Owning Jolene

by Shelby Hearon

  From then on, it doesn’t matter what any of them say. We know what the play is about.

  But L.W. makes a lot of speeches about how bilingual education can isolate non-English-speaking children for years and that such programs are certain to produce a new form of separate but equal education, and separate is not equal.

  Archie argues back, saying that one-language efforts are racist and part of fear-mongering tactics designed to destroy the values and language-of-origin of immigrants.

  Heysoose/Geezus doesn’t get to talk about the topic. To show that his main concern is economic—the cash language—he talks a lot about fire ant control. And whole riffs sound familiar to me: “For your pasture and rangeland, even your vegetable garden, my product is fire ant specific. It has no effect on native ants, no effect whatsoever on honey bees, it also has no effect, guaranteed, on aquatics or mammals. My insect growth regulator imbedded in defatted grits has a half-life of thirty years, works up to ten years, and eighty pounds per acre broadcast reduces the population effectively.” (And then I know why L.W. didn’t get mad at me for dashing out of Brogan’s party: he was getting material for his play.)

  I think about Henry, who I’m beginning to miss, and his daddy, Red, who could hardly read and write, and it seems to me that maybe any language is a cash language, compared to not having one at all.

  L.W. and Arch work well together; they have rehearsed and rehearsed and you can tell they’ve forgotten that the rest of us are even here, because they are having such a really good time hearing their worked-over lines in performance.

  The trouble is that the hero, who is supposed, naturally, to be a Chicano, is actually an American Indian student who doesn’t know a word of Spanish. So that whenever he has to give a few phrases in his “own language” they are labored and halting and everybody snickers. Or they start to, but then stop because they don’t want to seem anti-Hispanic.

  At the last, L.W. and Arch have declared a truce and are standing arm in arm. Looking at the guy in coveralls, Arch says, Hey-soose speaks both languages. To which L.W., looking toward the two churches, replies, Geez-us speaks both languages, too.

  At that point the hero walks to the front of the stage and delivers the final line: I thank you both for your help but I must resolve this battle of the tongues myself.

  Then the lights go down to let us know the curtain is falling, and L.W. and Arch are back where they started, signs held high, at the crossroads.

  “Author, author,” call out a couple of chums of L.W.’s and “Hero, hero” holler a few friends of the Indian’s.

  Someone says, “Archie, take a bow.”

  She obliges, leaning forward on the edge of the workshop stage, staring into semidarkness. Suddenly she spots me and straightens up. “Jolene,” she yells. “Look, L.W., it’s Jolene.”

  All the audience of about thirty kids turn around and stare. The houselights come up bright.

  “No kidding,” someone says.

  “Wow.”

  “Hey.”

  “It’s her.”

  Archie goes backstage and reappears waving a copy of Newsweek—with my photo on the cover.

  • • •

  I think about falling through the floor. I didn’t know. I never thought to look on the newsstand. Why should I? I see it across a lot of people who are getting in the way, but I can make out bare shoulders with JOLENE in black letters, and then, under the hand I’m holding, THE RETURN OF THE LIVE MODEL.

  L.W. and Archie, still dressed as the Czech and the German, jump down off the stage and head in my direction, and Hey-soose, who doesn’t know what’s going on but doesn’t want to be left out, comes along, too.

  The Pal looks about to pop with excitement. Like maybe this is the greatest thing ever to happen in her life. She says she’s the one who found the magazine. That she was walking around the shopping center, going past Taco Cabaña and the Four Seasons: Mustard, Mayo, Catsup, A-1, and then past Handy Andy and Walgreen’s, and she went in to buy some dental floss and the first thing she saw was a stack of Newsweeks with my picture on it, being unpacked. Well, she looked twice, she says, and just about had a fit. I know her, she told everybody, and bought two copies. One for her, and one for L.W.

  “Why didn’t you let us know about your show at Fine Arts?” L.W. asks. “It’s terrific. We went by to see it. I’m really glad you could come to the play. I was going to let you know about opening night, but I didn’t have an address. I mean this is really great.” He turns around and introduces the crew to me. “This is Lights,” he says, pulling a tall boy forward. “This is Sound. And this one, come on, don’t hide back there, this is the person who did the fantastic set.”

  “I liked it a lot,” I say to Stage Set.

  “Thanks.” The black girl smiles.

  “I liked the play, L.W. I could see a lot of stuff you talked about in there. A lot of the business about the problem of bilingual education.”

  “You did? You really did? That’s great. Maybe you can get me a national review. Ha, ha, I mean it. That’s great, having somebody like you like it and pass the word on. That could really be a break. Arch did all the dirty work,” he says. “Arch wrote the hard parts.”

  She laughs and says that it was him who had the idea in the first place.

  She asks me, “How’s it feel, seeing all these pictures of yourself in print?” She flips the magazine open to a two-page spread. “I mean they’re fantastic. You really look beautiful and I guess you’ll get calls from all over the country. Gosh, that must be something, having that happen to you. Maybe it doesn’t seem all that special to you, I guess if you’re used to it, used to seeing yourself everywhere, you know, like on billboards or something. But it seems to me like you’d be on top of the world.”

  “Look,” L.W. says, “we’re having a cast party. Well, I mean cast and crew, not just the three of us, ha, ha, at Zona Rosa. And, say, you’re wearing that poet outfit, that’s great. I mean going back to Zona Rosa just like the first time. Hey, everybody—I met Jolene at Zona Rosa, how about that?”

  All the kids look at me and at L.W. who knows me. Some of the students who held back while he and Arch were talking to me now move forward. They move forward in a crush and for a minute they get between me and the Peloponnesian players.

  It hurts, L.W.’s treating me like this. Like somebody he’s never seen in his life; somebody he’s heard about on TV. It was one thing, not that I got used to it, for Brogan and Glenna to act differently, because I figured it had to do with their thinking my being famous rubbed off on them. But I thought L.W. would be the one person in the world who would understand about the show—that it was all out there, the way it was when we were being the model and the broker for the cellular clients. But when the students clear a path and I’m in his line of vision again, I can see he isn’t looking at me the same way any more.

  Actors meet only on the stage, I told him once. Now I can see it’s true.

  “Excuse me,” I say, remembering some unfinished business, “I have to make a phone call.”

  41

  “THINK OF A NUMBER between nine and eleven,” I say into the receiver. My mind is back where it belongs: on retrieving Mom.

  “Ten,” she says faintly, her tone rising with interest. “Ten. Where’s a clock? They don’t give you a clock. There must be a clock in this morgue.”

  “This is your sister-in-law talking to you,” I say, “this is not your daughter Jolene. This is not me. I’m asking you, Did you get the flowers?”

  “Glenna. You’re Glenna.”

  “That’s right. Are you nodding your head yes?”

  “I got the flowers,” she says. “Real beauties they are. I’ve never in my life seen quite such beautiful potted mums, just exactly that shade of pink.”

  Same old Mom; improvising just to flex her talent.

  “Are you listening?” I ask her.

  “Sure am,” she says, her voice stronger. “Sure am. Surely am grateful for this g
reat big beautiful pot of potted mums in this shade of lavender-pink that I’m sure is one of a kind. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it before, not in all my born days.”

  “Okay. Have on minimum clothes when I come. Got that?”

  “I sure do. I sure do appreciate, Glenna, your thinking of—”

  “Get the nurse in there for something. Coke, trip to the bathroom, Kleenex, aspirin, something. Have her come in and keep her there a while, so she’s just been to see you. Got that?”

  I sure do. I sure appreciate, Glenna, your thinking of—

  Get the nurse in there for something. Coke, trip to the bathroom, Kleenex, aspirin, something. Have her come in and keep her there a while, so shes just been to see you. Got that?

  “Not many family members would do such a thoughtful thing as you did, sending this pot of potted pinky-purple mums, I mean that truly. I really appreciate—” And at that her voice cracks just the least little bit, chokes up just a little. An old trouper, out of practice.

  “ ’Bye,” I say.

  She’s still carrying on about the mums as I hang up the phone.

  • • •

  I find L.W. and Archie, who are waiting for me, and apologize for taking so long. “Sorry,” I tell them, “my mom’s been real sick. Listen, I’ll meet you at Zona Rosa. That’s great, old times and all. We’ll celebrate. But you all go on. I’ve got to run by the hospital first.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry to hear that, about your mother.” The Pal is relieved that things are okay, that she didn’t do something to chase me away.

  “Oh, it’s not real serious. But, pneumonia, that can be—well, anyway, you all go on.”

  “You sure?” L.W. is not convinced. He must be remembering that I said my folks were separated and moved around a lot. Maybe he thinks I’m making this up about Mom. I can see he’s trying to measure this against my past performances: the poet, the broker, the niece. He takes a close look. He notices that I’ve put on a lot of mascara since I ducked out; that I’ve added a lot of blusher. He computes that, and decides that I’m getting the feel of a new role, Artist’s Model.

  I like that. For one thing, it’s true more or less. For another, his thinking that plays right into my plans.

  “We’re not going to change,” he tells me, in case I was thinking about putting on something fancy.

  “Good.” I adjust the shoulders of my gauzy blouse as if to say that I’m going to go in these same clothes, but maybe with just a few embellishments. I try to recall what he said at the diner when I told him I was going to be a fashion model at Glenna and Brogan’s car-phone party. He said I had the cool look, that was it. So I try to project cool.

  “You sure you don’t want us to wait for you?” L.W. asks.

  “No. I just had to call the nurse’s station, to make sure it wasn’t too late to stop by. You all go on.”

  I hesitate a minute, making sure that he’s not sure, that he doesn’t quite believe me. Then, as he turns to go, with Archie and Lights and Sound and Stage Set and the Indian who played Jesús already ahead of him, calling, Come on, let’s go, I pull him toward me and whisper, “I’d like about four minutes in the prop room. I’d like, you know, to go through the wardrobe trunks.” I act embarrassed, look down and then away, as if this new role is going to take a bit more disguise than I’ve got.

  “Oh, hey, that’s—Sure. Sure.” He nods, catching on. “Arch, you go on and wait for me at the car. We’ll caravan downtown. Not all of them know the way. I’ll just be a sec.”

  He steers me back inside the dark workshop theatre, turns on a small exit light, then shows me how to go up on the stage. Behind the flats are a few footlockers and some hanging stuff, like the racks that people check their coats on in restaurants.

  “This is all we’ve got. Mostly we just wear our own clothes or borrow what we need, like we did tonight. Except the caps; they were still here from Waiting for Lefty that they did last year. But anything you see, I mean this is all contributed. You don’t want a real costume, do you?”

  “No, you know, just something that will give me—” I reach down and pull up a length of yellowed lace and try it on like a shawl.

  “Sure,” he says. “I got it. Just close the door after you. It’s great you could come, no kidding.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for everything.” I give him a good-bye kiss on the cheek, because this is it, whether he knows it or not.

  • • •

  Alone, I try to think. A hat, that’s the main thing. And a man’s suit, or, styles being the way they are, a jacket and trousers, not matching. I find an old pair of pleated pants, from somebody’s daddy. They have a couple of moth holes in the cuffs, but who’ll be looking that close? Fortunately, the rumpled look is in. I root around for a man’s plaid jacket, but no luck. Then for any jacket at all. I find a sweater, a turtleneck in a dull gold color. But no jacket. Finally, I find the top of a tuxedo. I look at it and decide it will have to do. The hat is no problem; there is a trunk full of hats. I guess they’re the major prop for changing roles in a hurry. I take a man’s felt and then glance around for shoes and socks. But of course actors use their own, and besides, who wears socks any more anyway?

  We’ll go with what we’ve got.

  I’m off the stage and to the door when I go back and grab one of those cardboard suitcases used in plays by all departing husbands, traveling salesmen, and con artists.

  Perfect.

  42

  I GO IN GENERIC. Who expects a celebrity to observe the rules?

  Getting off the mud-colored elevator on the fourth floor, I gaze at the burlap-plastered walls and get my bearings. I got Mom’s room number from the desk downstairs; I know where the rest rooms are located from my night in residence on the black vinyl waiting-room couch. When I saunter up to the nurse’s desk, the LVN on duty is reading, what else, a copy of Newsweek. Everything is going fine.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Visiting hours are over.” She doesn’t look up. Her magazine is open to the article about how artists are all using live models again. On one page a naked child is curled up on the floor by a giant plant and a man’s coat; facing that is me, holding the severed hand.

  “I’m Jolene,” I tell her. “The model.”

  She looks up. “Visiting hours are—” she stares at me and then down at the page. “Fantastic!”

  “Please. My mother is a patient here.”

  She looks again. “Wait’ll I tell my boyfriend.”

  “I just want to check on her; I won’t be a minute.”

  “Well, it’s against the rules, but, well, look—you can’t stay long.”

  “Temple. Her name is Midge Temple.”

  “Temple, Temple, here we are.” She reads the chart and points the way. “That’s room 408, down there.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I was just in there,” she confides. “Her blood count’s fine, but she still has the cough and weakness. It can take a while. I bet she’ll be ready to go home in a few more days.” She points again. “I’d take you down, but I’m not supposed to leave my station—”

  “I can find it. Thanks so much.” I take about four steps, then look all around, and walk back to her. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but is there a men’s room up here?”

  “What’d you want that for?”

  “Oh, I came with my agent. He wouldn’t wait downstairs. I think he’s scared of hospitals; you know how some menare.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “So I let him ride up in the elevator with me, and made him promise to stand right over there and wait.” I make a big point of looking around in all directions. “But now he’s disappeared.”

  “I expect that’s where he went. It’s over there, down that hall.” She lowers her voice. “Is he old or something?”

  “He’s old, but that’s not it, if you mean his having a retention problem or something. I think they, you know, people like that, booking agents, I think maybe they�
��re doing something else in the men’s room.”

  “You don’t mean—?” She looks horrified.

  “Oh, not sex. I meant, you know, up his nose—” I make a gesture, like I’d ever seen that done. Gambling on the chance that what she and I know about serious use of recreational drugs we got from the same place: films.

  “I hope nobody walks in there on him. They’ll have my head for sure.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry.” She remembers who she’s talking to and adds this to the story she’ll tell. “Nobody up here at this hour. Doctors been gone since supper. I’ll keep my eye out. You just go right on down there and see your mother.”

  “I appreciate it.” I lift the suitcase so she can see it. “I brought her a new gown. There’s not much you can bring a sick person.”

  “That was nice.”

  I trot down the hall, looking back over my shoulder a couple of times, as if I’m trying to catch a glimpse of the drug-freak agent who naturally goes everywhere with me, me being a celebrity, and then turn sharp as a knife into Mom’s room.

  • • •

  The clock on her wall (big as a pie plate and facing her bed) says exactly ten o’clock.

  She’s sitting up, her hair tucked under a shower cap, dark glasses on, and not a stitch of clothes.

  “Good girl,” she says when she sees me. “I figured you’d wait for today; not too many family members crawling the halls. Good thinking.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “Every last thing on the supper tray. They’ve got me on a liquid diet. Liquid diet in case you don’t know means a bowl of Jell-O and two cold poached eggs that stare up at you like cow eyes. And one bitty tiny glass of pineapple juice. If you call that a meal, then I ate.”