Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (31 page)

Stemming my percolating frustration, I said, “But it’s more than self-control. It’s things built up inside that I kept a lid on from a long time ago.”

“Oh, I don’t want to hear all that
goobly-gob
. Prayer is the best medicine, all you gotta do is turn your life over to the Lord and
recognize
grace is ‘favor’ and you wouldn’t have
any
success without
that
. The past is the past, dead and buried. Move on and get back on track, a new world’s right around the corner.”

Grandma was entitled to think she was right, but I wasn’t about to let her off the hook and sweep our dark secret under the rug.

“No disrespect, but it ain’t
goobly-gob
. It’s the truth and I’ve been talkin’ about it with my therapist here.”

“Shhh,” she said, looking around to make sure we were alone “Lower your voice, people hear you talkin’ like that they’re liable to think you’re
special
. And what exactly have you been discussin’ with a stranger anyway, Beulah?”

“Therapist.”

“Same thing, answer the question.”

“You know, our secret.”

“What secret? I don’t know about any secret. What the devil are you talkin’ about?”

“Grandma,” I said softly, taking her hand, “I know this must be as painful for you as it is for me, but if I’m gonna get any better I need for us to talk once and for all about what happened to my mamma,
me, and what I did afterward. Remember what they say, ‘We’re only as sick as—’”

“Beulah Espinetta Jones, I didn’t come all this way to listen to some foolishness.”

“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to,” I insisted, shocking my grandmother, who’d reached for her cane, threatening to leave. “We can’t keep pretending what happened in Greenwood is a figment of my imagination.”

Stoic and tight-lipped, pocking her chin like an orange peel, she sat there just like I remembered as a girl returning home from my theatrical debut in the Pride-All taxi.

“As much as I’ve tried, Grandma, it’s a promise I just can’t keep. I want us to come clean with each other. And if you love me the way you say you do, you’ll do that.”

As she slowly released her cane, I sensed she might be ready to talk.

“You know, Beulah, everybody ready to jump on board when the goin’s good, but the minute you down in the dust, who’s there to pick you up? Look around, who’s here? Me and Ivy. I worked my whole life and done the best with the hand I was dealt. Your great-grandma, God rest her soul, worked them cotton fields and when she was pregnant with me they sent her to squeeze cottonseed oil through Chinese hair. You come from strong stock, a long line of hardworkin’, God-fearin’ women, and for the life of me I don’t know why you’d want to go and dig up the ugly past and spoil things now. We moved on from all that pain,” she lamented.

“
You
moved on, Grandma, not me. I feel things, deep things, still.”

“Just ask the Holy Ghost to help change you on the inside and you’ll be able to let all that confusion and hatred go. See, I wrote down what the pastor said this mornin’:

To get somethin’ you never had, you have to do somethin’ you never did. When God takes somethin’ from
your grasp, he’s not punishin’ you, but openin’ your hands to receive somethin’ better. He’ll never take you where His grace won’t protect you.

“Here,” she said, passing me the pamphlet.

Looking down at it, I said, “Grandma, there’s two ways to interpret this sermon. To me it says, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t supposed to be. And long before Hollywood was even in the picture, you told me, ‘If ya keep doin’ what you’re doin’ you’re gonna keep gettin’ what you get.’ Why did you send me to dust and make tea for Winslow, knowin’ full well what he was capable of?”

Silence.

“Grandma?”

“I’ve prayed for forgiveness, chile. Couldn’t imagine him harmin’ my baby Maddie Mae while she was up there cleanin’ for me.”

“For you?” I got chill bumps.

“I fell ill . . . was on bed rest.”

I’d only seen Grandma Jones cry once before.

“Nevah gave it a second thought sendin’ her up to Winslow’s in my place. Didn’t want him to hire somebody else.”

“But when she came up pregnant?”

Silence.

“Grandma,” I said pointedly, “weren’t you suspicious when she came up preg—”

“Yes! Yes, ’course I was. But folks didn’t talk about such things back then for fear of scandal. When I tried sayin’ somethin’ Winslow threatened to run me and your mamma outta town and where was we gonna go?” She wept.

A hungry hawk circled above his next meal.

“Said he’d take care of you even though he nevah admitted to any wrongdoin’. I made room in my heart and forgave him.”

“Well
I
never did. What gave
you
the right?”

“Jesus. Jesus gave me the right
.
And Pastor Winslow made me a promise. Kept it every week.”

“And do you know where that
promise
came from, Grandma?”

“Well . . . I-I . . . ”

“I do. Caught that wolf passin’ you that bloody promise in an envelope in the shed. Nevah said a word for fear of the tongue of your strap.”

“What strap?” She questioned like every elder I knew, conveniently forgetting terrifying discipline over nothin’.

Storming on, I said, “But because you taught me to keep secrets, including poor Mamma bein’ raped by that jackleg preachin’ thug, I took matters into my own hands before he could do any more damage.”

“Beulah, stop ’fore I . . .”

“What? Get a switch?”

“It wasn’t ’cause I didn’t believe Maddie Mae! You’re upsettin’ me with this gone by business.”

But I couldn’t stop. A dam had broken wide open.

“Figured if we repressed our secrets, they’d go away? Or is insanity my only option? Is that what you meant by me comin’ from strong stock?”

“It was survivin’! I was consumed with guilt and blinded by fear. Yeah, I was weak and made mistakes and allowed myself to be swallowed up by sin, I admit that. Don’t judge how I dealt with my grief, please don’t. I lost my daughter, my
only
child, and knew no amount of prayin’ was gonna bring her back but she gave me you, a miracle born outta tragedy, I can’t lose you too, Beulah.”

There was so much more I wanted to say but couldn’t.

“Can’t make what
was
no more ’cause I don’t have the power to rewrite history but I do have the power to go forward with . . . with what we have . . . love for each other.”

Emotionally spent, we watched as a pair of hummingbirds searched for nectar.

Ivy and Shannen headed our way, enjoying the fiddlers as they passed.

“Mom, the guy at the gate said we should start wrapping up our visit and we’ve barely had any time . . . Mother Jones, are you crying?”

“Happy tears, pumpkin, nothin’ for you to worry your pretty little head about.” Looking at me with a tender smile, she continued, “Your mamma and me had a lot of catchin’ up to do and it’s been a beautiful visit.”

I could hear Rock in the background. “Okay folks, time to wrap it up. Visiting hours are over in a half hour.”

After devoting the remaining time to Ivy, I walked my family to Shannen’s Love Bug. I noticed her glancing in Jerome’s direction as he lifted his son out of the Jump O’Rama and kissed his wife good-bye.

“You okay?” I asked Shannen.

“Yeah. Just not looking forward to tomorrow.”

“If Roger starts any stuff just call the cops and get a restraining order against his crazy butt.”

“I tried that once before, remember? It ended badly and I had to call in sick. On a brighter note, I’m going to surprise your grandma and take her to the set tomorrow. What do you think?”

“I think you’re excellent. She’s going to have the time of her life. Just wish I could be there too. Take lots of pictures and make sure she meets Wolfe and Maeve, and especially Willie, they’re her favorites after you and me.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t
miss a trick
,” Shannen said with a wink, repeating an oft-used phrase she’d learned from Grandma Jones.

“You know, Shannen, I can count on one hand the true friends I have in this world and you’re one of them.”

Tearing up again and hugging me tightly, she said, “I’d better go or we’ll never leave.”

“Thanks for everything, I mean it.”

Reaching in through the front window on the opposite side, I gave
Grandma Jones one last squeeze, breathing in her familiar talcum powder scent, whispering, “I love you,” in her ear.

“We’ll be back next week, Mom,” Ivy said, planting a kiss on both my cheeks before getting in and buckling up.

“Be home for your birthday.”

“Mom, you’ve told me three times already.”

Veiled by tears, Shannen’s VW became smaller and smaller as I waved good-bye, spontaneously curling my index and thumb into the shape of a small “C” measuring my family driving away. Once they were out of sight, the country western music fading, I repeated, “Traveling mercies . . . traveling mercies . . . traveling mercies . . .”

BLIND ITEM:
What anally retentive muscle-head actor was seen in leather chaps making out with a colleague from Our Lives to Contend in Whispers Lounge, a gay men’s S&M club near the Piers, before heading home to his frumpy wife and kids on Long Island? I’ll never tell.

The Diva

O
n a full moonlit night, Phillip McQueen, clad in a smoking jacket, was in the throes of another whine-a-thon to his ever-understanding wife, Pinkey, as he gave himself a facial.

“Can you believe Edith and Randall gave that blowhard Wolfe five shows a week, reducing my guarantee to a measly two? Using the excuse ‘due to extreme soap opera anorexia we’re asking everyone to take a fifteen percent pay cut.’ The nerve of those imbeciles
emailing
me the news!”

“Just terrible, Phillip,” his wife sympathized as she knitted one, purled two. “By the way, the show faxed your changes for tomorrow and I put them in your script binder.”

“You know, if Augustus Barringer were still running things this wouldn’t be happening,” he hissed into the mirror, fondling his reflection.
“Edith didn’t even give me the common courtesy of a face-to-face meeting. Or at the very least have that Neanderthal Roberts deliver the horrid news in the privacy of my dressing room,” he babbled, still looking at himself in the mirror. With a predilection for self-preservation, the obsessive stay-youthful-forever thespian dotted on caviar eye cream, continuing his facial.

“Just awful, how could
R&R
do that to you after all you’ve given them, the best years of your acting career.”

Phillip turned, stone-faced, staring at her.

“I mean,
some
of your best years, honey,” she recanted, looking over her bifocals.

Resuming his regimen, he said, “And I know Edith has told that ground-gripper Felicia to write me off the show. I can feel it. If anything happens to me . . . like if I fall into an icy Whitehaven pond and drown or fly off course in my upcoming hot air balloon expedition storyline, know it has everything to do with my contract negotiations with those WBC tightasses. Ever since I left my agent, Edith thinks she can Betsey Johnson all over me.”

“Who’s she?”

“Not important. If that prune wants to play hardball, I’ll show her what a hardball feels like.”

“What are you going to do, Phillip? Don’t forget what they did to Maeve Fielding’s love interest of twenty-two years, Ulysses St. Nick, when he asked for a raise.”

“Pinkey, of course I remember, but when have I ever cowered to intimidation? If I have to I’ll swallow my pride and rejoin the cast of
Our Lives to Contend
.”

“
OLTC
? But that soap’s number four in the ratings with a zero point nine audience participation.”

“Who cares? This is
not
the time for soap opera discrimination. You like the lifestyle we live, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you want to keep Bert in private schools, right?”

“Yes, dear, but won’t you be taking a huge pay cut if you go to
OLTC
?” she said, recovering dropped stitches.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle our finances,” Phillip stated coldly. “I can make up the difference going to Canada for personal appearances and selling my eight-by-tens and calendars. All I need from you is a show of domestic engineering unity.”

“But that’s one of the biggest things you said attracted you to me, that I’m a ‘natural born penny-pincher.’ I cut out coupons, shop at Costco, do the cooking and cleaning, volunteer for carpool so we don’t have to pay a premium for school bus pickup—”

“Sorry, Pinkey, how insensitive of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Swishing back an Ambien, Phillip finally turned away from the mirror, switched off the bathroom light, and shuffled over to their four-poster oak bed, dropping to his knees.

After wrapping up an abbreviated Our Father and placing his velvet slippers beside the dust ruffle, he said
,
“I can’t wait for tomorrow,” as he slid between the 800-thread-count Egyptian sheets. He pecked Pinkey with a stingy kiss before placing an embroidered
R&R
eye mask over his baby blues.

“Good night, my darling.”

“Good night, Phillip.”

“Tomorrow I have those
insipid
pool scenes with Wolfe and that airhead Shannen on that hideous set they call a ranch. Of course casting will dust off Willie Turner and prop him up as the butler, and I’ll have to listen to all his unbearable glory days with Ben Vereen on Broadway, and those redundant civil rights tales while he serves me the same warm near beer for hours. And why does he always have a damn facecloth hanging from his back pocket? Probably gang related. I hate Willie almost
as much as I hate ‘product placement’! And they only bring him back so he can keep his health benefits.”

“But honey, doesn’t Willie give you his Sudsy vote every year?”

“Pinkey!” Phillip said, irritated, pulling off his eye mask, sitting up. “Where did that come from? You’re totally off topic. Are you even listening to me?”