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Hollywood studios during the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s, she had appeared in dozens of feature films and shorts. Her stock in trade was playing a wiseacre nurse to Ray Miland, or the tough-as-nails housekeeper for Doris Day, or a spinster librarian dispensing one line of life-altering advice to a depressed Bette Davis. Although she never came close to playing a leading role, zealous film buffs today could tick off Trixie’s list of credits in an instant.
    Now that Trixie Wilder was suddenly a name worth talking about, the world tuned in to what the producers at “Larry King Live” had hastily pasted together as a special edition of the program.
    With Jayne Meadows and Nanette Fabray as guests, they sat opposite their host’s suspenders and chattered about the almost maniacal dedication to the craft of acting that Trixie had always displayed. According to the two magpies, whose recall of facts was dubious at best, Trixie’s work ethic was so sacred to her that she never married or had children who might have interfered with her vocation. Instead, they claimed, she devoted her time and energy to the masochistic endeavor of auditioning, and accepting whatever minor film or stage roles she could find. She was often nothing more than atmosphere on the platform of a train station. Her image personified the idea of the true artist, alone in her room, with only a cat for company. (Although Trixie actually lived comfortably in a high-rise condo in Century City.)
    With little relevant information to offer in the way of personal anecdotes about Trixie, Jayne and Nanette instead tried to recall what the really big stars of their day had said about the character actress. That she was “special.” That her comedy was “unique.” That she “had an unusual face that transfixed audiences.” It was obvious to Larry King (and his audience) that neither guest really knew their subject very well—if at all—but they wouldn’t miss the opportunity to be seen on national television and remind viewers that they themselves were still breathing—if through badly reconstructed noses.
    “Is it true that Trixie was alone in the world? That her only living relative is a grand niece who’s shackled to a cinder-block cell wall somewhere in a Costa Rica prison for smuggling drugs?” Larry asked Jayne and Nanette. Both women shrugged their shoulders. Then, raising her voice to be heard over Nanette, who was saying, “When I was starring in The Bandwagon with Fred Astaire…” Jayne plowed ahead and said, “When Steve and I were playing Vegas, this ghastly thing happened when…”
    “Let’s take a call,” Larry interrupted, his voice pleading to be rescued by anyone in Chillicothe.
    Polly switched the channel to “Access Hollywood,” and marveled that anyone could be as unctuous as Billy Bush. “There must be millions of vacuous viewers who consider him inordinately sexy,” she said, mainly for Tim’s benefit. “I mean I can understand the reaction. But I for one certainly do not get the message of his being.”
    “We’re on the same page,” Tim said, evading his mother’s bait for an argument about who was hot and who was not. It was an ongoing game between the two. Most of the time they agreed. Yes, for Hugh Jackman. Yes, for Colin Firth. Yes, for Mark Harmon. No, for Vin Diesel. Yes for Jon Stewart.
    Placenta said, “Billy reminds me of the first ex–Mr. Polly Pepper. From whom Timmy gets his best genes.”
    “Sure, slurp down my expensive champagne and cleave this loveless, thrice-divorced legend down to the marrow in her bones by mentioning that louse,” Polly whined. After a moment and several more sips from her own glass of bubbly she conceded, “You’re right, of course, and that’s precisely why I loathe BB. Every man I’ve ever loved—except Timmy here—has been as artificial as that plastic fichus you never dust in the breakfast nook,” she said. “But Mr. Number One was a hottie, all right. He was