Remains to Be Scene (3 page)

“One down, two to go,” Placenta said, a reference to the theory that stars drop dead in series of threes. “Any bets on who’s next?” Placenta asked. “Big points if it’s someone young and totally unexpected, like Sophia Bush.”

“I was so close when I put Siegfried and Roy on my list,” Polly said, “proving that I have decent intuition. Perhaps it hasn’t been honed to perfection, but if you’ll remember, Bob Hope was another name I felt strongly about—for years.”

Suddenly the telephone rang in the distance. Placenta set her champagne flute on the oval glass-top coffee table that separated twin Tahitian cotton upholstered sofas in the center of the vast room. She was used to stopping whatever activity she was involved in to answer a telephone. Polly placed outgoing calls only. She refused to answer incoming ones.

Still, the ring tone made Polly perk up. “It’s a little late for the press to be calling me for a quote,” she said to Tim, pretending to be miffed. “What should I tell ’em about Trixie? One appearance on ‘The Polly Pepper Playhouse’ does not an intimate relationship make. But I always sent Christmas cards.”

“All actors are liars,” Tim said. “Just say that you spoke to Trixie yesterday morning, and you’re completely shocked by what’s happened since then.”

Returning to the great room with the cordless phone in her hand, Placenta walked over to Polly and said, “Put your intuition to the test and guess who’s calling.”

Polly playfully put the tips of her index fingers to her temples. “Um, it’s Ed McMahon…he’s bringing the Prize Patrol over for drinks, but they’re lost in Benedict Canyon.”

“Almost.” Placenta handed her the phone. “It’s your agent.”

For a moment the only sounds in the room were the voices issuing from the television’s speakers. Polly, Tim, and Placenta looked at each other with confusion. It was highly unusual for J. J. to be calling—at any hour.

“How’d he get my number?” Polly joked, as she accepted the phone from her maid. She pressed the talk button. In a tone of voice that she generally reserved for her money-grabbing second cousin in Des Moines who invented outrageous scenarios about health issues, or biblical invasions of flying insects that required biblical-sized checks from Polly to help eradicate, she said, “Hello, J. J. What level of Dante’s Hell are you calling from, dear? Still married to Jackie? Right, Vickie. Still under IRS investigation for fraud? Still running an agency?”

Tim and Placenta pretended to give Polly privacy and returned to watching CNN. They each picked up their drinks and although they feigned interest in the news, they cocked their respective ears to eavesdrop on Polly’s conversation. Intermittently they gave each other furtive looks that plainly said, “J. J. Norton only calls when a commission check has to be countersigned.”

Polly was clearly talking to J. J. about Trixie. She said, “Yes, it’s a terrible tragedy. Of course I adored her. We all did. Yeah, so much talent wasted. Yada, yada. Get to the point.”

Then there was a long stretch of silence. Polly was obviously paying close attention to what was being said by her agent. The cessation of Polly’s voice caused Tim and Placenta to turn around and look at her with curiosity.

Noticing Tim and Placenta’s attention, Polly drifted away from the center of the room and took a seat on the piano bench in the corner. She was slowly nodding her head in agreement with whatever J. J. was telling her. Finally, she responded. “Well, it’s rather short notice,” she said. “Yes, of course there was no way of knowing. By all means, tell them I’ll consider it. We’ll chat in the
A.M
., when you have more info. Love to Jackie. Vickie? Whatever.”

Polly pushed the disconnect button on the telephone and laid the handset on the piano lid. She looked dazed as she raised herself up. Deep in thought she slowly crossed the room and retrieved her champagne flute. With Tim and Placenta staring at her, she finally spoke. “I’m up for Catharine. Trixie’s role.”

Tim and Placenta were stunned into dropped-jaw silence.

“One of the producers got the DVD boxed set of
The Best of the Polly Pepper Playhouse Comedy Sketches
for his twenty-fifth birthday, and he thought I might be good.
Might
be good? What a putz.”

Tim was suddenly uncorked with excitement. “It’s what you sort of wished for this morning,” he said.

“Sort of?” Placenta jeered. “The gears in your head were exposed.”

“Don’t worry about those other two stars in the film,” Tim smiled and hugged his mother. “They may be the leads, but you’ll be the star. Guaranteed.”

“
Other
stars?” Polly said, feigning offense.

Polly took a long swallow of champagne, held out her flute for a refill from anyone, and made a face. “It’s hardly a done deal,” she said. “They’re auditioning a number of actresses. You know what an idiot agent J. J. is. Chances are he’ll price me out of the job. It’s happened before. I’m not getting my hopes up.”

Tim raised his glass and proposed a toast. “To the legendary Polly Pepper, and her triumphant return to the silver screen! Of course you’ll get the job! It’s got your name written all over it. Probably always had, but Trixie got in the way and the ghost of Euripides had to make some adjustments. Not good for Trixie’s health, but as a trouper she’d be the first to say, ‘That’s showbiz!’”

Placenta raised her glass, too. “Cheers,” she said. “J. J.’s a lousy agent, but he wouldn’t call unless a job for you was dropped in his lap. He’ll take all the credit, and the commission, of course. But you can probably start packing!”

“Oscar! Oscar! Oscar!” Tim chanted. “You’ll be noticed again.” Then, shifting his thoughts, he tentatively asked, “What else did J. J. have to say about this producer, other than he’s twenty-five and smart enough to recognize your value to his project?”

Polly shot a lascivious smile at her son, and tickled him under his chin. “Leave it to me, sweetie. You’ll get an introduction.”

B
y the time Polly tottered to her chair at the patio breakfast table the next morning, Placenta had already placed the
Los Angeles Times
morning edition over the vacant eyes of Paris Hilton on the cover of
The National Peeper
. For the first few moments of her day Polly’s undivided attention was on her Bloody Mary. After sucking up her breakfast, she adjusted her shades, lit a Merit cigarette with her BIC, and gazed around her property. Polly admired the artistry of the landscape gardeners who maintained Pepper Plantation as if they were manicuring the grounds at a Disney resort.

The yard was immaculately groomed, and the men who Tim hired for the chores were an exhibition for Polly to appreciate as well. The workers, all shirtless and in the bloom of Antonio Banderas-hood (pre-Melanie), were out in force, scattered about the property, mowing the grass, planting annuals, and vacuuming the swimming pool. Slight irritation crossed Polly’s face when she couldn’t spot Hector, the inordinately seductive, perspiration-glistening Latino foreman who was usually on site. “Bummer,” she thought, mentally calculating the hours of practice she’d completed with her Spanish 101 Berlitz CDs. She hoped to soon begin conjugating verbs with
Señor El es muy guapo
—as Tim, too, referred to Hector. She aimed to give him instructions with as much fluency as Tim. “
Como se dice
…prune this bush?” she often rehearsed, spying on him from behind the louvered shutters in her bedroom.

A bee interrupted her reverie about Hector by lighting on the newspaper and crawling over the headlines.

Polly looked down. The headline beamed up. Polly screeched, “Mother of God! Was I in a coma?”

The Los Angeles Times
was adamant: TRIXIE TRAGEDY RULED ACCIDENTAL.

“Anticlimactic, eh?” Placenta said as she came out from the house, placed a basket of warm bran muffins on the table before Polly, and shooed away the bee.

Polly was incredulous. “A few hours ago the police were investigating a probable homicide,” she said. “Now, Trixie’s just any old dead woman.”

“The media turned that poor dear’s death into an all points bulletin Amber Alert for a maniac who never existed,” Placenta clucked. “It didn’t take Kinsey Milhone to figure out that the media was milking this nonstory for all the juicy gossip it could squeeze from a stone cold corpse.”

Polly picked up the paper and scanned the front-page story. “Stroke followed by heart attack,” she read aloud. “Collapsed. Fractured her skull on a brick lying on the floor. Case closed. See page E12 for memorial service details.” She slapped the newspaper down on the table and picked up her glass for another sip of her BM. “A brick,” she snorted. “Murder would have been the perfect coda to Trixie’s dreary life. Even minor celebrities win instant immortality if they die under any circumstance that might hatch a lame conspiracy theory.”

Tim emerged from the house. Hearing the tail end of his mother’s comment, he sort of asked, “Wha?,” then plopped himself into a chair at the table. Placenta poured Tim’s coffee and retreated into the house for the plastic tub of
I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter
. Tim locked his lips over the rim of the mug and noisily slurped up his cure-all. After a long moment waiting for the caffeine to kick-start his engine, he flipped the newspaper pages to Doonsbury then made an effort to ask, “News ’bout Trix?”

“Too upsetting,” Polly said, as if closing the subject.

“There’s something worse than her
death
?” Tim said, then came to a quick conclusion. “Plain ol’ final grain of sand slipping through the egg timer of life, eh?” he said knowingly.

“Where are the Hollywood deaths of yore?” Polly bemoaned. “The entertaining ones, like Jayne Mansfield. Or Bob Crane.”

“Or Mama Cass,” Tim said, and reached for a muffin.

“Vic Morrow,” Polly continued. “John Landis’s personal Cuisinart sliced and diced him into kibbles ’n bits.”

“Marvin Gaye,” Tim added. “Target practice for his old man.”

“Sonny Bono,” Polly quickly jumped in. “What sort of idiot hits a tree while skiing?” she mused. “Or did the tree hit him? See, a conspiracy theory!”

“John Denver,” Tim said sadly, missing one of his favorite singers. “Musta been on a Rocky Mountain high ’cause nobody leaves the ground without fuel in his private airplane.”

“Marie Curie,” Polly trumped Tim. “Of all people, she should have known that exposure to that radiation stuff couldn’t be good for her health!”

“Isadora Duncan? Rather chic, but an embarrassing way to be remembered!” Tim said. He crossed his eyes and shoved his tongue out the side of his mouth, mimicking strangulation.

Placenta walked back out onto the patio. “This should cheer you up,” she said, holding a large manila envelope in her hand. “Just arrived via messenger.”

Polly’s eyes widened with excitement as she grabbed the package from Placenta and completely forgot about Trixie and famous dead people. “It’s from Sterling Studios!” She immediately saw the address label with the SS logo (which had undergone a radical design change when the Anti-Defamation League pressured the studio to modify the twin lightning bolts that had long been the company’s trademark), and eagerly ripped open the sealed flap. She withdrew a three-hole punched script that was fastened together with brass brads. Polly held it up for Tim and Placenta to see.

“
Detention Rules!
” Polly declared triumphantly as she read the title. “A Screenplay by Ben Tyler.” She frowned. “Remind me to Google that name,” she said, then started flipping through the pages searching for a character named Catharine. With each page of the script that Polly scanned she seemed to become more frustrated. Then, three quarters of the way into the text, her face beamed with a wide smile. “Catharine! There you are, you little career-saving vixen!”

“Read it aloud,” Tim implored.

“Cold? And out of context? Never! Not to this tough audience,” Polly said. Then her lips began to move in silent unison with her eyes. But as she continued reading to herself, her smile faded. She turned a page then flipped back to the previous page, as if checking to see if she’d missed some vital information. Polly began to bite her mother-of-pearl–lacquered thumbnail as doubt crept across her face.

Placenta quipped, “You were expecting Neil Simon?”

Polly ignored her maid and leafed through the last quarter of the screenplay. She counted the few pages on which Catharine had lines of dialogue. Then, in a daze, she closed the script and placed it on the table. She stared blankly past Tim.

Judging by his mother’s imitation of a zombie, Tim knew that Polly was disappointed and ticked off. He picked up the script and began looking for the character name, typed in bold letters. “You’ll make a wonderful Catharine. Whoever she is,” he said, still searching for her dialogue.

Polly looked up, reached for her glass, and drained what remained of her Bloody Mary. Then, in a crescendo of anger she snapped, “Catharine’s a god-damned freaking
grandmother
, that’s who Catharine is! The role is nothing more than a frigid old biddy who gives rotten lonely hearts advice to
sextavert
Dana Pointer!”

Placenta anticipated Polly’s need for a drink refill and deftly removed the glass tumbler from the table. As she headed for the poolside bar she wickedly sang out, “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four.”

Tim looked up from the screenplay and agreed with Polly. “Yeah, there aren’t many lines. It’s a Trixie Wilder role, through and through.”

Polly was crestfallen. “I don’t know whether to feel insulted that my name came up as a replacement for Trixie in the first place for this piece of crap movie, or to be furious with J. J. for leading that pisher producer to think I’d consider such an insignificant role.”

Placenta returned to the table with Polly’s Bloody Mary. As she set the glass down on the table she said, “I think you should at least read the entire script before rejecting it outright. It might be a good part after all.”

“Might be good for Michele Lee,” Polly scowled and picked up her glass. “Michele still looks decent, but she’s a hell of a lot older than she lets on.” Polly picked up the tumbler, but immediately set it down—on top of the script cover. Condensation from the glass began to bleed a ring on the paper. “I’d rather die and move to Florida than play a loveable, blue-haired—
Republican
!”

Except for the sound of a leaf blower at the far end of the property, and the gentle ping of wind chimes colliding in a slight breeze that issued through the gazebo, there was silence around the table. Tim and Placenta both felt pangs of sorrow for Polly. It didn’t take an empath to know that she was deeply disappointed by the turn of events.

In a somber voice, Polly whispered, “This is every Christmas morning of my childhood, when all that was under the aluminum tree was a box of new underwear, wrapped up as a present.”

“Perhaps if they rewrote the part so that Grandma Catharine has an affair with Jack Wesley…,” Tim joked, trying to ease the tension.

“It’s worth discussing with J. J. and the producer,” Placenta agreed, lifting Polly’s glass off of the script cover. “Take the screenplay into your office and read it from beginning to end. It can’t be that bad if it’s being filmed by a major studio,” Placenta said.

Tim agreed. “Mom,” he said, “Sterling’s sinking a gazillion dollars into this project, so there’s gotta be something of value here. Plus, strong actors in small roles often get noticed by the critics…and the Academy. Hell, Judi Dench was only on screen for a lousy eight minutes and she nabbed an Oscar for
Shakespeare in Love
.”

Polly slowly nodded her head in agreement. “
Meet the Fockers
was rubbish, but it was a megahit. Gave ol’ Babs a leg up again.”

As Tim and Placenta continued agreeing about the possibility that the screenplay had potential, they hardly noticed that Polly had raised herself up and out of her chair and was retreating into the house. Before she reached the door, she tightened the belt around her robe, then turned and said, “Spank me for being such an ingrate. I may be aged out, but I’m still a star. My charity work does not include making Dana Pointer and Missie Miller look as though they’re the next Meryl Streep and Joan Cusack. I covered for Laura Crawford all those years on my TV show. ‘The lovely and talented Laura Crawford,’ I used to say and audiences never caught on that I use ‘lovely and talented’ as a euphemism for anyone I actually loathe. I’m going to make-up and then pay a visit to J. J.
The ‘lovely and talented,’ J. J.”

On any other day the forty-five-minute traffic-congested drive from Pepper Plantation in Bel Air to J. J.’s office in the old Playboy building on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles would have irritated Polly as a waste of valuable time. This morning, however, as she sat behind the maple steering wheel of her Park Ward Rolls-Royce, Polly gently braked at yellow traffic lights, maintained the legal speed limit, and felt no imperious need to curse at inconsiderate and impatient drivers of less ostentatious cars.

Upon arrival at the building that housed her agent’s headquarters, Polly eased her classic vehicle into the subterranean garage and stopped before the valet attendant. She alighted from the Rolls, and with a gracious nod and a cheerful smile Polly appeared to be as benign and serene as a New Year’s Day Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade queen perched on her float of turnip seeds and rhododendron petals. When Polly breezed into the building’s marbled lobby, she greeted the inflexible security guard with a disarming smile and recall of his first name. One of Polly’s greatest talents was her ability to enchant. She used her wiles effortlessly and charmed the guard into allowing her to pass to the elevator without first signing the guest book or announcing her presence to J. J.’s office assistant.

Polly postured a star’s not-a-care-in-the-world persona as she entered the elevator and turned once again to face the guard, whose countenance had morphed from Mike Wallace granite to Van Johnson affable. Polly pushed the button for the penthouse and before the doors closed she once again radiated a generous smile at the guard and gave a wink of her eye, and a wiggly finger wave good-bye. Now, alone in the car as it moved with its hydraulics, pulleys, and weights up through the shaft in the center of the building, Polly took a deep breath—and prepared for battle.

Moments later, when the elevator doors parted, Polly stepped out of the car and into the museum-quiet foyer of Jason James Norton and Associates Theatrical Agency. The heels of her shoes clicked on the polished and bleached hardwood floor as she strode with confidence halfway to the receptionist’s desk. Polly quickly assessed the age of the young man who presented the company image, and intuitively presumed that although she had once been the agency’s star client, and a floor-to-ceiling black and white photo of her still dominated the wall behind the desk, she couldn’t expect to be groveled to.

Then, in a burst of aggressive but joyous enthusiasm, meant to position herself as the dominant force in the room, Polly called out in her most theatrical voice, “I’m
he–er
!” With a gleaming smile and the hands-on-hips, head tilted skyward pose that she usually reserved for the paparazzi along a red carpet, Polly achieved the desired result: immediate attention. The sentry at the desk looked up from his computer monitor and was taken aback by the presence of a glamorous woman his mother’s age dressed to the nines and sparkling as if she were entering a cocktail party given in her honor.