Bannerman's Law (2 page)

The house, built in the French ch
a
teau style, stood glis
tening as the morning sun burned through the mist and re
flected off a million flakes of mica set in granite. She
knew its history. Built in the
18
90s, railroad money, owner
ruined during the panic of 1907, couldn't find a buyer,
gave it to the state in lieu of back taxes. The state kept it
in reasonable repair by leasing it for use in location shoot
ing to the new film industry down in Hollywood and even
tually leased it to the Motion Picture Relief Fund for use
as a rest home.

The grounds were lovely. She had found a place behind
a long low hedge from which she could see nearly all of
it. A flawless dichond
r
a lawn sloped down from the main
house in the direction of the Pacific Ocean. The ocean was
a full half mile distant and perhaps two hundred feet below
the crest of Sur La Mer. But the skill of some long ago
landscaper had made the ocean, the sky, and this place
seem all of a piece. There was a good-size beach commu
nity down below, a
s
uburb of Santa Barbara, but nothing
of it could be seen or even heard from the grounds. Lisa imagined, correctly, that even if she climbed to the highest window of the main house she would see nothing that was
not part of the serene little world that had been created
for the members.

Members.

They were never called patients, she had learned. Nor
inmates. They were members.

But why, she wondered again, all the security? She understood, she supposed, why no interviews were permit
ted. They lived, said one old article, in a carefully con
trolled reality, in rooms without mirrors. Some had no idea
that they'd grown old. They dressed every day. They read
scripts of photoplays that would neve
r
be made. They
placed telephone calls to agents, studio heads, and co
l
u
m
ni
sts long dead; calls that were actuall
y
taken and an
swered by staff.

All very sad, thought Lisa. Such a fragile existence. So
dreamlike. She found herself wondering how Nellie Da-
m
eon spent her days if she never spoke. Endlessly watch
ing her own films? Living only within them, forever
young? It seemed an intrusion even to ask, let alone to wr
ite about it. Better to leave these people and their ruined
lives in peace. Be satisfied with a few photo
s
of the house
and grounds.

Staying to the shadows and low behind the hedge, Lisa
set her lens at its widest angle and took several establishing shots before zooming in on details of the architecture
and landscaping. She used a full roll of film. It was
enough. She was about to back away, into the sugar pines
for her descent to Tower Road, when she saw movement
at the far end of the ch
a
teau. Members, she thought. Two
of them. They were in wheelchairs, being pushed to a
place of shade at the edge of a flower garden. Two men.
One wore an overcoat with a thick fur collar and a black
Homburg on his head. The other wore a yachting cap
and blazer. Winter and summer. She wondered where they
thought they were. She reloaded the Nikon.

One of the men who had pushed them, casual clothing, no whites, glanced in her direction. Lisa ducked down, stepping back from the hedge. Her legs touched a marble
bench. She sat.

She could see through the hedge, although not well.
More people were moving about. A man, wearing a long
white bathrobe stepped out onto the terrace. A towel cov
ered his head. She pressed the zoom button of her camera
and brought one knee under her, raising hersel
f.

His body filled the view
fi
nder. He was stretching now,
rolling his head over his shoulders, luxuriating in the morning sun. One side of the towel fell away. Lisa saw
that the face, all of it, was thickly bandaged. There were
holes in the bandages for his mouth and for one eye. The
other was completely covered. Lisa, on impulse, snapped
a picture.

The man reacted to something behind him. Lisa
zoomed back to take in more of the terrace. A woman in
a
matching robe, her face also bandaged but not as fully, approached him holding two mugs. The woman was slender, and seemed rather ta
l
l. Her hair, ash blond, shoulder
length, was brushed out. It had the look of having just
been washed. Steam rose from the mugs. His held a straw.
He took it from her, sipped, and nodded thanks. She
rubbed his neck, affectionately.

Someone else approached. It was another man, sport
coat, sunglasses, balding, a double chin. He was speaking
to the couple, gesticulating. From his body language, he
seemed to be urging them
...
no, ordering them
...
to
go back inside. The man with no face turned away, ignor
ing him. He moved with his mug to the flagstone steps. The woman joined him and, very deliberately, they sat.
The second man stood, hands on his hips, glaring at their
backs. He was saying something. They paid no attention.
The man with the sunglasses, clearly angry, took a breath.
He raised one hand and, first glancing around him, ex
tended his middle finger. Lisa snapped him. He turned, his
color rising, and stalked back toward the double doors of
the ch
a
teau.

Lisa zoomed in on the sitting pair. From what she could see of their skin they were certainly not old. And they had
lowered themselves easily, she into a lotus position.
What's with the faces, she wondered? Auto accident? Plas
tic surgery? And why here? This is supposed to be a rest
home for batty old actors.

A shadow passed over the hedge, its source behind her.

Her stomach tightened.

Too late, she heard footsteps on a gravel path. She
cringed, eyes closed, waiting.

“
Good morning, Nellie
,”
came a voice.
“
Fine day
.”

Not yet daring to breathe, she half turned on the bench toward the man who had spoken. He was quite old, easily eighty-five, but he stood ta
l
l and was walking steadily. He
carried a large easel case in one hand and a folding stool
in the other.

She hesitated.
“
Um
.
.
.
good morning
,”
she said,
clearing her throat.

The ta
l
l man slowed, then stopped. He cocke
d
an ear
as if Lisa's return of greeting was cause for disbelief. Now
he turned and stared. Past her. Through her.

“
Nellie
?”
His voice was tentative, not much above
a whisper.

She saw that his eyes were clouded. She was tempted
not to speak. But he took a step nearer, one hand raised as
if feeling his way.
“
Nellie
?”
he said again.
“
Is that you
?”

“
Ah
...
no, sir. I'm just
.
.
.”

The dull eyes found the voice.
“
You're not Nellie
.”
The eyes blinked. The man frowned.

“
No, sir
.”

“
But you're sitting in her place, you know. That's Nel
lie's bench
.”

“
Oh. I
.
.
.”
.

“
You mustn't make her think it's been taken away
.”

”I won't. I mean, I'm sorry. I didn't realize
.”

“A
ny of the other benches is all right except that and
this
.’'
He felt with his hand for the second bench, finding
it.
“
This one is reserved for Ga
r
bo when she comes
.”

“
Ga
r
bo
,”
Lisa repeated blankly.

“
Although knowing her
,”
he sniffed,
“
she'll probably
want Nellie's
.”

“
But Garbo is
.
.
*”
She stopped herself.

It didn't matter. The old man's mind was already else
where.
“
Well, I've got to be moving along
,”
he said. He
raised his folding stool and waggled it in lieu of a wave.
“
Don't want to lose the morning light
.”

“
Sir
,”
Lisa raised her camera. It whirred three times.
“
Aren't you.
.
.
Are you Jason Bella
r
m
i
ne by any
chance? The director
?”
She recognized him now. She remembered watching the Academy Awards when she was
still in high school. Gregory Peck had presented him with
a special Oscar for lifetime achievement. Even then, he
was functionally blind from diabetes. He had to be led to
the podium.

“
All casting is done through my office
.”
He walked on.
“
Have your agent call
.”

“
But I'm not
.
.
.
yes, sir
.”

She watched as he made his way down a path lined
with geraniums toward a marble terrace, where he set up
his stool and easel with practiced ease. He took a blank,
two-foot canvas from his case and mounted it. He
squeezed a tube of red paint directly onto the canvas and b
egan spreading it with a palett
e
knife, stopping now and
then to inspect the horizon. There was nothing red out there. And whatever he was painting had no shape that
she could see.

She had taken several photographs of the blind artist at work when the soft Pacific breeze shifted and Lisa caught a scent of jasmine in the air. She lifted her chin
and sniffed, searching for its source. She looked behind
her, toward
Garbo's
bench. She gasped, stifling a cry. An
old woman, thin, even smaller than herself, was standing
at her shoulder. Just standing. Waiting. Lisa recognized her at once. The vivid reddish hair, marcelled, was certainly a
wig. Her cheeks heavily rouged, her enormous eyes the
color of cobalt. They were shining, becoming liquid. Her
lips moved but made no sound. The chin began to quiver.
Lisa, recovering, bolted to her feet.

“
Please
,”
she stepped away from the bench, gesturing
toward it with her hand.
“
I'm terribly sorry
.”

The tiny bosom heaved but Nellie Da
m
eon made no
move.

“
It's just that I'm a fan of yours
,”
Lisa said quickly.
”
I wanted to see your
.
.
.
where you sat. I wanted to touch
it. I should have asked your permission
.”
Lisa hoped that
somewhere in there was the reassurance that would keep
this woman from slipping over the edge.

The old woman blinked several times as if trying to
comprehend what Lisa was saying. Then, suddenly, the
eyes cleared. They glanced at the bench and then away.
Dism
i
ssively, thought Lisa. Now, in those eyes, Lisa
thought she saw the briefest flicker of amusement. She had
a sense that whatever had caused Miss
Dameon's
breath to
quicken, it had nothing to do with Lisa's use of her throne.