by Tess Oliver
As I write this, voices downstairs have calmed to a quiet roar, like a slow thunder on the horizon. Perhaps they've come to helpful conclusions and satisfying agreements and Father's stone face and grim mood will have vanished by morning. For now, I shall head to my bed to see if I can read my novel without repeating the same sentence over and over. It might be difficult, though, since nothing about this day has left me clearheaded or the slightest bit content.
October 7, 1929
I can hardly write, such is my state of mind. It seems impossible to think an entire existence, a family fortune, could dwindle to nothing in a matter of days, but it seems to be the case. Father has worn a nappy path in the carpet runner connecting the den to his office. His anxiety and distress are palpable. The thick mahogany paneling in the office practically vibrates with the anguish that rolls off of his broad shoulders in violent waves. And, it seems he is not alone in this tragedy. Indeed, a short walk to the park, a brief respite from the thick cloud of doom in the house, allowed me to witness firsthand the torment circling our upper crust neighborhood as financial ruin pulled in everything in the vicinity, like a wild, thunderous tornado on the Great Plains might grab everything in its path. It was hard to think that our picturesque neighborhood with the stately Georgian brick manors and their pristine white trim and welcoming porticos could ever fall into disrepair. But, surely, if we were truly facing bankruptcy, a hideous word I'd heard more than I cared to these past few days, then upkeep of a large manor along with employment of a full household staff seemed out of the question. It was entirely possible, while wholly difficult to fathom, that we would eventually, the three of us, have to shift our lives to much smaller, more humble living quarters. Good lord, how would I keep my distance from The Stepmother if she slept and read and knitted just feet from my bedroom?
My only hope is that this, like so many ill-fated moments in time, passes with us mostly unscathed. It seems somewhat fantastical to think that large fortunes can just evaporate into thin air. My knowledge of the financial world is about as great as my interest in it, which is certainly not saying much, but it seems inconceivable that wealth can just vanish. For heaven's sake, where would it all go? I'm certain a few good nights of sleep and Father will stop looking like something out of graveyard and all will be well in the house.
Perhaps I'll climb out on my balcony and search the night sky for a falling star. It can never hurt to make a wish on a rogue celestial light. For now, I sign off with sincere hope that my next entry will bring good news and relief from the cold wool shroud that has enveloped our home.
My phone rang, startling me out of my reading trance. I picked it up.
"Hey, Shel." I turned the book over and rested it on the pillow.
"What are you up to on this fine day?" she asked with mild enthusiasm. I knew she was worried about her own career. I felt lumpy and cold knowing that my failings were going to take her down too. But she was so talented and personable, with my reference she would have no problem latching onto another Hollywood VIP. That thought brought my mood back down to a low, dull ache. I hated to think of someone else skirting around town, dashing off instructions and listening to the daily schedule from my awesome personal assistant.
I tapped the book on my lap as if she could see through the phone. "I finally got around to starting the book."
"The book? Which book? Oh, the diary," she answered herself. "Oh my gosh, did we get the part?"
Another thing I loved about her, every part was our part. We were truly a team. The truth was, I might have been the one on camera but she was always there behind me, supporting me through it all. Which was why I hated to have to tell her that there had been no decision or confirmation on our part.
"Not yet. I've let Sawyer know I'm interested, but it seems my entire future and career hinges on Jameson Slate. I just don't see this as his kind of part."
Her disappointment wafted through the phone on a long breath. "Damnit. I just think this part would be so good for you. What do you think of the book? It's one of my favorites, another reason I'd like to see my best friend play Cassandra. The more I think about it, the two of you have similarities."
"I'm only on the third entry. Frankly, she seems sort of shallow and vain."
"Uh huh, see what I mean?"
"I'm not shallow or vain," I insisted.
"Do I really need to bring up the incident in ninth grade when you were so mad that Deidre Morgan's bangs were longer than yours that you actually tied little weights to the ends of yours to—and I quote— stretch those suckers right out of my forehead—end quote."
"Glad you didn't feel the need to bring it up." I chuckled lightly at the image of me staring at my reflection as I carefully rubber banded round metal washers onto my fringe of bangs. "Besides, that story doesn't show shallowness or vanity. It shows a little thing called ingenuity, thank you very much."
"I believe those weights only resulted in a headache and some unnatural hair shedding. Not sure if it reaches a level of ingenuity worthy of praise. Anyhow, I'm going to let you get back to the book because I know how much time, effort and planning goes into you actually reading a novel. And I think Cassie will grow on you. She's really relatable, considering she grew up in an entirely different time period. How about stopping at Mario's tonight? I'm dying for some mushroom ravioli."
"Sounds good to me. See you then." I picked the book back up.
October 9, 1929
Words should have escaped me, such is the dire situation facing our family. But I found, as I lifted the pen in my fingers, syllables flowed right through my hand and onto the paper. Utter despair should be saved not for loss of wealth but loss of a loved one. When, at the age of twelve, I sat on my godmother's royal blue tufted couch with it doilies and persistent smell of talcum powder, I knew something dreadful was happening. Mother had not been feeling well for a week, lightheaded, she'd said, not of solid mind, she'd noted, yet she insisted on visiting Rose, my godmother, to deliver an intricately embroidered sampler. (My mother was so talented.) When she slumped over the tea service, spilling hot tea on her dress and Rose's pale pink rug, it had scared me plenty, but I was certain it was just a passing illness, a slight fever that had caused her to faint. Hours later, with the coming and going of stout medical men with their stern black leather satchels and even sterner expressions, I found myself sitting on the couch all alone, getting more and more fretful with each passing moment. Rose, who suddenly looked a good deal paler and even a few years older, shuffled out several times to pat my arm and favor me with sympathetic smiles, but she refused to answer my pleas concerning my mother's health. 'Will she be well enough to travel home tonight? Molly is making a special tart with the wild blueberries I picked in the garden.' It was all said with the shallow, self concern only a twelve-year-old girl could produce with confidence. My worry was that I wouldn't taste the tart, hot and bubbly from the oven. I certainly could not fathom anything as catastrophic as my mother's early death. When Father finally arrived, looking as grim as he did just this morning at breakfast, he took only a short minute to tell me my mother had gone to the angels and we would be traveling home without her. In that short minute, my life changed so dramatically it had never actually righted itself. I was sure that feeling of utter despair would never be matched and it hasn't. That tragedy has helped me keep a reasonable perspective on all that has happened.
Yes, it seems this year's holiday party dresses will stay locked away in the dressmaker's patterns, and several of the servants were given two days' pay and a basket with oranges and apples and sent on their way. But it was not despair like that fateful day, when my heart had been hollowed, and Father and I traveled home in his long, black Rolls Royce bathed in a silently, suffocating heartache.
More than a handful of strangers had shown up at the house throughout this tumultuous day, including one with a dark, unsettling gaze and the lingering scent of cheap cologne on his out of fashion, nearly threadbare suit. I led him to Father
's study. This man, with the disquieting demeanor, stared at me long enough to send a shiver of discomfort through me. I was glad to be out of his presence and hopeful I'd never see him again. I left the man feeling as if I had just been examined like horse flesh or cattle. I could not come up with one reasonable explanation for his visit, but Father waved him anxiously into his study as if they had serious business to discuss. Perhaps that was how it would be from now on. Perhaps Father would align himself with men of a more crude, rugged nature. It was hard to unravel how all of this would eventually work itself out. All I knew was that The Stepmother was not having any better days than me. This morning, she raced from Father's study, waving her arms and shrieking that we would all soon be living in the street and eating scraps from the garbage. If my own misfortunes weren't profoundly attached to Margaret's, I might have even taken a moment of enjoyment from the whole hysterical outburst.
The evening ended with a heated argument between Father and his wife. Her banshee like fussing continued, only rather than lament her nights on the street digging through garbage, she emphatically insisted that it was the only thing to be done and that Father must not hesitate or he might very well lose out on the opportunity. While the words came from the one person I rarely listened to, it gave me some comfort to know that there was at least some solution to our problems being considered. I was entirely in the dark about what that might be, but I took heart that matters would soon be resolved and peace would once again fall over the household.
The stress of it all was playing havoc with my complexion. Just this morning, I woke up and mistook myself for a plucked hen, with ruddy red cheeks and mottled forehead. My plan, once my pen was back in the inkwell, was to slather my poor, sorry skin with Pond's Cold Cream and try to banish negative thoughts for the remainder of the night. With any luck, all would be bright in the morning.
October 11, 1929
As I write this my hand shakes so badly, it is hard to grip the pen. There is no doubt, dear diary, that this will be a nearly illegible entry but then it seems my life, my entire existence has been scrambled and shuffled like a deck of cards. Indeed, what I'm about to write is so impossible to conceive or absorb, I need to write the words and read them back to myself for comprehension's sake. It seems, my father, or the man who purports to fill that position, along with his demonic wife have conspired and come up with a solution to their money troubles. I have been sold off like a prized cow at an auction. For a few bars of gold, they have traded what apparently remained as their only possession of worth off to the steely eyed man with the shabby suit and ungentlemanly manners. It was easy to see now why Father refused to make eye contact with me over the breakfast table. I suppose it was hard to face a daughter you had just handed off, as if nothing more than a commodity. My only hope is that he changes his mind, that some semblance of a conscience returns to the man I once loved. Surely, he would not send his only child off with a complete stranger and all for a few bars of gold.
The Stepmother sat imperiously, like some member of royalty, with her pile of pale green knitting on her lap and a simpering grin on her face as Father paced in front of the massive marble fireplace, scratching his chin a number of times and even producing several fake cough bouts, as he tried to pull together the words. How does one tell one's only daughter that he's handed her off to a stranger so that his wretched wife can keep her personal servant and her fine sterling? I could hardly say because my mind and my focus fell away after the words, "Cassandra, dear, the man you saw enter my study yesterday has asked for your hand in marriage."
My first response was a light, jovial laugh. It was a perfectly logical response from a woman who knew her beloved father would never do anything as heinous as sell her off to the highest bidder. But the pallor of my father's usually ruddy complexion and the grim set of his mouth beneath a gray moustache that rocked back and forth nervously assured me he was serious. Thomas Biggs, my purchaser, was, apparently, a Nebraska farmer with some two hundred acres and, for no logical reason, a root cellar that had a pile of gold bars sitting amongst the potatoes, onions and squash. From the snippets of information, mostly tossed out by Margaret in a tone she used for polite company (I could only assume she thought it made the whole notion more palatable as if any member of society would be thrilled to have such an offer of marriage) my future husband had inherited the gold through a grandfather who had traveled to California when its hills and rivers were still rich with the stuff. It had remained in the family, gathering dust and value, as it were. It seemed, at the moment, the yellow metal was the only commodity that held its value, or at least some of it considering the large, bottomless hole that had been blown into the financial world. For the past week, pawn shops were filling up with family heirlooms and fancy jewelry all in an effort to save property and, in most cases, shreds of dignity.
But thank goodness Margaret's gold wedding band and diamond brooch had been saved the humiliation of sitting in a pawn shop window. No, it seemed Father had found a much more streamlined approach to regain his status in society. Simply sell off his daughter.
It was all too revolting and nauseating to consider. How would I ever face my friends again once they learned that I was worth less than gold to my father? How could I live out there in the middle of acres and acres of plowed dirt with no signs of society or civilized life? How could I possibly be a farmer's wife? And the most dreaded question of all—how could I possibly marry that man who produced an unsettling shiver in me that I still had not completely shaken? Good lord, would I be expected to share his bed? A bed with a complete stranger? Oh, Father, Father. You do not deserve that title any longer, for no real father would ever do this to his beloved daughter. And I suppose I must stop fooling myself by using the phrase beloved daughter. After all, how is that possible when you so easily turned me over to a stranger for a bag of gold?
I turned the book over and set it aside. My stomach had noisily reminded me that I'd only had a cup of coffee and half a grapefruit all day. I thought about Cassie as I headed to the kitchen. I could remember feeling utterly hurt when my dad woke up on my tenth birthday, kissed me goodbye and walked out the door without mention of the special day. His mind had been heavy in work, and he'd forgotten, he'd later explained that evening as he handed me a soft brown stuffed koala. I'd gone through the entire day of school shredded, devastated that he'd forgotten. I couldn't even imagine what was going through Cassie's head and heart. One thing was for sure, even after reading just a few entries, I knew I wanted this part. I wanted to play Cassandra Youngston on the big screen. Now it would be extra disappointing if Jameson blew up this opportunity by declining the part.
Ten
Jameson
The phone rang. It was Marley. I was just chilling on the couch with my dog, Orbit, but I seriously considered ignoring the call. Only, my agent wasn't the type to be ignored. Not picking up the phone would result in a brusque voicemail followed by a series of texts with emojis to show all her emotions and reactions to being ignored.
"Hey, Mar, what's up?" Occasionally, she would veer off into a funny anecdote about one of her many children, half dozen at last count, but this time she headed straight to her favorite topic.
"What have you decided about the Alien Apocalypse movie? I think that movie will do well and frankly, we could both do with one of your movies doing well, don't you think?"
I chuckled as I rubbed Orbit's head. He tilted it so I could reach his favorite spot behind his ear. "You sure don't mince words, Mar."
"I've got no time to mince words. I've got six kids to feed, clothe, and with any luck send to college, although I'm not holding my breath on Michael. He told me today that he would no longer wear shoes because he doesn't want to be part of a stuffy, conforming society who doesn't believe in freedom for toes. He finally settled on a pair of flip-flops, but I had to send a note to the teacher letting her know about his new philosophy and that the flip-flops were a step above how he actually planned to go to school
. Back to the original question, now that I wasted time explaining why the hell I don't have time to mince words."
I leaned back against the couch. Orbit dropped his big head on my lap. "To tell you the truth, Mar, I'm not too sure about another one of those science fiction flicks. Too much action and special effects. I hardly have any lines. It's all stunts, shooting and blowing shit up."
"Nothing wrong with that. People expect you to be shooting and blowing shit up. Now that they've put off filming that King Arthur movie indefinitely, you've got a big ole gap in time, my friend. You need to fill it with something. By the way, I know Sawyer stopped by to personally meet with you about a part. He mentioned some movie for both you and Kiki. Hope you're not cutting me out of any deal." This time the stern business side of Marley poked through the phone.
"Hey, don't be pissed at me. He showed up at my gym in the middle of a workout. Besides, I just assumed he went through you first."
A small, indistinguishable grunt rumbled through the phone. "That Croft is such a weasel. Still, it sounds like the whole thing is a chance to get Kiki back in front of a camera. Things aren't looking great for her these days."
"That's fucked up. She's awesome in movies and so easy to work with. Is that all because of Blackmoor? That asshole doesn't deserve to be in the same room with her." I stopped the rant, surprised that I'd gone off in that direction and equally surprised I'd said it all out loud.
Marley was obviously surprised too. An unusual silence came from her side before she popped up sounding just like my mom, in fact, using her exact words. "Seems to me you still have feelings for Kinsey."
