EQMM, July 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "No, I'm sorry..."

  I tried to swallow back my fear.

  "Don't be. I played your daughter on Mommy and Me."

  My mind raced backwards, and I vaguely remembered a little girl with hair tinted the color of mine so we would look like a mother and daughter.

  "That was a movie for the Lifetime channel. Terrible script.” My voice sounded high pitched and desperate.

  "Yes, it was.” She laughed charmingly.

  "You were about eight years old.” I didn't know what else to do but keep her in conversation.

  "Yes."

  "You've grown up."

  "You can't grow up in Hollywood. You can only grow old."

  "You have a point."

  She grinned warmly. Freckles dotted the bridge of her upturned nose. She had the sweet, oval face of the girl next-door. But with the gun and the bad bleach job she looked like a young woman in a Norman Rockwell illustration gone horribly wrong.

  "What do you want?” My lips quivered.

  "A cup of coffee.” She nodded toward the hallway.

  I didn't move. I was afraid to walk in front of her. Afraid to turn my back on her.

  "I won't stay long. I just want to talk."

  "About what?"

  "Acting."

  "You want the name of my agent? A recommendation?"

  "You think I'm here to network?” she asked sardonically. “I just want to talk to you. Come on, let's go in the kitchen."

  My knees felt weak as I crossed in front of her and walked down the hallway. I could feel her behind me. My shoulder blades pressed inward in anticipation of a bullet. In the living room, I furtively looked out the sliding glass doors hoping to see my neighbor Ryan Johns. He was usually on my deck, interrupting my life, wanting to be let in. But of course, not today. There was only the sun, the glittering Pacific Ocean, and my rotting wood balcony.

  She sat at my old pine breakfast table, still aiming the gun at me.

  "Would you mind turning off the news?” she said. “It's depressing."

  I hit the remote. “I'll have to make the coffee."

  "Go on."

  "Decaf?"

  "Caffeine."

  With trembling hands, I began to measure and pour in the water. I considered each appliance as a possible weapon against her. I took two mugs from the cupboard and put them on the table. These simple tasks helped focus my mind.

  "Milk? Sugar?” I asked politely.

  "Both, please."

  I set a carton of milk and a small bowl filled with packets on the table. “I don't have real sugar. I use sweeteners."

  "They're not good for you."

  "I know. But it's so difficult to stay..."

  "Thin?"

  "Thin."

  "I've struggled with weight my whole life."

  "It doesn't show. You look great."

  "The last thing I want from you is an inane compliment, Diana. Do you know why I struggled with my weight?"

  "No.” Facing her, I leaned against the counter near the Mr. Coffee machine, which was now gurgling, burping, and brewing.

  "Ever since I played your daughter I wanted to look like you. But I ended up looking like my mother."

  "Don't we all?” I forced a smile.

  The aroma of coffee permeated the kitchen, giving it a homey warm atmosphere, and I made a decision. When the carafe was full I would grab it and swing it at her. The shock of the hot liquid scalding her skin would give me a chance to escape. Maybe even try for the gun.

  "Were you the one asking for me at the hotel this afternoon?"

  "Yes.” She tilted her head to one side, studying me. The light from the kitchen window shone hard on her face, revealing fine lines around her pretty mouth and tired eyes. She looked exhausted. “Why did you stop acting?"

  "I got married."

  "So do a lot of actresses; that doesn't end their careers. You were good. You were on the verge of stardom. Why did you settle for being safe?"

  "I wouldn't call marriage safe.” Mr. Coffee was almost up to the ten-cup line.

  "I think you were afraid of success.” She yawned. “Sorry, it's been a long night and day."

  "The caffeine will help.” I watched the last few drops drip into the pot.

  My heart was in my throat. I casually turned, and like any good host, good mother, I retrieved the pot from the burner. Then I spun back toward her. Leaping to her feet, she darted backwards, out of my reach. Arms extended, she held the gun steady with both hands, like a cop in a TV series.

  "I thought you might want to throw that in my face."

  My arms were extended too, but I only held a coffeepot in my two hands. “Wouldn't you in my situation?"

  "Yes. It's called empathy."

  "You're right. All the good actors have it."

  "So we're at a standoff. I guess we'll have to carry on our conversation from here. Me holding my gun and you holding your coffeepot. Except your coffee is eventually going to cool, and then you won't have a weapon, and we won't be able to drink it, either."

  Surprising myself, I slammed the carafe on the table. Coffee slopped. “Sit down and have your damn coffee. And I don't want to be analyzed by someone holding a gun on me. For your information, I wasn't afraid of success."

  "You sit first. Go."

  I sat and took a paper napkin from the pile already on the table and began to wipe up the spilled liquid. It was lukewarm. Even Mr. Coffee was breaking down on me.

  She slowly sat down across from me. Her weapon pointed at my chest.

  "Were you acting just then when you banged the pot on the table?” she asked

  "I don't know when I'm acting and when I'm not anymore.” With trembling fingers, I rubbed my forehead and pushed my hair back from my face.

  "It's the same with me. The more you tap into your own emotions to create a character, a role, the farther away you get from those very emotions that were yours to begin with. May I have some coffee, please?"

  I filled the mugs and slid one in her direction. “What's your name? I don't remember it."

  "Crystal,” she said wistfully. “My mother named me after the character in the TV series Dynasty. Mother had dreams. It was her favorite show. I grew up watching all her old VHS tapes of it. We watched them over and over."

  "They must be out on DVD now."

  "She won't need them. I hated the show. It was so unreal."

  I watched her take a long greedy gulp of coffee. Her hands trembled, too. The gun twitched. But her pinched, strained expression relaxed. Her eyebrows were the color of her freckles, a reddish brown. I assumed her hair must be the same shade. For a moment, I glimpsed the innocent young woman with her entire life in front of her. The girl I had imagined in the car driving home. Her eyes met mine. She smiled. Then her expression hardened, and the innocent girl disappeared. The woman who had slipped over the edge returned.

  "It seems to me,” she said, “if you don't want to be famous you're in the wrong business."

  "True. Do you want to be famous?"

  "Yes, because I'm a good actress and being good should've brought me fame. But then I grew up, and I couldn't get another decent part."

  "It's a cruel business. Sometimes we gain celebrity by ways we don't intend,” I said carefully.

  "You mean like now? Me breaking into your house? This gun?"

  I nodded. “It's the unintended consequences. And I'm sure you don't want that kind of notoriety for doing something...” I was going to say crazy and thought better of it.

  "It's like an improvisation in acting class, isn't it?"

  "What is?"

  "Us sitting here talking. You trying to figure out what I want. If I'm going to harm you or not."

  "And what's your part in this improv?"

  "To get to the end."

  "What kind of ending do you want?"

  "A Hollywood ending."

  "Hollywood doesn't have endings to their movies anymore. They just blow things up at the conclusion."


  "No narrative, no ending?"

  "That's right.” She was smart and had wit.

  "But I want an old Hollywood ending, like when they were writing narratives. Are you a Joan Crawford fan?"

  "I loved her in Mildred Pierce."

  "That's one of my favorites, too. And she was great in the George Cukor film, The Women. She played a woman named Crystal in that movie. I wish my mother had named me after her character."

  "But Joan Crawford took Norma Shearer's husband away from her in that movie. Maybe your mother didn't think that was appropriate."

  "You think my mother had that kind of morality? I told you she watched Dynasty. She never saw The Women. She hated the old black-and-white films. How can you be a stage mother and never see the great films?” Tears formed. She wiped them roughly away. “Daisy Kenyon was another great Joan Crawford movie."

  "That was with Henry Fonda and Dana Andrews.” I clutched my coffee mug so tight my knuckles were white. It was all I had to cling to.

  "She had to decide which man to choose. You see, we're having a good conversation, aren't we?” she asked, like a pleading child.

  "Yes."

  "I could never talk to my mother this way. You know, I think Joan's daughter destroyed her by writing that book."

  "You mean Mommie Dearest?"

  "But I don't blame her. Joan used her daughter as a prop the way my mother did me."

  "Is that why you ... ?” I stopped.

  "What?"

  "Nothing.” I had gone too far. I didn't want to know whether she'd done something to her mother. My heart was pounding again.

  Her eyes met mine. “You want to know if I killed her, don't you?"

  "Look, I'm tired of being scared. Let's keep talking about old movies. What are your other Crawford favorites?"

  "The one I love the most is Masquerade. She was so beautiful in that film."

  Shadows grew long across the kitchen floor. The sun was lowering.

  "John Garfield played her lover,” I said.

  "He was a concert violinist in that movie. It's getting dark out."

  "What do you want from me?” I blurted, desperately.

  "I told you, a conversation. Like a mother and daughter who share the same goals."

  "I'm not your mother."

  "I know that! I'm not crazy.” Her body tensed. The gun jerked in her hand. “We're doing an improv. You're my mother. I'm your daughter. You love me instead of just promoting me. You don't resent me because I grew up and couldn't bring in the money anymore. You don't hate me for being an adult. You look scared again."

  "I am."

  Her voice grew loud and shrill. “I didn't kill her, if that's what you're thinking."

  I didn't answer.

  "I killed my agent."

  I sat back in my chair. “You killed your agent?” I didn't know whether to cry or laugh. “Who was he?"

  "Ben Black."

  "He's my agent. You killed my agent."

  "He wasn't right for you."

  I put my face in my hands. I was losing it. My pathetic world was turning upside down, and what little I had left to cling to was being taken away by a mad young woman.

  "He said some very bad things about you."

  I looked at her. “Such as?"

  Using her free hand, she poured us both more coffee. “He always returns phone calls later in the day when all the assistants and secretaries are gone. Except he never returned mine. So yesterday I was in the outer office. His door was ajar. I could hear him telling a producer that you weren't right for the part of Jillian in the new Josh King movie."

  "I just read for that role. They said they wanted to hire me."

  "I'm sorry, but he was telling the producer he should sign Pauline Hale instead."

  "She can't act her way out of a paper bag."

  "He's sleeping with her."

  "How do you know?"

  "My mother told me. She's also sleeping with him. She discovered them in bed one night."

  "Wait a minute. I'm not following all this. Your mother was sleeping with Ben Black to get you work?"

  "No, just because he wanted her."

  "And he was also sleeping with that slut Pauline Hale?"

  She nodded and glanced quickly out the window. The sun was gone. The light in the kitchen had dimmed. Her expression was wretched, heartbroken.

  "Nobody's ever looked out for you, have they?” I said, softly.

  "Ben Black told me I was through. He told me that nobody wanted to hire me. It was so Hollywood. My mother told me the same thing. Every day. Nobody wants me."

  Without thinking, I placed my hand on her forearm.

  "Now you're not afraid of me even though I killed our agent. But if I had killed my mother..."

  I withdrew my hand. “You were acting, weren't you? Improv. You're very good. I believed you killed Ben Black."

  Her eyes flashed.

  "I was at a luncheon filled with people in the business. If you'd murdered Ben Black last night everybody would be talking about it today. But they weren't, because you didn't kill him."

  It was dark now except for the illumination of the computerized clock on the microwave and a faint reflection of a waning moon at the window.

  "You told the waiter and the hotel doorman that you were my daughter because you didn't have a mother anymore.” I was still afraid to say the word murdered.

  "I had to change my hair color so I wouldn't be recognized. I decided on your color. Not a great job, I know. You were the only person I wanted to see. I came here this morning to be with you. While I was waiting outside to get up my nerve, I saw you leave. I followed you to the hotel and the luncheon. Then I came back here and waited for you."

  "So you and I could pretend to be mother and daughter."

  "Improv,” she said, defensively.

  "I know a lot about improvisation,” I said softly. “I know even more about mourning. You didn't expect to feel the loss of her, did you?"

  "No.” Her voice was a whisper.

  We were two pale shadows sitting at the kitchen table. A strange calming silence fell between us.

  Startling me, she abruptly shoved her chair back and stood. I froze. She closed in on me. Leaning down, she rested her head on my shoulder. I still didn't move. Then I felt the flat side of the gun pressing into my back as she hugged me. I put my hand on her cheek.

  "I wish you were my mother. Goodbye, Diana."

  "Where are you going, Crystal?"

  "I want you to stay here. I don't want to shoot you.” She left the kitchen.

  I remained at the table in the darkness. I thought about Hollywood endings. I thought about Joan Crawford. I thought about the great star walking into the ocean and drowning herself at the end of Masquerade. I thought about how quiet my house was once again.

  I hurried into the living room. The sliding-glass door was open. I went out onto the deck. The fresh ocean air wrapped around me with a familiarity that I never wanted to lose. Except for her lone figure standing at the water's edge, and the thin moon above her, the beach was empty. She dropped the gun and waded into the ocean.

  "No!” I screamed.

  Kicking off my shoes, I ran down to the water. She was rising and falling with each white-rimmed wave.

  "Don't do it!” The damp wind carried away my scream as I dove into the pounding surf. The cold Pacific water cut me to the bone. I tasted salt. When I came up, I saw a large wave take Crystal and roll her out into the vast blackness. Then another one crashed down on me, sucking me under and flipping me head over heels. I gasped for air as I clawed my way to the surface and struggled back to shore. Shivering, I searched the horizon for her. I glimpsed her head bob up, as slick and as shiny as a seal's in the moonlight, then vanish.

  I ran to my kitchen and called 911. Then I leaned against the counter for support. I took a dishtowel and buried my face in it. I began to cry. I cried for Crystal. I cried for the phantom daughter. I cried for the hell of it.

  Gat
hering myself, I picked up the phone and punched in Ben Black's private number.

  "Yes!” he barked.

  "I knew you weren't dead."

  "Who the hell is this?"

  "Diana Poole."

  "Are you drunk? Listen, I've had a terrible day. The police have been crawling all over the place. A woman I know was murdered. Her daughter, Crystal, is one of my clients. I think she did it. Crystal came to see me yesterday evening. I had to throw her out of the office. Why do they always come to me when they're has-beens?"

  "Do you have bad news for me, Ben?"

  "What are you, a mind reader? The producers want to go with Pauline Hale. Sorry, Diana. I worked my ass off to get you the part. It was perfect for you."

  "I'm a big girl, Ben. I can handle you screwing me over. But you went to bed with Crystal's mother. And didn't do anything for Crystal. She should've shot you instead.” I hit the Off button. I hate cell phones—you can't slam the receiver down.

  I grabbed Colin's old rain jacket from the laundry room and put it on. Then I waited on the beach for the police. The cold water bit at my bare feet. I turned and looked at the houses lining the shore. The only one with a light on was mine.

  Copyright © 2009 by Melodie Johnson Howe

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE BRASS COMPASS by C. J. Harper

  C.J. Harper, pseudonymous writer and Minnesota lawyer, debuted in our Department of First Stories in 2008 with “The Coronation Coin,” the per-iod P.I. story that introduced Marlowe-style hero Darrow Nash. The tale was followed (3-4/'08) by “The Sleepless Soul,” in which Nash, who'd traveled from L.A. to Minnesota, was hired to locate a WWII vet. This third Nash story picks up where the last left off: when Nash is abducted by a crime boss before he can get a train home.

  I was standing on the sidewalk of Holmes Avenue South, staring at Terry Bormann's brass compass and wondering what to do next, when I heard the shot. I wasn't sure of its direction because its report had sounded muffled, like it had been fired indoors, muted by the plaster flesh and wood bones of a house. But which house? There were more than a dozen two-story four-squares on this stretch of Holmes, hidden behind the swollen green canopies of the oaks and elms that shadowed the street.

  But then I knew. In the short breath of time that lives between a shot and its echo, I knew everything. Where the shot had come from. Who had pulled the trigger. Who was dead.