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Jer shrugs. He's at the counter, rolling out pie crust. “Could be worse.”

Deb shoots him a look.

Bunny just says, “Cool.”

When they get to me, I hand over the letter and the other little envelope that's still sealed. Deb tears up a little when she reads the letter. I check my phone for texts. Then she laughs. “Gloria Lorraine. Oh, Lord.”

“Gloria who?” says Bunny.

“That name rings a bell,” Jer says. He's a trivia guy. “On
TV
…”

“
Cosmo's Castaways
and
Auntie Frank
,” says Deb.

“Good for you.” Jer's impressed. “Before my time, really, but I remember after-school reruns; well,
Castaways
anyway.”

Deb shoots him another look. “Required watching at our house, even though you never actually saw her on
Auntie Frank
. She was the voice of—”

“The talking bulldozer,” Jer finishes for her.

Bun looks mystified. It's the right look.

“Grandpa said she was a movie star,” I say.

“She was in movies before she did
TV
,” Jer says.

I go online with my phone and search for Gloria Lorraine as Bunny peers over my shoulder. There are a lot of hits. I start with Wikipedia. Up pops a black-and-white photo of a platinum blond.

“She's pretty,” Bunny says.

He's right; pretty, but not stellar. She looks smart though, smiling at the camera with one eyebrow raised a little, as if she's about to say,
I know things you wish you knew
.

“Whatcha got?” Jer asks. He's sprinkling flour on the rolling pin.

I read out:

“
Gloria Lorraine (born Gayle Leonard, September 16, 1922, in Topeka, Kansas) is an American film and television actress with some fifty-two screen credits, most dating from her heyday in the forties and fifties. She also had roles in two
TV
series in the 1960s. Her last movie appearance was in 1972's grindhouse non-classic
Drive-In Savages.

“
Lorraine was discovered in classic fashion in 1939, waiting tables in a luncheonette in Seattle, Washington, where her family had moved in 1928.
”

“Well, that can't be right,” Deb cuts in. “Grandpa was born in 1920 and his letter says she's older than him.”

I shrug and keep on reading.

“
First signed to Republic Pictures, she had small roles in westerns, including two with Roy Rogers before—
”

“My hero,” Jer cries. Is he kidding?

Bunny asks it for me. “Who's Roy Rogers?

“A cowboy actor,” Jer says. “Guys my age thought he was cool.”

I read on.

“—
before moving on to both Columbia and Warner Brothers studios. Typically she was cast as a younger sister or the heroine's best friend in a string of largely forgettable wartime dramas and mysteries. She came into her own briefly in the late forties and early fifties in several minor classics of film noir, including
Blond Trust
,
Shadow Street
and
Dead Letter Office
, with costars Fred MacMurdo, Richard Wildmark and Ryan Robert…
blah, blah, blah…”

I skip a bunch of boring stuff. “
Dropped by Warners in 1953, she worked frequently in live
TV
. In 1958 she appeared (regrettably) in
Swamp Creatures from Zorgon
, which has made several lists of all-time worst movies. In the early and mid sixties she played the wealthy widow on the NBC sitcom
Cosmo's Castaways
(two seasons) and voiced the role of the talking truck on
Auntie Frank
(one season).
”

“Wrong,” says Jer. “It was a bulldozer.”

Whatever. I finish up. “
Apart from Savages, in which she parodied her role of the homicidal secretary in Dead Letter Office, she has been in retirement since then. Married four times, she has two daughters. A complete list of her films is below. ”

That's it. I look up.

“So that's who she was—is,” Jer says, rolling away at his dough. “I always used to wonder why the credits for
Auntie Frank
called her ‘Miss Gloria Lorraine,' as if she was a big deal we should all know about. But really she was a B-movie actress who never quite hit the big-time. How come your dad had a thing for her?”

Deb shakes her head, then rests it on her hand. “Who knows?” she sniffles. She's crying a little again when she says, “Maybe Spence will find out.”

FOUR

“Don't you want to film this?” Jer asks.

“Film what?” I say. It's Friday, just a few days later. We're driving through some ho-hum suburb in Buffalo, New York, on our way to the Erie Estates Retirement Lodge. It's ten o'clock in the morning. I should be asleep. Instead, Jer is at the wheel of our rented car. I don't know what kind it is, something boxy and boring, but it's nicer than our beater minivan. Deb needed that to bring files home from work or something. “Grandpa said to film getting kissed on the cheek. That's what I'll do.”

I look out the window. All the houses are way bigger than ours. We slept over in one of them, my cousin Adam's place. He and my Aunt Vicky were there. Uncle John was away. He's an airline pilot. Grandpa liked that.

Adam gets to go to France with his parents to do something for Grandpa. Cousin DJ is going to freaking
Africa
, and Steve is off to Spain
.
How do they rate? I get to go to Buffalo to get kissed on the cheek by a ninety-year-old.

That's right, Buffalo. I'd figured that for an old movie star, I'd at least get to go to LA or someplace cool. Wrong-o. It hadn't been tough finding out where Gloria Lorraine was. She was on Facebook, and when I'd messaged her, she'd said,
Come on down to Buffalo
. Oh, yippee. Watch me struggle to contain my excitement.

Even Bunny gets to do something better than me. He's getting his tattoo today. How cool is that? How easy is that? Grandpa found the tattoo place for him. He'll probably be showing his tatt off by lunch. At least the whole stupid thing is only going to take a day.

I flip my phone open to check for texts. I should send one to Bun, just to say hi. He likes that; I like doing it too. Besides, it's better than thinking about a ninety-year-old's smooch. As if he's reading my mind, Jer says, “You don't
have
to do this you know.”

“I know.” I glance in the backseat. The new Sony video camera is there, in its travel bag.

“Don't get me wrong,” Jer says, “I think it's great that you're doing this in Grandpa's memory and all.” He has his bandanna back on, and a pair of mirrored aviators, with his plaid shorts and Converse sneakers. It's been cool all spring; Jer's legs are still pale even though it's late June. I'm not wearing shorts. I don't wear shorts, ever. “But,” Jer goes on, “I can see how this could all seem a little wonky, you know?”

“I
know
,” I say. I push my glasses higher on my nose. “I'm cool with it. It'll take, like, five minutes. And I have to, right? Everybody else is doing theirs.” But really, I'm not that cool with it.

“No, but see, that's what I mean,” Jer says. “You don't
have
to just because—”

Sometimes Jer just can't let stuff go. He's wrong, of course; I do have to do this because everyone else is doing their task, and the whole family will know if I wimp out. Luckily, right then Jer gets sidetracked.

“
In one hundred yards, turn left onto Eriebreeze Avenue
.” It's the woman's voice from the
GPS
.

“Eriebreeze?” says Jer, suddenly all concerned. “Eriebreeze? Is that the right name? These things can be wrong, you know. Are you sure you programmed it right?”

“It's cool.”

Jer thinks technology peaked at bicycles and analog sound. It's a good thing he didn't want to pedal to Buffalo. We slow and hang a left onto Eriebreeze. “
You have reached your destination.
”

Up ahead, on the right, is a big sign in a clump of trimmed-just-so bushes.
ERIE ESTATES LODGE,
it reads in big letters. Underneath, in smaller letters it says,
Retirement Residency at its Finest.

We turn in the drive and roll along to the parking lot. Gloria Lorraine, ex-movie star and Grandpa's fave, lives here. It's time for my close-up.

FIVE

“I'll come in with you,” Jer says as he turns off the car.

“No, it's okay.” I want the kiss and a quick getaway; that's it. I can see Jer asking for an autograph or an in-depth interview about symbolism in
Cosmo's Castaways
. I climb out of the car and then grab the camera from the backseat. “And she said to come in on my own,” I add.

Jer says, “How are you going to—?”

“I'm cool.” I close the door fast and start across the parking lot.

“I'll be waiting,” Jer calls out his window. “Call if you need Roy Rogers.”

Actually I'm not cool, and it's not just the heat in the parking lot that's getting to me. Now that I'm at Erie Estates Lodge, this whole thing is creeping me out a little. What is a ninety-year-old doing on Facebook anyway? That's strange enough. When I sent her my message about my grandpa, David McLean, asking me to get a kiss on the cheek for him, she answered right back and told me to come down this morning. She doesn't know Grandpa from a hole in the ground, so how weird is that? I mean, does she get her jollies kissing teenage boys? I've heard about older women being cougars, but for me, Scarlett Johansson is an older woman. I'm just glad I haven't told Gloria about the filming. That might be
too
kinky. What did Grandpa D have against me anyhow? Have fun in Europe and Africa, guys, I thought. How did they get all the luck?

Erie Estates Lodge reminds me of a hotel we stayed in one time in Montreal, when we all went to a conference with Deb. It's got this big arch thing over the front doors and the lobby has sofas and chairs and a fake fireplace burning even though it's hot out.

Gloria Lorraine said to ask for her at reception, so I go to a big counter that's not so much like a hotel. The woman behind the counter has her hair pulled back tight and she looks as strong as Bunny. She's wearing pink hospital scrubs.

“Miz Lorraine is on the patio.” She points the way.

I get lost anyway and end up in a lounge or something where a big flat-screen
TV
is blaring a game show at top volume. The place smells like a mixture of perfume and pee, and it's filled with geezers and geezettes. Heads turn toward me. It's a panicky moment. First thing I think is, Call Jer.

“Who ya lookin' fow-ah?” A thousand-year-old man, with impossibly black hair and giant black-rimmed glasses, is growling at me. He's sitting on one of those walker thingies, dressed to kill in a red blazer and a green tie over a yellow shirt that hangs off his ropy neck. All of him shakes, including his voice.

I say, “Uh, Gloria Lorraine?”

“SPEAK UP!” says the thousand-year-old, even louder than the
TV
.

“GLORIA LORRAINE.” Now I'm too loud. Get me out of here.

“MIZ LORRAINE.” The old guy glares as if I stepped on his white shoes. “OUT ONNA PATIO.” He jerks his shaky head to show the direction. His shiny black hair slips around a little. “Givva my regahds.” He turns to the
TV
and then back to me. His eyes narrow behind his glasses and he nods at my camera bag. “You packin'?”

“No,” I say, “I'm not going anywhere.” I walk out to the patio.

SIX

It's a patio: flowers and garden furniture, umbrellas over tables. At first I think no one is there, but then I see the top of a red straw hat peeking over the back of a chair. I smell cigarette smoke. A voice says, “Well, don't just stand there.” The voice is a bad imitation of the one I heard when I watched part of
Dead Letter Office
last night
.
That one was kind of smoky and sexy; this one sounds as if Jer has been going at it with the paint scraper.

I walk around in front of the chair. A tiny old lady is perched in it. Under the red sun hat she's got enormous sunglasses, and the rest of her face is makeup and wrinkles. Platinum blond hair— it must be a wig—grazes the gigantic shoulders of her white jacket. She's got one elbow on the arm of the chair and a cigarette between her red fingernails. Silvery bracelets with blue stones droop down her skinny arm and into the sleeve of her jacket. Her head moves a little. I guess she's looking me over from behind the glasses. I think about calling Jer again.

“You the one who wrote?” she croaks.

“Uh, yeah,” I say. “Spencer O'Toole.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“What was your grandfather's name again?”

I feel as if I'm taking a test. I push up my glasses again. “David McLean.”

“You don't—never mind.” She waves the words away with her cigarette. Bracelets clank. “Why didn't he come himself?”

“I don't know.” I shrug. “Maybe because he died.”

She sits up straighter at that and her lips bunch up. “What'd your grandfather say about me?”

“Well, uh, nothing. He just said you were his favorite actress and for me to get a kiss on the cheek from you, for him.”

“Just on the cheek?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She laughs. It's another horrible paint-scraper sound that ends in a cough. “Probably all I'm good for these days anyway. I used to be pretty hot stuff, you know. Not a bombshell, but a looker. And none of that enhancement crap either. You ever see my movies?”

“Sure.” I nod. It's kind of true. Like I said, I saw a clip from
Dead Letter
online. And I'm definitely putting
Swamp Creatures from Zorgon
on my list. Any movie on all those worst-movies-of-all-time lists has to be too cool to miss.