The Body in the Cast ff-5 Page 5

  “You look awfully natty for ladling out soup, sweetheart," Tom noted as he helped Faith bundle the two kids into what seemed like thirty or forty pounds of outerwear. "Trying to land a part in the film?"

  “I arranged to meet Cornelia for coffee after the break. She has some free time this morning at last, though she'll probably cancel again to impress me with how indispensable she is. It's what I suspect she was doing last week.”

  It had not escaped Faith's notice that what Cornelia mostly seemed to do was run around getting things for Maxwell Reed, like endless bottles of his favorite Calistoga water, cold but not chilled, and boxes of imported glacéed fruits to nibble. The other production assistant working directly for Max, Sandra Wilson, was vying with Cornelia for the title of head handmaiden, and seemed to have the edge, since she was also Evelyn O'Clair's stand-in. There was no way Cornelia qualified for that. Sandra was eerily like Evelyn, although the poor man's version—no makeup; dressed in old jeans and T-shirts, except when they were checking the lighting. Then she emerged from the chrysalis costumed and cosmeticized, but still no O'Clair.

  “Oh yes, your old school friend. I can see the two of you getting all misty over those happy golden years," Tom said mockingly. He knew very well how eager Faith had been for those golden years to pass as she sat and gazed out the windows of her Dalton classrooms at the teeming sidewalks below, infinitely more exciting than the Missouri Compromise, Arma, virumque, cano, or whatever else was being imparted within the walls. Cornelia had chafed at the bit, too, but mostly for the day to end so she could ride one of her beloved horses in Central Park.

  A few hours later, Faith and Cornelia, gingerly holding hot cups of strong black coffee, were walking slowly across the large field in front of the Pingree house, toward the woods. Cornelia hadn't canceled; however, she had informed Faith sternly it would have to be a "working coffee." She was, rechecking locations for the scene where Hester waits for Dimmesdale in the woods and they decide to run off together.

  “He's a genius, pure and simple.”

  It was immediately clear that the challenge for Faith was not going to be getting Cornelia to talk about Maxwell Reed but getting her to talk about anything else.

  “I've always admired his films, yet—" Faith wasn't allowed to finish her sentence. It could even be difficult to say anything at all, an unusual situation for Mrs. Fairchild..

  “This is the third film I've been fortunate enough to work on, and I wouldn't dream of doing anything else. You must try to imagine, Faith dear, what it's like to sit and listen to him discuss his work." Corny's tone clearly implied that imagining would be all Faith would be doing.

  Faith resolutely finished her earlier thought.

  “This film seems a little different from the others—casting Cappy and Caresse. How do you think having such big names is going to affect the film? His other pictures have always been, well, a little like watching extremely good home movies shot by someone you know slightly.

  Faith realized her choice of words—home movies—had not been the best, but oddly enough, Cornelia's face glowed with pleasure.

  “That's what Max says! He would be happiest just walking the streets with a small video camera and capturing those moments no one else notices. Of course the public would never understand. But I don't think A will be any different from the others because of the casting. It's not an Evelyn O'Clair, Cappy Camson, or Caresse Carroll picture. It's a Maxwell Reed." The pleasant expression vanished with the acerbic tone of her voice.

  They'd reached one of the brooks that crisscrossed the conservation land. The relatively warm weather had melted some of the ice and the banks were covered with mud. It didn't look very inviting, and as a spot for a romantic tryst, it ranked close to the tundra during a spring thaw. Corny loved it.

  “Exactly what Max wants for the scene where Hester and Arthur renew their passion!" she enthused.

  “I don't remember any mention of their making love—and wasn't Pearl around during the forest scene, too?"

  “Faith, Faith:' Cornelia chided, "this is Max's interpretation, not Nathaniel Hawthorne's." Whoever he might be, Faith silently finished for her.

  Cornelia was off and running. "Reality is an illusion as far as Max is concerned. Last night, he told me, `The world is a defiance of common sense.' I treasure those words—and the fact that he has always been able to confide in me about his work.”

  René Magritte treasured those words, too, Faith recalled. There had been a review of an exhibit by the artist in last Friday's New York Times and Max must have seen it, as Faith had. It was possible the words entered his subconscious and he truly believed they were his own thoughts. Or not. But Corny believed and Faith wasn't about to mention any feet of clay. It was enough that Faith herself was suffering feet of mud—her new Cole-Haan boots were encrusted with the stuff.

  “I think I have to get back and check on the lunch preparations," Faith said as Cornelia eyed the mucky path ahead with interest.

  “I should be getting back, too," she said, abandoning the path not taken with a perceptible sigh. "I'm supposed to be helping Evelyn with her lines this morning."

  “That must be fascinating." Faith would have been happy to spend time listening to Evelyn O'Clair's slightly husky, velvet voice try out various readings.

  “Nothing fascinating about it," Cornelia complained. "The woman can barely remember her own telephone number. I can't imagine what Max sees in her. Actually, I can imagine, but he certainly doesn't talk to her!”

  She suddenly lowered her voice, although the only potential eavesdroppers were a few gray squirrels and a solitary crow motionless on a tall pine.

  “You may have heard that Evelyn took a long vacation in Europe last year?" Faith hadn't, but she nodded encouragingly. "Well, she was in Europe, only it wasn't for a vacation.”

  Faith didn't need Corny's long pause to indicate emphasis. Her voice had underlined the words sufficiently. It would be on the final for sure.

  “It wasn't?" she asked obediently.

  “No, she was at a spa, if you know what I mean.”

  Faith was pretty sure she didn't mean sixteen glasses of water a day and a seaweed wrap. "Was it alcohol or drugs, or did she have some other kind of breakdown?"

  “That would be telling:' Corny said, smugly fastening every button on her unbared breast with annoying swiftness.

  This was good gossip, but Faith knew there would be no more. The moment had passed. Preoccupied, Cornelia stomped steadfastly back toward the set, obviously thinking how much better a consort she would make. More like the virgin queen, Faith reflected. Anyway for now, and quite likely forever, Miss Stuyvesant would have to be content with the crumbs from Evelyn's table.

  They were both surprised to see Max himself at the canteen truck with Sandra Wilson and some of the rest of the crew, instead of sequestered in his trailer or on the set as usual. They were laughing and it was obvious from their good humor that the morning's shoot had been successful.

  “Mistress Fairchild—Faith, if I may—whatever these are, they are wicked and as addictive as ... well, let's merely say addictive. You are going to have to cater all my films," Max called out.

  Faith was inordinately pleased. It was nice, of course, when the Ladies Alliance at First Parish praised the tiny buckwheat walnut rolls she filled with thin slices of Virginia ham and a touch of honey mustard, but to hear it from a famous person—this was something else again. She just might have to become a Maxwell Reed groupie herself, no matter whose quotations he cribbed.

  Cornelia had immediately insinuated herself into the group around the director, and from the way she regarded Sandra, her fellow PA, it was apparent to Faith that Evelyn O'Clair was not the only fly in the pancake makeup so far as Corny was concerned.

  They were all diverted by the arrival of Caresse Carroll with her mother literally following at her heels. Caresse was running, and when she stopped, planting herself firmly in front of Max, it was clear it wasn't the exe
rcise that had brought roses to her cheeks, but annoyance—a lot of annoyance.

  Caresse was very, very angry.

  “Who the hell do you think you are kicking me off your stinking movie! Do you think I wanted to work for an old weirdo like you!" she shrieked. Her whole body was rigid and the only part moving was her lips. She looked like the little girl she'd played in Adopted by Aliens after they'd snatched her body.

  Her mother put her arm around Caresse's shoulder, attempting to lead her away, whispering something that sounded like "Now, dear, it's not worth ..."

  “Get away from me!" Caresse rudely pushed her mother, sending her almost tumbling to the ground, and without pausing for breath continued her tirade. Jacqueline Carroll had tears in her eyes.

  “We have a contract, mister." Caresse took a step forward and was shaking a tiny finger that threatened to become a fist at Max. "And you'd better remember that or you'll be sorry!"

  “Are you finished?" Max asked quietly. He didn't look at all disturbed, yet the words were menacing in their steeliness. He might just as well have pulled a whip from his coat pocket and snapped it in the air. Caresse stood still, openmouthed, but not for long.

  “No, I am not. Fuck you! And fuck the whole movie!"

  “Are you finished?" he said in the same voice, a voice that belied his casual stance. He folded his arms across his chest. The cast and crew remained frozen in position. Nobody wanted to miss this scene.

  “I'm waiting. Are you quite finished?”

  Caresse hadn't said a word.

  “Good. Now then, I have no idea who told you you were off the film. You're not. It's true I have been rethinking a few of Pearl's scenes and we may use the infant in somewhere we had originally thought we would use the older child. But nothing, I repeat nothing, has been decided."

  “Bullshit," Caresse said, looking Max straight in the eye. 'Bullshe-it." She drew the word out and walked over to her mother. "Come on, Mom, we're outta here. If he wants me, he can call my agent."

  “Much as I admire the exit, I can't let you do it, Caresse" Max approached Jacqueline and softened his tone, "Believe me, Mrs. Carroll, I don't know how the rumor started and I will find out. Caresse is listed on tomorrow's call sheet and I want her to rehearse with Marta after lunch. Please let's not allow this misunderstanding to get out of control.”

  Caresse had continued to walk off after Max's first words, and now she called back to her mother, "Mom! Are you coming or not?" Jacqueline gave Max an encouraging nod and murmured, "I think she's a little overtired"—that time-honored apology of mothers everywhere.

  “Yeah, like Nero's ma said when he played with matches, `The child simply needs more sleep,' " whispered Niki to Faith, who thereupon had to walk away to recover her composure. She took the opportunity to make a visit to the "honey wagon," as the toilets were quaintly called. She passed Marta Haree, who had been watching the whole scene from a distance. There was no mistaking the sardonic amusement on her face, and Faith thought Marta was someone she'd like to get to know better. Certainly the woman was extraordinary-looking. Her fine red frizzled hair surrounded her head like a Pre-Raphaelite aureole. Her face was pale, with mostly delicate features—high cheekbones, a pointed chin, almond-shaped green eyes. The exception was her nose: large, slightly crooked, dominant. It was hard to tell whether she was heavy or the bulk was an illusion created by the many layers of clothing she affected—trailing gypsy like garments in bright colors. Surely Marta Haree was a stage name, but it suited her. There was something a bit secretive—and seductive—about her. She didn't mix with the other actors, spending her time alone in her trailer or with the director. Like her weight, her age was difficult to calculate. In some of Reed's movies, she played octogenarians; in others, ingenues. Faith put her somewhere in her late forties or fifties and decided there was more than a trace of Magyar in Marta.

  Returning to the catering tent to put the final touches on the black bean soup and other things on the menu for lunch, Faith passed Max and Evelyn, arm in arm, deep in conversation. They stopped when they saw Faith, and Evelyn smiled engagingly. "Could you prepare a tray of something delicious for me to eat in my trailer, dear? I missed the morning break and I'm absolutely ravenous." It was difficult to imagine calories put to better use, and Faith told her she'd see to the tray immediately.

  “Thank you. One of those nice little PAs will be along to get it." Evelyn bestowed yet another smile on Faith and then continued to stroll with Max. They picked up their conversation when Faith was almost out of earshot. His words were muffled, but Evelyn's were piercingly clear. "I'm tired of telling you, Maxie. I don't care what you want. Once and for all, I want her off the picture”

  Back at the tent, Faith quickly put together a tray for Ms. O'Clair: a large, steaming bowl of black bean soup topped by a dollop of sour cream and fresh chives (see recipe on page 324); some of the buckwheat walnut rolls with ham that she'd missed; a salad; and a ramekin of crème caramel, along with Evelyn's drink of choice—Perrier mixed with diet Coke. As Faith worked, she thought about the fragment of the conversation she'd overheard. Caresse obviously was "her." But why did Evelyn want her off the picture, especially at this stage of the game? Wouldn't any objections she'd had have been made when Max was casting in the first place? Maybe she hadn't heard "Never act with children or dogs"—or hadn't believed it. Whatever her opinion had been earlier, she was certainly definite now. Faith added a small bud vase with a single pale pink rose, a damask napkin, and appropriate cutlery. She knew from past experiences that catering to the stars meant exactly that.

  The tray dispatched, Faith, Niki, Pix, and the rest of the staff turned their attention to preparing for the stampede that would arrive shortly—not before Pix had voiced her irritation with little Miss Carroll, however.

  “You know what I think about spanking," she said. Faith nodded and quoted, " `A parent out of control means a child out of control.' " Pix had taken some sort of parent-awareness classes at Adult Ed in between pierced lamp shades and folded star patchwork tree ornaments.

  “But," continued Pix, and it was a momentous but, "this child needs someone to turn her over his or her knee—and if I see her push her mother again, it's going to be mine, no matter how much money America's Sweetheart makes." Having disposed of the problem of Caresse, Pix turned her attention to counting napkins, knives, forks, and spoons.

  Besides the soup, there were individual tomato and onion quiches, couscous with grilled vegetables, a salad bar, assorted breads, and a savory whole pastrami keeping warm under the lights, which made it look all the more appetizing—not too fat, not too lean. Mr. and Mrs. Sprat would have had a tough time deciding.

  “Stations, everyone," Faith called, and she tied back the tent flaps. The heaters made the inside a cozy contrast to what was yet another typically "brisk" New England March day. People were beginning to straggle across the Pingrees' lawn in search of sustenance when a call for help stopped them dead in their tracks.

  “Fire!" somebody screamed. "Come on!”

  Everyone, including the caterers, rushed off in the direction of the house. The clapboard would go up like the kindling it was. Faith grabbed one of the fire extinguishers she had on hand and shouted over her shoulder for someone to get the other one.

  Once outside, they realized everyone was running toward the barn—the site of the fire made obvious by the thick cloud of black smoke billowing from the open door. It was mass confusion with a touch of mass hysteria. Two crew members—stuntmen, Faith discovered later—grabbed her extinguishers and disappeared into the smoke. The breeze spread the harsh odor of the fumes over the watching crowd. In what seemed like several hours but was in reality no more than twenty minutes, the stuntmen and the others who had gone in immediately with extinguishers from the set emerged. They looked none the worse for wear, except for smudged faces, shiny with sweat and tears from the smoke.

  “It's all over, folks. Oily rags. No damage, Max," one of them reassured the director,
who was hastening toward them.

  “How did it start?" he asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe somebody sneaking a smoke.”

  Maxwell Reed had a hard-and-fast rule about smoking on the set—anywhere. He was fanatic on the subject. Not everybody was able to live with it, and the stalls in the honey wagon smelled a lot more like Luckies than Lysol.

  “I hope not," Max said grimly, his eyes raking the group still assembled outside the barn. When he reached where she was standing, Faith felt instinctively guilty—for what, she knew not.

  “It's out now, and that's the important thing." Alan Morris moved quickly to douse these new flames. "Let's eat, everybody.”

  It was out. And out before both bright red Aleford fire engines tore into the yard, sirens blaring, carrying a full complement of the Aleford Ancient Order of Hook and Ladder Volunteers. Screeching to a halt behind these came the ambulance. Bringing up the rear, the chief's venerable police car sputtered to its own inimitable stop.

  Faith hurried back to the tent to put out additional food.

  “More mouths to feed," she instructed the staff, adding to Niki and Pix, "You know they're all kicking themselves for missing the action, and you can be sure they're not going to pass up the chance to hobnob on the set now that they're here." She looked into the soup tureens. There was plenty and it was steaming hot. "And, to be fair, they can't leave without checking things out, which just might have to take all afternoon. We can grab Charley later for coffee and doughnuts. I'd like to know myself how the rags caught fire."

  “Is this the Faith Fairchild version of `inquiring minds want to know' again?" Niki asked. "I've heard stories about you. I'm sure it was a cigarette. You know they all go into the woods to smoke. It's a wonder we haven't had a forest fire."