Authors: Melia McClure
The Delphi Room (14 page)
Dear Brinkley,
For one so sensitive about his mother, you don’t seem to be sensitive about much else. (And while we’re being insensitive, how about this: You look terrible in women’s clothes, and the fact that you wore your mother’s old dresses is sick. Sure, Ed Wood was a cross-dresser, but he didn’t wear his own mother’s dresses!) Yes, I used my favourite retro belt to hang myself in my bathroom, but you don’t have the right to touch that, ever. (And ever, as we are discovering, is a very long time.) Not in a fashion that’s meant to hurt me, anyway. If I can’t be honest with you about what I see in my mirror, then what’s the point of writing to each other at all? Your mother was clearly a nutter, although beautiful and, I’m sure, sensitive (in a twisted sort of way) at the same time. (Why don’t you think she loves you anymore? Surely she doesn’t blame you for being hit by a car. What aren’t you telling me?) Your mother had every right to be nuts, given she’d forever lost her daughter while grocery shopping. What a horrible burden to carry. Or maybe she was troubled before that. At any rate, it makes sense to me why she wanted to dress you like a girl. Sucked to be you, though.
And yes, my mother certainly had her moments, too. And having been a special guest at the Cracker Farm more than once, and then having done what I did, I’m sure that people would say that my brain is a bit of a doily. So what? Craziness is a country with closely guarded borders: you got to be special to get in and, once you’re a resident, they don’t ever let you out. You should know that, Mr. Crazy-Is-An-Abominable-Word. I saw you. You and Clara. A rather long time you spent talking to a dead movie star. And singing a lullaby to her. (Which I thought, incidentally, was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. The Welsh really know how to write bedtime songs.) So I guess I’m inside your head now. And you’re inside mine. Great. I already had enough weird stuff going on upstairs.
Oh, and the Andromeda thing. How wacked out is that? But I love it! (Do you think I could be from Andromeda, too? Are Deco-loving creative types popular there? Do Andromedans go in for human sacrifice? Chopping off someone’s existence in the name of the gods has always seemed to make people feel better. Really, I’m surprised we haven’t kept it up on our patch of the world’s grass, lobbed a few young virgins off the parliament buildings. And no, my novella wasn’t set in Andromeda. Yes, I was writing about interstellar circus performers, but I was creating my own galaxy for them. Actually, that was the Shadowman’s idea. As much as I hate him, I have to give him credit for all of his interesting creative inspirations.) My best friend when I was a kid, Delilah, used to tell me she was from Venus. Who knows, you two might’ve met on an intergalactic trip. I’m open-minded.
My eyes are blue, just like yours. They look alien to me and not just because of the colour. They have taken on a watery sort of glow, and the bruising around one eye caused by throwing myself against the wall has disappeared. There are no blood vessels either, only pure white and pure blue. They look larger than I remember—two large liquid jewels. Once upon a time I might have thought this a good thing, but not now. I’m afraid to look in the mirror, for fear of what I might discover next. But I’m longing for more movies of you. I want to understand your life. I have something else to announce as well: my eyebrows appear to be lightening and growing finer. I’m panicking. What’s happening to us? Well, I know you don’t have the answer since you’re asking me the same question. I’m wracking my brain for possibilities, but thus far to no avail. I can only surmise that my eyebrows are the opening act for a metamorphosis involving my hair. You haven’t mentioned that you’re in any physical pain. Neither am I, since I stopped throwing myself against the wall. And obviously you can still see, since you haven’t stopped writing letters. For these mercies I’m very thankful, but Brinkley—foreboding makes it hard to breathe. I’m terrified of my own reflection. Funny, I think I felt the same way before I died. My eyes are beautiful and grotesque.
So you were writing a romance novel. Surprising. And kind of odd, for a man. From what I saw in my mirror, you were having trouble with it. Romance is hard to write. But we really do need more stories with happy endings. My novella was not going to end on a happy note and look where it got me. The Shadowman doesn’t like happy endings. My main character’s name was Roma. I picked that name because I was in a produce market one day when a vision of the character came into my head and I was holding a Roma tomato in my hand. It was like seeing my name on the wall of Havana Restaurant—a clear sign. She was a young trapeze artist who became entangled in an affair with a much, much older man named Victor, who was a ventriloquist with a collection of real-potato Mr. Potato Heads and an addiction to takeout Chinese food. I was creating a circus-themed alternate galaxy for them to live in, but it was hard to write when the Shadowman kept interrupting and telling me what to do. Sure, sometimes his ideas were genius, but sometimes . . . not so much. There is nothing so horrible as an unfinished would-be masterpiece gone stale.
We are real. I’m sure of that. Reality clearly has more facets than we ever thought possible. We couldn’t write letters to one another if we weren’t real. We couldn’t cry or long for the things we once had. We are still us, even though our eyes are no longer our own. You’re right: I feel, therefore I am. Are you a Pisces, by any chance?
My friend Davie used to say, in fits of existential brilliance brought on by several martinis: I fuck, therefore I am. I think that’s rather crude, don’t you? That was Davie, funny and crude. This place would turn Descartes on his ear.
I can’t believe you watched
Casablanca
611 times! I saw it 137 times and I thought I held the record. I know all the dialogue by heart. I can recite the film from start to finish. I once did it in front of my mirror, just to test myself. Not really a skill that came in handy. Not being able to watch
A Clockwork Orange
is a sign of a very healthy individual—the germ thing be damned!— and I’m like you; I had cinema-prompted nightmares all the time. When I was a child, I was traumatized by Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. But a few months before the end, I decided, for no good reason that I can think of now, to try to cure myself of movie squeamishness. So I forced myself to watch
A Clockwork Orange
ten times in a row. Not only did that not cure me of my fear, I didn’t sleep for a week. Thereafter, I slept with the lights on surrounded by a fortress of pillows. I hung the poster in my room partly as a nod to what I can admit is brilliant filmmaking, but mostly as a reminder to myself not to be such an idiot.
So this was my I’m-going-to-be-reasonable-and-forgiving-in-case-there-is-a-God letter, when what I really wanted to do after I read the first part of your last letter was drop you like a hot rock. Get over yourself. “Crazy” is not an abominable word. Your mother was nuts, I’m nuts, you’re nuts, and who really gives a shit about semantics in Hell? Have you ever taken a trip to the Cracker Farm? They usually put people who talk to dead movie stars on medication, you know. (Unless Clara Bow really is a time traveller, but then again, even if she is, nobody would believe that.) But sometimes pills make everything worse. They made me sick and tired and dizzy. It was either that, or the Shadowman, or sometimes both—pretty shitty options, if you ask me. Also, for the record, I was not having a “dalliance” with the Shadowman. He was my torturer, not my boyfriend. Okay, so he was sort of my friend too, in a weird way, but not really. Anyhow, if you ever accuse me of being an insensitive suicide again, or make any other insensitive references to my untimely end, you will be spending Eternity alone. And that’s a long time.
Sincerely, Velvet
P.S. Is your hair turning colours, yet?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—AFTERNOON
Mae/Mother jumps naked on her bed.
MAE/MOTHER
(hollering)
Vee! Vee!
Velvet appears in the doorway.
MAE/MOTHER
Darling, help me decide what to wear. He’s gonna be here in three hours. Be an angel and pour me a drink. Over there.
She points to a bottle of gin and a glass on the dresser. Velvet walks over and pours.
VELVET
I was just teaching Delilah how to write Roman numerals. She thinks they’re more elegant than regular numbers.
MAE/MOTHER
Oh, for Chrissake. Well, you two’ll be all set if you ever run into Julius Caesar.
VELVET
Who?
MAE/MOTHER
Never mind. Just help me pick something to wear. Men want the gift but you gotta wrap it well.
Her gifts fly in all directions as she jumps.
VELVET
Mom?
MAE/MOTHER
Yeah?
VELVET
I think I’m getting pneumonia. Delilah’s got it too.
MAE/MOTHER
Why do you think that?
VELVET
Sore throat.
MAE/MOTHER
Just a little cold. I’ll leave the Dimetapp bottle in your room. Take a swig before you go to sleep. And I’ll make you some chicken soup and chow mein tomorrow.
VELVET
Mom?
MAE/MOTHER
Yeah?
VELVET
I don’t want you to have a date.
Mae/Mother stops jumping and drops to her knees. She holds out her arms and Velvet rushes into them.
MAE/MOTHER
This one’s different, baby, I promise you this one’s different.
Velvet’s face is torrented by tears. She shakes her head.
MAE/MOTHER
Yes, yes he is. This one’s gonna be different, angel.
She wipes Velvet’s face with her hands.
VELVET
Pinky swear?
MAE/MOTHER
Pinky swear. Now: what should I wear? And darling bring me that drink, chop, chop, I’m in the bloody Sahara over here.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—HALL STAIRS—LATER
Velvet sits on the stairs, a pink blanket around her shoulders. She listens to the loud conversation emanating from the kitchen.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN—CONTINUOUS
Mae/Mother stands at the counter pouring drinks, waving her arms about as she speaks. A face full of make-up diminishes, but does not entirely hide, the shadow of her black eye. Her date sits at the table, digging his gums with a toothpick.
MAE/MOTHER
(loudly)
We gotta be quiet, my daughter’s asleep. Hope you didn’t mind coming here. Babysitters are expensive.
TOOTHPICK MAN
(looking around)
Doesn’t look like you’re doing too badly for yourself.
MAE/MOTHER
Oh, it’s an old house. My dad left it to me in his will. Otherwise I’d still be renting a dumpy apartment.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Thanks for dinner. You’re a great cook.
MAE/MOTHER
Anytime.
She sashays to the table and hands him his drink, sits on his lap. He touches a finger to the bruise on her face.
TOOTHPICK MAN
You gotta be more careful, honey.
MAE/MOTHER
(turning her face away)
Yeah, I know. I’m a fucking klutz. That’s what happens when doors jump out at you.
Toothpick Man downs his drink.
TOOTHPICK MAN
You got more where that came from?
He puts his hand on her breast.
MAE/MOTHER
Of course.
She moves to get up, but he pulls her back down, kisses her mouth.
TOOTHPICK MAN
You taste good.
MAE/MOTHER
You’ve got good taste.
TOOTHPICK MAN
(in between kisses)
Now about that drink . . .
MAE/MOTHER
Coming right up. I’m well-stocked.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Well-stacked.
MAE/MOTHER
(laughs)
Mind yourself.
TOOTHPICK MAN
I don’t mind myself at all. God, you’re beautiful.
Mae/Mother’s eyes fill with tears.
MAE/MOTHER
Why do I suddenly feel like lighting a candle?
TOOTHPICK MAN
(laughs)
You are. You’re beautiful.
MAE/MOTHER
My daughter thinks I look like Mae West, except my hair’s dark.
TOOTHPICK MAN
How does she know who Mae West is?
MAE/MOTHER
She’s a weird kid.
TOOTHPICK MAN
When do I get to meet her?
MAE/MOTHER
You wanna meet my daughter?
TOOTHPICK MAN
Of course. Is she as beautiful as you?
MAE/MOTHER
(giggles)
You’re a charmer. Actually, she looks more like her dad.
She’s at the counter pouring, filling both glasses to the brim and spilling a little in the process.
TOOTHPICK MAN
How long were you married?
MAE/MOTHER
I wasn’t. We weren’t. We were planning to, once Velvet was born, but . . .
She takes a big drink.
TOOTHPICK MAN
But what?
MAE/MOTHER
He blew his brains out.
TOOTHPICK MAN
(softly)
Oh, babydoll . . .
MAE/MOTHER
Sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you that. It’s the gin.
Toothpick Man holds out his arms.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Come here.
MAE/MOTHER
I’m fine, really.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Baby, come here.
MAE/MOTHER
Do you want cheesecake?
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—HALL STAIRS—CONTINUOUS
Velvet’s eyes are dinner plates, her face bone-china-white.
VELVET
(frantic whisper)
Delilah, where are you? Delilah, come back! Delilah, cuddle me!
Tears fall from the plates, streak the china.
INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BEDROOM—LATER
Velvet lies rigid and wide-awake in bed. Light from the hallway slices the dark through the slightly open door. Toothpick Man enters, letting in more light, and Velvet bolts upright and yanks her quilt around her, a threadbare armour. They stare at each other. Toothpick Man is naked.
TOOTHPICK MAN
Oh. I was looking for the bathroom. You must be the little lady of the house.
Velvet nods.
TOOTHPICK MAN
It’s nice to meet you. You’re pretty, just like your mom.
Long silence.
TOOTHPICK MAN
(looking around)
Nice room you got.
He notices the Dimetapp bottle sitting on the night table. He picks it up, and Velvet flattens herself against the wall.
TOOTHPICK MAN
You sick?
Velvet nods.
TOOTHPICK MAN
This stuff tastes good, doesn’t it? I like the taste.
Long silence, while he stares at Velvet.
TOOTHPICK MAN
I’m gonna go find the bathroom now. You have sweet dreams, okay?
INT. VELVET’S HELL—MIRROR—BRINKLEY’S BEDROOM—NIGHT
Brinkley, in pinstriped pajamas and his peach angora sweater, paces the floor.
CLARA BOW
Hello, Brinkley. How’s tricks?
He turns to Clara in the mirror.
CLARA BOW
Can’t sleep neither? You can keep me company. My ma wore wooden clogs. Used ta stomp around all night.
BRINKLEY
My mother just moans all night.
CLARA BOW
Did she hold a knife to yer throat? My ma hates actresses, she thinks we’re whores. She was just tryinta protect me. But I became the “It Girl” anyway, even though I’m kinda fat and I got red hair.
BRINKLEY
Red hair is the most beautiful. And you’re not fat. You’re perfect.
CLARA BOW
(teasing)
Ooh, so you’re a cake-eater, are ya!
(pause, resigned)
Ah well, maybe Ma was right. We’re all prostitutes anyway. Everybody’s a whore to this life.
BRINKLEY
My mother never let me sleep. And now I’m awake forever. She always wanted to tell stories, or play dress-up, or go running outside in the middle of the night. I just want to sleep. My mother doesn’t walk the floor anymore, she’s too sick.
CLARA BOW
You’re lyin’. Fess up.
BRINKLEY
What do you mean?
CLARA BOW
Yer mother ain’t sick.
BRINKLEY
Yes she is. She moans all night long.
CLARA BOW
Liar! She don’t moan all night, you do. You’re keepin’ yaself awake. She sleeps like a stone, drunk as the day is long.
BRINKLEY
You mean, she isn’t really sick? She’s not suffering?
CLARA BOW
How can she suffer when she’s drunk? Lady
should
be sufferin’, long and hard, if ya ask me. Wake up! Get a backbone! Solutions, Brinkley, solutions! Aren’t men supposeta be good at fixin’ things? Ha! That’s a laugh!
(pause)
Listen kid, ya gotta help yaself.
BRINKLEY
Help myself? How?
CLARA BOW
Listen carefully.
BRINKLEY
What, Clara?
CLARA BOW
Nah, I’ll tellya some other time. My mother entertained lotsa uncles.
BRINKLEY
Uncles?
CLARA BOW
Yeah, I got more uncles than any kid in the neighbourhood. She entertained, and I hid in the cupboard. ’S hardta breathe in there. Did you ever hide in a cupboard?
BRINKLEY
Yes.
CLARA BOW
When she was entertainin’?
BRINKLEY
No, when she was . . .
CLARA BOW
What?
BRINKLEY
Nothing. My mother loves me.
CLARA BOW
Whatever.
BRINKLEY
She does. I’m her special boy.
CLARA BOW
(chortles)
Yeah. You could call it that.
BRINKLEY
(screaming)
She does! She does! She does!
He collapses to the floor, tearing at his hair.
CLARA BOW
Brinkley! Brinkley! Brinkley!
He looks up at her, but remains on his knees, face full of tears.
CLARA BOW
What are ya gonna cry for, huh? That’s
my
job.
BRINKLEY
(in a child’s voice)
My mother loves me.
CLARA BOW
She loves ya too much. And not at all. My dad loves me too much. And I love him. But he goes away. He’s too heavy for my little body. But he loves me.
BRINKLEY
(softly)
My mother is heavy too. She used to squish me and I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t her fault, it’s just that she drank a lot, because of my sister. She was always sad. And sometimes The Committee made her upset, when they weren’t giving her good ideas for her paintings. The Committee kept changing the secret code, and she would get very frustrated and angry. I can understand why. But she is beautiful, like an angel. And sometimes she was fun, laughing. Sometimes she let me paint with her.
CLARA BOW
The fuckin’ Committee’s evil, that’s what I think. Poisoned her mind. Just like Hollywood, if ya ask me. They treat me like garbage! I’m the goddamn “It Girl” and they treat me like trash!