Mum's the Word by Dorothy Cannell Page A

news—a matriarch, who is clearly a man with eyes sharp as hatpins; a stout bespectacled schoolboy; and a bubble-head blonde fan dancer in working clothes, doing a half-hearted bump-and-grind while tearing a small piece of paper into confetti.
    â€œThat’s your mother?” Ben whistled.
    I shushed him. “No. Hers was just a non-speaking bit part in the chorus line scene. Don’t let’s miss …”
    Too late.
Melancholy Mansion
faded out, to be replaced by a close-up of a greyhaired, broad-shouldered man with TV interviewer regulation features.
    â€œGood evening. I’m Harvard Smith and this is
Talk Time
. What you just saw was a scene from one of actress Theola Faith’s most popular films. We have in the studio with us this evening her daughter Mary Faith, author of the newly released, bestseller,
Monster Mommy
, an exposé of the chilling childhood she experienced at the hands of the woman known to millions as Kitten Face, the sexy comedienne who during the fifties and sixties paid the rent of movie houses across the country.”
    The cameras shifted across the table, past two glasses and a water jug, to the woman who had readers turning pages on land and in the air, a woman with a rubber stamp smile and cookie-cutter features. Hair tailored into a French twist, she sported wing-tipped glasses. Her age was forty and fibbing.
    â€œThank you, Harvard.” Her woolly voice complemented the double-breasted trouser suit and bow tie. Picking up a pencil, she put it down. “As your guest this evening, I take the opportunity to reassure any of my mother’s fans who may be listening that I feel pain for their disillusionment. Please believe me”—her face softened with the quivering of her mouth—“I did not write
Monster Mommy
to pay Theola Faith back for the years of neglect—the cocktail parties in the bathtub, Father Christmas coming down the chimney wearing only soot.”
    â€œThe chicken noodle soup game shocked me, Mr. Unshockable.” Interviewer Harvard solicitously handed her a glass of water.
    Mary Faith set it down. “Through my book, which was sheer migraine to write, I am reaching out to the woman who for years denied my existence, passing me off as her maid’s daughter, keeping me a virtual prisoner in a plush Hollywood mansion. To her, I say, Mommy, it is not too late. You can change. You can become a human being. If—
when
—you do, I’ll be waiting, arms outstretched. I won’t ask my father’s name, I won’t ask why you had me dressed as a boy until I was six and put my best doll down the garbage disposal. All I ask is three little words—‘I’m sorry, baby.’ ”
    Interviewer Harv stretched a smile. “Mary, you’re sure one courageous woman. During the break you mentioned your mother sent you a death threat for your birthday.”
    â€œYes, Harvard! But knowing I had pursued truth took much of the sting out of her words.”
    â€œYou don’t take her threats seriously?”
    Oops! Mary Faith had knocked over her glass. The camera closed in on her fixed smile. “Harvard, murder takes a certain strength of character that Theola Faith lacks. Coming out of the closet is the nicest thing I’ve done for myself in years, and I would like to make one thing perfectly clear. Behind every successful writer is a whale of a good agent and an inspired and inspiring editor. So, if I may, I wish to saythank you and God bless to Sadie Fishman and Monica Mary O’Bryan.”
    Whipping the control out of Ben’s hand I blinked off the TV.
    â€œEllie!”
    â€œI’m sorry,” I folded down on the bed. “Suddenly I remembered the baby might have its ear pressed to the belly button keyhole. And I don’t want him or her getting any ideas.”
    â€œDarling, you won’t be a Monster Mommy,” avowed the man in the Laura Ashley toga, as he