Celluloid Memories (11 page)

Given the incomparable Cherise, and all the other ‘10' women that came by the hundreds every day to L.A., why had McCoy called her?

“I invited him to join us,” Savannah said nonchalantly. Donna and Kay came immediately to attention.

“You did?” Kay asked.

“He's coming here? What did you say his name was again?” Donna asked.

“Down, girls,” Savannah chuckled. “He can't make it.”

“Oh,” Donna said, disappointed.

“You know I wasn't about to throw over my girlfriends just for some man,” Savannah added.

Donna chortled, adjusting her glasses as she settled down in her chair. “I would.”

 

Savannah finished typing in the last line from the last page of her notes. She read it back and sighed with satisfaction. She was done.

She sat back in her chair. As she moved, the gentle ache in her lower back warned her she'd been sitting for too long in the same position. She slowly rose from her chair and stretched, and began pacing back and forth in the confines of the kitchen, where she'd set up a work space for herself on the counter. Her laptop, articles and photographs and the journals from the box she'd found were scattered all over the counter surface. Some had fallen to the floor where Savannah had left them, unwilling to break her train of thought as she'd worked.

It had taken almost a month, but Savannah felt a giddy sense of accomplishment as she gazed down at the short stack of pages that was her first attempt ever to write a film script. She flipped through the first draft, with its red editorial markings and notes. The changes would have to wait for another night. It was almost four in the morning. She was dead tired, but too excited to go to bed and fall asleep. An anticlimactic energy made her feel she should be doing something more.

Savannah sat down again and read through the last known journal she had for Rae Marie Hilton. As it turned out, it was the very last of anything written by Rae Marie that she'd found among her father's possessions. In Rae Marie's own words she was preparing to perform in a new project. She'd written about having to make a trip, but also of being tired and wondering what was going to happen to her when she returned. She'd written about the fact that suddenly, black actors and actresses were becoming the vogue in Hollywood. They'd finally arrived, and projects geared to the black viewing audience were proliferating.

What was she going to do?

Savannah yawned. She picked up a banana from a basket as she wandered aimlessly into the living room. The silence of the middle of the night was so complete that it was like being in a vacuum. For now, she was hermetically sealed off from the rest of the world. She felt oddly at peace.

On the bookcase she saw the African violet, which had been mysteriously left outside the house weeks earlier. It had grown and thrived. On the bottom shelf of the bookcase that lined either side of the window, Savannah spotted three albums. She'd known they were there, but she'd never before removed them from the shelf to look through them, always assuming that they were just more of her father's memorabilia. But what if they weren't?

Putting aside her snack, Savannah had to get down on her knees in order to reach the albums. She sat on an ottoman with the first one on her lap and opened it. Almost at once Savannah realized that the photographs were not of colleagues, co-stars, crew, fans or anything else having to do with Hollywood. Stunned, she knew she was looking at a photographic record of her own life, and that of her brother Harris, saved and preserved by her father.

Savannah recognized nearly all of the pictures, but she had no idea how they'd come to be in her father's possession. There were annual class photos from second through fourth grade, a picture of her in costume from a school play. Lots of images from Christmases and birthdays and other family gatherings that Will Shelton had not been present at. But one picture showed her with her father as he knelt beside her. She was scowling disagreeably into the camera. Savannah remembered that one. It was taken at the airport as she was about to be put on a plane back home after a visit with him. Harris, four years older, was standing and smiling behind her. Everyone but she seemed to be enjoying the moment. Had she not wanted to leave?

Savannah frowned as she examined the photo. She no longer remembered what she had been feeling. The disappointment of a little girl had somehow morphed into the understanding of a woman. In the last two years she'd slowly come to see that her father's life made complete sense and could not have been any other way. Another thought also occurred to her. Surely her mother had played a part in the family's breakup.

Why hadn't she come to L.A. with her husband so the family could stay together?

By the time she'd leafed through the second album, Savannah had a sense of closure as well. Her father had made his own memories, and he'd never willfully forgotten his children and what had been left behind. She smiled at her own pun and yawned again. Dawn was starting to lighten the sky outside the window.

She closed the album. The last one would have to wait. Savannah knew that unless she got at least a few hours sleep, she was going to be catatonic by midday.

Exhaustion finally began to catch up to her as she slipped into bed and sighed contentedly. She suddenly felt a real closeness to her father, and a sense of pride. For the first time she understood exactly what a sacrifice he'd made, and what it might have cost him. For the first time Savannah felt compassion for people who were compelled to follow a dream against all odds, their lives succeeding or failing mostly by chance.

People like the tortured Rae Marie Hilton, caught impossibly between two worlds and never really belonging to either one.

S
avannah cruised slowly past the low-rise garden apartments, the kind of residential building complex that had proliferated throughout L.A. in the fifties and sixties, and that housed aspiring young actors and actresses. After parking her car, she approached and walked through the wrought-iron-gate entrance. Inside, the pathway was lined with lush palms and other plants. It led past the management office to three wings of apartment suites each three stories high. They were designed so that all the units opened out onto a common terrace on each level that overlooked the small square swimming pool in the center of the complex. Half a dozen young adults in a hot tub were having a lively conversation.

The one thing that Savannah had not been able to get used to in L.A. was the number of adults who apparently had blocks of free time in the middle of the day to lounge around the pool. It was almost six, but she had the sense that the young adults hanging out did not hold traditional jobs.

Their laughter followed her as she walked up to the second level and found Domino's apartment. The doorbell was answered almost immediately.

“Hi. Thanks for stopping by,” Domino said, somewhat breathlessly.

“Hi,” Savannah said, hesitating when Domino beckoned her in. “Are you in the middle of something? I can come back another time…”

“No, this is fine. I just got in myself. I had a callback and it went longer than I expected. Come on in. Sorry about the mess.”

Savannah stepped into the apartment, glancing around. She had no idea what “mess” Domino was referring to. The entrance gallery, which led to a sizeable open living room and dining room combination, was comfortable and charming. The only mess was a stack of what appeared to be scripts, a large weaving frame and several baskets filled to overflowing with different kinds of yarns and threads.

“What's a callback?” Savannah asked, as she sat on a canvas-covered love seat.

“It's after you first audition for a part and the producers like your reading well enough to ask you to come back and read again, sometimes with actors that have already been chosen, sometimes against someone else they're also considering. It's nerve-racking. Here's your shawl,” Domino said, as she unwrapped the one that Savannah had selected at the craft show two months earlier.

Savannah pulled a check from her tote bag and they made the exchange. “Thank you,” she said, admiring the shawl as if it was the first time she was seeing it. “I don't know when my girlfriends Donna and Kay are going to get around to seeing what you have, but I know they're still interested.”

“They can come over anytime. There's a chance I might go on location for a few weeks, but I don't have the shooting schedule yet.”

“What happened at the callback this afternoon?” Savannah asked, as she rewrapped her shawl and put it into her tote.

Domino shrugged. “I won't hear anything for a few days, but I probably didn't get the part.”

“Why?”

“I wasn't the right type. I wasn't brown enough.”

“Excuse me?”

Domino grimaced good-naturedly. If she was disappointed it certainly didn't show. “Someone did the Ms. Thang part better than I could. Well, maybe not better, just more convincingly.”

“What do you mean?” Savannah asked.

Domino sat on the edge of the chair opposite her and looked directly at Savannah. “Close your eyes and listen.”

Savannah did as she was told. After a moment's pause, Domino launched into the dialect and intonation of the street, complete with inflections, vocal attitude and current slang. Savannah grinned.

“You sound very good to me.”

“Okay, now watch me.”

With Savannah watching, Domino repeated the dialogue. The effect was jarring. Savannah heard the words in exactly the same way, but coming out of Domino's mouth, with her blond curls and white skin, it all seemed a put-on, a fake.

Savannah winced, and Domino reacted to her inadvertent response.

“See what I mean?”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm used to it,” Domino said smoothly. “It is what it is. I am what I am.”

“Who do you think will get the part?”

“A newcomer. She's gorgeous, of course, but she also has props and authentic ethnic creeds, if you know what I mean. Even her name works. Cherise Kim Daly.”

“Oh. I know…” Savannah began, but quickly swallowed what she was about to say. “It seems unfair, doesn't it?”

“Not really. This is not a fair business,” Domino said dryly.

Savannah couldn't help, in that moment, but to draw a parallel between Domino and Rae Marie Hilton. Domino seemed to have a levelheaded understanding of what she was up against, and didn't rage over what she couldn't control. Rae Marie, on the other hand, had lived uneasily in her own skin, trying to invent herself and fool the eye. It still wasn't clear to Savannah whether the actress had ever succeeded at either.

“If you don't get the part?”

“I move on to something else. That's the nature of the business. I'm doing a TV commercial next month and a few print ads. They pay the rent.”

“Well, I certainly admire your focus.”

“Sometimes I think I'm just kidding myself,” Domino said honestly. “Sometimes, I do think about giving up and going back home. I can always open my own shop with my weaving,”

Savannah stared at Domino with understanding. “But that's not what you want to do. You'd never forgive yourself if you didn't stick it out 'til the bitter end.”

“Exactly. What if I give up one day or one month too soon? And to be honest, sometimes it's not about how talented you are, but about whether you have the right look. Cherise has what the producer is looking for, for this project. He could change his mind next week.”

Savannah sighed at the uncertainty of it all, and stood up. “Well, I'm not going to stay. What do you do when you're told you're not the one?”

“I don't take it personally,” Domino said, walking Savannah to the door. “It's not about me, it's about the work. Anyway, I
am
getting work, and I
will
be filming out of town soon. Gotta keep moving,” she chuckled.

“Do you think this other actress has what it takes to become a star?”

Domino was thoughtful as she opened the door. “Maybe. She could make it on her looks, that's for sure. You know, there are lots of folks who get all the great notices and the spot in
People
magazine and the great parts, and then suddenly you never hear from them again. There is always another pretty face, or a buff pair of biceps and great abs. There is always, as the saying goes, ‘someone waiting in the wings.'”

“My father was an actor,” Savannah confessed, somewhat sheepishly.

“I know. Your last name sounded familiar and I checked it out,” Domino said. “He was great.”

“To be honest, when my brother and I were kids I hated that my father was an actor. But now I realize how brave he was to risk so much.”

“Sounds to me like you're not interested in following in his footsteps.”

Savannah shook her head. “I don't think so.”

Domino laughed. “It's kind of refreshing to meet someone who doesn't have stardust in their eyes. I'm sure your father warned you about the craziness of the business.”

“No, he didn't do that,” Savannah said. “But he did say that one of these days I would know what it's like to hold fast to a dream and not let it go.”

“Hasn't happened yet?” Domino asked.

“Actually, I think I” m working on it,” Savannah said spontaneously. “You're the first to know, but I've just written a film script.”

“Really? What's it about?”

Savannah hesitated, but Domino's interest sounded real. “Well, in shorthand, it's about how a woman's life is ruined when she lies her way into a career, and how she saves herself.” Domino frowned. “I guess that wasn't a good pitch, and I'm not telling it well, but I think it's a timely sotry.”

“I think I understand your theme. Would you mind letting me read it?” Domino asked.

Savannah felt a jolt of excitement that seemed to light her from the inside; like a premonition.

“If you really want to. I'd love to get your feedback.”

“I'd be glad to,” Domino said.

 

Savannah held the envelope tightly in her hands and stared at it. The contents represented weeks of writing in a format that was foreign and confusing and much more structured than she was used to. It also represented someone's life and a cautionary tale of being careful what you wish for. Most of all, as far as Savannah was concerned, the one hundred and seventeen pages also represented a concession to the lure of L.A. and the single-minded dedication it takes to make it. The script she'd written was about coming to Hollywood obsessed with succeeding, blinded by imminent failure. It's about what happens when the two meet head-on and the end result is not only painful, but self-destructive.

What happens to the dream then?

Savannah realized that her stomach felt queasy. She quickly stuffed the envelope back into her tote, and shoved it under her desk. That's where it stayed until just after lunch, when she'd finished reading her third treatment of the day for the development director. The script ideas had been universally terrible, and she'd written as much in her critiques. And yet, the one thing that consistently surprised her was the incredible amount of belief all the writers had in themselves and in their stories. Enough to write them, submit them and take a big chance on rejection, ridicule and the criticism of total strangers.

Her own father had done it. Domino Hagan did it every day. Even Taj had an outsized belief in himself that had yet to be tested and proven. But it didn't stop him from having big plans. Cherise Daly apparently had enough gall for several people, and because she did, Savannah was now convinced that the young woman would succeed.

Coward,
Savannah admonished herself. What was the worse thing that could happen to her for having tried to write a film script?

Savannah waited until the end of the day to decide she had absolutely nothing to lose. And in any case, “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” became a mantra that she used to build courage as she walked down a corridor that suddenly seemed endless. The office door almost near the end was open and Taj sat at his desk playing with the on-line digital mixing of music that only he could hear through his big Bose headphones.

“Whuzzup, Baby Girl?” he asked, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose as his shoulders moved and rolled to the music he was listening to.

“You're busy. I can come back,” Savannah said, a sudden feeling of insecurity sweeping over her.

“Naw, you're already here.” Taj pressed a button and the noises leaking from his headphones stopped. He pulled them off and left them looped around his neck. “Talk to me.”

Savannah looked at him earnestly. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“You know, I do a whole lot of favors for you. When you gonna treat me to that drink you owe me?”

“Think of it as having a running tab with me. I'll add this favor to the list.”

“I'm down with that. What do you need?”

Savannah slowly held out the envelope to Taj. “I want you to read something for me.” Taj reached for the envelope but she quickly drew it back. “I want you to be straight with me, Taj. If it sucks, don't be afraid to say so.”

He peered at her over the top rim of his glasses. “You wrote it?”

“Yes. But I don't want that to influence you.”

“It won't,” he promised, reaching for the envelope.

Savannah pulled it back again. “I'm serious.”

“I hear you,” he said patiently. Arm extended, he wiggled his fingers at her, waiting.

“Another thing…”

“Baby Girl, I'm getting
old
sitting here. If this is something you wrote I promise I will protect it with my
life.
How's that?”

“You don't have to go that far,” Savannah said, although her voice suggested otherwise. “I just want you to keep in mind I've never done this before and I'm completely open to advice.”

Taj snatched the envelope. “You will not be open to advice. I haven't met a writer out here yet who doesn't think they've written a masterpiece. That said, I will read it and I'll be honest, so be prepared.”

“Thanks,” Savannah said.

“Hey, I'm taking a chance too, you know. This could be the end of a beautiful relationship.”

Savannah grimaced at him. “You watch too many movies.”

But now that the script was out of her hands, she was overcome with fear. Who did she think she was? Hollywood was littered with the walking wounded who claimed to be writers and who believed they had a great project. How many of those projects actually got sold? How many made it into films? How many writers turned their talents to other ways of making a living while they waited for a break? How many gave up, only to slink away in defeat, their dreams and spirits crushed?