“Yes. All right.”
They’d hung up, but rather than make the call to Omaha, Melanie swallowed two aspirin and collapsed onto her bed to lie perfectly still until her headache passed. But she fell asleep.
When she awoke a couple of hours later, Nadine was home early from her job at a boutique clothing store modeling ridiculously priced dresses for wealthy women to fawn over. She was auditioning the next day at Paramount and wanted to run through her lines. Corinne, her other housemate, was also home for the evening after an afternoon of callbacks. Melanie came out of her bedroom to grab a glass of water and found her two friends in a tight conversation at the kitchen sink that halted the second she walked into the room.
“Your parents just called,” Nadine had said quickly. “They want you to call back.”
“We didn’t want to tell them you were asleep at five p.m. in the afternoon so we said you were in the shower. You should probably call them back,” Corinne added.
“Now?” Melanie asked.
“I think they really want to talk with you.” Nadine’s tone had hinted of uneasiness.
“Keep it short, though?” Corinne added with a half smile. “Long distance, you know.”
“I know how much a long-distance call costs,” Melanie muttered, turning for the phone on its little table in the living room.
“We just know money might be tight for you right now,” Corinne called after her.
She had dialed her parents’ number, thinking perhaps it was actually better if they had already heard rumblings of what had happened and had called to find out from her what the truth was, because then she wouldn’t have to spring this terrible, absurd development onto them from out of nowhere.
They had indeed heard rumblings, and not just rumblings. The news of their daughter’s fall from Hollywood notoriety to Hollywood blacklist had been in theOmaha World-Heraldon page five. National news. A one-column story, but above the fold. Impossible to miss.
They had been shocked and appalled, devastated, and humiliated.
“Is it true?” her mother had asked, distraught. “Are you a communist?”
“Of course it’s not true!” Melanie had said. “How can you even ask?”
“Is it that Carson Edwards? Is he a communist?” her father had said from the line’s other extension.
“I would certainly know if he was, wouldn’t I? This is a witch hunt, Dad. That’s all it is. I’m completely innocent.”
“Please come home!” her mother had begged.
“I don’t want to look like I’m guilty and running for cover, Mom. I’m guilty of nothing.”
“Except for getting mixed up with the wrong people! A communist, Melanie!”
She had told them she had to go. Her mother was crying. Herb told her to think of her family, her reputation. Her future. She said again that she needed to go, wished them a good night, and hung up.
Melanie had stood for several long moments reminding herself that she was the victim here, not the criminal. She was innocent.
She’d done nothing wrong.
She loved her country.
She was innocent.
She needed more aspirin.
Melanie had gone back to the kitchen for the drink of water and two more Bayer. Nadine and Corinne were still there but seated now at the four-seat chrome and Formica table set against the wall.
Nadine had nodded to one of two chairs across from them.
“We actually want to talk to you, too,” she said.
11
