“Sorry, I’m a Cooper fan. But never mind all that,” she said, noshing on a carrot stick. “I’d be having major panic attacks by now if I were locked up in this Taj Mahal. Want one?” she offered, extending the crudités.
“No thanks. Actually I feel like I’m on an imposed vacation. I’ve calmed down considerably having spent quality time ‘becoming one with a horse,’” I said, making fun of the much-hyped equine therapy.
“That sounds so kinky.”
“Trust me, it’s not that exciting and has nothing to do with Catherine the Great.”
Shannen’s laughter was replaced with a pall of melancholy.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied, biting her quivering bottom lip.
“Stop lying.” Glancing to see that Ivy and Grandma Jones were settling in at a nearby table, I called out, “You-all start without us.”
“But Mom—”
“Be right there, we both will.”
As Grandma Jones began blessing the food I steered Shannen into a quiet corner. “Okay, we have a few minutes, talk to me.”
Wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand, she quickly confessed, “I’m such a terrible friend. Here you’re the one going through all this traumatic stuff and I’m the one crying like a big baby.”
“Never mind all that.”
“Roger’s gone nuts. Felicia keeps giving me gratuitous sex scenes with Javier and I swear she’s doing it on purpose. And to top it all off, I just ran into my first love and he’s married.”
“Oh honey,” I comforted. “Not to be nosy, but who’d you run into?”
“Jerome McDonald. We were engaged and I called it off like an idiot, I think I told you.”
“That Jerome? The football player you ’bout ran off with? I had no idea. Damn, girl, he’s definitely the one who got away and fine as all get out. I heard his wife flew in on their private jet, they are load-ed.”
Shannen sighed. “His wife has a rock the size of a baby’s fist and all I have left from that relationship is a jersey and an autographed football. No glass slipper for this Cinderella, just mice.”
“So Roger’s still trippin’, huh?”
“Things are so bad, Calysta. I mean, when ‘At Home with a Soap Star’ aired, Roger went ballistic! They’d featured me talking about my ‘fabulous soap star lifestyle’ but edited out every shot of him. And then I got all the criticism on Facebook, being compared to that Robin Givens and Mike Tyson interview with Barbara Walters. It was hell at home. We were sleeping in separate rooms and everything. I told Roger he should have taken that game-show host job when he had the chance but he stupidly said it was beneath him.”
“Wow, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, and I’ve barely been able to pay our mortgage. If I miss one more payment the house is going into foreclosure. Fans think soap stars are all rich and happy, leading lives right out of some Danielle Steel novel; if they only knew. Don’t get me wrong, I feel grateful for the money I make, but by the time I pay the agent, the manager, the publicist, Roger’s anger management therapist, the entertainment attorney, my personal trainer, and my psychic . . . heck, there’s nothing left.” She hyperventilated, beginning to hiccup.
“Okay, now now, take a deep breath and hold it while you count to twenty, then exhale; it always works.”
Inhaling deeply, Shannen began, “I made a last-ditch effort to fix things at our hiccup cabin but it went horribly wrong I actually told Roger hiccup it was over but he keeps hiccup trying to reconcile.” She went on, turning beet red, “I don’t think it’s going to happen but I agreed to talk to him tomorrow I blame Felicia for all this.” She finally exhaled.
“See, it worked. Your hiccups are gone.”
“Oh yeah,” she acknowledged, continuing, “You know Felicia and Roger were friends in college.”
I nodded.
“Well, when things started to go really south she came over all the time, insinuating herself into our lives like she was Sue Johanson. When Roger wouldn’t confide in me anymore but could somehow express his feelings to her, I was so humiliated, knowing Felicia knew more about my life than I did.”
“You think Miss ‘Best Pal from College’ wants to move into the ‘More Than Friends’ category?”
“I know it! Felicia sees Roger as ‘the one that got away.’ He told me once how she used to joke that if they weren’t married by the time they turned forty she wanted the two of them to get hitched. You can just imagine how she felt when I came along and snagged him six months before his fortieth birthday. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had a little blond voodoo doll that she pokes the hell out of every night.”
Seeing where this was going, I said, “Felicia doesn’t need a doll. All she has to do is poke her word processor.”
“Exactly. Hence all the love scenes with Javier, which didn’t even make sense. One minute I was with Wolfe and the next I was falling into a compost pile with Fink’s gardener Pepe. It made my character look so slutty to fans and drove Roger straight over the edge. You should see all the hate mail I’m getting. Went from being Top Five in the Soap Polls to number one on Cliffhanger Weekly’s Losers List.”
“Damn, I knew Felicia was vicious but to risk ratings? Does Roger know?”
“He didn’t believe me, said I was being paranoid. He’s one to talk. Anyway, I guess it doesn’t really matter. I broke it off with Roger and broke down with Javier. He was so tender and attentive, and only too eager to blur the lines between real life and reel life.”
“I’m glad someone’s giving you some TLC,” I said, walking toward the picnic table. “Now listen, promise as soon as I’m outta here we’re going to fix some things and jet off to Jamaica for some much-needed R&R.”
“Mom, is everything okay?” Ivy asked as we approached.
“Yeah, baby, just catchin’ up. Sorry it’s taken me so long.”
“It’s okay. Do you mind if I walk down to the stables with Shannen and let you and Mother Jones have some time together, alone?”
“But we haven’t—”
“Mom.” After a beat. “We have forever.”
CHAPTER 37
Gotta Colt .45?
Stomping into a rustic Big Bear pawnshop that same afternoon, Roger Cabott startled the sleepy proprietor seated behind the counter. The name Shell was stitched above his shirt pocket, stuffed with leaky pens and eyeglasses.
“I need a piece,” Roger growled.
“Uh, if you mean a gun what kind are you lookin’ for?” Shell asked carefully, removing the pipe from his mouth.
“I don’t know, something that shoots bullets I imagine,” Roger said sarcastically. “Something I can get for this.” Unballing his fist, he slammed his platinum and diamond ring down on the glass counter.
“Ohh-kay.” Shell didn’t want to ask his next question but felt he should. “What do you want to do with a firearm?”
“I might wanna go hunting, and I definitely need to protect myself and my honor.”
“Protection for the home. NRA member I bet. Good. Town Hall meeting tomorrow night if you’re interested. All right, let’s see what we got. Rifles are over here.”
“I didn’t say anything about a rifle. I’m looking for a handgun.”
Not saying a word, the storekeeper nodded, leading Roger past the enormous knife display, fishing equipment, and a Confederate flag collection. Roger pointed. “Gimme that one, yeah, that’ll do the trick.”
“Good choice. Colt .45 automatic, but you do understand this firearm isn’t for hunting?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll need some ammo too. Can you throw it in?”
“Sure. Need to see some ID though.”
Roger slid his wallet across the counter and fifteen minutes later emerged with a gun and a box of Remingtons. Revving the engine, he peeled out heading due south, back to L.A. to pay his Internet “It Girl” wife a visit.
CHAPTER 38
What’s Done in the Dark
Will Co
me to Light
Under the shade of trellised wisteria blossoms, we sat wondering how to start a conversation we’d avoided having for more than two decades.
“You sure they feedin’ you enough here, Beulah? Look like a string bean.”
“I’ve already gained three pounds, Grandma.”
“Where—your earlobes?”
An awkward silence stood between us before Grandma Jones said, “Sure is high cotton. Real uppity. Wish I could’ve afforded a breakdown. Shoot, in my day us women never hearda’ such a thing, and those that did we ain’t never seen since.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “Couldn’t afford a breakdown?”
“Had kids to raise, mouths to feed, and jobs to get to, a lot of ’em in the field. We prayed for mercy and salvation and kept right on goin’. Had your mamma to care for, plus my job cleanin’ at the Country Club, then you come along. God gave me the strength to raise you even though—”
“But Grandma, sounds like you’re sayin’ bein’ in rehab’s a luxury.”
“Ain’t it? Seems like an awful lotta money to be spendin’ on self-control. ’Specially in these times.”
Stemming my percolating frustration, I said, “But it’s more than self-control. It’s things built up inside that I kept a lid on from a long time ago.”
“Oh, I don’t want to hear all that goobly-gob. Prayer is the best medicine, all you gotta do is turn your life over to the Lord and recognize grace is ‘favor’ and you wouldn’t have any success without that. The past is the past, dead and buried. Move on and get back on track, a new world’s right around the corner.”
Grandma was entitled to think she was right, but I wasn’t about to let her off the hook and sweep our dark secret under the rug.
“No disrespect, but it ain’t goobly-gob. It’s the truth and I’ve been talkin’ about it with my therapist here.”
“Shhh,” she said, looking around to make sure we were alone “Lower your voice, people hear you talkin’ like that they’re liable to think you’re special. And what exactly have you been discussin’ with a stranger anyway, Beulah?”
“Therapist.”
“Same thing, answer the question.”
“You know, our secret.”
“What secret? I don’t know about any secret. What the devil are you talkin’ about?”
“Grandma,” I said softly, taking her hand, “I know this must be as painful for you as it is for me, but if I’m gonna get any better I need for us to talk once and for all about what happened to my mamma, me, and what I did afterward. Remember what they say, ‘We’re only as sick as—’”
“Beulah Espinetta Jones, I didn’t come all this way to listen to some foolishness.”
“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to,” I insisted, shocking my grandmother, who’d reached for her cane, threatening to leave. “We can’t keep pretending what happened in Greenwood is a figment of my imagination.”
Stoic and tight-lipped, pocking her chin like an orange peel, she sat there just like I remembered as a girl returning home from my theatrical debut in the Pride-All taxi.
“As much as I’ve tried, Grandma, it’s a promise I just can’t keep. I want us to come clean with each other. And if you love me the way you say you do, you’ll do that.”
As she slowly released her cane, I sensed she might be ready to talk.
“You know, Beulah, everybody ready to jump on board when the goin’s good, but the minute you down in the dust, who’s there to pick you up? Look around, who’s here? Me and Ivy. I worked my whole life and done the best with the hand I was dealt. Your great-grandma, God rest her soul, worked them cotton fields and when she was pregnant with me they sent her to squeeze cottonseed oil through Chinese hair. You come from strong stock, a long line of hardworkin’, God-fearin’ women, and for the life of me I don’t know why you’d want to go and dig up the ugly past and spoil things now. We moved on from all that pain,” she lamented.
“You moved on, Grandma, not me. I feel things, deep things, still.”
“Just ask the Holy Ghost to help change you on the inside and you’ll be able to let all that confusion and hatred go. See, I wrote down what the pastor said this mornin’:
To get somethin’ you never had, you have to do somethin’ you never did. When God takes somethin’ from your grasp, he’s not punishin’ you, but openin’ your hands to receive somethin’ better. He’ll never take you where His grace won’t protect you.
“Here,” she said, passing me the pamphlet.
Looking down at it, I said, “Grandma, there’s two ways to interpret this sermon. To me it says, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t supposed to be. And long before Hollywood was even in the picture, you told me, ‘If ya keep doin’ what you’re doin’ you’re gonna keep gettin’ what you get.’ Why did you send me to dust and make tea for Winslow, knowin’ full well what he was capable of?”
Silence.
“Grandma?”
“I’ve prayed for forgiveness, chile. Couldn’t imagine him harmin’ my baby Maddie Mae while she was up there cleanin’ for me.”
“For you?” I got chill bumps.
“I fell ill . . . was on bed rest.”
I’d only seen Grandma Jones cry once before.
“Nevah gave it a second thought sendin’ her up to Winslow’s in my place. Didn’t want him to hire somebody else.”
“But when she came up pregnant?”
Silence.
“Grandma,” I said pointedly, “weren’t you suspicious when she came up preg—”
“Yes! Yes, ’course I was. But folks didn’t talk about such things back then for fear of scandal. When I tried sayin’ somethin’ Winslow threatened to run me and your mamma outta town and where was we gonna go?” She wept.
A hungry hawk circled above his next meal.
“Said he’d take care of you even though he nevah admitted to any wrongdoin’. I made room in my heart and forgave him.”
“Well I never did. What gave you the right?”
“Jesus. Jesus gave me the right. And Pastor Winslow made me a promise. Kept it every week.”
“And do you know where that promise came from, Grandma?”
“Well . . . I-I . . . ”
“I do. Caught that wolf passin’ you that bloody promise in an envelope in the shed. Nevah said a word for fear of the tongue of your strap.”
“What strap?” She questioned like every elder I knew, conveniently forgetting terrifying discipline over nothin’.
Storming on, I said, “But because you taught me to keep secrets, including poor Mamma bein’ raped by that jackleg preachin’ thug, I took matters into my own hands before he could do any more damage.”
“Beulah, stop ’fore I . . .”
“What? Get a switch?”
“It wasn’t ’cause I didn’t believe Maddie Mae! You’re upsettin’ me with this gone by business.”
But I couldn’t stop. A dam had broken wide open.
“Figured if we repressed our secrets, they’d go away? Or is insanity my only option? Is that what you meant by me comin’ from strong stock?”
“It was survivin’! I was consumed with guilt and blinded by fear. Yeah, I was weak and made mistakes and allowed myself to be swallowed up by sin, I admit that. Don’t judge how I dealt with my grief, please don’t. I lost my daughter, my only child, and knew no amount of prayin’ was gonna bring her back but she gave me you, a miracle born outta tragedy, I can’t lose you too, Beulah.”
There was so much more I wanted to say but couldn’t.
“Can’t make what was no more ’cause I don’t have the power to rewrite history but I do have the power to go forward with . . . with what we have . . . love for each other.”
Emotionally spent, we watched as a pair of hummingbirds searched for nectar.
Ivy and Shannen headed our way, enjoying the fiddlers as they passed.
“Mom, the guy at the gate said we should start wrapping up our visit and we’ve barely had any t
ime . . . Mother Jones, are you crying?”
“Happy tears, pumpkin, nothin’ for you to worry your pretty little head about.” Looking at me with a tender smile, she continued, “Your mamma and me had a lot of catchin’ up to do and it’s been a beautiful visit.”
I could hear Rock in the background. “Okay folks, time to wrap it up. Visiting hours are over in a half hour.”
After devoting the remaining time to Ivy, I walked my family to Shannen’s Love Bug. I noticed her glancing in Jerome’s direction as he lifted his son out of the Jump O’Rama and kissed his wife good-bye.
“You okay?” I asked Shannen.
“Yeah. Just not looking forward to tomorrow.”
“If Roger starts any stuff just call the cops and get a restraining order against his crazy butt.”
“I tried that once before, remember? It ended badly and I had to call in sick. On a brighter note, I’m going to surprise your grandma and take her to the set tomorrow. What do you think?”
“I think you’re excellent. She’s going to have the time of her life. Just wish I could be there too. Take lots of pictures and make sure she meets Wolfe and Maeve, and especially Willie, they’re her favorites after you and me.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t miss a trick,” Shannen said with a wink, repeating an oft-used phrase she’d learned from Grandma Jones.
“You know, Shannen, I can count on one hand the true friends I have in this world and you’re one of them.”
Tearing up again and hugging me tightly, she said, “I’d better go or we’ll never leave.”
“Thanks for everything, I mean it.”
Reaching in through the front window on the opposite side, I gave Grandma Jones one last squeeze, breathing in her familiar talcum powder scent, whispering, “I love you,” in her ear.
“We’ll be back next week, Mom,” Ivy said, planting a kiss on both my cheeks before getting in and buckling up.
“Be home for your birthday.”
“Mom, you’ve told me three times already.”
Veiled by tears, Shannen’s VW became smaller and smaller as I waved good-bye, spontaneously curling my index and thumb into the shape of a small “C” measuring my family driving away. Once they were out of sight, the country western music fading, I repeated, “Traveling mercies . . . traveling mercies . . . traveling mercies . . .”
Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva Page 22
