The Body in the Cast (9 page)

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Authors: Katherine Hall Page

BOOK: The Body in the Cast
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“Yes, he told me,” was the best she could come up with at short notice.
“Max is, as you might expect, quite furious about the whole affair,” Alan continued.
Furious at Faith in some way? Furious at fate? She stuck with the tried and true. “Yes, I can imagine,” she replied.
“Of course, he's not angry at you. He adores your cooking. Obviously, you and your staff had nothing to do with it.”
Did his voice rise slightly at the end of the sentence? Was it a question? Was he fishing for reassurance? Faith knew what to say now.
“Obviously. And I'm so glad you recognize this. I would hate to think you believed we were in any way responsible. And I'm sure you know the Department of Health has come to the same conclusion.”
There was relief in his voice. “Max is convinced it was a practical joke gone wrong and that whoever did it is too embarrassed to come forward. The fact that all this came at once—someone smoking in the barn and the, uh, food incident—is simply a bad coincidence. These things happen when you put a lot of people together under pressure. But any delay like yesterday's means money down the tube, and the producers are already nickel and diming us to death. Max has instructed us to put the whole thing out of our minds. We are continuing to film as if nothing happened.”
That's going to be quite a trick, Faith thought.
“Now,” he continued, his calm, ever so slightly theatrical voice even calmer, “the reason I called was that we'd like Have Faith to continue to work with us.”
Faith felt an enormous load lift from her mind. Until it was gone, she hadn't realized how heavy it had been. Even though she'd sensed from Alan's tone during the call that this was where they were heading, it wasn't until he actually said the words that she could allow herself to take a deep breath.
“So, see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Max wants to shoot the dawn scene—the one that I spoke to you about last week—on the village green. He's been waiting for the right weather, and tomorrow the sky should be perfect.”
‘We'll be there,” Faith promised happily.
“And remember, none of this ever happened.”
So
you
say, she thought as she hung up the phone. You may have decided to believe it was a joke, but I'm still not laughing.
 
The whole town was learning more than it thought it would ever care to know about the way movies are made, and if it all didn't make sense at first, it was beginning to make even less by now. Millicent, who Faith suspected had taken out a subscription to
Variety,
was expounding on the craft as the caterers arrived in the pitch-dark before dawn the following morning.
Miss McKinley was responding acidly to a fellow Aleford-ian's comment that he couldn't see why they didn't just start at the beginning and go to the end instead of jumping around in the script, this being the way
he
would do it—in a logical manner.
“The director
has
to shoot out of sequence to take advantage of the weather and lighting conditions when they go on location. And not all the actors can be on the set all the time. Now today, Max has worked everything out with the director of photography, the gaffers, and the best boy.” She continued with the air of one who expected to be sitting next to her new best friend in one of the front rows at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion some day soon.
“The gaffers, of course, carry out the cameraman's lighting plan—they're those people setting up all those lights and reflectors.” She gestured grandly toward the crew. They were attaching various forms of lighting to the trees and on poles surrounding the large wooden scaffold that had been erected in the middle of the green, with the flagpole to the left and First Parish directly behind. Huge mobile generators were parked nearby and the greenskeeper and crew were busy burying the last of the wires and replacing the grass with new sod.
“The best boy is the chief gaffer's assistant,” Millicent determinedly continued. She was not about to waste all the time she'd spent looking this stuff up in the reference room. Her audience had diminished, however, basely abandoning her for the hot coffee, fresh raised doughnuts, and fruit muffins that Faith had brought.
About fifty extras were dressed in their own dark-colored overcoats, hats, and gloves, as instructed. A was being filmed in modern dress, but looking at her neighbors, Faith thought not a few of the outfits failed to qualify. Millicent's serviceable black coat was definitely prewar—and which war was open to debate.
Alan Morris walked over to them. The stars and the director were presumably in their behemoth RVs lined up at the curb, getting into their roles or catching a few more winks. Several of Aleford's finest were on duty and, by their frequent yawns, perhaps not convinced the extra pay was worth having to get up so early.
“Good, good. Everyone looks fine. And remember, all you have to do is mumble. Something like ‘apples and oranges' usually works to produce the illusion of conversation. You won't be miked directly. Then the women, where are they?”
Five women stepped forward, Millicent, Penelope Bartlett, and Audrey Heuneman among them. They were all carrying their good pocketbooks and looked as if they were either going shopping in Boston or to a funeral.
“You will be directly below the scaffold where Hester and
Dimmesdale will be standing. On cue, you are to point to the sky and cover your mouths, like this. Don't exaggerate it too much. And don't point until the plane is out of sight and we only see the letter.”
Alan had sketched the scene out for Faith when he told her about the early-morning shoot. Max had hired a skywriter to position an enormous A in puffs of red smoke above the scaffold where the minister is joined by Hester after he'd spent the night standing there alone in shame, delivering a lengthy soliloquy encompassing everything from the inevitability of alienation in modern society to the Vietnam War as a metaphor for adultery—the cuckolding of a nation. It was Cappy's big scene. They would shoot his speech back on the lot in L.A.
Max wanted a clear, bleak day and hoped to get a shot of the letter drifting down between two large leafless maples until the burning capital A was over Hester's and Dimmesdale's heads as well as to one side of the American flag, which Max hoped would be caught by the breeze. The flag joined to the letter in the sky symbolized the hypocrisy of the country's public morality, and the staid townspeople gathered below in judgment would later be revealed as secret adulterers, embezzlers, even murderers.
It was starting to get light and Faith could make out the faces of the other extras. They were beginning to learn what she already knew from past experience—that making a movie was perhaps 90 percent waiting around in boredom, and a 10 percent adrenaline high. She'd tell Millicent and Penny to start toting their knitting bags.
Maxwell Reed appeared, and for a moment no one recognized him. The director had disappeared and Roger Chillingworth had taken his place. It wasn't that Reed had put on a wig or substantially changed his appearance, other than removing his glasses. It was the sense of evil he projected, darting malevolent looks back toward the crowd over his slightly deformed shoulder. In accord with the modern-dress costuming, he was wearing shapeless gray sweatpants and a loose gray sweatshirt.
He spoke to no one and moved quickly to Alan Morris and the director of photography, who were positioned under the scaffold.
The sun was rising, but it was not bright. It cast a tepid light over the green, unable to penetrate the shadows left by the night.
“Let's make a movie,” Reed shouted into the stillness, and everyone hastened toward him. Evelyn appeared from somewhere and took off a heavy sable coat, which she handed to her dresser before mounting the stairs to the platform. She wore a gauzy white dress with a large pink fleshlike letter A pinned over one breast. The other was not quite hidden by the layers of cloth and the nipple was prominent in protest at the freezing cold. Cappy Camson followed, and he at least was dressed warmly in a black turtleneck and tight jeans. Faith had to remind herself it was a serious allegorical reinterpretation as it became apparent that there was nothing between Cappy and his Calvins. Caresse joined the group, scowling. Max was going to shoot two versions of the scene—one with infant Pearl; one with child Pearl. Caresse had a scarlet velvet party dress on, richly embroidered with gold thread, lace on the collar and cuffs.
Max stood in front of the crowd below and fixed his eyes on the three figures above him. Faith couldn't see his expression, but from the response of the actors looking down at him, he must be acting very well indeed. They all looked absolutely terrified.
Alan Morris shouted, “Stand by! Quiet on the set.” And everyone stood like statues while the plane sputtered overhead, producing an elegant script letter A. A loud buzzer went off.
“Roll sound.”
“Camera.”
“Speed.”
The clapper/loader stepped in front, holding the arm of the clap slate up: A SCAFFOLD SCENE. TAKE ONE. SOUND TAKE ONE. The arm banged down. It sounded like a shot in the morning quiet.
“Just like in the movies,” Niki whispered to Faith.
“Action!”
The crowd commenced murmuring. Dimmesdale and Hester held hands. For some reason known to the director, Pearl lay down at their feet as the scarlet letter drifted to the exact spot Max had wanted and the women gasped and pointed. Dimmesdale and Hester looked up, then lay next to Pearl. Roger Chillingworth climbed up the ladder to the scaffolding and stood over them.
“Cut.”
“Cool 'em off.”
The lights went out. Evelyn's dresser rushed forward with her coat and Caresse's mother with one for her daughter. Max spoke to Alan and went to his trailer. Evelyn and Cappy disappeared into hers.
Huge fans on derricks were brought in to blow the remnants of the red smoke away. Everyone crowded around the coffee urns, then came the call: “All right, people, again and then with the baby.”
And they did it again. Then again with the baby. Then again with Caresse, and this time Max had everyone freeze, not hard to do, until the wisps of smoke had floated off into the increasing morning brightness.
“We've lost the light,” he shouted to Alan, “but we got it.” There was an audible sigh of relief and everybody started talking.
“How's the campaign going, Penny?” Faith asked when what she hoped would be the next selectwoman on the Aleford board came over for some food.
Penny looked tired for a moment. “It's going fine, dear. Of course I never would have gotten involved in all this if everyone hadn't pushed me so hard, and they swore they'd do all the campaigning, but they can't very well speak for me. I've never drunk so much coffee in my life, although it is fun getting to see everyone's living rooms.”
Coffees to meet the candidates were the mainstay of Aleford electioneering.
“I know what you mean,” Faith agreed. “It's always nice to take a walk at night when people's lights are on and you can see in.”
She firmly believed there was nothing voyeuristic about this natural tendency to check seating arrangements and where people kept their books and objets d'art. If they didn't want onlookers, they should pull the drapes.
“Will you be at the debate on Monday?”
“Tom and I wouldn't miss it for the world.”
The League of Women Voters was sponsoring a candidates night at the junior high and supporters of all three candidates planned to turn out in full force.
Penny thanked Faith for the doughnut and, as she turned to go, walked straight into the arms of her half brother, Alden.
She backed away without expression. He grinned wickedly and, pointedly not addressing her, said to the person next to him, “Have you noticed some older women tend to be a little unsteady on their pins?”
Penny flushed and left without saying anything in return.
“Give me some more of that java,” he ordered Faith. “Could be a little stronger.”
But you couldn't, she retorted silently. She wasn't surprised he was one of the extras. He always seemed to be playing a role of some sort. At times, he was the quintessential New Englander, walking his pure-bred Labrador in the early morning, scorning an overcoat or muffler. Then there was the hard-bitten businessman complaining about profit margins and the interference of the government. He could be hail fellow, well met—or more often, “I'll say what I want to whom I want.” During a parish call, Faith had been amused to see him trot out the deep thinker, casually motioning to Stephen Hawkings's
A Brief History of Time
placed conspicuously on the coffee table next to the latest book by A. N. Wilson, a life of Jesus Christ. When Alden left to get them a thimbleful of the second-best sherry from the kitchen, Faith picked up both books and was not surprised by their pristine, obviously unread condition.
He was playing his curmudgeon role now, or perhaps this
was the real persona. He'd put his campaign button on after the shoot—SPAULDING, THE ONLY CHOICE—and took the cup of coffee with a mumble that could possibly have been a thank you by a gymnastic stretch of the imagination. Buttons, bumper stickers, and posters were sprouting up all over town. Alden was putting quite a bit of money into his campaign, and Faith wondered why he wanted the seat at this particular time. He'd never run before and there had been plenty of opportunities.

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