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There was a vast glare from the waiting outdoor set ahead, where the extras, the bed of fish baking on charcoals, and Mad Fritz were waiting.
A woman stood in the mouth of the alley as J. C. and I approached. She was silhouetted against the light, only a dark shape.
Seeing us, she ran forward, then stopped when she saw J. C.
“Good gravy,” said J. C. “It’s that Rattigan woman!”
Constance’s eyes glanced from J. C. to me and back again, almost wildly.
“What do I do now?” she said.
“What—”
“It’s been such a crazy night. Crying an hour ago at a terrible photo, and now—” she stared at J. C. and her eyes flowed freely— “having wanted to meet you all my life. And here you are.”
The weight of her words caused her to sink slowly to her knees. “Bless me, Jesus,” she whispered.
J. C. reared back as if summoning the dead from their shrouds. “Get up, woman!” he cried.
“Bless me, Jesus,” Constance said. And then, almost to herself, “Oh, Lord, I’m seven again and in my white first communion dress and it’s Easter Sunday and the world is good just before the world got bad.”
“Get up, young woman,” said J. C. quieter.
But she did not move and closed her eyes, waiting.
Her lips pantomimed, Bless me.
And at last J. C. reached out slowly, forced to accept and gently accepting, to put his hand on the top of her head. The gentle pressure forced more tears from her eyes, and her mouth quivered. Her hands flew up to hold and keep his touch on her head a moment more.
“Child,” said J. C. quietly, “you are blessed.”
And looking at Constance Rattigan kneeling there, I thought, Oh, the ironies of this lost world. Catholic guilt plus actor’s flamboyance.
Constance rose and, eyes still half shut, turned toward the light and moved toward the waiting bed of glowing charcoals.
We could but follow.
A crowd was gathered. All the extras who had appeared in other scenes earlier that night, plus studio executives and hangerson. As we approached, Constance moved aside with the grace of someone who had just lost forty pounds. I wondered how long she would remain a little girl.
But now I saw, stepping into the light, across the open-air set, beyond the charcoal pit, Manny Leiber, Doc Phillips, and Groc. Their eyes were so steadily upon me that I hung back, fearful of taking credit for finding the Messiah, saving the Saviour, and trimming the budget for the night.
Manny’s eyes were full of doubt and distrust, the Doc’s with active venom, and Groc’s with good brandy spirits. Perhaps they had come to see Christ, and myself, roasted on a spit. In any event, as J. C. moved steadily to the rim of the fiery pit, Fritz, recovering from some recent fit, blinked at him myopically and cried, “About time. We were about to call off the barbecue. Monocle!”
No one moved. Everyone looked around.
“Monocle!” Fritz said again.
And I realized he wished the loan of the lens he had so grandly handed me a few hours ago.
I darted forward, planted the lens in his outstretched palm, and jumped back as he jammed it into his eye as ammunition. He fired a gaze at J. C. and heaved out all the air in his lungs.
“Do you call that Christ! It’s more like Methuselah. Put on a ton of skin pancake color thirty-three and fish-hook his jawline. Holy jumping Jesus, it’s time for the dinner break. More failures, more delays. How dare you show up late! Who in hell do you think you are?”
“Christ,” said J. C. with proper modesty. “And don’t you forget it.”
“Get him out of here! Makeup! Dinner break! Back in an hour!” shouted Fritz, and all but hurled the lens, my medal, back into my hands, to stand bitterly regarding the burning coals as if he might leap to incineration.
And all the while the wolfpack across the pit, Manny counting the lost dollars as each moment fell like blizzards of paper money to be burned, and the good Doc itching his scalpel in his fisted pockets, and Lenin’s cosmetologist with his permanent Conrad Veidt smile carved in the pale thin melon flesh about his chin. But now their gaze had shifted from me to fix with a terrible and inescapable judgment and condemnation upon J. C.
