Page 80 of Mazywood

“Remember,” Lorenzo said. “You belong here.”

Lorenzo’s hand was planted across the small of her back as he opened the door.

The bright lighting in the room made Mazelle blink, and the only colors she saw were red, white, and blue. Flags and decorative baskets in the national colors crowded every corner.

“What is this?” Mazelle said between her smiling teeth.

“War bond fundraiser,” Lorenzo said. “Everyone wants to be a patriot.”

About thirty people were already in the large suite, which showcased a white baby grand piano beside the picture window overlooking the Los Angeles night sky. Some men were in uniform. Most of the women were in white or black dresses, so her emerald dress would have caught anyone’s eye even if she had not been the only Negro in sight. The guests openly stared. The din quieted.

Since she had accidentally commanded the room, Lorenzo said, “This is my rising star, Mazelle Washington. You’ve seen her in my pictures.”

A couple people openly gasped, then a warm murmur enveloped the room. A few people applauded as if her transformation were a circus trick. Two men near her raised their champagne flutes in a toast. The closest to her was tall and broad-shouldered, although she didn’t recognize him at first with gray in his sideburns and in an army dress jacket. It was Clark Gable! Seeing Clark felt like running into an old friend, as if she’d conjured him.

“Of course. Mazelle Washington!” Clark said. “If memory serves, we’ve already been in a picture together.” He gave her a courtly bow and kissed her hand. The gasp from the far end of the room was thin this time, but Mazelle’s ear didn’t miss it. Clark’s face turned stern as he eyed Lorenzo, who had run afoul of MGM by using his likeness in Lazy Mazy Goes to the Kentucky Derby. The courts had forced him to trim it out after the premiere.

“I’m just back from England,” Clark said to Mazelle, pointedly ignoring Lorenzo.

“Thank goodness you’re safe,” Mazelle said. She couldn’t think of a thing else to say. So this is what it means to be tongue-tied, she thought. She wanted to give Clark her condolences on the tragic loss of his wife, Carole Lombard, but it didn’t feel like her place to bring up such a painful topic, especially when his eyes were so soft on hers.

“I’ll tell Hattie I saw you,” she finally blurted. Hattie was their only bridge.

“Please do.” Clark’s smile lingered. “The home front looks better than ever.”

Mazelle felt breathless the way she did when she listened to the King Cole Trio. Clark raised his glass again and walked away with a measured stride that reminded her of a general who could lead men to war. Star power. He had walked to her and bestowed her with some of his. He had done it deliberately. A slender, dark-haired woman slipped her arm into Clark’s as he returned to her side, her gaze on Mazelle heavy and wondering.

The guests were deeply curious, some of them enchanted. More of the men were smiling, and a few of the women. A woman touched her own bobbed hair as if she wished hers were piled as splendidly as Mazelle’s. And there stood dark-haired Olivia de Havilland! The seasoned actress raised her glass to greet her in welcome, as if entrance to this exclusive club granted them instant sisterhood. Mazelle smiled an acknowledgment and kept up her slow, steady walk. Queenly. Head high. Trying not to gawk at the legendary faces and sparkling jewelry.

“What the fuck just happened?” Lorenzo whispered as they glided through the crowd. “Jesus fucking Christ. She walks in and Clark Gable jumps like she whistled. Where are the reporters when you need ’em?”

“Hush,” Mazelle said. “You’re embarrassing. Act like you belong here.”

Lorenzo grabbed a whiskey from a passing waiter’s drink tray, not breaking his stride.

“Always gotta make an entrance, huh, Jerry?” a man said, brushing past Lorenzo.

“You’re just jealous,” Lorenzo said.

“I’ll say!”

The names and faces were a blur as Lorenzo guided her through the knots of plain and beautiful white people, every guest ostentatiously wealthy. A young man sat at the piano, tinkling out standards in a choppy, mechanized style Aunt Ruby would not have approved of. He played “That Old Black Magic” with no swing to it, grinning at her. Some guests moved to far reaches of the room as if Mazelle had a bad smell, but most others moved in closer.

“How are you enjoying our little soiree?” a man’s voice asked her. “I’m guessing it’s not the kind of party you’re used to?”

Mazelle turned and came face-to-face with a balding man with bushy eyebrows and a pencil mustache who matched her height in heels. Fiftyish. Not an actor, but maybe a producer. Lorenzo patted her arm: Answer him.

“Oh, it’s a marvel, all right,” she said. “But shouldn’t my dress be red, white, and blue?” Laughter. She hadn’t realized that so many people were listening, or that her answer had been amusing. Her green dress did clash with the patriotic displays.

“Don’t worry—from where I’m standing, your dress is perfect,” he said, flitting his eyes to her cleavage.

More laughter in agreement. Rows of teeth shined at her. The floating feeling tickled at Mazelle, but she brushed it away. Instead of shrinking under the stares of strangers, she raised her shoulders higher and gave him her best smile.

“That’s a relief!” she said. “I’d hate to stand out here like a sore thumb.”

More people laughed now. The man looked at her carefully. Was she being ironic? Did she have the capacity for spontaneous wit?

“I’ve got Mazelle under contract doing slapstick,” Lorenzo said. “But she does it all. Sings, dances, acts. She’s that new breed to help get Willkie and the NAACP off our backs.”