Thank You for Listening(41)

BROCK:

Yeah that’s totally what I was going to say.

That’s good.

That’s Really Good.

Mind if I steal it?

SEWANEE:

It’s you.

*yours

SEWANEE WAS NAMED after her grandmother’s hometown. Everyone who’d been involved in the decision had liked it. It was possibly the only thing they agreed on, if for completely different reasons. Elegant, her grandmother had said. Magical, her mother had said. Allegorical, her father had said.

Sewanee had wanted to live up to all of it.

But her name did not endear her to her grandmother. Not at first.

It wasn’t personal. Barbara Chester had never shown much interest in children, and she’d had no use for Sewanee until she was old enough to have a conversation and not run mindlessly back to Henry and repeat it. But by the time Sewanee was eight or nine, they’d discovered what was missing from both of their lives: each other.

On school holidays or weekends or summer workdays, Marilyn would drive up Beverly Glen and pull over on Mulholland, where Sewanee would get into Blah’s waiting car and they’d drive down the other side of the hill to Bitsy’s house. They’d watch old movies in the shagged living room and Sewanee soaked it all up, knew every line from The Philadelphia Story, every step of “Make ’Em Laugh” from Singin’ in the Rain, every head tilt from Lauren Bacall.

At the height of the day, they’d go out to the green-tinged pool and Blah would teach her how to swim, telling her the combination of swimming and dancing would give her everything she’d need to maintain her yet-to-appear figure. At some point, Blah would say, “I suppose your parents expect me to feed you,” and they’d glide into the kitchen and Blah would forage for something, anything, that constituted food. Usually Ritz crackers or apple slices. Always Mallomars. Sometimes Bitsy would stop by between her lunch and dinner shift at Du-pars and bring them pancakes, which Sewanee loved, but her real appetite was elsewhere.

One more dance step; rewatch a Hepburn/Tracy film and talk about “chemistry”; go through Bette Davis’s entire oeuvre.

By the time Sewanee was in middle school, they would drive around the Valley in Blah’s Oldsmobile convertible and go consignment shopping on Ventura Boulevard. They’d sweep down the racks, pulling anything remotely intriguing. When Sewanee would say, “I like this, what do you think?” Blah would respond, “I think you’re a knockout, Doll.”

This was when Sewanee began sensing what it might be like to be Sewanee. She would show up at school in jeans, Tshirts, flip-flops, and ponytails, but every Homecoming or Snow Ball or Prom she was decked out in impeccably tailored vintage and makeup, looking about a decade older than she was.

It was at one of these dances her junior year when a classmate’s father, a television producer, asked if she had any interest in acting. She said it was all she wanted to do. What she didn’t tell him was that her parents had told her she couldn’t until she was eighteen. They lived in Los Angeles, after all, they knew the horror stories. So when the producer asked her to audition for his new show, she did so without telling her parents. Because she was sure she wouldn’t get it. She just wanted to test herself out. Like a first date.

So when she inevitably got the role and was forced to tell them, they said no, of course she couldn’t take the part, hadn’t they discussed this?

But, but, but!

They fought, their first real teenager knock-down drag-out, and Sewanee slammed the front door, got into her rattletrap Jetta, and steamed over the hill to Bitsy’s.

She and Blah had sat out by the pool in the warm October evening while Sewanee sobbed, hurling invectives at her parents. Blah calmly sipped her martini and waited for Sewanee to breathe. Then she handed her the last gulp of her drink, which Sewanee immediately threw back and just as immediately nearly threw up, making a face only a lemon could love. They both laughed; Blah’s aim all along.

She reached into the pocket of her quilted dressing gown, pulled out a lighter and the silver cigarette case her agent had given her in ’58. It was inscribed on the back, “To: A great pair of get-away sticks. May they take you where you want to go.” She tapped out a cigarette, lit it, smoke dancing in the pool lights.

Sewanee had heard the story of how Blah had been discovered many times over the years, but like all of Blah’s stories, new layers were added as Sewanee got older.

“Bitsy and I had moved to Nashville for work. We were cocktail waitresses at a dive in Printer’s Alley. And one day, a man walked in.” Most of Blah’s stories included the line: a man walked in.

“They were location scouting for a honky-tonk in Nashville. Big deal at the time, going on location instead of making a soundstage in Hollywood look like a honky-tonk. So, I sauntered up, talked him into staying for a drink and into using our bar to shoot in. He came back two months later to film, and I went from being a waitress-in-life to a waitress-in-a-movie. I saved my tips, got on a bus, and when I got to Hollywood, I telephoned him. He got me a room at a good boardinghouse. He got me a coat check job at Musso and Frank. He got me my first agent. And all he got was my virginity.”

Sewanee’s mouth dropped open, but Blah waved off her shock. “He was a looker. And it was time to get rid of it anyway.”

“But . . .” Sewanee sputtered. “He used you!”