The Camera's Favorite Vixen

 It was a beautiful ceremony filled with love and light. Blanche was her Christian name, Blanche White Horse. The beloved matriarch of the tribe. 112 years old. Some say she’s a dozen years older than that. Mother, Grandmother, Great, and Great Great to scores of tribal members, living and dead.                                                                  

Her family and loved ones stayed with her those last days, singing hymns, playing flutes, and wishing her safe passage back Home. Those that were there recall her gossamer spirit rising into the heavens as an evening shower bloomed over the sacred mountain. And then a magic eagle, soaring through the double rainbow, dropped a white feather. Ridden by a monarch butterfly, the sacred feather fluttered down, landing gently on Blanche’s silent breast.   

No one cried. They ate. They ate a lot.  

They wrapped Blanche in her favorite blanket, laid her in a freshly dug hole, covered her with kernels of colorful maze, and covered her again with red soil. Now food for Mother Tortoise.  

Then, burning towers of pinon, they danced into the night... and kept eating.  

That’s nice. So sweet. Such an uplifting story. The way God intended us to go. Living long, growing wise, loved and revered by our children, respected and remembered. That’s so sweet.                                                                                                               

 I met Catherine late one Tuesday afternoon, at the ‘Friendly Acres Assisted Living Center’ shortly after supper, when the hall was crowded, the nursing staff wanting to go home. Home, where there are no ghosts.  

Twenty-Two deaths since I arrived 16 months ago. Including roommate number nine. Rudy was his name. They found him lying on his back, his leg stumps sticking up at odd angles with an apple stuffed in his mouth. And there was Toby, roommate number 12. He was already dead when they dragged him to the bathroom for his 4 AM bowel movement. They put his corpse back to bed thinking he was asleep. He was very quiet that night.  

Friendly Acres opened 35 years ago. 

There are a lot of ghosts here.                                     

The sounds of Hall 400 never changed. I could pinpoint and recognize every voice, every clatter.  

“aaa EEE aaa EEE aaa EEE aaa EEE aaa EEE aaa EEE!” was Elma’s mantra.  

"Ibbee o Eew? itha iken Ibbee o Eew?” asked Floppy Tongue Lady.  

“Television television television television television television television... donut donut donut donut donut donut donut donut donut donut... puppy dog puppy dog puppy dog puppy dog... Mechanical Man chanted.  

Down the other way, I couldhear the distant laughter of Huey and Dewey as they duck into an empty room to snort a couple lines. Twittering Nurse's Aids with their beloved smartphones clustered together. And the approaching rattle of a maid’s cart, hopefully pushed by Maria.  

But there was a new voice. A tired tinkering bell outside my door.  

“au er eeth ew eee...eye au ou o om...shun ee el eee...eez au er el ee ah er!”  

As I rolled up to the threshold, her words became clear, like ice, sending chills up and down my spine.                                       

“doctor, pleeezz help meee...someone help mee pleeeezz...i want to go home...pleeez get me out of this wheeeel chair...pleeeezz god...”  

I assumed the obvious. An emaciated old woman attached to hissing tubes. Discarded. Forgotten. Alone.  

But I saw someone different. I saw Catherine Wentworth. With her glossy red hair and emerald eyes, she was the envy and heartthrob of every post-war white teen.   

Dubbed the ‘Camera’s Favorite Vixen,’ she lit up the silver screen in classic B’s such as; ‘The Pharaoh and the Slave Girl,’ the heart-wrenching ‘Custer’s 2nd to Last Stand,’ and, of course, the cult classic, ‘Shadows in the Dark.’                                                         

We’ve all seen the iconic photo of ‘Cat’ on the red carpet, wrapped in snow-white ermine. Arm in arm with that Latin hunk, Sergio Alpaca, at the 1949 Academy Awards.   

That was the year she was nominated for ‘Best Supporting Actress in a Secondary Story Line.' For her role as the lovable farrier in ‘Mule Train West to Nowhere.’    

But in a cruel twist of fate, a promising new color processing technology cut her career short.   

‘Ultra Color’ was to be the gold standard of color film, with its vibrant tone and superior contrast.              

Recognizing Catherine’s box office appeal, Ultra Color Studios offered her a lucrative five-year contract, along with a plethora of perks, including a white Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible, a 2,000 square foot cabana in Malibu, and twin purebred Pomeranians (Fluffy and Poopsie).  

Her final film was the most recent installment of the popular 'Mrs. Smith Goes to...' series aptly titled 'Mrs. Smith Goes to Mexico,' featuring a torrid and controversial love scene shot in the sacred Mayan temple, Tocazepi.   

But ‘Ultra Color’ had a fatal flaw. Within two years, the film stock was losing its ultra color, and after five years, all that remained were several shades of yellow and a trace of pink.             

Questionable technology and limited acting skills (not to mention three leaching ex-husbands) led her to my door.                                         

“help meee...doctor pleeeeeeez...”  

Her chin rested on her chest.  

“pleeez god help meeeee...”  

She opened her mouth releasing a torrent of un-chewed corn.   

My alarm turned to horror as she held out her shaking hands in a vain attempt to catch the falling kernels.  

Being a graduate of Emily Post’s three week course, ‘Rules of Etiquette for Young Ladies of Culture,’ her shame was complete.  

She died a few hours later.  

I didn’t see her ethereal spirit ascend into the heavens.    

I did catch a glimpse of her body-bagged corps as the Very Large People rolled her to a waiting van.  

Catherine didn’t have flutes and rainbows.                 

No loving family, no friends, no tribe.   

The sounds of Hall 400 never change. I can pinpoint and recognize every voice, every clatter. 

The scratching of deer skin slippers marks the arrival of the Pedestrian, doing her endless laps around the building. 

And there is Mr. Sadman’s lament. 

“She wouldn’t leave me in here. She’ll come back for me. Gawd, I hate meatloaf.” 

Lurking in the shadows, Mark, our resident psychopath, silently watches. 

And now, late at night around 3:30, if you listen very carefully, you can hear the lonely melody of Catherine Wentworth's curtain call, 

"pleeez help me doctor... get mee out of this wheeelchaaairr pleeez someone help meeeee... i want to go home..."

accompanied by the percussive tattoo of plopping corn, reminiscent of her Bongo Battle with Rodrigo Valdez in 'Mrs. Smith Goes to Cuba...' 

Welcome home, Cat.