Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (29 page)

At the press of a button the convertible canopy of Shannen’s VW Beetle automatically unfolded and locked into place.

“Now we’re cookin’ with gas! My word, I have nevah, times have really changed.”

“Mrs. Jones, you are such a breath of fresh air and so much fun to have around. You remind me of my own grandmother.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do. And thanks for inviting me to go to church. I had a
blast
singing with everybody and shaking Miss Richardean’s tambourine. And I just loved the part when Pastor Barnabas said, ‘Look at your neighbor and say, “Neighbor, I’ve been guilty of a few things.” ’ I just loved that part. Who knew church could be so much fun?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And when he said we’re all like pencils. That we’re made imperfect with the expectation of making mistakes and that’s what the eraser is for? Wow! How genius was that? Then the pastor topped himself by saying, ‘Just ’cause
we
break don’t mean we should be tossed.’”

“Preach, Shannen. Bring it on home.”

“‘All we need is a little resharpenin’.’ That part just about tore me to pieces. It’s been a while, surprised the walls didn’t fall in on me. My whole family’s Evangelical, I’m the black sheep.”

“Like I always say, ‘If God’s your copilot, it’s time to switch seats.’ Besides, I don’t know how else I was gettin’ to church today if you weren’t takin’ me, so thank
you
. But I must say when pastor invited folks to join the church family you sure did surprise me, tearin’ off somethin’ fierce up and down the aisle, runnin’ around the sanctuary lookin’ like the Holy Spirit had taken hold, speakin’ in tongues before fallin’ up on the altar steps. Whew, I was tired just lookin’ at ya. I hope you know how serious tithin’ is though.”

Vrooming down the 101 freeway on a crystalline Sunday morning, Shannen and Candelaria were en route to Baldwin Hills to pick up Ivy
from uptight Dwayne. He’d selfishly fabricated some sorry excuse for why Ivy couldn’t attend the inspiring service.

“Calysta is really looking forward to seeing you and Ivy today, Mrs. Jones.”

“Haven’t seen my babies for a month of Sundays, not since Beulah came out to New Orleans three years ago to be queen of the Zulu Parade, that’s the black Mardi Gras parade, you know. Dressed in a coconut top and grass skirt, covered head to toe in beads. Too bad her horse and buggy got pulled over by the
po
lice on St. Charles. Organizers didn’t pull a permit that year. But my Beulah, bein’ who I raised her to be, climbed down and walked the rest of the way. Sure did. We painted the town red, went over to that Harrah’s Casino. Ooo-wee, that place is somethin’ else . . . got a whole city inside, never had to leave the building once and you can eat all you can eat too. I like playin’ the slots. Go to Biloxi every so often with the seniors at my church, helps me relax. But I hate that everything’s electronic now. Miss that jingling sound of coins comin’ down.”

“Do you ever win?” Shannen asked.

“Never, chile, but I sure do enjoy myself.”

“You should get Calysta to take you to Vegas. It’s awesome! I got married at the Graceland Wedding Chapel there.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Shannen said wistfully.

“One thing’s for sure, we won’t be goin’ to no Vegas on
this
trip,” Candelaria said soberly. “And I didn’t know you were married. Where’s your husband?”

“Um, he’s on a retreat . . . sort of . . . you know, trying to
find
himself? He should be coming home tomorrow. You’ll meet him. He’s going through a rough patch right now being out of work, he’s a little grumpy.”

“Honey, tell him he ain’t alone. That’s half the world right now. Speaking of finding things, when we gonna find this address for my grandbaby?”

“According to my GPS we should be there in five minutes.”

“Your who?”

Giggling, Shannen said, “My navigation system; helps me get around L.A. and it beats the
Thomas Guide.
I’m sorry, Mrs. Jones, I don’t really ever come over here so I’m a little turned around.”

“Uh-huh. Oh, my goodness. What was that place we just passed that smelled so good?”

“I think it said M&M’s. Wanna stop and get something?” Shannen asked politely, hoping Candelaria would say no, feeling out of place at the intersection of Crenshaw and Martin Luther King Boulevard.

“No, sweet pea, that’s okay. I’m not gonna spoil my appetite. I’ma save it for my Beulah and Ivy this afternoon. Got some saltines and hard candy in my pocketbook and that should hold me just fine till then. Besides, fastin’ causes all kinds of clarity. Matter of fact, I got me a
sign
in church this morning from the Holy Spirit, sure did. Ain’t no question ’bout it. Me and Beulah’s gonna have an understanding to-day! Pastor was right when he said,

To get somethin’ you never had, you have to do somethin’ you never did. When God takes somethin’ from your grasp, he’s not punishing you, but merely opening your hands to receive somethin’ better. God will never take you where His grace will not protect you.

“Amen!” Shannen said a little too loudly over the country western music.

“Everything’s gonna be all right and that goes for you and your husband too,” Candelaria declared as she began humming the closing hymn the lively choir sang earlier in church, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”

R
unning down the topiary-coiffed walkway, arms outstretched, Ivy exclaimed, “Mother Jones, Mother Jones, you’re here!” She reached into the car window, wrapping her long caramel arms around her grandmother’s neck, saying, “I’ve missed you
so
much.”

“Missed you too,
skillet
, you just don’t know. Look how tall you got and just as pretty like your mamma. Now hop in and buckle up. Shannen tells me we have quite a ride ahead of us.”

“Morning, Shannen,” Ivy said as she pecked her on the cheek before sliding into the backseat.

“Morning, Ivy, sorry you missed church. It was really good.”

“Yeah, well what could I do? Dad said no.”

“Least he coulda’ done was come down to say hello instead of actin’
like a simpleton, lookin’ out behind the curtains. Forgave what he did to your mamma a long time ago, he’s been a good daddy to you too.”

The trio waited their turn as they inched closer to the wrought-iron Tranquility Tudor gate, decorated with colorful balloons, disarmingly inviting, giving the rehab a carnival atmosphere.

“May I help you?” asked Rock, wearing shades, holding a clipboard.

“Yes, my name is—” Shannen began.

Cutting her off, Candelaria released her seat belt, taking the bull by the horns, saying, “Listen, son, we’re here to see my girl, Beulah Espinetta Jones. My name should be on that thing, Candelaria Jones . . . C-A-N-D-E-L-A-R-I-A Jones, this here is my great-grandbaby Ivy Jeffries, and beside me is Shannen Lassiter, she’s a big star on
The Rich and the Ruthless
and a family friend . . . that’s L-A-S-S—”

“That’s okay, ma’am, you’re all down here, but there’s no Beulah Espinetta on my list.”

“Maybe if you took them sunglasses off and checked again . . . I know I didn’t come all this way to be told my Beulah ain’t where she ’posed to be,” Candelaria fumed.

“Mother Jones, I think I know what the problem is,” Ivy interjected softly.

“Well speak up, chile, say somethin’.”

“My mom’s an actress—Calysta Jeffries?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. Wow, ‘Beulah,’ you-all
went
way
back on that one, huh?” He chuckled.

Candelaria stared back from under her hat, deadpan.

“Go right on in, ladies, parking’s on your left and
no
picture taking. Turn off the music and you-all have a nice visit.”

“And
you
have a blessed day,” Candelaria said.

S
uffering from insomnia, Roger surfed the Web for soft porn and Facebook friends, suckin’ back brewskis and eatin’ Cheetos, when a Celebutante Alert flashed for none other than Shannen Lassiter.

On his second six-pack since last night, Roger slammed his Sam Adams on the nightstand mid-sip and sat up, still in bed. The secluded camp, not known for its Internet expedience, caused him to tap his orange-dyed-fingertips on the keypad.

“What the . . . ?” His eyes went from two pissholes in snow to what resembled Jack Nicholson’s in
The Shining.

Shannen’s sex video, already in a dead heat with Paris’s bedroom romp hits, turned Roger’s face purple with rage as he watched the thirty-second showcase. The lusty
grunt ’n’ grind,
featured his wife whooping it up in her dressing room with her on-screen Latin lover, Javier de
L’Vasquez. The sudsy duo were oblivious to the micro-wire pinhole spy camera Felicia had arranged to be installed.

In a jealous outburst, Roger stood up butt naked on the bed, fists clenched, screaming at the top of his lungs, “
Noooooo!”
before whipping his laptop across the room, through the open sliding glass doors, and into Big Bear Lake.

HOLY SOAP OPERA CRUISE!
Looking into my smudged crystal ball, I can see things haven’t improved on the set of The Rich and the Ruthless. In fact, my behind-the-curtain spies tell me bubbles are bursting everywhere and things sadly are getting worse. Since a Cliffhanger Weekly scribe prematurely spilled the beans about an upcoming top-secret shocker storyline—Shannen Lassiter (Dr. Justine Lashaway) is preggers with Javier de L’Vasquez’s baby—that may not be fiction, all press has been banned from the set. Blah blah blah, we know that won’t last. I already have the scoop that an acting coach has been called in for Javier and Jade since R&R completely canned cue cards to save time and money. Boy oh boy, trouble is bubbling to the surface like an overflowing septic tank and this is only the tip of the shit.

The Diva

C
alysta, no isolating in your room. Let’s go. Guests are starting to arrive,” Kelly Lava said as she did a sweep. Looking down at my bed, she remarked, “Nice corners.”

“Thanks.”

“Here.”

“What’s this for?”

“Random urine test. Don’t freak out and don’t forget to label the cup.”

Balloons, a Jump O’Rama, popcorn machine, clowns, folksy fiddlers, and deafening cheery family banter were over-the-top overwhelming.

I hoped somewhere in among the yoga, the gourmet butternut squash soup, the upper intestinal herbal colonics, military corners, dish duty, meditation, Korean body splashes, equine and collage therapy, Big
Book studies, and even Gretchen’s pep talks, I had fortified myself to face more than the music outside.

Looking in the mirror, sweeping my hair back in a ponytail, wearing no makeup, I whispered, “How did you get here?” before venturing out.

“This place is somethin’ else,” said Grandma Jones.

“You can say that again,” agreed Shannen, staring in the opposite direction. “Ohmagod!”

“What?” asked Ivy. “Remember the rules, you’re not supposed to get all starstruck or take pictures.”

“I know, silly. It’s just I think I know that man over there.”

“I see a lot of folks over there and I got my eye out for one person and one person only and that would be Beulah,” said no-nonsense Candelaria.

“Yes of course, Mrs. Jones, that was really insensitive of me. But I was thinking, you and Ivy should have a private moment with Calysta first . . . I mean Beulah. How about I meet up with you a little later? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Looping her arm through her grandmother’s, Ivy said, “C’mon, Mother Jones,” as they headed in the direction of the villa, weaving their way through the carnivalesque obstacle course.

“Mom, Mom!” shouted Ivy as she ran across the lawn, Grandma Jones snailing behind with her cane.

“Oh, baby.”

After hugging for the longest, I felt a tapping on my shoulder and heard, “Mind if I get some of that sugah?”

Immediately, I fell into Grandma Jones’s arms, tearing up. “I’m so sorry for causing all this trouble.”

“Now don’t start cryin’ and carryin’ on, Beulah. Everything’s gonna be just fine, you watch and see.”

For a nanosecond I forgot that was my real name, it had been so long since anyone had called me
Beulah
.

Grandma Jones knew how to hold on to a penny and was wearing the same Sunday dress she had from back in the day.

She wiped my tears with a fished-out Chantilly-scented Kleenex she always had in her pocketbook, as I asked, “Where’s Shannen? Didn’t she drive you-all over here?”

“Yes, but she thought she saw someone she knew,” reported Ivy.

“Really?” Though I knew it must be Toby, more important business was at hand. The moment was too special to take an ounce of attention away from our precious family time.

“We don’t have all day and can’t be dilly-dallyin’, we have serious talkin’ to do,” Grandma Jones reminded. “But first I need a bathroom and some food.”

“Let’s get you inside,” I said.

As I wrapped my arm around Grandma’s padded waist, supporting her, and Ivy wove her fingers into mine, I couldn’t help but think back to that fateful evening long ago, me, just a year older than my daughter was now, standing in our Mississippi garden.

Shannen tentatively made her way toward a red-and-white-checked table where Jerome McDonald, onetime Baltimore Ravens superstar and the man she almost married, sat quietly, nursing a glass of juice.

“Jerome?”

He looked at her quizzically for a moment before jumping up, exclaiming, “Shan-Shan!”

Her heart lurched at the nickname; no one had called her that since they broke up six years ago.

“Jerome, what are you doing here . . . are you visiting a friend too?”

Stepping back, he smiled ruefully. “No. I’m afraid I’ve had a tough time of it since I was forced into early retirement because of my injury. Underestimated the steroids and painkillers.”