“You sound surprised.’’ I smiled at her.
Mama’s enthusiasm seemed contagious. Maybe it was just because it was getting close to the end of the last day of filming, but I did notice more smiles and fewer scowls on the set. Even Barbara nodded and poked me in the ribs after one of Mama’s takes.
“Can’t argue with Paul’s eye,’’ she said. “Your mother’s good as the dancehall girl, even if it will cause me problems with the union. Anybody from the Screen Actors Guild asks, your mother should say she’s weighing whether to join.’’
“Action,’’ Paul said, and Johnny Jaybird relayed the command.
Mama hauled off to slap the cowboy, and pulled her punch just before connecting. Poor Sal bore the bruises of those practice sessions, but they’d helped her master the choreography of fake movie-fighting. Once they’d filmed the male actor’s recoil, and added the sound effect of hand hitting skin, the audience would never be the wiser. They’d feel the sting of Mama’s palm on the cowboy’s cheek; imagine the welt rising up. Her rage was that believable.
Maybe all that guff she’d read in those acting books about mining her emotional memories had worked.
“I guarantee you, Mama’s thinking of Husband No. 2 right there,’’ Maddie said after one fiery take. “Did you see the murder in her eyes when she glared at the cowboy?’’
Finally, the assistant director repeated Cut for the last time. Paul stepped out from the knot of people gathered with him around the monitor and strutted over to Mama.
“You were wonderful.’’ He put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close, but not too close. His tone was friendly, but not too friendly. “You were Ruby. That was a fine piece of acting, Rosalee.’’
Jesse started the applause, and it spread through the dancehall set. Even Barbara clapped her hands together once or twice.
“That’s my wife! Isn’t she something?’’ Sal circled the crowd, slapping at backs. When he got to Paul, he shook the hand of the man he’d fought with just a day before. “You really know your stuff, man.’’
“Well, thank you, Sal. I had excellent raw material to work with.’’
Paul gave Mama a chaste kiss on the cheek. She fluttered her fake eyelashes.
Greg Tilton snapped off a sharp salute. “Welcome to the club,’’ he said.
Sal slapped him on the back, too. “That’s my wife! That’s my movie star.’’
“Well, then you’re a lucky man.’’ Tilton said, returning Sal’s back slap. Just a couple of normal guys, bonding.
Face lit with pleasure, Sal moved on to Maddie and Marty, draping a bear-like paw over each of their shoulders.
I leaned toward Tilton. “Thanks for being so nice.’’
He bowed. “No problem, Mace. We’re still on for our little chat later, right? Because you’re going to see more nice. This is the new me.’’
I hoped that was true; but at the same time I wondered. How much changing was Greg Tilton prepared to do?
_____
“Hey, need a hand?’’
At my question, C’ndee looked up from behind a big aluminum pan of pasta she was setting out for the late afternoon supper.
“I wouldn’t turn it down.’’ She slid the serving pan onto a long folding table, which was draped with a white plastic cover. The spot was reserved with words written on the plastic in heavy black felt marker, Baked Ziti.
I had to hand it to C’ndee. She was the boss, but she wasn’t afraid to pitch in right beside the people she’d hired to help cater the movie shoot. As I assisted, ferrying pans out from her mobile kitchen, I noticed a sheet cake waiting on the dessert table. It was shaped like an old-fashioned, clapper-style slate—not completely accurate, since modern devices for marking scenes now included digital readouts. But it looked good, in black-and-white frosting, with “That’s a Wrap!’’ scrawled across the top in big cursive letters.
“Cake looks super,’’ I said.
“Thanks. Barbara wouldn’t pay for anything extra, so I donated the cake and thirty gallons of ice cream. These people worked hard on the movie. They should have some kind of celebration for the final day of Florida filming.’’
“Speaking of working, or at least working the crowd …’’
I nodded toward the front of the tent, where Mama was making her entrance followed by her personal entourage: Sal, Marty and Maddie. She accepted congratulations as she went, like the silver screen star she now believed herself to be. I prayed her scene wouldn’t get cut in the editing process. She’d never get over it.
“I hear she did great,’’ C’ndee said.
I felt an involuntary surge of pride. “You know, she really did.’’
“You sound shocked.’’
“I shouldn’t be, right? We’ve always known Mama was a drama queen.’’
“You said it; I didn’t.’’ C’ndee grinned.
“Said what?’’ Mama, still bursting from the bodice of her Ruby-the-Protestant gown, sidled up beside us. She swiped a finger through the frosting at the bottom of the cake, where she thought no one would notice.
C’ndee slapped her hand. Not so long ago, that would have been the start of the Second Civil War. But after what they’d survived at Mama’s wedding to Sal, the Jersey Girl and the Southern Belle had become friends. Sort of.
“You should have seen me, C’ndee. I killed.’’
“Not literally, I hope.’’
Mama trilled, “Oh, honey, that’s just a Hollywood saying we actors use.’’
C’ndee wriggled her brows. “So now you’re an actor, after one line?’’
“Two, honey.’’ Mama held up her fingers. “I also got to slap somebody. Of course, we’re taught to pull our punches, so I didn’t actually hurt him. Film-making is all camera angles and sound effects, C’ndee. That and good acting, of course.’’
“Of course,’’ C’ndee said.
An hour later, the hordes had come and gone. Tiny specks of food were all that remained in the silver serving pans. The cake table looked like a desert scene from Lawrence of Arabia: vast, swept-over, and empty. I’d even seen one crew member scraping with a plastic knife at the last dabs of cake frosting on the cardboard sheeting.
C’ndee’s shoes sat on the floor beside her. With her legs elevated, she’d propped up her aching feet on a chair across from her. Mama and I sipped at cups of hot herbal tea as we waited for my sisters to show up.
I glanced at the entrance, and checked my watch again. Five-fifty. Tilton was now almost an hour late. The horses were waiting at the corral.
“Are we keeping you from something, Mace?’’ Mama asked.
I decided not to tell her I’d been stood up. So much for the new Greg Tilton.
Mama looked at me like I’d asked her to crawl all the way to the Mason-Dixon line and take up residence on the wrong side.
All I’d done was ask her to change out of Ruby’s dress, and give me a hand with the horses.
“Honey, I can’t do that. I’m expected at the wrap party tonight. All the actors are going. As soon as Sal finishes up here with security and all, we’ll go home and I’ll start getting ready.’’
I shook my head, but managed to hold my tongue.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me, young lady. You are not too old to get the switch. Aren’t your sisters coming back here to help you at the corral?’’
“They’re home, fixing dinners for their husbands.’’
“And they said they’d be back to help you feed and trailer the horses, right?’’
I gave Mama a grudging nod.
“Well, then, you don’t need me.’’
I hated to admit it, but she was right. Besides, escaping to the corral would mean I’d avoid the hundredth re-telling of her acting achievement. I’d miss the nonstop soliloquy on where in her house she should make room for her Supporting Actress Oscar.