The Movie

by Patti Beckman

  Then she was in her car, speeding to the home she had once shared with Kirk. It was one of those huge old Spanish-style homes built in the 1920s in the heyday of the great silent movie stars who drank bootleg gin from sterling silver pocket flasks and drove around in enormous twelve-cylinder Packards. The great stucco-and-tile structures were built in the canyons and hills that had once been the territory of deer and coyotes. Originally built by a 1920s queen of the silent screen, the home had been owned by a series of famous stars through the thirties and forties to the present. It had enormous fireplaces, great, rough-hewn beams and stained-glass windows. There was an imposing winding stairway. Natalie imagined that the silent movie vamp had specially designed it so she could sweep down it for a dramatic entrance to welcome her glamorous guests.

  The place had fallen into disrepair by the time Kirk and Natalie took it on. The swimming pool was cracked; all the plumbing was clogged with rust and had to be ripped out and replaced. The disintegrating tennis court was growing a crop of weeds and grass. They had spent a small fortune restoring the place. Kirk had delighted in turning one of the great rooms (Natalie called them chambers) into a private theater viewing room fitted with the latest projection equipment.

  Concerned with security as were most stars these days, Natalie had the place surrounded with a chain link fence with an electronically controlled gate blocking the winding driveway.

  Natalie had never been very enthusiastic about the house. She had secretly thought of it as something of a Gothic monstrosity. But she had kept her feelings to herself because Kirk liked it. After Kirk went off to Europe, she grew to hate this place. It had become a cold, empty castle. Now she wanted to dispose of it. She thought as soon as they agreed on a divorce and property settlement she would either move into a place like Bill and Sally Dentmen owned on the beach or she would find a secluded little ranch in one of the beach canyons like Topanga where she could raise dogs and horses.

  When she was on the East Coast, she either stayed at her mother’s palatial home in Tuxedo Park on the Hudson or in the apartment she kept in Manhattan. But when she was in Hollywood, for reasons she couldn’t entirely define, she continued to make this big old house her home. Perhaps it was because the memories of the brief happiness she had shared with Kirk lingered within these walls. When she curled up under the covers of the king-size bed, she felt close to the nights Kirk had lain beside her, drawing her into his arms. It was as if their lovemaking had imbued the satin sheets with a warmth that lingered on long after the whispered words of love and passion had been stilled.

  Unwanted memories stole through her being, awakening hungers and needs that she tried to forget. Her body would ache with longing for the intimate caress of Kirk’s touch; the heat that came in mounting waves coursing through her as his kisses set her aflame; the throbbing desire that he alone could arouse; the fulfillment and satisfaction that their lovemaking could bring. The bittersweet memories tore at her throat with unbearable pain and drenched her pillow with tears.

  She both hated and loved the house for those memories of her and Kirk together—memories that haunted the place long after Kirk was gone and their love story had ended.

  She parked her sports car in the spacious garage. On the way to the house, she waved to her gardener, Kim Yusota, who was trimming a hedge. Kim and her live-in housekeeper, Maria Alequestra, were all the staff Natalie kept here now.

  There had been a larger staff when she and Kirk were living together. Kirk was gregarious. The big old house had been alive with parties and throngs of friends. Kirk was one of those multitalented individuals. Moviemaking was his all-consuming passion, but he was also a skillful amateur magician and a jazz musician. Sometimes he and his musician buddies would hold all-night jam sessions in the music room. It had been exciting, living with Kirk, Natalie thought, and then, catching herself slipping into painful reminiscing, she resolutely put those thoughts out of her mind.

  In the house, she explained to the housekeeper that she would not be having her evening meal at home because she was driving out later to spend the night with friends at Malibu.

  She changed into a swimsuit and went down to the pool for a dip. She swam hard for several laps around the Olympic-size pool, finding some relief from her emotional tension by exhausting herself physically. Then she stretched out on a towel, drenching her body in the golden sunshine.

  Half-dozing, her mind wandered, drifting through a montage of memories. Like a spectator watching a movie flickering across the silver screen, she felt detached, seeing glimpses of the events that had shaped events and brought her to this point in her life. Was there really any such thing as free will, she wondered. Had she had any control over the times, good and bad, that had made her what she was now? Looking back, she thought it was as if a giant, unseen hand of fate had moved her about like a pawn in a great game whose meaning was beyond her grasp.

  She could have been born into a family of refugees in the strife-torn Middle East, or the child of a blue-collar worker in the South, or the daughter of migrant farm parents. But fate had started her life in the home of a socially prominent mother and father who divided their time between their estate on the Hudson and their summer place in Southampton, New York. Her mother was a respected actress in New York theater circles. Her father was a senator. She had dim, childhood memories of a tall, dashing man who tossed her in the air, called her his princess and spoiled her with toys. But she had hardly begun to know him before a car wreck took him away forever. Her mother told her he was in heaven watching over her, but that hadn’t satisfied a young girl’s hunger for a real daddy. She often dreamed of having a father like her friends had, and she’d wake up with tears on her pillow.

  Her mother, an ageless beauty, had a lengthy string of suitors. She had loved Natalie’s father, but she was too much of a social butterfly to spend the rest of her life grieving. She filled her days with her community and social activities. Natalie spent the winters in private, fashionable boarding schools, coming home for vacations. Her mother’s stately home was the setting for endless social events, charity fund-raising campaigns and parties.

  The sunlight on Natalie’s body turned cold and her thoughts grew dark as she remembered the year she was twelve. Home from boarding school for the summer, she was introduced to her mother’s suitor, a big, swarthy man who owned a fleet of merchant ships.

  The man, Olan Koener, was to become her stepfather. She had disliked him from the first day she set eyes on him. He was a hard, cold man who had no concept of how to relate to children. With her mother, he was tender and courteous. But to Natalie, he was a dictator. Although he had never actually abused her, she was afraid of him. There was a look of cold steel in his eyes that terrified her. The atmosphere in the house was strained when she was home. He always looked relieved when she left for boarding school.

  Her unhappy relationship with her stepfather began a pattern of making her a withdrawn and lonely little girl. The situation was made worse by her childhood allergy attacks that bordered on asthma. Her stepfather, a robust man of Norwegian seaman stock, had little patience with illness. He accused her of malingering.

  That was the beginning of the nightmares, the drawing inside herself, the phobias. Her mother had been distraught, not knowing how to deal with an emotionally ill child. Natalie could not talk with her mother about her problems. They had never been close, and there are things a child cannot put into words. Eventually, there had been the year in the private hospital, the kind doctor who talked with her every day, until she was able to express the inner thoughts and fears that had made her sick. And then there had been a long, slow convalescence.

  The doctor thought a change would be helpful. Natalie was sent out to California for a visit in the home of her mother’s brother, Bill Wells, who lived in Hollywood. He was a highly skilled specialist in the field of creating special effects for movies. Natalie was terrified of men, but she gradually relaxed around her big, jolly uncle. And his daugh
ter, Ginny, Natalie’s cousin, became as close to Natalie as a sister. After that, Natalie looked forward to her yearly California visits.

  During those adolescent years, while the acute stage of her emotional illness had improved, she had remained painfully shy, at a loss for words and unsure of herself, unable to cope with social interaction. In her school she was known as a loner. Some thought she was too stuck-up to make friends. That was totally wrong. She was desperately lonely. Then, she had stumbled on a magic cape she could wear that shielded her so she could shed her inhibitions and face the world. She tried out for a school play and got the lead role. On stage, she took on the personality of the part she was playing. Secure in that masquerade, she could give vent to all her emotions. It was all right to laugh out loud, to cry, to shout, to act funny or sad, because it wasn’t Natalie Brooks doing those things; it was the story character she was playing.

  The drama coach in her private school was enthralled. Here was natural acting talent such as she had not seen in a long time. Knowing nothing about the trauma that had left Natalie emotionally scarred, she attributed Natalie’s ability to inheriting the talent from her actress mother, who was naturally flattered and delighted.

  Natalie was developing into a raving beauty. Her aristocratic family background and expensive private schools had given her a cool, reserved poise. With those looks and an outstanding acting talent, how could she fail? From then on, Natalie had the best coaching in drama money could buy. Her mother tried to direct her to the legitimate stage, but Natalie’s exposure to the magic of Hollywood through her uncle Bill and her cousin Ginny had set her course for her. She would go to USC, learn all she could about moviemaking. It was there that Bill and Sally Dentmen and Linda Towers came into her life. They had all been students then, with a common goal—a career in the movie industry. Bill and Sally wanted to write movie scripts. Linda’s field was editing. Ginny planned to follow in her father’s footsteps and work in special effects. For the first time, Natalie was part of a close-knit group of friends. They took the place of a family she’d never had. Her real father was only a fragmentary childhood memory. Her mother was a beautiful, shimmering butterfly who flitted in and out of her life, always just out of reach. But Bill and Sally and Linda and Ginny were real people who hugged her and talked with her and loved her. Together, they shared the excitement of being young and intense about their careers.

  Then Kirk Trammer had come into her life. But at that point, she abruptly disregarded her turn of thoughts. It was time to dress and leave for Malibu.

  Located in the northwestern part of Los Angeles County, Malibu—with its beaches washed by the Pacific Ocean—is populated by affluent names from the entertainment world, rock stars, actors, studio executives, TV stars and writers. It has a laid-back, relaxed, resort-like atmosphere.

  Natalie arrived at the Dentmens’ beach house just as the sun was going down in one of those dramatic Pacific sunsets that splashed riots of vivid hues across the heavens. The air was clear, most of the smog and mist having been swept away by the Santa Ana winds. The Dentmen cottage faced a stretch of white, sandy beach. A high wall festooned with red bougainvillea blossoms shielded the residence from the Pacific Coast Highway.

  Natalie parked in the driveway. She heard voices around front on the deck that faced the beach. The aroma of charcoal-broiling steaks assailed her nostrils.

  She walked around to the deck. She paused for a moment, taking in the scene, feeling a warm glow at the sight of her friends. Bill Dentmen, a tall, string-bean type with sparse sandy hair and heavy-rimmed glasses that gave him a studious look, was standing over the barbecue grill. He was probing steaks that had been marinated in bourbon and honey, according to his own secret recipe. His wife, Sally, blond, and cheerfully plump, was shouldering the screen door open as she emerged carrying a salad bowl in both hands. Linda Towers, dark, slender, intensely beautiful, was in one of the deck chairs, engrossed in what appeared to be a story synopsis. Natalie’s cousin, Ginny Wells, carrot-topped, freckled, forever a teenager, was still in her bathing suit, sprawled comfortably in a redwood deck lounging chair, smearing ointment on her sunburn.

  Ten years had passed since they had been together in their first year of college. All of them now had full-time careers in the hectic profession of moviemaking. Bill and Sally, who had married while still in college, had by now written a number of successful screenplays. Linda Towers was one of the top film editors in the business. Ginny had become her father’s partner in his special effects work. Of the group, however, Natalie’s star had risen the highest. She smiled, thinking of the multitude of friends she could have if she wished. There were an endless string of individuals eager to become camp followers. But Natalie had remained reclusive. She had never fitted into the Hollywood social scene. When she wasn’t involved in a motion picture project, she preferred to spend her time on the East Coast. When she was out here, she was comfortable only with these four, her closest buddies, whom she considered family.

  “Hi gang,” she called gaily, mounting the steps to the deck.

  There was a chorus of responding greetings. Ginny hopped up, giving her a hug, followed by Linda and Sally. Bill, wearing his barbecue apron, holding his long-pronged fork, waited his turn to give her a kiss.

  “That’s a darling outfit,” Linda Towers exclaimed, viewing Natalie’s halter-sarong ensemble.

  “Yeah, I had an acute attack of shopping fever this afternoon,” Natalie confessed.

  “By the way, congratulations,” Bill said. “The critics say Never Tomorrow is going to be one of the year’s biggies.”

  Natalie made a face. “It’s not going to be an Academy nomination if that’s what you mean. I suppose it will make the studio a few million, though.”

  “That’s the name of the game, isn’t it?”

  “You guys should have written the script. Some of those lines were so corny!”

  They settled into the deck chairs, gossiping about the film that was being premiered this week; laughing over the anecdotes Natalie related about Never Tomorrow, the usual funny, insane, unpredictable incidents that invariably occurred in the shooting of a motion picture. “You won’t believe this, but you know what a sissy Tim Lowery, the associate producer, is. Well, we were using this tame old lion for that one scene. The poor old moth-eaten thing probably doesn’t have any teeth left. He just wanted to be left alone so he could sleep. Anyway, somebody forgot to fasten his cage door. Tim came on the set eating a bologna sandwich. The lion smelled it, nudged his cage door open and came sauntering up behind Tim. The lion let out a roar—probably from hunger pangs. Tim spun around, turned white as a sheet, let out one awful scream and fainted dead away. So help me, he was stretched out cold and the lion was standing there, licking his face. The animal trainer was laughing so hard he didn’t have the strength to pull the lion off. One of the gaffers came over and hit the lion on the snoot with a rolled-up newspaper and he went slinking back to his cage.”

  The story convulsed Bill, who almost dropped his fork. After the laughter subsided, Sally served glasses of wine. Then Bill said, “Steaks are ready.”

  They ate the delicious barbecued steaks and salad on paper plates and drank wine and talked, but Natalie began to sense that something was out of sync. There were momentary strained gaps in the conversation followed immediately by talk and laughter that seemed to her just a little bit forced. Natalie couldn’t understand what was happening. In all of her other dealings with people in her profession, the actors, directors, studio executives, there was the sense of everyone playing a calculated role, saying one thing while constantly measuring responses, testing responses, judging strengths and weaknesses, never letting one’s guard down. But these were her dearest friends. This was one group of people with whom she could be herself, totally relaxed. But not tonight. Something was in the air. Her conversation earlier today with her agent, Ira Bevans, flashed through her mind. He’d been uptight about something. What had he said? “I worry that K
irk Trammer and that crazy bunch of USC friends of yours are going to get you involved in something you’ll regret....” What had he meant by that? Had he known something she didn’t?

  She noticed the material that Linda Towers had been reading, tucked between her side and the arm of the chair. “Is that a new screenplay Bill and Sally are going to do?” Natalie asked in one of the curious lulls in the conversation.

  Linda flushed. “Not exactly.” She fished it out. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “It’s the story synopsis of the new movie Kirk wants to film, Natalie.”

  The conversation on the beach-house deck faded to silence. Natalie was conscious of the surf matching the suddenly heavy pounding of her heart. She glanced around and realized that she had become the center of attention. There appeared to be a great deal of interest in her reaction. She thought all of her friends were carefully measuring her response. Why? Now she was certain she had been invited here tonight for a definite reason. Some kind of intrigue was afoot.

  “You’ve seen Kirk, then?” she asked, her mouth strangely dry.

  “Yes,” Linda replied, nodding.

  “It’s a terrific story, Natalie,” Bill Dentmen said. “Kirk wants Sally and me to write the screenplay.”

  Suddenly, the self-conscious tension that had been such a strain all evening broke in a rush of enthusiasm from all sides.

  “I’m going to be in charge of special effects and Linda is going to be the film editor,” Ginger Wells exclaimed.

  Sally joined in. “Natalie, remember when we were all in school together, we said one day we were going to form our own production company and do a big blockbuster movie together? Well, it looks as if this is going to be it!”