Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (27 page)

Emmy’s quote was so famous all of daytime could recite it. Toby and I said it together over the soapsuds in the sink, “‘I’m too firm, too fierce, too freakin’ fabulous to have an older child. It’s soap opera suicide for crissakes!’”

Though we both had a chuckle, I remembered it was Randall’s kowtowing to Emmy’s incessant needling that possessed him to have Felicia kick the gawdawful kiddy storyline to me. Maximizing on the worst, I slung Ruby Stargazer’s fabulous French-manicured feet into the oh-so-not-glamorous stirrups at Whitehaven Hospital, screaming bloody murder while birthing Jade; it always took an
R&R
mom a whole week to birth one baby. That scene alone should’ve earned me a Sudsy. Providentially, Edith ultimately overrode Randall, making Toby Emmy’s bastard son.

Sliding off yellow rubber gloves, I grimly thought
, That scurrilous Emmy was here for one reason and one reason only, revenge.

Wow! Things are really heating up over at The Bitch and the Ruthless . . . I mean, The Rich and the Ruthless. I was just down at MOCA treating my favorite soap spy to lunch—you art snobs already know what that stands for but to the masses it’s the Museum of Contemporary Art—and let me tell ya, there’s something at that place for everyone. I found my new favorite quote there. It goes like this:

“It is not so much where my motivation comes from but rather how it manages to survive.”

—Louise Bourgeois

Boy, ain’t that the truth.

The Diva

O
h my Lord, what a trip!” Candelaria Jones exclaimed as she staggered off the Greyhound bus a little bedraggled with the help of the driver.

In a straw hat and a cardigan draped over her dress, she gripped her pocketbook and Samsonite with one hand, waving at friends she’d made on her journey with the other. “So long, Richardean! See you at tomorrah’s eight o’clock service.”

“Mrs. Jones?” Shannen asked, waiting for her in Juicy sweats, Jordan slides, and shades.

“Lord have mercy, it’s Dr. Justine Lashaway!” Candelaria exclaimed, dropping her suitcase with a thud, sweeping Shannen into a big bosom hug before stepping back to straighten her hat. “You didn’t have to come
all the way out here to get me but I thank you all the same. I just love you on the show, you’re my favorite after Beulah.”

Richardean and a few others skittered over to Candelaria for Shannen’s autograph, before going on their way.

Catching her breath and picking up where they left off, Shannen asked, “Beulah?”

“Yeah, y’all call her by her stage name but her birth name is Beulah Espinetta Jones.”

“Oh.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Okay. Well, why don’t we go back to my house so you can rest?”

“I could really use some stretchin’ out after bein’ on that cramped bus for two days. Folks were real nice though. You just met my new friend Richardean. Oh now listen, before I forget, I need to go to church tomorrah morning before we go see Beulah. Can you take me?”

“Of course,” Shannen asserted, picking up her suitcase and leading her to the car.

“Listen, sweet, do you have any Coca-Cola at your place?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Jones, quiet as it’s kept, I drink at least one Diet Coke every day. I’m addicted to the stuff. Matter of fact, help yourself to one in my glove compartment.”

“Your glove compartment?”

“Yeah, it’s actually a cooler, neat, huh?” Steering with her left hand, Shannen leaned over and pressed the button, revealing an iced Diet Coke and a raw kombucha drink.

“As I live and breathe, I never would’ve guessed. But I don’t need the whole can, I just need enough to sprinkle a few drops of my spirits of ammonia in. My stomach’s a little sour.”

“Spirits of what?”

With singsong laughter, Candelaria said, “Chile, that’s old-school medicine. Yep, between my home remedies, iodine, spirits of ammonia,
and my black salve Beulah was rarely sick a day in her life. Did she tell you she’s allergic to hornet and bee stings, and so was her mother and so am I? I’m
nevah
caught without a little bottle of spirits of ammonia. But it’s good for all sorts of other things too.”

Arriving at Shannen’s house in Tarzana, Candelaria let out an “Oooo-wee, you sure do know how to live, Justine. I’m sorry, forgive me, pumpkin, I know your name is Shannen, but I’ve been watchin’ you for so long as Justine it’s habit.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Jones, you can call me Justine all you want. Let’s get you settled in your room.”

“That sounds just fine, but I wanna keep askin’ you questions. I’ve been worried sick about my Beulah and grandbaby Ivy. How’s her spirits been?” Candelaria asked, following Shannen into a tastefully decorated guest bedroom.

“You mean is Calysta depressed? I’d have to say no.”

“Hallelujah. Our whole Church of the Solid Rock prayer circle’s been prayin’ real hard for Beulah’s recovery.”

Sitting down on the bed, Shannen searched for the right words before saying, “Mrs. Jones, I have something to tell you.”

“Well, c’mon, chile, I’m not gettin’ any younger, let’s hear it.”

“She’s worried you’re ashamed of her being at a rehab. She told me you believed anything that needed to be fixed could be done through prayer.”

“That’s true, I did say that, but I also said, he who doesn’t open his mouth don’t get fed. I’m proud of my homespun gettin’ help. Told her a long time ago to stay away from that devil water but she’s a hard head and had to do things her way. She’s gonna be right as rain when she gets outta where evah’ she is and comes home to Greenwood for a spell to rest. That’s what she needs, some Southern home cookin’ and a good helpin’ of church. Y’all too skinny out here any ole way, eat like birds. Back home, we call what she got ‘nerves.’”

“Nerves?”

“Yep. I’m fixin’ to put that to rest when I see her tomorrah. Yes ’n deedy. And my goodness what a green thumb you have, that’s a beautiful Bleeding Heart you’re growin’ by the window.”

“Actually I’m taking care of it for Calysta,” Shannen said.

“Used to have a great big one in my backyard. Thing up and died on its own after Beulah left. Strangest thing.”

A beat.

“Bet you’re hungry,” Shannen said, changing the subject. “I made a spinach salad for lunch.”

“Thank you, sweet, but there you go again with that bird food. Darlin’, in my neck of the woods, spinach is for cookin’ and it’s a side dish I serve with smothered pork chops. How ’bout you let me fix you some
real
food?
”
Candelaria offered, pulling off her sweater. “I wanna show you how much I appreciate you bein’ a friend and watchin’ over my Beulah. Can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.”

That same day, Randall reserved a Northwest Airlines flight for the nearest airport to Greenwood, a place he never imagined he’d visit to meet with an unlikely sort, Calysta’s childhood friend.

Since receiving Edith’s urgent phone call, he’d racked his brain for a way to force Calysta to surrender her vote.

He recalled cryptic, poorly written letters postmarked Greenwood, Mississippi, in which the sender claimed to be an old friend of Calysta’s, revealing her true name was Beulah Espinetta Jones and that she had a
big
ugly secret. In all fifty-two letters, Seritta Turner solicited that she had
secrets for sale
. Of course Randall couldn’t be bothered with kooky fan mail, especially since more than a million pieces were delivered to
The Rich and the Ruthless
every year. And for no pay college interns sifted through offensive letters, cards, edible gifts, and bad portraits, discarding whatever they thought would be a bubble-buster.

“Hey Ben,” Randall had asked the PA late Friday night before leaving
work, “remember those letters you showed me last year, from some wacky Mississippi chick threatening she had something on Calysta?”

“Sure do. I did what you told me and bundled them and put them in storage, but I was thinking shouldn’t we give them to Calysta in case she wanted to hire a private dick.”

“Better yet, give them to me,” Randall had ordered. “I’ll take care of them.”

Seduced by the honey of power, having worked his way up from
The
Rich and the Ruthless
mailroom and standing at the precipice of becoming the executive director of the number one soap opera in America and its sister show,
The Daring and the Damned,
Randall wasn’t about to lose all he’d dreamed of and schemed for for years because of one vote.

Randall had shown tremendous promise as a visual artist in high school, winning a full scholarship to Kansas City Art Institute, where everything seemed perfect until his mother pulled him out of college in his junior year, citing that she couldn’t afford him not working. Randall resentfully got a job to help support the rest of the family, which included two younger sisters.

Heartbroken, he had watched his future disintegrate before his eyes, working two years on a Harley-Davidson assembly line. Craving the life he’d been teased with at college, he’d do whatever it took to be rich and breathe that rarefied air once again.

Abandoning his mother and sisters for California, Randall had immediately landed a job in the WBC mailroom. Always power-hungry, he soon kicked and clawed his way up the correspondence ladder, meeting Alison when she came to collect packages her fans had sent. Unbeknownst to her, Randall had penned hundreds of letters and stuffed them into her mail bin. It was lust at first sight. Soon after, Randall was hired as a production assistant on
The Rich and the Ruthless
and Alison saw his potential, suggesting his promotion to Augustus every chance she got while getting others fired. Together, they made the perfect soap opera social climbers, woodchippin’ anyone who got in their way.

Considering how close the duo had come to getting their sticky flypaper hands on that dreamed-of title, First Couple of Daytime, Randall wasn’t about to let a second chance get derailed, and certainly not by someone as trivial as Calysta Jeffries. She would have to be dealt with, as Edith said, “by any means necessary.”

Taking a swig of Jack Daniel’s from a flask in his desk, he smoothed out one of Seritta’s letters with his fat palm, pressing it against his desk blotter. Rereading the correspondence, he thought,
Seritta could be a crackpot or the key to my whole future.

Calysta aka Beulah Espinetta Jones done some thangs. I got proof 4 $$$.

Seritta Turner

A
fter waking up early Sunday morning to catch a seven a.m. flight, Randall showered and threw on a gray Brooks Brothers suit while Alison watched from their custom king-size waterbed.

“How much do you think you’ll have to pay this Seritta character? I mean what a loser,” she said, revealing a freckled thigh suggestively.

“Shouldn’t be more than five hundred,” he said airily as he tightened the knot in his paisley Sid Mashburn necktie. “Calysta’s so-called friend will take whatever I give her and like it.”

“Randy, what do you think Calysta’s secret
is
?”

“Who cares as long as it’s something I can bribe her with? Seriously, Alison, we’ve got to make this stick or—”

“Or what?”

“We’re pushin’ sixty and daytime is drying up all around us. Starting over on another soap is
not
an option. This is our window and we’re climbin’ through it. It could mean everything for us.”

“Don’t worry, Randy, you’ll dig up something juicy. I can smell it. Always knew that bitch was hiding something. I’m so sure of it I’m already planning a rockin’ pre-victory party for you on Tuesday night. We’re gonna get Calysta’s vote and karaoke ourselves right into the WBC chips.”

Randall spontaneously gave her a rare kiss good-bye.

Grabbing the tongue of his tie at the last second, Alison whispered breathily, “I’m feelin’ kinda frisky this morning, Randy. Sure there’s no time to squeeze in a little
stimulus package
action before you leave?”

“Gotta go, babe, or I’ll miss my flight.”

Shortly after one in the afternoon, Randall spotted his name in big, black hand-printed letters on a placard outside the airport. He’d contacted Pride-All Taxi Service to shuttle him from Greenville Airport to Greenwood, requesting they send a town car, but what awaited him was far from the sleek Hollywood Mercedes sedan he was accustomed to. Stunted and boxy, it looked as though it could’ve been an experimental hybrid.

In his Sunday best, accessorized with a thick gold rope chain with a large crucifix swinging at the bottom, the driver greeted Randall cheerfully, revealing a silver-capped bicuspid in the corner of his warm smile.

“Hello, Mr. Roberts, I’m your driver for today. Just call me Jacob,” he said before opening the door.

Randall tentatively climbed into the odd-shaped car, settling back into the burgundy tufted seat to Muddy Waters’s “The Blues Had a Baby and They Named It Rock and Roll” as they drove out of the country airport.

“Excuse me? Is this a custom car, Jacob?” Randall couldn’t help asking.

“Why yes, sir, thank you for noticing. This is one of two family funeral limos Pride-All Taxi Service has in its rotation. Our company’s been in business in Leflore County for over forty-seven years now,” he said proudly.

Randall instantly got the heebie-jeebies.

Jacob kept up a steady stream of chatter, proudly pointing out historic and not-so-historic sights as they made the forty-five-minute drive to Greenwood.

“Now this place right here, got the best BBQ for miles. Wanna pull over?”

“No, thank you. My return flight is at five. Need to get in and out.”

“What a shame you won’t get to enjoy Greenwood to the fullest. It’s a fine place, you should come back when you have more time, Mr. Roberts.”

“I’ll try to do that.”

The car stopped in front of Seritta Turner’s rundown trailer propped up on cement blocks. The front yard was spotted with chickweed and goosegrass, littered with broken toys, surrounded by a chain link fence, punctuated with a large satellite dish.