A year after Jenny made her cameo in the moonshiner movie, Jenny and Aunt Prim were home for good. One day, I was with Pap down at the feed store, and when we came out, there was Jenny, wearing a western shirt with pearl buttons and a pair of Lee jeans. If anything, she was more radiant than ever, and she stood on that dirty sidewalk in a kind of luminous aura: The glamour of far-flung Hollywood shone round about her. She smiled her most radiant toothpaste smile and said, "Uncle Ronnie, Otis, how have you been?" Just like nothing had happened. "How have you been?"
Pap was as flustered as I was. "You're back," was all he could muster. Celebrities do that to you. They belong to a different species, and we grow small in their presence.
"We sure are! Didja miss us?"
Pap said, "Of course, we missed you. How are you? How's Primrose? How long will y'all be here?"
"We drove down from KC yesterday," she said. She called it "KC," not Kansas City. I figured she probably called Los Angeles "LA", too. Celebrities always know what to say and how to say it. "And we're here to stay. It was time to come home."
I asked, "To Stella?" Astonishment gave me a voice. Who comes back to Stella, Missouri?
"Well, this is home. A girl's gotta have roots, you know what I mean? You sure can't put down roots in LA." Then to Pap, "Mama's fine. She's at home, sweeping down cobwebs and polishing tables. You know how she is." And Jenny smiled again.
We were in awe.
Then Pap asked, "How did she fare in the big city? We're sure proud of all you did."
Then I blurted, "I have your poster on my wall!"
"Oh, that. If I'd known . . . Anyhow, she did fine. And you don't know everything we did."
"Well, you know what I mean," said Pap.
"Give us a day or so to settle in and come by. I know Mama'd love to see you."
So, it was that two days later, Mama, Pap, and I went over to see Aunt Prim and Jenny. Mama had baked a chicken pot pie, the kind with a crust on top and bottom. Pap was toting a watermelon, and I carried a pitcher of iced tea with a towel over the top. It felt like we were going to a visitation instead of a welcome home celebration because Mama was famous for her funereal pies.
Aunt Prim opened the door, looking like she always did with her hair pulled back in a bun so tight her eyes seemed vaguely Asian.
Was she wearing eye shadow?
Huh. I looked again. Maybe.
Also, her dress looked nicer and newer—I noticed that, too—and when she led us into the house, her hips swayed a little. Very un-Primish.
Huh.
So, after we finished dinner and the old folks settled into the parlor to converse, Jenny and I went out to the porch swing.
"We saw you on television," I said.
"You did? What did you think?"
So, I stuck out my chest and said, "Grits and biscuits, boys—" but Jenny put her finger on my lips.
"I don't ever want to hear that again. What a stupid thing to be famous for! I'm the female Jethro Bodean. Sheesh."
"But it was fun! We loved it. Everybody loved it."
"Well, I guess that's good." Jenny sighed and pushed the swing back with her bootheel.
We pendulumed a little, and I asked her, "So, why'd you come back? It looked like things were really taking off for you."
Jenny put both feet down and the swing stopped. "You promise not to tell anyone? I'm serious. You've got to take this to your grave." I crossed my heart and said, "I promise."
I guess I'm breaking that promise now. Doesn't matter.
"It was Mama. We were fine at first. She would sit to one side and watch whatever commercial or scene was being filmed and make sure the men kept their hands off me and that I got paid what they said they'd pay me. Everything about her was the same: her hair, her clothes, the way she talked. She was my guardian, and I liked that. I was a lot younger than I thought I was. And even though Mama wasn't sophisticated in an LA way, she was shrewd, and the television producers respected her. I was proud of her." She sighed and started us swinging again.
"But then the days of 'grits and biscuits' came, and she changed. She became, I don't know, jealous, I guess. You know, Mama's not really that old—she's only thirty-six. She just looks old because she doesn't wear make-up, and she dresses old-fashioned. But when I became famous and the posters started selling and I got a part in a movie, she—well, it got to her.
"One morning she showed up on the set with her hair down, and I knew something was going on. Then came make-up. Then hot pants. Then a tube top. Can you imagine Mama in a tube top and hot pants? I almost passed out."
I tried to imagine the lady sitting on the edge of the sofa with a teacup in her hand and her hair pinned back wearing a tube top and hot pants. Turns out, I could do it pretty easily.
I swallowed. "So . . . how did she look?"
"She looked great! That's the problem. Every change was an improvement. And the producers began to notice her. They even invited her to audition, but the truth is she's not talented in that way. She's a great manager, but she's not an actress. Anyhow, one of the producers was more interested in the way she looked than the way she acted. He needed an attractive woman who was a little older to be in a stag movie."
"A stag movie?"
"A movie for men."
"Like Fistful of Dollars?"
"No, you idiot. A sex movie."
"Aunt Prim was in a sex movie!"
"Shh. Keep it down! You promised not to tell! I swear to God—" Tears came into Jenny's eyes. I knew I'd better tread carefully if I was going to get the whole story, so I crossed my heart and said, "I'm not telling anyone, I promise. It's just hard to imagine, that's all."
"She was supposed to be a madame, you know, a woman who runs a brothel—the picture was going to be called JAIL B8—and he wanted her to—"
"Yes?" I had to swallow.
"You promise not to tell?"
"I promise!"
"He wanted her to seduce the girls."
"To seduce the girls?"
"Yes, the younger girls who played the prostitutes. That was supposed to be her role." Jenny started crying, and she stopped the swing. "She was supposed to—"
"What?" I had a lump in my throat the size of a crab apple.
"I can't say!"
"But how can I pray for you if I don't know what happened?" I asked as I leaned forward with my hands clasped. I learned the prayer trick from Ma.
"They told her to undress the girls and—" Jenny started crying so hard I could barely make out what she was saying. I gulped really hard. Now this was a good story!
"Did she do it?" My heart was pounding in my ears. I looked through the window at Aunt Prim talking to Pap and Ma and tried to take it all in.
Jenny took a deep breath and said, "I could tell she was up to something, so when she left the apartment one evening, I followed her. I really don't want to go into detail—"
"No, it's okay. You can go into detail. Please go into detail."
"I'm not going into detail, all right? Forget it." Jenny started getting a little pissy.
"Well, then, what happened in broad strokes?" Broad strokes. That's what they call a Freudian slip.
"Suffice it to say that when I found Mama, she and a girl and a man were 'rehearsing'. God, I'll never get that image out of my mind. Anyhow, when she saw me, she grabbed up the bedsheet and yelled, 'What're you doin' here?' I said, 'That's what I should be asking you.' Then she started crying and said, 'I want to go home. Please take me home.' I said, 'Let's go, Mama. I want to go home, too.' And that's why we're here."
"Wow. I sure never would've guessed something like that. So, what exactly do you mean by 'rehearsing'?"
"I told you, I'm not going into detail!"
"But—"
"I'm not telling you this for your entertainment! Can't you see my heart is broken? And if you so much as breathe a word—"
"But was she enjoying herself, do you think? I mean, before you got there? Those are critical questions that need to be answered—"
"Otis!"
"Ah, grits and biscuits, Jenny, a boy's gotta have some fun!" I whined.
"Oh, go to hell!" she said and went inside the house. I sat in the swing and looked through the window again. I knew I should feel some compassion for Jenny and Aunt Prim, but my imagination was running wild through the streets of Los Angeles. I swallowed one last time and went in the house and heard Aunt Prim saying, "The Lord had his hand on us, Ronnie. That's all I can say."
I thought, "The Lord's not the only one who had his hand on you. And you could say a lot more if you wanted to." That's when I realized we are all pretending to be someone else. Even, especially, Aunt Prim.