Girl in the Mirror (35 page)

She leaned away from his hand, averting her eyes. She didn’t want him touching her, stroking her. It somehow felt all wrong.

Drawing back, Freddy remained attentive, eager to make her understand. “I want to be your protector. I’ve created you. I gave you to the world. Don’t you see? You—” He shifted his weight and clenched his fists, as though he were grabbing hold of her soul and cleaving it to his breast. “You
belong
to me.”

Charlotte stared at his face while her mouth slipped open. My God, he meant it. He really thought she belonged to him. She felt a little afraid. And, though she hated herself for it, she felt a little safe. Most people didn’t give a damn about her. They played sympathetic, but they were only interested in finishing a film that would bring in money. Or worse, they pretended to love her but walked away when the chips were down.

He loved her—
in his way.
What did that mean? She looked away at the drawn blinds blocking out the afternoon’s light. Perhaps Freddy was right. What did it matter? What was love, anyway? An opportunity to be hurt and humiliated? To have her heart crushed and thrown away? This seemed to her to be so much more practical and efficient an alternative to lust and passion.

She opened her mouth to argue, but let it slowly close again. This was Freddy. He’d worked miracles before. Perhaps Freddy
could
find a way out of this dilemma. She was at her wit’s end, grasping.

“Can you finish the film?” he asked, surprising her with the simple question.

She considered it seriously, forcing her soggy brain to think. “No. Honestly, Freddy, I don’t think so. Not this one. I’m sorry.”

Freddy dragged his palm down his face, miserable. “At least you’re being honest. Well—” He slapped his palms on his thighs. “LaMonica’s talking about filing a claim and blaming it on you. If we pull out now, voluntarily, he might be able to bring in a substitute and we might salvage your career. He’ll appreciate being told up front. Right away.”

Charlotte didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

“Now for damage control. We’ll let word out that you’re very sick.” He raised his brows. “Which is true. But we’ll say it’s something benign, like pneumonia. I’ll get some doctor to stand by the claim. Then we put you in hiding until the Oscars. That’s the main thing. We’ve got to get through the Oscars. If you win there, then the rest of this will blow over.”

“My health won’t blow over, Freddy.”

“Of course not. But let’s take this one step at a time.”

Charlotte leaned back, shivering with chills, while Freddy explained all the plans that were under way for the Oscars. He had obviously compartmentalized her problem. Put it on the shelf in the “to do” pile while he focused on the next issue. It was so uncaring, so businesslike, so ruthless. So Freddy.

She wrapped her favorite afghan around her shoulders, the one that her mother had knit for her when she graduated from college, and felt distanced from the event that was cycling like a whirlwind somewhere out there. He talked on and on about the music, the seating, the question of whether she’d be a presenter, the schmoozing with anyone and everyone connected with the Oscars.

Looking up she saw her face in the mirror: the wide-set, luminous blue eyes, the perfectly chiseled cheekbones and delicately protruding chin. The full, even mouth with its slightly downward pout. Impostor! she thought, hating the vacuous Beauty she saw reflected. She
was
the Beast! There had to be some deformity still there, something horrid and grotesque that was hidden in her perfect features that prevented someone from loving her. She thought she would be different if she changed her face. But nothing had changed after all. She still felt the need to be recognized, to be wanted, to be
loved.

But she was not worth loving. Of course Michael did not love her, she thought, burying her face in her hands. The lack was not in him—but in her.

M
ichael usually loved the spring, the earth’s awakening. In the distant hills the coyotes were in full cry. He stood out on his porch with his hands in his back pockets, listening to their songs of love. Deep, soulful howls that moved him deeply. Coyotes traveled in pairs, he thought.

Then he cringed. His own loneliness was oppressive. He’d thought by now, after months of separation, Charlotte would be out of his mind. But she’d sunk her roots deep, like the onions in her garden that were sending up soft green shoots after the long winter. What would it take to rid himself of her?

All throughout the winter her face was everywhere, in the tabloids, on talk shows, on billboards promoting her new film. She’d been nominated for Best Actress for her role as Marguerite in
Camille,
and the studio was going all out with publicity. He went to see the film—it was madness on his part but he couldn’t keep himself away. He was tortured watching her—the face that he loved—light up the screen. When he felt charitable, he could agree with the critics that Charlotte was brilliant in the film. When he was feeling bitter, he felt that the role of the lying, manipulative beauty came naturally to her.

One line from the film, spoken by Marguerite to Armand, kept coming back to him.
“I am not always sincere. One can’t be in this world.”

Ha! It must have been so easy for her to recite those words. Like Armand, he had been betrayed. Even after all this time any trigger—a photograph of her face, a sudden memory, the scent of her perfume—acted as a dagger poised over his heart, waiting to strike.

And still her face was everywhere. She rarely smiled, however, in the photographs or during interviews. To others she might appear cool and aloof, but he knew better. He could pick out the small signals of distress: a tightening of her hands in her lap, a slight twitching of her lips, the slant of her head. Usually he would turn his head and pass, or turn off the television after she appeared on the screen. Occasionally, though, he would lapse into a kind of trance and stare at her and listen to her speak, and worry—why was she so sad? Those moments were the hardest. He was vain enough to think that she might miss him, or have regrets, possibly even remorse.

He often stared at her jaw and wondered, would it make a difference if her face was changed? Once he walked up to the television screen as she was talking to Jay Leno and covered up the bottom of her face with his palm so only her eyes were visible. Yes, it was still her. In the eyes. He felt he was looking through those brilliant blue orbs, straight to
her.

The coyote’s song pierced the softness of the night. Michael stared out over the mountains and the drifts of fog moving in. Might they have been able to work it out? he wondered. It was an exquisite torture, like picking at a scab.

“Hurry up,
mi’jos,
” Luis called out as he drove up to the cabin, his face beaming in the dark interior of his truck. Tonight these magnificent birds will make men out of you!”

Michael leaned over the porch railing and waved at his father. Luis had insisted on taking his sons on a man’s night out. Something to bind the men together after a long winter of mooning around, silences and avoidance. Luis was determined to bring his men together—no women allowed—women being the source of all this discontent, he figured. Interesting that he thought a cockfight would be the instrument of peace.

Michael was just as happy to get out of the house, to go anywhere. If he was home, he might weaken and watch Charlotte highlighted all evening on the television’s Oscar coverage. He’d watch her dressed to kill in her couture gown, watch the photographers and fans clamor for a glimpse of her, watch her win—for he was sure she would. He didn’t think he was strong enough to hear her thank Freddy Walen when she accepted the gold statue. Watching a gamecock rip the heart out of another had to be easier than feeling Charlotte rip the heart out of his own chest.

“And the winner is…Charlotte Godfrey for
Camille.
”

The crowd roared their approval and Charlotte felt her heart spring to life. The cameras came in for the close-up, catching her face as it spontaneously broke into her trademark, megawatt smile.

Charlotte had heard that at moments like this time seemed to move in slow motion, and she realized it was true. The orchestra sounded, there was a thunderous applause and beside her she heard Freddy’s urgent “Get up! Get up!”

She was rising now, feeling like her bones were made of lead, that her shoes were on backward, that her smile was frozen to her face. Her palms were damp in the long ivory-colored gloves, and she clutched the priceless gown of matching taffeta and silk, the color of camellias. Dozens of people had labored over the straight-bodiced, full-skirted dress that Freddy declared had “the magic of a star.”

Freddy…She turned to him, breathless, her eyes wide and bright. He squeezed her hand reassuringly, then kissed her cheek, smiling with relief and pride, his eyes brimming with tears. She felt him nudge her forward.

Charlotte took a deep breath, nodded, then marked her spot on the stage. Freddy had given her an amphetamine before she left for the theater to help her get through the long program. She could feel it racing through her veins and humming in her ears.

All around her were smiling faces, people pressing their hands upon her and murmuring congratulations, wanting to get close as she slipped past them in the row. The orchestra was playing the theme song to
Camille
as she glided up the aisle, up the stairs, gracefully skimming across the immense stage to where Mel Gibson was holding out a statue to her.

She felt the weight of the Oscar in her hands, a heavy gold statue that embodied so many dreams for so many people. An object of desire, even adoration—the golden calf.

She looked out over the elaborate art deco podium and didn’t see the thousands of people, colleagues most of them in one form or another. She didn’t think of the billion people watching her by satellite across the world.

Charlotte Godfrey thought only of Michael Mondragon.

Bobby came out to the porch just as Luis honked impatiently. Adjusting his collar, he waved to his father, then turned and rolled his eyes to Michael.

“Vamonos!”
Luis called out. “We will be late! You think they wait for us? Get in, let’s go!”

After an hour’s drive to a remote valley, they arrived at their destination. It wasn’t a place so much as an event. Under the blanket of night, trucks and cars clustered around a seedy-looking wooden structure. The Clubhouse, they called it. It was flanked on both sides by swarming men and long corridors of bird crates brought for the fights. Luis tapped the steering wheel with anticipation while Michael and Bobby exchanged glances in the back seat. Michael tied back his hair at his neck, on guard. Bobby was wary.

They made their way as one across the hard-packed field. All around them, tough, hardened men with beer bellies and muscled arms, most of them Mexican, were pushing shoulder to shoulder to squeeze into the Clubhouse. No concern for fire laws here; the joint was already splitting at the seams with shouting spectators, handlers and countless squawking birds. Behind them men were hissing in Spanish for them to get a move on.
“Andale!”
The fights had already started.

At the wide door stood a giant, bulky, full-bearded man. He was wearing a soiled sports cap, a denim jacket so greasy you could scrape it with a knife and a scowl. Beside him, mounted beside the entrance, was a handwritten sign that read No Dopeheads, Faggots Or Bleeding Hearts Allowed.

Michael looked over his shoulder to check how Bobby was dealing with that. Bobby only winked, then slipped though the door. Michael followed right behind. Once inside, they marched through the soggy stench in a line behind Luis.

“Over there,” Luis shouted over the clamor, pointing in the air to a cramped corner where Manuel was pacing, sucking a cigarette, beside a crate of birds. “Manuel has our birds. Beauties, they are. Come on.”

“
Your
birds?” Michael hissed, moving close to Luis’s ear.

Luis turned and pushed his way through the crowd to where Manuel was removing one large tricolor rooster from the crate.

“At last! You got here just in time,” Manuel shouted to Luis over the din. He ignored Michael. They had not been comfortable with each other since their words in October.

“The birds are tense,” he said to Luis. “We lost two fights already.”

“Sí
, sí,” Luis responded with the calm of experience. He moved beside the crates, bending over with a grunt and checking his birds. “What can we do, eh? We must lose a few. But no more. They cost me good money.”

Michael could only wonder how much money. This activity was definitely not in his books.

Luis selected a long, straight blade from a row and scythed it through a page of a telephone book, then tried it against the callused skin of his thumb. He nodded, satisfied. Then, taking hold of the gamecock, he strapped the blade to the rear of its left leg.

“Look at him, Miguel,” he said, calming the bird with knowing strokes. “He’s magnificent, eh? A conquistador. No one teaches this bird to fight. It comes from God.” Then he looked at his sons, his eyes shining. “It’s in the blood.”

Michael watched, fascinated, as his father handled the bird, stroking and kissing his head, oblivious to the roar of the crowd as one fight ended and men shouted and scrambled to cash in their bets. The signal was given and Luis moved into the pit, cooing to his bird, along with another handler sporting a cowboy hat. Michael drew nearer. The crowd erupted in a frenzy of renewed betting.

“Fifty bucks on the cowboy hat!” shouted one.

“Fifty on the red jacket!” shouted another, referring to Luis.

The men swarmed, frantic to place their bets while Luis and Cowboy Hat swayed rhythmically three times toward each other. The birds squawked and glared, catching the scent of the fight. Michael felt his adrenaline flow. The cocks were psyched. The room was close with the smell of sweat and blood, the heat of unwashed bodies pressing and the mounting tension of the kill.

For the kill was coming. One only had to see the crazed look in the eyes of the gamecocks to know that the fight was to the death. Michael looked from the eyes of the birds to the eyes of his father, then to the eyes of the men surrounding the pit. They were no different.

The birds were mad now; the crowd hushed. Luis and Cowboy Hat set their birds on the ground behind the lines in the sand. Instantly, their hackles rose and Luis’s bird charged at the other rooster, pecking at his neck. The other bird attacked, missing, flying over the other bird’s head. Then they were at it in earnest, all over each other, pecking at necks, stabbing at breasts, in a blur of feathers.

It was over in a few minutes. Cowboy Hat’s bird was down. The crowd roared. Michael’s stomach tightened. Cowboy Hat moved closer to make clucking noises with his tongue, entreating his bird to peck. It was no good. The bird was either dead or feigning death. Luis’s bird flew up and perched upon the other bird’s carcass, flapping its wings and stretching its neck while Luis crowed nearby.

Instantly, the teeming mass of men erupted into renewed shouting as money passed hands. Michael turned his head in disgust as Cowboy Hat grabbed hold of the vanquished bird and smartly swung it around, breaking its neck. Then he tossed the warm carcass onto a pile of other dead birds.

“So, this is God given, is it?” Bobby quipped, staring at the pile of discarded birds and beer cans.

Michael offered a wry smile in return, wishing he had a beer to wash out the stale taste in his mouth. “It’s sure about blood, anyway.”

“To think I’ve succeeded in avoiding this for thirty-three years.”

“God, what a bunch of lowlifes. That son of a bitch at the door was spawned in a sewer. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Our mistake was to let Papa drive. Now we’re stuck.”

“How many more do we have to sit through?”

The crowd erupted again in a savage ovation. From over their heads, he could see a bird swirled by his neck in the air.

“Another one bites the dust,” Michael drawled, scowling.

“I’ll never eat chicken again,” Bobby said, twisting his mouth.

“Don’t bet on it. Here comes Papa with a plate of roasted bird and some beers. Hmm, I wonder where the chicken came from?”

“Here you are!” shouted Luis. “I brought you some food.”

Both Michael and Bobby raised their palms simultaneously. “Just a beer for me.”

“How much longer?” Michael wanted to know.

Luis looked crestfallen. “It’s just getting good.”

“Great,” Michael said, heading to the back of the Clubhouse, resigned to having to spend another hour or so in this hellhole. “Go on back to your birds,” he called with a wave of his hand. “We’ll be hanging around till you’re done.”

“Manuel is alone by the birds. Why don’t you stand by him?”

Michael stopped and turned his head, his face hardened. Luis didn’t argue and turned away. Michael was relieved to see his father’s back.