Hollywood Beginnings (A Novella) (8 page)

***

Brian knew standing naked in the doorway would not make points with the neighbors, at least not the kind he wanted. But he couldn't turn away until he'd seen the last of Amy. She'd call a cab once she cleared the drive-way, but he wished she'd let him take her home. Maybe if he had another minute to talk to her… but she'd say nothing but
no
.

She'd said
yes
to a lot of other things the night before. It hadn't surprised him to find her as straightforward and great as he'd hoped. The surprise had been how much he'd wanted her to stay, how much he'd looked forward to waking up, and seeing if he could stand to slow things with all the heat between them.

She had some things to sort out that was for sure. Not that he didn't. He'd tried to believe in his own guy swagger when he'd predicted she'd be back.

He hoped she would be. But first they had a funeral to go to.

My mom was in the hotel restaurant having breakfast, and I avoided being spotted, rushed up the room and was showered and dressed when she came in. Of course, we both knew I'd been out all night, but it was easy to ignore since we had something new in common. We both knew what wanting to flee L.A. felt like.

The cab dropped us at a non-denominational church that was a couple of square feet shy of being a mega-church. Compared to Dad's back in Minnesota, this one tested positive for steroids. We stood, taking it in, and the sweep of sidewalk alone was wide enough for a semi-truck to drive on. With the outside shaped a little like a coliseum, I wondered if the architect hadn't been aware of that whole
feed the Christians to the lions
thing.

I looked over at Mom, glad she'd sprung for something new when we'd shopped. God knew she deserved it. She'd gotten a black jacket with three-quarter sleeves, turned back and cuffed. It showed off her charm bracelet, looking at home in California, and went well with her floral skirt and light hair.

I'd gotten a black v neck sheath because we'd found a sale on silk duopioni, not that I'd known what that was. Mom did. At the time I didn't think anything of it, but after the gingham bathing suit fiasco, I had to wonder about the cosmic joke of my mother and I wearing fabric made from the rough silk of
entangled
cocoons.

I was not going to think about Brian Keller ever again.

We entered the over-sized doors thirty minutes early, naturally. We had Midwest punctuality going for us and so got a seat towards the front. I listened to the organ music, expecting
Nearer My God to Thee
and getting the Eagle's
Hotel California
.

It was going to be an interesting funeral.

I looked around and decided the inside wasn't any more comforting than the outside had been. The ceiling with its curves of sculptural lights reminded me of a Star Trek episode where they'd beamed onto an unfriendly space ship. But to soften the modern cool of that, someone had added fiberglass pillars, two rows that divided the church into three sections of pews and blocked views among the congregation.

Everyone knew that people watching was a Sunday highlight. I thought of the hours I'd entertained myself growing up. Even though I knew everyone in the church family, there was always something new to see. Once my brother and sister and I hit the mother-load when Agnes Detwiler tucked the back of her skirt into her pantyhose.

She swayed down the aisle to the front pew, and I mean
swayed
because Agnes Detwiler had some serious junk in her trunk. It was silent save for the grippy sound of her crepe soled shoes. Silent until I lost it, followed into hysterical laughter by my siblings and escorted out by our mother.

I could only hope for something that entertaining to happen, but I knew I'd be there for Mom, we'd leave for the airport, and by the end of the day, I'd be back in Minnesota as if nothing had ever happened. I ignored how depressing that sounded to me and watched some really beautiful people take their seats around us. In direct contrast to our early arrival, they began to arrive minutes before the funeral was supposed to begin, but it was a crowd worthy of a Hollywood legend. There were some contemporaries of Van, and I wondered if mom would recognize any of them.

The men wore dark, lean suits. The women favored bandage style dresses that made me wonder how blood circulated to their organs. They all seemed to think nothing of wearing their sunglasses indoors, and I hadn't even brought a pair for outdoors. Some of the women wore huge ones, and I felt a certain cattiness wondering if they were shielding their grief from on-lookers or covering up the aftermath of plastic surgery.

I didn't need to wonder long.

After the minister shared Van's obituary, which read like a list of professional achievements, he invited folks to share. And when the women began to stand, it was clear they could only be recovering from cosmetic procedures because they were not struggling with grief.

It was awkward in a way I'd never experienced, and I'd been to Henry Kaufman's funeral and
get off my lawn you goddamn kids
Kaufman had been universally hated in my town. Still, even at that funeral, folks said a few positive things. He did keep a lovely lawn.

So far the only good thing said about Van Baron was that he had nice hair. Oh, and it was real. That addition was important to know since we were in the birthplace of spray-on hair for men and the early testing ground for hair plugs.

He'd also been described as a man devoted to helping up and coming young actresses, and I think we all knew what that meant, especially since the middle-aged woman delivering the observation looked like she was prepared to march in a take back the night rally.

In the background I thought I heard the organ softly play
Only the Good Die Young
. Even the organist had anger issues when it came to Van Baron and seemed committed to playing quietly through the whole service. Cheaper than therapy, I suppose.

My mother leaned in, probably to avoid hearing any more sad stories from women who hadn't been as lucky to have a chaperone as she had. "How was Brian?"

My mind froze. She was asking…"Excuse me?"

"After dinner, when he drove you home, how was he doing? Was he upset?"

Upset? Not until I busted him in the morning, but I didn't know how to tell her that. What should I say? He was big? Athletic? Slow-handed and willing to speed up on the delivery when it was called for? Weirdly obsessed with
her
? I didn't want anyone to know how badly I'd chosen again, but she needed to steer clear of him just the same. "Don't talk to him anymore, Mom. When we leave, if he tries to contact you…" I had to stop for a moment to ignore the stab of disappointment that Brian Keller would not be having contact with me, any kind of contact, ever again.

She didn't even blink, just whispered back to me while another woman stood and the organist played Frank Sinatra's
I Did It My Way
. "He had a very tough time of it, poor boy."

"Time of what?"

"Well, it took some effort for him to find me in the first place and let me know about Van."

"He's the one who told you?"

She hesitated. "He needed some information."

"I'll bet."

"What does that mean?" Her eyes narrowed at me, and when I didn't answer, she went on in her mom-lecture voice. "He's a nice man, Amy. Honestly, you've really had the worst taste in men. When I sent you off with him after dinner, I knew you'd make it more difficult than it needed to be."

I
would make it difficult? Well, she knew nothing. "It's not me this time, geeze! He had your picture up in his house and a gingham bathing suit."

She sighed in exaggeration. "Brian is not a cross-dresser, and this is exactly how rumors get started."

"
He
wasn't wearing the bikini. I was. It was in his pool house, but then I found out
way
too late it was yours from
Beach Blanket Twist
. It's like he's obsessed with you, Mom. Seriously, Brian Keller is beach blanket
twisted
."

"The blue and white bikini." Her eyes softened as if I'd just said the most charming thing in the world. "That's sweet." She shook her head, a little choked up, and I knew if I had terrible taste in men, she was really whacked to think he was sweet.

And then as the last woman sat down, Brian Keller himself took the podium.

Maybe I should have guessed the tabloid prince would be there since he was such an expert on Van Baron by way of my mother. I wanted to feel
frankly my dear I don't give a damn
but I really felt
you had me at hello and then you had me on the beach and in the shower
...

I didn't want to want him, but damned if I didn't feel a pull towards him. I really did have terrible taste in men, and the worst part was I didn't let myself see it coming. Everyone thought Duane was a complete douche bag, and I'm not imagining it because my brother actually said,
Duane's a complete douche bag
. But up until the moment the twenty-something mini mart clerk snapped her gum and said,
yeah, what's it to you?
And I had to say,
I'm his wife
, I hadn't wanted to see how bad he was.

This time the evidence was, well, more evident. But I couldn't help but notice the lines drawn around Brian's eyes, his mouth tight as if he were stressed. I refused to feel anything seeing him stand up there in a dark suit coat, his skin warm in the stark white of his shirt. I wish I didn't know how good his chest felt and how nice he'd smell if I put my nose into the collar right there to take in the warmth of him. My deep down desire was to ignore my own questionable judgment, walk up to that podium, and pull his sandy blond head down to my shoulder to give him some comfort.

I was beach blanket twisted too.

Brian looked out over the crowd, and I wondered why anyone in their right mind would let a tabloid writer in a funeral, let alone give him a mic.

Mom sighed in what sounded like relief. "Oh, I'm so glad."

I wanted to shake loose whatever nuttiness had gotten stuck in her normally pragmatic brain. "Mom, you'd better brace yourself, 'cause he's gonna say god knows what about you. We should go."

She waved a dismissal and ignored me to give all her attention to her biggest fan. Yuck and yuck again. I wished I'd never slept with him, or at least not liked it so much.

He cleared his throat. "Some people would say that a man like Van Baron had a lot of love to give."

There was a murmur in the crowd as if they'd collectively determined it would be one of
those
eulogies, lots of gloss and no truth.

"Some would say he had the same amount of love in him when he died."

It took a moment for the insult to register and the take back the night woman laughed out loud.

"Until yesterday I would have agreed." He glanced around the church, and I tried not to think he was looking for me, then he lifted one hand as if not sure where to go from there. "I'd say that Van Baron was like a father to me except he was nothing like a father to me." He smiled, shook his head. "He was just the man who fathered me."

I sucked in a breath, trying to figure out the logistics of Van and Brian. I wished I knew exactly how old Brian was and that I'd paid more attention in math class. I felt myself pale, my head take a swoopy dizzy dive, and I grabbed my mother's arm. "I slept with him."

Mom raised an eyebrow. "I didn't expect you played Parcheesi until dawn."

"But he's..."

"Van's son." She looked at me in question and then irritation showed on her face. "Would I have sent you with him last night if he were your brother? Honestly, Amy, what you remember from the Bible is quite disturbing. You were always like that. Ignore the lovely example of Ruth and wear out Revelations."

"Mom! This is serious. Who's his mother?" I waited, tried to ignore the strains of the Beach Boys' tune
I Get Around
while Brian talked about Van's hometown of Detroit.

My mother sighed. "Her name was Lisa. She worked in craft services on the set and made the best potato salad. I wonder if he got her recipe, bless her soul."

"You knew her? Hey, wait, you knew Brian was Van's son?"

"Well, I didn't before the restaurant. He took his mother's name, Keller. She raised him alone, unfortunately." She looked troubled by that. "But when I saw him last night, I knew. He inherited Van's leading man looks."

I could hear Brian begin to talk about Van's career in the 1960's, and I knew I needed to pay attention. Something could come up that involved the strange woman sitting next to me, formerly the mother I thought I knew.

"At one point in Van's career, there were fan clubs in every state devoted to him. I was growing up in Wisconsin with a single mother and neither of us were fans. When I came to L.A. I didn't look him up. I didn't see him. Maybe that's right, maybe that's wrong. Sometimes we can't even know what we'll regret."

Now he did find me in the crowd and looked at me in a way I couldn't read. I held my breath.

"Sometimes, if we're fortunate, we know what we'll
never
regret."

I wanted to shake my head
no
, to make it clear to him that I
did
regret our night together, but I didn't. I couldn't.

"Standing up here today was one thing I knew I needed to do. I thought I would lay out some accurate portrait of the man. His legacy is a Hollywood story, and we all know Hollywood legends are anything but accurate. Pretty sometimes, ugly other times, but almost never are they a real story about a real person. I wanted to do that today, and I wanted to be as fair as I could by starting with what we all knew about him. He loved no one but himself."

There was a lot of nodding in the room, but Mom and I just watched him.

"That's the most damning thing I could say, really. He wasn't a criminal. He wasn't deliberately cruel. But like some men are born color blind, Van Baron didn't seem able to love. I suppose we all have our weaknesses." He shrugged. "I fall for feisty women who are quick to jump to the wrong conclusions."