Disclaimer: Remember WENN and its characters were created by and belong to Rupert Holmes. The show was produced by Meltzer Productions and was broadcast on American Movie Classics. No copyright infringement intended.
The yard was a mess. The grass hadn't been cut for weeks. Weeds infested the lawn, lending their dull yellow hue to the sea of fading green. The flower beds were wilted and droopy, old and neglected. It could have been a scene exclusively out of a bad horror movie if it wasn't for the big weeping willow in the middle of the yard, which swayed to the music of the wind.
Even with this bit of sanity, the place looked terrible. It would have been okay had it been a condemned building, but alas, someone owned and lived on the property.
Amanda sighed. Every morning she arrived at seven-fifty-five, checked the mailbox holding the few pieces of yesterday's mail, and entered the little brick house that belonged to her client. She was a nurse, home health, the paid caretaker of the antique called Hilary Booth, actress from the golden days of radio. She had taken care of the woman for almost six months, yet had made no strides toward building any sort of friendly relationship. Or any sort of relationship at all, for that matter.
Sometimes, she felt like a maid. After she let herself into the house, she tossed the mail on to the kitchen table, donned a blue apron over her jeans and T-shirt, flipped on the stove, and began cooking breakfast. Promptly around eight-fifteen, the hardwood floor squeaked, announcing the arrival of Miss Booth in the kitchen. She was always nicely dressed, with her thinning gray hair pulled back, her entire appearance reminiscent of the good old days. Sometimes Amanda played guessing games regarding her client's age. Neighbors said she was almost ninety years old.
She wouldn't have guessed that. Hilary Booth didn't look a day over sixty. Maybe sixty-five. It was hard to believe she had lived through the Depression and two World Wars. Perhaps that's why she was so unwilling to talk. She had seen and experienced too much and was tired of living anymore. So she saved her energy by lack of conversation.
Or perhaps it was the death of her husband.
From what Amanda understood, Hilary and her husband had both begun on the stage, worked in radio together, then he became a successful Broadway star. He had supposedly had numerous offers from Hollywood, enticing him with money, fame, women, and leading man status. Yet he had rejected everything. He claimed to have been content with the theater alone. Some said he'd been held back by his demanding wife. She was older and protective.and jealous. However, their life together had been relatively happy. They'd been married for more than half a century, until he had passed on two years ago. That was probably when she'd let the grass grow and the flowers wilt.
The floor squeaked.
A slender body in a short-sleeved blue gown materialized at the kitchen entrance. Her hair was in a prim bun. She wore minimal makeup, but something radiant shone through nonetheless. Ninety or sixty, Hilary Booth was still beautiful.
"Good morning, Miss Booth," Amanda chirped as she scrambled eggs.
"Morning," the elderly woman replied nonchalantly. Her voice was elegant, with the telltale trace of a refined accent. Her diction was flawless. No one could ever doubt her being an actress after they had heard her voice.
Hilary slid into a wooden chair and reached for the letter opener in a blue ceramic cup that held writing utensils and miscellaneous items. She pulled her mail towards her and began to open the envelopes. She neatly bypassed the junk mail, leaving them in a pile to one side of the table. She studied a sturdy cream-colored envelope, then opened it carefully. Inside was a card of some sort, and a letter folded in thirds. She chose the letter first, scanning it quickly. She gave a little gasp.
Amanda glanced over at Hilary with a little frown.
"Is something the matter?" she asked.
Hilary set down the letter and looked at her matter-of-factly. Amanda thought she could detect a kind of melancholy in the woman's steel-blue eyes. She coaxed the scrambled eggs on to a plate already holding some pieces of white bread. Setting it in front of her client, Amanda sat down in an adjacent chair and folded her hands in her lap.
"What did the letter say?"
The elderly woman shook her head.
"It's nothing, really."
She folded up the letter once more, and replaced it in the envelope. Amanda caught a glimpse of the accompanying card. It was some sort of invitation.
"Were you invited to a party?" she inquired.
Hilary's lips curled into what could have been mistaken as a small smile. Instead, it was a displeased grimace.
"I suppose you could call it that," she replied sharply. Almost defeatedly, she handed the card to the eager nurse. "They've given Jeffrey some sort of lifetime achievement award. They want me to come accept it."
Amanda examined the card. "In honor of Jeff Singer...." The late husband.
"How could they do such a thing?" Hilary demanded angrily. "They never gave him any sort of award when he was alive. Now that he's dead, they see a need to give him something he can't accept."
"Oh, I don't know," Amanda said light heartedly. "Maybe they're repenting for not recognizing him sooner."
Hilary scoffed.
"Too little too late." She tossed the envelope, card and all into the junk mail pile. Amanda quickly retrieved it.
"What are you doing?" Hilary asked in a commanding tone.
"You should go to this," the nurse replied, waving the card in the air. "That's a professional opinion from your medical caretaker."
"It will cause me unnecessary heartburn," the former actress snapped, grabbing the invitation from Amanda's hands.
Amanda was not about to give up. This was the closest she'd been to having a real conversation with her client. Now came an opportunity to get her out of the house, out of her reclusive lifestyle, out of her bubble where she was still stuck in the 1930s.
"It's just in Los Angeles. Look, they'll provide transportation. I'll drive you there myself, if you'd prefer that instead," she offered.
Hilary said nothing. Instead, her eyes probed into Amanda's with a new sort of intensity that made the nurse nervous.
"God, you're just like her," she whispered suddenly.
"Who?" Amanda asked.
Hilary stood up and clutched at Amanda's arm. The nurse followed her out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into a study. Several bookcases stood around the room, each healthily pregnant with numerous pages. Hilary approached one and pulled out a hardbound photo album. She relaxed into a rocking chair and Amanda kneeled at her side.
The actress's wrinkled hands trembled a little as she turned to a page near the middle. A finger pointed to one photograph. Amanda squinted as she stared at the yellowed black-and-white picture. It was one of several people posing in what looked like a studio. Hilary's finger rested one woman. Amanda held her breath. It was her.
Rather, it was her exact likeness. The woman stood proudly, arms crossed, and smiling brightly at the camera. Her dark hair was shoulder-length and curled fashionably at the ends. Her eyes were dark. Amanda thought she could a certain twinkle in them, immortally captured in the photo. She exhaled nervously.
"I had no intention of ever hiring a nurse. You should know I didn't hire you based on your merits," Hilary said, adding quickly, "though you're a very capable girl. I hired you because you reminded me of her. Seeing you everyday made it easier to relive the memories."
She smiled.
"Her name was Betty. She could knock the socks off anyone with her writing, though I never really gave her credit for it. She was much younger than me, but she was my best friend. Dear girl. She died about eight years ago. Never married. Her fiancé died in the War. She was as sharp as anything. And stubborn."
Amanda looked at the older woman, who was glowing with a joy she had never witnessed. Hilary came into this room everyday following breakfast. She had always wondered what the woman did here, but now she knew. Hilary Booth was reminiscing over better and happier days.
Amanda noticed that she was now engrossed in the picture on the adjacent page. It was a younger Hilary, arms around the waist of a taller man. Amanda recognized the face from the various picture frames around the house. Hilary ran a finger gently over the man's face with a wistful smile.
"You should go to Los Angeles," Amanda said. "He would have wanted you to."
The woman craned her neck so that she was looking down at her young nurse.
"Only if you come with me."
***
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome..."
Staring at the attentive crowd from behind the podium, she felt a pleasing sort of exhilaration that she had felt only thrice during her entire career. One was opening night of her first production, where she had had a meager role with ten lines as someone or another's best friend. The second was opening night of her first leading role in a production. The third had been her debut on Broadway. There had been other exciting moments here and there, but nothing as memorable as those three, and now four, times.
There were no familiar faces from her earlier days. Everyone else had passed on. Amanda sat grinning in the front row, the reincarnation of Betty in her lovely evening gown. Hilary smiled back, then looked into the audience. She had never been afraid of speaking in public, yet she felt herself shaking. Perhaps it had been too long.
Hilary cleared her throat.
"Hello," she greeted them. "I suppose it's obvious why I've been dragged out here."
She received appreciative laughter from her audience.
"We're here to honor a man named Jeffrey Singer. He wasn't a rocket scientist or a wise philosopher, but he was a great thespian, a great friend, and a great lover."
More appreciative laughter.
"He was incredibly patient. He had to be, because he was married to me. A woman seven years older than he who had a fiery temper and refused to take his name because she thought she was an independent career woman. People think I ruled his life, but only because he chose to submit to it.
"I...dearly loved him. I really did. I became sort of an eccentric hermit after he died, I suppose. I haven't grown a long beard. I'm not hunchbacked. I don't talk in a scary, raspy voice. But everyday, as my nurse will tell you, I go into the study, surround myself with old photographs, and talk to people who've passed on. I don't work anymore, so I can't afford a psychologist. It's how I stay sane."
Hilary's eyes became misty with tears, and she let them flow.
"Jeffrey told me not to cry at his funeral, and I didn't. But he never told me I couldn't cry at this awards ceremony in this place on this day. Thank you for giving me an outlet. I've wanted to cry for so long, and I finally have the chance. Thank you for honoring him. He...he would have appreciated it so much."
She smiled, then started off the stage. Someone in the back stood up and began to clap. Like the domino effect, one by one, the crowd stood up and flooded the room with a loud, ringing applause. Hilary looked toward the ceiling.
"They're applauding for you, Jeffrey," she whispered.
She blew a kiss toward the heavens.
Fanfiction Library
Back to the Fanfiction Library!
