Close to Famous (8 page)

“MISS CHARLEENA,” MACON stammered. “Uh . . . this . . . is my friend that I talked to you about and you said it was okay to bring her here . . . and . . .”

Miss Charleena stood there looking at me. She had blonde hair that touched her shoulders, and she was wearing a thick silver watch. She had long, curly eyelashes. I figured I'd better say something.

“I'm Foster McFee,” I said. “I've never heard of you before, but my mama
loves
your movies.” Macon made a noise, but I kept on going. “If you don't mind me saying, you look exactly like I thought an older actress would look. I've never once been close to anyone famous.” Miss Charleena studied my socks. Both my big toes were sticking out. “I'm kind of new to town, and I appreciate being able to meet you. It's an honor.”

Macon scurried like a squirrel. “Miss Charleena, can I get you some tea and toast or some—”

She said, “Where are you from, Miss Foster McFee?”

“Memphis.”

“Elvis still alive and well?”

“Well, he's dead, Miss Charleena, but his career keeps right on going.”

“We can only pray for that longevity
.”

“Yes, ma'am. I do.”

The little white dogs ran through the doggy door and wagged their tails.

“Hi there, sweet things.” Miss Charleena patted them. She turned to Macon. “You go about your duties now.”

Macon looked like he was going to bust open. “I . . . I . . . I will.”

She walked slowly out of the room with the dogs following her. Her high heels made a
click click
sound.

“She doesn't look like she's dying to me,” I whispered to Macon.

From the other room I heard, “Don't be so sure, darlin'.”

“Okay, Foster,
first
you have to be totally careful about what you say in this house because Miss Charleena is
always
listening.”

“I wish you'd told me that.”

“
I'm telling you now.”

We were standing in what Macon called “The Great Hall” that had pictures and movie posters of Miss Charleena's career. He pointed to a picture of Miss Charleena hanging off the side of a ship in a long dress.

“This was her breakout role. She played a doctor's wife who got sick on a ship and died. She studied the frustration of being the wife of a doctor, with all the calls in the middle of the night and everything. She got letters from doctor's wives who said she got it just right.”

“You mean dying?”

“I
mean
the whole thing—all the little movements and looks that an actor uses to create a character. She knows a lot about the world, Foster.”

I stopped at a picture of Miss Charleena in a white coat examining a little boy. “She won an Emmy and a Golden Globe for playing Dr. Melinda Hutter on
Last Hope.
She was much beloved.” He put his hand over his heart.

I smiled. “Do you have a crush on her?”

Macon's face went raspberry. “
No
,” he sputtered, “
of course not.
I can't believe you would say something like that!” He looked away. “I work for her and she's a great actress and it's nothing more than that, absolutely nothing. I can't believe you would think that!”

That means yes.

Macon pointed stiffly to another picture. “And here's one of her first roles. She was being chased by international criminals through the streets of Paris.” He stopped at a movie poster of Miss Charleena standing by an elephant, surrounded by kids. “This is when she played a teacher in India. It's my favorite.” Macon studied the picture. “Not everyone understands her, but I do.”

I didn't see Miss Charleena again that day.

I straightened things in her kitchen as Macon watered her garden. My brain was making lists of everything to tell Mama. I looked inside her cookie jar, even though I wasn't supposed to touch anything. All she had were Ho Hos and Ding Dongs. I was not impressed. I had Foster's Best Brownie Cookies with Toasted Walnuts back in the Bullet, but no one was dying for any details about my life.

Not yet, at least.

This kitchen was huge—she had a silver stove, a double refrigerator, a wide-mouth toaster, and a blue food processor. In a glass case were blue-and-white dishes. All the wood was white. Shiny pots hung by the oven—they looked like they'd never been used. She had a work island just like Sonny Kroll has in his kitchen. The windows were big, too, but all the curtains were closed.

Someday I'm going to have a kitchen like this where I'll film my TV show. I'll roll out of bed, have my hair and makeup done, and get down to making food that will touch hearts.

I looked around and giggled. “Today on
Cooking with Foster
,” I said quietly, “we're going to be visiting kitchens of the stars. But you want to remember that these people put their pants on one leg at a time, just like you do. Of course, their pants cost a lot more than yours, so remember that, too.” I walked to the stove smiling just as Macon came in.

“I've got to feed the dogs, Foster, and then I'm done.”

“Take your time,” I told him. I could stay here forever. Macon chopped up chicken breast and bacon, which didn't look half bad, and filled their little gold bowls. He motioned me out the door. I waved good-bye to the kitchen.

That's it until next time on
Cooking with Foster
.

Macon and I walked down the hill, past a little stream, past a sign that I couldn't read. When I'm famous, I'm going to have people around me who do the reading.

“It meant a lot to Miss Charleena that I brought you,” he said.

You could have fooled me. “Do famous people come to see her?”

“No one comes.” Macon kicked a stone out of the way. “She came here to get away from people.”

She did that, all right.

Macon stared through the trees to the prison below. The long, gray buildings looked creepy from above. “It opened two Christmases ago.”

“That's a weird time to open a prison.”

“Some of the town ladies decorated a tree and put it at the front gate. They were celebrating how the prison promised to bring all these new jobs to town. That's how I'm going to begin my movie—with a picture of the Christmas tree.” Macon threw a stone and scared a squirrel. “People shouldn't make promises they can't keep.”

I nodded.

“There's one thousand four hundred and eleven inmates in that place, Foster.”

I thought about what it might be like with all those bad guys in one place. At my old school in Memphis, all the mean kids sat together in the lunchroom. Believe me, you didn't go near that table.

We headed down the hill.

“I put up signs around town saying I needed to talk to people about my movie, and not one person called,” Macon said quietly.

We passed another sign I couldn't read. “Was that one of your signs?”

He looked at me strangely. “That says, ‘Keep out—private property.' ”

I walked faster. “I couldn't see it.”

He caught up. “I just want people to take me seriously.”

“Macon, you're the most serious boy on earth.”

His eyes lit up. “I was even a serious baby. I had serious pets like snails and lizards. Look, you can help me make my movie.”

“I don't know anything about making movies.”

“You can be my assistant.”

“I don't know how to—”

“Assistants go for coffee, but since I'm not drinking that yet, you can nod and take notes.”

I'm not good at taking notes. “That's okay, Macon, I—”

“No, it's perfect.” He grabbed my arm.

I tried to shake it free.

“It's only for a little while until my financing comes in, Foster. Then you can be the associate producer.”

PERSEVERANCE WILSON WAS sitting on the steps of the Church of God FOR SALE with her head bowed like she was praying.

“I don't think we should interrupt,” I whispered, but Macon walked up to her anyway.

“Mrs. Wilson,” he began, “could I ask you a few questions about the prison?”

She looked up. “I have a complicated relationship with that place.”

“Take that down,” Macon told me. I didn't write anything, but I did nod.

“I remember the dark day when the penitentiary opened,” she said. “We had all those buses of prisoners coming through. It was an eerie feeling, like our town was never going to be the same.”

I was doodling on the notepad to look busy, trying to remember everything she said. “People were stressed, alarms were going off, guards were driving around town wearing mirrored sunglasses so you couldn't see their eyes.” She shook her head. “But I got to thinking—what do you do when something you don't want and can't push away comes into your life?

“My husband used to say, sometimes the best thing you can do is the last thing you want to do.” She laughed. “So we started the Helping Hands House.”

“What's that?” I asked.

Macon glared at me. I guess assistants aren't supposed to ask questions.

She smoothed out her flowered skirt. “It's just a rundown building, child, but we give families a place to stay for a few days when they come to visit their loved ones in prison. Some of them have to travel a long way, and it's an expensive journey, so we do what we can.”

“That's nice,” I said, and doodled some more as Garland ran up, sweaty and breathing hard, and looking really good for a sweaty, breathless person.

“Hey,” he said smiling.

“Hey.” I grinned back.

Macon moved between us. “We're working here.”

Garland looked around. “What are you doing?”

Macon rose up on his toes. “Exploring injustice. It's a major theme in documentary films.”

Garland bent over, panting. “Sounds good.”

“How'd the run feel today?” Percy asked him.

“Better. Except for the hill. I hate that hill.”

“See how far you can go with it,” she told him.

Garland smiled bright and drank some water. “You guys need help exploring injustice?”

Macon looked at my notepad and saw the doodle.

It was a good doodle, but . . .

“
What is this?”
he hollered.

My face got hot.

“I remember everything she said, Macon, it's how I—”

“I didn't ask you to remember! I asked you to write!”

Everyone was looking at me.

“You didn't write down one word of that interview!”