An abashed assassin sent by Botticelli…
“Morning, Jeffrey!”
He held open the door of the SUV.
“Good morning, Dusty. How was your weekend?”
“Awesome. Mellow. You do anything?”
“Took the family for a hike in Eaton Canyon.”
“Where’s that?”
“Altadena?” he said. The interrogatory lilt signified a respectful smudging/diminution of the possession of knowledge that might lie outside his illustrious passenger’s realm — third-generation Teamster politesse.
“That’s awesome! Love Altadena. Smoggy, though.”
“A little bit, but it really wasn’t too bad. Pasadena can actually be worse. We usually do Griffith Park but I like to switch it up.”
“Love Griffith Park.”
—
A P.A. adorned in mountaineer-lite — her airbrushed, kewpie-doll features gave her the look of an American anime—stood obediently by the trailer as Dusty alit from the Lexus.
“Hi, Samantha!”
“Hi, Dusty! How was your weekend?”
“So good. And you? Get in any trouble?”
“We had a production meeting yesterday,” said the tomboy soldier, playfully wrinkling her grindstone nose.
“Well, that’s no fun.”
“Then we went out drinking—” she added, tossing off the hardworking, high-spirited crew’s go-to corollary with rote aplomb.
The P.A.’s walkie crackled. Came a voice from the battlefield:
“We need Dusty in thirty, for blocking.”
“In her trailer now,” replied the grunt to her headset.
While Dusty got situated, a replacement P.A. rapped on the door and entered, bearing aluminum foil-covered plates.
“One egg-white omelet with Worcestershire on the side,” he said. “And onion rings from In-N-Out.”
Dusty peeked from the bathroom, rhapsodic. “Rory, you are amazing. Can you just put it on the table?”
“Absolutely.”
—
The replica of The Tonight Show set circa 1985 was dead-on. By coincidence that was the year of her first appearance.
The party line had it that Carson was a cold, misanthropic prick, but she never saw that side. He’d been faultlessly kind and hugely supportive of her career. He retired a few years before Dusty came out, but when she did, he sent flowers and a beautiful letter ruefully signed “the man that got away.” (They were both Gershwin fans and did a duet of the song in the last week of his show.) She always had the feeling he was “interested” but for whatever reason held back; he was a wolf and a player for real, but when they were together he was never anything less than the urbane, dapper, acerbic gent in Johnny Carson Apparel. She probably would have balled him if he’d pressed the point — she wasn’t too proud to say she had a Daddy thing (like Sylvia!). Probably she just wasn’t his type. He seemed to go for those brittle, hair-shellacked, Stepford-wife gals.
The lookalike host was already behind his desk, his jovial sidekick on the couch beside him, warming up his Ed-laugh like a singer doing arpeggios. They were straight-up clones — insane and hilarious. She fucking loved this script.
“People, we are getting very close!” announced the First A.D.
The hubbub fell to a murmur. There was always reverence in the decibel drop that presaged a shot, and rank fear too.
Bennett, the director, sat in front of the monitor, in headphones. The agitated D.P., scowling in a private world of permanent aesthetic dissatisfaction, looked over his shoulder to check the director’s screen before skittering away. The script supervisor sat beside Bennett in front of his own monitor, watching YouTube on an iPad.
“All right,” said the First loudly. “Last looks!”
Patrice, Dusty’s hairdresser (they’d been together twenty-three years), did his nominal thing while a wardrobe person picked microscopic lint off her pantsuit. The makeup gal powdered the nonexistent shine on her forehead.
Ready for picture.
Bennett called “Action.”
The Johnny pursed and twitched his lips. “Our next guest is a Pulitzer Prize winner and one of America’s most beloved poets…” She flushed with off-camera butterflies, just like before real talk-show appearances. The Johnny gave her total déjà vu. “Author of The Bell Jar and many others, her new book is a delightful children’s story written with Shel Silverstein—Gobbledygoo! debuted this week at number one on the New York Times bestseller list. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the very gifted, very lovely… Sylvia Plath.”
—
When lunch was called, Dusty lingered a moment while a few Polaroids were taken, for continuity. With a coterie of attendants surrounding her, she reminisced about her first appearance on The Tonight Show. All hung on her words — one of those countless unspecial-special below-the-line moments with a star during production. Bennett came over with a young woman in tow.
“‘Sylvia,’” he said. “Meet your daughter, ‘Ariel.’”
“Oh my God,” said Dusty, genuinely enthused. “It’s you. Hi!”
“Hi, Mom!” said the Ariel.
The Australian actress wasn’t yet in wardrobe; she had finished a film in Europe only the day before. Dusty was completely disarmed — she reminded her of Miranda, a first love. They embraced.
“I am such a fan,” gushed Bonita. “I’m practically a stalker.”
“I can’t believe we never met!” said Dusty.
“We actually did, a long time ago. But you wouldn’t remember.”
“I totally would, why can’t I?”
“I was, like, ten,” she said, a little coy. Bonita knew the story would be a perfect icebreaker. “I was a camera double for the girl who played your daughter on Lone Wolf.”
“Are you serious?” said Dusty, delighted. “That is so funny. Now look at you, with your Golden Globe! And I loved you in Odious, you were so amazing.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you saw that!—”
“Of course I saw it.”
“She sees everything,” said Bennett.
“I was so impressed,” said Dusty. “I don’t think there’s anyone your age doing what you do. Anyone anyone’s age.”
“Oh my God! I mean, coming from you …”
“Don’t you so love Bill Nighy? I saw The Mercy Seat on the plane and cried — I just totally blubbered! I lost it!”
Bonita turned to Bennett, blushing. “She’s really seen my movies! Dusty Wilding’s seen my movies!”
“Told ya,” said Bennett. “She’s the maven.”
He suddenly got called away and vanished.
“Isn’t Bill dreamy?” said Dusty.
“Oh my God, yes. I want him! Not as a boyfriend, but as a dad!”