Page 13 of Mazywood

The Sharpes walked Chaplin out of the office, whispering apologies.

“Guess he thinks I’ll roll over because he’s some kind of big shot?” Lorenzo said, fumbling with his cigar and quickly lighting it with the sweep of a match. He had forgotten Mother’s objections, and he was talking to himself more than her parents. “I already told him Lorenzo Studios doesn’t need to be in business with United Artists—or anyone else. Some people don’t know how to take no for an answer.”

Her parents were dead silent. Surprisingly, Mother didn’t complain about the cigar smoke, although she took a few steps away from Mr. Lorenzo. It dawned on Mazelle that Mr. Lorenzo might be more important than she had believed. Sure, he had his own studio, but Mother had once called him a small fish who had needed her to make his name. He didn’t seem small now. Mazelle’s veins prickled with nervousness, and Scout sat near her like a sentry. Maybe Mr. Lorenzo didn’t think he needed to be in business with her either.

Mr. Lorenzo clapped his hands to break his own bad mood, lighting up in a boyish smile. “Sorry about that, folks,” he said, sweetening his voice. The look on Mother’s face must have shamed him. “Ah—that’s right. Sorry about this too. And it’s Cuban. This will break my heart.”

With ceremony, Mr. Lorenzo snipped off the burning end of his cigar. The gray tendrils of smoke in his ashtray wound up like dancing snakes before they melted into the room to stink. Mother was right: Cigars smelled horrid. Mother coughed softly behind her hand. She had been sensitive to any kind of smoke ever since they moved to Los Angeles.

But Lorenzo was smiling and happy again, so she wasn’t in trouble. Daddy’s worries had melted from his face, and Mother’s arms weren’t crossed in the pose she used when she thought she would have to argue. Mazelle’s breath thinned with excitement as she remembered Charlie Chaplin saying, The world will know your name, Mazelle Washington.

The Sharpes returned, closing the office door behind them. “I think you’re officially off his Christmas list,” Mr. Sharpe said.

Mr. Lorenzo ignored him, going on brightly: “Anyway, time to unveil my surprise. Scout will wanna see this too!”

Scout barked, hearing his name. Mr. Lorenzo held up a framed Western Union telegram, only two short sentences:

MAZY AND SCOUT ARE YOURS. ROACH SAYS HE ALREADY HAS A DOG. —RN

Mazelle peered at the wire with her parents, but none of them laughed. Daddy was smiling widely, but Mazelle didn’t think he got the joke either.

“From Richard Norman, exactly two years ago!” Mr. Lorenzo explained. “I found this under some papers on my desk. I was sloppy seconds, but this was the day my life changed. That rat sent your reel to Hal Roach first. But Roach passed.”

“Roach compared that useless dog in Our Gang to Scout!” Mr. Sharpe said, giggling. His laugh didn’t fit his height or balding head.

Mr. Lorenzo went on: “Lemme tell you, Roach is sorry about it now. I bet this keeps him up nights. That’s why I gotta pay you so much, Mazy—so he can’t steal you away! That’s exactly what that mutt Chaplin was in here trying to do.”

Mazelle’s head whirled. Steal her? She looked at her parents and saw her own confusion.

Lorenzo and Mr. Sharpe laughed again, and Millie Sharpe hugged Mazelle tight with one arm. “Don’t worry, nobody’s stealing anyone,” she said. “And don’t mind them: They’re drunk on the competition.”

“Pearl!” Mr. Lorenzo called out toward his doorway, where his secretary was always waiting. “Bring in the lemonade, will ya? Let’s make this a real party.”

“What are we celebrating?” Mother asked. When she was in Mr. Lorenzo’s office, she only thought about business.

“Have a seat—I can’t wait to tell you,” Mr. Lorenzo said, jouncing on his soles as he walked behind his desk. “But this can’t leave the office. Hear me, Mazy? I know how you kids like to gossip.” He sounded stern.

Mazelle sat in the closest straight-back chair, swinging her feet that didn’t yet touch the floor. “I don’t gossip!” she said, indignant. When she first came to work, she had been too nervous to hardly speak to Mr. Lorenzo, much less contradict him, but she hated it when Doris accused her of things she hadn’t done. Although she wasn’t as afraid of displeasing Mr. Lorenzo anymore, she hesitated to remind him that Mazy was only her stage name. Even Charlie Chaplin knew better. The world will know your name, Mazelle Washington.

“Are you saying Mazelle has divulged things she shouldn’t?” Mother asked, emphasizing her full name, using her schoolteacher words. Mother was annoyed too.

“Relax—not at all,” Mr. Lorenzo said. “I’m saying we need to be extra careful now.”

As always when Mr. Lorenzo sounded stern—which often happened, like now, without warning—the Sharpes followed behind with softness, the opposite of their name.

“You’re in the senior cast now, that’s all,” Mr. Sharpe said. “More responsibilities.”

“You’re the biggest draw, honey,” Millie Sharpe whispered. When Mazelle looked up at her, surprised, Millie grinned and gave her a private nod.

“Big changes coming,” Mr. Lorenzo said. “Big changes. We’re building new stages. Where do I start? Great—here’s the lemonade. Everybody grab a glass and we’ll toast.”

Glasses of cold, pale lemonade appeared as his secretary ferried a tray between them.

Mr. Lorenzo raised his glass. “To Mazy Washington—a rising star!”

“And Scout!” Mazelle said.

She had once heard Mr. Lorenzo tell Mr. Sharpe he should rename his pictures Scout and Friends, but Mazelle had thought he was joking. Was that his surprise? Mother was probably right: Mr. Lorenzo owed his success to her and Scout, or everyone would just be watching Our Gang pictures like before. Scout barked with the chorus of ringing glasses, and everyone laughed. The lemonade was sweet and cold from the icebox, although not as good as Mother’s.