Page 76 of Mazywood

“When did you get so cynical, Mazelle?”

When I was eleven, Mazelle thought. No, when I was nine.

Jerry took his time mixing her drink: measuring the bourbon and sugar, delicately mashing the mint sprigs. “You and me,” he said, “we’re going to a party next week.”

That was a first. “We are?”

“You bet your ass we are,” he said. “And it’s gonna be a hell of a party with a hell of a guest list, so I’m gonna design you a gown and make sure you’re all dolled up. I’m gonna walk you into that party like you’re Lena Horne.”

So that was it—he felt guilty about the way Cabin in the Sky had shot Horne to stardom. Instead, she said, “Whose party is it?”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours.” Her drink was ready. Lorenzo presented her tumbler, the mint smell sharp but pleasing. Jerry raised his whiskey glass. “A toast to your future. In Italian, it’s Alla salute. I’m Italian—don’t spread it around. See? We’re not so different.” He said it as if he were a Negro passing for white.

Their glasses clinked. But Mazelle heard Mother’s voice in her ear: What’s the point of this? Where is this leading?

“If it’s a publicity thing, do I get paid?” Mazelle asked.

Jerry chuckled. “You’re a funny girl. I’m talking about studio heads and the top producers. I’m gonna introduce you around, and they’re gonna love you. In this day and age, everyone wondering what to do with Negroes, somebody might want you on loan.”

“So… I’m not getting paid?” Mazelle said.

Jerry’s smile froze. “This is a gift. I’m only taking one actress with me—and it’s you. Do you want a shot or not?”

Mazelle sipped from her mint julep to stop herself from saying anything that would make Lorenzo pissy, her least favorite of his moods. He knew damn well a picture like Cabin in the Sky didn’t come along every day—and even if MGM wanted to stay in the Negro business, she wouldn’t have half the chance of Lena Horne because her skin was too dark. And Horne had been smart enough never to play a maid.

“You’re a beautiful girl, Mazelle,” Lorenzo said. She waited for him to follow up the compliment with bad news, but this time he dug in. “Better than Betty Grable, Gene Tierney, Hedy Lamarr, any of them. And it’s not just your looks, you’ve got that… something. Magnetism. You hold the audience in the palm of your hand. And I want them to see it up close.”

Mazelle heard the slight slur in his voice. “How many drinks have you had?” she asked.

“Say it,” Lorenzo said. Close to him like this, his eyes looked pink and glossy. “Say you’ve got everything those other girls have—and more.”

“I say that in my head every day.”

“Then let’s go fucking fight for it. Together.”

Lorenzo’s eyes were so odd tonight, she couldn’t take him seriously. He sounded so intoxicated that he might not remember this conversation, or claim he didn’t. Mazelle took a longer sip from her tumbler, the bourbon stinging her tongue. He’d made the drink strong. She’d never noticed that he was four inches taller when she was in flats. Or the scent of his shampoo. Was the drink helping her notice? Or was she just standing too close to him? Lorenzo was no Clark Gable, but she’d heard people say he thought he was. It seemed unlikely that he might look at her that way when he had known her since she was seven, but Gable’s eyes on the set of Gone with the Wind had taught her that any man might desire her, if only for a careless moment.

Long ago, Lorenzo had said, Call me Uncle Jerry, because some of the other kids did, but Mother had said never to forget that he wasn’t her family. Instinct made Mazelle move away from the bar, as if her thoughts might leak to Lorenzo. She stood behind one of his padded office chairs, keeping the chair between them. Warmth flared on her cheeks from her next sip. She felt Jerry’s eyes—Mr. Lorenzo’s eyes—tracking her smallest movements. Studying her. Mazelle glanced away from him and spotted his wedding photograph framed on his bookshelf: two young lovers. His wife, Maria, was an olive-skinned Italian and had a pleasant face, but he looked bored even then.

“What’s this about, Jerry?”

Lorenzo’s face grew earnest again. “I had a dream. Not about you—about Scout.”

Mazelle took another sip that was closer to a belt. She had nearly emptied her glass. She rarely heard Scout’s name anymore, and it felt like a violation of an unspoken agreement. “Haven’t thought about that dog in a while,” she lied. “What about him?”

“I don’t remember it all,” he said. “Something about the woods? I dunno. I just remember a bunch of trees over me, real tall.” The woods!

“What else did you see?” she asked.

Mazelle waited for him to say more, but he only sighed, a peek past his mask of bravado. Whatever he’d dreamed had shaken him. “It just… made me think. I haven’t always done right by you, and I need to do more. You’re a pioneer, Mazelle. You meant so much to those Negro kids coming up. I remember how they used to chase your car. And you can mean something again. Really mean something. To history, even.”

“You,” Mazelle said slowly, “must be very, very drunk, sir.” She usually called him sir in jest, but this time she meant to prick his inner sobriety.

“I’m not that drunk,” Jerry said. He stepped closer. He’d been moving toward her again and she hadn’t noticed. He was just on the other side of the chair now. She smelled his shampoo again, a cologne’s musk. “I see everything more clearly now. I see you more clearly now.”

Mazelle’s heart had been racing since Lorenzo mentioned Scout and the woods, and it could not calm as he stood only two feet from her with that heavy, uncomfortable gaze.

“You’re nobody’s clown,” Lorenzo said. “That door was open, so you walked through. And you mastered it young, good for you. But I hid you under that sack and fed the public those lies about who you really are—and I’m still doing it.” His voice cracked. “I can’t make the world better than it is, but I can damn well introduce you around town and make sure people see the real Mazelle. Maybe the time is coming when they’ll see who you are. Who knows? Maybe it’s finally time for Reaper.”