Celluloid Memories (3 page)

“I'm already in traffic. I'm closer to the show then I am to you. Is Kay going to stand me up, too?”

Donna chortled. “At least I called. She said she had to have drinks tonight with someone from NBC. Kay's angling to do PR in the black community for one of their fall shows. I'm sorry this happened at the last minute, but you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do,” Savannah said without rancor.

She had a sudden memory of her father calling when she was about eight to say he couldn't come to see her and Harris because he was about to leave for location on a film. It was a small scene, he'd told her, but he had lines, and that could lead to something else.

“Look, my exit is coming up. Call me tomorrow.”

Savannah hung up and moved to the right-hand lane to exit the expressway. For a moment she did consider forgetting about the crafts show as well, and just heading back to her father's house. But it was early, not quite seven, and she envisioned the long evening stretching before her in the quiet house. She could have dinner alone, then sit by the pool and read. Or she could go through the short stack of forms, notices and documents that had been arriving since her father's death, to tie up the loose ends of his business here on earth.

She was tired of dealing with death.

Savannah jumped at the chance to spend an evening doing something just for herself, and signaled as she approached the exit ramp.

When she entered the exhibition hall she felt relief at the sense of the familiar. One of the things Savannah most missed about living in New York was the variety of activities there, the diversity throughout the city that made life interesting, lively and unique. Not at all like Hollywood with its fixation on youth, beauty and make-believe.

Savannah still had trouble understanding a culture based on such superficiality. But even more bewildering to her was how her father could have chosen such a way of life over his family, his children? Why weren't she and Harris and their mother enough to make him happy? Did he find happiness here in La-La Land?

“Everything is reduced thirty percent.”

Savannah slowed her steps in front of a vendor who was selling beautifully carved wooden boxes of all sizes. Because he'd gotten her attention she stopped to examine some of his pieces.

“They're great for loose change, jewelry, secret love letters.”

Savannah turned one box over to look at the price. Expensive. “This is lovely,” she told the man, glancing at him briefly. He had a kind of Malibu look of tanned skin, slender athletic body, and the ubiquitous blond hair that was a bit long and shaggy. But it was also clear that the artisan was not a young man.

“There's only three more days of the show. I need to sell something,” he said.

Savannah smiled at him. “Help out a starving artist?”

“Help out a starving actor,” he corrected dryly.

She thought he might be in his late thirties, early forties. To her way of thinking, he was a little long in the tooth to still be pursuing an acting career.

“Why don't you just concentrate on your wood carving? You could probably build a cottage industry out of your talent and work.”

“Thanks. But this just pays the rent. I had a steady gig about five years ago on TV. You probably heard of the show?”

He not so modestly mentioned a popular sitcom that Savannah not only recognized but had watched herself. But she didn't recognize his face or name. Still, she listened politely and spoke with encouragement.

“I'm sure you'll get something else. You already have experience from a former hit show.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, but it's always ‘What have you done lately?' I'm a very good actor, but I'm up against a bunch of kids who are barely twenty, know what I mean?”

Savannah nodded, sympathetic to his situation. “Maybe something will turn up soon.”

“I hope so. Look, if you really like that box I'll give it to you for fifty percent off. Now, that's a good deal.”

It was. Savannah took her time looking through the other styles and designs. She finally chose one that appealed to her, and of a size that could really be useful although she wasn't sure yet how she would use the box. He wrapped the box in newspaper, a section of the Sunday comics, and put it inside a plastic bag from a local supermarket.

“Hey, you enjoy that box.”

“Good luck to you,” she said, before moving on.

The show had a wide variety of artists displaying and selling their wares, from glass works and handmade gold and silver jewelry, to pottery and even furniture. For her the show was not about buying things, so much as it was a chance to see creative work from talented people. She'd always appreciated anything made by hand.

Since it was a juried show, she passed booths where the artists proudly displayed their winning ribbons. There was a buzz and flurry of activity at a booth one aisle away, and Savannah realized that someone of note was being followed and photographed as she moved along the displays, occasionally stopping to handle work or chat with the artist.

“Do you know what's going on?” she asked a middle-aged woman in oversized eyeglasses selling leather-bound albums and journals.

“Probably an actress,” she shrugged with disinterest. “This is the third time since the show opened that one of them has come by. It's a photo op, you know. They move around among the people, doing regular stuff so they seem real and down to earth.”

“I'm sure many are,” Savannah said.

“Oh, yeah, right. But if I can find out who the actress is,” she gestured toward the aisle where the gathering was happening. “I can tell you what they're promoting, what scandal they're trying to gloss over, or what love affair they're recovering from.”

“And what if they're just here to enjoy the show, buy some handmade work?”

“Sweetheart,
nothing
that appears natural in Hollywood is. Everything is planned, scripted and coordinated. Now, I'll tell you something else. Tomorrow there will be a big photograph and a short blurb about how so-and-so was ‘spotted,'” she made quote marks with her fingers, “at the L.A. crafts show. It's all about publicity and timing.”

“Are you an actress, too?” Savannah asked the amusing but cynical woman.

“Not me. It's a crazy business, and a heartbreaker. But my brother works for Disney in the animation department.”

Savannah soon said goodbye and wandered away, sure that the woman had missed the irony.

She'd pretty much seen the entire exhibit, stopping at those booths that interested her, when she realized it was after eight o'clock. Despite that odd sensation she always experienced when returning to her father's house, it was time to leave. There was still one aisle remaining, but she decided to skip it. That is, until she spotted, from a distance, a shawl being worn by a young woman at a booth where other woven accessories were displayed. Drawn by vibrant colors that suggested a sunset from a distance, Savannah detoured in the direction of the booth.

The young woman managing the booth was carefully folding another shawl and adding it to a neat stack on a table behind her. On the front table, pinned to a square pillow made of some of the fabric, was a second-place ribbon from the show judges.

“Congratulations,” Savannah said.

“Hi. Thanks,” the young woman smiled warmly as Savannah began looking at the displayed items. “Everything is woven from original designs. I have shawls, tablecloths, napkins…”

“They're really gorgeous,” Savannah said, running her fingers over the folded fabrics. “Are you the artist?”

“Yes, I am. I work on a hand loom with wools and threads I pick up when traveling.”

“I love the shawl you're wearing.”

The young woman pulled it from her shoulders and held it up so that Savannah could see the full design. “Thank you. It's a good size. I was wearing it as a shawl, but it can also serve as a tablecloth or as a tapestry hung on a wall. I design so that everything has multiple uses. Here. Would you like to try it?”

Savannah accepted the cloth and was immediately surprised by its light weight and warm, soft texture. She stood in front of a rectangular mirror that the artist held for her, and wrapped herself in the shawl. The colors suited her own toffee complexion, and lent an air of the exotic to her features, her slightly slanted dark eyes and wide, well-shaped mouth.

“How much is this one?”

Almost apologetically the young woman named a price. It was higher than Savannah was expecting, but she knew it was very fair. The shawl was one of a kind. She removed it and handed it back to the young woman. Seeing the tiny easel with business cards, she took one from the stand. The card read Domino Designs…for you and your home.”

“Are you Domino?” Savannah asked.

The woman nodded with a small shrug, and made a knowing gesture with her hand. “My grandmother gave me that name. You know how some of the folks are. Always digging into the past for these meaningful names.

Savannah looked at her more closely, trying to meld the women's appearance with her surprising mannerisms and the way she talked. She was a little above average height, with the kind of looks that naturally drew stares and compliments. Savannah had noticed at once that she was very thin and fair, with a flawlessly smooth peach complexion. She had an incredible mane of corkscrew blond curls that fairly sprouted from her head down to her shoulders, framing a face that was way-above-average beautiful. Her eyes were a smoky gray color.

“It's an usual name,” Savannah observed.

“My real name is Dominique Hamilton. I use Domino Hagan professionally.”

“I like it.” Savannah narrowed her eyes with a slight frown. “Don't tell me. You're also an actress.” To her surprise, Domino laughed in a self-deprecating manner that immediately warmed Savannah to her.

“When I can get the parts, I am. This week I'm an artist. It's hard getting by the gatekeepers—secretaries, assistants and others who have power. I get a lot of, ‘You're great, you're got what it takes,' and then I don't get a callback or I'm told I'm not quite right for the role. I get a
lot
of that. This is my fallback plan,” she said, referring to the woven items on sale. “I learned from my grandmother.”

“I'm so impressed. Your work is fabulous. I love that one.” Savannah pointed to the shawl she'd tried on.

“Thanks,” Domino said with a pleased grin. “I could give you a small discount…”

“It's worth what you're asking,” Savannah said, “But it's more than I can afford right now.” She looked speculatively at Domino. “Will you do a layaway?”

“Bet!” Domino nodded decisively, again surprising Savannah.

Savannah wrote out a check for a deposit on the shawl. After once again congratulating Domino on her work and wishing her luck with her acting, she finally headed for the exit.

There was still a lot of traffic on the expressway, but it was moving briskly. Savannah figured that at this hour it would take her thirty minutes to get home. Her mind settled into not only a review of the show she'd just left, but a reminder to herself to call Donna and Kay, the two women friends she'd made since coming to L.A., to encourage them to catch the crafts show before it closed. Donna in particular, a former dancer and now part-time yoga instructor, would appreciate many of the original pieces. Kay, who could ill afford to, loved to spend money.

On autopilot, Savannah switched lanes, preparing for a crossover to another route that took her back to the upscale black community and her father's house. As always, she also considered what was to be done to the house she now lived in but could still not call her own. Why had she continued to stay on, given her ambivalent feelings for a man who'd chosen his career over his family? Even more bewildering to her was why she'd answered his call, and why he'd chosen to ask her to come and be with him in L.A. He'd said he had something important to say to her and wanted to do it in person. Why had she decided to come? And why, once she'd arrived and they'd played at being father and daughter for almost a week, had he decided to tell her he was dying. And the final surprise…would she stay with him until the end?

Savannah blinked away the memory that still had the power to confuse her, to make her feel both anger and regret. Why had he waited so long?

She heard a car horn ahead, and the screech of brakes. The taillights of the car ahead of her came on and its speed abruptly reduced, forcing Savannah to brake sharply. A second later her car was suddenly bumped forward and rocked, and she was forced against the restraints of her seat belt. She'd been hit from behind. She glanced in her rearview mirror to see a man dressed in a black tux getting out of the car. Savannah put her car in Park, put on her hazard blinkers, and did the same.

A
lready there was a small pileup of vehicles behind her; the drivers hadn't had time to see what was happening in time to change lanes. The driver of the dark BMW immediately behind Savannah walked toward her. He did two things that annoyed her. He first looked at his watch, and he then examined the front end of his car for damages.

“You just hit my car,” Savannah said, her voice indignant and angry. She checked out her vehicle before turning her frowning glare on him. “Why were you tailgating?”

“You stopped short.”

“Are you blaming me?”

“I don't see any damage.”

“You don't know that. It's too dark to tell for sure,” she persisted, standing with a hand on her hip.

Cars around them were blowing their horns, trying to get around the blocked lane, and some drivers were rubbernecking.

“I'm not going to argue with you,” the other driver said, talking over the noise of traffic. He looked at the time again, and removed his wallet from an inside pocket of his jacket.

“Am I keeping you from something?” Savannah asked sarcastically.

“As a matter of fact, yes. I'm late for an important event,” he said, his voice cool and formal. “Are you hurt?”

“Nice of you to finally ask.” Savannah shook her head. “No. I'm okay.”

“Good. I'm not hurt, either. So, there's nothing to discuss.”

He suddenly looked back to his own car. It was then that Savannah realized there was a passenger in his car. Female. She was young and very pretty, dressed for the night in something gauzy, skimpy but formal. She glanced back to the man and realized he was wearing a tuxedo, with his bow tie made of yellow Kinte cloth.

He didn't exactly apologize for plowing into her, but he also did not engage in an argument with her. Savannah took a moment to look more closely at him. He was maybe six feet tall. He was brown-skinned and clean-shaven. It was hard to tell how old he was, but he certainly wasn't a twentysomething or middle-aged. He had a mature demeanor about him, calm and controlled. He had a clean, precise appearance.
Definitely a Hollywood type,
Savannah thought scathingly. Self-centered and always in a rush.

He handed her a business card, but she couldn't read any of the text in the dark. She walked back to the front seat of her car, reached for her handbag, and found a card of her own to give him in return.

“I don't see any need to call the police and report this. Do you?” he said, putting his wallet away. He was already returning to his driver's-side door.

“What if there are damages to my car?” Savannah asked, feeling as if he was marginalizing what happened.

“Then call me,” he said, pointing to the card in her hand.

“How rude! We just got into an accident. You can't just leave.”

He was halfway back inside his car, but paused to face her over the top of his open door. “I can tell you're not from L.A. Don't make a big deal of a little fender bender. It happens all the time. Save your indignation for something really important.”

Savannah stood speechless as he slammed the door and instantly had his car in gear as he peeled off around her, back into traffic. She stared after his disappearing taillights until she finally lost track of him.

It had all happened in less than five minutes.

Savannah heard another car horn so close behind her that she jumped. She was standing in a dangerous place and about to cause another accident. She hurried back to her car and got in, continuing on her way. But her hands were shaking, and adrenaline rushed through her body.

Savannah's annoyance, coming on the heels of her reflection about her father's life in Hollywood, was heightened. Thank goodness it hadn't been a serious collision, but the attitude of the driver involved had gotten to her.

“Fool,” she murmured scathingly, although it brought little satisfaction.

She suddenly realized she was still holding his slightly bent card in her hand. She squinted at the lettering, making out a name. McCoy Sutton. She tossed it carelessly aside and it landed just inside the top opening of her purse.

He was not so easy to dismiss. Something he'd said echoed in her head, infuriating Savannah with its implication.
I can tell you're not from L.A.

What the hell did that mean?

By the time she pulled into the driveway of her father's house, she was tense and impatient. The incident on the way back seemed to have settled in her and she couldn't shake it off. They had been lucky that it wasn't more serious. Why couldn't she just let it go? But her reflective mood was not about having been rear-ended by another car. It was what the driver had said to her, because he'd been right.

Savannah let herself into the quiet house and, as had become a habit, she walked slowly through it, from room to room. The walk still evoked the life and times of Will Shelton. Growing up, she'd come to hate L.A. because she believed that her father loved it more than he did her or her brother Harris. Los Angeles had stolen him right out of her life, and it wasn't enough that he'd called out to her in the last year of his own. How was she ever going to recapture the lost years between?

There were still piles of old industry magazines on the bottom shelves of her father's bookcase. There were mementos and souvenirs from different films or TV programs he'd done. After she'd changed her mind about selling his house, she'd replaced on the walls the photographs of her father taken with industry people, some well-known. He looked handsome and happy.

She'd moved nothing in his bedroom. She hadn't made a shrine of the space, but it was still
his
space. It pretty much remained the same as the day he'd died, although by then her father had been moved to a private hospice where he'd been attached to oxygen and sedated to keep the pain at bay.

The room she occupied was used as a combination guest room and home office. In there were housed the numerous photo albums, scrapbooks, shooting scripts, reviews and notices of his work. She'd more or less taken the room over, sleeping in the comfortable full-sized bed where, almost nightly, she had dreams about her father.

In one he was taking her to the zoo, and then leaving her to wait in the bird house while he went off for an audition or reading, promising to return for her soon. But never doing so.

I can tell you're not from L.A.

How could he tell, exactly? Was it the way she dressed, Savannah wondered? Mostly in New York black, in clothes that were more conservative than her west-coast counterparts. They revealed, she concealed. Was it her get-in-your-face attitude about the accident, rather than just shrugging and saying, as he had, “no harm done.” Or was it her inability to get in the mind-set of L.A. culture—live and let live. Don't sweat the small stuff when it was
all
small stuff.

Or had the stranger been able to see into the heart of the matter and recognize what she had not been able to see herself? Cutting some slack, and letting bygones be bygones.

Will Shelton had been a minor actor in Hollywood, low on the food chain with other black actors. He'd survived and built a life and career in a city that manufactured dreams. But had it all been worth the sacrifice?

Savannah started from her introspection when she thought she heard something outside, in the back. She silently made her way to a window and looked out. There was no one there. But she did catch a glimpse of a moving shadow. She went into the kitchen and to the door leading to the yard. She stepped outside. There was another sound. Someone was there, near the door that opened out to the side of the property.

She went to investigate. But by the time Savannah reached the door and unlocked and opened it, the walkway was empty and all was again quiet. About to close it to return to the house she, instead, walked down the flagstone pathway to the curb. She looked to the right, toward the main thoroughfare and traffic two blocks away. To her left, and some distance down the block, she caught sight of a retreating figure. It appeared to be a woman, small in stature with a graceful carriage, wearing slacks, a sweater, with her hair either very short, or pulled back and held with a tie or clip. She was walking purposefully as if trying to get away. Savannah watched her for a while, wondering if she'd been wrong about someone hanging around the house. She finally went back inside.

The phone began to ring and she hurried to answer.

“Hello?”

“How was the crafts show?”

“Hey, Donna. It was fun. Sorry you missed it.”

“Did you buy anything?”

“I got talked into buying a carved wooden box. I felt sorry for the artist.”

“Unemployed actor, right?”

Savannah laughed in response. “How was the reception?”

“Crowded with a bunch of very skinny beautiful people. People get silly when they drink too much, especially when they're not paying for the drinks. Ooohh, you'll never guess who came in.”

“Who?”

“You know that actor who's on the
Law and Order
franchise?”

“I don't know who you're talking about, Donna. I don't watch a lot of television. I would guess that he's very good-looking, with great abs.”

“Yep. And full of himself.”

“Isn't that true of most of Hollywood?” Savannah asked dryly.

“Not really. A lot of folks in this town are really nice and work hard. Everybody's just trying to make it, and a lot of them aren't going to. You can't blame people for dreaming big. What else did you buy?”

Savannah proceeded to tell Donna about the show, and enthusiastically described the shawl she'd left a down payment for with the artist, Domino.

“And you won't believe what happened to me on the way back to my father's house.”

“You met someone?”

Savannah laughed. “Yeah, I did, but you won't believe how. I had an accident.”

“Get out! You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Just ticked off by the driver's attitude.”

“What do you mean?”

Savannah went over the details, including the comment of the driver as he was leaving the scene.

“Can you believe his nerve? Acting like the problem was me 'cause I'm not from here. Then he just left me on the highway while he hurried off to some event. Probably a movie premier.”

“Vann, you
are
very down on L.A. You're always making fun of actors and actresses because they're willing to do anything to get noticed.”

“It's not like becoming an actor is this great contribution to society.”

“Maybe it's not. But it is about having talent and dreams and wanting them to come true. I admire people who risk everything to follow their own hearts. I wanted to perform with the Dance Theater of Harlem, but never made it out of the repertory company and the chorus line of a few Broadway shows. Kay always wanted to be a designer, but she admits she was only really interested in dressing herself, not other women. At least she gave it a shot.”

Savannah knew there was no intended criticism of her in Donna's observations, but the barb had struck home, sharply and deeply.

“You said you'd always wanted to be a writer, and that's exactly what you became, right? For a women's magazine back in New York? So, how is what you wanted to do any different?”

“I just feel like he was making fun of me.”

“Oh, you mean like—Why don't you lighten up?”

“I think so.”

“Look, I know this past year has been rough, taking care of your father and knowing he was going to die and then having him die, and staying in his house. But maybe you do take things too seriously. You need to take up surfing, or riding in cars with boys, or start going to acting class.”

Savannah began to laugh.

“Maybe you need to get a tattoo, or get more hair like Diana Ross, or become really eccentric and start walking around with a pet in your purse. It works for Paris Hilton and Beyoncé.”

When she'd finished laughing, Savannah felt relief flow through her at the dissipation of her tension and thoughts. “Maybe I'm not the L.A. type. Maybe I really do belong in New York.”

“You can belong anywhere you choose to. It's not like you get to pick only one from column A or one from column B. Take them both.”

Savannah grew pensive, listening to Donna's pearls of wisdom. It
had
been a hard year.

In that moment, with the accident and the image of a well-dressed, slightly arrogant man fresh on her mind, she made a decision. But it was about much more than wanting to prove to a perfect stranger that he'd gotten it wrong. She could still see her father sitting in his living room slowly looking through his albums with a slight smile and a glow in his eyes for his memories. Earlier that very evening she'd met many artisans at the crafts fair who believed in themselves enough not to give up, who could even make light of their struggles.