I
Before his star rose Skippy Smathers worked the carney circuit. He always played the dwarf clown. At thirteen he joined Carneytown Circus and right off the bat they made him a solo act. He’d been clowning in that show ten years when one night on a slippery tightrope Mel the Diminutive Man stepped into his life. The way it happened was some kind of kismet.
It happened under the big top in Walla Walla, Washington. Walking the highwire, Skippy lost balance and toppled off, tumbling for a chaotic eternity, pitching and falling until finally he landed with a broadside bounce in the mesh safety net. It wasn’t the first time Skippy had plunged from a high-wire, but this mishap, more topsy-turvy than most, jarred his nerves. Floundering in the net webbing, panic-stricken, Skippy’s fear paralyzed him while the crowd roared: “Go back up! Sissy clown! Go back up!”
He wore a costume of baby clothes, a frilly bonnet, a grease-pencil baby face. The crowd saw an overgrown infant, not a twenty-three-year-old terrified dwarf. Jeers and hisses rained down. But he wouldn’t go back up there. Couldn’t. He sat in the net bawling as the crowd booed the frightened clown-baby.
“Booooo.” “Sissy Pants!” “Dumb midget!” “Booooo!”
In the wings, Mel the Diminutive Man heard the rude din. Grabbing a long baton Mel stepped onto the tightrope, regal in his leotard and tights, a natural born star. The spotlight swung to the tightrope, the crowd naturally rolled their eyes up to the sleek, pixie-like man stepping into the glare. Balancing his weight with the long baton Mel performed slow pirouettes along the tightrope, distracting the audience, while in the net below Skippy foundered in fear’s lap. Somewhere a drummer tickled cymbals, adding to the tension as Mel the Diminutive Man captivated the awestruck crowd.
No longer the focal point, Skippy gradually recovered his nerves, scrambled over to the ladder, up the tightrope, and set a seasoned foot on the taut line. One cautiously arched step after another he moved toward this dark stranger, this apparition, this highwire angel offering his tiny hand. A breathless moment later, Skippy touched that hand to thundering applause.
Mel grinned at Skippy and quipped, “Way to go, sport.”
Mel’s first brush with an audience earned him a standing ovation, but he reacted with scorn and revulsion. After all these years of inventing Mel the Diminutive Man, he had squandered his debut on this claptrap crowd.
II
It was 1973. Mel was twenty-one and had been living off Ma all these years because she insisted her pixie was too delicate for work. When Ma died of exhaustion Mel worried about what would become of him, but not for long. Under Ma’s mattress Mel discovered a fortune in nickels and dimes and quarters that she had squirreled away over the years of hard labor. Her accumulated pocket change would have choked a Coinstar.
Mel fled their rat-infested Yesler Terrace housing project, bought a spanking new Cadillac convertible, and floated over the Magnolia Bridge into the Village, where he parked in front of Leon’s Shoe Repair, ignoring the gawking Magnolians—Mel was probably the first dwarf to ever set foot in the neighborhood—and crossed McGraw Street to Magnolia Real Estate, where he and his bank balance were greeted with equanimity and a firm handshake to seal the transfer of a Magnolia Bluff house deed for cold cash.
Signing and initialing each contract clause Mel noted the bigotry: Property transfer and residency are restricted to Caucasians. Forgetting his own place in society, Mel signed it. Had Ma been above ground, she would have slapped him silly. Mel reasoned it was her fault, anyway, her making him rich.
Mel moved into the prettiest house Dahl ever built on Magnolia Bluff, whose namesake cliff plunged shamelessly into the crotch of Elliott Bay, ogled by the hoary Olympics Brothers, envied by eyeballing tourists from the Space Needle’s observatory. To keep him company he replaced Ma with orchids. Certainly his snooty neighbors had no interest in fostering friendship. In fact, they actually shunned him, as if a dwarf neighbor was something to be ashamed of. They would cross the boulevard to avoid him. They never invited him to their fancy estates, and whenever Mel attempted neighborly gestures they would recoil, stammer incoherently, and flee. Except for Joy. His neighbor Joy was the only Magnolian with the guts to befriend a dwarf.
Joy lived in another Dahl house with a city view you’d slit your throat for if you had the bucks to buy it. A regular-sized lady, Joy had jazzed hair and a perfect figure in 1973, was still young and nubile and freshly divorced from Hubby #1. Mel misinterpreted Joy’s neighborly gestures. Thought Joy had the hots for him. So he made a pass and she slapped him so hard he spun across her living room like a child’s top spinner. Even so, they would remain friends through the years. Most of them anyway.
When Mel complained to Joy about the way the other neighbors treated him, Joy said, “Hey, quit your whining. You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes on the Bluff back in the glory days.” And she told him how it was growing up in the early Magnolia days, back in the ’50s and ’60s when the rich discovered God’s Chosen Neighborhood.
Over the Magnolia Bridge in those glory days journeyed famous architects and interior designers to build and embellish fine estates for their feathered clientele, Mrs. Danforth Pierce-Arrow, Mel’s next door neighbor, now in her dotage, being one, and Mrs. Neil Robbins being another. The Robbins were Jewish. Jews—even Catholics, as long as they could afford to—were permitted to own homes on Magnolia Bluff, although generally speaking Protestants were preferred. And no colored people, no, no. Magnolians, said Joy, feared and loathed diversity, but back in those days they didn’t call them bigots. Just rich.
On many a day, Joy told Mel, Mrs. Danforth Pierce-Arrow, who’s Episcopal? And Mrs. Robbins, being a Jewess? They would come into the Magnolia Pharmacy at the same time. Maybe nearly collide at the prescription counter? Never exchanged more than a polite nod. Joy saw this all the time growing up in Magnolia.
Mel remarked, “At least they recognized the other’s living presence. Whenever I come upon Mrs. Pierce-Arrow or Mrs. Robbins they just tilt their noses and pretend they don’t see me. Mel, the Invisible Man.”
“Will you ever get over all this self-pitying?” said Joy.
Joy. A regular-sized person who’d grown up in luxury and privilege. How could Joy ever empathize? But she was still reminiscing on the good old days:
Over the Magnolia Bridge came the serving classes, housemaids in crisp uniforms overlain with thin cloth coats, shivering alone at bus stops in darkness on winter nights, snow drifting up to their bare knees before a bus agreed to stop. And the Carnation milkman who always entered homes through the Deliveries door or the Housestaff Only door, removing his boots before restocking, say, Mrs. Pierce-Arrow’s fridge with glass bottles of milk topped by two inches of thick cream, along with fresh butter and eggs still warm from the nest. At Christmastime, Mrs. Pierce-Arrow would leave the milkman an envelope tucked discreetly into the fridge’s egg section.
And over that glory bridge came roofers and plumbers and electricians to tweak the infrastructure, guaranteeing that all the Mr. and Mrs. Pierce-Arrows and Robbins and even the Catholic families with their unplanned children enjoyed the security and comfort of upper-class loos and hearths. Nothing like crime ever transpired on the Bluff, Joy told Mel, unless you counted when the Marvel family’s colored maid was caught red-handed with Mrs. Marvel’s sterling silver flatware, family heirlooms. The maid insisted she was carrying them into the kitchen for polishing. But Mrs. Marvel fired her on the spot. That was the biggest crime scandal on Magnolia Bluff in those early days, unless you counted three-year-old Dougie Marvel’s appearing naked in teenaged Annie Quigley’s bathroom. Annie, naked in the tub, screamed. And then the summer when little Kathleen Pierce-Arrow got caught playing touch tag with young Neil Robbins. Back then, that was about as criminal as things got.
And, too, the sacrosanct Magnolia Bridge delivered upper-class men like Joy’s Husband #1 in sleek automobiles from their luxurious estates into the city’s languishing heart, where they doctored and lawyered, ran their banks and visited their clubs, and wouldn’t hesitate to drive right over the drunk Indian weaving against the stoplight.
“Back long ago?” said Joy. “What they call Magnolia now? It was an island. Separated from the mainland by a bracken-ishy slough. When the city’s rich folk saw the potential out here, why, they filled in the slough and built the first bridge onto the island.”
“Why did they name it Magnolia?”
Joy shrugged. “It was a mistake Captain Vancouver made back in history. See—”
“I’ll bet Captain Vancouver hated midgets.”
“Mel, how many times have I told you not to refer to yourself and others like you as midgets? You are a dwarf, a small person. You are not a little fly.”
“I hate myself.”
“Oh, stop whining. In my heart you’re bigger than me.”
In her regular-sized heart.
Then one day, less than a year after staking his claim in God’s Chosen Neighborhood, Mel received a call from his banker. “Your account has five dollars left in it,” said the banker. “You want us to apply that to your monthly fee?”
Having exhausted his inheritance on the house and big floater car, Mel needed to “work,” a word only whispered by his neighbors. But he had no real training in any kind of work. Desperation unleashed a flash of genius. He invented Mel the Diminutive Man, learned the tightrope, and joined a traveling carney act. Joy told him, “One day, you’ll be a star, Mel. In my heart, I know that.”
Mel made his public debut in 1973 on that fateful evening in Walla Walla, Washington, when he rescued the famous carney dwarf Skippy Smathers from disgrace. And then Skippy Smathers rescued Mel from financial ruin, moving into Mel’s house and paying monthly rent. Mel regained faith in his future.
When Mel introduced Joy to Skippy Smathers, he felt their instant chemistry. Joy broke Mel’s heart the day she and Skippy wed, Mel standing as the best man. All along wondering to himself, If Joy is okay with dwarfism, why did she choose Skippy over me? I’ve got more man in me than Skippy has in his little digit. Meaning finger.
III
While Skippy mounted Joy’s bounteous gifts, Mel spent three years solo, pampering exotic orchids in the solarium of his showcase home, waiting for his friends’ marriage to fail. After the divorce, Mel and Skippy teamed up again, and this time they rode their dreams to Hollywood.
In Hollywood, Skippy’s star skyrocketed, while Mel’s career never took off. Skippy played the little man in every stage and film production where a dwarf counted, while Mel languished in his pal’s burgeoning celebrity shadow.
Mel, destined to play the extra. Mel, destined to lose every casting call to Skippy. Destined, it seemed, to live off Skippy’s earnings, while he propped up the star’s fragile psyche. It wasn’t a proud destiny, and Mel was a proud man. But destiny, like a fickle friend, can turn in the wink of an eye.
They never actually moved to Hollywood. Personally, Mel would have preferred moving from Seattle, fleeing God’s Chosen Neighborhood. Mel wanted to live in Los Angeles, in that house next door to Jack Nicholson, the house he had always dreamed of owning. Overlooking Hollywood’s glitz and glamour. That’s where Mel knew he belonged. But Skippy balked at the idea. Skippy was afraid of Los Angeles. As if Los Angeles was a dwarf-eating monster. And Skippy always got his way.
Twenty years passed. Mrs. Pierce-Arrow got crushed by her dumbwaiter and her son Danforth III now occupied the Pierce-Arrow estate. Neil Robbins married Kathleen Pierce-Arrow, they placed Neil’s parents in a luxury senior complex and now occupied the Robbins nest. Mrs. Marvel, a crotchety crone still lived in the Marvel estate and her servants came and went. Annie Marvel married, had a bunch of offspring, converted to lesbianism, and fled the Bluff.
As the century turned, the bigotry clause disappeared from real estate contracts but that didn’t mean it disappeared from some Magnolians’ deep-seated preferences. Persons of color and dwarfs received a friendly nod at Tully’s but rarely got called over to join a table of fat cats. Nothing much had changed in God’s Chosen Neighborhood.
IV
Mel was lounging on the patio chaise reading Variety when he heard “the Sound.” The rubber butt of Skippy’s walking cane thudding on flagstone made Mel cringe. Skippy had adopted the ornate cane as an iconic eccentricity. Thought it made him look debonair. Mel thought it looked ridiculous. A dwarf with a cane.
Mel glanced up. A blue PGA cap shaded Skippy’s face but Mel could sense a sullen pout. Skippy’s arms overflowed groceries, the cane poised to thud again. Sighing, Mel set Variety aside and went to help. Mel carried the groceries into the house, Skippy and his cane gimping along behind.
This limp was something new.
“What’s wrong now?” Mel asked tiredly.
“Awful bad news,” grumped the gimper, missing Mel’s reference to the new limp. “If you really want to know.” Skippy paused to emphasize the awfulness, then blurted, “No call back.”
Mel clucked his tongue. “Tough luck, sport.” He thought about bringing up the new limp, but why bother? Skippy would complain about it before long. Mel fed the groceries into the icebox while Skippy hung in the background, a broken shadow watching Mel work.
Stars don’t put away groceries.
“Henry Chow’s getting the part.” The broken shadow spoke bitterly. “That’s what Lana thinks. Like she was Henry’s agent exclusively. Like she didn’t even represent me. Talk about a two-faced, double-dealing opportunistic…”
When Mel didn’t comment, Skippy limped into the breakfast nook and slid onto a sunstruck bench. Warm sunshine cut through a windowpane, washed the fine stubble on his baby-face cheeks, refracting into tiny dots that danced along the wall. Skippy tried batting the dots away. When that failed, he flung his golf cap at them. It landed squarely on Mel’s fresh orchid centerpiece. Mel’s signature, Mel’s pride. Skippy gazed disgustedly out the window.
Mel brought tall glasses and a pitcher of iced tea with frost dripping off it. When he poured, he didn’t spill a drop, that’s how fastidious he was. Skippy needn’t have disturbed the flower arrangement, Mel thought. The least Skippy could do is pick the golf cap off the orchids, put things right. Where were Skippy’s manners? Maybe stars don’t need manners.
Skippy’s tight lips blew light ripples across the iced tea’s crown. He sipped, scowling, and said, “That role was tailor-made for me.”
“M-hmm.” Noncommittal.
Skippy persisted. “It doesn’t compute. Henry’s never played a clown before. This film’s about an aging dwarf clown. Henry Chow doesn’t know the first thing about playing a clown. I know clowning. I should have that part.”
“Maybe they wanted an Asian.”
“Oh, nothing’s definite yet.” Skippy sounded slightly hopeful. “It’s just Lana’s professional gut feeling that Henry’s got it wrapped up. Anyway, if he gets the part, it’s not because he’s Asian.”
“Then why?” Mel was only half listening. He wanted that golf cap removed from the orchid centerpiece, and he wanted Skippy to have the decency to do it. Was that asking too much?
“Because Henry’s shorter than I am.”
“That’s not so. You’re shorter than Henry. They probably wanted an Asian. You know how politically correct Hollywood is these days. Lana Lanai’s the worst of the bunch.”
Skippy was adamant. “Asian has nothing to do with it. If Henry gets this role, it’s because he’s shorter than I am. Now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m growing, Mel.”
The way Skippy said it, so serious, so… melodramatic, Mel couldn’t help laughing. “Ha ha. That’s bull.”
Skippy reached across the table and touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what he was going to say.
“It’s true. I’ve noticed it. You know it sometimes happens to a dwarf. Mid-life hormones get wacky. My hormones must have kicked up. I’m growing, Mel. Real fast.”
Mel smirked.
Skippy insisted. “They noticed it. Must have. Or else Henry Chow did and pointed it out to them. I wouldn’t put it past him and I’m worried sick. This growth has happened over the last six weeks. Too fast. I’m fifty-three, for chrissake. It’s not normal.”
“But not unheard of in dwarfs. You said that.”
Skippy passed a hand across his brow, reminding Mel of Tallulah Bankhead, then said, “Oh God, I’m scared. I’ll never work again. And I bet you noticed it before. You must have noticed my limp. You did, didn’t you?”
Mel nodded solemnly.
“Oh God, I’m finished.”
Softly, Mel said, “What’s the limp all about?”
Skippy had parked his cane on the doorknob. He retrieved it and walked back toward Mel. “See? When I use the cane, I limp. That’s because I’ve grown. Just since I bought this cane two months ago. Cost me a bundle too, cherrywood with all this frippery on the handle. Now it’s already too short for me.
So I limp. If this keeps up, I’ll soon be too tall for the good dwarf roles. I’ll never get work again. Not even as an extra.”
Something dark flickered in Mel’s eyes, and Skippy instantly regretted his remark. “Geez, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been such a lucky son of a gun, and you always ending up an extra. All I meant was, my luck’s changing. That’s all I meant by that.”
Mel laughed and grabbed Skippy’s head like a football, wrestled it, ruffling the soft silver curls. “It’s great,” he chuckled, “just great. I like it. A growing dwarf. It’s hilarious, really. You should try it out on Nick down at the Magic Castle.”
A horrified thought struck Skippy then. He flung himself away from Mel. “You don’t believe me,” he cried. “You don’t buy a word I said.”
Mel stared. Skippy fled the room.
Sighing, Mel gently removed the blue golf cap from his orchids. Apparently stars have the right to ruin centerpieces. Mel took his iced tea outside and finished reading Variety.
That night Mel made frozen lime daiquiris with dark rum, placing a fresh orchid on top of one. He knocked on Skippy’s door, heard a grunt, and went in. Wide awake, enveloped in darkness, Skippy sat stiffly upright on his canopied bed. Mel set down the daiquiris and jerked the heavy drapes aside. Moonlight poured into Skippy’s cluttered, musty room. Skippy blinked, averted his eyes. Mel pushed a loud chintz chair up to the bed, climbed onto it, retrieved the daiquiri with the orchid, and held it out to Skippy. Skippy waved it away.
“C’mon, take it, sport. My peace offering.”
Skippy sipped the frosty apology, licked his lips, and said, “I fell asleep for a while. I dreamed that Henry Chow died in an awful accident on the SLUT. They found his body floating in Lake Union, all covered with Satan’s hoof prints. The train had derailed.”
Mel aimed a remote control at the flat screen. Crazy colors flashed. Cacophony galloped into the room, riding a loud car chase across the high-def panel.
Mel muttered, “Henry Chow’s an ass.”
V
The next morning when Skippy woke, first thing he saw was the depressing saffron sky. He had no reason to get out of bed, so why was Mel rapping insistently on the bedroom door? Skippy sat up and yelled, “Go away! Don’t bother me!”
The door opened a crack. Through the space came Mel’s velvet voice. “Better get dressed, sport. We’ve got company.”
It sounded like a warning. Grumbling, Skippy burrowed into the sheets, but the scent of coffee brewing, of bacon broiling, eggs frying, wafted to his nostrils. Mel was so clever. He’d left the bedroom door slightly ajar so these delicious aromas would tempt Skippy. Sleep was impossible now. Skippy grumbled and rolled out of bed.
The table in the breakfast nook wore an aqua linen cloth and Mel had folded the napkins into swans. The good plates and Skippy’s mother’s sterling flatware were laid out. An artfully arranged fresh orchid centerpiece seemed too flamboyant. This table was celebrating something, Skippy thought, and then he saw Lana.
Perched on the bench, lumpy Lana sat at Skippy’s place, and with one of Skippy’s mother’s forks she picked at Mel’s home cooking. Mel stood on a stool by the stove flipping fried eggs. When Lana saw Skippy, she called out cheerily, “Surprise, surprise!”
“I don’t like it,” grumbled Skippy. “I don’t like surprises at breakfast.”
Mel smiled. “Why, Skippy, you’re up! Good, good. Lana’s got some great news.”
Lana flicked her wrist, dangling her bejeweled fingers. “Come, sweetie. Sit, sit.”
Begrudgingly, Skippy took a seat at the table. Mel waltzed over and poured Skippy coffee, then danced back to the stove.
“What’s this all about?” Skippy demanded.
“All about you, sport,” Mel bowed deferentially. “Your Eminence,” he crowed.
“Stop clowning! Stop it this minute. Can’t you see I’m out of sorts?” Skippy waved an arm at Lana. “You’re the last person on the planet I care to see right now. What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t invite you.” He shot a furious glance at Mel.
Through the rudeness, Lana said, “Don’t you want to hear the news, honeybunch?”
“Hey, don’t call me that. I’m your gravy train. Why don’t you just call me Gravy Train. Anyway, I’ve already heard the news from Henry Chow,” barked Skippy. “I know he’s got the part.”
A prickly grin crossed Lana’s face and for a moment Skippy thought that Lana Lanai might actually possess nerve endings. Still, when she picked up her coffee cup, watching Skippy over the brim, he didn’t like the expression on her face.
Draining the bacon grease, Mel sang, “Tell-l-l him-m-m, La-an-a-a.”
“You got the part.”
Skippy stared, not daring to believe his ears. Lana scooted over and embraced him. She may as well have embraced a cigar store Indian.
Mel sang, “Skippy Smather-r-r-s starrrrring in… . Standing Ta-a-all.”
Skippy stammered, “Is… is it… is it for real?”
“Hey, would we pull your leg?” Mel grinned devilishly.
Lana purred, “It’s not exactly on the dotted line yet, but I spoke with a production assistant this morning who overheard the producers talking. They were discussing you, raving about your great talent, your charisma, your magical screen qualities, your b.o.a.”
Box office appeal.
Skippy batted his hand at her. “I know, I know, I know.” She didn’t have to dote. He despised doting.
Mel arranged breakfast on the table, climbed into his chair, and said, “Hey, I’ll bet they didn’t even notice. I mean, about the growing spurt.”
Skippy felt his stomach churn. He jumped off his chair and fled.
The following afternoon, in Lana Lanai’s Hollywood office, the star paced anxiously. His walking cane made dull thudding sounds against the plush carpet. Mel sat on a long couch leafing through Vanity Fair, trying to ignore Skippy’s irritating third footfall. You’d think by now he’d have learned how to walk with that stupid cane. Across the room at the desk, Herself held court.
Two slick-buff film producers leaned over Lana’s chaotic desktop, their Mont Blancs poised over contracts. Mel wanted to snicker out loud. They were all alike, diminishing youth, Bosley hairlines, faceless personas consumed with star envy, converting their filthy riches into control—power—over the gifted artist. Exploiting the artist. Growing rich off the artist’s sweat, the artist’s inherent talents. Sure, they’d invest in a dwarf’s box office appeal, but would they take him out to dinner? Anyway, who remembers a producer’s name in the credits? It was all Mel could do to contain his loathing.
Skippy limped over to Lana, stood on tiptoe, and whispered into her jaded ear. Lana nodded tiredly and waved him away.
Skippy retreated. Lana smiled antiseptically at the producers.
“There’s just one more detail,” she said. “The understudy is to be Mel Rose. That is, should anything happen to Skippy. Which is totally a nonissue.”
The men with remarkable hair glanced up in unison, and in unison they said, “We don’t have understudies.”
“In this case, you’ll have Mel Rose. Or no Skippy Smathers.”
The producers gaped. One said to Lana, “You’re kidding,” and Mel heard derision.
Lana snickered in a way Mel didn’t like. “Otherwise, gentlemen, Skippy won’t sign.”
The producers huddled, conferring in earnest whispers. Finally, one said to Lana, “We’d counted on Henry Chow. If anything happened to our star, we’d made Chow our second choice. Everyone’s seen it that way. Skippy or Henry in the lead. Of course, we might find a bit role for Rose.”
Lana shook her head and studied her acrylic nails.
“Consider our position,” argued one producer. “We need really, really great talent in this role. We need a really, really brilliant actor.”
Mel really, really hated them.
Lana didn’t budge. “It’s Mel or no deal.”
Eventually Lana got her way. She usually did. She knew how. When all the contracts had been revised and initialed and signed, all the insincere handshakes wrung, Lana flung open her office doors to the entertainment media. Bee swarms made less commotion. The Hollywood press doted over Skippy. Fawned over him. Even the producers pawed Skippy now, and Mel noticed one of them pawing Lana. Totally ignored, Mel buried his face in the Vanity Fair and waited for it all to blow over.
On the way to the airport, in Lana’s limo, Skippy and Mel were sharing a split of champagne when Mel heard Skippy mutter, “God, I’m terrified.”
“He’s not that bad,” replied Mel, referring to the limo driver.
“I mean something else. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
Mel said, “Lord help us, what now?”
“My limp. Getting worse all the time.”
“Translation, please.” Mel rolled extra brut around in his mouth.
“I’m still growing. I’ve completely outgrown my cane.”
“Tsk. Then buy another,” retorted an exasperated Mel. “Better still, give it up. It’s so phony.”
“You still don’t believe me.” Darkly.
“Hey, Skipper, would you just quit all this obsessing? You got the role, didn’t you? If you want to worry about something then worry about the first day of shooting. There’s something to obsess over.”
Skippy stared out the window. “I went to see a doctor.
About the growing.”
“And?”
“Got as far as the reception desk and panicked. Ran out of there.”
“Good Lord have mercy.”
“What if they notice?”
“I’m telling you, it’s not that noticeable yet. You’ve still got some time before it’ll really stand out.”
“Then you have noticed it.”
Mel sighed. “Maybe a little. But it’s too slight to get worked up over. Hey, sport, settle down. Look out there. That’s Hollywood, baby, and it’s all yours.”
The thorny subject was not raised again until the first week of shooting, when Skippy came home for a visit, limping up the drive. As usual, Mel was lounging on the chaise reading Variety. When Skippy got close enough, Mel saw the deep frown. He put down the magazine and went to fetch Skippy’s luggage.
Mel grabbed the suitcase out of Skippy’s limp hand. “Now what?”
Skippy leaned hard on his cane. “They’ve got the Little People’s Chorus in the scene we shot today? You know Ruby Lee, the lead singer? I ran into Ruby on the set and she commented on how I seem different since she last saw me. I asked, ‘Different how?’ Ruby Lee said I looked taller. Then this afternoon Lana visited the set. Said she’d noticed I was growing. Just like Ruby Lee. Lana said if I didn’t stop growing, the producers would drop me. I don’t know if the director—”
“Autry noticed it too.”
Skippy missed that it wasn’t a question but a statement. He said, “According to Lana, Autry told her they can’t be remaking costumes every five minutes, and besides, he said, an overgrown dwarf’s no good to anyone. Lana says that includes her. Those were her exact words. Then, in a flash, I had this vision of my future. They notice me growing even taller. They drop me from the film. I can’t get work. No one wants me anymore. All along, they only wanted me for my size. Lana’s right. No one will hire an overgrown dwarf. Not in this business. I’m through, Mel. My career is finished.”
Mel put a hand on Skippy’s shoulder and said, “Lana called about ten minutes ago. I’m afraid she had some very bad news.”
Skippy turned pale. “Autry?”
Mel nodded gravely. “There was an escape clause. Something about a change in your appearance being grounds for nullifying the contract.” Mel sighed.
Skippy began sobbing.
Mel said, ”What you need, sport, is a cocktail. Now, come on inside, let me fix you a daiquiri. And if it’s any comfort, we already have enough stashed away for retirement. The world is not coming to an end.”
Skippy turned and ran out of the driveway. He ran all the way to Joy’s house. Joy met him in the front yard. A hose in Joy’s hand sprayed water on her geranium bed. Joy’s long feet were bare and her hair had new extensions. She leaned down and kissed Skippy’s cheek, and the first thing she said was, “Skips, are you wearing those platform shoes again?”
“What makes you say that?”
Joy wrinkled her nose, looked him up and down. “You seem taller.” She stood beside him and compared Skippy’s height to hers. “Yep,” she declared finally. “You’re growing, Skips.”
Skippy cursed and, pushing Joy aside, stormed into her house, raided the liquor cabinet, and locked the gin and himself in her bedroom. Joy heard the door slam and the lock snap into place.
At 10 p.m., Joy finally managed to convince Skippy through the barricades that under no circumstances would she spend the night on her own living room couch. Skippy unlocked the door. Once inside, Joy cleverly displayed her still-considerable charms and Skippy soon succumbed. Just for old time’s sake. Around midnight, loud voices in the foyer interrupted them. Joy lit a cigarette and said, “Amy’s got a new tattoo.”
“So?”
Joy drew on the cigarette, watched it burn. “It’s on her tush,” she murmured, but Skippy wasn’t listening. His bright eyes darted in the semidarkness, faster and faster, until Joy quipped, “Skips, you’re plotting again. I can tell.”
That night, Skippy Smathers hung himself from the chandelier in his bedroom.
VI
On opening night, Mel the Diminutive Man played the lead in Standing Tall, played it deftly, with brilliance and flair. Critics praised Mel’s grace in the face of losing his friend, Mel’s courage in walking the Great White Way for Skippy Smathers. In the wink of an eye and at long last, Mel’s star skyrocketed.
He was in the backseat of a limo, coming home from the airport. He was alone because, besides the late Skippy Smathers, he didn’t have any friends. Not the kind you’d want to be seen with in public anyway, with all the Hollywood kleig lights on full blast. Mel was drinking the whole split by himself and basking in his celebrity when suddenly, for no reason at all, he thought of Skippy’s walking cane.
The house in God’s Chosen Neighborhood seemed inadequate, pathetic, really, no place for a meteoric star like Mel. At long last he would move to L.A. Maybe snap up that cool house he’d always coveted on Mulholland Drive. The orchids would love it.
The limo’s headlights washed the patio. A car was parked in the driveway. Mel paid off the limo service and walked up the drive. Joy Smathers greeted him.
Joy was lounging on the patio chaise, reading a newspaper. When she saw Mel, she looked up and smiled. “Mel, you’re home. I’ve been waiting for you.” Joy stood up, folded the newspaper, and tucked it neatly under her arm.
Mel stared.
Joy’s smile twitched. “Why, Mel, aren’t you glad to see me?”
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“I wanted you to know.”
“What? Know what?”
“I figured out how you whittled Skippy’s walking cane down little by little. To make him think he was growing. When all the time his cane was getting shorter. It fooled everyone. Even me. You figured that sooner or later, what with Skippy’s fragile psyche, it would drive him over the edge. Sooner or later Skippy would despair, maybe commit suicide. That was your plan, wasn’t it, Mel?”
“What are you… ?”
As if suddenly inspired, Joy blurted, “Did you know that Captain Vancouver named Magnolia Bluff erroneously?”
Mel shook his head.
“Aren’t you curious why he did?”
“No.”
Ignoring him, Joy explained: “Captain Vancouver discovered this part of the world, you know. And he hated everything about it. Hated the rain and the fog and the Indians… I’ll bet he hated dwarfs too.”
“Make your point.”
“Because Captain Vancouver mistook the bluff’s madrona trees for magnolia trees.” Joy broke into a wide smile. “It all comes down to wood, doesn’t it, Mel?”
Mel placed a hand to his forehead.
“This might interest the media,” said Joy. “Or the gossip columnists. I mean, about these cherrywood shavings I found in your orchid plants. Oh, I almost forgot to mention…”
“Can it, Joy.”
Joy shuffled around, a tap dancer at heart, then froze. “To be frank, Mel, it mortifies me to catch you doing something so despicable.”
Sweat bathed Mel’s brow.
Joy said, “See, I took the rubber cup off the bottom of Skippy’s cane. And I saw. It’s locked up in a safe place now. I mean Skips’s cane. Or what’s left of it. See, I figured out what happened underneath that little rubber cup—”
Mel came at Joy, but swift Joy produced another talisman that drew him up short: the Seattle Times, tomorrow’s early edition. Joy had folded the front page to emphasize a small headline: Second Autopsy Reveals Star Dwarf Smathers Was Growing.
Skippy’s photograph accompanied the story.
Joy touched Mel’s sleeve. Lightly, to fix attention on what she was going to say. From her regular-sized heart.
“If only you’d been patient, Mel. If only you hadn’t whittled down his cane. See, I talked to Skippy’s doctor and figured it all out. You didn’t believe him, but something had gone wacky with his pituitary gland. It sometimes happens to a dwarf, you know. So the tightrope had already been greased.” Joy smiled ever so gently. “You didn’t need to push him.” Joy stretched to her full height, reached down, and plucked Mel’s house keys from his trembling hand.
“Come,” said the woman in control of Mel’s destiny, “let’s go indoors and decide on a price for this sweet little Dahl house. I think we should put an offer on the Pierce-Arrow estate, don’t you?”