The Ripper's Wife(103)
When we stepped into the studio’s office, early despite Mama’s insistence that we be late, Mr. Wagner, who was to meet us there, hadn’t arrived. We were greeted by the sweetest boy, soft-spoken and somewhat shy, not chatty or cheeky like the bellboys at the hotels we stayed at whom Mama always likened to “Satan’s imps in training.” He had a film can and the menu from a nearby restaurant tucked under one arm and was holding a broom in his other hand, and a torn costume was draped around his neck, all of which he immediately set aside as he took the time to greet us, see us seated comfortably, and ask if he could get us anything while we waited.
Acting for all the world like Catherine the Great sitting on her throne, twiddling her pearls and stroking her Pekingese, Mama imperiously demanded sauerkraut juice, watermelon relish, sweet potato pie crowned with pink whipped cream two inches thick, a bottle of champagne, caviar, and a dish of creamed chicken hearts and livers for Napoleon. She’d already told me that whether I actually appeared in the picture or was only on the set in the capacity of a consultant I should “constantly endeavor to tax the ingenuity an’ resourcefulness of the go-for boys an’ keep ’em runnin’,” as it would make these theatrical types respect me more. “Bein’ demandin’ keeps you from bein’ treated like a doormat, Daughter!”
But at the startled look on the boy’s dear little face I quickly intervened and assured him Mama was just teasing, at which news he seemed greatly relieved and quickly offered us coffee or tea instead, assuring us that both were freshly brewed.
I have a spot in my heart soft as a marshmallow for sweet boys with dark hair and brown eyes, especially ones at ages I missed being with my own boy, and there was something about this one that just tugged at my heart. This licorice-whip-skinny boy didn’t have Bobo’s breathtaking beauty or his vibrant vivacity, but there was something there.... I simply could not take my eyes off him. I wanted to cup his face in my hands and drink him in, and my arms ached to reach out and hug him and never let go. I reckoned he was about fourteen, the age Bobo had been when he’d taken his stance about the photographs. Looking at him, I practically had to sit on my hands not to reach out and smooth back the brown hair falling carelessly over his brow, and before I even knew what I was doing I was already reaching for my handkerchief, thinking to wet it with my mouth, to scrub away the smear of green paint staining his left cheek. Mama read my mind and yanked the hanky from my hand and barked at the boy that tea would be fine, “with milk, sugar, lemon, an’ cream if you please! An’ some little cakes would not be unwelcome! Bake ‘em if you have to, but don’t keep us waitin’, boy!”
While he scurried off to see to our tea—I think he just wanted to get away from Mama, and maybe even me, the way I kept looking at him like I wanted to devour him—I stood up and wandered over to the window, to stand before it without actually looking out and just be alone with my thoughts. I wanted to block my ears to Mama’s stinging cat-o’-nine-tails tongue castigating me about “that longing look” I got sometimes and could never hide whenever a boy possessing a certain coloring and quality came along to remind me of what I missed most of all. Restlessly I turned from the window to the desk. It was then I saw the stack of schoolbooks bound with a leather strap and the violin case lying beside them. He must have come straight from school. My fingers reached out to caress them and the gray cap lying beside them, my fingers lingering, lovingly tracing over the herringbone pattern of the tweed.
It was then that I really started thinking and realized that I could not make this movie no matter how much Mama and Mr. Wagner wanted me to. What if my son and daughter saw it? Some pretty young blond actress up there on the screen pretending to be me, reliving the whole sordid, scandalous, and sensational spectacle, not as a valentine to their dead father or validation of their mother’s innocence but as an advertisement—that’s really all it amounted to—for my book and lectures, both of which I loathed! I just couldn’t do it! Mama and Mr. Wagner just kept stirring it all up, bringing it back to a full roiling boil, when all I wanted was for the flames to die out. I didn’t want to be remembered or reminded! Why couldn’t anyone understand that?
Decisively I crossed the room to stand before Mama. If at fourteen my son could decide he didn’t want to pose for photographs anymore, at forty-six I could certainly put my foot down to quash every notion of this photoplay!
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said. “I know you want this, you think it’s in my best interests, but I don’t. I won’t do this, and you can’t make me!”
I was walking toward the door just as the boy came back in with a heavily laden tea tray. God bless his eager to please little heart, he had even found some cake somewhere. He politely stepped aside to make way for me. With a nervously trembling hand, I dared reach out and lightly caress his cheek, smooth and baby soft, such a sweet, endearing face, and brush back the fall of dark hair tickling his brow.
“Thank you, darling; the tea looks delicious. I wish I could stay and have some. I’m sorry we put you to all this trouble for nothing,” I said, turning away quickly as the tears caught in my throat and overflowed my eyes.
What was it about this one? There had been boys before, briefly glimpsed, who had caught my fancy and become my adored-from-afar objects of obsession, only to be forgotten when I moved on and the next one came along, but this one was different.... I already knew he was going to be haunting my dreams for a very long time. As much as I wanted to stay and try to figure out why, I had to leave.