Lore Letter 016

A star's exit is just as important as her entrance.

“How do you think she’s going to do it?”

It was a question everyone was asking. It felt gauche to place bets on a woman’s death, even the faking of one, but we kept a running tally in our heads, placing the bettor’s name in Column A and their guess in Column B so we would know who came out on top.

Different theories were thrown around. More than a few guests predicted she would burst out of a massive cake, flinging frosting and lit candles with the power of her unlikely aliveness, but their faces fell when they saw the dessert table. Despite her excesses, it was unlike Celia to be wasteful. Still, she knew we would have all eaten the cake, sweat and all.

A couple of us thought she might take a quieter tack, mingling in disguise among passed apps and bubbly drinks until someone had a suspicion. The idea introduced a sense of competition into the party, on top of the macabre guessing game already underway. Such a tactic would also serve as a test of fidelity. In a room full of actors with an already tenuous grasp on the difference between the truth and a lie, who could pick out the subtleties of her voice? Who could read the terrain of the fine lines on her forehead, never touched by Botox because really, who was she without her face? Who truly knew Celia Long the best?

Although I found this possibility the most intriguing — maybe even something I would do — I wasn’t convinced. In my 90 years of knowing her, sharing a womb with someone perhaps being the most deep knowing of all, I was certain of three things.

One, Celia Long had never left the house, not even a burning one, without a thick line of black kohl on her eyelids. I once suggested she get it tattooed, but she said it was more about ritual than result. She knew what kind of day she was going to have based on the heft and straightness of the line, like tea leaves.

Two, when people asked about the favorite part she’d played, she would give a different answer every time. My sister believed in equality in all its forms, from gay rights to movie roles. It was a disservice to her work, and the work, to always pick the same one.

And three, even more than being observed — a high bar to clear for a dramatic actress — Celia Long loved to observe. She would want to know exactly what these people thought about her.

Maybe I skated by the faking her own death of it all too quickly, and that’s fair. It’s a hefty accusation. But there’s precedent. Every ten years, she throws herself an extravagant birthday party to celebrate a new decade. Before the 70th, she suggested I co-opt the celebration, but I knew she didn’t mean it. This year, we became nonagenarians. The invitations had a funereal bent: “Rest in peace to Celia Long. Join us in dancing in her 90 years as she goes toward the light.”

Who sends invitations to their own funeral? The wording offered a clue, though: She always said she was dancing through life. At our age, drama can be hard to come by. Physical restraints prohibit many of her usual stunts. Faking your own death is a cheat code.

One might also be thinking: How did you not know about this? The truth is, my sister and I have had a rocky relationship that would probably take another 90 years to unpack. We haven’t spoken since our 80th. Still, our falling-out was unknown to most in the room, and I knew she’d want to keep it that way. So, I waited dutifully for my invitation, and when a gaudy black box with a skull and crossbones rhinestoned across the front was delivered by a visibly nervous mailman, I knew it was her.

We were two hours into the party, and there was still no sign of her. The guest list had an average age of about 77, mostly old members of her acting troupe and long-ago co-stars.

I was still puzzling over the invitation. It would be embarrassing if someone other than the sole family member in attendance figured her tricks out before me. Toward the light was odd. When Celia had joked about her own death, which was frequent, naturally, she always said she would want it to happen in a darkened velvet theater. Glamorous to the end.

The ornate chandelier above jostled like a sign from above. The door. Her house had been built in the diamond-dripped ‘80s, and hot off a thick royalty check from a stint on The Cosby Show, she installed some unique features, namely, a set of trap doors on the ceiling to drop confetti and other ephemera on cue. One was slightly cracked, and if I squinted, I saw the shadow of slow movement.

It was then I knew she did it for me. Not playing God or sitting on the sidelines, but something new and brave. It was exactly what she wanted.

She died peacefully the next day.