Chapter Four #4
Mazelle felt embarrassed to read the script in Mr. Lorenzo’s office—and something worse than embarrassed she couldn’t fix words to—but before she could say so, Mother said, “If Mazelle is auditioning, she’ll need time to prepare.”
“Relax, Mom,” Mr. Lorenzo said. “It’s not an audition.”
The niceness in his voice thinned away. His tone shifted so fast that Mazelle wondered how much of his niceness was ever real.
No wonder Mother pursed her lips when Mazelle said Mr. Lorenzo loved her: Making money from people wasn’t the same as love.
Mazelle guessed that Mother must be cussing at Mr. Lorenzo in her head.
She and the other stage mothers didn’t like it when Mr. Lorenzo called them Mom in a way that sounded like a jibe.
“Sorry, my fault,” Millie Sharpe said, addressing Mother directly. “I just wanted Mazy to try it. I’ll be her dialect coach. It’s my training.” She turned back to Mazelle, her voice going soft. “Want to hear how I would say it if I was Mazy?”
Mazelle nodded, but it felt like a dare. Mazelle was so fascinated, she held her breath.
Still smiling, Millie Sharpe closed her eyes. When she opened them, she scrunched her face up like she was having a temper tantrum. “You better nevah say that no mo’!” she said in a voice like a darky in a minstrel show. “I sho’ ain’t nevah seed the lahks o’ this!”
Mazelle almost barked out a startled laugh, but it caught on the sadness pinching her throat. Millie Sharpe, of all people, might as well be in blackface. And she was proud of it.
Mother started coughing, her lungs rattling near Mazelle’s ear. Mother sipped on her lemonade to muffle the next coughs. “Excuse me,” she wheezed, but she coughed again. She coughed when she was upset lately, but never in a meeting with Mr. Lorenzo. Maybe the cigar had made her cough worse.
Daddy put his hand on Mother’s back and gently rubbed her shoulder. “Why can’t Mazelle just talk like herself, Mr. Lorenzo?” Daddy said. “Lots of colored folks—”
“Because she’s not Mazelle,” Mr. Lorenzo said. “She’s Mazy. That’s how Mazy talks.”
Silence landed in the room like a giant boulder had rolled off the mountain. Scout sat closer to Mazelle, leaning his warmth against her leg. He was breathing faster. Unsettled.
Mr. Lorenzo smiled as if he hadn’t just told Daddy Because I said so when he spoke up for her. “She’ll do fine,” Mr. Lorenzo said with half a laugh. “Come on. She’s great.”
Millie Sharpe squeezed Mazelle’s shoulder, aggravating another tender spot where Aunt Ruby had bruised her. “We’ll make it sound real natural,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Mr. Sharpe shared an unhappy look with Mr. Lorenzo, an argument between them.
When they noticed her looking, they both offered smiles she knew weren’t real.
Scout’s panting grew louder, his warm fur throbbing against Mazelle.
The silence felt oppressive, like the waiting end of everything.
Finally, the bad luck she’d feared had revealed itself.
Since Mother couldn’t speak for her, Mazelle wanted to salvage something to feel good about, so she wouldn’t ruin it all by blurting out that she’d rather work for Charlie Chaplin.
“I want better dresses,” Mazelle said. “My dresses are ugly.” The oversized dresses with holes cut out for her arms she wore in every picture not only looked ugly, they felt ugly, itching through her undershirts. “I want dresses like Amelia’s. Pretty ones.”
More awful silence. Mr. Sharpe shot another look at Mr. Lorenzo.
“We’ll do better with your dresses,” Mr. Lorenzo said. He turned to look at Mother, who was fighting not to cough. Mother’s eyes glistened from her struggle. “Is that good with you, Mom? We’ll get her prettier dresses. Whaddya say?”
The effort to answer only made Mother cough again. Why had Mr. Lorenzo lit that cigar?
“Is she all right?” Millie Sharpe asked.
“No,” Daddy said. “ ’Scuse us, please.”
Mr. Lorenzo and the Sharpes walked Mazelle’s family to the door, full of happy pleasantries about new frontiers and the exciting days ahead.
But her parents’ minds were far away from the meeting and Millie Sharpe’s ridiculous voice demonstration.
They were ready to face whatever bad news was waiting at the doctor’s office; news they had put off hearing too long.
Mazelle turned to watch Mr. Lorenzo while his office door slowly fell shut.
The Sharpes were closing in on Mr. Lorenzo with urgency, voices low.
“Jesus, Jerry,” Mr. Sharpe was saying. “I told you.”
“Did you see the way she looked at me?” Millie Sharpe said. She sounded sad too.
“What do you want from me?” Mr. Lorenzo said. “Mazy can’t sound like a damn prep school student and play in the Southern markets. What a country, right?”
The door finally fell closed on its slow hinge. Mazelle felt scorched by the conversation about her that was not meant for her ears. Mr. Lorenzo’s secretary cleared her throat from her desk near the window, and Mazelle was glad to dart away without hearing more.
Scout followed on her heels, his nails clicking on the polished wooden floor.
Mazelle barely heard Scout’s growl.