by Ken Grimwood
The movie expertly conveyed, with sophistication and a rare cinematic depth of insight, the unbearable irony of ultimate hopes lost even as they are realized. Jeff found himself moved to tears of poignant rapture along with the rest of the audience, his years of self-imposed exile and detachment shattered in the space of two hours.
And it was new, all of it. Jeff couldn’t possibly have remained unaware of an artistic achievement this magnificent, this successful in every sense, had it appeared within either of his previous replays.
He read the list of credits with almost as much astonishment as the film itself had generated: Directed by Steven Spielberg … Written and Produced by Pamela Phillips … Creative Consultant and Special Effects Supervisor, George Lucas.
How could all this be? Spielberg’s first big movie, Jaws, hadn’t even begun shooting yet, and it would be two years before Lucas turned the industry on its ear with Star Wars. But most puzzling, most intriguing, of all—Who the hell was Pamela Phillips?
"I don’t care what it takes, Alan, except time. I want that appointment set up, and I want it next week."
"Mr. Winston, it’s just not that easy. Those people down there have their own little hierarchy, and right now this woman’s pretty much at the top of it. Half the writers and producers in Hollywood are trying to get in to—"
"I’m not looking to sell her anything, Alan. I’m a businessman, not a moviemaker."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Jeff knew what the broker must be thinking. It had been nine years since he’d spoken directly to his client. What kind of businessman did that make him? Jeff Winston was a hermit, a recluse who’d shown up at the brokerage house in San Francisco only once, in 1965, to deposit a lump sum of cash with them. He lived in the woods and occasionally sent a cryptic message directing that they buy large amounts of some obscure or ill-advised stock in his name. And yet, and yet …
"What’s the current value of my holdings, Alan?"
"Sir, I don’t have that information right here at my fingertips. Yours is a very complex and highly diversified account; it would take me several days to—"
"Ballpark figure."
"Well, keeping in mind the possible fluctuations of—"
"I said I want a rough estimate, off the top of your head. Now." The man gave a sigh of resignation. "Approximately sixty-five million, plus or minus five million or so. You understand, I don’t keep—"
"Yes, I understand. I just want to make sure you understand what we’re talking about here. We are talking about someone with a great deal of money to invest and someone else who’s in a business that absolutely depends on fresh input of capital. Does that make sense to you?"
"Certainly, sir. But remember that Miss Phillips’s company is awash in new capital right now from the proceeds of her film. That may not be her highest priority at the moment."
"I’m sure she’ll recognize the long-term value of my interest. If not, take a different approach; don’t you have somebody there with contacts in the film industry?"
"Well … I believe Harvey Greenspan, in our Los Angeles office, has a number of clients who are connected with the studios."
"Then have him call in some favors, use whatever connections he’s got."
There was a polite rap on the door of Jeff s hotel suite. "Bellman, sir. The man from Brooks Brothers is here for the fitting."
"I have to go, Alan," Jeff said into the phone. "You can reach me at the Fairmont when you’ve got this arranged."
"I’ll do what I can, Mr. Winston."
"Do it soon. I’d hate to have to take my account elsewhere, after all these years."
The offices of Starsea Productions, Inc. were located in a two-story white stucco building south of Pico, in a nondescript commercial area between MGM and Twentieth Century-Fox. The reception area was done in blue and white, with a billboard-sized poster for the movie behind the reception desk. An eclectic mix of abstract art and undersea photographs decorated the other walls, and on the large, Spanish-tile coffee table were displayed half a dozen books reflecting the themes of the film: Intelligent Life in the Universe, The Mind of the Dolphin, Programming and Metaprogramming in the Human Biocomputer … Jeff flipped through a collection of color plates of Jupiter from the first Pioneer mission and waited.
"Mr. Winston?" The cheery little brunette receptionist smiled professionally at him. "Miss Phillips will see you now."
He followed her down a long corridor, past half a dozen open office doors. Everyone he saw was on the telephone.
Pamela Phillips’s spacious office had the same blue-and-white color scheme as the reception area, but there were no movie memorabilia on the walls, no Pollock prints or photographs of dolphins. Here there was one visual motif, repeated in a dozen variations: mandalas, wheels, circles.
"Good morning, Mr. Winston. Would you care for some coffee or juice?"
"I’m fine, thanks."
"That’ll be all, then, Natalie. Thank you."
Jeff studied the woman he had waited a month to see. She was tall, probably five ten; wide mouth, round face, very little makeup; straight, fine blond hair in a modified Dutch-boy cut. Jeff was glad he’d outfitted himself at Brooks Brothers; Pamela Phillips was dressed for business, in a well-tailored gray suit and high-necked maroon blouse with matching low-heeled shoes. No jewelry, except for a small gold lapel pin in a design of concentric circles.
"Have a seat, Mr. Winston. I understand you wished to discuss Starsea Productions as an investment opportunity?"
Right to the point, no dillydallying or amiable warm-up chatter. Like a mid-eighties corporate woman, in 1974.
"Yes, that’s right. I find myself with some excess capital to—"
"Let me make it clear from the outset, Mr.—"
"Jeff, please."
She ignored his attempt at first-name familiarity, went right on with what she’d been saying. "My firm is privately financed and wholly self-supporting. I granted you this appointment out of courtesy to a friend, but if you want to invest in the motion-picture industry I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. If you’d like, my attorney could draw up a list of some other production houses that might—"
"It’s Starsea that interests me, not the business in general."
"If the company ever goes public, I’ll see that your broker receives an offering. Until then…" She was rising from behind her desk, hand extended, ready to dismiss him.
"Aren’t you even curious about my interest?"
"Not particularly, Mr. Winston. Since the film opened in December, it’s generated a great deal of interest in many quarters. My own energies are devoted to other projects at this point." She extended her hand again. "So if you don’t mind, I have a busy schedule…"
The woman was making this more difficult than he’d expected; he had no choice but to plunge ahead. "What about Star Wars?" he asked. "Will your company have a hand in that?"
Her green eyes narrowed. "Rumors of upcoming films float around this town constantly, Mr. Winston. If I were you, I wouldn’t listen to everything I hear around the pool at the Bel-Air."
Might as well go all the way, Jeff thought. "And Close Encounters?" he asked. "I’m not sure whether Spielberg would even want to make that now—what do you think? It might seem like kind of a lame follow-up to Starsea."
The anger hadn’t left her eyes, but now it was joined by something else. She sat back down, stared at him cautiously. "Where did you ever hear that title?"
He returned her steady gaze, sidestepped the question. "Now, E. T.," he said conversationally, "that’s a different matter entirely. I don’t see any conflict between the two. Same thing with Raiders of the Lost Ark, of course. Completely unrelated movie. First sequel to that one was lousy, though. Maybe you can talk to him about it."
He had her full attention now. Her fingers nervously stroked her throat, and her face had lost all hint of any emotion but astonishment.
"Who are you?" Pamela Phillips asked in a
low voice. "Who the hell are you?"
"Funny." Jeff smiled. "I’ve been wondering the same thing about you."
ELEVEN
Pamela’s house in Topanga Canyon was as isolated and difficult to reach as any home so close to a major city could possibly be, set in the middle of a five-acre plot that had gone wild with vegetation: jacarandas, lemon trees, grape vines, blackberry bushes … all in an undisciplined tangle of unchecked growth. "You ought to trim back some of that," Jeff said as they wound their way toward the house in her Land Rover. She handled the four-wheel-drive vehicle with easy confidence, unaware or uncaring of how incongruous she looked in it, with her smart gray skirt and lacquered fingernails. She’d put her tailored jacket on the back seat and kicked off her shoes to better operate the clutch but otherwise still looked as if she belonged in the boardroom of an insurance company, not driving down a dirt road off an untamed canyon.
"That’s the way it grows." She shrugged. "If I wanted a formal garden, I’d live in Beverly Hills."
"You’ve got a lot of good fruit going to waste, though."
"I get all the fruit I need at the Farmer’s Market." He let the matter drop. She could do whatever she wanted with her land, though it galled Jeff to see such lushness gone to seed. He still didn’t know much about her. After tersely verifying what he’d suspected, that she was a replayer too, she’d insisted on hearing his own story from the beginning, and had frequently interrupted to grill him for more details. He’d left out a lot, of course, particularly some of the episodes with Sharla, and he’d yet to hear anything about her own experiences. Clearly, though, she was a person of many contradictions. Which made perfect sense; so was he. How could either of them be anything else?
The house was plainly but comfortably furnished, with an oak-beamed ceiling and a big picture window on one side that looked over the messy jungle of her property to the ocean far below. As in her office, the walls were hung with framed mandalas of many types: Navajo, Mayan, East Indian. Near the window was a large desk stacked with books and notebooks, and in the center of it sat a bulky, greenish-gray device that incorporated a video screen, a keyboard, and a printer. He frowned quizzically at it. What was she doing with a home computer this early? There was no—
"It’s not a computer," Pamela said. "Wang 1200 word processor, one of the first. No disk drive, just cassettes, but it still beats a typewriter. Want a beer?"
"Sure." He was still a bit startled by her quick recognition of what he’d been thinking as he looked at the machine. It was going to take some time to get used to the idea that, after all these decades, he was in the presence of someone who actually shared his extraordinary frame of reference.
"Refrigerator’s through there," she said, pointing. "Get me one, too, while I get out of this costume." She walked toward the back of the house, shoes in hand. Jeff found the kitchen, opened (two bottles of Beck’s.
He surveyed her shelves of books and records as he waited for her to change. She didn’t seem to read much fiction or listen to a lot of popular music. The books were mostly biography, science, and the business side of the film industry; her records were weighted toward Bach, Handel, and Vivaldi.
Pamela came back into the living room wearing faded jeans and a baggy USC sweat shirt, took the beer from him, and plopped down in an overstuffed recliner. "That thing you told me about the plane, the one that almost crashed; that was stupid, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"At the end of my second cycle, when I realized I might go through it again, I memorized a list of every plane crash since 1963. Hotel fires, too, and railway accidents, earthquakes … all the major disasters."
"I’ve thought of doing the same thing."
"You should have already. Anyway, what happened next? What have you been doing since then?"
"Isn’t this all a bit one-sided? I’m just as curious about you, you know."
"Wrap up your story; then we’ll get to mine."
He settled himself on a sofa across from her and tried to explain his voluntary exile of the last nine years: his ascetic sense of union with things that grew in the earth, his fascination with their eternal symmetry in time—living entities that withered so they might flower, blossoms and green fruits that sprang recurrently to life from the previous year’s shriveled vines.
She nodded thoughtfully, concentrating on one of her intricate mandalas. "Have you read the Hindus?" she asked. "The Rig-Veda, the Upanishads?"
"Only the Bhagavad-Gita. A long, long time ago."
"You and I, Arujna, " she quoted easily, " have lived many lives. I remember them all: You do not remember. " Her eyes lit with intensity. "Sometimes I think our experience is what they were really talking about: not reincarnation over a linear time scale, but little chunks of the entire world’s history occasionally repeated over and over again … until we realize what’s happening and are able to restore the normal flow."
"But we have been aware of it, and it keeps on happening."
"Maybe it continues until everyone has the knowledge," she said quietly.
"I don’t think so; we both knew immediately, and it seems you either recognize it or you don’t. Everybody else just keeps going through the same patterns."
"Except the people whose lives we touch. We can introduce change."
Jeff smiled cynically. "So you and I are the prophets, the saviors?"
She looked out at the ocean. "Perhaps we are."
He sat upright, stared at her. "Wait a minute; that’s not what this movie of yours is all about, is it, setting people up for … ? You’re not planning to—"
"I’m not sure what I’m planning, not yet. Everything’s changed, now that you’ve shown up. I wasn’t expecting that."
"What do you want to do, start some kind of damned cult? Don’t you know what a disaster—"
"I don’t know anything!" she snapped. "I’m as confused as you are, and I just want to make some sense of my life. Do you want to just give up, not even try to figure out what it means? Well, go ahead! Go back to your goddamned farm and vegetate, but don’t tell me how I’m supposed to deal with all this, O.K.?"
"I was only offering my advice. Can you think of anybody else qualified to do that, given the circumstances?"
She scowled at him, her anger not yet cooled. "We can talk about it later. Now, do you want to hear my story or not?"
Jeff sank back into the soft cushions, eyed her warily. "Of course I do," he said in a level tone. There was no telling what might set her off. Well, he could understand what she must have been through; he could make allowances.
She nodded once, brusquely. "I’ll get us another beer."
Pamela Phillips, Jeff learned, had been born in Westport, Connecticut in 1949, daughter of a successful real-estate broker. She’d had a normal childhood, the usual illnesses, the ordinary joys and traumas of adolescence. She’d studied art at Bard College in the late sixties, smoked a lot of dope, marched on Washington, slept around as much as the other young women of her generation. True to form, she’d "gone straight" not long after Nixon resigned; she’d married a lawyer, moved to New Rochelle, had two children, a boy and a girl. Her reading habits veered toward romance novels, she painted as a hobby when she got the chance, did some charity work now and then. She’d fretted about not having a career, sneaked an occasional joint when the kids were in bed, did aerobics to keep her figure in shape.
She’d died of a heart attack when she was thirty-nine. In October 1988.
"What day?" Jeff asked.
"The eighteenth. Same day it happened to you, but at 1:15."
"Nine minutes later." He grinned. "You’ve seen the future. More of it than I have."
That almost brought a smile to her lips. "It was a dull nine minutes," she said. "Except for dying."
"Where were you when you woke up?"
"In the rec room of my parents' house. The television was on, a rerun of My Little Margie. I was fourteen."
"Jesus, what did you—Were t
hey home?"
"My mother was out shopping. My father was still at work. I spent an hour walking around the house in a daze, looking at the clothes in my closet, flipping through the diary that I’d lost when I went to college … looking at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t stop crying. I still thought I was dead, and this was some bizarre way God had of giving me one last glimpse of my time on earth. I was terrified of the front door; I really believed that if I walked through it I’d be in Heaven, or Hell, or Limbo, or whatever."
"You were Catholic?"
"No, my mind was just swirling with all these vague images and fears. Oblivion, that’s a better word; that was what I really expected to find when I went outside. Mist, nothingness … just death. Then my mother came home, walked in through that door I was so frightened of. I thought she was some kind of disguised apparition come to drag me off to doom, and I started screaming.
"It took her a long time to quiet me down. She called the family doctor, he came over, gave me an injection—Demerol, probably—and I passed out. When I woke up again my father was there, standing over the bed, looking very worried, and I guess that was when I first began to realize I wasn’t really dead. He didn’t want me to get up, but I went running downstairs and opened the front door, walked out in the yard in my nightgown … and of course everything was perfectly normal. The neighborhood was just the way I’d remembered it. The dog from next door came bounding over and started licking my hand, and for some reason that set me off crying again.
"I stayed home from school for the next week, lay around my room pretending to be sick, and just thought … Tried at first to figure out what had happened, but it didn’t take me long to decide that was a hopeless task. Then, as the days went on and nothing changed, I started trying to figure out what I was going to do.
"Remember, I didn’t have the options you did; I was only fourteen, still living at home, still in junior high school. I couldn’t bet on any horse races or move to Paris. I was stuck."