No Ordinary Life (21 page)

46

T
he show did not go on.

Chris left, followed by my rant that I'm sure sounded insane to anyone within listening range. I had more than a few choice words and basically told him he could take his job and shove it. After he left, I calmed down, and Molly enjoyed chocolate ice cream while soaking in a warm bath, and I had a bowl of ice cream myself and stewed in my anger.

I have no idea if we are still employed by
The Foster Band
or Fox Studios, but what I do know is that Molly is never going into a river again because Chris Cantor or anyone else tells her to. And she won't ever again be put in a wrecked car to be pulled out by a drunk actor. I meant what I said—Chris Cantor, Beth, Fox Studios, the whole damn lot of them can go to hell. My baby's not going to be put in danger again.

After I pull Molly from her bath, I call Monique Braxton. She's as livid as I am over what happened. We're not as powerless as Chris made it sound. The contract I signed goes both ways. I'm not only Molly's mom, I'm her manager, and as such, I have the power to say no if his demands are out of line.

Our conversation is wrapping up when she says, “So, on another subject, I got a call yesterday from your husband.”

“Sean called you?”

“Yeah. He wants me to send him a copy of Molly's contract with the Gap. He didn't mention anything about
The Foster Band
or about Tom, and I didn't bring it up. Anything I should be concerned about?”

I don't have it in me to conceal the truth, and at this point, I have nothing to lose and need to trust someone, and Monique Braxton seems like a good person to trust.

It takes nearly twenty minutes for me to tell her about the sad state of my marriage, about Sean's abandonment, and the truth about how we ended up in LA.

She listens patiently, ignoring the buzzing of other calls in the background, not rushing or interrupting me, which I appreciate enormously since it's a difficult confession and horribly humiliating.

I finish by telling her about Sean's reappearance in our life, and she gets real quiet then mutters, “Shit.”

Turns out, I screwed up. Royally. I should have pressed charges for abandonment. I should have filed for legal separation.

Now, because I'm an idiot, Molly's contract and Tom's contract will be viewed as community property. Which means Sean is entitled to manage half the money that isn't put into the kids' mandatory fifteen-percent trust funds. It gets worse. She explains that in 2000 a new law was passed that makes a child's earnings the child's property, which sounds great except for the gaping loophole that doesn't provide any recourse against a parent misspending the child's money until the kid turns eighteen, at which time the kid can sue a parent, but usually by then it's too late and the money is already gone.

The double whammy is that even though Sean will only have access to half the kids' earnings, if he doesn't pay the taxes, the kids will be liable for those taxes when they turn eighteen. With penalties and compound interest, the amount could be staggering and could easily eat up their trusts. So, in other words, Molly and Tom could end up with nothing.

The only way to avoid this is for me to take the half I'm responsible for managing and, rather than invest it for their future, use it to pay the entire tax burden. This will guarantee that the trust funds will be safe, but it won't give them anything beyond that. The result of all this is that if Sean does what I think he will, takes his share and doesn't pay the taxes, the kids and I will end up living on my management income; Molly and Tom will get to keep fifteen percent of their earnings; and meanwhile, Sean will get three times what they get to keep for doing nothing.

“There's nothing I can do?” I ask when she finishes the explanation.

“You can try and convince your husband to do the right thing, pay the taxes he's supposed to pay and get a job to support himself so he doesn't need to live off his kids.”

My heart sinks into my stomach. We're screwed. Sean lives by the mantra that only fools pay taxes. The day Molly and Tom become old enough to sue him, I'll encourage them to do so, but I also know it will be too late. Sean's never had two nickels to rub together. By the time they win a lawsuit against him, there won't be anything left.

Dinner is finished, and we are playing Candy Land in the living room when there is another knock at the door. I answer it expecting to find either Beth or Chris coming to tell us either we're fired or that they're sorry. I'm surprised when I open it and find Helen Harlow dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.

Even in pedestrian clothes she looks like a movie star, her hair shinier than the rest of the world's, her eyes sparkling like emeralds, her expression full of intrigue and drama, though she's neither smiling nor frowning.

“May I come in?”

I step aside to allow her entry.

“Hi, Miss Hewlen,” Molly says, leaping to her feet and running into the woman's legs.

“Why hello,” Helen says, clearly taken by surprise at Molly's jubilant greeting. She pats Molly's hair.

“We'wre pwlaying Candy Wland. You want to pwlay?”

“I'd love to,” she says, shocking me.

Molly grabs her by the hand and pulls her to the coffee table. Emily's eyes bulge, and I feel Tom's voice disappear.

“Let me get you a chair,” I offer.

“I'm fine on the floor,” she says, sitting down Indian-style beside Molly before I have a chance to move.

“We'wll stawrt ovewr,” Molly announces, gathering up the cards and restacking them.

“Ms. Helen can use my piece,” I say. “I'm going to wash the dinner dishes.”

Emily moves the pieces back to the start, and I watch in amazement as my kids play Candy Land with one of the most famous women in the world.

When I'm done in the kitchen, I return to the living room and curl my feet beneath me on the couch.

Helen laughs when Tom sends her piece packing back to Candy Cane Square.

“Sorry,” he says, making my heart sing. His voice is still odd, as though he has a Boston accent, but it's loud and surprisingly confident.

“Just my luck,” Helen says with a laugh.

On the next turn, Emily wins.

“Want to pwlay again?” Molly asks.

“Perhaps in a moment. First, I need to talk with your mom.”

She stands with amazing grace for a woman near fifty, and the two of us walk onto the small porch in front of the cabin. It's a beautiful night. The rainstorm from the afternoon dissolved into a cloudless sky, and the humidity cooled off to a balmy warmth that makes me want to sleep beneath the stars.

“I'm glad to see Molly's okay,” she starts.

I nod but say nothing, unsure of the reason she's here, wondering if Chris sent her.

The crickets have woken along with the frogs down by the river, and their chirps and croaks fill the silence as Helen figures out how to say whatever it is she came to say.

Her eyes look past me then, after a minute, return. “Did you know I was younger than Molly when I started in this business?”

I nod. Everyone knows Helen Harlow was born in the spotlight. The Pampers commercial she did when she was an infant is still shown sometimes.

“So this life is the only life I know.” She stops again, her perfect arched brows furrowing over her famous eyes. “I know I'm going to regret this.”

“Regret what?” I ask, having a hard time believing anything in my life is intriguing enough to make Helen Harlow uncomfortable.

“Getting involved,” she says. “The golden rule in Hollywood is mind your own business, and here I am about to break it.”

I laugh. “Nice rule, very compassionate.”

“That's exactly it,” she yelps, like I just revealed the missing link. “That's exactly what I came to say.”

I shake my head, confused. The thing I've noticed about Helen Harlow is that, when the lines aren't given to her, she actually has a hard time making herself clear. Like the Rumpelstiltskin comment, she talks in riddles and is so dramatic that it's difficult to figure out what she's actually trying to say.

“In this business, there's no compassion, eat or be eaten, fend for yourself, lion eat lion and so forth. Welcome to the dog's den.”

“That's why you came here, to welcome me to the lair?”

“Well, yes,” she says, sounding angry. “Because you don't seem to get it.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn't realize I was bothering you.”

“Well, you are. Watching you flail against Chris is like watching a lamb baaing at a lion as he licks his chops in anticipation of his next meal, and I actually lost about five minutes of sleep the other night because of it.”

“Five whole minutes. Wow.”

“I'm Helen Harlow—my sleep is important.”

“Of course, your majesty. So what do you suggest? Perhaps the beheading of me and my children?”

“How about just of you, and I'll let your children be managed by someone like my mother?”

“A punishment worse than death,” I jest.

“My mom would be the best thing that could happen to them,” she snaps, and I realize I crossed the line.

“I'm sorry,” I say sincerely, knowing better than to insult someone's family. I would feel the same way if she said something about my mom. It's okay for me to criticize her, not okay for anyone else to.

“You could learn a few lessons from my mom,” she says. “No one messed with her, and no one messed with her kids. My mom instilled fear in directors and producers a whole lot more menacing than Chris. She had her regrets, mostly getting us into the business in the first place, and not getting my younger brother out sooner, but all in all she did good. We're all still here, and by Hollywood standards, that's a miracle.”

“You think it's a miracle that you and your brothers survived? Don't you think that's a bit dramatic?”

“I am a diva, but no, I'm not being dramatic. Surviving without serious defect in this industry is definitely the exception, not the rule. Take a look at the child stars from the past two decades and see how many of them, a, are still alive, and, b, have survived without some sort of substance abuse, psychological issue, or eating disorder. Of the dozens of kids I've performed with, I can count on a single hand those who found some sort of contentment as adults—that includes me and my brothers.”

“That only leaves two fingers,” I say.

“Exactly. I'm not saying it can't happen, and for me, thanks to my mom, this has been a blessed life, but I'd need to have my head in the sand not to notice it hasn't been happily ever after for most of the others. And the way you're going, Molly's not going to be landing on one of my fingers soon. You've been on the set less than a month and already she's landed in the hospital once and nearly drowned.”

“So you came here to tell me I suck. Thank you. Had you not stopped by I might not have realized that.”

“I came here to tell you you're annoying me,” she says. “My mom might have had a reputation as a bitch, but none of us would have ended up in that river today. She was the fiercest stage mom in the business because she knew otherwise we would drown.”

Her choice of words is no accident.

I close my eyes and sigh, feeling completely defeated. “I'm not cut out for this.”

“No one is,” she says. “This business is ruthless, and there's no training. New recruits are thrown into the deep end, and you either learn to swim with the big fish or you become fish bait. So unless you're calling it quits, you need to grow a pair of cojones.”

I laugh at that expression coming out of her pretty, pink lips.

She smiles back. “Griff isn't always going to be there to save her.”

I rear back. In the emotions of the day, I actually forgot about Griff and that he was the one who pulled Molly from the river.

“Shit,” I say. “I mean shoot.”

She smiles.

“I never thanked him. I…Today was so crazy…Molly was upset, and then…I can't believe I didn't thank him. I keep doing that, screwing up with that guy. Ugh!”

“So thank him now.”

“I can't. After what happened today, I don't want to leave Molly alone.”

“I'll watch them.”

“You?”

She looks hurt. “I am a mom myself, you know.”

Until this moment, I forgot she was a mother. Two daughters. They must be college-age now or older.

“I'm actually going to be a grandmother in a month. Talk about tough on the diva ego. I still can't decide if I'm going to let the kid call me Grandma.”

She shudders, and I laugh.

“Go,” she says. “We're fine. I love Candy Land.”

47

I
n front of the crew's barracks, a two-story building that looks like a budget motel, heads lift as I approach. I recognize most of them—cameramen, grips, sound techs. They sit around a fire pit. One of them strums a guitar, another plays along on a harmonica. When I get close, the music, laughter, and conversation stop. A few offer mechanical smiles, but most don't bother. I'm on their turf after quitting time, and I'm not welcome here.

But I'm one of you
, I want to say.
I love sitting around a campfire, listening to music, and roasting marshmallows.

With a small smile of
I mean you no harm
, I move past, and the music and conversation resume.

My feet carry me to where I know Griff is, the same place he was yesterday, swimming in the wide part of the river. I round the last bend, and there he is, his back facing me—broad, bare, and spotted with drops of water.

He turns. “Took you long enough,” he says loudly. He has a beer in his hand, and I realize he might be drunk.

My mouth glubs. “You've been waiting for me?”

“Well, go on, spit it out. Thank you. You're wonderful. My next child will be named in your honor, blah, blah, blah…” Belch.

“Why are you waiting out here for me?”

“You think I'm going to let you grovel in front of my crew? That's just what I need, to put on a performance for my guys.”

“A performance?”

“Pretend I'm fucking pissed off because Molly almost got hurt and they think it's your fault. Those guys really like Molly.”

“You don't think it's my fault?”

“Of course it's your fault. I'm just not pissed at you.”

“You're not mad?”

“Livid as hell, just not at you. Damn asshole.”

I figure he's talking about Chris.

“Can't blame a squid for not having a vertebrae.”

Now he's talking about me.

“Or for being sliced and diced into calamari by a fucking shark. Damn, that's a hell of a metaphor. I should write that down.” He swallows the remainder of the beer and drops the bottle to the dirt.

“You're drunk.”

“Maybe. How many bottles are on the ground?”

I step closer. “Twelve.”

“Then I'm only half-drunk,” he says, looking around to locate an untouched six-pack on the dirt behind him. He pulls out one of the bottles, twists off the top, and takes a swig.

“How about I help you back to camp?” I say, hating that he's so drunk that he might not remember this conversation, which means I'll need to thank him again.

“The squid wants to help. I'll tell you how you can help. Help me out by telling me what the hell you see in that guy. I mean, really, inquiring minds want to know. That asshole puts your kid in danger, she lands in the hospital, and the next thing you know, you're trading saliva with him in the pasture.”

Blood rushes to my face. “How'd you…”

“Know? Hell, everyone knows. You're lucky your little make-out session wasn't on the six o'clock news. I mean, Rhonda you expect to be doing that shit, but you almost seem normal.”

“I am normal.”

“Yeah, see? Almost normal.” He toasts me with his half-empty beer. “Except for the lack of backbone and your fetish for assholes.” He grins again. “Boy, I'm on a roll.”

“What you're on is a bender,” I say. “Come on, let's get you back to camp.”

He chuckles. “ME go back to camp with YOU. Ha!” Then, “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,” until he's laughing so hard that his whole body is shaking. “ME…” He points at himself and nearly falls off his rock then points at me. “With YOU.”

“Okay, big boy, let's go.”

Sean's been known to tie one on, and I've supported him out of plenty of bars. Griff's bigger than Sean, linebacker size, but I think I can manage. “Upsy-daisy. They're making s'mores and hot dogs back at camp, and I bet I can scrounge up some coffee.”

“Show up with Chris's sloppy seconds,” he slurs. “Never live that one down.” Belch. “I'm drunk, but I'm not that drunk. Thanks, but I'll find my own way back.”

He stumbles to his feet, takes a step forward, loses his balance, falls back, trips over the rock, and lands flat on his back in the water, his eyes closed.

Crap.
The current pulls at him, turning his body and trying to tug him from shore.

I wade in, grab hold of his arm, and drag him onto the dirt. The guy weighs like seven hundred pounds, and when I'm done, I'm soaked, breathless, and pissed.

I plop onto the rock where he had been sitting, pop open a beer, and call Emily on my cell phone. She puts Helen on, and I explain what happened and that it's going to be a while and that she doesn't have to stay. She assures me that she's fine staying and that she'd rather be hanging out with my kids than babysitting Griff by the river.

“Faye,” she says as I'm about to hang up.

“Yeah?”

“Take care of him. He's one of us.”