Authors: Melia McClure
The Delphi Room (12 page)
Dear Velvet,
My mother was not crazy, I will have you know. I would expect that someone who was sensitive enough to the vagaries of life that she killed herself—and had an ongoing, emotionally charged dalliance with a Shadowman—would be rather less blunt in speaking about a person’s mother. Granted, she was troubled. Very sensitive, a painter. But I dislike the word “crazy.” An abominable word. Careful, Velvet, not to dole out labels and judgments here. Doing so will not help your case, if there is a case to be made. Those begging for mercy should be choosier about the words they use.
She needed me. Always. And so I stayed with her. Because I am a nice person. She missed her little girl, as you saw. My sister. I guess I wasn’t a very good substitute. Which makes me sad. Her little girl went missing from a grocery store two years before I was born. Gone forever.
Your mother could be described as troubled as well, from what I have seen. But I agree with your childhood assessment. She’s a great story-reader.
Everything I know about feminine dress I learned from my mother. I hated wearing dresses when I was a little boy. But for some reason, I like it now. I don’t know why.
I should not have told you about the dresses, or the peach angora. (But since you already saw me in your mirror as a little boy wearing a dress, it stands to reason that you may see me as a grown man, also wearing a dress.) You could not possibly understand. I am not sure why I did tell you so readily, why I was so very eager to be honest about my occasional style of dress, and not about other things. It seems that a fluorescently-lit bedroom cell in Hell brings out one’s confessional spirit only on an intermittent basis. I am not gay. (As Clara Bow could attest.) I am not a drag queen. I am a man with a taste for fine fabrics. As a result, I sometimes wore dresses. Not on the street, just in my bedroom. Clara understood. She loved clothes. As you well know, there is nothing like the feel of a flowing dress swishing against your skin. My comprehension of this puts me in the upper echelon of sensual creatures.
Somehow, I was not at all surprised to learn that you are a writer. Please tell me more about the novella you were writing. Speaking of writing (or writing of writing, rather), the “screenwriter” responsible for our earthly debacles must have a vicious streak. Though aside from being run over by a car, I suppose I cannot really complain about my life. Relatively uneventful, as it was. But from this vantage point, I suppose it is an interesting prospect to see one’s time on Earth in filmic terms. A sad movie, a shot of bleak Gallic cinema! There is no joy in acting such a play. Though perhaps we are trapped in a clip of Gallic cinema right now! Better to fancy our lives had more of a Latin filmic flavor, or, in ancient terms, minor Greek tragedy (no offense to Homer). What am I saying? Who wants to watch one’s life onscreen? Living the scenes was enough—I do not desire a catalogue. Even cinephiles have their limit.
I was a bibliophile, too. In my life on the spinning rock, I loved to read anything and everything. I had checked out most of the books in the library, until I stopped because the pages were filthy and stuck together, and apparently a lot of people who take books out of the library do not have great hand-eye coordination when it comes to drinking coffee while reading. I became a book buyer instead. Sometimes I just stared at the names in the phone book if I did not have more interesting reading material in the house.
Dogs in North America Annual
was my favourite magazine. (Of course, I did not really want to own a dog, given the inherent cleanliness issues, but I liked looking at them.) I confess to a weakness for the Bichon Frisé. Not because I have a desire to style their hair or anything like that. Their faces remind me of Christmas.
While we are on the topic of writing (well, sort of—I am veering back in that direction) I will confess something else: I had started a book of my own. Are you familiar with Harlequin romance novels? I like a story with a happy ending. On a whim I picked one up in a drugstore one day and I was hooked. They let anybody take a stab at writing one, you know. There is a formula that is really quite mathematical in its precision. They send it to you and you invent the rest. I thought, how hard could this be? And they pay you for it.
So I started writing like mad. In my most recent attempt, the heroine’s name was Eleanor, and the hero’s name was Declan. I was about a quarter of the way in when I was run over. It starts out with Eleanor, a young grieving widow American expatriate, running a bed-and-breakfast out of a medieval manor in the Cotswolds. Declan is a figure surrounded by mystery. He comes to stay with her, but he carries secrets that, unbeknownst to her, connect him to her past. I was still unsure what those secrets were, but that was the general idea of the book. It was dedicated to my favourite movie star, Clara Bow.
INT. VELVET’S HELL—MIRROR—
BRINKLEY’S BEDROOM—NIGHT
Brinkley sits at his little wooden desk, pen in hand, notebook open before him, clad in a white satin bias-cut dress and a peach angora cardigan. The 1920s film star Clara Bow stares from a large black-and-white glossy photograph pasted to a mirror that hangs on the wall. Impish, knowing sexuality quartzes out of her kohl-heavy eyes. Brinkley sighs and grinds his knuckles into his eye sockets. He begins to cross out what he has written in his book, gathering momentum as he slashes his pen back and forth across the page. The paper rips and he throws his pen against the wall and tears at his notebook. His eyes are red and damp. He crumples several pages and disposes of them in a wastebasket beside his desk. Sniffling, he pulls Kleenex from a dispenser, a Cotswold-style cottage that emits Kleenex from its chimney, and turns to Clara Bow in the mirror.
BRINKLEY
Please tell me how to proceed, Clara. Perhaps a Harlequin romance is beyond me. My description of the Cotswold scenery is perfect, I think. But I seem to be lacking any, shall I say, erotica, which poses a problem when one is writing a romance novel.
The photograph of Clara Bow comes to life.
CLARA BOW
(strong Brooklyn accent)
I ain’t no writer, honey. But this I know fer sure. Ain’t nobody gonna read a romance novel that only has descriptions uh trees in it.
(shrugs)
Nothin’ romantic ’bout greenery, darlin’.
BRINKLEY
You are right, completely right. But I seem unable to fix the problem. I am no Marlowe. Now
he
was a romantic.
CLARA BOW
I got no idea who this Marlowe character is, but you gotta put feelin’ into it. That’s what people want. Like me. I can cry on cue, ya know. Watch this.
In an instant tears cascade from Clara’s eyes, silky streaks of slipperiness highlighting the apple contours of her cheeks. The baffled, pure pain of a wounded animal swirls in the dark fathoms of her gaze. In response, Brinkley’s eyes well and tears fall in profusion down his face.
BRINKLEY
Please don’t cry. I hate it when you cry. It makes me cry.
(buries his face in his hands)
Oh, I can’t look.
His shoulders begin to shake.
CLARA BOW
Brinkley, hey Brinkley!
He looks up.
CLARA BOW
Hey silly! What are ya gonna cry for? I’m just puttin’ on a show. Directors are amazed that I can do that. But I gotta park my chewing gum behind my ear. I don’t like ta cry when I got gum in my mouth.
BRINKLEY
But you look so sad.
CLARA BOW
Well yeah. I gotta lotta sad things I can think about. Makes me cry inna second. The fans love me, ya know.
BRINKLEY
Of course they do. You are the “It Girl” of the ’20s. But nobody loves you as much as me. I love you dearly, Clara. So please don’t cry anymore. The only time I ever cry is when I talk to you.
CLARA BOW
Then ya should talkta me more often. Cryin’s good for the soul. If ya can scream at the same time, even bettah. There’s nothin’ so refreshin’ as throwin’ yaself on the floor and screamin’ bloody murder. My ma used ta have fits.
BRINKLEY
Really?
CLARA BOW
Well not a real fit, more like a spell. But not a regular faintin’ spell neither, somethin’ else. She couldn’t breathe. I don’t have spells. I’m just an insomniac.
BRINKLEY
I will stay awake with you. My mother can’t sleep either. So she takes pills. Her moaning keeps me awake. I can’t stand it.
(pause)
Will you help me with my book?
CLARA BOW
You’re as good as gold, sweetheart, as good as fuckin’ gold. Yer ma don’t deserve a precious son like you. Yer book, you say? Like I said, I’m no writer, but I think I gotta line for ya.
BRINKLEY
You do? What is it?
CLARA BOW
“He scooped her up in his arms, carried her to the bed, and there on the satin sheets they were carried away by wings of desire.”
Brinkley jumps out of his chair.
BRINKLEY
Let me find my pen! I need to write this down!
He retrieves his pen and rushes back to the desk, scribbles Clara’s line.
CLARA BOW
Ya got it? Get it?
Wings
! That’s uh movie uh mine!
BRINKLEY
I love that film! I love all your films.
CLARA BOW
That’s a nice dress ya got on, by the way. I used ta have one just like it.
BRINKLEY
It’s one of my mother’s old ones. It’s so smooth.
CLARA BOW
I’m so fuckin’ tired, Brinkley. But I can’t sleep. I can’t ever sleep. Will you sing to me? Nobody ever sings me a lullaby.
BRINKLEY
I can’t sing at all. I’m no vocalist by any stretch of the imagination. I’m a tad short on rhythm and my ability to harmonize is compromised by—
CLARA BOW
Please. Sing or I’ll cry.
BRINKLEY
No! Please don’t cry! I’ll sing. Umm . . . I am not sure I know any lullabies.
CLARA BOW
(threatening)
I’m gonna cry . . .
BRINKLEY
Gee whiz, Clara. Jesus Murphy. You’re so hard on me.
CLARA BOW
Are you using the Lord’s name in vain?
BRINKLEY
No. The Lord’s name isn’t Murphy. I don’t think.
CLARA BOW
I hope not. Murphy’s a dog’s name.
BRINKLEY
Since when are you religious?
CLARA BOW
Sing dammit! I can feel the tears comin’!
BRINKLEY
Wait! I know a Welsh lullaby that my mother used to sing to me. She has Welsh and Irish roots. That’s why she has red hair. She’s a beautiful Irish colleen.
CLARA BOW
(threatening)
Is she as beautiful as me?
BRINKLEY
No! Never as beautiful as you.
CLARA BOW
So sing it.
Brinkley stands and clasps his hands, clears his throat.
BRINKLEY
“Sleep my love and peace attend thee
All through the night . . .
Guardian angels God will lend thee
All through the night . . .”
