Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  One of the men who had pushed them, casual clothing, no whites, glanced in her direction. Lisa ducked down, stepping back from the hedge. Her legs touched a marble bench. She sat.

  She could see through the hedge, although not well. More people were moving about. A man, wearing a long white bathrobe stepped out onto the terrace. A towel covered his head. She pressed the zoom button of her camera and brought one knee under her, raising herself.

  His body filled the viewfinder. He was stretching now, rolling his head over his shoulders, luxuriating in the morning sun. One side of the towel fell away. Lisa saw that the face, all of it, was thickly bandaged. There were holes in the bandages for his mouth and for one eye. The other was completely covered. Lisa, on impulse, snapped a picture.

  The man reacted to something behind him. Lisa zoomed back to take in more of the terrace. A woman in a matching robe, her face also bandaged but not as fully, approached him holding two mugs. The woman was slender, and seemed rather tall. Her hair, ash blond, shoulder length, was brushed out. It had the look of having just been washed. Steam rose from the mugs. His held a straw. He took it from her, sipped, and nodded thanks. She rubbed his neck, affectionately.

  Someone else approached. It was another man, sport coat, sunglasses, balding, a double chin. He was speaking to the couple, gesticulating. From his body language, he seemed to be urging them...no, ordering them ...to go back inside. The man with no face turned away, ignoring him. He moved with his mug to the flagstone steps. The woman joined him and, very deliberately, they sat. The second man stood, hands on his hips, glaring at their backs. He was saying something. They paid no attention. The man with the sunglasses, clearly angry, took a breath. He raised one hand and, first glancing around him, extended his middle finger. Lisa snapped him. He turned, his color rising, and stalked back toward the double doors of the chateau.

  Lisa zoomed in on the sitting pair. From what she could see of their skin they were certainly not old. And they had lowered themselves easily, she into a lotus position. What's with the faces, she wondered? Auto accident? Plastic surgery? And why here? This is supposed to be a rest home for batty old actors.

  A shadow passed over the hedge, its source behind her.

  Her stomach tightened.

  Too late, she heard footsteps on a gravel path. She cringed, eyes closed, waiting.

  “Good morning, Nellie,” came a voice. “Fine day.”

  Not yet daring to breathe, she half turned on the bench toward the man who had spoken. He was quite old, easily eighty-five, but he stood tall and was walking steadily. He carried a large easel case in one hand and a folding stool in the other.

  She hesitated. “Um . . . good morning,” she said, clearing her throat.

  The tall man slowed, then stopped. He cocked an ear as if Lisa's return of greeting was cause for disbelief. Now he turned and stared. Past her. Through her.

  “Nellie?” His voice was tentative, not much above a whisper.

  She saw that his eyes were clouded. She was tempted not to speak. But he took a step nearer, one hand raised as if feeling his way. “Nellie?” he said again. “Is that you?”

  “Ah ... no, sir. I'm just . . .”

  The dull eyes found the voice. “You're not Nellie.” The eyes blinked. The man frowned.

  “No, sir.”

  “But you're sitting in her place, you know. That's Nellie's bench.”

  “Oh. I . . .” .

  “You mustn't make her think it's been taken away.”

  ”I won't. I mean, I'm sorry. I didn't realize.”

  “Any of the other benches is all right except that and this.’' He felt with his hand for the second bench, finding it. “This one is reserved for Garbo when she comes.”

  “Garbo,” Lisa repeated blankly.

  “Although knowing her,” he sniffed, “she'll probably want Nellie's.”

  “But Garbo is . . *” She stopped herself.

  It didn't matter. The old man's mind was already elsewhere. “Well, I've got to be moving along,” he said. He raised his folding stool and waggled it in lieu of a wave. “Don't want to lose the morning light.”

  “Sir,” Lisa raised her camera. It whirred three times. “Aren't you. . . Are you Jason Bellarmine by any chance? The director?” She recognized him now. She remembered watching the Academy Awards when she was still in high school. Gregory Peck had presented him with a special Oscar for lifetime achievement. Even then, he was functionally blind from diabetes. He had to be led to the podium.

  “All casting is done through my office.” He walked on. “Have your agent call.”

  “But I'm not . . . yes, sir.”

  She watched as he made his way down a path lined with geraniums toward a marble terrace, where he set up his stool and easel with practiced ease. He took a blank, two-foot canvas from his case and mounted it. He squeezed a tube of red paint directly onto the canvas and began spreading it with a palette knife, stopping now and then to inspect the horizon. There was nothing red out there. And whatever he was painting had no shape that she could see.

  She had taken several photographs of the blind artist at work when the soft Pacific breeze shifted and Lisa caught a scent of jasmine in the air. She lifted her chin and sniffed, searching for its source. She looked behind her, toward Garbo's bench. She gasped, stifling a cry. An old woman, thin, even smaller than herself, was standing at her shoulder. Just standing. Waiting. Lisa recognized her at once. The vivid reddish hair, marcelled, was certainly a wig. Her cheeks heavily rouged, her enormous eyes the color of cobalt. They were shining, becoming liquid. Her lips moved but made no sound. The chin began to quiver. Lisa, recovering, bolted to her feet.

  “Please,” she stepped away from the bench, gesturing toward it with her hand. “I'm terribly sorry.”

  The tiny bosom heaved but Nellie Dameon made no move.

  “It's just that I'm a fan of yours,” Lisa said quickly. ”I wanted to see your . . . where you sat. I wanted to touch it. I should have asked your permission.” Lisa hoped that somewhere in there was the reassurance that would keep this woman from slipping over the edge.

  The old woman blinked several times as if trying to comprehend what Lisa was saying. Then, suddenly, the eyes cleared. They glanced at the bench and then away. Dismissively, thought Lisa. Now, in those eyes, Lisa thought she saw the briefest flicker of amusement. She had a sense that whatever had caused Miss Dameon's breath to quicken, it had nothing to do with Lisa's use of her throne.

  Nellie Dameon smiled. She raised one gloved hand toward Lisa who accepted it, tentatively, then wondered what she was to do with it. Kiss it? Curtsey? Or assist Nellie Dameon to her seat. She presumed the last.

  Nellie settled daintily onto the marble bench and smoothed the folds of her robe so that the hem covered her shoes. It was not so much a robe, Lisa decided, as an evening coat, the sort one used to wear over long dresses. The style was at least fifty years out of date but it showed little sign of wear.

  “May I sit?” she asked. She realized that, standing, she was exposed to view from the chateau. Other staffers were moving about the grounds. One man, youngish, dressed in a suit, was walking across the lawn toward Jason Bellarmine. He carried what looked like a medical bag. Lisa lowered herself and backed away toward the bench reserved for Garbo. She hesitated. “Is this one all right?” she asked.

  Nellie Dameon nodded. Lisa sat.

  “I've seen several of your films,” she said. ”I have two of them on tape. Broadway and The Four Horsemen.”

  Lisa bit her lip. She probably should not have mentioned videotapes. They belonged to a world that Nellie Dameon no longer knew. But if the word sounded strange to her, she gave no sign. Rather, she took notice of the drying mud that covered Lisa's hands, legs, and much of her clothing. She raised a finger, pointing it first at Lisa and then at the chateau, frowning, her eyes narrowing. She was asking a question.

  ”Um . . . no.” Lisa chose not to lie. ”I don't work here. I snuck in through
those woods.”

  Nellie Dameon’ s eyes asked why.

  “To see the house,” she said. “To see you, I guess. But I never really expected . . .”

  The old woman raised a hand. Her head had turned in the direction of the young doctor. He was moving toward them. Nellie Dameon brought a finger to her lips and gestured, urgently, in the direction of the trees. Lisa understood. Crouched low, she backed away. She hid herself.

  She watched, between the branches of a juniper, as the doctor approached, greeted the old woman pleasantly, and eased himself down on his heels beside her bench.

  “Was someone here, Miss Dameon?” Lisa heard him ask. She crouched lower. But the doctor, oddly, did not look in her direction. He was looking toward the house.

  The actress shook her head.

  “Mr. Bellarmine said there was a woman. He heard her speak.”

  Nellie Dameon smiled. Slowly, she raised a finger to her temple, making a circular motion with it.

  The doctor answered her smile, but his eyes were stern. “Nellie,” he tapped the seat beside her, “the bench is still warm. I feel her.”

  She shook her head, stubbornly. She made another circular motion with her finger, this time pointing it at the young doctor.

  His grin widened, his expression now a bit sheepish. Lisa could see that his bluff had been called and he knew it. She had not been sitting where he claimed to feel warmth. He had only the word of a blind old man who thought he was still a director and who painted scenes that only he could see.

  Lisa watched as he took Nellie Dameon's hand, his fingers feeling for her pulse. His eyes dropped to his wrist-watch. He counted for a few moments, then frowned. “Your heart's really cooking,” he said, distantly. But he was no longer looking at the watch. He was studying the grass around the bench. There were footprints there. In the dew. Too many. Lisa's heart began to pound as well. The young doctor touched the folds of Nellie's coat. He moved them slightly, revealing her shoes. Lisa understood. He was looking to see if she was wearing heels. She was not.

  Nellie Dameon took his hand. She slapped it, lightly, reprovingly. She gave it an affectionate squeeze. He raised his free hand in surrender, then continued his examination although his attention, thought Lisa, kept turning toward the house.

  “Are you sure,” he said at last, “that none of those people have been bothering you?”

  She nodded, patting his knee.

  “If they ever do, any of them, do you promise you'll tell me?”

  Another nod. A smile.

  Lisa watched as he finished the examination. It was not much of one. He looked into her eyes, had them follow his finger. He tested her grip and, lightly, he scratched each of her hands to determine that she had sensation in them. With a stethoscope drawn from his bag, he listened at her chest, then, partially peeling her evening coat, he listened at her back.

  Satisfied, he covered her. His hands lingered on her shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Stay well,” he said. Lightly, he kissed the top of her head, then turned abruptly toward the chateau.

  Nellie Dameon watched him go. Not looking at Lisa, she raised a staying hand in her direction. The young doctor had reached the broad stone terrace. He seemed to pause there momentarily, as if deciding whether to go inside or to visit the two old men on the far side of the lawn. He chose, apparently, to continue his rounds. He set off toward the one in the yachting costume. The old woman motioned Lisa forward.

  “He seems very nice,” said Lisa tentatively, drawing near.

  Nellie Dameon nodded. ”. . . ss.'`

  “Um . . . Did you just say something?”

  The actress looked at her. The eyes were clear. Searching. But suddenly they closed. She shook her head.

  “Miss Dameon . . .” Lisa knelt at her side. ”I think you did. I think you just said yes.”

  There was no response. Nellie Dameon looked away. But those eyes had told Lisa that she was not mistaken.

  “Is it that,” she tried again, “you don't want people to know? That you can talk, I mean?”

  Slowly, the eyes returned to Lisa's face. Searching again. A parchment hand rose toward Lisa's face. It touched a long curl that had fallen across her cheekbone. Nellie Dameon rolled it between her fingers, feeling it, studying it. Then, slowly, the eyes rose to meet Lisa's. They looked deeply. An eyebrow flicked upward, questioningly.

  Lisa thought she understood. “No,” she said earnestly. ”I wouldn't tell anyone. Not if you don't want me to.”

  The old woman's eyes narrowed. Her mouth curled upward at one corner. It was a look of ... skepticism. It removed any doubt.

  “Listen . . .” Lisa took Nellie's hand and held it against her cheek. “It will kill me not to be able to say anything.” Especially, she thought, to Professor Meck-lenberg. “But for what it's worth, I swear. I won't say a word unless you give me permission.”

  The hand squeezed her own, briefly, then freed itself. Gently, it caressed Lisa's hair, bringing it forward, framing her face with it.

  ”. . . Auburn,” she said.

  Lisa held her breath.

  “Like mine . . . once,” she whispered, distantly.

  “You can,” Lisa gasped. “You can talk.”

  The fingers moved to Lisa's mouth, silencing her. Now they moved to her cheek, feeling the skin, as if studying it. The eyes drifted, slowly, over Lisa's body, the small bosom, narrow hips, slim waist. Like mine once, she said again, but this time only to herself. And yet Lisa could hear it.

  “Are you my d . . .” The old woman stopped herself. She closed her eyes. She shook her head as if to show that she knew the question to be foolish.

  And once more, Lisa heard, or sensed, the word that was not spoken. The word was daughter.

  “I'm just . . . Lisa Benedict,” she said. “I'm only twenty-four.”

  Nellie Dameon nodded. So sadly, thought Lisa.

  The actress wet her lips. “You look . . . eighteen,” she said.

  ”I know.” Lisa took her hand. “It runs in the family. We're all built like boys.”

  “Your mother . . . looks like you?”

  “She did once, I guess. She died when I was little.”

  The old woman's eyes became moist. She swallowed. “She had a ... mark. A strawberry mark.” She touched her own throat just above the right collar bone. “Here.”

  Once more, Lisa took her hand. “I'm sorry. She didn't.” She's not your daughter either. Lisa said this last with her eyes.

  “Would you tell me,” Nellie Dameon wet her lips, “when she was born?”

  “Umm, nineteen thirty . . . two, I guess.”

  The huge eyes blinked. The lips parted.

  “Miss Dameon,” Lisa said gently, “my mother was born in Madison, Wisconsin, and she lived there until she was eighteen. My grandmother also lived there all her life. She only died five years ago. Same build, same coloring as the rest of us. As much as I'd like to believe it, I don't think you and I are related.”

  The old woman turned away, nodding distantly, sadly, seeming to accept what Lisa had told her. Suddenly, she straightened, peering over the hedge. The young doctor had caught her eye. He had finished with the man in the yachting costume, or he had changed his mind. He was striding, with apparent purpose, toward the great double doors of the main house. She squeezed Lisa Benedict's hand. “Go now,” she whispered. “You'd best go.”

  Lisa hesitated, wondering. She remembered the look of distaste on the doctor's face when he referred to those people there.

  “Is today Sunday?” the actress asked, her eyes still on the house.

  ”Um . . . yes. Yes, it is.”

  “Next Sunday. Will you come then?”

  “I'd love to. Could I . .” Lisa wrung her hands. She wanted to ask if she could bring a tape recorder but she was afraid that would be pushing it. “Could I bring you anything?” she asked instead.

  Nellie chewed her lip. “Have they written about me?” she asked.

  “You mean
biographies and such. Sure.”

  “Do they say that I have children?”

  “I'm not sure. I could look.”

  ”I remember one daughter. The one with your hair. And I remember one son. There might have been others.”

  “Well ... ah, what would their names be? Their last names.”

  The cobalt eyes glazed over. They were suddenly far away. Lisa had a sense that they had gone back in time, searching. At last, she came back. The eyes cleared. The shoulders fell.

  ”I don't know,” she said sadly. “D'Arconte, perhaps.” She spelled it. “Or perhaps Dunville. I don't know about the girls. Except that the one with the birthmark is the eldest.”

  “I'll, um . . . see what I can find. Can I say that you asked me to?”

  “Oh, you mustn't. Not until . . .”

  Nellie's head had turned. She craned her neck once more. There was activity on the terrace. Lisa peeked over the hedge. That man, sport jacket and sunglasses, had come back outside with the doctor. They seemed to be arguing. The two with bandaged faces turned their heads. The first two began walking in Nellie's direction.

  “Go,” Nellie said, pushing at Lisa. “They mustn't see you.”

  “Who are those two in the bathrobes?”

  “Go now. Hurry.”

  “Next Sunday,” Lisa whispered. She gave Nellie Dameon a final squeeze, then backed into the tree line.

  3

  Nellie Dameon.

  Lisa Benedict had turned, during the intervening week, to the listing in her copy of The Film Encyclopedia.

  Born Eleanor Demjanek, July 1903, Ames, Iowa. Toured 1916 to 1917 with the Baker Stock Company of Omaha. Arrived Hollywood, 1917, on her own. Bit parts for D. W. Griffith and Mack Sennett. First featured roles: The Hun Within with Dorothy Gish and Six-Shooter Andy with Tom Mix, in 1918.