The Body in the Cast (16 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Cast
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“I promised not to keep you late, and this could go on for quite a while. I'll make sure the hotel locks the room.”
Faith was disappointed, yet it was clearly a dismissal.
“Thank you. We'll pick up our equipment in the morning.”
“Thank you. Everything was delicious, as usual. Good night.”
“Good night.”
On film, Evelyn was standing up, about to drop her dress. This footage included sound, and her rich inflections added to the sensuality of the scene. Sandra Wilson might have the body, but she didn't have the voice.
When Faith got into her car, her disappointment soon turned to relief. She hadn't realized how tired she was. She drove down Mall Road and turned onto Middlesex Turnpike toward Aleford. She'd be home in ten minutes, and in bed in
twenty. With that comforting thought, she let her mind wander. Was there some reason Alan hadn't wanted her to stay? He'd been sitting on the other side of Max and the director had leaned over to say something to him just before Alan had come back to Faith. Was it Max's idea that Faith leave? Maybe he didn't want anyone to see the “real” scenes until the movie was released. Or maybe he didn't want her to witness another kind of scene. Or maybe he, or Alan, simply thought it was getting late and that since they really didn't need her, she could go home.
Evelyn had certainly been ripping—or delivering a fine performance. If you were good—and she was—you could create a role to suit the occasion, then play it to the hilt. Which was it tonight, Evelyn the woman or Evelyn the actress? Holding hands with both men added an element of intrigue—and humor—to the part. One thing was certain: Evelyn O'Clair wasn't doing Hester Prynne.
Faith pulled into her driveway, found the strength to hoist the garage door, and ten minutes later was sinking into slumber beside her almost-oblivious mate.
 
The next day, Thursday, whether because of the associations or because the sun was trying to break through the clouds, Max abandoned the forest scene and decided to do an interior shot. Sandra was in her jeans again, running around trying to locate a bolt of sheer drapery material that Max wanted pinned on the walls of the Pingrees' dining room, now Hester's prison cell.
Cornelia was stalking around in high dudgeon. She seemed to invite inquiry and Faith was happy to comply. The movie production was intriguing beyond all expectations.
“Sandra”—Cornelia's voice dripped with scorn—“has managed to lose an essential prop and we can't shoot, can't even arrange the lighting until she finds it.”
Faith felt sorry for the PA—from the Follies to folly,
sic transit gloria mundi.
The fabric was still missing at lunchtime. Faith was back in
the catering kitchens with Ben and Amy when Pix returned from her post at the craft services table.
“They finally found the fabric. It was in the barn, which seems like a strange place to put such easily soiled material. And Sandra swears she didn't, but people are pretty annoyed with her, anyway. Max decided by the time they got the room the way he wanted it, it would be too late to shoot, so he sent everybody except a few people home.”
“Did anyone say anything about Saturday?” Faith was thrilled to have the job, but she'd love a real day off. They didn't shoot on Sundays; only that was not a day of rest in the Fairchild household.
“No, not yet, but why don't you take the day, anyway? Niki and I can handle lunch with the rest of the staff.”
Faith was tempted, except too much was at stake. The Chocolax crisis was still fresh in her mind, though the birthday party's success and subsequent repasts had virtually erased it from everyone else's. She was beginning to agree it had to have been Caresse. Nothing else made sense. She'd love to have some time alone with the child to find out how she did it, but that wasn't going to happen.
“It's sweet of you, but they're not going to be filming here much longer and I think I'd better stick around.”
 
The following day, Faith was around even more than she had been before. They were all set up to shoot inside the house, which turned out to be providential. It was Max's favorite weather, cold and gray, but the cold was freezing cold. Shooting outside would have been cruel and unusual punishment, although unusual was not out of keeping with A. Cornelia crisply delivered a message from the assistant director asking the caterers to set up plenty of coffee, tea, and things to eat in the kitchen so people wouldn't have to go down to the barn.
The crew had redefined the Pingrees' small dining room into a surreal landscape, swathing the walls and furniture with the gauzy off-white fabric. A straw pallet had been arranged in one corner next to the cold fireplace. A period chair and cradle
stood by the prisoner's resting place. Lights had been placed outside the diamond-paned windows and now they were working on the inside, covering some of the exposed beams with what looked like aluminum foil to create the effect Max wanted. Nils was everywhere, as was Max. Cornelia, as was her habit, scurried around looking busy. Cappy had checked in—and Evelyn—then they left to take a walk.
Faith felt once again as though she was watching a play from her position in the butler's pantry, which separated the dining room from the kitchen. And in a way, she was. Setting the stage. It was fascinating. She never failed to be impressed by the magic that transformed a room with piles of equipment, drapes held in place with safety pins, and groups of people at the perimeter into an intimate, isolated, realistic moment on the screen. She knew what would follow to create the illusion—the editing, which Max had frequently declared in print was as important a process as the filming itself. “The footage is his clay and Maxwell Reed is a master potter,” Faith had heard a film critic say on the radio.
Sandra was talking to Max now. She had a clipboard and, as usual, her entire attention was focused on the director. To be near a genius was to be a bit of a genius yourself, Faith supposed. Certainly that was what Cornelia conveyed. PAs—and the rest of Max's devoted crew—ate, drank, and lived the movie.
Faith moved back into the kitchen to check on her supplies. Everyone else was at the tent getting lunch ready.
Alan came into the room and asked for some coffee. “Black, and I hope it's strong. Not that I need it to keep me awake. Nobody could fall asleep during this take.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, apparently a habit. Faith could well understand why Max kept him as his assistant on picture after picture. Alan never seemed down. His constant phrase to Max after the innumerable glitches that arose during a typical day was, “Don't worry. Be happy. We'll handle it.” It never failed to provoke some kind of smile from the director.
“Max sees it as a pivotal scene, Hester and Roger's first
meeting alone after many years. The doctor has been called in to attend to the baby, who is having convulsions, mimicking Hester's own frenzied state.” Alan put his cup down and put his thumbs together to frame the picture he was seeing in his mind. “Man and wife. They stare at each other for a moment. Later, we'll superimpose a shot of them in the same positions back in England—a younger Hester reluctantly wedding Chillingworth. Then the whole thing will turn like a kaleidoscope and we're back in the present, the baby screaming.”
“I remember the scene,” Faith said. “Chillingworth gives Hester some medicine to give to the baby, then hands her a dose of noxious herbs for herself.”
“And she has to decide if she trusts him enough to drink it.” Alan took a large swallow of coffee. “It's a great moment. We're going to shoot first to check the lighting, using the stand-ins, so you can come in and watch if you like.”
“I'd love to,” answered Faith. Then she added, “It's been fascinating watching the progress of the film.” Maybe if she showed an active interest, he'd let her stick around even more.
“You'd better be careful. This business can get in your blood. Look at me. I was headed for medicine when I met Max, had finished my first year of medical school. Of course, I'd always been addicted to films and the theater—from both sides of the footlights. I picked up some rave reviews for college performances. You never know where life may lead you. Anyway, enough profundities. It'll be about ten minutes. I'll call you.” Alan finished his coffee and left.
Faith made another pot and decided she didn't have time to check on lunch preparations. Tom kept telling her she was going to have to learn to delegate more, and maybe he was right. She had in New York, but her staff had been with her a long time. Still, Niki knew what she was doing and they had steered away from anything remotely resembling black bean soup. Today there was pasta—penne with a choice of two kinds of sauce—a spicy linguica sausage with tomatoes and yellow peppers or a broccoli pesto. They'd also made a variety of
tortas,
the usual salad bar, breads, and rare roast beef for the meat eaters. She rapped the wooden table and said a silent prayer to Escoffier in defiance of both reason and her spouse's oft-repeated ridicule of such shibboleths. But such practices had worked so far—everyone on this shoot liked the food, as they had on every other one she'd catered. She'd known excellent companies that had been fired merely because one of the stars didn't like the choices one day or a fanatic had detected white sugar in the granola. Maybe she should run over to the tent—just for a second.
Alan Morris stuck his head in the door. “We're ready to start,” he said, then disappeared.
Faith took off her apron, went into the dining room, and found a place in the corner, well out of the way.
Nils and Max were silently pacing on opposite sides of the set, then at some unspoken signal, both men met and gave a nod to start.
Sandra was in full makeup, wearing a duplicate of Evelyn's gauzy costume, but the Totally Hair Barbie look of the other night was back to lank locks. She looked tired and not a little pathetic. Max's stand-in took his place by her side.
“Let's try it, people,” Alan called. “Stand by.”
Faith had assumed there wouldn't be any dialogue, since they were interested only in the lighting; however, she supposed Max wanted to see how the whole thing played—like the forest scene. The filming started and Chillingworth handed a pewter cup to Hester Prynne.
“Drink it! It may be less soothing than a sinless conscience. That I cannot give thee. But it will calm the swell and heaving of thy passion, like oil thrown on the waves of a tempestuous sea.”
Sandra took the beaker reluctantly. Faith didn't blame her. Her husband's words might seem reassuring on the surface, yet his tone was that of one bent on revenge.
The lighting was extraordinary. A few seconds ago, Sandra had looked pale and wan. Now she appeared bathed in a sensuous,
rosy luminescence, bosom heaving with conflicting emotions. Chillingworth reached over and slowly traced the letter at her breast, circling close to her nipple, clearly visible through the fabric. She flinched at his touch, then stood up, took a step toward him, raised the cup to quaff the draft in one swallow, and …
“Cut! Cut!”
“Cool 'em.”
Sandra put the cup on the wooden mantelpiece and blinked. She was back and she didn't even have a glass slipper as a souvenir.
“It's fabulous.” Nils executed a little jig. “Following the montage, the scene will continue to seem like a dream sequence, even in the present. Pure genius, Max.”
Max was smiling like the Cheshire cat. “Yeah,” he said, drawing the word out, “I think it's going to fly.”
Alan rushed over. “I'll get Evelyn. I assume you want to shoot now.”
“You assume right.” They bent their heads together in further conversation for some minutes, then Max walked over to Sandra, who was sitting down in the chair, and said, “That was beautiful, honey. Evelyn couldn't have done it any better herself.”
Faith looked uneasily over her shoulder to be sure the lady in question wasn't about to walk in on this, but she was nowhere in sight. It had been a powerful scene, and for a few seconds, Faith had completely forgotten where she was, where they all were. It was Hester's jail cell hundreds of years ago. She began to fully appreciate what this movie could be—Max's masterpiece.
The director left the room to hasten things along. Faith, still caught up in the moment, stayed where she was. Five minutes later, Max was back, but without Cappy and Evelyn. He went over to Sandra, who had remained seated, and bent down to speak to her. He straightened immediately and beckoned to the other PA. “Cornelia, Sandra isn't feeling very well. I think we'd better call a doctor.”
Faith moved to the center of the room. Max had shifted to one side and Sandra was completely visible. Her face had assumed a bluish cast and her eyes were terrified. She appeared to be having trouble getting her breath, taking rapid, shallow gulps of air. She tried to speak, but no words came out. She began to cough, then that stopped abruptly and she brought her hand to her throat, as if trying to force the words out and air in. Faith ran over to her and felt for her pulse. It was hard to find.

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