Mama Sees Stars

I narrowed my eyes at him. I knew what Sava

I still hadn’t made up my mind whether it was truth or acting, when Mama sidled up to the movie star. Her hand darted to her full skirt like a sparrow after a crumb. She pulled out a little autograph book and miniature pen.

“Now that our shoot—and the shooting—is over, would you do me the honor?’’ She jabbed the pen at his hand like a student nurse trying her first IV.

His eyes flashed irritation for a second, then the corners crinkled into a good-natured smile.

“Why not?’’ He shrugged. “You sure worked for it.’’

Sirens wailed in the distance. “Carlos!’’ I wasn’t even aware I’d said his name aloud until Marty clutched my hand and squeezed. Maddie patted my back.

Tilton signed with a flourish and handed Mama back her pen and book. Tucking away the set in the gown’s cavernous pocket, she brought out a tiny mirror and her tube of Apricot Ice.

“Here you go, honey.’’ She offered both to me. “It was a miracle these didn’t break or get lost the way we tumbled across that ground. I’d say that’s a sign our Lord wants you to spruce up a bit before Carlos gets here.’’

Mama’s ‘miracle’ seemed kind of paltry, compared with Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead or feeding a multitude with just two fish and a few loaves of bread. Still, I had walked away from what seemed certain death, or at least grave danger. I wasn’t about to argue with a sign.

“Hand it over,’’ I said to Mama. “Anybody have a hairbrush? Maybe a breath mint?’’

D’Vora slapped a rolled-up magazine against the counter at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow. Her glittery purple nail polish sparkled in the sunshine pouring in through the salon’s front window.

“Y’all are NOT going to believe this!’’

She displayed the front cover of People. A headline screamed, Murderous Movie: What Really Happened in Florida?

“Does it say if Paul, the director, has turned up yet?’’ I asked D’Vora.

Betty looked at her over the poodle perm of the bank president’s wife. “How about the shop? Does it talk about Hair Today?’’

Mama grabbed for the magazine. “Let me see. Does it mention I’m in the movie?’’

“Well, I didn’t have time to read it.’’ D’Vora ducked out of Mama’s reach, hugging the magazine to her ample breast. “I ran right over as soon as I saw the magazine in my mailbox.’’

It’d been fifteen days since the movie people packed their gear and exited Himmarshee; two weeks since Sava

The first page of the article showed a big picture of Sava

She’d entered a plea of not guilty, of course, and everybody expected her high-powered attorney to try to cast suspicion anywhere but on Sava

Photos of the stars of the movie ran along the right-hand side of the page.

“Ooooh, there’s that Greg Tilton. He’s gorgeous.’’ Mrs. Bank President clutched a hand over her heart.

Tilton would no doubt be pleased his picture was first: top billing. “I could have been killed!’’ The caption underneath was a quote from the action hero.

Jesse looked horrible in her photo, not to mention high. “Oh, my! I didn’t know they were allowed to use a picture of her shooting somebody the bird.’’ Mama tsked. “That poor gal still hasn’t learned that the media can be an actress’s friend.’’

Betty raised her painted-on brows.

“Mama is referring to the article about her role in the movie that Buck Aubrey put in the feed store newsletter,’’ I explained.

Mama patted her hair. “Publicity is publicity, Mace.’’

“Listen to this, y’all. It’s about Toby.’’ D’Vora began to read.

“The young star surprised Hollywood insiders when he agreed to appear as grand marshal in next year’s Gay Pride parade in Long Beach, Calif. Wyle said, ‘I look forward to a day when all people will be treated equally and accepted for who they are, whether they’re straight or gay; black or white; Christian or not …’”

“That doesn’t sound like too much to ask, does it, Mama?’’

“Hmm,’’ she said, but didn’t rise to my bait.

“The next bit is about the assistant director,’’ D’Vora said. “Did y’all know him?’’

“Awful man. He screamed at me the first day on the set,’’ Mama said.

“Jonathan J. Burt,’’ I said. “And I’d hardly call it screaming. He only threatened to kick her out because Mama ruined a scene when she ran in front of the cameras, waving her arms and carrying on. Then the poor guy got shot. What’s it say about him, D’Vora?’’

“He’s taking a position to monitor Hollywood movies for the Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Def … Defam …”

“ ‘Defamation,’ ’’ Mrs. Banker helped out. “Our oldest son is gay.’’

If Mama had intended to do a biblical discourse on homosexuality, the revelation by the wife of a community pillar cut her short.

“Still no sight of the director,’’ Betty said, reading over D’Vora’s shoulder.

“Well, Paul won’t get away with it,’’ Mama said. “If Carlos has to hunt him down personally, he’ll catch him. Carlos Martinez always gets his man.’’

At the mention of Carlos’s name, Mama gave me a quick, guilty glance. An uncomfortable silence descended. Only Mrs. Bank President was unaware of the history, hard feelings, and pain attached to that name.

Betty changed the subject. “How do you suppose they’ll finish the movie without a director?’’

“I’m sure Barbara already has a list of names to bring in somebody else,’’ I said. “Norman Sydney was about to fire Paul, which is why Paul had such a powerful motive to get rid of him.”

A pout parked itself on Mama’s face.

“What?’’ I asked.

“I just hope the new director recognizes the star quality Paul saw in me.’’

“Well, Paul saw something in you, all right.’’

When Betty and D’Vora snickered, I felt bad. “I’m just kidding, y’all. Mama did a fantastic job with her scene. She killed. Right, Mama?’’

She fluttered her lashes modestly. “All I did was employ the methods of the great acting coach, Lee Strasberg. I tapped into my ‘affective memory.’’’

“Say what?’’ D’Vora scrunched up her face like she was doing calculus.

“Don’t ask,’’ I said.

“What happened to Paul’s girlfriend, Barbara?’’ Mama asked. “Did she help him get away?’’

“She says no,’’ I said. “She was busy making arrangements to get her ex-husband’s body back to Hollywood. They had the funeral two days after Sava

D’Vora’s periwinkle-shadowed eyelids suddenly went wide. She pointed out the front window. “Don’t look now, Mace, but there’s your gorgeous ex.’’

Carlos stood on the su

Betty aimed her comb toward the alley behind the shop. “Go on and run out the back door, honey.’’

I thought of how I’d lain in the dirt by the cow pen, praying I’d survive. I remembered the image I’d conjured of Carlos’s face, and what I promised myself if I escaped.