There was more of this, all written to suggest that both author and reader were aware of hidden information: All human endeavor was for personal gain. Everything, including this very magazine, was a grifter’s game. Hollywood drank champagne because no one there had real pain.

Seeing the bluffs spelled out in this column was like having the keys to the bank tossed through the mail slot. Leland now wanted to be his own publicist. There were so many good things to lie about. For rugged actors who were just beginning, such as himself, a background of either poverty or crime was essential. Claiming poverty was an insult to his mother, but an air of danger and fisticuffs struck him as entirely possible. A visit to local girls was in order; he would tell them he was a wanted man. Although it would take some finesse to explain who, of the eight hundred people who lived in Crescent City, might be his mortal enemy.

“Mom,” he said, for he had a fascinating new fact to impart, but it would have to wait: she burst into tears.

She put her face in her hands, and she sobbed, shoulders hunched forward as if she were protecting herself from rain.

“Mom, what’s wrong? What happened?”

She sniffled. She used the edge of a napkin to wipe at her eyes. “Leland, you shouldn’t be an actor.”

She had never sounded enthusiastic; it was why he had hidden his trip to Eureka. But he had become good at this argument when he imagined it. “You’re right. I definitely can’t. Not living here.” This was the beginning of his proposal to move south for six months. Rhetorically, it was iron-clad, almost Miltonic, but it was still no match for what Emily did next, which was to continue with full, racking sobs.

She didn’t even put her hands over her face, but just let herself weep openly. Tears had never been part of her arsenal, as if she had been saving them for twenty-five years. Even she seemed surprised: she started laughing, pointing at herself, and then crying again.

He patted her on the shoulder, awkwardly. She blew her nose. He wanted to tell her that everything would be okay, but he wasn’t sure what she was crying about, and he was willing to step through many waterfalls of a mother’s tears in order to make his dreams come true.

Emily caught her breath. She had calmed down, and now she tried to catch her reflection in a mirror on the wall. “Oh, look at me,” she whispered. “I hate crying.”

“You cried when we saw Widow’s Lament. Which reminds me—”