Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “I’m not doing so well,” Bobby said obliquely, squinting at the distance like one looking down a long tunnel.

  “Everything’s slipping away. I’ve lost most of my commissions. I just don’t have the energy to do anything these days. Not even read. I can’t digest food well. Me, the great gourmet, and all I eat these days is Campbell’s tomato soup and dry toast. My teeth are bad and my breath is worse. None of my clothes fit and I can’t afford to buy new ones.” He shook his head. “I’m a mess….”

  “I won’t pretend that I know what that’s like.” Michael looked at his brother, alarmed at the level of despair he found in his eyes. Adding urgency to his voice he continued, “But you have to keep trying. We’ll get you the meds. You’ll start the experimental therapy. You’ve got hope. I want to be there for you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

  Bobby waved him away. “I’m okay. I’m okay. All my friends are here. My support group. I’ll get by. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Why say that to me? Of course I’ll worry about you. How are you paying for the medication? It’s expensive.”

  “That it is. Very. I’ve sold about everything I have. Scott left me a little money, but that’s almost gone. My condo is on the market.”

  I have beautiful windows.

  “Mama will take you in. And I can send you money.” “Live with Papa? I’m not that strong. I’d never survive living with them again.”

  “Where will you go?” He was frustrated now, feeling the pressure of Bobby’s problem on his own shoulders.

  “Listen, forget about it. It’s not your problem. You’re going to Chicago. I’ll be fine.”

  Michael steadied himself against the porch railing as he felt the power of the decision he must make shake and rattle his equilibrium. There was no way he could leave his brother now. He couldn’t desert him a second time. He would stay here after all, give his brother a job, take care of him when he was sick.

  Menso, fool! he called himself in two languages, laughing out loud into the night, ignoring Bobby’s puzzled expression. He was not making this decision at all. Fate was kicking him into line, compelling him to move, one foot in front of the other, along the only path available. Time had no meaning for him. What was one year? Two? Three? A lifetime? What did it matter where he spent the time? California or Chicago? It was how he spent the time that mattered.

  He moved to wrap his arms around his brother, hugging him without any awkwardness, ending with solid pats on his back of affection.

  “Bobby,” he said, still patting his brother’s back soundly. “You just made your father a very happy man.”

  “My sons!” Luis called out, arms spread wide to embrace Michael and Bobby. “Can such a thing be true? Ha! Look out, world! Nothing can stop the Mondragons now. We are united. Strong as bulls on a stampede. Ha!” He tottered toward them, gripping them tightly in fierce hugs, the champagne making him more emotional than usual.

  “You see, Marta? Your prayers to the Virgin have been answered. First one son returns,” he said with pride, wrapping an arm around Michael, “then the other.” He wrapped his arm around Bobby, squeezing him tight. “And it is the return of the prodigal son that brings his father the greatest joy, no? What? The Bible, it says so! Look it up!”

  Bobby’s eyes teared. Luis, overwhelmed by the news and the wine, began sobbing openly, a smile still shining on his face.

  Marta stood beside them, nodding repeatedly, unable to speak. Tears of joy spread down her thin cheeks as she viewed the men in her life openly embracing. Manuel tilted his head and finished his beer, throwing his cards facedown on the table. Rosa, watching her husband leave the room, felt her world spin. She dropped her towel on the floor and walked from the room.

  Michael followed her, catching up with her in the kitchen as she gathered her coat and the children’s toys.

  “You think you’ve been excluded again, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think. I know. Nothing will ever change around here.” She looked up at him, her eyes glittering with anger.

  “There were always only two children in this family. Roberto and Miguel. The precious sons. I was born to help Mama in the kitchen.”

  “It won’t be like that.”

  “Why are you staying?” she cried, anguish mixed with anger. “You’re supposed to be leaving. Two years, you said. You promised! What happened to change all that? Why do you have to stay and ruin things for me and Manuel?”

  “There are circumstances. There’s a lot you don’t understand, but I promise you, I’m not here to make your life difficult.”

  “What do you know about difficult?” She wiped her eyes and sniffed. “Go to hell, Miguel. And Bobby. And Papa. Just leave me alone.”

  “Rosa…”

  “I said leave me alone,” she cried, swatting away his hand. “Just make sure you sign those checks on time.”

  Oh, Lord, he thought, wiping his face with his hand. We’re just one big happy family. He put his hands on his hips and thought long and hard. He was home for the duration. Okay, that was set. There were fences to mend. Tempers to soothe. It would require everything he had. He needed some fortification.

  Suddenly his scowl lifted to a smile as Bobby’s ideas of romance came back to him. Well, why the hell not? he asked himself. If he was going to endure a few months of hell, he deserved at least a few days of heaven.

  Thirteen

  Charlotte died three times that day.

  “Cut!” The director whipped the baseball cap from his curly hair and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with his arm. “Good, Charlotte. Go take a break. We’ll try again in a few minutes.” He was speaking low, as though trying to contain an avalanche of fury.

  He turned like a panther about to pounce toward Melanie, who teetered back and forth nervously on her high heels beside Charlotte. They were both costumed in prim, nineteenth-century maid’s uniforms of black wool and white cotton, sweltering in the unusually warm October sun.

  “Melanie, you’re an idiot,” he shouted with uncharacteristic venom. Usually George Berman was a pleasant, easygoing director who encouraged his actors to find their own way through a scene. Melanie, however, had ground his patience—and that of all the cameramen, extras, makeup artists and costume designers, not to mention the special effects people—straight into the ground with her foppish performance.

  It was a very small part, only a few lines in an earlier scene and four lines in this death scene, but it seemed beyond her. Charlotte didn’t think George was making things easier by calling Melanie an idiot after the last failed take, though she couldn’t blame him. All Melanie had to do was rush to Charlotte’s side after she’d been shot by her lover and hold her while Charlotte gracefully died. Charlotte had hit the pavement five times in the past hour, the last three bursting open the small vials of chemical blood that seeped through her gown.

  George called the costume folks over and spread his hand out in Melanie’s direction. “She looks like a Rockette when she runs out of that house,” he bellowed. “Get her out of those heels. What? I don’t care if she goes barefoot, just stop her from mincing around like it’s a dance number!”

  Melanie was escorted away by the costume assistants, flustered and red-faced, mumbling apologies to George, to Charlotte, to anyone who would listen.

  Charlotte sighed heavily and walked to the welcome shade of an old maple, resplendent in the golds and reds of a Maine autumn. She leaned against the coarse bark to catch her breath and rub the new bruises coloring her arms and legs. A mild headache was beginning at the temples, the nagging kind that she knew could go on for days. She’d been having more of these headaches lately and nothing seemed to shake them. What she needed was to get back home—to Michael—and to the peace she always felt in his arms.

  She barely had a moment to herself before she was surrounded by assistants adjusting her wool maid’s uniform, hairstylists primping her hair, makeup people dabbing her cheeks, and a slim-hipped boy whose s
ole job was to make sure she drank plenty of water. Something Freddy had insisted on ever since her headaches had begun.

  “I dunno, honey,” the jockey-size makeup artist said as he shook his head with disgust and dabbed more powder on her arm. “That’s gonna be one big mama of a bruise. Can’t you demand that they let you fall on the grass at least? You’re going to be black and blue from that pavement before that bimbo gets this scene right.”

  Charlotte closed her eyes and tried not to be fed up with Melanie. Poor Melanie. She knew she was hurting. For the past few weeks since they’d arrived in Maine, Melanie had done nothing but complain about how few scenes she was in or how few lines she had in the film, all the while growing increasingly sharp-tongued in her criticism of Charlotte, whose own role was increasing in lines and scope.

  The movie, One Day in Autumn, was coming to a wrap, but this scene was the worst yet. Melanie was missing her cues, stumbling and jiggling her boobs and bottom like a cancan dancer. She couldn’t grasp that this was a serious period film. That this scene tragically culminated in the unrequited love of a besotted upper-class college student and his beautiful, long suffering housemaid. Not some bedroom romp.

  “I don’t think she can do it,” George said, walking up to her with his hat in his hand. “Look. I know she’s your friend and all, and Walen cut some deal. But I can’t afford this.”

  “Just give her one more chance,” Charlotte said, her eyes entreating. Melanie needed this film. She hadn’t worked in more than a year.

  In response, George gave her a smoldering look. He’d been trying to seduce her since she walked on the set. For Melanie’s sake, she stepped closer and put her hand on his chest. “Please, George? Let’s do one more take?”

  He leaned forward, placing his hand over hers. “You’re not too tired?”

  She shook her head, ignoring the pain in her leg where she’d hit a stone the last time she fell. Melanie had been right. Beauty was power, and the power of her beauty never failed to amaze her. She was only beginning to learn how to tap it.

  “I’m fine. Really.” She even batted her lashes. “Give me a minute to freshen up and I’ll be ready to die again. For you.”

  His eyes glazed over. “You’re amazing, you know that? Not many actresses can work from six in the morning till six at night without whining.” He patted her hand under his, the look in his eyes so full of intent it was embarrassing. “How about dinner after we wrap this up?”

  The assistants surrounding her turned away, rolling their eyes.

  “Oh, George, I’ll be exhausted after today. I think I’ll just order a bowl of soup from the kitchen and fall right asleep in my room. Thank you, though. Maybe tomorrow night?”

  He didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. He let her hand drop and nodded once, so sharply she thought his head would fall off. Hollywood egos were as fragile as spun glass.

  “Five minutes,” he shouted to everyone. “I don’t want to lose this light.”

  He passed Melanie as he stomped away, almost snarling at the too large, plain black flats she flopped across the gravel in.

  “He hates me,” she whined when she met up with Charlotte.

  “No, but he hates the way you run, Mel.” She reached out to touch Melanie’s shoulder. The wool was hot and scratchy and Melanie was perspiring heavily. “Pretend you’re a man when you run. Lead with your shoulders and don’t move your hips so much.”

  “Why would I want to do that? The way I move is one of my greatest assets.”

  Charlotte pressed her fingers against her lids, relieving the pressure building there but ruining her eyeliner in the misty sweat. “Because you’re a nineteenth-century housemaid who just saw her friend shot down in the street. You wouldn’t be coy at a time like that, would you? You’d be terrified. Run like you’re terrified.”

  Melanie seemed offended and stepped away, out of Charlotte’s reach. “That’s what I am doing. Just because it isn’t the way you would do it doesn’t mean my way isn’t good.”

  Charlotte sighed, fearing for the worst. Melanie’s resentment was clouding her judgment and there was nothing she could do about it.

  “Let’s do a take,” George called out.

  Too late. It was up to Melanie now, and she was already sauntering off to her mark, swinging her hips like Mae West. Her stubbornness only fueled her destruction. It was hard to stand by and watch it happen. Anything Charlotte said would come out sounding patronizing or shrewish, neither of which would be helpful or appreciated by Melanie. There was nothing she could do. She turned her gaze away, drawing together her wandering thoughts. Now it was time to close her eyes and begin her work. As the makeup artist dabbed her face dry of perspiration and repaired her eyeliner, Charlotte directed her razor sharp focus within, then called on the character of the young housemaid, Laura, to emerge.

  When she opened her eyes, all thoughts of Melanie were gone. The scores of technicians and assistants, the hundreds of glaring eyes and trivial comments, all disappeared. She moved as though to inner music to her mark in the middle of the college square and serenely looked around at the ivy covered eighteenth-century buildings that surrounded her. At the horse drawn carriages, the long dresses, the bustles, the cravats, the walking canes and myriad other paraphernalia of the set. All helped place Laura into the time period. Ah, yes, she felt it now.

  Laura moved into the scene. She was leaving the college, leaving the town, in a hurry. Her lover was obsessed, searching for her. She was afraid for her life.

  Quiet settled on the set, the cameras began rolling, and there was her lover Charles, handsome, familiar, yet with a crazed look in his eye. He was coming at her with a gun. She screamed. He fired, and Laura fell to the ground, not wincing even once when she found the same stone she’d hit before. She lay motionless on the ground, not moving a hair while action swirled around her. Suddenly she heard George’s anguished voice shouting loudly over the other noises.

  “Idiot!” he cried.

  Later that night, Charlotte couldn’t find Melanie at the restaurant of the hotel the film company had taken over for the duration of the filming. Nor was she in her room, at the lounge, or at any of the other places frequented by the actors and crew. It was nine o’clock and there weren’t many places to go. This was a small college town with one narrow street of businesses that shut down early.

  Charlotte was troubled. An inner voice warned her to find her friend. George, totally fed up, had released Melanie from the film. Freddy was on his way from L.A. to deal with the fallout and she wanted to talk to Melanie before Freddy lit into her. What Melanie needed now was a friend, not a foe.

  She searched the halls of the Gaslight Hotel, an old hotel that had seen better days. The creepy surroundings, with peeling wallpaper and fading carpets, made her feel uneasy. The smell in the air was stale, like old beer. Picking up her pace, she peeked into the small rooms where machines sold candy and dispensed ice, hoping to find Melanie. No luck. She moved on to the seedy lounge with dark paneling and neon signs advertising brands of beer. The film crew was gathered there playing pool and poker or just hanging out, bored and drinking.

  “Anyone seen Melanie Ward?”

  There were a few sexist comments about how everyone had seen Melanie at some point. Someone broke through the snickering and said he thought he saw her headed toward the beach. Charlotte felt a shiver of apprehension and quickened her pace.

  The hotel had a beach out back beyond the porch and down a rickety set of wooden stairs. It was a gloomy stretch of sand, littered with seaweed and broken shells and smelling of rotting fish. Salt air stung her cheeks, whipping through her thin sweater. She shivered and crossed her arms tightly around herself, narrowing her eyes and searching the blackness. Stars flickering in the crisp sky reflected in the ocean like hard diamonds.

  She cast a look over her shoulder. No one was around. She descended the stairs and entered the eerie darkness of the deserted beach. She’d walked a few yards when she th
ought she saw a movement in the shadows, far down the beach. Charlotte squinted and caught a glimpse of pale blond hair, almost white in the moonlight. The figure was draped in flowing black fabric, probably the black wool maid’s costume. It covered her like a blanket stretched over her knees. She was huddled on a long piece of driftwood, staring fixedly at the ocean.

  “Melanie!” she called out, rising up on tiptoe and swinging her arm in an arc.

  Melanie turned her head toward her, then slowly stood up.

  Charlotte felt a huge relief in finding her. Now if she could just talk to her. She began walking toward her.

  Melanie turned her head and was staring again at the ocean. Then she started walking at a measured pace toward the shoreline, not stopping when her bare feet touched the water. She moved like one in a deep trance as the water slapped up against her feet, her thighs, lifting the hem of the maid’s dress.

  “Melanie!” Charlotte cried out again, her voice raspy with panic. My God, she’s not stopping. She’s going in. Charlotte took off on a run, fixing her eyes on Melanie so as not to lose her mark in the blackness of sea and sky.

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Michael Mondragon.” He set down his bag and stretched his shoulders, getting a good glimpse of the Gaslight Hotel. He didn’t know film people stayed at such dumps.

  The clerk eyed him suspiciously. “I’m sorry, sir, but the hotel is reserved only for the cast and crew of One Day in Autumn.”

  Michael frowned, hearing the obsequious pride in the hotel clerk that he was associated, even at such a mundane level, with a film. He fixed the clerk with a no-nonsense glare. “I’m a friend of Miss Godfrey’s.”