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The Truth About Naked Stars
by Stan E. Colfax As I see it, there's just one big difference between Tom Cruise and me. You'll probably never speak to Tom Cruise in person, but you can rent his shiny naked butt any day of the week at Blockbuster. Conversely, you can call me anytime you want, but ask me to drop my pants and I might come kill you.
Am I the only guy who thinks there's something a little twisted about all the on–screen nudity these days? Something that promotes a feeling of—er—false intimacy between a star and his/her fans? Maybe I'm just another red–blooded American pervert (i.e., presidential material), but consider my stormy and passionate feelings for Jamie Lee Curtis. No, I don't know her. But how can I help but feel stormy and passionate about a woman I've seen naked 35 times, just in the last week? AND I happen to find it kind of creepy that she's so eager to peel off her shirt in front of millions of tongue–lolling American guys, when I can't even get her to return my calls (I mean really, I just want to take the woman out for frappucinos).
Last week I dialed Ms. Curtis's number repeatedly (after I stole it from my boss's office in a brilliant, aerobatic stunt which I don't have time to discuss here, though it included hanging from the ceiling by a thin black wire which my best friend held in his teeth). Each time I dialed, a secretary connected me to a guy named Frank. Frank claimed to be Ms. Curtis's publicity rep. I said, "Listen, do you know who you're talking to, FRANK? Do you know the power I wield in the press, FRANK? Do you know that I can take little Miss Smarty Britches apart in the media if she doesn't call me before midnight, tonight—FRANK?" After I finished, Frank asked me out for a date. (I might go.)
I don't think celebrities get it. Or maybe they do. Maybe they're really a little jaded, a little cynical about their status in American society. A while back, Brad Pitt sued Playgirl for running his nude photo (taken without his consent). According to press reports, he felt violated and used. Yeah, right, and all us guys were standing right there with you, Brad man—right there in that beach house with GWYNETH PALTROW!! Maybe when it comes to nudity, stars see their bodies as just another commodity to be bought or sold. Could it be that they're not really concerned about dignity or privacy at all—just money? Whaddaya think????
Well, anyway, I want the whole Hollywood crowd—and especially certain female offspring of bad actors from the fifties—to know that, like it or not, it's just been announced that this here columnist is going to be a presenter—a PRESENTER—at the upcoming Oscars. That's right. Me, you, the Academy Awards, it's going to happen. And think about this: I'll be standing on stage with one hell of a chip of my shoulder, and one hell of a beautiful woman on my arm (if my sister agrees to go), AND I happen to have seen you naked, which is more than you can say about me, baby. Hope that leaves you shaking in your $10,000–dollar shoes.

Sister Mary Sebastian finished reading her nephew's column, then tucked the magazine back under Jean's icewater jar and glanced out the window at Ed Flint sweeping off the sun–bleached driveway below. Though she usually wore a white habit at the convent school, Sister Mary took it off nowadays when she visited Seaborough. One afternoon, a few years ago, she had walked into this bedroom in her black dress and habit and Jean had screamed and passed out—nearly dropped right over the edge of the home health–care bed. Ida had come running in, embarrassed. "She probably thought she was back in that hospital, Sister. They gave her electric shock at the Catholic hospital in Washington."

Jean lifted her sunglasses and squinted over at the icewater jar and the magazine soaking up condensation. She looked both younger and older than her identical twin. She was as fat and smooth–skinned as a baby, but her hair had already turned white: she had a pink spot on the back of her head where the pillow had worn the hair off. Sister Mary stayed wiry and tan; her hair hadn't changed color, but her face looked like a crumpled brown napkin.

"I haven't read anything Stannie's written lately," Jean said in a raspy voice. She licked her lips. "You want to read that one to me?"

"I don't think you'd care for it," said Sister Mary.

"I wouldn't?"

"No, honey, I don't think so. It's about Hollywood people. You don't take any interest in Hollywood, do you, Jeannie?"

"I used to. I adored Cary Grant, and Paul Newman, and his wife. But I can't remember her name. That picture All About Eve or what was it called? I just can't keep track of the movies, anymore. It hurts my head even to watch TV. Who's popular these days?"

"I don't know, either."

"Julie Andrews?"

"She's older than dirt."

"Lucille Ball?"

"She passed away at least ten years ago."

"We'll all be dead soon." Jean lifted her ice water jar and took a sip. "Did Ida bring you any ice water? Where is she? Talking to those girls?"

The nun smiled at her sister the way she smiled at the convent school children. "I told her she could go out for a while if she wanted. The poor thing looked exhausted."

"Getting old like the rest of us. Her people aren't well. I think her father's dying. Everybody's dying. Lord, it's depressing. Anyway, how are you?"

"How am I?" Sister Mary thought about the question. She was all right, she figured, in her way of being all right, which meant that work seemed satisfying and consumed most of her time and thought. The school was going well. Lots of children this year—eight hundred students from kindergarten to twelfth grade—about half of them year–round boarders, supported by Catholic charities. She could have talked about the children for hours, but Jean wouldn't be interested, or remember any of the details later. So why bother?

"I'm just fine," she said.

"You decided if you're coming up to Washington to see me this year?" asked Jean. "At Christmas?"

"No, not Christmas. But I am going up this weekend for a march," Sister Mary said without thinking, and then could have slapped herself.

Jean was quiet for a moment. "Marches. Well, don't tell anyone around here. You know how they feel about your cause. Especially Bill. He's such a Democrat."

"Yes, I know."

Another pause. "I'm a little more open–minded, so you can tell me these things, and I won't think any less of you."

Sister Mary nodded."I know that, honey. Thank you."

"I believe in what you do with those children. I just don't like your right–wing politics. I don't see why you need to protest against other people's rights—and making women, forcing them, with all the rape and the drugs—and when you know what your own family stands for, and Billy's brother in Congress."

Sister Mary sat up in her chair. "But if we hadn't been there, Jeannie, if the school hadn't been willing to take in some of those precious children, some of them might not be alive, today. They might have been grist for the abortion mill. Think of their little body parts—their arms and legs—"

"Oh, stop that!" Jean put her hands over her ears. "No you don't! I don't want to hear anything about that."

Sister Mary couldn't stop. "But you ought to see their little faces," she said. "And what would have happened to them if good Catholic people hadn't stepped in? You'd change your mind, Jean, if you just came out to the school and saw my dear little children."

"Don't you mess with my brain. I'll always support a woman's right to choose."

"But how can one person make a choice about another person's life? That choice is up to God."

Jean curled her fingers up in a plump, limp fist. "What about the ones who choose to bomb the clinics and kill nurses and doctors? Like that man in Pensacola a few years back?"

"One individual."

"Well, there was more than just him. There's been so many. That man in North Carolina, still out in the woods, and that one the Womb Bomber who did that awful thing in New York, and they don't even know who it is or where he is."

Sister Mary put her hand on the cross around her neck. "You know that kind of thing isn't me. I don't believe in hurting anybody. I try to save lives, If I counsel at the clinic and the girls want to abort, I just beg them to give me their babies, so I can take care of them. And then I take care of those children in the best way I know. And you ought to know what that means. You adopted one of my babies, yourself."

"Oh, and I've been a hell of a mother."

"I think you've been all right."

Jean rolled her eyes. "Damn liar."

The two women stopped talking abruptly. They heard footsteps on the stairs outside the door.

"Well, that's enough," said Jean quietly. "I don't want to discuss abortion with you anymore. It makes me hate you. Now where's my deck of cards? Let's play some gin."

Sister Mary sighed and stood up to fetch the cards from the chifforobe. Jean reached in her nightstand for the creme de menthe. "Speaking of Stannie, Ida tells me he has a serious girlfriend."

"So I hear."

"They don't tell me anything. I expect you and I will have to meet her one of these days. At least once before the wedding. Good Lord, I do hope they elope. I despise weddings."

Sister Mary shuffled the cards. "He needs a good girl, Jean."

Jean gave a laugh. "The perfect gift for the man who has everything. So is she a good girl? Her name's Iris or Daisy or something, Ida says."

"It's Rose. She sounds like a nice girl. Mary Beth and Linda Kate like her. They've been to see her and they like her."

Jean wiped her lips with the back of her hand and then licked her long red thumbnail. "Nobody tells me a damn thing." She laid her head back on her pillow and sorted her cards. "Is she Jewish? She sounds Jewish. Or black. Did you read the article he wrote—the one about his real mother?"

"Why don't you ask Stannie about his girlfriend, honey? He's downstairs watching baseball. Call the boy up and talk to him."

Jean took another drink. "You know, Billy never comes to see me anymore, either. Ida says he bought a new boat. I think he's found another woman."

"Ask Stannie up, Jean. And the girls, too. They need to see you. They've only got one mother."

"Stannie has two, remember?"

"Not really. Only one before God."

"Oh, shut up and let's see what you have, girl. You dealt me crap, here."

* * *

Outside the door, Ed Flint stood quietly at the top of the steps, clutching a broom in his silver fingers. He wanted to talk to Sister Mary Sebastian. He'd seen her in the window, staring down on him with her sad church face like he was just another poor soul in need. Love could tire a body out quicker than anything. Ed usually preferred respect, though even respect didn't count for a whole damn lot if people gave it to you for doing nothing. From Sister Mary, Ed wanted neither love nor respect, but something very practical—a job, if possible, doing maintenance at the convent school. Something that would bring him near children again, though it did worry him a little to think what children might say about his appearance: his no–hands and his masklike face and his nubby ear. He might frighten a few of the little ones. But wasn't that supposed to teach them good manners? Being around the handicapped?

Somebody was walking in the hallway on the first floor, somebody was about to put a hand on the smooth maple bannister and turn the corner to come up the steps. Ed didn't want to explain himself. He paused and then stepped quietly as a cat onto the landing and disappeared into a dark upstairs hallway.

Bill Colfax stopped at the bottom of the steps. He set his large, fishy–smelling hand on the railing, but then he looked up at his wife's bedroom door and turned back around to face the patio and the ocean beyond, thinking maybe a swim was a better idea after all. He was a large man: bow–legged but tall, almost a foot taller than his son. He always dressed in white to go fishing: white shorts, white t–shirt, and white loafers. In the mornings he'd leave looking pretty good—white clothes setting off his shiny black hair and blood–red skin. In the afternoon he'd limp back from the boat with his clothes damp and brown and his fingernails muddy, looking like an extra in Stromboli. Right now he needed a bath. Then maybe a game of golf.

"Hey you, old man," said a voice from the patio. Bill went to the screen and looked out.

"Want a beer?" asked Stannie, lying in a deck chair with a writing pad propped on his bare leg.

"Nah," Bill mumbled, "I need a shower. I'm tired."

"A cigar, anyway? Come on out."

"Where are the girls?"

"I sent them out for more beer. Come on. Sit down."

"I'm telling you," said his father, "I stink. I feel like I just took a bath in octopus spit. Your uncle's bringing a couple of pals over tomorrow. You'll have some playmates then."

"Any Kennedys coming?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then it's not worth my time."

"You think everything's about celebrity, don't you?" Bill snorted. "There are people in this country, Stanley, who make decisions that impact your life and mine every day, and you probably don't even know their names. If they've got nothing to do with Hollywood, then you don't think they count for anything."

"Hey, it was supposed to be a joke."

"Everything's a joke to you, isn't it?"

"Almost everything, yeah."

"I hate your stories in that magazine."

"They're editorials, Pops, not stories."

"Well they dishonor your family."

Stannie smiled. "What are you, some kind of mafia boss or something? I 'dishonor' my family?"

"This trite, meaningless stuff. I saw the one about naked women. It's insulting to your mother."

Stannie's eyes opened wide. "Well. I apologize for any pain I may have caused to you, your wife, and those closest to you. Does that cover it?"

"Ah, shut the hell up." Bill pulled the screen door shut and shuffled back down the first floor hall to his dressing room.

"Dear Rose," wrote Stannie on a note card engraved with a picture of his parent's house,

I am having a lovely time here with my loved ones. The Queen is upstairs swimming in bourbon, the King is showering off octopus spittle, my sisters are locked up in the tower awaiting rescue, and I'm sitting here in the sun in my little red bathing suit thinking of you in your little black one. I'd be a lot happier if you came down as soon as possible. I hate it here, but you'd like it because you could take pictures of "real" things—you know, fat old ladies from Alabama just down for the weekend. Not that you'd find any on OUR property, of course. This is pristine wilderness. Protected coastline. Hurry, hurry, Rose! Tomorrow we get visitors from Washington. Isn't that exciting? All the way from Washington! I wish you could be one of them. I know I'm a jerk, but I love you even when I'm not really thinking about it.
Love, your jerk, me
P.S. Really. Come. Now. Soon. Please.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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