Authors: Melia McClure
The Delphi Room (18 page)
INT. VELVET’S HELL—MIRROR—
BRINKLEY’S BEDROOM—NIGHT
Brinkley stands before his mirror dressed in women’s clothing and shuffling recipe cards. He is anxious, consumed by his thoughts. Clara Bow appears in the mirror, steps out of it.
CLARA BOW
Brinkley!
He jerks into cognizance.
BRINKLEY
What, what, what is it? Oh, Clara! Thank God you’re here. I’m nervous. Scared, I’m scared.
CLARA BOW
Whatcha gotta be scared of, huh? We been ovah everythin’ awready.
BRINKLEY
I forget.
CLARA BOW
Whaddya mean ya forget? Ya got amnesia or somethin’?
BRINKLEY
No. I have recipe cards.
CLARA BOW
And why do you got recipe cards?
BRINKLEY
So I won’t forget.
CLARA BOW
Well they sure as hell aren’t fer writin’ recipes on! I can’t cook nothin’, ’cept stewed prunes. I can stew a prune like nobody’s business. So hurry up, get a pen!
Brinkley rushes to his desk. He plucks a Kleenex from his Cotswold cottage Kleenex dispenser and blows his nose. Then he takes a pen from a brass penholder and returns to the mirror. He shuffles his recipe cards, drops half.
CLARA BOW
Are we gonna be here all night? I could make a movie in less time. Come to think of it, I
did
make a movie in less time.
BRINKLEY
P-please, Clara. I-I’m nervous.
CLARA BOW
Nothin’ ta be nervous about. You’re doin’ right, sweetheart. You get to be there. You get to be there when she goes. When all her pain goes. And yers. ’Course, ya know what I think uh her. Yer doin’ both uh you a favour. Just be happy ya get to see ’er off. I never got ta do that. I was dancin’ on a table when my ma went. I think I killed her.
BRINKLEY
You didn’t kill her!
CLARA BOW
Yes I did. She disapproved of me. Thought I was a whore. An actress whore. And there I was, dancin’ on a table.
BRINKLEY
Clara?
CLARA BOW
Yeah?
BRINKLEY
Am I a killer?
CLARA BOW
No, Brinkley. Yer a man with recipe cards. And yer gonna set her free.
BRINKLEY
Free.
CLARA BOW
Free. Besides, remember what happened with the cigarette? Remember when she dressed you up like a girl? Now ya like dressin’ like a girl sometimes, but ya didn’t when she was pickin’ the clothes. And remember when she was drunk and crazy? Remember how heavy she was? Ya couldn’t breathe! Now pick up yer cards.
Brinkley bends to gather the spilt cards and, in doing so, drops all of them. His hands are shaky, and he dabs with the cuffs of his fluffy sweater at the sweat dewing his hairline. It takes him quite some time to organize himself.
CLARA BOW
Ya ready?
He stands, neatening the edges of his stack of cards, and poises his pen.
BRINKLEY
Yes.
CLARA BOW
Find a blue pillow.
He writes, “Step #1: Find a blue pillow” on the top recipe card.
BRINKLEY
What is Step #2?
Clara is suddenly agitated and distracted, paces the floor.
CLARA BOW
I shoulda found a blue pillow, stuck it ovah my father’s face. Instead I brought him to set with me, treated him like a goddamn king. I must be stupid!
(increasingly upset)
I must be as crazy as he was! Nobody loves me, nobody loves me, nobody loves me, nobody loves me, nobody loves me!
BRINKLEY
I
love you, Clara! Please don’t forget about me!
CLARA BOW
(ranting)
Everythin’ hurts and I can’t sleep and the pills don’t work and the doctors say I’m a hypochondriac but I’m not! Nobody believes me, nobody listens tuh me!
BRINKLEY
I listen! I listen to everything you say. I hurt too. But my mother hurts more. She hurts so much. Which makes me feel happy. But that’s our secret, right? I play
Gilda
for her every day but she just cries and talks to herself. It’s hard to sleep with all the noise she makes. But I don’t really sleep anyway.
Clara is calm. She sports a steely look.
CLARA BOW
Make a triple scotch.
BRINKLEY
What?
CLARA BOW
Step #2: Make a triple scotch.
BRINKLEY
I don’t drink.
CLARA BOW
Not fer you, stupid. For her.
BRINKLEY
Oh, yes of course, she likes scotch very much. Very much indeed.
(as he writes)
“Make a triple scotch.” Then what?
CLARA BOW
Get a small bowl of salt.
BRINKLEY
A bowl of salt? What for?
CLARA BOW
Do ya want me tuh tell ya what to do or not?
BRINKLEY
I’m sorry, Clara, so sorry. Please go ahead.
CLARA BOW
All right, then. Get a wet cloth, some Aspirin and a jar of dill pickles.
He scribbles notes on his recipe cards.
CLARA BOW
When in a pickle, eat a pickle! That’s good advice. My favourite food is Chinese, though. That’s the next step. Order Chinese food.
BRINKLEY
What should I order?
CLARA BOW
Chop suey, chow mein, egg rolls and wonton soup. Oh, and make sure they give ya extra fortune cookies. We gotta read our fortunes. But I think I awready know what happens tuh me.
BRINKLEY
You stay beautiful forever. And we live happily ever after.
CLARA BOW
(exploding)
Nobody lives happily ever after! That’s bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit! Bullshit!
(cries)
Oh, I can’t take care uh my boys, I love my boys, I love ’em, love ’em, I love ’em! I need ta be alone. I’m so scared all the time. So scared. So scared.
Brinkley reaches out and takes her hand.
BRINKLEY
Just stay with me. We can take care of each other.
CLARA BOW
(nodding, calming down)
Okay. I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you. I gotta pull myself togethah here. You and me, kid, we don’t need nobody else. Now I gotta think uh the next step. Oh yeah! Wear a black suit.
BRINKLEY
A black suit?
CLARA BOW
Well ya can’t do somethin’ like this wearin’ a fuckin’ dress ’n’ angora cardigan. Have some respect, for God’s sake. Ya got enough black suits. Pick one. Ya got a closet like a fuckin’ funeral director.
(laughs)
A funeral director who loves angora!
BRINKLEY
That’s not funny.
CLARA BOW
’Course it’s funny. Ya wanna know what’s funny? Look in the mirror! In this life, ya gotta take yer laughs where you can get ’em.
BRINKLEY
(hurt)
You told me once that you think I’m handsome.
CLARA BOW
(smirking and placating)
That’s right, baby. You’re handsome, handsome as they come.
BRINKLEY
Clara?
CLARA BOW
Yeah?
BRINKLEY
When I assemble all of these ingredients, I won’t know what to do with them.
CLARA BOW
That’s why ya got me. But ya gotta do the assemblin’ part on yer own. I can’t leave this room ’til all uh the particulars are in order and ready ta go. So come back here when you’re ready.
BRINKLEY
I’m scared.
CLARA BOW
Everybody’s scared, Brinkley. But ya do what ya gotta do. Don’t be such a sap.
BRINKLEY
I’m sorry. You’re right, you’re always right. Is there anything else I need?
CLARA BOW
Yeah. Matches and a candle. A white candle. And yer Kleenex dispenser.
BRINKLEY
Thank you. I could never do this without you. Clara? May I kiss you again?
CLARA BOW
Later, baby. Right now, ya got work ta do.
E
lectronic snowstorm replaced the image of Brinkley and Clara Bow. No wonder he was in Hell with me. But then again, what kind of Divine Authority would sentence a man to the Room of Doom just because he wanted to end his mother’s suffering? Well, granted, that wasn’t the only reason he had apparently offed her: he wanted to pay her back for making his life miserable by being first a raving lunatic bitch and then a diseased raving lunatic bitch who moaned all night and kept him awake. And rightly so. You can’t blame a man for that—can you? Don’t partly pure intentions count for anything? Oh wait, what was that line about the road to Hell being paved with . . . Damn. Did that mean Clara Bow was here, too? She was, after all, an accessory. The mastermind, in fact. She goaded him into it. Maybe everyone who’d ever lived was drowning in the Styx. Maybe everyone was excluded from Heaven, because Heaven didn’t exist. But if there is no goodness, does evil have a point?
I wondered if I really was psychic since I’d suggested to Brinkley that he would have been right to put a pillow over his mother’s face, and such an act was now slated to be the climax of the unfolding drama. But my suggestion had been more a turn of phrase, not a premonition. And what did I care if I was psychic, because I seemed to be missing the most important prediction of all—when I was getting the hell out of Hell.
I had always thought time travel possible, and getting to know Clara Bow through my mirror was a refreshing confirmation of my suspicion. Maybe other people couldn’t see her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t real. (Exhibit A: Shadowman.) The more I watched her, the more I knew she was as real as Brinkley and me. Based on what I’d read, everything she said about her life was true. So a 1920s movie star was helping him to kill his mother. Because she was brave enough to say and do all the things he couldn’t, or couldn’t without assistance. I wished I’d had such a supportive friend. I could see and hear Clara with perfect clarity, as Brinkley could, and admired her more every moment. The reel that was our lives threw everyone else’s reel out the window.
So I faced a dilemma of sorts, because I really wanted to write to Brinkley and tell him that I admired his courage, his personal act of justice. But if I was being judged on some karmic level, maybe that would be a bad idea. Of course, I had already expressed my opinion that he should have put out his mother’s lights for good, but that was before I knew he’d really done it.
Well, I hadn’t seen it happen yet. And I wasn’t going to write until I had.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
DAVIE’S APARTMENT—BEDROOM—NIGHT
Velvet sits on Davie’s bed eating a falafel. Davie paces, stops short. He addresses a packed theatre.
DAVIE
“To be, or not to be: that is the question.”
VELVET
Existential babble.
DAVIE
“Now is the winter of our discontent.”
VELVET
(laughs)
No kidding. When are you gonna get the heat fixed in here?
DAVIE
“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!”
VELVET
Who was burning your torch last night?
Davie somersaults onto the bed.
DAVIE
Gimme some.
Velvet feeds him falafel.
VELVET
Witches or warlocks?
DAVIE
A witch. Who turned out to be a bitch. No warlocks in sight. Wasn’t in the mood, anyway. Though they tend to be less complicated.
VELVET
Maybe you should stay away from the witches. Or bitches. Are they bitchy witches or witchy bitches?
DAVIE
No can do. If there’s more than one flavour, why limit yourself?
She touches his face, wipes food from the corner of his mouth.
VELVET
Be Romeo again.
DAVIE
You’re always interrupting me.
VELVET
I won’t interrupt. Promise. Cross my heart and kiss my kneecap.
He rolls off the mattress and crouches, looks upward.
DAVIE
“But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?/ It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!/ Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,/ Who is already sick and pale with grief,/ That thou her maid art far more fair than she:/ Be not her maid, since she is envious;/ Her vestal livery is but sick and green,/ And none but fools do wear it; cast it off./ It is my lady; O, it is my love!/ O, that she knew she were!”
Velvet stares at him as though at one risen from the dead. Her eyes are huge and shining. Davie notices her expression.
DAVIE
What’s wrong?
She shrugs.
DAVIE
What is it?
Shrugs.
DAVIE
What? Is he here? The Shadowman? I won’t let him hurt you, Velcro Chenille.
VELVET
I . . .
DAVIE
“She speaks:/ O, speak again, bright angel!”
VELVET
I don’t know.
DAVIE
You’re overwhelmed by the force of my performance? My magnetism strummed your deepest chords? And I wasn’t even halfway through!
VELVET
Will you cuddle me?
DAVIE
Cuddle? Don’t you have a stuffed animal for that? Fuck, Velvet, you scared me. I thought you were about to flip your wig again.
Velvet holds out her arms.
DAVIE
Jesus. Just for a minute.
He sits on the bed, holds her awkwardly.
VELVET
How come you hold other witches and not me?
DAVIE
I don’t hold anyone. There is no holding going on.
VELVET
You don’t fuck me, so you have to hold me.
Davie stands up, moves away.
DAVIE
I don’t have to do anything.
Velvet gets off the mattress, stands before him.
VELVET
Fine. Don’t do anything. Just stand still. And you don’t have to tell me you love me, even though I know you do.
She places her hands on his face.
DAVIE
Are you done?
VELVET
No. And thank you.
DAVIE
For what?
VELVET
For all the times you’ve come to visit me at the Cracker Farm.
Davie shrugs, embarrassed, but looks at her tenderly.
DAVIE
Don’t mention it. I keep hoping they’ll give me some free pills.
VELVET
(smiles)
Pharmaceuticals are never the answer. They make you feel like shit.
DAVIE
Duly noted. But the Shadowman doesn’t seem to float your boat either.
VELVET
True. But he gives me some good ideas. And I can always trust him to come back. Which is more than I can say for most people.
DAVIE
Are you done touching my face now?
VELVET
No.
DAVIE
How ’bout now?
VELVET
No.
He turns, pulls a takeout menu off the wall.
DAVIE
Let’s order something.
VELVET
We just ate.
DAVIE
I’m still hungry.
VELVET
You’re a bottomless pit.
DAVIE
Yeah. You could say that. Chinese?
VELVET
Whatever.
DAVIE
Egg rolls, wonton soup, extra fortune cookies.
VELVET
Far Eastern Providence papers.
DAVIE
Providence is easier to take in a cookie.
VELVET
You’re an atheist.
DAVIE
Remember, it depends on my mood, which depends on my blood sugar. One bite of a cookie and I’m a Believer.
VELVET
You are spiritually ridiculous.
DAVIE
How do you say that in Latin? I should start a church.
VELVET
A church for the spiritually ridiculous? Run by an atheist?
DAVIE
Yeah, we’d have tons of fortune cookies and Coke, so everyone’d be praying up a storm in no time. Actually, that’s not a bad idea for a play. Write me a play about a guy who’s made the arcane association between insulin and God, and parlayed his findings into a church for diabetic atheists. Oh, and he delivers all of his sermons in iambic pentameter.
VELVET
Sounds like a Tony Award winner.
DAVIE
You can be my nun.
VELVET
I can’t act.
DAVIE
You don’t need to act. You just hafta lie down.
VELVET
Oh, so it’s a porno too. Wouldn’t that be a rip-off of some Catholic play?
DAVIE
What, you think the Catholics have cornered the porn market?
VELVET
Don’t talk to me about writing. That goddamn novella has already consumed my sanity.
DAVIE
What sanity?
VELVET
Fuck you.
DAVIE
Ah well, when you’ve got one foot in the nut factory, you might as well make wrenches.
VELVET
Are you comparing my novella to a wrench?
DAVIE
But then again, shouldn’t it be tightening your screws, not loosening them?
VELVET
My screws
are
tight.
DAVIE
Let me see your wrist.
VELVET
Fuck off.
DAVIE
Exhibit A. I’m just sayin’.
VELVET
Yeah, well, I’m not writing some play about a diabetic Shakespearean preacher.
DAVIE
I’m moving.
VELVET
Because I won’t write the play? You write the play.
DAVIE
No, because I can’t get any work.
VELVET
What are you talking about?
DAVIE
I’m moving to L.A.
VELVET
That’s not funny.
DAVIE
I’m not joking. I’m sick of auditioning for shitty TV shows.
VELVET
There’re shitty TV shows in L.A. too. Even more of them.
DAVIE
I don’t wanna stay here.
She gazes as if down the barrel of a gun. The shiny surfaces of her eyes shift their clarities, as a cloud passes over sky.
VELVET
Say you’re joking. This is a mean fucking joke. Say you’re joking.
DAVIE
I’m not—
VELVET
Say it! Say it! Say you’re joking!
DAVIE
I’m not joking! I’m sorry, I can’t stay here anymore! I’ve been wanting to tell—
VELVET
How can you leave me? Who the fuck is gonna visit me at the Cracker Farm? Nobody else’ll understand!
DAVIE
I’m not gonna sacrifice my life to your psychotic mess!
VELVET
Fuck you! That’s what you do when you love something—you let it barf all over you! Who’s gonna visit me in the Quiet Room?
DAVIE
Your mother’ll visit you! Or get some new friends!
She rushes at him, pummels his chest. He shoves her across the room and she crashes into the produce crate-cum-night stand, knocking over the camera and the photographs of herself.
DAVIE
Velvet, stop it! For fuck’s sake! I don’t wanna live in this fucking dump! And I hate this fucking provincial little town!
Velvet is curled on the floor with her arms wrapped tight around herself, as if trying to keep warm. She begins to knock her head against the wall.
VELVET
Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.
DAVIE
Velvet, stop!
She screams, a sound that rends the vocal cords: the fatal roots of a mandrake.
VELVET
Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!
The head-bashing increases in vigour. Davie runs to her and grabs her head.
DAVIE
Stop it! Stop!
He holds her face and she looks at him with dazed eyes, a sleepy sojourner returning on the caboose of a dream-train.
DAVIE
Jesus. You’re gonna knock yourself out. Velvet!
The dazed dreamer dives off the train.
VELVET
Don’t you say my name! Don’t you dare say my name! You motherfucker!
A shove to the chest and a run across the room. She falls to the floor and cocoons her legs in her arms, begins to rock.
VELVET
You . . . can’t . . . leave . . . me. . . . You can’t!
DAVIE
You know what? Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!
He starts for the door.
VELVET
Wait!
Charges after him. Flings herself at his feet, wrapping her arms around his legs.
VELVET
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.
Quiet, save for stifled sobs. Two players tableauing misery.
DAVIE
You have five seconds to let go of me or I promise you will be sorry.
She releases his legs, sits on the floor looking up at him.
VELVET
I don’t want to be all alone. You understand me.
DAVIE
So get a boyfriend. Get a life.
A strangled cry sounds. Velvet grabs Davie’s hand and bites down. He screams and smashes her across the face. She falls back and he runs into the bathroom, swearing. She touches her bloodied mouth. A shadow grows on the opposite wall.
VELVET
Davie! Davie! Davie!
The Shadowman appears in drag as a 1930s Marlene Dietrich-style German cabaret performer, singing “Good Times” from
Kiss of the Spider Woman
. He has a cigarette contained in an antique holder, and pauses his song to blow a menacing curl of smoke in Velvet’s direction. Terrified, Velvet begins to crawl backward across the room.
SHADOWMAN
Vy you cry leetle gurl? What’s matter? You scared? Come here, leetle gurl. Let me give you kiss. Don’t you vant me to kiss you?
Velvet unlooses the shriek of burning nerves. Davie enters, and the Shadowman vanishes.
DAVIE
Fuck me. Velvet. Velvet!
She stares transfixed at the wall. Davie glances from Velvet to the wall and back again.
