Laura Lamont's Life In Pictures (36 page)

A producer blinked his flashlight at Laura’s feet, indicating that it was time to move. Laura affixed a wide smile to her face and tugged at the hem of her jacket. “All right,” she said. “Here we go!”

T
he first
Will You or Won’t You
stunt of the day was a double-header: the three-legged race, followed by the egg-and-spoon balance. Laura and the insurance salesman passed, sending the easy challenge to George and the housewife. Laura watched, clapping in time to the music, as they hobbled and spun around, giggling all the while. She wondered whether George had taken the housewife into his dressing room, given her the grand tour. The woman was blushing like mad, and squeaked when she dropped her egg, which wasn’t really an egg at all, but a painted piece of wood. The whole thing was too stupid to be believed. When it was their turn, Laura and the salesman had to build a house of cards while wearing Indian headdresses. She was glad there weren’t any mirrors on set, but then realized that television was its own mirror, that the children and everyone else she’d ever known would just have to flip on their sets to see Laura Lamont make a total and utter fool of herself. They won—Laura and the salesman—just as they were supposed to, the cards were coated with rubber cement and had notches snipped into their sides. Laura graciously shook George’s hand, and the housewife’s, before waving to the camera as it slid backward and the little red light went dark. Phil Mayweather whispered in her ear, “You’ll get it, don’t worry,” and then patted her on the back, too low to be a friendly gesture, too high for her to actually complain.

P
ete Hollowell spoke to Jimmy, who spoke to Laura. They were concerned. Jimmy came over to the house. He and Clara lived nearby, almost close enough to walk, but not quite. Laura wouldn’t have wanted to live that close to her own mother, so she didn’t mind,
though if she had her way, Jimmy would have just moved in, and they all would have lived together, happy as a bunch of hermit crabs.

“The issue, as far as I can understand it, is that you don’t seem comfortable,” Jimmy said.

They were in her office, with the shades drawn. No one wanted to look out at the pool, not even Jimmy. They’d finally moved Irving’s desk, and bought more furniture, so that the place seemed inhabited again. Laura didn’t need any help imagining ghosts.

“Have you been reading the scripts? In the last episode we filmed, I had to make a batch of pudding and then eat it, Jimmy. The entire batch. I thought I’d be sick.” Laura crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. She’d spent too much of her life sitting down, waiting for her name to be called.

“I understand,” Jimmy said. “But that’s the nature of the show. It’s goofy. It’s fun!”

“It’s humiliating,” Laura said. “Isn’t there anything else?”

Jimmy was a good son-in-law, and Laura could see how the truth of the situation pained him. He wanted so badly to say yes. “No,” he said. “There isn’t.”

“Well, okay, then,” Laura said. She crossed the room and pulled the cord to open the drapes. It was sunny outside, a flat yellow sheen. Laura used to think that California made everything golden, but now she could see that it was merely the sunshine playing tricks on the eye. Nothing stayed golden forever.

T
hey’d filmed only five episodes when Ginger came on set. The baby (Petunia, after Bill’s first horse) was only a week old, but Ginger wasn’t breast-feeding, and they’d hired two nannies, one for
the days and one for the nights. The bags under Ginger’s eyes were the only sign of the new arrival. Pete scurried over and bowed slightly, as one would before a foreign leader, where one wasn’t quite sure of the customs of the country. Phil hung back, clearly unsure of what to say.

“How’s Petunia?” Laura said, greeting her friend warmly.

Ginger proceeded, all business. “Pete, could you give us a minute?”

He backed away without a word.

“What’s going on, just coming to visit?” Laura asked. She turned around so that she and Ginger were facing the same direction, both looking toward the set. The orange wallpaper looked dull without the lights on, like someone’s unfortunate kitchen.

“We need to talk,” Ginger said.

“Is it Bill? Babies are so terrifying when they first arrive, aren’t they? Like tiny little aliens. What’s going on?”

Ginger sighed. “It’s not the baby, Lore.”

Laura turned her head. “What is it?”

“I have to fire you.” Ginger lowered her voice. “Come here,” she said, pulling Laura by her elbow toward the dressing rooms. Neither woman spoke until they were shut inside the narrow space, and despite what Laura knew about the thickness of the walls, she began to cry as soon as the door was closed.

“Laura, listen,” Ginger said. She had her usual lipstick on, and her red hair was curled and piled on top of her head like a wedding cake. Laura thought about the girl Ginger had been when they’d met, funny and sweet and dying for good news, always. “You knew this was a stretch.”

“I can do it,” Laura said. “I can do it, I swear.”

“You’re better than this,” Ginger said. She gripped Laura’s shoulders and held her close enough that Laura could smell her breath.

“Then don’t fire me,” she said.

“I have to.” Ginger let go. “I’ll stay while you get your things together.” She sank down into Laura’s makeup chair.

“Don’t bother,” Laura said. She unhooked her coat from the rack and walked out before Ginger could follow.

I
t was better to tell them sooner rather than later, Laura thought, although it had already been a week, and Laura had been leaving for the set as usual and just sitting in various parking lots around the city, waiting out the clock. She, Junior, and Florence were about to have Harriet’s famous spaghetti, which Laura was fairly sure came out of a can, but was still the best spaghetti they’d ever had. They sat around the table in the kitchen. Florence had already poured glasses of wine for herself and Harriet.

Laura waited for everyone to be at the table, already reaching over one another for the rolls or the salt or their forks, before she began.

“The good news is that I don’t have to be on that awful game show anymore,” she said, as if already in mid-conversation. Harriet, Junior, and Florence all turned their attention away from dinner and onto Laura’s face. This too was a performance. “I got fired.”

Florence dropped her fork with a clank. Junior had just ripped a roll in two, and held both pieces in his hand, as if he were about to perform some secret ritual to raise the dead.

“What happened?” Harriet asked.

“Fired by
Ginger
?” Florence said, having regained the power of speech.

Junior threw both halves of the roll against the wall, where they ricocheted without a sound. “How could she
do
that?” he said, his body tense with anger. Laura hated to see her son upset, because it
was always bigger and darker than it should have been, no matter the reason. Junior had an internal well of disappointment and fury that was always full and threatening to bubble over.

Laura raised her palms, as if calming a spooked horse. “It’s going to be fine, everybody. Ginger is the boss, and if it wasn’t working, it wasn’t working.”

“That is total BS,” Junior said. He skidded his chair backward along the floor and stormed out of the room, sending his napkin fluttering to the floor, which made Laura sad with pity that he wasn’t even frustrated properly, but always too soft, just skirting the edges of his bad feelings.

“You two start, I’ll be right back,” Laura said, and followed Junior down the hall to his bedroom. Florence and Harriet didn’t move.

Junior had gotten under the covers without turning on the light, so all Laura saw was a shadowy lump on the bed. She sat down next to him and ran a hand back and forth over his spine. After a minute, Junior unpeeled the blanket and stuck out his face.

“How could she do that to you?” His voice was high and strained.

“Sweetie, it’s complicated. It was a business decision, not a personal one. You don’t have to get so upset.”

Junior bolted up, nearly knocking Laura off the bed. “That’s the thing! It is personal. She’s your best friend!” He threw himself forward so that his head rested in Laura’s lap, folding himself neatly in half. Since he’d hit puberty, Junior had been like this: up and down, slap-happy and inconsolable. The girls watched from a careful distance: Florence was still the most likely to sweet-talk Junior for hours, to lure him off whatever high branch, and Clara had her own family to watch over now.

“It’s just that if Ginger could do that to you, and I don’t even have a friend as good as Ginger, then
anyone
could do that to me, you know? I don’t think there are real friends in the world, at least not
here.” He looked up at her, his eyes wet. “If someone could be that mean to you, your best friend, and I don’t even have a best friend, then what does that say about me? What’s the point of even having friends?”

“Junior, my love,” she said, “we’ll be fine.” He panted softly, like an overheated animal, his breath quick and ragged. Laura petted his hair, her sweet, worried son, and traced her finger around his ear, feeling its gentle slopes and turns. It was still surprising to have a full-grown person who had lived inside her, who spoke and ached and cried. Laura sat with Junior until she heard the clattering of plates in the kitchen, and Harriet and Florence cleaning up, and longer still, until Junior’s breath had returned to normal and he had drifted off to sleep.