A Knife to Remember (14 page)

“Jennifer Formas, isn't it?" she said in a sweetly trilling voice. "How nice of you to drop by."

“Why, Lynette Harwell! I didn't know you were in this film!" Fortin said, ignoring the fact that Harwell had deliberately gotten her name wrong. "Roberto, darling, you've been keeping secrets from me," she gushed.

“Hardly a secret, my dear," Harwell said. "But some of us keep in touch with the industry better than others. What on earth are
you
doing in Chicago? Are you doing a trade show or something?”

This dig must have been close enough to the truth to hurt. Jennifer's face wasn't quite as well controlled as Lynette's and she frowned slightly.

But before she could rally her forces and retort, Lynette cut her off. "Well, you must excuse me, darling. I have a terribly important scene this afternoon and really can't let myself get distracted by trivialities.”

Shelley leaned close to Jane and said, "I make it 3–1 in favor of Harwell.”

Jane giggled. "She's a real trouper, isn't she? Max and Meow could learn a few things about cattiness from her.”

17

Lynette Harwell ostentatiously continued to study her script throughout lunch, with Olive hovering around, feeding her tidbits of lunch as if she were a baby bird and occasionally stabbing a long finger at the script and giving advice in equally tiny doses. It was the first time Jane could remember actually seeing a script in anybody's hand.

Jennifer Fortin continued to flirt halfheartedly with Cavagnari for a while, but when it became apparent that she wasn't going to get any more adverse reaction from Harwell, she abandoned the effort and started chatting with a hovering reporter. Cavagnari didn't seem to mind. He had become quiet and thoughtful, too, picking at his fried chicken and staring at nothing as if he were undergoing some kind of mental girding process. Even George Abington became uncharacteristically serious about his craft, asking Cavagnari some technical questions about lighting and positioning.

Finally, Cavagnari straightened up and said, "Let's do it!”

A production assistant who had been standing behind him in a state of suspended animation, shouted into his bullhorn, "Everyone on set!”

The behind-the-scenes area in Jane's yard was cleared as suddenly as if he'd shouted "Fire!" Within moments Jane and Shelley were left alone with Maisie. Half sandwiches were abandoned, cigarettes ineffectively stubbed out to smolder in sand-filled coffee cans, drinks set down anywhere close at hand.

“Wow!" Jane said. "Is this for Lynette's big scene?"

“Everybody's big scene, really. But mainly Lynette's," Maisie said.

“Do you think we could watch a little?" Shelley asked. "If we stayed out of everybody's way?"

“I imagine so. As long as Cavagnari doesn't notice you," Maisie said. "What you need to do is find the biggest, ugliest piece of equipment you can find and glue yourselves to it. If it's big, they won't want to move it capriciously or let it be in a scene.”

They followed her advice and furtively perched on a big orange thing they decided might be a generator. It wasn't operating, so they felt it was safe to climb onto it. But they were disappointed at how little they could really see of the production, even from what should have been a good vantage point. There was a fairly large group in the scene. Lynette, George, and at least a dozen extras. But between Jane and Shelley and the actual scene were cameras, cameramen, reflectors, lighting equipment, sound equipment, and at least fifty technical people who were either standing around to watch or prepared to exercise their particular skills.

There was a lot of movement, but no distinguishable sounds from this distance; just a jumble of voices with the occasional sentence sticking out.

“Get that track back about a foot."

“Don't take it so fast. Stroll, don't walk!" "That baby spot's flickering."

“I'm picking up a siren from someplace." "Shit! A jet-trail."

“Oh, God! Get wardrobe! Her skirt's torn!" "I don't know where I'm supposed to stand." "A little louder, please."

“You're killing me, baby."

“Put a clamp on that thing."

“Can't do it that way. There's a telephone pole in the frame.”

For all the hurry to get to work, it was at least a half hour before any noticeable — to Jane's eyes — progress was made. A production assistant said, "Rehearsing!" into a bullhorn and the technical people froze in place while the actors and extras walked through the scene. And walked through again.

And again. And again.

Cavagnari charged here and there, giving instructions, berating extras and crew members, dragging people to different positions, trying it out in various ways like a demented choreographer. When he had the movement of the scene down to his satisfaction, he started working on the lines and the timing of them.

Finally, the bullhorn voice said, "Quiet on the set!" and a moment later, "Rolling!" and they started to film. And it was as tedious and repetitive as the rehearsal. They did the whole scene with a camera at the left end and another in front of the principal actors. They did it again with a camera at the right end. Somebody flubbed a line. They did it again. Then they did the whole scene, which was quite a long one, with the camera running slowly along a track at the back of the set.

Twice during filming, a plane went over with a low hum that wouldn't have been noticeable otherwise and the sound people shouted, "Incoming!" and halted production.

Finally some of the extras on the fringes of the scene were released and they started filming it all over again close-up. They'd focus each camera on one person while the entire scene was played out, just getting the appropriate reactions on faces.

But Jane and Shelley couldn't hear a word of dialogue except for the one place where Lynette shouted, "But I trusted you!" Then she lowered her voice again. They heard this one line so many times that Jane finally couldn't stand it anymore. "I'm going back to my yard," she whispered to Shelley. "The kids ought to be home pretty soon.”

Shelley nodded her agreement, and when they stopped filming the next time, the two women made a quiet, hasty retreat. Jane's backyard was still nearly deserted, but a couple of extras were standing by the big coffee urn. "So one actor says to another, 'How are things?' " one of the extras was saying, "And the other actor says, 'Oh, just awful. My agent came to my house and he raped my wife and killed my children and then burned my house down.' Andthe first actor says, 'Your
agent
came to your
house?' “

They were still laughing as Jane went inside.

She quickly stirred up a premixed batch of brownies and set bananas and milk out on the kitchen table. She checked the mail, gave Willard a big pet and tried to explain to him why he couldn't go outside just now, and got the kitchen floor hastily mopped while the brownies were cooking. Just as she opened the oven door to remove them the kids started arriving, with Mike home first.

She was once again struck with how resilient kids are. As resilient as they are vulnerable. Mike had dealt with his distress of the day before and was back to being his normal self.

“Scott and I want to go to the library. Can I have the car for an hour?" he said, juggling a brownie that was still too hot to eat.

“I've never known you to be so eager to study," Jane said.

He rolled his eyes. "Mom, there's a new girl working there. We've just got to check her out. Check her out. . get it?" He roared with laughter, exhaling brownie crumbs which Willard got before they hit the floor.

“Okay with the car, but stop and get some orange juice while you're out." Jane fished some cash out of her purse and gave it to him.

“Wow! Brownies! Cool, Mom!" Todd said a moment later as he dumped his backpack on the floor.

“Take that upstairs first," Jane said, holding the brownie pan out of his reach.

“Aw, Mom.
In
a minute. I'm starving. Hey. Elliot's uncle gave him his old stamp collection Elliot says some of them are pretty cool. Can I gc over there?"

“If you're home by five. Hey! Leave some brownies for Katie. Eat a banana."

“Katie's dieting," Todd said.

“I'll drop you off at Elliot's," Mike offered. They each knocked back a glass of milk and grabbed a banana as they left.

Katie came in a minute later. The overdone makeup she'd started out with had smudged, making her look more raccoonish than ever.

“Did you have your picture taken early in the day? I hope," Jane asked.

Katie was startled. "How'd you know about the pictures? Oh, good. Brownies," she added, giving the lie to Todd's idea of her diet.

“I just know these things," Jane said. Better to let Katie think she'd known all along and had generously let her exercise her own judgment. Since it was too late to do anything about it anyway.

“Did they do anything neat out there today?" Katie asked.

“They might have, but I didn't see it. It's all really tedious and boring to watch."

“Well, I wouldn't know, would I?" Katie said archly. "Since I'm not allowed to set foot in my own backyard."

“I guess you could go out there for a while. As long as you don't go any farther than our yard.”

This was more tolerance than Katie really wanted. "Oh, never mind. I'm going to Jenny's. Okay?""Back by five," Jane said.

As the door slammed, Jane leaned down and petted Willard. "Why," she asked the big dog, "do I sometimes feel like the desk clerk at a Holiday Inn? And the janitorial service," she added, looking at Todd's backpack on the floor where he'd dropped it.

Willard wagged his tail and drooled happily.

She put together a tuna casserole, crumbling potato chips on the top the way the kids liked it, slid it in the oven, and set the timer — which sometimes worked. She leaned down and listened. Yes, it was making the clicking noise that meant it was going to function. Probably. She got a package of green beans out to thaw, checked that she had what she needed for salad and cornbread. Too much starch for one meal, especially on top of brownies, but they wouldn't die from malnutrition. And as long as tuna wasn't still politically incorrect with Katie, nobody'd complain.

When Jane got outside, people were drifting into the yard and cruising the snack table. The same two extras who'd been telling jokes earlier were still there. "How many writers does it take to change a light bulb?" one asked. "The answer
is NO CHANGES! NO CHANGES!"

“
Move it or lose it!" Butch Kowalski said to them, lunging for a bag of Doritos.

“How did it go?" Jane asked him.

“Perfect! Primo-exacto-perfecto!" Butch said, grinning and popping a chip in his mouth victoriously. "Everything was great. Jake woulda been proud of me. And that Harwell dame, well… she was great! I don't usually pay much attention to what the actors are doing, but you couldn't help but watch her.”

When George Abington came along a few minutes later, he echoed Butch's sentiments. "You know, I don't mind being acted right off the set for something that good. I hate to say it about Lynette, but that was an Oscar scene. She ought to just retire right this minute so she doesn't screw it up.”

Everybody was talking about Lynette's performance. "I'm ashamed to say it, but I got teary on the first take," one wizened extra said. "Ain't cried on a set for thirty years."

“Was she wonderful or what!" another chimed in.

“Someday we can all say we were here today," a breathless girl in a hobble skirt and picture hat said. "Just like the old fogeys say about being on the last scene of
Gone With the Wind.
I'll never forget it.”

Cavagnari arrived, looking exhausted. He'd shed his poncho and had sweated through his shirt. He took up the same theme as the extras, but predictably, in a more flamboyant manner.

“We have witnessed a miracle!" he pronounced. "An historic moment in film! Olive! Olive, tell Miss Harwell that all of us salute her!”

Olive Longabach, filling a coffee cup, looked surprised and embarrassed at being singled out, but she still glowed in Lynette's reflected glory. "I will," she mumbled, ducking her head and scurrying off.

“Where is she?" Cavagnari called after her. "Resting in her dressing room," Olive said, barely slowing down.

“And she deserves to rest. She must be drained! Emotionally spent! Such a performance! Such talent," Cavagnari raved on at Olive's retreating form.

For some reason, his frenzied tone put Jane over the edge. She was suddenly sick of dramatics — fed up with everyone's histrionics, smothered in theatrics. She turned away quickly and went inside. This experience had been interesting, but she was tired of it. She wanted her yard back, her ordinary life back. She wanted to smell her tuna casserole cooking and turn her cats loose and return to normal.

She wanted Jake's murder solved so she could have her weekend with Mel.

18

She pulled the curtains on the living room windows so she wouldn't even be tempted to look outside and, on a whim, got out a long-forgotten project. Last year Todd had made a Christmas tree ornament in Cub Scouts that really took her fancy. It was a toy soldier made out of a roundheaded clothespin. She had liked it so well that she'd bought clothespins, assembled all the interesting loose scraps of fabric and trim in her sewing room, and found glue, glitter, acrylic paints, pipe cleaners, and yarn to make more of the dolls. But something had interrupted the project before she got started and she'd put it all away last January. She went searching for the almost-forgotten box, brought it down to the dining room, and laid it all out.

This was the ticket! Something creative and solitary and peaceful that had
nothing
to do with movies or actors. She had promised, months ago, to come up with an idea for something "different" in the way of refrigerator magnets to sell at the next PTA carnival and these little dolls would do fine.