Remains to Be Scene (26 page)

The crowd murmured and looked at Dana with pity.

When her guests once again faced the stage, Polly said, “Dana has returned to us safe and sound. And, as a special treat, we’ve got a bit of entertainment planned for the occasion.”

Again, whispers circulated throughout the crowd. “Now, my darling son, Tim, the man who makes all of my parties glorious events, is going to select eight lucky guests to join me on stage to read my magnum opus to you. And the most fun part of all is that if it turns out as well as I know it will, Sterling Studios will demand to make my marvelous film. Sundance will flip. HBO will get all the Emmys. Now, who will volunteer? Don’t everybody rush the stage all at the same time!” she joked.

No one raised his or her hand. Then, on cue, Tim appeared from the house and picked up a microphone of his own. “Hi, yaw’ll,” he said. “I’m Polly’s
brilliant
son, Tim.” He laughed and the room of now sedate guests politely groaned. “I’ve read this script and it’s really good. I promise,” he said, holding a copy high above his head. “Of course I’m slightly biased. My allowance money depends on how brown my nose gets! But I really like Hollywood mysteries,” he continued. “This one is all about this actress—a diva really…and there’s murder and plot twists and…”

Polly called out, “Honey, don’t give away the story! You’ll spoil it like Disney does in their coming attractions film trailers!”

“Not only am I brilliant at throwing parties,” Tim continued, I’ve got a knack for casting too.” Tim wended his way through the crowd. “I know exactly who should play these rich roles,” he said. “Oh, hey, we’ve got two huge stars right in our midst. Dana Pointer and Missie Miller!” He made his way first to Dana and handed her a copy of the script. Then to Missie. “We won’t take
no
for an answer,” he joked good-naturedly. “Get up on that stage, you two. You’ll both be playing young actresses, so you won’t have to stretch at all.”

As the two girls reluctantly accepted the scripts it was clear they were silently thinking, “This is one lame party!”

Tim continued, “There’s a really meaty role for a strong male figure. Someone to play a film director. Let’s see…Oh!” Tim exclaimed again as though he’d just thought of another brilliant choice. “Mother’s most recent director, the handsome and talented Adam Berg! Adam, where are you?” Tim looked around and found Adam trying to make himself invisible. “Oh, you must join our troupe!” Tim pleaded as he squeezed down an aisle of seated guests to reach Adam. “You’ll be brilliant, I’m certain! Oh!” Tim exclaimed again. “Your lovely girlfriend Judith would be great too! You’ll do it, won’t you, Judith?” Tim begged. “You’re star material. I know this! You can be the girlfriend. Again, not a stretch.”

Glumly, they both took copies of the screenplay proffered by Tim and headed for the stage.

Polly spoke into her microphone. “Darling,” she called to Tim, “if Dana and Missie are reading, don’t you think that the gorgeous and hunky Jack Wesley should be too? Sort of old home week. And Duane! Sweet Duane! You’ll do anything for Polly, won’t you? Of course you will! Wonderful! That’s so precious. You’ll be amazing in the role. I promise!”

Tim handed Duane a script. “You can play the security guard,” Tim said. “That leaves, um, let’s see, oh, the role of a screenwriter. Any screenwriters here?” He laughed. “I guess that’s a little like asking if there are any tummy tucks present. Ha! How about Ben Tyler? Is he here? Sure. We chatted a little bit ago. Oh, Ben?” he sang. “Where are you mister sexy and talented screenwriter?” He looked around and found Placenta pushing the reluctant Ben toward Tim. “Please come and read this awesome script,” Tim cajoled, handing a copy of
DNA
to Ben who looked flabbergasted.

“You’re forgetting the most important role, dear,” Polly called from the stage.

“The role of the actress who’s not supposed to be Polly Pepper, but happens to be a mirror image of someone just like you?” Tim joked.

“No, silly. That’s my role. I mean the one who’s not supposed to be Sedra Stone, but with my limited imagination I wrote a character that just happens to slightly resemble my dear dead friend.”

“Right. Of course,” Tim pretended to be thinking about who would be ideal to read for this role. “I need someone to play the lovely and talented Sedra Stone—but not really Sedra. I think Sedra’s real-life stand-in is here. Yes? Stand-in? Are you here?” He looked around the tent until a woman finally stood up. “There you are! Your name again?” Tim asked.

“Lauren. Lauren Gaul.”

“Great! Come on up. Here’s your chance to finally step into Sedra’s shoes. Or an actress who’s supposed to be something like Sedra,” Tim chuckled.

By now, all of the scripts had been handed out, and the cast was assembled on the stage. Each was seated on barstools set before microphones and music stands on which to set their scripts. Polly initiated a round of applause and thanked them for being such good sports on such a special night.

Then, as if forgetting her manners she exclaimed, “I’m not being a very polite hostess! Missie Miller’s lovely mother Elizabeth, who has an eyesight problem—she can’t see worth a damn—should be with her daughter. Where is she?” Polly scanned the room with her hand held against her forehead like a visor. When she spotted Elizabeth trying to walk out of the tent and back into the house she called, “Placenta! Be a dear and escort Elizabeth to the stage, would you please?”

The audience tittered at the sight of the old woman trying unsuccessfully to swat away Placenta, as if the maid was an annoying Pterodactyl. Embarrassed and caught off guard, Elizabeth wended her way through the center aisle of chairs and was helped by Polly up the three steps to the stage where she took her place next to Missie. Presently, Tim and his waiter friend Kevin carried a chair onto the stage, and set it down for Elizabeth to be seated in comfort.

Polly said, “Now that we’re all comfy, I’d like everyone to please sit back and enjoy the show! Lights, please,” she called out.

T
he lights inside the tent faded to black. The room became deadly silent. Pin spotlights suddenly illuminated the stage and the eight people seated there on barstools. With the exception of Polly, they all looked confused and irritated, as though they’d been unceremoniously dumped off in the middle of Detroit after an intergalactic tour aboard the Mother Ship.

Tim stepped onto the stage and faced the audience. He began in an exuberant carnival barker voice. “Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome. And may I present to you,
DNA
, a new screenplay by Polly Pepper!” He slipped his copy of the script under an arm and led a chorus of applause, which was only politely echoed by the audience. Sensing that a pall of indifference had already settled over the crowd, Tim became less animated. “This is a story,” he continued, “a tale of an irritable little girl who grew up to be an equally obstreperous and cunning adult. A shrew, if you want to put a face on her,” he said. “But she wasn’t your run-of-the-mill
Kiss Me Kate
all-singing, all dancing sort of shrew. She became a celebrity shrew, not unlike Ann Coulter. Her name was Sedra.”

Adam Berg immediately erupted and spoke out. “With all due respect to your lovely opus,” he said, sarcastically addressing Polly in an imperious tone, “I think that’s rather a tad in poor taste. I mean, using your dead colleague as a joke in your screenplay. Not a good move.”

Tim intercepted. “Please note. This story is a work of fiction. The writer, Polly Pepper, assures that no dead people were harmed in the writing of her screenplay.”

All eyes turned to Polly for her rebuttal to Berg. “Pumpkin,” she said sounding perplexed, “I haven’t even gotten to the jokes yet. Tim is merely providing backstory to enable the audience to know who the players are. Still, you bring up a good point about using real names. And this is precisely the sort of constructive feedback that I need as I rewrite my masterpiece. That’s the only reason, aside from wishing Dana well, that we’re all here tonight—to work out the kinks, so-to-speak. Thank you, dear Adam. You’re a true and talented director.”

Polly looked at Tim and gave a nod of her head, signaling for him to continue his introduction.

Tim said, “For the sake of brevity, and the grumbling stomachs I hear and that need to be fed, we’re going to jump forward in our story. You can use your imaginations to fill in the obligatory charity hospital breach birth, wrong-side-of-the-tracks lineage, and typical rotten childhood latch-key kid routine, along with the usual ruthless cutting a swath through bodies that are in-the-way to reach the pinnacle of professional success. We flash cut to the present year. In fact, we begin in a time not too long ago. Two weeks ago, to be exact.”

Tim turned to his assembled cast on the stage. “People,” he said, serving as their director, “would you please turn to page ninety-one of your scripts.”

The troupe complied, albeit with obvious reluctance. Adam Berg and the others looked at the title page, exchanged questioning glances at each other, then quickly flipped through the text. Adam said, “This looks familiar.”

Polly teased, “Genius is easy to recognize. I channeled Orson Welles and The Brontës.”

When the players had settled down, Tim said, “Mmm. I smell Honey Baked ham. So let’s begin because I’m starved and know you are, too. Lights!” he called out. For dramatic effect, the tent once again faded to black. In the darkness Tim’s voice began reading stage directions.

“IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.”

Everyone chuckled.

“EXTERIOR. SCHOOL CAMPUS MOVIE SET LOCATION.”

Lighting slowly enveloped the stage, enabling the cast to finally see their scripts and find their dialogue.

Tim continued. “A security guard STANDS beside a dressing room TRAILER. He is eavesdropping. WHAT HE HEARS is a caustic verbal confrontation between two WOMEN. Their quarrel crescendos until we hear the sound of a plate or a vase meeting a wall and shattering into thousands of shards.”

On cue, the sounds he described blasted through the audio system, startling the cast and audience alike.

Tim continued. “WHAT THE SECURITY GUARD SEES: Shadows through a curtained window. And then the door to the trailer violently flies open.”

Again the audio system speakers issued exaggerated sound effects of a door opening and banging against aluminum siding.

“The security guard RETREATS just out of sight as a FIGURE exits the trailer in haste. This FIGURE turns to the WOMAN standing in the doorway and YELLS…” Tim stopped and waited a beat for Dana. “Line,” he called out.

“Oh, um,” Dana fumbled, confused. In a monotone and bored voice she read as if she were an audio-animatronic figure from “Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln” at Disneyland.

As an aside to the audience, Dana added the word, “Yawn,” and patted her lips with her long fingers, while glaring at the audience who chuckled in agreement.

Tim ignored the response and prompted the next actor. “Line, please.”

When the stand-in Lauren Gaul realized it was her turn to read, she shifted uneasily on her barstool; however, she recited her dialogue with an ease and naturalness that displayed an innate gift for acting. With a scowl, she replied to Dana’s character.

Tim prompted Dana again.

Dana mumbled:

Adam Berg spoke out again. “Polly, really, what’s the point of dragging the dead into your screenplay? If you expect this piece to be taken seriously, and to appeal to the next generation of moviegoers, I strongly recommend that you excise all references to these stars.”

Polly made a notation on her script. “Eliminate names,” she said aloud as she wrote down Adam’s suggestion. “Thank you, dear. I’ll remember that bit of professional advice. Names are easily changed on the computer program.”

Tim cleared his throat and continued his narration. “CAMERA SMASH CUTS TO THE INTERIOR OF A NEIGHBORING DRESSING ROOM TRAILER. The caravan is immersed in darkness, but soft ambient lighting filtering in through a window allows us to make out the SILHOUETTES of TWO people. They are EAVESDROPPING on the disturbance next door.”

Again there was a moment of silence until Missie Miller realized that she had the next line. “MISSIE GASPS,” Missie said before realizing that she was reading stage direction. “Cut! Sorry,” she blushed. “Um. Take two, please?” Then Missie inhaled sharply to affect an exaggerated gasp.

With that line the audience burst into laughter.

Polly feigned slight indignation for her supposed serious work being mocked.

Eager to continue and be done with this portion of the party, Tim spoke up and said, “I’ll read the role of Missie’s character’s mother.” He cleared his throat and in a voice that clearly caricatured Elizabeth Stembourg, he said,

Elizabeth slapped her thighs in fierce contempt at the recognition that she was being personally mimicked. “A young star’s sight-challenged mother is not fiction!” Elizabeth nearly wept with indignation. “It’s not in the least bit amusing.” Missie tried to comfort her mother by leaning over for a hug.

Polly waved away Elizabeth’s comment as a presumption. “All writers create characters combining elements of interesting people they know, but that doesn’t mean I’ve written about anyone in particular,” she said. “That character is nothing like you, my dear, Elizabeth. If you want the truth, it’s really Dakota Fanning’s mother. Mixed with a little of Ginger Rogers’s mother. Now, that’s certainly not
you
, Elizabeth!” Polly declared triumphantly.

Again, the audience erupted into laughter. They were now paying closer attention as if watching the behind-the-scenes of a reality drama in trouble, rather than simply a staged reading.

Tim resumed reading the script’s exposition and brought the audience up to the minute. He described how in the story, an ensemble of actors was making a film about misfits in the Spring talent show at the Manhattan School for the Performing Arts; however, in addition to death stalking the production—one player had died—the actors were caught up in webs of intrigue, personal relationships and vendettas. And the actress who replaced the dead one now feared for her own life.

“The police have uncovered clues implicating several members of the cast,” Tim said, and then pressed on. “Adam, it’s your line,” he said.

But Adam threw up his hands and railed, “I won’t read this ridiculous drivel.” His British accent was becoming less noticeable. “Polly, you cannot incriminate famous people by writing falsehoods about them with such…such…ignominious dialogue!”

“Ignom…what?” Polly said to Adam. “Oh, hon, I can tell that you’re tired. You’re jumping to conclusions. Who do you think I’m lambasting in my lovely screenplay?”

Adam continued his diatribe. “For one thing, you have the director character, who I presume is a reasonable facsimile of me, saying—he looked down at his script—‘Now that the bitch is dead, I claim her unknown and forgotten screenplay for my own.’”

“Fiction sometimes reflects reality,’ Polly said. “Why Sedra Stone herself used to pull writers off her series then take credit for their work. They seldom complained because they didn’t want to jeopardize possible future work.”

Adam continued. “And you make one of the leading actresses very Dana Pointer–like, and spewing such venomous prattle as, ‘Someone had to do the dirty deed. Thank God that someone saved me the time and energy, and the hassle of a trial.’”

“Ach!” said Polly dismissively. “When I was writing this I was thinking of what I’d do to Nick Lachey if I were Jessica Simpson. That’s all. Beautiful women get away with murder all the time!”

Adam’s diatribe went on. “Polly, with all due respect, you’re a comedienne, not a writer. You’ve wasted your time on a screenplay that purports to accuse a member of the
Detention Rule!
cast of a crime.”

Polly acted dumbfounded, the way her Bedpan Bertha character responded when a patient went missing a liver when he was only supposed to be sent for chest x-rays. “But this is fiction, dear.” She turned to Tim. “I think we made a grave mistake…”

“Damn right you’ve made a mistake!” Judith interrupted. “Do you think that just because you were once a star you can thinly veil me in your story? I don’t deny that I’m the upwardly mobile girlfriend of a movie director, but I have had no part in helping him plan a murder the way this character is written!”

Missie Miller spoke out. “Can we please stop this farce and have dinner? I read a ton of scripts and this one is the most ridiculous black comedy of all time.” She looked at Tim. “Chalk it up to the first party disaster at Pepper Plantation. Sorry hon,” she said, looking pleased with herself.

At that moment, Ben Tyler stood up and in a daze he said to Polly, “Excuse me, but I know this screenplay. At least the early pages that I’ve skimmed through.”

Polly shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “You’re a smart one. I was going for a
Richard III
sort of storyline,” she said.

“I don’t mean to cast aspersions,” Tyler said, “but I’ve been flipping through the early parts of the script and it’s certainly not Shakespeare, it’s the one that Adam Berg and Missie Miller asked me to punch up for them. This
DNA
, is their new project.” Ben looked at Adam. “You start shooting this thing on Monday.”

Adam and Missie looked at each other and simultaneously stood up off their barstools. They glared at the screenwriter. “Don’t be an idiot!” Missie declared. “Polly’s
DNA
is nothing like Sedra’s
DNA
. I mean…” She caught herself. “Nothing like the screenplay with a Sedra-like character that Adam wrote expressly for me. There may be some similarities. I mean, how many different plot types are there. Anyway, my new role is about a famous lady opera singer, not some old half-forgotten TV star, for cryin’ out loud.”

Adam Berg agreed. “Not an actress. A diva!” Then he softened his defense. “But I can see how you might be confused.” He tried to chuckle. “Our opera singer is sort of like Kathleen Battle. I mean a big ol’ soprano who eats conductors and tenors alive, and has the girth of a whale to show for it. Sedra Stone was like that, too.”