View Finder

by Greg Jolley

  “Jared? You okay with using a stunt double?” Pierce asked.

  Baby Ruth liked that. She nodded her black hair and gave us her throaty laugh.

  “Define high speed?” Jared asked.

  “Eighty miles an hour,” Pierce answered. “BB at the wheel.”

  “I’m good with that,” Jared approved.

  I leaned over slowly and followed his gaze into the rearview mirror.

  THE TEST flight, as Baby Ruth called it, went well. Up to sixty miles per hour. Beyond that, the wind on the camera and open door began to buffet and badly affect the Lincoln’s steering. I pulled to the side of Pacific Coast Highway a few miles north of Zuma Beach, and we all climbed out to look at the equipment. The four-bolt camera mount had held, but the camera was tilted.

  Pierce took tools and parts from the trunk and went to work, confident he could strengthen the rig. Jared climbed out and crossed the highway and stared out to the sea and surf. Baby Ruth was working with Pierce, making amusing comments. I climbed back in behind the wheel from the passenger side. We had the sun at our backs, and the warm air was saltine scented and whisked by an occasional passing vehicle.

  Pierce worked with pieces of metal and bolts and added strength to the rig and adjusted the camera’s position forward, so the door blocked more of the wind. Twenty minutes later, he and Baby Ruth placed the tools and parts in the trunk, and we were good to go.

  “Another test flight?” Baby Ruth asked.

  “Nope,” Pierce answered.

  “Then?”

  “Time to fly. Go get my odd brother.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Baby Ruth crossed to the beach and stood beside Jared who was looking at the waves and gesturing as he apparently spoke to the view. She took his hand. They whispered. Then her arm went around his waist, and she turned him back to the highway. She and Jared climbed in the back seat, and Pierce joined them, trailing the cable from the camera to the remote start box.

  I started the motor and, like before, drove six miles north, turned around and stopped. The composition, as Pierce explained again, was my hands on the wheel in short, nonfocus, and the windshield, part of the hood, and the ocean in sharp focus. I steered out onto the highway, and we began our fast flight to the south.

  At fifty miles per hour, Pierce called into the wind streaming from all four lowered windows.

  “On four!”

  At sixty-five, he hollered, “Roll it!”

  I snuck one quick glance into the mirror. I saw him click the camera start button. My shoe pressed further on the accelerator, and I concentrated on keeping the Lincoln on the road.

  At seventy-five, I edged the Lincoln out over to the center line, so I had more room to collect the occasional sway of the one-winged automobile.

  At eighty, Jared’s voice warbled into the swift wind, “Flying!”

  I agreed.

  The camera was forgotten.

  We were soaring.

  I continued to press the pedal, and the Lincoln’s steering settled down and became easy to control.

  There was a clatter and a crunching explosion in the wind at my hip. The camera had come off and hit the pavement.

  “BB! Stop, we lost it!” Pierce cried out.

  At ninety-five, we rounded the long, left bend as the highway leaned inland past Point Dume. We rejoined the ocean north of Malibu Beach, streaming south.

  Pierce continued to scream and was joined by Baby Ruth.

  At one hundred five, the Lincoln was no longer on the pavement. We were lifted off low over the road and beach, passing over houses and the buildings beside the ocean. It felt dangerous to raise my hand, briefly, from the steering wheel, but I did so, bravely, long enough to raise my 3D goggles from my eyes to my brow.

  At one hundred twenty, I leaned my shoulders as I decided to turn, and the Lincoln banked in a graceful arc like the other birds above the shore. I made more turns, rising up and downward in the expanding and detailed view.

  WE TOUCHED down a mile past the Malibu Pier when I lifted off the accelerator. I felt the road connect to the tires with the vibration of the steering wheel in my hands. I began braking the Lincoln to a stop in the beach-side turnout at Las Tunas. We slowed with a long roll to a stop. The Lincoln was pinging, the sunlight was bright, and the pure ocean was a royal blue with stretching lines of white foam.

  No one spoke, which was rare, but I heard Baby Ruth barf on the floorboard. I turned around on the seat. She was bent forward, her head on her knees. Pierce was wide-eyed, and his mouth hung open. Jared had his arm across Baby Ruth’s back. His hand was clenching Pierce’s shirt, and he was staring out along the passenger side, possibly to the highway running south or the mirror on the door. He was talking but making no sound.

  “BB?” Pierce said a minute later.

  “Dad. Yes?”

  “Can we go home now?”

  “Home? Okay.” I turned the Lincoln around, and we cruised north on Pacific Coast, stopping one time to let Pierce out to collect the main body of the camera and the parts that it had lost on impact.

  FLIGHT.

  Flight didn’t find its way into my useless nighttime dreams. In the important dreams, those during the day, flight became a constant. Sometimes with me at the stick, piloting. Other times I was a black seabird.

  With my goggles on, I flew when at work at the studio during my lunch breaks. I constantly flew when I was home. I flew the pool area, banking and buzzing the water and my three and their moviemaking.

  I could fly best in the sun porch sitting in my chair before the table and my Underwood. At times, I flew at high altitudes and marveled at the minute terrain details far below. Other times, I flew at treetop level skimming my bed and the cityscape of the furniture.

  If I chose, I could raise my left hand to my ear and hear a long-lost transistor radio. The station was playing Pierce and Jared and Baby Ruth—their happy and focused, sparkling conversations coming in clear—clear as day.

  A FEW days later, I was midflight in sunset light along the front of the house, weaving in and out of the pines that led to the front porch, seeing everything in touching detail. That day, I discovered a new ability. I could see sounds like the tire rush of an automobile passing the house on the two-lane road. It was a mixture of silver and gray and transparent like plastic wrap. I could see the breeze that was carrying from the orange orchard across the road. When the flavor of citrus entered my nose, my wings shuddered, and I pushed on the stick looking for the first place possible to land and land quickly.

  It was a rough touchdown—bouncing with one wing dipping to the side and striking the lawn, spinning me around so that I landed on my side, amidst the pieces and parts of airplane wreckage.

  I stayed perfectly still and performed a mental inventory of my body for serious damage. My skin was damp, which was the only effect I could feel. With my head on the grass, I had a sideways view of our front steps and door and Doc’s house across the way. I watched the sound of a vehicle pass by on the road and saw the wood on tile scrape our front door opening. Panning my eyes in that direction, I saw Doc step out through our door, spot me, and walk over. I lay still as he lowered down beside me.

  “Hey, BB.” His voice floated out into the daylight. “Was looking in on your wife.”

  My goggles were filled with the fine, linear details of Doc’s corduroy pants—straight lines that were aimed south to the turn of his knee.

  “A couple of things,” he went on.

  “The medications are no longer effective. I’ll need your signatures. I’ve arranged for her hospitalization. She’ll be in a good place with proper care. The best care. She’s going to be transported tomorrow. Everything’s arranged, and I’ve set up things so you’ll be billed.”

  It seemed the wind, the breeze, changed directions and also changed color. I could no longer see the scent of citrus. Doc and I were silent for the next two minutes, the quiet disturbed only once by the distant call of Pierce’s voice fo
llowed by splashing water.

  “Here’s the other thing,” Doc said. “Please sit up.”

  After panning, testing my head, I rolled onto my rear and sat up on the lawn.

  He was offering me an envelope. I took it in my hand and nodded as I read along the lines of the return address and the row of the letters of my name.

  “Lovely handwriting, and it’s scented,” Doc said. “Was hand-delivered by a guy in a suit and a long car.”

  I WENT around to the gate to the side yard and walked along the pool to the sun porch, passing Pierce, Jared, and Baby Ruth who were lying on their beach towels in the cool shade from the angled umbrella. They lay side by side in a row with Baby Ruth in the middle holding both their hands.

  I sat at my Underwood table before I took a breath from the envelope. I inhaled with the envelope touching my lips. My body tilted but stayed upright on my chair. I saw the scents of eucalyptus and pine—the flavors of the trees in the Santa Cruz mountains.

  I breathed out and opened the envelope and pulled out an invitation printed on heavy, cream stationary.

  Dear BB,

  I hope this finds you well.

  You are cordially invited to a film premiere that I am hosting at my house.

  I believe the film will be interesting for you. An inspiring story of rescue if not redemption.

  Sincerely,

  Ezra Mayer

  The date and time followed as well as directions from our house to Ezra’s.

  Scene 15

  The afternoon of the premiere, I told my three that I would be back home later that night. Baby Ruth was looking me over. I had bought new clothes—gray serge pants, a dark gray shirt, and a black vest—and she chirped, “BB’s got a date?”

  With Mother’s recent departure, the three of them had reclaimed the downstairs interior of the house where they sometimes filmed. That afternoon, they were sitting on the tiles of the emptied front room talking about Jared the AWOL Surf Bum. I left them to their work and went and climbed carefully into the Lincoln. The directions led me west out of La Habra and eventually to the coast, and, finally, to a twisting, steep driveway.

  I parked in the shade of a grove of eucalyptus and thought I might be early or misread the time on the invitation. There was enough parking space for twenty automobiles and mine was the only one. I walked up the hill to the large home with its rows of windows facing the ocean. There was a smooth ramp beside the stairs to the front door. A thin and short owl-faced man watched me climb, and I admired the contrast between his stern expression and his colorful, festive clothing.

  “Got your invitation, sir?” he asked in a nasally voice.

  I handed him the envelope, and while he looked the white card over, I asked, “Am I too early?”

  “No, sir. You’re right on time. Let me get the door.”

  Inside the home, the western wall was a row of windows bordered by pine trees. The beautiful, blue Pacific lay below the endless, blue sky. The large room had many low cream couches and white tables. The doorman followed me into the room. He extended his hand to an elegant buffet on white linen tables.

  “Please, help yourself,” he said and disappeared.

  I was thirsty but not hungry. I walked to the open bar and looked at the rows of liquor bottles—and the side tray of little tin bottles and a stack of white satin handkerchiefs—and selected a cola from the ice. I stood sipping with the scents of pine and eucalyptus sparkling in my brain.

  “BB, I’m so pleased.” I heard and turned around.

  Ezra Mayer had not aged well. He looked sickly yet happy in his Hawaiian shirt, tan shorts, and sandals. He had thinned significantly, and his skin was an unhealthy, pasty white.

  “Welcome to our beach place,” he said, crossing the white tiles to me, his trembling hand out.

  I asked Ezra the same question I had asked the doorman.

  “No, you are on time.”

  “Will there be other guests attending?”

  “No, you’re our only guest tonight. Come, something to dine on?” He gestured to the silver platters of meats, fruits, and vegetables.

  I raised my cola can. “No, thank you.”

  “It’s been quite a long time.” He smiled, and I noted the spittle on the left side of his lips. There was a white handkerchief in the front pocket of his floral shirt, and I wondered if it was damp.

  “Come,” he said, and I followed his slow walk in the other direction. He led the way up a wide hall that resembled a theatre hallway with thin tables and love seats. I saw the ghosts on the walls, the dust shadows of once-hanging pictures or paintings. Candles in glass lighted the hall. Ezra walked ahead of me, talking softly. It wasn’t clear if he was talking to himself or me. I heard him mumble Mumm’s stage name “Elizabeth Stark” one time as we walked deeper. He waved to a room with two sixteen-foot mahogany doors. We entered, and he parted the heavy gold curtains that hung between the doorway and the theatre.

  The room angled downward and was lit from lamps high up between gold buntings on both walls. The decline to the stage held thirty comfortable chairs each with a side table. Ezra led the way down the center aisle. He pointed his thin, trembling finger to the bottom row.

  “Our screening is for you.” His voice was shaky.

  I squinted into the darkness. There appeared to be a rise of equipment, spare projectors and such, against the wall. I stepped past him, and he added, “End of the row, please.”

  Ezra followed me to the base of the stage and along the chairs and tables to what I then saw was tall and varied medical devices, some on tripods. “There,” he instructed when I stood before the chair next to the equipment. The theatre lights dimmed to complete darkness. I sat down and watched him leave, thinking he would take the seat beside mine.

  The devices were making two distinct, soft sounds—one was sucking, breathlike, and the other was giving off a whirring of small gears and a blinking, blue light. I gave up on trying to decide what the machines were doing. I assumed they provided care for Ezra.

  In the darkness, I saw that the seat beside mine was occupied. That blue lightbulb blinked again, and I made out a petite woman dressed all in black including a black hat with a matching veil. She was sitting low and still. The lights in the theatre warmed for a few seconds before dimming away signaling show time. I turned and watched the tall, gold curtains draw across the stage slowly. There was the movie screen.

  Nothing happened for the next three minutes. No projector flickers, no sound, no soundtrack, only the clicks and breaths of the medical machines. Then a voice, faint, but also crisp, with a British lilt said to me from my right, “It’s 3D, love. Did you bring your goggles?”

  There was a scent to her words. A blend. Pine and eucalyptus.

  “I’m wearing them, yes.”

  The screen went white with projector light, and in that light, I watched the woman raise her black-speckled veil. With trembling fingers, she raised a pair of goggles from her side table. I watched her hands hesitate and shake. I looked at her face.

  I know I took a deep breath—seeing and recognizing Mumm’s face, and seeing the horrible, melted damage that had been done to it. Her nose, cheek, and ear were destroyed from what must have been chemicals or fire or both.

  I breathed deeply again, my chest and my belly clenching.

  All I could say was her name.

  She raised the goggles to her face, her wavering fingertips attempting to put them on. I watched her struggle and reached over, saying, “Let me help.”

  “Yes, please.”

  As tenderly as I knew how, I placed the goggles on above the scarred tissue of her nose before gently looping the ear grips into her hair.

  “It has been awhile, love,” she said softly, her head tilting to me.

  Her hand reached for mine over the side table, her skin a creamy pale. I took it lightly in mine.

  “I hope you enjoy,” she said in a playful voice, followed by a cough. “Last film I was in,” she added aft
er clearing her throat.

  I found my voice. “Which one is it?”

  She gave my hand a soft grip by way of explanation, and thirty seconds later, the color on the movie screen changed to black. A cloud of white angel dust fell. The dust condensed, and over the next twenty seconds, it formed white letters on the black background: Savior.

  In 3D, the title extended out into the theatre, against my chest, embracing my head. The title dissolved to minute snowflakes that drifted to the stage floor and into my hands, forming small mounds. I sat inside the white dust of words as a new cloud of white dispersed and formed the credits.

  “Elizabeth Stark” appeared beside her character’s name, “Mumm.”

  The meadow appeared with the ocean beyond. The image dissolved, and there was Mumm, two stories tall, filling the oxygen particles of the theatre. She was sitting in the sweeping, gold grass. I extended my free hand and brushed the straw away from my face.

  I listened to the soundtrack, the winds from the trees and the sea. I watched the different currents of song change hue and blend. Mumm’s eyes were dreamy and sad and thoughtful. The back of my white shirt appeared as I entered the meadow. I watched myself walk to her, my left hand low and clenched. There we were, Mumm and I, side by side from many years ago. The length of rope was there in my hand, but not yet visible in the shot.

  In the theatre, with our hands joined, we kept our goggles to the movie. Mumm and me, immersed in the short story of saving.

  WHEN THE film ended, the lights remained off. Two women with pinpoint lights appeared from behind the medical equipment. One of them disconnected the devices, and Mumm was wheeled away, her chair on silent casters. She appeared to be sleeping. Her veil was still raised, but her chin was down to her chest. I watched her as she was rolled through curtains on the side wall. When the curtains closed, I waited a minute, listening to nothing, and left the theatre.