Celluloid Memories

by Sandra Kitt

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”

  “Daddy has a lot of letters and papers from her. The thing is, she was white. Nothing romantic, as far as I can tell, but I’m curious.”

  “No. Can’t say that the name means anything.”

  After Harris said goodbye, Savannah decided to take a break and run some errands. She’d decided, after going through all of her father’s papers and records, that she would organize them. For a while she’d been thinking about giving some to her brother, and keeping some for herself. But she considered that his Hollywood history, particularly as a black actor, might be useful somewhere. Savannah considered that New York’s Schomburg Center for the study of African-American history might be a good place.

  A few hours later, when she returned to the house, she noticed that there was a small shopping bag that someone had left at the top of the driveway, just outside the wrought-iron gate to the property. Annoyed that someone would be so thoughtless as to leave garbage behind, Savannah parked her car, and then walked back to remove the bag. She was going to dump it in the trash bin when the weight of the bag made her curious. Glancing cautiously inside, she was surprised to find that it contained a potted plant. Reaching into the bag, Savannah carefully removed the contents, an African violet with rich purple blossoms and lush green leaves. It was beautifully planted in what seemed to be a blue and white ceramic sugar bowl.

  Savannah glanced up and down the street, helplessly trying to figure out if the plant had been left by a neighbor or someone else. And why? The residential street was quiet and deserted. She looked inside the bag to see if there was a note or card, but it was empty. Puzzled, Savannah took the plant inside with her, trying to decide what to do about it. The phone was ringing as she entered the house through the garage.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Hi. It’s McCoy.”

  Savannah experienced an unexpected and instant reaction to McCoy identifying himself. It was a combination of surprise, wariness, and pleasure.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” he asked, when she didn’t immediately respond.

  “No, not really. I just got back from taking care of a few things.”

  “Good. I thought I’d check and see how things are going.”

  She frowned. “How things are going? Like, what?”

  “Well, I know your father died recently, so I’m assuming you’re still dealing with that, his business and estate. You know. Are you managing okay?”

  “Oh. Why do you want to know?”

  After a second’s pause, McCoy began to chuckle.

  “You know, I’m the one who’s usually giving people the third degree. You missed your calling.”

  “I don’t mean to sound rude, but I…I don’t understand, frankly, why you’re calling me.”

  “You don’t. Of course not,” he seemed to say more to himself than to her.

  “I do have a question for you, since you called. I know this is going to sound strange, but did you leave a plant at my house sometime today?”

  “Nice idea. But I don’t know where you live,” McCoy responded. “And I remember what happened the last time I sent you flowers.”

  Savannah felt like she was blushing, and was glad he couldn’t see her expression. “That was different.”

  “If you say so.”

  She could hear the amusement in his voice.

  “So, you found a plant. Maybe it’s from a secret admirer.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

  “Why don’t you think that’s possible?”

  “I don’t know that many people in L.A. I’ve only been here a little over a year.”

  “Then I can’t help you. But I wish I could.”

  Again Savannah felt the urge to blush, the banter between them taking on a curious personal exchange.

  “So…you’re calling because…”

  “I have something for you. No, it’s not a plant, but I think you’d like to have what it is. I was going through some old programs and invitations, and I found several from events involving your father. He was either performing or sitting on a panel, or hosting. Are you interested?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m going through boxes right now of things he’d kept about his career.”

  “Maybe we can get together and I can give you what I have. Are you doing anything this evening?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “What’s a good time?”

  Although she was glad for the opportunity to receive anything of her father’s, Savannah hesitated to accept McCoy’s offer. She’d never had visitors to the house, certainly not while her father was ill. So much of the past year or more had been spent seeing to his needs that Savannah realized she was a bit out of practice when it came to entertaining. Donna and Kay notwithstanding, she hadn’t been much in the mood.

  “Well…”

  “Look, we can meet somewhere, if you like. This shouldn’t take that long.”

  Of course he’d have other plans for the evening, Savannah considered. L.A., like New York, was a very social city. She didn’t doubt for a minute that McCoy never lacked for things to do or places to be, or companionship. And while she’d not been all that impressed with some of the men she’d met here, Savannah had to be fair and admit that McCoy did not come across as being self-absorbed.

  She agreed to meet him, and gave McCoy the name and location of one of the many cafés that lined the boulevard several blocks from the house. They set a time and said goodbye to each other.

  After completing his call with Savannah, McCoy sat staring thoughtfully at his cordless telephone before replacing it in its cradle. A rueful smile lifted one corner of his mouth. Man, she’d really made him work for the privilege of getting together with her. And as annoying as that might be on the one hand, on the other it was a novelty and refreshing. Savannah Shelton was intriguing, her independence and attractiveness a sharp contrast to the Hollywood fetish of most women he tended to meet, with their it’s-all-about-me focus.

  He got up from the kitchen island, where he’d made the call. He picked up the chilled glass of his own version of Long Island Iced Tea, and wandered out to the spacious balcony of his duplex condo, overlooking the Pacific. Sipping his drink, McCoy looked out at the stunning beauty of the ocean. From his apartment, he could pretend that L.A. lived up to its name as the City of Angels, and was as serene as the ocean view suggested. He could forget about the congestion on the freeways, and the L.A. energy that could try your patience when dealing with folks who were only watching out for themselves and what you could do for them. And the women…but it wasn’t like he didn’t already know the deal. As his grandmother would say, if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen; may she rest in peace.

  McCoy finished his drink and returned the glass to the kitchen. He had a weekly housekeeper, but his upbringing automatically led him to rinse out the used glass and place it in the dishwasher. He went in search of his car keys, his wallet, and the manila envelope containing the materials he had to give Savannah Shelton.

  As he left his apartment, donning his sunglasses against the sun lowering in the western sky, McCoy was reluctant to admit that not only was he looking forward to an opportunity to see Savannah Shelton again, he knew he had to be careful. She was not the kind of woman to try to get one over on.

  He was the first to arrive at the restaurant, and he’d planned it that way. He wanted to acclimate himself to his surroundings. McCoy had a sense that Savannah lived nearby. He liked what he saw of the neighborhood. It was definitely upscale, but not pretentious. He could tell from the passersby that it was mostly African-Americans who inhabited the local homes and, while they might not be rich by Beverly Hills standards, they were clearly doing very well. It was attractive, quiet, clean and comfortable.

  McCoy spotted Savannah before she saw him. She was approaching the corner, and looking both ways for a chance to cross the street. Relaxing in the iron bistro chair
, he took his time to update the first impression, and the second, he’d had of Savannah. He had to admit, it was getting better and better.

  She wasn’t tall or leggy, or a size 2. She was average height, slender but with curves. Actually, he considered as she began to cross the street, Savannah was very nicely proportioned and put together. If he put his arms around her he knew he wouldn’t feel like he had to be careful about crushing delicate bones. McCoy also did not berate himself for enjoying the physical aspect of seeing her, reminding himself, righteously, that it was her self-possession and clear personal boundaries that had ultimately gotten his attention. Seeing her now as an appealing woman was a bonus.

  Savannah was wearing a pair of capri pants, a cheerful print on a black background. He knew the pants to be popular, but had never seen any women in the industry dare to dress down in them. Her light summer top had a wide boatneck opening, exposing a long neck around which was a simple heart-shaped gold pendant with a pearl in its center. Her earrings were large, thin gold hoops. No diamonds. No precious gemstones. She was wearing ballet flats in orange, one of the colors on her pants.

  Her hair was also distinctive from most of the women he knew. Savannah wore hers natural, fuller on the top and front, and shorter in the back. The texture appeared to be light and soft, the cut giving her an interesting and tasteful punklike look. McCoy would guess that Savannah wasn’t aware, nor would she necessarily care, that her personal style made her stand out from the usual L.A. fare.

  She saw him. He stood up as she approached, her eyes hidden behind her dark glasses. But so were his.

  “Am I late? Thank you,” she said, as he held out a chair for her to sit. She looked all around, as if expecting to also see someone else with him.

  He chose to ignore her silent inquiry. “No, not at all. I wasn’t sure how long it was going to take me to drive over, so I was a few minutes early.”

  Immediately a waiter appeared. They both ordered wine.

  McCoy glanced around again. “Nice community. Do you live here?” He watched as she considered his question and her answer.

  “I’m not that far away,” she murmured. “And you?”

  “Santa Monica.”

  “Nice. Expensive,” she said.

  “I was lucky. I moved in when it was still affordable.”

  “Moved in from where?”

  “I’m not from L.A.,” McCoy confessed easily. “I grew up in Long Beach, attended Princeton…”

  “Really?”

  “…But came back to California following an opportunity.”

  “She must have been some opportunity,” Savannah said quietly with a slight smile.

  McCoy pursed his lips in appreciation. “At the time she was. She became my wife, but that was then.”

  “And now?”

  He shrugged, waiting until their wine was served before responding. He picked up his glass but didn’t immediately take a drink.

  “We were young. We divorced, she went on to fame and fortune, and I went into real estate law. Here’s to the past, present and future.”

  Savannah raised her glass and they clinked the rims together.

  “What a strange toast,” she said.

  “It pretty much covers everything. From how we met, which you have to admit was usual, to this moment, to whatever comes next.”

  She nodded silently and took a sip of her wine.

  With the flurry of greeting and small talk out of the way, McCoy felt an unexpected awkwardness settle over them. He quickly spoke to bridge the silence.

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “East Coast. Mostly my mother raised my brother and me. My parents divorced when I was about seven. I’ve only been in Los Angeles a little under two years. I came out to be with my father after I learned he was terminal.”

  “And you decided to stay?”

  McCoy watched as she glanced around, took a deep breath and another sip of wine, and nodded. “I think so. Life is much easier out here. The weather is better. I didn’t give up much in New York.”

  “What do you do out here?”

  “I work for a studio. Surprised?”

  “A little. I got the impression you don’t think much of L.A.”

  “It’s not L.A. as a place. It’s the movie industry that I don’t care much for.”

  “What do you know about the industry?” McCoy quickly asked. She looked embarrassed.

  “Well, not a lot, I admit. My father was an actor.”

  “But he left the family to become one out here. I’m sure that didn’t sit well.”

  “It didn’t, but I think I’m beginning to understand what it meant to him to follow his dreams. He might have regretted it his whole life if he’d never tried.”

  “It’s good that you realize that. But you had no desire to follow in his footsteps?”

  “I’m a writer. In New York I was a contributing editor to a magazine. Out here I read proposals and treatments and write critiques and coverages and make recommendations. I actually like what I do.”

  He held up his glass again. “I hope you like it well enough to stay.”

  Savannah grinned. “You know, you’re the first person who’s said that. Thank you.”

  “Now, let me show you what I have for you…”

  McCoy took the envelope, which had been leaning against the leg of his chair, and placed it on the table. He opened it and slid out nearly a dozen pieces of printed material. Both he and Savannah removed their sunglasses as they looked over the contents. There were invitations to programs and events held at theaters or college campuses. There was an announcement for a book signing at the famed black bookstore, Eso Won, with author Donald Bogle, known for his bestselling books about blacks in Hollywood. Will Shelton had moderated that event.

  He explained what each event had been about, and Will Shelton’s contributions. As he spoke, offering details and impressions, McCoy was aware of Savannah’s intense interest in each piece of material she looked at. She was especially fascinated with the photos and brief bios of her father that had been printed in each case. She looked long and hard and lovingly, he thought, at one image of her father as he was photographed surrounded by a dozen or so students, both black and white.

  “That’s at UCLA,” McCoy explained, pointing to the brochure Savannah was examining. “Your father was a guest lecturer one semester. He basically used himself as an example to show students how difficult it is to break into the industry by talking anecdotally about his own career. I attended two of the sessions.”

  “I didn’t know he was in a play,” Savannah murmured, looking at the program for a limited run of A Soldier’s Story.

  “Listen, like a lot of black actors and actresses, your father probably took any decent work he could find. The run of that play got good reviews and was extended an extra two weeks. I’m sorry you missed his performance.”

  “Me, too,” Savannah said. “I was away at school during the play’s run. I can’t thank you enough for showing these to me.”

  “They’re yours. Put them in your scrapbook.”

  She smiled but shook her head. “I never kept a scrapbook about my father. But I’d like to add these to what I’ve already found in his house.”

  “Of course you can have them. Now I’m glad I never threw them away.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I guess I thought that it would all be important information one day. I was hoping to eventually give it to some black organization. I never got around to it.”

  “I’m like to do something like that myself. It seems to me that my father had a long and productive career, don’t you think? He made a contribution.”

  “Absolutely,” McCoy nodded. “If you like, I can help you research some organizations that might be interested in his archives.”

  “I appreciate that,” Savannah said, putting everything back into the envelope. “I don’t know how to thank you. I never realized before how active my father was out here. He did
a lot.”

  “Yes, he did. And he gave back as much as he got. Do you know there’s a small neighborhood theater in Englewood that’s named after him?”

  Savannah silently stared at him, maybe embarrassed and horrified that there was so much she didn’t know about her father’s life in L.A. But McCoy could understand that all she might have cared about was the Will Shelton who was her father, not necessarily Will Shelton the actor, whom she had to share with a cast of thousands. He leaned forward.

  “Whenever you have some time, I’d be glad to take you out to see it. It’s a nice little theater.”

  Savannah rubbed her temple. “A lot of people knew him, didn’t they?”

  “Of course. Or knew about him. But I don’t think many people realize that he’s dead.”

  She was thoughtful, staring blindly into her now-empty wineglass. McCoy gently touched the back of her hand.

  “Hey,” he said quietly.

  He knew that Savannah did not realize the poignant picture she made, reflecting on her father’s public life. But he wondered what else she was thinking.

  Savannah blinked at him. “Don’t worry. I’m going to make sure he gets the recognition he deserves.”

  Savannah stretched and yawned. A glance at her clock radio showed 2:17 a.m. She knew she should have turned out her lights and gone to sleep hours ago. But the secret box with its two neatly tied bundles of paper had become too fascinating and revealing to put down.

  What she had thought would be a quick exchange of materials with McCoy Sutton had turned into a few hours. He’d talked her into having dinner with him, right where they were. It was an unexpected invitation, but one that she welcomed.

  It surprised Savannah how easy it was to be in McCoy’s company. She could relax after her initial suspicion of his motives because it wasn’t all about him. And he seemed remarkably easygoing given her first impression of him. To go right back home, she realized, surrounded by everything that was her father, might have been too much. In the end Savannah was grateful for the distraction.

  And McCoy had done something else that she would always be grateful for. He had not spent the evening talking about Hollywood or the famous people he knew. No mention was made of the beautiful young woman she’d seen him with on two occasions. Instead, he told some pretty funny stories about getting started as a lawyer, and the mistakes he’d made believing he knew more than he did. He talked about his family: a mother who was deceased, a father who was a retired eye doctor living in Oakland, and a younger brother. He glossed quickly over the fact that he’d been married himself and divorced, only saying, ‘I was young, in love and stupid.’