The Delphi Room (17 page)
Authors: Melia McClure
Dear Brinkley,
You’re right: Clara Bow is the most beautiful movie star in the world. But somehow the most frightening. Seeing you together in the mirror terrifies me. Maybe we shouldn’t talk about the movie memories anymore. I don’t know what you’re seeing on your mirror/movie screen, but probably I don’t want to be reminded. Then again, what else do we have to talk about, other than the fact that we’re looking more freakish by the minute, or I am, anyway. Clara is a tough cookie. I admire that about her. Wish I’d been tougher. Tough enough to kick the Shadowman in the balls. I used to let Davie walk all over me, too. But I admired his bravado, wanted some of it to rub off on me. And he was loyal, I’ll give him that. He wasn’t afraid of me.
I have to say that I agree with Clara Bow’s assessment of your mother, although I know you’re willing to take it from her and not from me. So I’m not trying to start an argument. I just understand why you love Clara so much, because it’s like she gets to say all the things you can’t. Sort of like me and the Shadowman, only I hate him and he terrifies me, a lot of the time. But he does say lots of things that other people maybe wouldn’t, gets to wear lots of costumes that other people don’t. Maybe I’m jealous of him, because he is free to be as mean as he wants—he always gets away with it.
The Shadowman hasn’t shown up here lately, which is weird considering I’m in Hell. Since he often made my life on Earth rather hellish, I’d expect him to be camping out in this room fulltime. I should shut my mouth, ’cause next thing you know he’ll make an entrance and I’ll have deviled egg on my face—ha ha, bad pun, sincere apologies. I’ve learned that the other shoe is always about to drop.
Here’s the last thing I’ll say (for a while, anyhow) about your colourful painter of a mother: If she did indeed burn you with one of her ever-present cigarettes, I doubt very much that it was an accident and therefore when the time was right, you should have snuck up on her and put a pillow over her face once and for all. That’s just my opinion and I’m not saying it to upset you, I’m saying it because I like you a lot.
I used to have recurring dreams that I was a Victorian-era scribe ravaged by TB. Oh, why couldn’t I have been born way earlier and died of consumption instead?!! Maybe I shouldn’t have read so much poetry. I think it should come with a Surgeon General’s Warning. Not that there is a direct, provable link between poetry and suicide, but you do have to travel the depths to come up with some decent lines, and not everyone who goes down comes up. Obviously, the same is true of prose as well, as evidenced by me. But it really wasn’t writing that killed me, it was the Shadowman. The thing is, he’s so creative that I probably got all my best inspirations—and therefore a measure of happiness—from him.
I’ve taken another “escape hatch inventory” of my room. This place makes Fort Knox look like Legoland.
I also, in a fit of despair, plucked all the eyes out of the stuffed animals that are sitting on the bed, staring (formerly staring) at me dumbly. Now I’m wracked with remorse. The eyes are the window to the soul, and I just broke all the windows. Not that stuffed animals have souls, but they have pretend-souls and that’s better than nothing. And let’s face it, maybe I don’t have a soul, either. If I do, it’s probably like my brain: a doily. In other words, a lot of holes in it and not very useful.
Sincerely, Velvet
P.S. Even though it’s not a fancy dance sequence, the Fred Astaire bit I loved best was in
Funny Face
, the part when he sings “’S Wonderful” with Audrey Hepburn.
Dear Velvet,
Do you have any psychic ability? If you do, I hope that you will keep on liking me. If you do not, then I suppose the mirror will eventually convict me anyway. The beautiful, as I stated, can be dangerous. I followed Clara’s advice and chose not to be a wimp. Justice is noble. You are right, Velvet: perhaps we should not discuss what we see in the mirror. Bad things happen, and when the movie is over sometimes it is best to forget. On second thought, I second your second thought: avoidance seems silly. What we witness in the mirror must form the crux of our correspondence. When one is in Hell, what is the point of avoiding bad things? Badness is the inevitability of our circumstance.
I have a terrible feeling that the Final Judgment is yet to come. I keep searching about for signs of heat.
I am happy that you admire Clara’s toughness, as I do. She really keeps me in line. I always kept my relationship with her private, as I did not want the interference of outsiders. Also because Clara is famous, and she asked for my discretion. We both are attracted to gutsy people, perhaps finding courage lacking in ourselves. There is something thrilling about people who are willing to speak their mind, to grab hold of their meanness with both hands. Something brave about ugliness.
If you live in a black-and-white film world, what can be done? Nothing. I always knew that there were only two things in life that brought me happiness: classic cinema and Clara Bow. So I played my scenes with her and kept moving. Now that we have heard “Cut” and found a thespian’s retirement lacking, we are forced to enter into endless and despairing debates about souls. We have souls, Velvet. No use though, no use. I never liked horror films.
Yours very truly,
Brinkley
P.S. Since you were not a silent film buff I cannot ask you questions about those, so tell me this: which is the best movie song, “As Time Goes By” or “Moon River”?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BACKYARD—NIGHT
Velvet and Mae/Mother sit on a blanket on the grass, staring at the winking beyonds. A small table nearby is covered with candles; they heft their shivering petals of flame to the sky. Mae/Mother’s hair is platinum blonde.
MAE/MOTHER
Big Dipper, Little Dipper. Where’s Cassiopeia’s Chair? Oh, that’s what I want when I die, my own chair made of stars. Wouldn’t that be divine, Vee?
(silence)
Vee?
VELVET
I’m connecting the stars, making Roman numerals. I’m up to eleven.
MAE/MOTHER
Well, maybe one of your Roman numerals has a special star in it, a star just for you.
She looks at Velvet, her face starlit with eagerness, a child with a cupcake and a secret.
VELVET
What are you talking about?
MAE/MOTHER
I bought you a star for your birthday!
VELVET
What?
MAE/MOTHER
(points)
That one. I’m pretty sure it’s that one.
VELVET
You can’t buy a star. Heaven is free.
MAE/MOTHER
Yes you can! Isn’t it the greatest birthday present ever?
VELVET
You’re joking.
MAE/MOTHER
I never joke about astronomy.
VELVET
You really bought me a star?
MAE/MOTHER
Cross my heart and kiss my kneecap.
VELVET
Show me again.
MAE/MOTHER
I think it’s that bright one, above the Big Dipper.
VELVET
It’s part of my number nine!
MAE/MOTHER
See! It’s meant to be yours!
VELVET
Cross your heart and kiss your kneecap.
Mae/Mother does. Velvet looks up in wonderment.
VELVET
That’s really my star. It’s so beautiful.
MAE/MOTHER
Velvet is the perfect name for a star. Much better than the Big Dipper. Well, I guess that’s a bunch of stars, but still.
VELVET
None of the other kids at school have their own star.
MAE/MOTHER
Of course not. Only very special birthday girls get a piece of Heaven. Are you gonna show it to your friend?
VELVET
What friend?
MAE/MOTHER
You know, what’s her face . . .
VELVET
Delilah?
MAE/MOTHER
Yeah, her.
VELVET
Remember, she’s gone.
MAE/MOTHER
Gone where?
VELVET
I don’t know. She moved. She didn’t leave a forwarding address.
MAE/MOTHER
Oh.
Velvet starts to cry. Her face is tilted up, toward her star.
MAE/MOTHER
Baby.
VELVET
I miss her. I want her to come back.
MAE/MOTHER
Oh dollface, no birthday tears. I’m sure she’ll come back. Then again, maybe it’s a sign that you’re too old for pretend-friends. Maybe she went to find somebody younger.
Velvet cries harder.
MAE/MOTHER
(throwing her arms around Velvet)
Babydoll, my sweet as sugar, don’t cry, don’t cry, I bought you a star, nobody with their own star can be sad, it’s against the rules, the Milky Way rules. Ssshhh . . . I love you, love you, love you, my precious—Oh my God! Doorbell, I heard a doorbell! He’s here! How do I look? Okay? Wipe your face!
She goes flying into the house. Velvet stares at the sky.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—FRONT HALL—CONTINUOUS
Mae/Mother rips open the front door and leaps into the arms of Toothpick Man, wrapping her legs around him with cobra force. He staggers under her weight. She devours his mouth, a ravenous carnivore.
TOOTHPICK MAN
(trying to wrench free)
Easy, darlin’, easy. Someone missed me.
He drops the stuffed animal he was carrying. Mae/Mother dives for it, squealing like a child at a petting zoo.
MAE/MOTHER
Ooh, for me! So cute! What a sweetie!
She moves to fling herself at Toothpick Man once again.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Whoa, easy honey, it’s not for you, it’s for the birthday girl.
MAE/MOTHER
(pouting)
Oh. Fine then.
She drops the animal.
MAE/MOTHER
Nothing for me?
TOOTHPICK MAN
Well.
(winks at her)
Maybe something for you. I’ll show you later.
He grabs her ass and she squeals. Her squeal becomes a giggle, which descends into a rough contralto come-hither rumble. She puts his fingers in her mouth and sucks, her wet gaze unflickering.
TOOTHPICK MAN
(touching her platinum hair)
You really do look exactly like Mae West.
She moves his hand out of her mouth and onto her breast.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Later, baby. After cake.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN DOORWAY TO BACKYARD—CONTINUOUS
Toothpick Man stands in the doorway to the backyard and calls to Velvet, who still sits on the grass.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Happy Birthday, little lady! Brought a present for you! Come and get it!
Velvet stands and walks slowly toward him. As she passes, the candle flames flick like tongues.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Happy Birthday, sweetheart!
He scoops her up. Velvet is rigid, her face the inscrutable mask of a wooden doll. Toothpick Man kisses her cheek, sets her down and hands her the stuffed animal.
TOOTHPICK MAN
(calling into the kitchen)
Your daughter gets prettier every time I see her.
(touches her face)
Don’t you, little lady? Let’s have some cake.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN—CONTINUOUS
Velvet and Toothpick Man sit at the table while Mae/Mother swoops in carrying a chocolate cake and singing at eardrum-rattling volume.
MAE/MOTHER
Happy Birthday to you,
You live in a zoo!
Happy Birthday, dear Vee Vee,
Happy Birthday to you!
She sets it down with a twirl and a curtsy.
MAE/MOTHER
Blow, blow, blow!
TOOTHPICK MAN
Steady as she blows!
The two adults look at each other and dissolve into hysterical laughter. Velvet stares at her candles.
MAE/MOTHER
Make a wish, a juicy wish!
Velvet blows out the flames. Mae/Mother claps wildly and jumps up and down, her vampish figure brimming with bounce and shake. Toothpick Man hoists a drink.
TOOTHPICK MAN
To the prettiest birthday girl in the world!
Mae/Mother stops jumping, and her wobbly flesh comes to an abrupt halt. Her smile is gone. She snatches her drink from the table and downs it.
MAE/MOTHER
(loudly)
Aren’t these flowers gorgeous?
(indicating irises on the table)
I was in a Van Gogh mood.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Hope you wished for something really good, Velvet.
MAE/MOTHER
Yeah, hope you didn’t waste it on world peace.
TOOTHPICK MAN
So what did you get for your birthday?
VELVET
A star.
TOOTHPICK MAN
A star?
He looks to Mae/Mother. She shrugs.
MAE/MOTHER
(airily)
I bought her a star. Show ’im, Vee.
Velvet gets up and goes into the backyard. Toothpick Man follows her.
VELVET
(points)
I think it’s that one.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Prettiest star for the prettiest girl. You get anything else for your birthday?
VELVET
Press-on nails.
Mae/Mother stands in the doorway, illuminated by the light from the kitchen like some burlesque avenging angel. Her hair looks white.
MAE/MOTHER
Can’t get through life without press-on nails.
(drinks)
Can you, Vee Vee?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—LATER
The lamp on the night table warms the room. Velvet stands on a chair and blows on her window, writes Roman numerals in the steam. Carnal shrieking reverberates: the sounds of mortal combat. Both fighters are conquered: a final gasp, silence. Velvet’s finger squeaks as she writes. Beneath her row of numbers, she traces the name “Delilah.”
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—LATER
Velvet is asleep. As though yanked from a dream by her ponytail she sits up, turns on the lamp. Toothpick Man is in the doorway, clad only in his underwear. He teeters slightly, as though standing on a balance beam for the first time.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Hi there, little l-lady. I was just on my way to the bathroom and I wanted to say . . . Happy Birthday.
He staggers into the room, closing the door behind him. His shadow is huge on the wall. Velvet is motionless in bed, her eyes fixed orbs.
TOOTHPICK MAN
You’re the prettiest little girl in the world. Do you know that? I think you do. I think you know that. Don’t you? Don’t you?
Velvet shakes her head. His shadow is huge on the wall. He moves to the bed.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Say it. Say “I am the prettiest little girl in the world.” Say it.
Velvet stares at the window, at her Roman numerals and the name “Delilah.”
VELVET
(whispers)
Delilah, Delilah, Delilah, Delilah, Delilah, Delilah.
His shadow is huge on the wall.
