Bells of Avalon (10 page)

The soft rattle of Danny’s watch against the bedside table woke her. She sat up, and the sheets squealed. He rolled up the cuff of his sleeve and fastened the silver hanging slack of his watch.  He didn’t look at her. He fussed with his shoes for a few seconds with his back to her before his head snapped up. He looked around the room impatiently.

“They’re in the bathroom,” she said.

He whirled around, too quickly to temper his expression into something more neutral for her benefit.

“What?” he asked.

“Your socks.”

“Oh.” He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with the black socks, still wilted but dry.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Time for me to go.” 

Looking at him standing over her like a gruff businessman made her feel raw inside. He smoothed his mussed hair, but lingered—maybe to make sure he’d left no evidence of himself behind.

“I’ll see you a bit later then?” he asked.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said and got out of bed. He looked at her as though he would say goodbye, but his eyes only looked up and down her body. He said nothing and left.  She shut the door softly behind him, not caring to look for who might have seen Daniel Gallagher leave her room at such an early hour.

They rode in the same car as the night before. The dumpish press agent joined them again; but today, chatted amiably with the driver as they drove through the heart of the city.  Danny kept his eyes out the window as Canal Street and series of townhouses passed by. He turned away and closed his eyes as they came to 6
th
Avenue.  She studied his profile as he laid back, his expression dreary and tired. She saw he’d managed a change of clothes and a shower from the looks of the damp hair at his neck and smoothly shaved chin. When they arrived, he disappeared into the mass of bodies filling the studio lobby. She thought maybe he’d been pulled away, but it was more likely he’d gone again without saying goodbye.  His disappearance made her feel weightless, as though she’d unwittingly anchored herself to his presence.

As the day marched on, she mostly forgot about him. Forgetting was easy when her hair was styled to the point of headache, her makeup stenciled on again and again with sharp, plastic instruments. She had a dozen interviews with men in suits and thick eyeglasses, men with shiny faces, dragoon mustaches, and hair treated with too much pomade. Each man spoke to her differently. It was her job to respond in kind, gauging quickly whether they wanted her to be twenty-five, thirteen, or somewhere in between. Judging what they wanted was an unconscious reflex. So many had seen her in such cosmic way as a child. She knew she would always be set to stand, hand-in-hand, with the pale version of what she’d been. She knew this as she came to know most things that were difficult. In a daydreaming way at first, sometimes from her mind’s sing-songy voice as it spoke to her during the night. It whispered and planted seeds until the knowing could be reaped.

She couldn’t have been happier when the last interview was finished. The back of the soundstage was cold, smelling of mothballs and damp metal. As she followed the press agent through the wings, she felt someone grab her hand and pull her behind a curtain. Her heart skipped for a moment, her mind harshly summoning up another hallway, another time in which she’d been stolen from her path. She relaxed a bit, seeing it was Daniel who’d taken her now.

He’d undone his cufflinks, and his sleeves were folded up to his elbows. He held his jacket over one fetching forearm, as though waiting for a coat-check who didn’t exist. There was a reckless quality in his eyes. She smelled the woodsy, summer-night scent of his cologne as he moved closer. Tiny sparkles of perspiration glittered along his forehead and temples.

“Shh.”  He held a crooked finger to his lips when she spoke above a whisper.

“What are doing?” she asked, more quiet now. 

“Nothing—just wanted to catch you before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I leave,” he said.

“Leave? You can’t go—we haven’t filmed our bit yet.”

She glanced at the thin, gold dial of her watch. He covered the watch face with his hand. He took both hands and lowered them until their fingers knit and grazed the thin fabric of her skirt. His face softened.

“Never mind all that,” he said, and there was swell of defeat behind the statement that worried her.

“I don’t understand,” she said softly. She inspected his greenish eyes against the barely visible pupils at their center. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to say goodbye before I flew back Los Angeles.”

“You’ve gone completely batty, Danny. They always use us for the last bit, and we always fly back together.” She fought off the nervous urge to pull her hand from his and glance again at her watch.

“Not this time, satin doll. I gotta roll.”

“
Uck
, I hate when you call me that.”

“Oh c’mon, you love it.”

“No I don’t—it could be worse than
happy as Larry, Mary
.”

“Happy as
what
?” he asked, smiling.

She searched his face, wondering if he was playing with her—but he was pure pokerface.

“So they dolled-up your hair after all,” he said. She looked down at the curled tips of her hair and brushed them back over her shoulders.

“I know. I look about ten years-old—don’t I?”

“No,” he said and moved closer to her. His fingertips grazed her bent elbows, “Not really.”

“But really, Danny, why are you going?” she asked, expecting he would tell her it was all a joke.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “it’s nothing you have to worry about—nothing you’ll ever have to worry about.” He looked down at her hands, “I have to go.”

“But—Danny?”

“What?” he asked. There was a bright, interested look in his eyes for the first time that day.

“I—”

“What?” he repeated, the interest in his eyes tapering off into impatience.

“Just call the house when you land. Leave a message with the Meltsners. So I know…so I’ll know you’re ok.”

A boastful smile formed on his lips.

“Why, Katie Webb, don’t tell me you’ll be
worried
about me?”

When she didn’t smile back, he cringed.

“Oh
god
, not this again. You’re too old for this nonsense.”

“I just have a bad feeling. You know, us taking different planes. We always fly home together after a job—it’s bad luck not to.”

“You always have a bad feeling and nothing ever happens. Nothing happened after that awful barley picture in Oregon, even after you caused that big scene at the airport.”

“Nothing ever happened because you had the picture to fool them—to make them think that you were really with me.”

“Fool
who
? The airplane gods?”

“I don’t know, whoever it is that needs fooling when things are different than they normally are.”

“Jesus, Katie, you and your airplane juju. Anyway I lost that picture you gave me and neither of our planes crashed.”

“You lost it? You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t mean to lose it.” He smiled.

“You’ve never lost anything in your life that you didn’t want to, Daniel Gallagher.”

“You’d rather I’d kept it in my wallet after all this time—pining for you?” He laughed. She didn’t answer. She was pretty sure that he already knew that she did. She fumbled through her purse for something, but there was nothing but her crossword book and a nub of a pencil.  She took a deep breath and pulled the remnants of the Dixon 2 & 5/10th pencil from her purse and handed it to him.

“What the hell is this?” He held the pencil as though it was a dead insect.              

“It’s not a picture, but it will have to do. Just take it on the plane and promise not to lose it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Shh, just take it—please, Danny.” 

“You’re crazy as a loon, you realize this?” He sighed and shoved the pencil into his pocket.

“Now I have nothing to fill in my crosswords.”

“When we’re back in California—I’ll buy you a whole pack of them.”

“Really?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

“Maybe. Now give me a kiss goodbye, crazy lady.”

He leaned forward, following through with the kiss. As it lasted, she thought she could get used to the idea of kissing him. He pulled back and smiled with the smooth, cosmetic teeth she’d never get used to.

“Bye, Katie.” he whispered—and was gone.

When she walked onto the busy soundstage, a part of her still believed he would show up, turning a corner and dressed to the nines as he’d been as a boy.  He was the one that one everyone looked at back then. She’d been jealous of that—and, although she hadn’t known it at the time, she’d envied him. 

She felt a hot hand pull at her arm. She was guided to her mark on the floor.  There was only one X made on the scuffed floor where there had always been two. A plump, flushed finger re-curled a strand of hair fallen flat against her neck. Her ears flushed hot when a bit of powder was swept across her nose. The whispers were clear now.
No, no it’s only Ms. Webb. Yes, well, we’ll have to make it work now, won’t we? It’s no bother really. 
Then a shallow grunt of laughter.
No this’ll be the last of it. The little bastard can’t stay off whatever he’s doping on long enough to work—even when he does show up.

Chapter Ten

Los Angeles, California

1953

Tilda Meltsner knew how to build a public. She said this phrase a lot:
to build a public.
Katie hadn’t understood that at first. What she did understand was that Tilda knew a lot more about the business than her father had. Tilda enrolled her in the professional school three months and three days after her father died. Her father had insisted on public schools when she wasn’t working, even when people advised him otherwise.
Children like Katie are treated one apart in those places, Mr. Webb, terrorized even
.
They’re special, you see.
He never listened. He said it would be good for her. It wasn’t any good. It had been a nightmare. She was bullied and teased without relent, just as they’d said she’d be. Girls pulled at her hair and chased her down hallways. They called her ugly names as she walked by, and were otherwise intent on crucifying her.  

The professional school changed all of that. At the new school there were others far prettier and far more applauded. She was just average by comparison—nothing special… an irony she’d learned in spite of her father’s attempt to cut her down to size. It was at the professional school that she found she could friends with Daniel. And being friends was easier than whatever they’d had before. She never understood why they made sense on film—but were a disaster when the cameras stopped. It was something everyone could see but them. By the time their run had fizzled, they’d walked the studio tightrope for nine years, 3 months, and around six days. After the hurts were settled between them, they were offered only two more pictures—one of which never got made. Daniel’s option got canceled when he grew over six feet tall—no longer passable for teenage roles.

Tilda saw the writing on the wall when Danny got dropped. She said it was no matter—
they
would build a public
.  The Meltsners waited for her contract to quietly run out. When it did, Tilda padded her age and work history. They parceled her out on dates with famous men. She was photographed with handsome actors holding loving cups at popular nightspots and restaurants. The same sort of dates the publicity department had staged for her and Danny—dates at soda fountains and tourist traps around Los Angeles. The photos were published in teen magazines with captions like
Puppy Love
or
Danny Gallagher Takes his Miniature Co-Star out on the Town.
None of it was real, of course. They were told what to do and when to smile. They never spoke unless told to do so. Standing for those pictures had been the worst.  She felt heavy-footed and awkward without the foundation of a film set. But mostly because the staged photos offered a bittersweet glimpse of how normal kids lived.

Tilda’s plan had worked. Photos of her cleaved against older men found their way into the gossip rags and her phone began to ring again. She got a small contract with a tertiary studio. It was only a fraction of what she’d earned as a child, but it seemed like the world when everyone around was getting zilch. She was still scared. Going it alone without Danny’s built-in popularity was frightening. Now he didn’t even care as his opportunities began to fade. There was a change in him. Everyone spotted it before she did. She hadn’t known, not really, until she heard them say it while her ears burned. Exposed and alone on the soundstage, it seemed what was bad about him—was also bad about her.  Everything about her past with him was suddenly marred. Even the fuzzy bits of things she couldn’t quite assign memory to.

When her plane landed, she thought he might have tried to call the house. He hadn’t.  When the driver dropped her home, she got only a busy hello from Tilda, telephone mouthpiece pressed into the loose skin of her chin.  She took her suitcase and climbed the stairs to her room. Her bed was tidy and made as she’d left it, but everything else was different. Most of the contents of the room had been packed away in boxes—all stacked neatly in the corner of the room. A slim volume of her clothing had been left hanging in the closet.  She went through her drawers and found everything gone except for her nightgowns, slips, and under things. 

She heard a gentle tap at her door and whirled around.

“How was your flight?” Tilda asked and smiled broadly.

“Why have you packed my things away?”

The look in Tilda’s eyes snagged a bit before returning to their blank pleasantness.

“The special went well?”

“Yes, fine—thank you,” she said out of habit. Mrs. Meltsner opened a leather-bound planning book and glanced over a few pages before looking up again.

“Ornan and I will be away for a week or so—travelling.” She smiled without the use of her teeth, her lips pulled tight across her face. “You’ve got nothing for the next couple of weeks. I thought maybe you could take the time to make some arrangements.”

“Arrangements? What kind of arrangements?”

“I’ve left the number of a gentleman downstairs. He’ll be expecting your call, already has some rental properties lined up. He’ll pick you up to look at them when you’re ready. He’s very good; we’ve worked with him before—a young fellow…name is Carlisle. Tad Carlisle.”

“You mean—move out of the house?”

“Why yes, dear, you’re not a child anymore. You’ll have to live somewhere, won’t you? I’ll sign for whatever you find. I thought you’d be pleased.”

Katie looked over the harsh, empty space of the room once again. Her eyes stopped on the surface of her chest of drawers.

“My jewelry box.”

Tilda took a step into the room and tilted her head to the side.

“Box?”

“My jewelry box, my mother’s—where is it?”

“Why I’m sure it’s fine, dear. Probably in one of the boxes the movers packed away along with everything else. I’ve left the name of the moving company as well. They’ll be back to pick everything up when you find something.”

“I have nothing for the next two weeks? That can’t be.”

Tilda glanced at the book again and shrugged.

“Nothing. Some post-production things just after Christmas, but that’s all. Basil Pascal wants to talk to you about something, though—
Rebel Beat, Jazz Jungle
, something like that.”

“Who?”

“Basil Pasqual, over at MWA. You’ve met him, he used to do flack work for you when you were younger.”

“I don’t understand. You’ve always managed me.”

“Well yes, but Ornan and I are getting too old to keep up with talent anymore.  We’re thinking of selling the house and moving back East. We’ve told you about this.”

“I guess I forgot.” Katie sighed and sat onto the bed. “
Jazz Jungle
?”

TIlda closed the leather book and gave another thick impersonal smile.

“Something like that.”

“Sounds like a teen thug picture,” she mumbled, removing her shoes.

“What, dear?”

“Nothing,” she said, “I’m really tired.”

“Of course. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. If you go anywhere, be sure to lock up. Roberta will be by later to clean.”

She started to leave, but stopped as her eyes took on a more sober quality.

“Don’t look so down, dear. If you don’t want to go to Pascal you don’t have to.” She looked uncomfortable, as if something thorny was shifting inside that she’d prefer not dealing with. She lowered until her small, almost black, eyes were looking into her own. There was an undercurrent of harshness there, the kind of un-softened look reserved only for adults.

“It might be a good idea for you to take some time from pictures if you don’t like what’s coming in. Do something else for a while—travel or take some classes at the university. Then come back when you’re a bit older.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand?”

Tilda sighed and rose again. She tucked her book under her arm.

“You won’t understand. But you will someday—and you’ll thank me for the advice. That is, if I’m still around.” She smiled, but it was a sad smile. Tilda left, shutting the door quietly behind—as if to say her debt had been paid.

Katie left her suitcase on the floor, not bothering to unpack. Later when she crawled into bed, she couldn’t get rid of the anxious crawling feeling she’d had since she boarded the plane in New York. She thought he would have called—would have left a message. She should have known better, but suddenly Daniel Gallagher was the least of her problems.

She stared out the window. Sometimes she could hear the notes of piano scales as she’d heard them in another house. Mostly she heard the sing-songy voice. She wondered if her life would be spent in a series of homes that could never be hers. The sing-songy voice gave no answer.  Soon the house would be sold to someone else. Her small garden in the back would be razed. Another bit of her easily wiped away. She turned over and closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t see blue tile behind them when sleep found her.

Katie called Tad Carlisle the following morning. Tilda had scrawled his number with a felt-tipped pen in broad, screaming strokes along with the name of the moving company. A blonde man, younger than she’d expected, came to greet her a few hours later. He introduced himself as Theodore Carlisle,
Tad
to his friends. She agreed to rent the first house they saw—a  small, Spanish-styled home on Fiske Street. It had two more bedrooms than she needed, but it was furnished and that was enough to seal the deal.  She asked to make a stop at the nearest five-and-ten. Tad waited in the car while she bought a white bedspread and mint green bed sheets. She left the lease papers on Tilda’s desk, a red X marking her cosignatory line. Daniel never called.

She packed the remainder of her things that afternoon, marking each box with Tilda’s felt-tipped pen. The house was too quiet, too lonely. She thought to call Daniel’s mother, but fought the impulse down. She had no idea what she’d say, and there was always the fear of intruding.  Mrs. Gallagher sometimes sent invitations through her son, and she usually accepted. But sometimes when Danny asked, there were misgivings that even his actor’s face couldn’t conceal. Usually when there were other girls to be brought around. There were a few of those, but not so many as she had feared. When he asked her in that way, with that distracted chill about him, it was excruciating.  She felt thirteen again, Mrs. Gallagher freshly ripped from her and waving goodbye in a white housedress. But really, it wasn’t about Mrs.  Gallagher—at least not completely. It was excruciating for the simple fact that she was in love with her son.

She’d loved him from the moment she saw him standing on the corner of San Vicente and 26
th
. Even though she hadn’t realized it until much later. She was grateful for the delay in knowing. It would have been a hard thing to know suddenly—for a girl who’d never really loved anything. She tried to keep her feelings hidden as well as she could. Mrs. Gallagher, a woman who seemed to know more than she should, didn’t seem to sense the ache it was for her to look at him from across the dining room table. When he wasn’t there, his presence still hung in the air like an exciting scent—even when she knew he was out with another girl. He’d been around even less since he graduated and got his own place in West Hollywood—or so his mother had told her once, her eyes peculiar and wakeful.  Mrs. Gallagher didn’t look at her that way very often. She was a strange woman and, at times, a finicky woman—but as a rule, she was fearless.  When Katie saw that fearlessness choked out by wordless despair, she would have done almost anything to stop it. Yet there was nothing she could do, so long as Mrs. Gallagher noticed so much in others, but so little in her own son. 

She finished packing what was left of her clothes and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. An English girl, she’d never drunk tea until she’d come to live with the Meltsners. It was one of the many British generalizations she could never live up to. The tea soothed her…and she fell asleep, fully dressed on the chaise lounge with an empty teacup at her feet.

She woke the next morning, thankful for the noise of chirping birds. To further cut the quiet of the house, she turned on the radio and went upstairs to bathe.  Afterwards she dressed in her garden clothes and put on a bit of rouge and lip gloss. She made a ruckus searching for the steel watering can under the sink.  She retrieved it from the very back, then pulled the percolator from the cupboard and filled it with water.  The Meltsners drank coffee from morning till night, and she had come to grow a taste for it as well as the tea. She waited for the piping of the percolator to silence and poured a cup for herself.  She filled the watering can until it weighted heavy against her hand. She took a first sip of the bitter coffee. The morning light was blinding by time she reached the porch and walked out into the front yard.  The air was chillier than she’d expected. She shivered and drank a bit more coffee before kneeling beside a single snowdrop flower.  Her finger brushed against a tender white petal.  The face of the flower angled down with the stem in a perpetual sort of bow. She tipped the base of the flower head to face her and inspected the green and gold markings on the inside of the petals.  She released it, and it dipped back into a downward curtsy.  A sad little flower. She’d plant crocus next year, something with a bit more life. By then she would have her own house, and her own path to plant against. That thought came and went quickly as she moved up the line of snowdrops, showering each flower with water from the can. She watched as the crystal droplets fell at an achingly slow rate to the petals and splashed everywhere.