A Knife to Remember

what this seeming non sequitur meant. “Oh, no! That explains why Katie was made up like a floozy raccoon this morning. I wondered. What do you think would happen if I ran up to school, dashed into her math class, and washed her face?“
    “She’d hate you,“ Shelley said simply. “I made Denise kill the hairdo this morning. She was wild. She had her bangs moussed into a three-inch crewcut. It was appalling. I tried to make her understand that school pictures are forever. They come back and haunt you when you’re thirty-five. You know, sometimes I get tired of being a warden. I can’t wait for her to grow up and get to be my friend. Do you think it will ever happen?”
    Jane shrugged. “My mother always said that when your kids grow up they just get scarier, more expensive problems. Of course, she had to cope with my sister Marty marrying that jerk...“
    “It’s so frustrating, having Denise known far and wide for absurd hair, when she has so many good qualities I’d like to see immortalized instead. Maybe I could make her wear a placard around her neck that says, ‘I’m very tidy and get straight A’s.’ Do you think people might read it instead of falling back in horror at her bozo hair?“
    “Probably not.“
    “She was so cute when she was ten,“ Shelley mused. “I wish I could have kept her that way. Locked in amber or something. Her school picture that year was darling, she still liked me and her father. She even got along with her brother at that age. She didn’t care about money yet. It was the last good year...“ she said in a voice of doom.
    Jane nudged Shelley out of her grim reverie.
    “Uh-oh,“ Shelley said, the gloom deepening.
    Lynette Harwell had just come through the break in the scenery and was taking in the spectacle of Jennifer Fortin and Roberto Cavagnari all but locked in a cheesy embrace. Her lovely face was suddenly transformed into a mask of anger, and just as quickly became bland. Her sense of theater, or self-glorification, came back. She might not have any real intelligence, but she knew better than to cast herself in a bad light.
    “Jennifer Formas, isn’t it?“ she said in a sweetly trilling voice. “How nice of you to drop by.“
    “Why, Lynette Harwell! I didn’t know you were in this film!“ Fortin said, ignoring the fact that Harwell had deliberately gotten her name wrong. “Roberto, darling, you’ve been keeping secrets from me,“ she gushed.
    “Hardly a secret, my dear,“ Harwell said. “But some of us keep in touch with the industry better than others. What on earth are you doing in Chicago? Are you doing a trade show or something?”
    This dig must have been close enough to the truth to hurt. Jennifer’s face wasn’t quite as well controlled as Lynette’s and she frowned slightly.
    But before she could rally her forces and retort, Lynette cut her off. “Well, you must excuse me, darling. I have a terribly important scene this afternoon and really can’t let myself get distracted by trivialities.”
    Shelley leaned close to Jane and said, “I make it 3-1 in favor of Harwell.”
    Jane giggled. “She’s a real trouper, isn’t she? Max and Meow could learn a few things about cattiness from her.”
     

17
     
    Lynette Harwell ostentatiously continued to study her script throughout lunch, with Olive hovering around, feeding her tidbits of lunch as if she were a baby bird and occasionally stabbing a long finger at the script and giving advice in equally tiny doses. It was the first time Jane could remember actually seeing a script in anybody’s hand.
    Jennifer Fortin continued to flirt halfheartedly with Cavagnari for a while, but when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to get any more adverse reaction from Harwell, she abandoned the effort and started chatting with a hovering reporter. Cavagnari didn’t seem to mind. He had become quiet and thoughtful, too, picking at his fried chicken and staring at nothing as if he were undergoing some kind of mental girding process. Even George Abington became uncharacteristically serious about his craft, asking Cavagnari some technical questions about lighting and positioning.
    Finally, Cavagnari straightened up and said, “Let’s do it!”
    A production assistant who had been standing behind him in a state of suspended animation, shouted into his bullhorn, “Everyone on set!”
    The behind-the-scenes area in Jane’s yard was cleared as suddenly as if he’d shouted “Fire!“ Within