Chapter Twenty-Three #3
They all hated his pitch. Not only would she play a maid, but her character’s name was a stereotype that reminded Mazelle of Stepin Fetchit, a portrayal that had gone out of fashion in the thirties.
Jerry had reminded them that Stepin Fetchit’s creator, Lincoln Perry, had just become the first Negro actor to earn a million dollars.
But Mazelle was still stung from classmates calling her a “coon,” and now the NAACP and Negro newspapers were making a fuss about Black actors playing maids and servants in Hollywood, particularly targeting Hattie.
Lorenzo had scoffed and said that until there were any other kinds of roles for Negro actors, Mazelle could make four or five Lazy Mazy pictures and reinvent her career when the times were more progressive.
Lorenzo had presented it to Mazelle as if she had a choice, although she and her parents knew she didn’t.
If she broke her contract, he could sue her—and then it wouldn’t be long until she was struggling again.
Struggle was her worst nightmare. She would do anything to avoid those too-realistic nightmares about digging up her backyard again.
The first picture, Lazy Mazy Goes to the Kentucky Derby, was a weak effort and it might not have been noticed if Clark Gable hadn’t been at the track during the shoot and recognized Mazelle, so Lorenzo snuck his profile into a crowd scene.
The second picture, Lazy Mazy Meets a Zombie, was funnier because Lorenzo hired better writers, and casting Mantan Moreland helped him court the audience that loved him in King of the Zombies, both whites and Negroes. Lorenzo was a businessman to his toes.
In only two years, Mazelle was Lorenzo’s biggest star, his promise kept. She hadn’t earned a million dollars, or even close, but she had learned that she didn’t have to scrape and starve in Hollywood. The path wasn’t always comfortable, but it was a path.
Lorenzo’s office had separate desks and rooms for his receptionist and personal secretary, who were both gone for the day.
The two outer chambers looked gloomy with most of the lights off.
Mazelle hated dark, empty rooms, which reminded her of the too-big house Richard had encouraged her to finance.
When Richard was touring, she often went back to sleep in her childhood bed under her parents’ roof instead of feeling small and lonely in a house that did not feel like home.
(She wished she could sleep away even more when Richard was back.) The receptionist’s walls were crammed with framed posters celebrating Lorenzo’s pictures, and Lazy Mazy Meets a Zombie was at the center of his collection of Westerns and comedies.
Mazelle almost recognized herself in the face leering back.
Light crept into the room as the polished oak door to Jerry’s office opened in the rear, silhouetting him in the doorway. Benny Goodman’s sultry clarinet played behind him from a phonograph. Jerry cradled a whiskey tumbler near his chin, ready for his next sip.
“There you are!” he said. “Thought you skipped out on me.”
“Maybe I should have.”
“You’ll eat those words in a minute. Let me pour you a drink.” When she canted her head to object, he held up a finger. “Just one. I’ll mix it.”
Mazelle wasn’t much of a drinker, but Lorenzo had introduced her to mint juleps from his elaborate office bar and they didn’t taste half bad. The buzz was fine too, but a buzz with her boss was a waste of a good buzz. “Just one. Like I said, I’m tired.”
He took her wrap and hung it on the coatrack near the door.
Lorenzo was in his mid-forties and had lost some of his curly hairline at his forehead, but he had the same unshaved, boyish face from fifteen years ago.
He bounced like a kid when he walked too, a stride that seemed more like an affect now that he was older.
Enthusiasm was a commodity in the picture business, so Jerry was in a perpetual state of excitement.
“You want to sell me on something,” she said. “Tell me before the drink.”
“When did you get so cynical, Mazelle?”
When I was eleven, Mazelle thought. No, when I was nine.
Jerry took his time mixing her drink: measuring the bourbon and sugar, delicately mashing the mint sprigs. “You and me,” he said, “we’re going to a party next week.”
That was a first. “We are?”
“You bet your ass we are,” he said. “And it’s gonna be a hell of a party with a hell of a guest list, so I’m gonna design you a gown and make sure you’re all dolled up. I’m gonna walk you into that party like you’re Lena Horne.”
So that was it—he felt guilty about the way Cabin in the Sky had shot Horne to stardom. Instead, she said, “Whose party is it?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours.” Her drink was ready.
Lorenzo presented her tumbler, the mint smell sharp but pleasing.
Jerry raised his whiskey glass. “A toast to your future. In Italian, it’s Alla salute.
I’m Italian—don’t spread it around. See?
We’re not so different.” He said it as if he were a Negro passing for white.
Their glasses clinked. But Mazelle heard Mother’s voice in her ear: What’s the point of this? Where is this leading?
“If it’s a publicity thing, do I get paid?” Mazelle asked.
Jerry chuckled. “You’re a funny girl. I’m talking about studio heads and the top producers. I’m gonna introduce you around, and they’re gonna love you. In this day and age, everyone wondering what to do with Negroes, somebody might want you on loan.”
“So… I’m not getting paid?” Mazelle said.
Jerry’s smile froze. “This is a gift. I’m only taking one actress with me—and it’s you. Do you want a shot or not?”
Mazelle sipped from her mint julep to stop herself from saying anything that would make Lorenzo pissy, her least favorite of his moods.
He knew damn well a picture like Cabin in the Sky didn’t come along every day—and even if MGM wanted to stay in the Negro business, she wouldn’t have half the chance of Lena Horne because her skin was too dark.
And Horne had been smart enough never to play a maid.
“You’re a beautiful girl, Mazelle,” Lorenzo said.
She waited for him to follow up the compliment with bad news, but this time he dug in.
“Better than Betty Grable, Gene Tierney, Hedy Lamarr, any of them. And it’s not just your looks, you’ve got that…
something. Magnetism. You hold the audience in the palm of your hand. And I want them to see it up close.”
Mazelle heard the slight slur in his voice. “How many drinks have you had?” she asked.
“Say it,” Lorenzo said. Close to him like this, his eyes looked pink and glossy. “Say you’ve got everything those other girls have—and more.”
“I say that in my head every day.”
“Then let’s go fucking fight for it. Together.”
Lorenzo’s eyes were so odd tonight, she couldn’t take him seriously.
He sounded so intoxicated that he might not remember this conversation, or claim he didn’t.
Mazelle took a longer sip from her tumbler, the bourbon stinging her tongue.
He’d made the drink strong. She’d never noticed that he was four inches taller when she was in flats.
Or the scent of his shampoo. Was the drink helping her notice?
Or was she just standing too close to him?
Lorenzo was no Clark Gable, but she’d heard people say he thought he was.
It seemed unlikely that he might look at her that way when he had known her since she was seven, but Gable’s eyes on the set of Gone with the Wind had taught her that any man might desire her, if only for a careless moment.
Long ago, Lorenzo had said, Call me Uncle Jerry, because some of the other kids did, but Mother had said never to forget that he wasn’t her family.
Instinct made Mazelle move away from the bar, as if her thoughts might leak to Lorenzo.
She stood behind one of his padded office chairs, keeping the chair between them.
Warmth flared on her cheeks from her next sip.
She felt Jerry’s eyes—Mr. Lorenzo’s eyes—tracking her smallest movements.
Studying her. Mazelle glanced away from him and spotted his wedding photograph framed on his bookshelf: two young lovers.
His wife, Maria, was an olive-skinned Italian and had a pleasant face, but he looked bored even then.
“What’s this about, Jerry?”
Lorenzo’s face grew earnest again. “I had a dream. Not about you—about Scout.”
Mazelle took another sip that was closer to a belt. She had nearly emptied her glass. She rarely heard Scout’s name anymore, and it felt like a violation of an unspoken agreement. “Haven’t thought about that dog in a while,” she lied. “What about him?”
“I don’t remember it all,” he said. “Something about the woods? I dunno. I just remember a bunch of trees over me, real tall.” The woods!
“What else did you see?” she asked.
Mazelle waited for him to say more, but he only sighed, a peek past his mask of bravado.
Whatever he’d dreamed had shaken him. “It just… made me think. I haven’t always done right by you, and I need to do more.
You’re a pioneer, Mazelle. You meant so much to those Negro kids coming up.
I remember how they used to chase your car.
And you can mean something again. Really mean something. To history, even.”
“You,” Mazelle said slowly, “must be very, very drunk, sir.” She usually called him sir in jest, but this time she meant to prick his inner sobriety.
“I’m not that drunk,” Jerry said. He stepped closer. He’d been moving toward her again and she hadn’t noticed. He was just on the other side of the chair now. She smelled his shampoo again, a cologne’s musk. “I see everything more clearly now. I see you more clearly now.”
Mazelle’s heart had been racing since Lorenzo mentioned Scout and the woods, and it could not calm as he stood only two feet from her with that heavy, uncomfortable gaze.