“You have to. I’m the only one who really knows you.”
Kitty tried to pull away, but Emma wouldn’t let her go. Having someone who knew Mary bore little importance to her now. Her mother’s death was the last of Mary—she had no place in Kitty’s future.
Emma wouldn’t take any blame. “Keeping secrets doesn’t make you weak. Knowing everything doesn’t do anyone any good.”
But the secrets made Kitty want to write. She went home imagining, as she used to, what it would have been like to grow up in that mansion with the red door. Manic to write the story she didn’t yet know the ending to, she took catnaps and didn’t answer the phone. She survived on popcorn and listened to Miles Davis.
Thrilled she was working, Nathan didn’t ask what she was writing. He would soon regret his inattention.
* * *
After months of writing, Kitty had copies of Down South delivered to the producers, directors, and artists around town whose opinions could influence the popularity of an unsold project.
Sent out under the pen name Hanes Austen, it began like a fairy tale, a picturesque ode to the Old South written from the perspective of a housewife that turned into a devastating, highly critical manifesto about greed, destruction, and perversion. Knowing Nathan would reject the script’s racial content outright if he knew she had written it, she intended to sway him with others’ praise of the work.
The script came up at a dinner party for the birthday of the wife of a Telescope investor. A few wealthy businessmen present (all of whom were pro-integration, as a means to widen profits) were surprised it had gained popularity so quickly and were planning to bid.
“The Old South will be the topic of the year—and very marketable based on the current climate.” Harry was a banker who smoked cigars in between bites of food; Blair House had leaned on him often for support over the years, for access to his political connections. His brother, Jett, who sat next to him devouring a steak, had already bid. He argued that whether you liked the film or not, or believed its assertions or not, it was compelling, essential cinema. Rumor had it their youngest brother had participated in the Freedom Rides.
“And it has a strong female character, which will appeal to all women,” Harry said. “Kitty, have you thought about playing the lead?”
Kitty smiled internally to maintain a straight face.
“No, she hasn’t, because no one will go see it!” Nathan raised his glass for another pour of whiskey. “As soon as word spreads about how depressing it is, it’ll lose popularity. Films are supposed to suspend reality, not be a two-hour newsreel.”
“Have you read it?”
“Don’t need to.”
“You must. This writer, Hanes Austen, is going places.”
“Our studio has done—is doing—well with our brand of comedy, and I don’t intend on rocking the boat.”
“You don’t want to be the only studio making nothing but fluff. Conversation is what makes change.”
“I’m not here to change the world. I’m here to entertain, and I’m telling you, it won’t make any money.”
As expected, Nathan caved to pressure after several directors at Telescope got ahold of the script. In the end, Telescope outbid every other studio for the script. When it was time for everyone to meet the brilliant writer, Kitty confessed.
Nathan was horrified—and intrigued—by the places her mind went. “Where did you learn enough about that stuff to write about it?”
“I made it up.”
“You don’t write like that for me.”
“You would have rejected it. Well, you did, until—”
He cut her off to avoid being reminded. “What do we do now?” The studio was already receiving hate mail from the announcement of the film, and Nathan didn’t want those attacks turning to his wife. So, he told everyone Hanes was British and his visa had been rejected—implying that the government was seeking to avoid the controversy—which only heightened everyone’s interest in the film. “They can’t limit our free speech!”
Down South became Telescope’s first priority, and Daisy Lawson was postponed, as Kitty had wanted from the beginning. Gloating that Nathan couldn’t take writing credit, Kitty reminded him he would have to direct.
“Anyone else would expect to have at least one conversation with the writer.” She had, of course, planned it all this way. Creating Hanes gave her power, because he mattered to the people pulling the strings.
Hanes Austen went on to have an illustrious career at Telescope. He never set foot on the lot, but his rudeness (or quirkiness, depending on who you talked to) was excused because rumor said he was a descendant of the famous novelist, Jane.
CHAPTER 37
Kitty
Winter 1966
Telescope had invited press for a private screening of Down South, and Claire rang the Tates’ doorbell early the Saturday morning after.
“I need to see your husband.”
Seeing Claire’s anxious demeanor, Kitty was relieved that Nathan had already left that morning for the studio. “He’s not here.” Kitty knew but asked anyway, “What’s wrong?”
“The film is oddly close to my family history. I need to know who the hell the writer is.” She’d attended the event with her husband.
“It’s a composite of Southern planter families.”
“A judge in Virginia with a hefty inheritance from a tobacco family—what other family would it be?”
“The story takes place before the Civil War.”
“Why are you defending this?” Claire began to yell. “In addition to the story line, every other second someone’s putting a Lakes to their lips.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“I am not. I’m going to sue Telescope—bankrupt it. I only came by first out of respect for you.”
“Please, don’t do that.” Kitty knew she sounded desperate; the panic was sure to give her away.
Sure enough Claire paused, squinting in the sunlight. “Do you know the writer, Kitty?”
“It’s not about you.”
Understanding, Claire took a step back from the door. “Do you hate me or something? You used my family for your script?”
“It’s not my script.”
Claire was not convinced. “Kitty, you wrote the truth in fiction, things that won’t be hard to connect to me. I thought we were friends. I talked to you about losing my child, about my family—more than I ever have with anyone—and you use it for your own gain?” She was stuck between disbelief and anger. “I will sue the studio to kill this picture. You won’t get away with this.” Claire rushed from the porch but then pivoted on her camel-hair heels hearing Kitty call after her.
“Hazel Ledbetter was my mother. She was raped in your grandmother’s house when she was sixteen.” Recognition fired in Claire’s eyes, so she continued. “The Lakes manor is in Winston-Salem. It has a red front door; people say Nora Lakes painted it that color so her husband would know which home was his. My father’s name is Theodore Tucker Lakes; they used to call him Teddy. He was a redhead when he was younger—red-red, like you. All of his brothers were. I threw up that day at your house because I saw my mother in that photo on your wall. The BabyCakes photo from the magazine.”
Claire didn’t speak for a long while—long enough for Kitty to fear she’d gotten it wrong.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” she finally said. She whispered, as though they weren’t alone. “My grandmother told me about you before she died. When she got sick, she sent for me. I went down there, and she told me what my father did to your mother, what he’s done to others. It rotted her insides that she couldn’t support you in the way she wanted to.”
“She told you that?”
Claire reached for Kitty’s hands. “She loved you.”
“She didn’t even know me.” Kitty had never been convinced Mrs. Nora knew her name. Her birthday cakes, punctured in excess with candles, had always been nameless. “Did she know I passed?”