39
IN OLD MOVIES, to denote the passage of time, calendar pages shuffle and fly out of frame as if propelled by a good stiff wind. We were in a new decade—had anything ever sounded as modern as 1980?—and it seemed I had barely scribbled notes on a month’s first day when I’d scribble notes for its last. The pages of my own datebook flew as if in a tornado, with the usual notations of business—3/1/80—Weekend gig up in San Francisco at the Holy City Zoo!—and pleasure—6/4/80—Lunch at Barney’s Beanery with Solange; maybe I should have gotten the Classic Chili instead of the Fireman’s . . .
A notation in my September calendaieum of that year combined business and pleasure, but mostly pleasure: Screening of The Man Behind the Bel Mondo!
“I TELL YOU, this gives me chills,” whispered Melvin Slyke as the limousine pulled up in front of Peyton Hall and the chauffeur hopped out, opening the door for the guest of honor, Francis Flover, and his entourage—Frank, Melvin, and me. “The man is finally getting his due.”
Even in his timeworn suits, Francis had always looked dapper, but in a tux he looked ready for his close-up.
“At one point, I think I had five tuxedos in my closet,” he confided to me. “This is the only one I held on to. I must say I was proud no seams had to be let out!”
A screening room in the old Gower Studios had been rented and among the throng of people that stood outside of it were Claire and her brother, Eric. She waved us over with the ardor of a traffic cop on NoDoz and introduced us to some of the muckety-mucks at the public television company that had bankrolled the production.
“Isn’t this exciting?” said Claire, taking Francis’s arm.
“It is,” said the old man, and taking her other arm, he dipped her, suave and assured. The crowd clapped.
It was not the last time.
As we watched the film—a mixture of old photos, movie clips, and current interviews—there was often applause: when Evie Carlyle, a popular 1950s singer, held Francis’s hand and sang her signature “Old Man/My Baby”; when Dixie Ribedeaux, the movie star, told how Francis kept a stock of crayfish in his freezer, instructing his chef to make something out of it whenever Dixie, a homesick Louisiana native, came into the club; and when Bryce Huntington, an actor hired whenever Rock Hudson wasn’t available, said, “It’s easy to be classy in public, but Francis Flover was classy when no one was watching. I couldn’t get a job for seven straight months, and every day for two-hundred-fifteen days—I counted!—I ate dinner, my only meal of the day, at the Bel Mondo. On the house. And Francis never made me feel like I was taking charity; he always said, ‘What the hell, Bryce! Right now I’m up—you’ll be there in no time!’”
At the end of the film, Francis looked into the camera and said, “And that was the Bel Mondo. Real glamour and not-so-real glitz. Onstage talent that brought you to your feet and offstage drama that sometimes brought you to your knees. It was pure Hollywood, and for a while I was lucky enough to be part of it.”
As his image faded and a photograph of him welcoming fur- and jewel-draped stars into the Bel Mondo came into focus, the credits rolled and the audience erupted into applause, bravos, and shouts of “Speech! Speech!”
Claire, holding up her long skirt in a bunch at her hip, bounded up the steps to the narrow stage, gesturing frantically for Francis to join her.
“Thank you all so much for coming!” she said. “Thanks to my mother, Winnie—” she waved to a woman in the front row—“Hi, Mom!—for telling me and my brother—Hi Eric!—all those wonderful stories of the Bel Mondo when we were growing up, and thanks to Jack Williams and Tricia Bayer of NBS for agreeing to finance Francis’s story. And ladies and gentlemen—” she held out her arm—“Francis Flover!”
Onstage now, the documentary’s star gave a curt yet suave bow and the crowd again went crazy.
When we had all quieted down, he looked out into the audience and said, “Tonight has been a dream.” His voice broke and he took a moment to collect himself. “When I was at the Bel Mondo, I . . . I saw so many dreams come true, and just as many dreams unravel. I am proud to have been part of a community that doesn’t discount dreams but encourages them. Thank you, Claire, thank you, everyone, for encouraging mine one more time.”
It was a beautiful moment, and that Melvin Slyke honked when he blew his nose and Frank practically squeezed my hand into pulp only added to it.
IT WAS ONLY FITTING that Francis got a Hollywood ending. Three days after the screening of The Man Behind the Bel Mondo, he died in his sleep.
I had just made a turn at the deep end of the pool and was gliding through the water when I became aware of motion, then yelling, and a sudden splash.
“Candy!” cried Frank, flailing his arms in the water as he lunged toward me. “Candy, Pop’s gone!”
He grabbed me, and I grabbed him back; fortunately, we could touch bottom at this point and weren’t in danger of drowning each other.
He wailed as I led him across the shallow end of the pool, and when we got to the short ladder he seemed stumped as to what to do, and I helped him grab the railing so he could pull himself out.
That effort used up all his energy, and he crumpled on the cement, sobbing.
“Pop’s dead,” said Frank, lifting his face off the pavement. “Pop’s gone!”
The few people who were at the pool—Sherri, Robb, and Bastien—had rushed over and helped me get Frank up and lead him to a chair. Robb wrapped a towel around Frank and stood behind him, keeping his hands on his shoulders. I knelt in front of him, taking his hands. Sherri and Bastien stood on both sides of him, their hands on his arms, all of us understanding that what Frank needed now was touch.
He cried so hard I thought he was going to throw up.
“Pop!” he’d holler between sobs, “Pop!”
When his teeth began to chatter, I told him we were going to get him in some warm clothes, and four people in their swimsuits formed a phalanx around the one in soaking wet jeans and T-shirt and escorted him back to my apartment.
Insisting he take a hot shower, I sat on the toilet the whole time, afraid he’d collapse in the stall. When I heard the water turn off, I said, “There’s a towel on the rack and a robe on the door hook. I’ll be waiting in the living room.”
It was there that Frank told me the whole sad story, how’d he woken up early (strange for him; he usually didn’t greet the day until the day was half-spent) and felt an odd quiet in his father’s apartment.
“It was more than quiet,” he said, clutching to his chest the mug of tea I made for him. “It was like a deep quiet. Like something big had been turned off. I went into his room, even though I didn’t want to, and there he was, lying on his bed with a smile on his face.”
“He was smiling?”
Frank nodded and offered a jagged smile of his own.
“I always thought it was a bunch of bullshit when people talked about dead people and said, ‘Oh, he looked so peaceful,’ . . . but he did. He looked peaceful. I’m freakin’ out, though—I don’t want him looking peaceful—I want him looking alive! And I called the ambulance and Melvin heard the sirens and he came over, and he even went with them when they came to pick up Pop. I couldn’t even do that for him!”
“Frank,” I said, pushing the words past the huge lump in my throat, “you didn’t need to do that for him. You’d done everything you should have. You were a great son.”
“He was a great pop,” said Frank, and he collapsed to the floor on his knees, burying his head in my lap. His usual upright spikes of hair were draped against his head like a stringy blue scarf, and I petted them over and over and over.
ON THE DAY OF HIS FATHER’S FUNERAL, Frank was a different man. Greeting mourners (Francis would have been thrilled at the turnout of old Hollywood), he was dignified and stately, a comfort to those who needed comfort.
“To tell you the truth,” he told me and Claire at the cake and coffee reception we held poolside, “I was worried about him a long time ag
o. He was getting so . . . frail. But then you,” he lowered his head, looking at Claire, “you came along and it was like he was young again.”
“I wish he could have lived to see the television broadcast,” said Claire, her voice warbling.
“He didn’t need to,” said Frank. “The night of the screening, when he got all that applause from the Hollywood community—that’s what he called it, ‘the Hollywood community’—well, that’s all he needed.”
“How you doin’, man?” asked Mayhem, carrying a plate loaded with pieces of the three different cakes I had baked.
“Fair to middling. I was just telling them how much Pop dug that documentary.”
Mayhem nodded. “Dug he did, man. I just wish he could be around to see it win an Oscar.”
Claire’s laugh was a one-syllable “Hah.” “It was made for television, Mayhem. It’s not eligible for an Academy Award.”
The skinny rocker skimmed off the cake’s chocolate frosting with his fork. “Then there needs to be a fucking rule change.”
40
“OH, CANDY, THAT WAS ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL! I knew you were going to be good, but I didn’t know you were going to be that good.”
“Thanks . . . I think.”
“I’ve never seen her laugh so hard,” said Sven. “And that’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Thanks, Sven.”
My grandmother and step-grandfather (it had never crossed my mind that I’d ever use that term) were on what they called an extended honeymoon, which included a trip to the West Coast.
Having them in the audience was an odd experience, and after repeating my life saber over and over as I walked up to the stage, I reminded myself not to change anything because of their presence.
Just do what you usually do. Let them judge you on that.
In the course of my fifteen-minute set, I talked about the news of the day, including the upcoming presidential election.
“I don’t think I want an actor in the White House,” I began.
“Reagan was an actor,” shouted a burly guy in the second row. “But after that he was a damn good governor.”
“Yeah, but when he realized he couldn’t hire a stunt double to do the boring stuff, the day-to-day governing stuff, he wanted out of his contract.”
There were some laughs, some whistles, and some boos.
“And what about that Nancy Reagan? Have you noticed she can’t stand next to her husband without wearing that weird smile? She looks like the Mona Lisa on ’ludes.”
“That’s disrespectful!” shouted Burly Man. “How come you don’t say anything about the Carters?”
“Listen, peanut farmers get enough abuse. I mean, Jimmy Carter could be the most brilliant man who ever lived, but you’ve got to admit, having the words peanut farmer on your résumé takes away some of your gravitas.”
My grandmother only had one caveat to her praise.
“I wish you wouldn’t make fun of Jimmy Carter,” she said softly on the ride home. “I like him.”
“Well, heck, I like Ronald Reagan,” said Sven. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t poke fun at him.” He leaned forward so that I could see his wink. “All’s fair in love and comedy, right, Candy?”
“Exactly, Sven.”
AS FIRST-TIME VISITORS to southern California, the newlyweds had a checklist of things they wanted to accomplish and seeing me perform was #1. Following that was visiting #2—the ocean; #3—Beverly Hills; #4—Hollywood Boulevard; and #5—Griffth Park Observatory.
They celebrated each item checked off. My grandmother got a particularly big kick navigating the Map of the Stars as I drove their rental car through the swanky flats of Beverly Hills.
“Oh kid, that’s Lucille Ball’s house! And Jimmy Stewart’s! Oh my goodness, Sven, isn’t that Sandra Dee?”
Sven peered out the window. “That little blonde gal walking her Chihuahua? Looks like her, but wouldn’t she hire people to do that for her?”
The observatory isn’t something my grandmother would have had on her list, but she recognized the value of compromise in marriage.
“He’s the stargazer in the family,” whispered my grandmother as we leaned back in our seats, watching the planetarium’s laser show. “This sort of stuff makes me kind of dizzy.”
A big thrill, however, was not plotted on their checklist. Having heard from Maeve what a fan my grandmother was of Summit Hill, Taryn Powell made the kind gesture of inviting us onto the show’s set.
“For crying out loud!” said my grandmother. “What am I supposed to wear to something like that?”
“We’ll have to get you an evening gown,” I said. “And a tux for Sven.”
“Where are we going to find—” began my grandmother, and then seeing my face, she stopped. “Oh, ha ha. She’s kidding, Sven.”
“NOW THIS OF COURSE IS OUR LIVING ROOM,” said Taryn, sweeping her arm. “Scene of many of the Summits’ biggest dramas.”
“Oh my,” said my grandmother, pointing to the huge fake stone fireplace. “That’s where you shot Judith Partridge.”
“She was holding a knife to my son’s throat. What was I supposed to do?”
“What this room needs is a recliner,” said Sven of the room decorated in expensive antiques, or facsimiles thereof.
Taryn laughed. “Spoken just like Baird Davies.”
“Her third husband,” explained my grandmother. “He was a real man of the people—a mechanic—and probably Serena’s greatest love. But then he died when he took the new Jaguar out for a spin.”
“The brakes had been tampered with,” said Taryn, and with a laugh she added, “you are a fan, aren’t you?”
“Like Candy says, I never miss an episode.”
“And now she’s got me watching it,” said Sven.
We got a tour of the kitchen set, where, my grandmother explained, the estate’s maid had canoodled with Serena’s son—not the son who had the knife held to his throat—but Jed, the handsome but cheating financier.
“That was supposed to be a one-episode fling,” said Taryn, “until we got so much mail about it.”
“Because she got pregnant with quadruplets!” said Grandma.
As we toured, Taryn greeted an electrician working on a row of lights, chatted with a woman from the wardrobe department who asked if Taryn had approved her yacht race costume, and conferred with someone carrying a script. This glimpse into a working television show was all very heady for my grandmother, but the pinnacle of excitement came when, while touring the patio set lush with fake potted plants, she met Rianna Summit, aka Sharla West.
“Good heavenly days,” said my grandmother softly.
“Did you see what they have me wearing for the yacht race?” Sharla asked Taryn. “It’s absolutely hideous.” She pivoted slightly—all good beauty queens have mastered the pivot—and tossed back her glossy auburn hair. “Hey, Candy. Taryn told me you were bringing by your grandparents.”
It was weird having her refer to Sven as my grandparent, but I let it pass and introduced both of them.
“I absolutely hate you,” said my grandmother, holding on to the hand Sharla offered. “But I mean that in the very best way. Rianna Summit is the best bad-girl on television.”
Sharla made a face at Taryn that asked, “See?” before treating my grandmother to a full-wattage smile. “Thank you so much. It’s a real acting job because I’m the exact opposite of Rianna.”
“Not quite the exact opposite,” said Taryn with a smile rivaling Sharla’s in its dazzling insincerity.
SVEN WAS AN EASY TRAVELING COMPANION who not only was up for anything we wanted to do, but insisted that my grandmother and I spend a little “girl time” by ourselves.
“You two go have a cup of coffee,” he’d say, opening up his wallet and handing us a ten. “And some dessert while you’re at it.”
We took him up on his offer and money several times (he insisted), and when we went to Schwab’s Drug Store we brought along someone I’
d been dying for my grandmother to meet, Madame Pepper.
For the outing, the seer didn’t wear her work uniform; both women wore pantsuits and surreptitiously checked out each other’s. (There wasn’t much stylistic difference in their polyester slacks and buttoned short-sleeved tunics, although my grandmother accessorized her peach one with a scarf and Madame Pepper adorned her scarlet one with a brooch.)
Sitting at the counter, sipping our coffee, my grandmother enthused about how excited she was to be at Schwab’s, considering it was where Lana Turner was discovered.
“Actually, that’s a myth,” said the waitress whose hair spiraled in coronet braids around her head. “She was discovered at another coffee shop—the Top Hat.”
“Baloney,” said another waitress putting dirty cups into a bus tray under the counter. “How do you know that’s not just another myth?”
As we dug into our pieces of pie, Madame Pepper made the casual announcement that Lana Turner had been one of her clients.
“It was right after The Postman Always Rings Twice. She was at the peak of her fame and beauty, but all she wanted to know from me was if she ever was going to find true love.”
The trajectory of my grandmother’s fork from pie plate to mouth halted.
“Lana Turner was one of your clients?”
“Grandma,” I said as Madame Pepper offered a shrug and took a bite of her pecan pie. “Madame Pepper is soothsayer to the stars. She’s seen everybody.”
One of those scruffy-looking actors who often plays the part of the defendant in television movies got up from the end of the counter to answer the ringing pay phone.
“He got the part,” said Madame Pepper, just before the man’s “Yes!” resounded through the restaurant/drugstore.
“What’s it like?” asked my grandmother softly, as she set her fork on her plate. “What is it like to see people’s future?”
My eye rolling was only intended for my amusement, but apparently the Madame was privy to it and she laughed.
“Your granddaughter thinks I’m a bit of a fraud.”
“Not a bit.”