Girl In The Mirror

In California, the spring sun beat hard upon Michael’s neck as he watched the twenty-two men that made up his crews gather together at the Mondragon compound to kick off the new season. The men were mostly Americans, from their twenties to their fifties, most of them married, with children. There was one group of Mexican men, clustered together, separated by language and choice. These were men who came to the Mondragon nursery every spring to work especially for Luis. They all came in one single rusting truck that belched fumes and grunted like an old man.

Some men of the crews were more experienced in the business than he was. They’d worked for his father for as long as he could remember. A few were greenhorns and had to be trained. Like Cisco, his nephew. He was only nine years old, but he was here at Michael’s invitation, earning a good wage. It pleased Luis to see another generation in the business.

Young or old, experienced or green, citizen or not, it didn’t matter. As long as they put in an honest day’s work they were paid an honest day’s wage. They all understood this as Michael stepped forward and began outlining his plans for change in their routines. It was also understood that Michael was a Mondragon. And Luis had made it clear to all that this Mondragon was now in charge.

While Michael spoke to the men, he noticed that Bobby was translating his words to the small cluster of Mexican men who stood apart from the rest. They listened to Bobby, but they kept their dark eyes on him. He felt an old uneasiness rise up, the gnawing ambiguity that he couldn’t speak his father’s language well enough.

“Is good what you say!” Luis complimented him when he was finished and the crews had dispersed to begin their work. “You are El Patron now, eh?” His dark face was flushed with pleasure, and his eyes sparkled as brightly as the sun overhead. “But now is the real test. Now you must go out to work with your men. Make your soft hands work, eh? Shovel. Rake. Real work.” He slapped his back and laughed. Then, calling out to his foreman, Luis hurried away, boasting loudly to anyone who would listen.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Michael said to Bobby, who was smothering a smile behind his hand.

“Hey, better you than me.”

Michael looked at his brother’s long, thin frame and his linen trousers flowing in the breeze and realized that what he said was true for many reasons.

“I’m doing the designs and managing this place,” he replied gruffly. “Papa’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m wielding a shovel out there. I’m through with dirty nails.” He wiped the back of his neck, feeling the beginning of a sunburn. He muttered a curse under his breath for forgetting to wear a hat.

“Whatever you say, bracero.” Bobby reached out and placed his floppy-brimmed panama hat over Michael’s head, laughing.

Later that evening, Michael hobbled into the Mondragon office, clutching his back and limping like an old man. An old, enfeebled man.

Bobby looked up from his paperwork and his face broke into a grin of pure pleasure. “Hey, El Patron. I thought you weren’t going to do any hard labor,” Bobby teased, tilting on the hind legs of his chair.

“There was this tree root—” Michael waved his hand “—never mind. Give me a beer.”

The icy liquid flowed down his throat, feeling like spring rains after a drought.

“I’d forgotten what it was like out there.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve. After a brief pause, a sheepish grin crept across his face. “You know, it felt good to use my body like that again.” He stumbled over to the old sofa and collapsed upon it, stretching his long legs out before him. “Look at my hands,” he groaned, holding his palms before his eyes. Blisters were already forming where he’d grasped the shovel and pickax. He smiled, remembering how an old-timer had come up to him and told him he was doing it all wrong, then proceeded to show him how to do it.

Michael drank down his beer in a few chugs, then let his hand droop, his fingers barely balancing the bottle on the floor.

“Why don’t you go home and take a hot bath?” Bobby asked. “You earned it, bracero. And you could use it. Whew.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will. I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute. Just for one minute.”

In that short space of time, his hands loosened, the bottle tilted and rolled to the floor, and he was out.

Bobby rose and walked to his brother, picking up the bottle and resting Michael’s hands up on his belly. A bittersweet smile flickered across his face when he noticed the mud in Michael’s manicured nails.

“Welcome home, El Patron.”

Part Two

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

—George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron

Six

It had been a long year of recovery. Charlotte’s progress had been slow and agonizingly painful, full of medication and examinations, months of orthodontics and adjustments. There was a brief time of panic soon after the surgery when she’d had a bad reaction to the sutures, but she’d endured it without complaint, dreaming of the day when she’d begin the next phase of her plan.

And that day had finally arrived.

“You’re moving where?”

Charlotte’s hand hovered over the kitchen sink. Soapy water trickled in rivulets down her forearm to soak in the sleeves of her rolled-up, starched white blouse. Turning her head to look over her shoulder, she saw that her mother had thrown back her shoulders and her eyes were like sharp daggers of fury. Charlotte squeezed the sponge hard, draining it completely.

“C-California,” she managed to stutter out.

“Do you know how far that is away from Chicago? From all you know? From your mother?”

Helena snapped the blue-and-white-striped kitchen towel against her thigh. The crack ricocheted in Charlotte’s ears. She kept her gaze riveted to a thin streak of soap that floated above the white breakfast china in the sink.

“What you know about going far from home? It is hard and cruel for a young woman who travels alone. People, they take advantage.” Her eyes grew bright with hysteria.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I—I wouldn’t be alone. Dr. Harmon gave me the name and address of a big agent in Hollywood. Dr. Harmon’s writing a letter of introduction.”

“Dr. Harmon again?” Helena’s eyes glittered with hatred as she pronounced his name slowly. “Always it’s Dr. Harmon with you.”

“Mother, please. Let’s not start that again….”

“You take his word over mine. It doesn’t matter anymore what I think. I’m only your mother. I only gave you your life, and give you a roof over your head and food for your belly. What right have I to have opinion? You change your face, your job, and now you want to change how and where you live? In California!” She grunted, shook her head and placed her hands on her hips, caught in a private thought. “A letter of introduction? Ha!”

She felt her mother’s will push down on her, suffocating her. “I’ve always wanted to act.”

Helena slapped the air. “Ach, you are no actress, Charlotte. You just do a little helping at the theater. Stop dreaming. Why not you just be happy as accountant? It’s a good job. That is enough for people like us. You can’t do something like be an actress.”

“Mama, I can do this! Why do you always tell me what I can’t do?”

“Because I know better. And I don’t want you get hurt.”

“I want to try.”

Helena raised herself up, tossing the towel upon the spotless counter. “No,” she declared sharply, making the decision for both of them. She straightened her broad shoulders and clasped her hands before her on her belly. “You will not move to California where they make movies and live wild life.” She began wiping her large hands on her apron, as though the very idea was dirty.

Then she speared Charlotte with an accusing look. “And you will throw out that ridiculous list that you hide in your room. Yes, yes, I saw it. You write down how you want to change everything.”

Charlotte paled and her breath shrunk in her breast, thinking of her list of wishes, goals and dreams. “You’re going through my things now? In my room? That’s…that’s private! That’s unforgivable. I’m not a child. How could you do that?”

“Don’t you dare raise your voice to me. I’m your mother! This is my home. I can do what I want in my own home!”

Charlotte was white with anger. How long had she handed over her paycheck, willingly, to support her mother? Only to be told she didn’t even have the right to privacy in her own bedroom? She didn’t have the right to make her own decisions? She felt so exposed. Naked. Her list was her most private secret. Except for…

She flushed, realizing that her diary was also in her drawer. Lifting her hands from the cooled, greasy water, she glanced quickly at her mother. Helena was watching her with arms akimbo.

“You read my diary.” It was an accusation.

The truth glittered in her mother’s pale eyes. Her guilt was written on her rising blush and the nervous tapping of her fingers.

Charlotte couldn’t look at her. She felt physically ill. Drying her hands quickly, she asked in staccato, “You know what happened to me? About Lou Kopp?”

“Ach, dirty. That filthy man. I hope to think you learned your lesson.”

“My lesson?” she cried, hearing the hurt she felt come through. “The only lesson I learned is not to let anyone take advantage of me ever again. Anyone, Mother.”

Helena’s pale blue eyes iced over, like a lake caught in a bitter chill.

“I can’t continue like this,” Charlotte cried. “I’ve made up my mind. I am going to California.”

“Ungrateful slut!” her mother called out, the vehemence of it forcing Charlotte to slam back against the kitchen counter. “You turn your back on me? After all I’ve been through for you?” She shook her head. “You were my punishment. I knew it from the first I saw your face. But did I turn my back on you. No!”

“Your punishment? Mother, how can my face be your punishment? I’m the one who suffered. Not you.”

“You know nothing!” Helena snapped back. She caught her breath, staring madly at her as though considering whether to stop now or to hold back. But fury had already broken the bounds of control. Helena took two steps forward, aggressively invading Charlotte’s personal space.

“You think you know so much?” she charged on. “You want to change your life, do you? Then you should know it all.” Her eyes narrowed and she pointed a finger at Charlotte with accusation.

Charlotte shrank back, instinctively knowing a hurt was coming.

“Your father he never married me. Because of you I had to leave my family, my homeland. I leave everything to come here and live alone. To have you. You! I come with nothing but lousy letter of introduction. It did nothing for me. Yes, I suffered!” She buried her face in her hands.

“Your face it was my punishment for my sin. Sin of having child out of sacrament of marriage.”

Charlotte’s mind whirled. She felt like she was riding a carousel, going round and round with macabre music playing in the background and the barker crying out, “Bastard. Bastard.”

“That is why I say no to surgery,” Helena moaned.

“May God’s will be done.”

“God’s will? What about your will? And mine?” Charlotte pushed away from the Formica. All further words tumbled and spilled unspoken from her mouth in a soft whimper. She turned to leave, stumbling away.

“If you go to California,” Helena called at her back, “you will never be welcomed here again. If you leave, you are not a Godowski!”

Charlotte stopped, tilted her head, then slowly met her mother’s unyielding gaze. She felt as squeezed dry as the sponge in her hand. “Apparently, I’m not a Godowski, anyway,” she replied in a low voice. “I don’t know who I am. But I assure you, Mother, I intend to find out.”

Charlotte arrived in Los Angeles two days later. As she stepped from the cab, bag in hand, she hoped no one passing her on the street could hear the pounding of her heart or see the trepidation blazing across her face. She quickly glanced at the dog-eared business card in her hand. Yes, this was the right address. The office of Freddy Walen, Talent Agent.

The ghost of the little girl she once was materialized in her mind, tugging at her thoughts, telling her this was much too much a dream for her to go after. Who do you think you are, anyway?

Charlotte chewed her lip as she craned her head far back to stare up the tall granite building. Well, wasn’t that the very question she had to answer? she asked herself. Scooting the little girl from her mind, she entered the building with long strides, marched through the plush marbled lobby and rode the elevator to the top floor where a shiny brass plate indicated the offices of Freddy Walen. A young woman with enormous breasts and lips gave her the once-over when she walked in.

“I’m here to see Mr. Walen. He’s expecting me.”

“Your name?”

Charlotte braced herself for a laugh or a rolled eye as she said her new name.

“Charlotte Godfrey.”

“You may go in now,” drawled the secretary without raising her eyes. “He’s expecting you.”

Be calm, Charlotte told herself, determined to gain control. You’re prepared. You can do this. She tucked down her jacket, lifted her chin, then passed the secretary, entering Walen’s office after a brisk three knocks on the door.

The room was determinedly masculine with its brown leather chairs and sofas and heavy, square-cornered dark wood desks and tables. A spectacular marlin arched over the sofa and golf clubs slouched beside it. Golf trophies were placed at prominent positions throughout the room. Freddy Walen was a man with an ego.

Charlotte scanned the black-framed photographs that filled the opposite wall. Some of the stars in the frames she knew. Some big names—mostly long forgotten names, either dead or has-beens. Had she not been an old movie buff, she’d never have recognized a few of them. There were a number of character actors with familiar faces but names she couldn’t remember. Nowhere was there a face of a young, hot actor.

Charlotte pursed her lips and, shifting her gaze, noticed other telling details: the worn leather, the dust bunnies in the corner, the dying dieffenbachia by the window. This looked more like an office of someone on the way down, not up. After all, it was hard to kill a dieffenbachia.

“Welcome to California, Miss Godfrey” came a voice from the corner.

Turning her head, she saw a barrel-chested man nearing fifty years of age, leaning casually against the wall studying her. He was handsome, in a polished, older sort of way, she thought. The kind of man who wore slip-on shoes, flowing, tailored slacks and cashmere sweaters that showed off his muscular chest and arms.

“Sit down.”

Charlotte startled at the brusque command. Play the part, she ordered herself, then strolled to the sofas with a practiced elegance that Grace Kelly would have envied. In her mind’s eye she could see what he saw: the too-wide lapels on her suit jacket and her out-of-date heels. She’d considered purchasing new shoes, but thought it best to eat instead. She walked, however, as if she were wearing couture. It’s not what you wear, but how you wear it, she remembered reading in a magazine one day.

The sofa sighed as she sat on the leather and carefully tucked her skirt beneath her thighs. Mustn’t perspire and stick to it.

A smile curved his lips, raising his black mustache, making her suspect that he’d guessed all this was an act and was playing along. He had dark blond hair interspersed with gray and wore it slicked back. It was his facial hair, however, that gave him such an intimidating appearance. His thick dark brows and mustache contrasted with his blond hair and accentuated the paleness of his blue eyes like bold punctuation marks. When he looked over his dominant nose to stare at her, Charlotte felt pinned.

“You’re tall, have a beautiful face and you’ve got nice teeth,” he said as an opener, striding across the room. He sat on the sofa directly opposite her, leaning far back into the cushions, spreading his arms out across the cushions in a position of command. “But your feet are big, and you walk like a man.” He flipped his palms up. “All in all, I’d say Harmon was right. You have potential.”

Charlotte’s mouth slipped open and her mind went blank except for the vision of her big feet.

“You’re from Chicago, right? Good theater there. Says in the letter that you did quite a bit of off-Broadway kind of stuff.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Sort of, she thought to herself, tightening her hands in her lap.

“Lessons, studio work?”

“Of course. I have my portfolio with me.” Charlotte bent at the waist to shuffle through her bag.

“Just set it on the table. I’ll get to that later.” He brought his hand to his face, stroking his jaw while he studied her. Then he asked her a few basic questions about roles she’d played, her range, her methods. Questions she’d prepared for on the long flight from Chicago to L.A. She answered carefully. Dr. Harmon and she had agreed that her plastic surgery would remain private. She didn’t want to be just another Hollywood makeover, or worse, a freak. Dr. Harmon had warned her that if the gossipmongers found out, they’d never take her seriously as an actress, they’d be so occupied searching for scars.

“Come, come, this isn’t the time for nervousness,” Freddy said, mistaking her hesitation for shyness. The corners of a smile emerged from under his mustache and his eyes sparked. “Your voice is good, too. Very sexy.”

She shifted, a slight movement that created distance. Was he trying to pick her up? Most men did when they met her these days. Young and old alike, they lit up like Christmas trees. Freddy Walen wasn’t looking at her breasts, however, or moving into her personal space. He looked at her the way Dr. Harmon had—clinically, professionally. He looked directly into her eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” she replied coolly.

“I’ll just bet you have. And a lot more.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “But it doesn’t matter if the guy who bags your groceries, or your hometown boyfriend, or even your parish priest thinks you’re the greatest thing since white bread. In this town what matters is that the right person—a connected person—thinks you’re special and introduces you to other right people. It’s all who you know. And—” he leaned back in the cushions and crossed his legs; his eyes delivered a challenge “—it helps if you have talent.”

Charlotte leaned back in her sofa and met his gaze straight on, accepting the challenge. On this point, she felt supremely confident. “I have talent.”

Their gazes met and held.

He was keenly interested.

She was eager.

He had the resources.

She had the ability.

The tumblers clicked.

He stroked his chin for a moment, then picked up his phone and buzzed his secretary. “Has Melanie Ward found a new roommate yet? No? Tell you what. Call her now and tell her I’ve found one for her. Charlotte Godfrey. Yeah, the lady here. Give Mel the details and tell her I’ll drop her by soon. Good. Get right on it.”

Charlotte heard all this with widening eyes. Even if he didn’t sign her as a client, at least Dr. Harmon’s letter of introduction had secured her a place to stay.

“Got a nice place lined up for you,” Freddy Walen said, hanging up the phone. “It’s a small rental house up north. You’ll have to lease a car, but then again, welcome to L.A. Melanie’s a little loose in the attic but all right. She’s one of my clients. Been around for a long time. She might not be smart in the bookish kind of way, but she’s smart in things that you need to learn about. Things like publicity, promotion, who’s who in town. She’s not doing so well in her career right now.” He shrugged. “Things are slow for aging starlets. So she could use a roommate. Works out well for both of you.”

“I see. Thank you.” She cleared her throat, ashamed for the question she had to ask. “Excuse me, but how much is the rent?”

“Don’t worry about it. Jacob’s got you covered.”

“Dr. Harmon? Why…” This was the first time she’d heard of this arrangement. Pride kicked in. It would be the last. “No,” she said in a clipped voice. “That’s not right. He…”

“Look, honey, it’s done all the time.”

“Not by me, it isn’t,” she snapped, putting an end to all speculation about casting couches or whatever kind of lure he was using. “I’ll pay my own rent, thank you.”

Freddy’s eyes took on that amused gleam again and something else that she hadn’t quite figured out yet. “No problem,” he replied easily. Again that look. “It’s between you and Melanie, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walen,” she began, choosing her words. “If I could prevail upon you one more time. I—I need a job. Right away. Any job that’s decent and provides minimum wage. I’m trained as an accountant and I can get you excellent references. But, in the meantime, I can do just about anything. Secretarial, phones…”

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