All for a Sister (28 page)

“Is Mrs. DuFrane at home?”

That, perhaps, was my opportunity to escape. If I’d just said, “No, sir. She ain’t,” he might have gone away. Not forever, but long enough. But I didn’t. I confessed to my identity.

“I have a message for you from Miss Dana Lundgren.”

I told him he must have the wrong house, as there was nobody here by that name.

“Not
for
Miss Dana.
From
Miss Dana. For you, Mrs. DuFrane.”

I told him to get off my porch, but he just smiled.

“I already attempted to contact Judge George Stephens, God rest his soul. Terrible thing to die with a secret, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. DuFrane?”

Never had I felt so trapped. I couldn’t very well continue this conversation with a young Negro man on my front porch, especially given my state of dress. Nor could I risk inviting him inside, for that would be the one morning Arthur decided to grace us with his presence in the full light of the parlor.

There was nothing to do but to cut through the butter and ask him exactly what he wanted of me.

I could see thoughts piling up behind his eyes, but nothing seemed to make its way into words. “Truthfully, ma’am, I don’t even know.” But then some understanding seemed to dawn. “I suppose, in a way, I’m here to give you fair warning.”

Down the street, the neighbor’s maid swept the front porch, as she had been doing from the moment I stepped outside. Must have been cleaner than my kitchen floor by now. I knew she couldn’t hear our conversation; up to this point, Christopher Parker (as I would later learn his name was) had been quite discreet, but how was one to know that he wouldn’t burst forth in some loud, unfounded accusation?

Still, it was all the more reason to keep my face set in a pleasant expression of neutral congeniality as I asked what, pray tell, would be the nature of his warning?

“I’m going to find a way to get Dana Lundgren out of prison. And when I do, I’m going to bring her right to you so you can tell her exactly what you did to put her there.”

My smile froze as he spoke, until any passerby might think this man regaled me with welcome news of friends long gone.

I asked him once again to leave and intimated that I would not hesitate to telephone for the police if need be. His response was an amused invitation to do so.

It was at this moment that I realized I hadn’t fully closed the door behind me, as it swung open wide, revealing you, my tiny, sweet Celeste, asking, “Who is this man and why is he laughing?”

Fierce with protection, I swept you to my side.

“Perhaps,” he said with a modicum of propriety, “we should postpone this conversation until another time.”

I concurred, adding that I highly doubted a proper time or place could be secured for such a conversation.

“There’s a park. I passed it on my way here. Perhaps this little one would like to go play later this afternoon? Let’s say two o’clock.”

At that moment, you began to jump up and down, begging to go to the park, and it was all I could do to keep you from taking his big brown hand and running away from me right then and there. Against every thread of logic within me, I agreed, knowing long before I stepped out of the house that I was putting myself right back up on the tightrope.

CELESTE, AGE (NEARLY) 13

1918

CELESTE DID HER BEST
to sit very still while Agnes formed her hair into perfect, bouncing sausage curls. Graciela sat nearby, hands folded in her lap, watching with a careful eye. Despite her obvious role as Celeste’s caretaker—she balked at the word
nanny
, being far too old for such a thing—she looked exotic enough to be a star herself. With her dark lashes and naturally rose-tinted lips, she looked like she might have emerged from a dressing room after having makeup carefully applied. She might play the role of a gypsy queen or a Persian princess, not simply a Mexican maid. As such, though, she disappeared in the eyes of everyone but Celeste, who sought her attention and approval at every turn.

“How does it look?” Celeste whispered when Agnes stepped away to fetch the ribbon to be tied at the top of the mountain of curls.

“Qué linda!”
Graciela’s face radiated approval.

Celeste wrinkled her nose. “I think it makes me look like a baby.” She was, after all, nearly thirteen years old—long past this sort of silly style.

“What did the man say? You are supposed to be a child,
verdad
? This makes you look like a child.”

Celeste was not convinced and spun around to study herself in the enormous mirror above the dressing table. It wasn’t the first time she’d been cast in such a role, playing the movie’s star at a young age. It meant a week’s worth of long hours, only to appear on the screen for a few moments at a time, doing childish things and being largely forgotten by the movie’s end.

“I want to star in my
own
movie.”

“Algún día.”
Someday. And when Graciela said it, it sounded like a promise. Not like her father, who made the word sound like a charge, or her mother, who never said the word at all. To Celeste, it sounded like forever.

“Here we are.” Agnes gained some favor in Celeste’s estimation by refusing to employ a condescending, singsong voice. She spoke with a world-weariness, as if the length of ribbon in her hand bore the weight of the ages. She fashioned it, pinned it, and with a barely affectionate tap on the shoulder, pronounced her finished and ready for makeup.

That was her favorite part, feeling the heavy cream smoothed across her face and seeing herself transformed in the same way as any other actress. Celeste, but not Celeste. Her own self hidden beneath the surface.

For this film, she played a rich little girl, so her wardrobe consisted of a beautiful silk dress, stockings, and exquisite leather shoes—nicer by far than anything she had at home. Graciela was entrusted with the fitting, including wrapping the first signs of Celeste’s someday figure and pinning the pinafore and sash to reflect the form of a much-younger girl. Graciela knelt at her feet, leather shoe on her knee while she meticulously hooked each
button. Meanwhile, Celeste studied the script before glancing at the rack of clothing next to them.

“I’m supposed to get a coat.”

Graciela made a questioning noise.

“A coat and a hat. The script says I come into the great hall and grandly hand my coat and hat to the maid. Where’s my coat?”

Graciela hooked the last button and stood, showing some discomfort in her leg as she did so. A search through the garments produced a fur-lined coat, hat, and muff. The colors were wonderful—the coat a pale sage green, and the fur dyed to a rich burgundy, making Celeste feel almost sad that such detail would be lost on the black-and-white film.

“Don’t put this on yet,
mija
. It’s too hot.”

Celeste agreed but let her fingers caress the silky fur of the collar. She’d played enough poor children to know that her own real family lived a life of relative luxury, but nothing in her world compared to the one in which a child would have such a coat as this.

“If I ever have a little girl,” she said, her voice as far-off and dreamy as the concept, “she’s going to have a coat just like this. And I will, too, only mine will be
all
fur.”

Graciela clucked. “
Qué tonterías.
No child needs such a thing. I grew up with food and a bed, and never quite enough of either one. Don’t plan tomorrow by what you envy today.”

Celeste pouted and refused to accept Graciela’s offer to hold her hand en route to the set, insisting instead on burying them in the rich muff for the walk. Within minutes, she felt the sweat building up against the luxurious silk lining and knew they would be a clammy, drenched mess by the time she arrived.

Today’s scene called for the familiar, simple, insipid performance she detested, nothing much more than her impromptu
debut in her backyard playhouse. Walk through the door, hand coat and hat and muff to the maid, played by a heavyset German woman with a stern disposition and horrific body odor. On the first take, she did exactly as the script and director asked, but on the third, she decided to make this rich, spoiled girl a little less lovable, and dropped the hat on the floor, then tapped her expensive shoe impatiently while the befuddled woman stooped to pick it up.

“Cut!” the director yelled, and Celeste braced herself for his tirade at having his direction so blatantly ignored. To her delight, though, he exclaimed, “Brilliant!”

The German actress didn’t seem to agree, and before clearing the set, she leaned in close enough for Celeste to learn that her breath matched her body in its offensiveness.

“You cannot just do as you please all willy-nilly like that. Make me look like a fool.”

“You’re an actress,” Celeste said without an ounce of fear. “Act.”

This time, Graciela gave her no choice but to take her hand as they walked to the second set—a lush Victorian parlor, rich in red and gold, with an enormous fir tree festooned with ribbons and glass bulbs and gold beads. She knew from the script that she was to gaze upon the tree with enraptured joy and clap her hands in delight. Now, as the crew set up their lights and camera, she studied it, trying to find the one remarkable thing that would inspire such a reaction. It was beautiful, to be sure, but brought with it a twinge of sadness, as her own family hadn’t put up a tree for Christmas. It didn’t seem right, Mother had said, with Calvin being gone to the war. She’d promised to have one as soon as he came home, even if it was the middle of July. But Celeste knew better than to believe such a thing; Mother was never one to follow through on promises of whimsy.

She stared and stared, but the tree presented itself as nothing more than a blur of color and texture. Ignoring Graciela’s insistence that she go sit and wait for the director to call for action, she approached slowly, hand outstretched, ready to touch the piney needles. As she got closer, the fragrance grew strong, and she became overwhelmed with memories of being much, much smaller, before they moved to California, when they had a parlor that looked much like this one, dominated by an equally magnificent tree. Upon closer inspection, she noticed that the ornaments were not limited to shiny glass orbs, but small toys as well. Tiny painted dolls and letter blocks and, buried deep within the boughs, a perfect little soldier.

This, then, would be her inspiration, as Calvin had so dearly loved his toy soldiers, waging battles and planning strategies long after other boys had put such things away. His collection was still assembled on the dresser in his room back home. She smiled, searching her heart for delight, but to her horror and surprise, found her eyes filling with tears at the thought of her brother in danger so far away.

She shouldn’t cry. She
couldn’t
cry. She’d cried once, on her first film, when the director hollered at her for missing her mark. The tears smudged her makeup, and by the end of the day there were whispers about her being “difficult.” Tilting her head, she looked up and blinked rapidly.

“Celeste? Sweetheart.” The director’s voice was softer than she’d ever heard. “Turn around, darling.”

She did, slowly, and was surprised to find the cameraman cranking the handle, filming without the call of
Action!
At least, Celeste hadn’t heard it. She took a deep breath and forced her face into a smile, bringing her hands together in a halfhearted clap. She had a line—what was it? Her mind remained fixated
on her brother while she searched around for the words, trying to picture the script.

“Oh, Papa . . .” That much she knew, though she feared her lips were quivering too much to articulate the words clearly. “I didn’t think—” she turned back to the tree, breathed in its fragrance, and, remembering, turned around—“I didn’t think you’d remember!”

“Cut!” He was smiling. He never smiled. “Sweetie, that was beautiful. Can you do it again? Let us set up for the close-up?”

Instantly, any urge she felt to cry disappeared, as if her sadness was drying up from the inside. The directions in the script had been clear:

Young Nellie sees the Christmas tree and is overcome with joy. She spins, claps her hands, and dances excitedly.

YOUNG NELLIE: “Oh, Daddy! I didn’t think you would remember!”

An apology traveled to the tip of her tongue. She knew she hadn’t done it right; she didn’t know the camera was rolling. Given another chance, she’d deliver exactly as the script instructed, but slowly a new understanding of the director’s request dawned. He wanted the same performance,
exactly
the same. She knew that look—he was entranced.

“Of course I can,” she said, feeling victorious, and she did, six times, including three takes that ended with a run into the arms of the dignified actor cast to play her father.

When the director called the end of the shooting day, Celeste’s real father stood beyond the lights, but she didn’t run into his arms. That would be a baby thing to do. Besides, he was talking
with Graciela, their heads almost close enough to be touching, though they both looked straight at her with a shared expression of pride. At the sound of the crew’s impatience, though, she did step lively and presented her cheek for a light kiss.