Page 9 of Mazywood

“Hey, my good boy,” she said, and slipped him some beef jerky she always kept in her bathrobe. He chomped at the meat viciously, as if rending the flesh from bone; a reminder of the mauled squirrels. Then Scout grinned again and lathered her cheek with his tongue. Mazelle rubbed behind his ears like she would a genie’s bottle and whispered, “Thank you, Scout,” as she did every day to keep her good luck set in place, even though touching Scout made her want to wash her hands. She loved Scout, but his fur made her hands filmy and damp.

And his smell lingered.

Despite his new fame, Scout still was not allowed to sleep in the house. His unnatural odor wasn’t as noticeable on the set because they often shot outdoors, or in the cavernous studio, but inside of Mazelle’s new home, the smell clung to the walls and curtains like the decayed floor of Misery Swamp. That, and Scout had never warmed up to Doris or Aunt Ruby, who now lived in the extra room behind the kitchen, so it was either exile or a muzzle. Aunt Ruby was even more hateful than Doris, so Scout growled at Aunt Ruby regularly. Since Scout had to sleep outside, Daddy had built him a doghouse that was a miniature replica of their house, situated in a shady corner of the sunporch on the other side of the wall from Mazelle’s room. (A photo of Scout beside his tiny house appeared in The California Eagle.)

Mazelle could hardly remember who she’d been in Gracetown, sleeping on a bare mattress and playing in her beloved woods for hours at a time. Now she had just signed a contract that would end in two years, when she was eleven. “You’ll be too old after that,” Mr. Lorenzo had told her, as if it would make her sad, but she’d honestly felt relieved. The word contract felt too tight around her, squeezing like her tap shoes on the day of her first screen test. Making pictures was great fun, especially since she’d made so many new friends. But a contract made it sound like work.

In the morning light, it was a staggering thought: If I wanted to quit right now, Mr. Lorenzo would sue my family. And they would lose the two hundred dollars a week Mother had negotiated in her contract, which was so much money that it had been printed in The California Eagle with a picture of her and Scout under the headline “Little Mazy and Scout the Wonder Dog Sign Historic Deal.” Her salary, the story said, put her on the heels of Sunshine Sammy in Our Gang as the highest-paid Negro child in Hollywood.

Mazelle’s success had helped her family move into this big new house, which had eight rooms—enough for her and her sisters to have their own bedrooms, with no need for her to sleep in the attic—and one room left over for Aunt Ruby. If she tried to quit now, Doris and Dottie would blame her for being forced to leave their high school sweethearts to move to a cheaper neighborhood, or back to Florida. And she might never see her best friends again.

Mother had said she was bound, as if such an ugly word could be good. The contract didn’t make Mazelle happy, and wasn’t Mother supposed to want her to be happy most of all? Daddy had agreed to the contract too and posed with them in a photograph as she signed while Scout inked a paw print, but Mother was her manager now. Mazelle never wanted to confess to Mother that the new contract made her want to quit when she had never thought about it before—except a few times when she was sleepy and irritable. Her growing dissatisfaction felt like a terrible secret, and Mazelle never had liked keeping secrets from Mother.

Mazelle had too many secrets already.

Mazelle’s parents shared the biggest bedroom in the house, with space for a dressing table and a large wardrobe. When they first bought the house, Mazelle had argued that she should have the biggest bedroom (hadn’t they moved to Los Angeles because of her?), but Daddy had told her she was being foolish and disrespectful—and besides, she needed to sleep close to Scout. The dog whimpered all night long on the nights Mazelle slept in her parents’ bed when she woke up from bad dreams.

Mother coughed into her hand. Mother had been coughing and sleeping later in the mornings. Daddy said she should see a doctor, and Mazelle was worried about Mother’s stubbornness. Mazelle was always on the lookout for the bad luck trailing her to make up for the good luck of finding Scout.

“Pumpkin, hand me that water,” Mother said, her voice hoarse, and Mazelle gave her the beveled glass from her bedside night table. Mother drank half the glass, and the coughing stopped. Good. “All right, let’s get this done.”

Ugh. Every Saturday, Mother unbraided and then re-braided Mazelle’s hair in the style that Mr. Lorenzo insisted she must wear. Mazelle hadn’t liked Mother’s hot comb, considering how often Mother accidentally singed her ears, but she would tolerate a thousand burns if she could wear her hair pressed in her old style of two pigtails that reached her shoulders instead of so many small, nappy plaits Mother intentionally mussed to look neglected.

“Why does Mr. Lorenzo make me wear my hair like this?” Mazelle whined. “He says he loves us all the same, so how come I’m the only one with messy hair?”

Mother went quiet. She never said a word against Mr. Lorenzo when Mazelle was present, although Mazelle had heard her grumbling to Daddy from behind their door about more than just her hairstyle.

“I’m sure he does love you, child,” Mother said. “Oh, I’m very sure of that.” Her voice said there was more she didn’t want to say. But if Mother had complaints against him, why did she negotiate the contract?

Mother worked quickly, parting Mazelle’s hair into sections, braiding it tightly. She’d had to cut Mazelle’s hair shorter so her braids would stick up instead of drooping down. Between braiding her hair and tying the white ribbons, the work took Mother more than an hour. But Mazelle didn’t mind being settled between Mother’s thighs.

Aunt Ruby would come next, and Mazelle was in no hurry to see her.

“Why does Aunt Ruby have to stay with us?” Mazelle asked glumly. “We have more money now. I have a contract.”

“Shhhh,” Mother said. “Lower your voice. I don’t want her to hear you talking like that. This house partly belongs to her, you know. We didn’t have two cents to rub together when we came out here. And do you know I never would have been onstage and met your father if she hadn’t given me lessons when I was your age?”

“Daddy can teach me!”

“Not anymore,” Mother said quietly. “Not the way he wants to—with his back so sore. We want you to have the best chance to keep up your career. I hate to put it this way, but dogs don’t live forever. We have no idea how old Scout is. And once your contract is up and you’re closer to a young lady than a little girl, you’ll be relying more on your other talents.”

Mother never liked to say it, but Doris reminded Mazelle at every opportunity: She didn’t have any other talents except for Scout. Mazelle couldn’t dance or sing as well as her sisters, and they were having no luck finding work in Los Angeles. Mother didn’t want them working in nightclubs until they graduated from high school, and no one in pictures would talk to them, even Mr. Lorenzo. Mazelle could still do backflips and cartwheels, which she often performed for the camera with Scout, but Mother said she needed a stronger act if she wanted to have longevity.

“Aunt Ruby hits me,” Mazelle said, her voice hushed, although her words were so loud that they should have made Mother’s ears ring.

Mother only sighed. “I sure hated that paddle too,” she said, just as quiet.

This wasn’t the first time Mazelle had complained about Aunt Ruby’s paddling, and Mother had said she would talk to Aunt Ruby about using a gentler hand. But Mazelle didn’t think she had, or Aunt Ruby wasn’t listening. During Mazelle’s sulking silence, Mother squeezed Mazelle’s shoulders. “Come on, she’s not that bad,” Mother said. “I know she’s strict, but just mind your mouth and do as you’re told. You’ll be better for it—just like I was.”

Then Mother coughed several more times. Mazelle heard her lungs rumbling deep inside.

“All right, Mother,” Mazelle said. Maybe pleasing her could be a cure.

It took the rest of the water glass to quiet Mother’s cough, but then she patted Mazelle’s back. “All done. Go look at yourself and tell me if Mr. Lorenzo will like it. Last time, he said you looked too much like Easter Sunday.” Her voice carried a slight wheeze.

Mazelle went to the dressing table mirror hoping her hair wouldn’t look as silly as it usually did, but she was disappointed. Two dozen limp white ribbons were festooned across thin braids that stuck up every which way all over her head. Mother had made the braids frizzy and sloppy instead of fresh. As usual, Mazelle barely recognized herself. She hated to leave the house because her hair was so embarrassing, especially at church. She missed attending school with classmates instead of only having a tutor on the set, but she could never go to a city school looking like a pickaninny from a soapbox. All she was missing was inflated, bright red lips. Now that she had signed her contract, her required hairstyle bothered Mazelle more.

“You and Daddy never did no minstrel shows,” Mazelle said, half to herself.