so greasy I have already consumed two Tums tablets and am ready for my third. It’s a bit past eleven, and we’re back on the freeway, about fifty miles north of San Jose. Neither of us has spoken a word in the past thirty minutes. And to add to the gloom, it’s beginning to rain.
“Do you mean am I still alive?”
He chuckles. “Yes, something like that.”
“Barely.” I consider complaining once more about our ghastly breakfast, but I think that’s a dead horse we’re both ready to bury.
“Tell me about this place we’re going to, Claudette. Is Silverton a quaint little town with a brick fire station and a charming drugstore that still serves chocolate malts? Perhaps similar to the old
Mayberry R.F.D.
show?”
I can’t help but make a
harrumph
sound, which I know is unbecoming. I sit up straighter, clearing my throat. “The last time I was in Silverton, it seemed more like a ghost town, what with the decline of the timber industry and the more intelligent people moving away. It’s really rather dismal…the sort of place one might use as a setting for a Stephen King film.”
“Really?” He nods. “Well, that could be fascinating too. Any interesting murders take place there?”
“Not that I recall. The truth is that nothing very interesting ever happened there. Truly, they could change the name of the town from Silverton to Boredom, and I doubt anyone would notice or even protest.”
“What made your parents live there?”
Usually I find a way to change the subject when someone inquires about my family history and heritage. And that’s not so unusual with the Hollywood crowd. So many of us have family ties we’re not proud of. For the most part, I find that people—I mean contemporaries, not the intrusive media—do not pry.
“Did you have other family living there?” Michael persists. “Grandparents, perhaps?”
I sigh. Maybe it’s time to tell my story with a bit more honesty. When I told that Lindy character about my childhood back at Laurel Hills, it felt almost therapeutic. Oh, I was probablypainting it a little brighter and merrier than it actually was, but it felt good to be open and candid for a change. “No, I didn’t have grandparents in Silverton. No other relatives either. Just my parents, Violet, and me.”
“So what made your parents move there? Was your father involved in the timber industry?”
I laugh, although it sounds rather pathetic. “Hardly. My father felt that logging and millwork were beneath him. He did not like to get his hands dirty.”
“What did he do?”
I pause, trying to think of a nice way to say this. There is none. “He didn’t do much of anything, Michael. Well, besides drink.”
“So your parents were independently wealthy?” Michael glances at me curiously, and I suspect he knows this is not the case.
“No. If the truth must be known, they were independently poor.”
“Tell me, Claudette,” he pleads like a child asking for candy. “Tell me everything. You know how I do love a good story.”
“Perhaps you can develop this one into a screenplay, dear. But I must get a percentage.”
“Of course. Now begin at the beginning, darling. What brought your parents to Silverton?”
“My mother’s family actually lived in the Bay Area.” I glance out toward the west where San Francisco looms, although with these thick clouds, you would never know. “Perhaps not farfrom here. But my mother never liked to talk about them, and we didn’t go to visit them, and they never came to see us. But I do know, from having peeked at old photos and letters and mementos—I was a bit of a snoop as a teenager—that Mother’s family had been fairly well off.”
“Aha! That explains your fine taste.”
“I asked my mother about them, and she tried to brush me off, but I persisted until I wore her down.”
“I can imagine you as a teenager, Claudette, becoming a beauty and probably dreaming of being an actress.”
I nod. “Yes, that’s
“Do you mean am I still alive?”
He chuckles. “Yes, something like that.”
“Barely.” I consider complaining once more about our ghastly breakfast, but I think that’s a dead horse we’re both ready to bury.
“Tell me about this place we’re going to, Claudette. Is Silverton a quaint little town with a brick fire station and a charming drugstore that still serves chocolate malts? Perhaps similar to the old
Mayberry R.F.D.
show?”
I can’t help but make a
harrumph
sound, which I know is unbecoming. I sit up straighter, clearing my throat. “The last time I was in Silverton, it seemed more like a ghost town, what with the decline of the timber industry and the more intelligent people moving away. It’s really rather dismal…the sort of place one might use as a setting for a Stephen King film.”
“Really?” He nods. “Well, that could be fascinating too. Any interesting murders take place there?”
“Not that I recall. The truth is that nothing very interesting ever happened there. Truly, they could change the name of the town from Silverton to Boredom, and I doubt anyone would notice or even protest.”
“What made your parents live there?”
Usually I find a way to change the subject when someone inquires about my family history and heritage. And that’s not so unusual with the Hollywood crowd. So many of us have family ties we’re not proud of. For the most part, I find that people—I mean contemporaries, not the intrusive media—do not pry.
“Did you have other family living there?” Michael persists. “Grandparents, perhaps?”
I sigh. Maybe it’s time to tell my story with a bit more honesty. When I told that Lindy character about my childhood back at Laurel Hills, it felt almost therapeutic. Oh, I was probablypainting it a little brighter and merrier than it actually was, but it felt good to be open and candid for a change. “No, I didn’t have grandparents in Silverton. No other relatives either. Just my parents, Violet, and me.”
“So what made your parents move there? Was your father involved in the timber industry?”
I laugh, although it sounds rather pathetic. “Hardly. My father felt that logging and millwork were beneath him. He did not like to get his hands dirty.”
“What did he do?”
I pause, trying to think of a nice way to say this. There is none. “He didn’t do much of anything, Michael. Well, besides drink.”
“So your parents were independently wealthy?” Michael glances at me curiously, and I suspect he knows this is not the case.
“No. If the truth must be known, they were independently poor.”
“Tell me, Claudette,” he pleads like a child asking for candy. “Tell me everything. You know how I do love a good story.”
“Perhaps you can develop this one into a screenplay, dear. But I must get a percentage.”
“Of course. Now begin at the beginning, darling. What brought your parents to Silverton?”
“My mother’s family actually lived in the Bay Area.” I glance out toward the west where San Francisco looms, although with these thick clouds, you would never know. “Perhaps not farfrom here. But my mother never liked to talk about them, and we didn’t go to visit them, and they never came to see us. But I do know, from having peeked at old photos and letters and mementos—I was a bit of a snoop as a teenager—that Mother’s family had been fairly well off.”
“Aha! That explains your fine taste.”
“I asked my mother about them, and she tried to brush me off, but I persisted until I wore her down.”
“I can imagine you as a teenager, Claudette, becoming a beauty and probably dreaming of being an actress.”
I nod. “Yes, that’s
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