-juice pitcher, but Donna deftly beats me to it. “Please, allow me. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Maybe we could have it in the kitchen?”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.” She looks disappointed, but leads the way to the bright, airy kitchen. “Are you in a hurry? I was going to do eggs Florentine.”

  “Maybe just an English muffin? I want to sit in on the table read at the studio this morning. With a bit of luck, Chelsea will show up.”