Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“Cal Hampton,” Canon says, nodding to the photo. “They got married in London while they were touring Europe. He was a great trumpet player.”

“They look so happy. According to the family Bible, they were married forty-five years until he died of lung cancer in 1985.”

“All that smoking caught up to a lot of them later in life.” He hands me the photo. “They do seem happy, but there was a lot of heartbreak in those years. Mostly from living in a country that wanted them to sing for their supper, but use the service entrance to come and go. That’s why so many of them left for Europe. Who can blame them?”

“I remember watching Halle Berry’s Dorothy Dandridge movie. That scene when Dorothy dips her toe in the pool at the hotel where she’s performing in Vegas.”

“And they drain the pool.” Canon’s full mouth hitches into a cynical bend. “You know how many people had no idea who Dorothy was before that movie?”

He bumps my shoulder, and the rare ease of a gesture like that from him makes me smile.

“We’re gonna do that for Dessi Blue,” he says.

“Thank you again for choosing me, for casting me.”

“We searched six months before casting you, Neevah. I knew as soon as I saw you onstage you were right for this part.”

“And the studio was okay with an unknown carrying a film like this?” It’s occurred to me more than once, but I haven’t asked him or Mallory. I was too afraid they might think about the huge risk they’re taking and change their minds.

“The studio is thrilled.” He bends to grab another box from the floor, and I can’t see his expression, but his voice sounds sure. Then again, when doesn’t Canon sound sure?

“Look at this,” he says.

Dust stirs from the jewelry box when he opens it, and a ballet dancer pops up. An old tune warbles from the box, so faint it’s barely music, and the figurine executes a turn, her pirouette shaky and uneven. Canon picks through a few pieces of jewelry—a black velvet ribbon choker, a cocktail ring shaped like a star and studded with rubies, diamond-flecked hairpins. There is a small tear in the floor of the box. I pull the base up, revealing a hidden compartment.

“Look at you, finding the secrets,” Canon says, lifting the base out completely and extracting a stack of papers, frayed and falling apart. He spreads them on the bed between us. There isn’t much, but you don’t hide things that mean nothing.

I angle my head to study the newspaper clipping of a wedding announcement.

* * *

Harlem nightclub owner Hezekiah Moore weds Matilda Hargrove. The ceremony took place at Abyssinian Baptist Church, with reception following at the Hotel Theresa.

* * *

Beneath the photo of a stern, stout man and a gorgeous woman of medium brown complexion wearing a waxen smile with her wedding dress are the words I had to. Forgive me. in neat handwriting.

Canon and I exchange a quick look of speculation.

“Matilda was Dessi’s roommate in New York for a few years,” he says. “The scene you did with Mallory showed how they met. Katherine said when Dessi left to tour in Europe, they lost touch completely.”

I flip through a stack of letters, all written in the same neat handwriting from the newspaper clipping. “Looks like she was wrong about them losing touch.”

The edge of a faded maroon paper peeks out from beneath the newspaper clipping so I pull it out to see it fully. It’s a playbill for Macbeth, but obviously an adaptation that, based on the graphic, seems to have African or island influence.

“Says the play was presented by the Negro unit of the Federal Theatre Project.” I flip the playbill over, scanning the details. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Yeah. In the scene you read, that’s the show they were waiting to see. The Federal Theatre Project was a New Deal stimulus program that funded plays and live performances.”

“New Deal as in FDR’s New Deal?”

“Yeah. After the Great Depression. It put actors, playwrights and directors to work.

Orson Welles adapted Macbeth with an all-Black cast at the Lafayette Theatre in the thirties. Maybe ’36? They called it Voodoo Macbeth.”

“The Orson Welles?”

“Yeah, and he was only twenty years old at the time. Wasn’t even really making movies yet.” Canon shakes his head. “Genius man.”

I open the playbill and there’s a newspaper clipping inside showing a huge crowd outside the Lafayette. “Says here people lined up for ten blocks on Seventh Avenue. Over ten thousand people trying to get into the theater, and only twelve hundred seats.”

Canon leans closer to read for himself, and the clean scent of him invades my senses. I try to stay focused on the work, on what this opportunity means for my career, and not think about how drawn I am to him, but sometimes . . . like now times, when he smells so good, and his body radiates warmth, I just want to . . .