Unfinished Symphony

  I was about to protest and explain that I thought Holly was happy as she was and lived a good life, but our salads arrived. They looked delicious. However, the portions made me smile and shake my head. A half dozen forkfuls would clean the plate. I felt guilty having her pay for it.

  "It seems like a lot of money for this small amount of food, Dorothy."

  "Nonsense. It's more than enough. You've got to watch your diet, especially here, my dear. Just look around at these women. Look," she ordered and I realized she really wanted me to do it now.

  I looked around the restaurant as subtly as I could. There were many attractive women, all with beautiful hairdos and expensive-looking clothes. It was obviously a place for the rich and beautiful.

  "Everyone watches her figure. Competition, competition, competition, my dear. Every woman is competing with every other woman here."

  "For what?" I asked.

  She laughed.

  "For what? For the eyes of a man, what else? Many of these women want to be in pictures or with powerful men. But don't worry, I'll explain it all to you later. Just from the little you have told me about your background, I know you have so much to learn, and I do enjoy helping a young woman become . . . sophisticated," she declared. "Now don't eat too quickly. You don't want to seem like some naive young girl from the Midwest. Besides, this is the best table. We should enjoy our moment in the spotlight. See, people are wondering who we are already," she said, nodding at people at other tables. She was right-they were looking our way. Dorothy adjusted her hat and smiled at someone.

  "You can be friendly," she said, still nodding and smiling at people, "but don't speak to anyone first. Let them come to you. Always wait for them, and never tell anyone too much," she warned. "The more mysterious you are, the more your stock goes up. That's the way Philip would put it." She nodded at someone to our right. "Don't worry, you'll learn. After a while," she assured me.

  "I'm really not here for any of that, Dorothy," I said softly. "I'm just here to see about my mother."

  "Of course, but like everyone else who comes here, you'll soon fall in love."

  "Fall in love? With what, with whom?" I asked.

  "Why, with yourself, dear. Who else?" she said and laughed. "I'm sure," she added when I just stared at her, "that that is exactly what happened to your mother."

  After what proved to be one of the longest lunches of my life, our meal followed by cups of cappuccino and fruit tarts that cost as much as the meal itself, we finally left. Spike was right there with the limousine, waiting. He held open the doors and I did feel like someone very special because of the way pedestrians paused to look at us and the way the hostess and other staff members fawned over Dorothy. She was like a sponge, soaking up their artificial smiles and growing fatter on that than the miserly portions we had been served. I did get a glimpse of the bill and Holly wasn't far off when she had told me what it would cost. Dorothy had paid over seventy-five dollars for lunch!

  We rode past other expensive-looking restaurants, up Santa Monica Boulevard to what Dorothy announced was the world famous Rodeo Drive.

  "I'll take you there tomorrow, my dear, to find you something adequate to wear."

  Spike made a right turn and drove us past beautiful large homes, one more elaborate than the other with their Grecian columns and tall hedges. As we drove, Dorothy rattled off the names of movie stars, singers and dancers I had seen in films. She also knew the names of film directors and producers who lived in various houses because her husband Philip had some of them for clients.

  Finally, we slowed before a two-story English Tudor bigger than any house I had ever seen. It had a steeply pitched roof, side-gabled, with tall, narrow windows with multi-pane glazing. There was a massive chimney on the left crowned by three decorative chimney pots. The walls were brick contrasted with wooden claddings. It was the sort of house I had seen only on the covers of romance novels.

  "Home sweet home," Dorothy declared as Spike turned into the pink tile driveway lined with Tiffany glass lamps. The lawn looked like an emerald carpet, with every blade cut perfectly. There was an enormous weeping willow on the left, its tearful branches nearly reaching the ground, and on the right was a thick oak that looked proud and majestic as it towered over the flowers, rock garden and yellow, white and pink bougainvillea that clung to the tall wooden boarder fence beneath it.

  "Your house is so big!" I exclaimed. "I didn't think houses could be so big in a city. It's a mansion!"

  "I suppose it is a mansion. We do have twenty rooms," she said, "if you count the help's quarters, Philip's office, Philip's gymnasium . ."

  "Gymnasium. Twenty rooms!"

  Dorothy laughed.

  "Philip complains that it's never big enough, especially when I host my women's club meetings."

  Alongside the house was a three-car garage, but because the entrance was on the side, it made the house appear even longer. I saw windows above the garage, too.

  Spike parked in front of the arched doorway and quickly came around and opened Dorothy's door, As soon as she stepped out, he rushed around the limousine to open mine and reached in to take my elbow and help me out. I felt silly having someone do the simplest things for me, but I was afraid to make a social error.

  "Take her bags to the pink room, please Spike," Dorothy commanded. "We have many guest rooms, but I think you'll enjoy this one the most. It suits young people," she said. Spike glanced at me with a small smile on his lips and then opened the trunk.

  "Let me acquaint you with our house before you settle in for what I'm sure is a much needed rest," Dorothy told me. I followed her to the front door, which seemed to open magically as we approached.

  A short, stout, bald-headed man with bushy gray eyebrows and a pug nose greeted us. He wore a dark blue suit and tie and had a light complexion with rust-tinted spots along the crests of his cheeks and the base of his forehead. His skull was peppered with what looked like freckles dropped randomly along the middle and down his temples. His thick lips were almost the same shade of orange.

  "Hello, Alec. This is Melody. She will be staying with us for a while."

  He nodded.

  "Very good, madam," he said in sharp, clipped tones with just the slightest nod. His light gray eyes swept over me, making me feel as if I had to pass inspection before entering the house. After a moment, he stepped aside and we entered.

  The entryway had dark, rich-looking brown tile that complemented the walls paneled with dark cypress. Above us a teardrop glass chandelier glowed. The stairway, winding up with a mahogany balustrade and detailed spindle work, was polished to a pristine glow.

  Spike started up with my bags, Alec right behind him, but I followed Dorothy deeper into the house.

  On the right was a very large living room with a dark pine grandfather's clock that bonged the hour of three. All of the pieces of furniture were oversized to fill the great space. Light blue satin curtains draped the windows and the marble floor was covered here and there with large Persian oval area rugs in a matching blue. There was so much to visually gobble, I could only shake my head: great oil paintings depicting scenes in cities like Paris and London, as well as grand gardens, all in elaborate gilt frames, glass sculptures that looked like they cost hundreds of dollars, porcelain figurines so dainty and perfect they were surely hand-painted, silver and gold candelabra, antique swords . . . how could anyone be so rich?

  "Cozy, isn't it?" Dorothy asked proudly.

  Cozy? It was a room in which one could run tours, not relax, I mused, but only nodded.

  She showed me the den, with its rich, plush leather sofas and chairs, Philip's office, the dining room with a table that could seat twenty at a time and the kitchen that looked more like a kitchen for a restaurant. She was especially proud of her ovens, although she was quick to say she never even boiled water for tea.

  "That's Selena's job," she declared and introduced me to her cook, a very short and very plump Peruvian woman with eyes as dark as pea
t moss. "Selena lives in the rear of the house," Dorothy explained. "Spike has an apartment over the garage, but my maid, Christina, lives in West L.A. She arrives here at seven in the morning and leaves after dinner, usually about eight. Philip pays them all off the books," she added in a whisper.

  "Off the books?"

  "Things accountants do to stave off the greedy government. Let's go settle you in. I'm sure you want to shower and freshen up after your trip."

  "Yes, I do. Then I'd like to visit the address."

  "The address?"

  "Where my mother might be," I said.

  "Right away?" She grimaced. "Surely, you want to wait until tomorrow."

  "I'd rather do it as soon as possible. It's why I'm here," I emphasized. She raised her eyebrows.

  "I keep forgetting how much energy young people have," she said. "Very well, if you insist. We'll have Spike ready for you in an hour."

  "Thank you, Dorothy, and thanks for showing me your house. It's wonderful."

  She beamed.

  "I've done most of the decorating myself. With the help of professionals, of course. Holly's been here only once. Can you believe that? I think she's afraid to return, afraid to face the fact that she might like it here," she added with a wink.

  I doubt that, I thought. Holly was impressed with spiritual, not material things, I wanted to tell her, but I kept my lips sealed tight.

  We climbed the stairs. Alec had already unpacked my things, hanging up what had to be hung and putting my other things in-the dresser drawers. It embarrassed me to realize he had done all this and especially handled my underthings.

  I was so shocked by the bedroom though, that I didn't even have time to feel embarrassed. This wasn't a room, but a chamber fit for a princess. I couldn't believe the posh splendor, the opulence! The walls were covered in silk damask, colored a delicious strawberry pink, richer than the pale mauve of what I thought had to be at least a two-inch-thick carpet. There was a king-size white pine bed, the wood somehow treated so it had strands of blush pink through it. There was a canopy and over the bed itself was a soft, furry coverlet. Even the walk-in closet was bigger than any room I had slept in. It had shelves for shoes and a mirror and a small dressing table at the rear. But there was also a vanity table and matching dressers in the room itself.

  All of the fixtures in the bathroom were brass. The floor was a whitewashed tile. There was a whirlpool tub, a glass stall shower that looked like it would fit a whole family and double sinks. Mirrors everywhere caught my look of amazement. This was the guest room! What could Dorothy and Philip's master bedroom be like?

  "I can't believe how wonderful your house is, Dorothy," I said again.

  "I'm glad you'll be comfortable," she replied. "Comfortable! This is a palace. How could anyone not be comfortable?"

  She laughed.

  "Are you sure you want to go dragging yourself into West Hollywood so quickly? Why not pamper yourself a bit, dear? Take a whirlpool bath, rest, watch some television on your own set. We'll have some hors d'oeuvres before Philip gets home and then we'll have a nice dinner---"

  "It sounds wonderful, Dorothy, but I'd feel guilty. I'm not here to enjoy myself. I'm here to find my mother," I reminded her.

  She sighed and shrugged.

  "Everyone is in such a rush these days. Well, I'll tell Spike to be ready."

  "Thank you. For everything," I said.

  She flashed a smile and left me to take a shower and change my clothes. I was tired, nearly exhausted, but my excitement over being here and being so close to finding Mommy was stronger. I got into the shower and let the warm water wash over me until I tingled and then I got out, put on a pair of jeans and my best blouse, brushed out my hair, took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes and thought about Billy Maxwell and Holly sitting beside me, advising me on how to calm my nerves and gather my energy, energy I needed now more than ever.

  Then I rose and set out to find my mother.

  Thinking about the time that had passed since Mommy had left me with my stepfather's relatives in Provincetown, I was suddenly plagued by a new, albeit foolish fear. Had time and events changed me so that she might not recognize me, especially if she was suffering from some form of amnesia? It hadn't been all that long, but I felt so different. When I confronted her, how would I begin? It seemed ridiculous to walk up to someone and say, "Hello, remember me? I'm your daughter. You're my mother." If there were other people standing around, they would surely think I was mad.

  As I stepped down the carpeted winding stairway and through the entryway to the front door, I felt myself shrink. It was an illusion, of course, stimulated by the size of everything around me, but more important, by the size of the task I was about to begin. I took a deep breath and stepped outside.

  Spike was leaning against the limousine reading a copy of Variety. He looked up at me and smiled. Then he folded his paper and opened the rear door, stepping back in one graceful motion with a very affected and deliberate theatrical bow.

  "Madam, he said.

  "Thank you," I said in a voice barely above a whisper. I started to get in and paused. "Oh, here's the address," I said, handing him the slip of paper that might have held the key to my future. "Is it far away?"

  "Nothing's far away in this town except a good part," he commented.

  I got in and he closed the door and went around quickly to the driver's seat.

  "Would you like to look at this?" he said, offering me the copy of Variety.

  "No thank you," I replied.

  He shrugged.

  "I just thought you'd like to see what a Hollywood paper looked like. It's filled with all sorts of news about actors and actresses. You've never read one before, I bet," he muttered.

  "No. I haven't had a reason to," I explained.

  He laughed as he started the engine.

  "I'm not trying to be an actress or anything," I added when the smirk remained on his lips.

  "Every woman is an actress and therefore would love to be in movies," he quipped.

  "Not me. And every woman is not an actress," I snapped back at him.

  He laughed again. The patronizing smile that remained on his face was infuriating.

  "I want to go to college and do other things," I continued, wondering why it was so important to me to explain myself.

  "Your mother came out here to be an actress, didn't she?" he asked as we proceeded down the long driveway. My shoulders stiffened.

  "If you're trying to be an actor, why are you a chauffeur?" I asked in reply.

  He turned and looked at me to see if I were being serious.

  "It takes a lot of time, intense studying, knocking on doors, hundreds of auditions until you get that one big break," he whined. "In the meantime, unless you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth or unless you have some rich friends who are willing to stake you, you take any job you can that pays for groceries and rent. This isn't a bad job for me. Mrs. Livingston gives me a lot of leeway. Whenever I have an important audition, she gives me the time off, even if it means she has to use a taxi service."

  "How long have you been here trying to be a successful actor?" I asked him.

  "Three years, seriously at it," he replied.

  "Have you been in any movies?"

  "I had a few bit parts. I have my Screen Actors Guild card. That's more than a lot can say. I was in a play six months ago. It ran nearly a month, too."

  "Then you must be good," I said. He turned to flash me one of his handsome smiles.

  "I am. I just have to get everyone else, the important people, to see it," he said. "After a while it's all just your lucky stars anyway," he added. "Being in the right place at the right time."

  "Do you believe in astrology?" I asked.

  "Hey, I'll believe in anything they want me to believe in as long as it means I get the part," he said.

  "It's that important to you?"

  "Are you kidding?" He turned back and gazed at me as if I had just arrived from anot
her planet. Then he smiled. "After you're here for a while, you'll understand," he said. "It's in the air."

  "I hope I'm not here that long," I muttered and gazed out the window. Spike continued to watch me in the rearview mirror. I allowed my eyes to meet his briefly before I turned to stare almost blindly at the passing scenery. I couldn't help but be nervous about what was only minutes away. My stomach was doing somersaults. Spike finally noticed my anxiety and took some pity on me.

  "It's been some time since you've seen your mother, huh?" he asked softly.

  "Yes."

  "And you're not even sure it is your mother?"

  "No," I said, "although everything points to her being my mother."

  He shook his head.

  "What a gig. This address, it's an inexpensive condo development. Most of the owners sublet to people tying to break into the business."

  "The business?"

  "That's what we call Hollywood, the biz," he said. "We have our own lingo." He laughed.

  "It's like another country," I muttered, but loud enough for him to hear, which made him laugh even harder.

  "You really wouldn't want to be famous, in show business? I bet you have some sort of talent." I continued to stare out the window.

  "I play the fiddle and some people say I'm very good."

  "There, you see. A number of country music stars have become famous actors," he said.

  "I'm far from a country music star," I said, shaking my head. How easy it was for someone to fall into the trap and start believing in his or her own fantasies, I thought. Was that what had happened to Mommy?

  "You gotta think positive about yourself. Look at me. I must go to ten, twenty auditions a week and most of the time, I don't even get a call back, but do I let that discourage me? No. I just keep coming back at them. Sooner or later . . . sooner or later," he chanted.

  I gazed at him, wondering if he, not me, was the one who should be pitied.

  "It's just down this street," he finally said, after making a right turn. My heart seemed to stop and then pound, pound, pound like someone beating on a locked door. I held my breath as he slowed the limousine.