was properly impressed. People seemed to be moving around more purposefully now, and Joel Park Brooks was shouting directions at top speed, so apparently something was about to happen. I was so engrossed in the scene around me that I didn’t register my stepson’s presence for a while, but then I noticed him waiting by the door of the church, dressed in a conservative suit and tie. He was wearing faux glasses and carrying a Bible. In character, I assumed.
“Who’s Barrett playing?”
“Bankston.” Robin looked down at me to see if I thought that was funny, and I managed a smile. Of course, the real Bankston Waites had never worn glasses, or carried a Bible, as far as I could remember. He had gone to church, but not this one. Oh well, I guessed accuracy mattered only so much.
Fleetingly, I thought of how much Martin would have relished his son working in Lawrenceton. Then I thought of how happy it would make me if I never had to speak to Barrett again.
When I turned my attention back to what was happening around me, I could see that the actual area the cameras were trained on held no one but actors. Everyone seemed to be at his or her workstation. An amazing amount of food had vanished from the service table, and the stout young woman in white was cleaning away the remnants. She smiled and waved at Robin as he glanced her way.
Silence reigned. As two well-dressed extras took their places on the sidewalk facing away from the church door, I glanced up at Robin to see him absorbed in the scene before me. He draped a long arm around my shoulders as if that were automatic. I stood stiff and frozen, my own arms crossed across my ribs, trying not to be ridiculously self-conscious about a casual gesture.
At the director’s signal, the scene began. It appeared this was supposed to be a Sunday morning, right after church was over. A silver-haired man in priest’s robes was standing to the right of the open door, shaking hands as “parishioners” came out. So warm and caring did he look, so saintly was his bearing, that he practically reeked of goodness. The couple already in the churchyard stepped briskly past the cameras. One or two other people came down the church steps. Then one of the “churchgoers” swatted at a wasp, and Joel Park Brooks called the action to a halt.
“Again, without the swatting!” he called, and the actors obediently went back into the church. The couple resumed their place on the sidewalk. The priest’s aura of Godliness wavered and then snapped back into place as the action began again.
This time, Celia Shaw (the “me” composite) and Chip Brodnax (I gathered he was the Robin character) made it out of the church. They were positioned in the foreground, while the church emptied behind them.
“I hope you enjoy your stay in our little town,” Celia told Chip. Her accent was generically southern. I rolled my eyes, all to myself. Why can’t Hollywood comprehend that there are regional accents in the south, besides Cajun? “Lawrenceton’s always been so quiet, so safe,”
she drawled.
“This is a fantastic town,” Chip said enthusiastically, staring down at Celia with transparent admiration. “And I know I’m gonna love living here. What do you do for excitement?”
“Why don’t you come to a meeting of our club tonight?” Celia said, smiling with delight at her own inspiration. Then she added naughtily, “I’m the guest speaker tonight, and you’d better bone up on ... murder!” Then she marched off, head triumphantly in the air, as Chip stared after her, cute bafflement written across his handsome features.
“Cut!” cried a hoarse male voice, and immediately Joel Park Brooks launched himself toward the waiting Chip and Celia.
“You wrote that?” I asked, trying not to sound too horrified.
“No. They hired a script doctor after I turned my version in.” Robin’s cheeks were red with embarrassment. Or maybe it was just the heat.
The day was definitely getting
“Who’s Barrett playing?”
“Bankston.” Robin looked down at me to see if I thought that was funny, and I managed a smile. Of course, the real Bankston Waites had never worn glasses, or carried a Bible, as far as I could remember. He had gone to church, but not this one. Oh well, I guessed accuracy mattered only so much.
Fleetingly, I thought of how much Martin would have relished his son working in Lawrenceton. Then I thought of how happy it would make me if I never had to speak to Barrett again.
When I turned my attention back to what was happening around me, I could see that the actual area the cameras were trained on held no one but actors. Everyone seemed to be at his or her workstation. An amazing amount of food had vanished from the service table, and the stout young woman in white was cleaning away the remnants. She smiled and waved at Robin as he glanced her way.
Silence reigned. As two well-dressed extras took their places on the sidewalk facing away from the church door, I glanced up at Robin to see him absorbed in the scene before me. He draped a long arm around my shoulders as if that were automatic. I stood stiff and frozen, my own arms crossed across my ribs, trying not to be ridiculously self-conscious about a casual gesture.
At the director’s signal, the scene began. It appeared this was supposed to be a Sunday morning, right after church was over. A silver-haired man in priest’s robes was standing to the right of the open door, shaking hands as “parishioners” came out. So warm and caring did he look, so saintly was his bearing, that he practically reeked of goodness. The couple already in the churchyard stepped briskly past the cameras. One or two other people came down the church steps. Then one of the “churchgoers” swatted at a wasp, and Joel Park Brooks called the action to a halt.
“Again, without the swatting!” he called, and the actors obediently went back into the church. The couple resumed their place on the sidewalk. The priest’s aura of Godliness wavered and then snapped back into place as the action began again.
This time, Celia Shaw (the “me” composite) and Chip Brodnax (I gathered he was the Robin character) made it out of the church. They were positioned in the foreground, while the church emptied behind them.
“I hope you enjoy your stay in our little town,” Celia told Chip. Her accent was generically southern. I rolled my eyes, all to myself. Why can’t Hollywood comprehend that there are regional accents in the south, besides Cajun? “Lawrenceton’s always been so quiet, so safe,”
she drawled.
“This is a fantastic town,” Chip said enthusiastically, staring down at Celia with transparent admiration. “And I know I’m gonna love living here. What do you do for excitement?”
“Why don’t you come to a meeting of our club tonight?” Celia said, smiling with delight at her own inspiration. Then she added naughtily, “I’m the guest speaker tonight, and you’d better bone up on ... murder!” Then she marched off, head triumphantly in the air, as Chip stared after her, cute bafflement written across his handsome features.
“Cut!” cried a hoarse male voice, and immediately Joel Park Brooks launched himself toward the waiting Chip and Celia.
“You wrote that?” I asked, trying not to sound too horrified.
“No. They hired a script doctor after I turned my version in.” Robin’s cheeks were red with embarrassment. Or maybe it was just the heat.
The day was definitely getting
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