by Diana Wagman
“Very funny.” Jonathan pretended to laugh. “I read the scene you sent over. Is it the scientist part?”
“This isn’t that kind of film. You’ll have a moment. A good moment, but they want Jonathan Parker. The real Jonathan Parker.”
“A walk-on? Who do they think they are?” He was angry. He didn’t want to be angry, anger was not healthy, it was not productive, but his breath was coming faster, his heart beginning to thump. He was sweating before he remembered he had the heater going on high. He punched it off.
“You’ll be great. A riot.” Andrew gave a hollow chuckle. “Probably the best moment in the entire movie.”
“Fuck! Can’t you do something for me? Something better? I’m the goddamn host of the most successful relationship show since The Dating Game.”
“Hey, I know. I read the press releases too.” Then Andrew sighed. “I’m sorry. Sorry. You’re just so damn recognizable – as yourself.”
Jonathan willed himself to calm down. He used his yoga breathing. Pranadama, pranayama, whatever the fuck it was called. Count to ten his dad would tell him. Then hit the other guy.
“I’m sorry, Andrew. I’m not mad at you. I’m glad I have the show, of course. But other people have done it. Gone back to real acting.”
“You will. We just have to find the right thing. So do this and we’ll keep looking. Who knows? This director is young, hip, a definite up and comer. Maybe he’ll like you.”
“I’m an actor. This host thing is just temporary.”
“You just need to prove that you can be someone else.”
They chatted some more, but Jonathan wasn’t really listening. Andrew would send contracts over later that week. Jonathan’s one day of shooting wouldn’t be for a month or so. He didn’t want to go to the office anymore. He didn’t want to go home. He was afraid Jessica would be at the house, she would know he was upset and when she heard about his tiny cameo role in the movie she would go through the sky – or whatever that expression was. Maybe she was out. She taught super advanced yoga three times a week, but he could never remember when. She didn’t have to work, but she did it because she loved it. He admired her for that. And in her classes she met lots of stars and directors and people with money. Jessica wanted to produce feature films. He had no doubt she would do it too. She knew how to work it, how to get people to like her, to give her things just because she was so pretty and so nice, honest and open and fun. He snorted. Maybe she would have a good part for him.
Jonathan turned right toward the beach. Winnie was so lucky. She had no ambition. A little job, a little house was enough for her. One day she would meet a nice man. Or not. He could admit it: he hoped not. Anyway, she seemed totally happy alone.
15.
Oren crested the hill. He could see way ahead. Traffic was getting worse. The 110 Freeway through downtown was always clogged, but this looked bad. Dodger Stadium was just over that hill. He had never been to a baseball game. He always meant to go, but he never had. The guys at work went. They invited him at first, but he always said no and eventually they stopped. He would take Lacy, he decided. And maybe even her mom. He saw the three of them in the stands, eating hot dogs, cheering for the team. All the guys would be jealous that Lacy was with him. No. He would leave Winnie home. She would never be quiet for an entire baseball game.
“You don’t need to teach me anything. I mean, you already have. You’ve taught me so much. I’ve learned my lesson,” she was saying, filling his car, his head with her endless yakking. “Oh yes. Yes, yes. Definitely. I’ll be a better person. Starting right now. I’ll stop complaining. I’ll never complain again about my house or my weight or being short.”
She would not shut up. He had started to tell her all the things she needed to hear. The lessons she had to learn were so simple. Stop treating your daughter like shit. Stop beating her and making her wear ugly clothes and threatening to cut off her hair in her sleep. He had so much to tell her, but she kept talking.
“Thanks to you, I really appreciate my life now. I do. I really, truly do. Thank you. Oh. Look where we are. If you pull over and let me out, I can walk home from here. I can. It’s nothing. No problem. It’s just over that hill.”
“I thought you lived in the Hollywood hills.”
“Echo Park. Close to the stadium. The ‘hood as we call it.”
He must have misunderstood Lacy when she told him about her mother’s mansion, the automatic gates, the snobby neighbors. There had to be nice parts of Echo Park too. He imagined the house, set back, enormous, lording it over the smaller shit-boxes where the regular people lived. She would not shut up.
“I live right near here, so really you could let me out anywhere.”
His hands gripped the wheel so he would not poke or hit her. Traffic was almost stopped. Someone would see him and call a cop.
“So this is about money, isn’t it?” she continued. “You said I was rich.”
“You are rich.”
“Compared to some,” she went on, “I guess I am. Compared to people in third world countries, well, even people in this country. It’s terrible. You said you need more money. Let’s call my ex-husband. He’s really rich. Jonathan can give you whatever you need. We could stop by, or meet him someplace. Jonathan will pay. Even though we’re divorced, he’ll give you lots of money. Thousands and thousands. No problem. And maybe my mother will chip in. I’ll give you Jonathan’s cell phone number. You can start with him. Let’s call right now.”
He just shook his head. She wasn’t getting it. And, as she chattered, he saw her hands slowly going toward the door. They were moving at a crawl. She thought she could get the door open and get out without being killed. He sighed, reached over and put her hands back in her lap. She exploded.
“What do you want?” she shouted.
Just like that, she was having a little fit. Oren watched her, stunned, as she screamed and rocked in the seat. She banged on the window and held her tied hands up to the car next to her. Before he could grab her, a businesswoman in tons of make-up looked over. She was talking, obviously on the phone in her empty car. Oren saw her black skinny eyebrows rise and the look of concern.
“Call the cops,” Winnie shouted to the woman. “Help me.”
She was wiggling all over the seat. She looked insane. Gently, he took her hands and pulled them down to her lap. He smoothed her hair off her forehead, then shook his head sadly at the businesswoman. He mouthed, “Sorry,” to her as if Winnie was a nut case, his psycho mom who needed restraint. The woman frowned, still talking. Then her lane eased forward, the car behind her honked, and she moved out of sight.
“Just stop it,” he said. “Stop talking, stop moving, stop everything. Remember your daughter. Remember Lacy.”
“Leave her alone. Leave her out of this you asshole, you jerk, you bastard!”
She was losing it, jumping all over the car. Bouncing up and down in her seat. He looked in his rearview mirror, at the cars on either side. He turned on the radio and cranked it up as high as it would go.
“Help me! Help me! Help me!”
He pretended to sing along, “Help me. Help me,” as if it was a song. She would not stop. He didn’t want to, but he poked her thigh again. And again. She gasped and folded over her legs, but she was quiet. Finally. He turned the radio off.
“I have things I need to say. Sit up.”
She didn’t move. He put his blinker on.
“I am not kidding,” he continued. “I will go get Lacy right now.”
She sat up slowly. “Don’t. I’ll be quiet. I promise.”
She dropped her head. Her cheeks were wet, with tears or sweat he wasn’t sure. There were two more fingertip-sized bruises blooming on her leg. He flipped off the blinker.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Teach me whatever you want.”
She said no more. It was a relief to have her quiet for a moment. He could almost think again. If only the traffic would lighten up. If only he could move. If only the people on all
sides stopped staring at them.
“I know I’m right about this,” he said. “I know I’m right because of Cookie. I have taken care of him since he was a baby. He is happy and he loves me. I know what I am talking about.” He had this all written down on his laptop. He had thought it out carefully, practiced even, but thanks to the traffic, and Kidney, and the money, thanks to her, yes, thanks to her, the bitch, the words were twirling around and around in his mind, like cotton candy in the spinner, nothing to grab on to.
“Listen.”
“I’m listening. I am.”
“No, you are not; you are talking again.”
She had to shut up or he would strangle her, she would make him angry and he would not be responsible. It was not his fault. He would do everything he could, but if she did not shut up he might kill her and it would not be his fault. ‘Permission’ was one of the circling words. ‘Trust.’ ‘Mutual respect.’ He knew these words, but his mouth could not capture them.
“She’s an adult now.” He said it out loud, relieved to have caught one of the swirling phrases.
“I thought Cookie was a boy.”
She was so stupid. Killing her seemed the best idea. Be done with her. No one would know. Lacy would never know he had killed her mother. Then he could comfort her. Comfort the poor girl with the murdered mother. She would call him and he would come to her and hold her while she cried. It was a beautiful image. She would turn to him of course. His mother was dead too. They would have so much to share. He looked over at Winnie. Killing her suddenly seemed like the best idea. A brilliant solution to everything.
But how would he do it? He couldn’t push her out in traffic, they were moving too slowly and everyone would see. His gun wasn’t real. He didn’t have time to take her up in the mountains and throw her off a cliff. He had a knife, but the thought of sticking it into her, slicing her open, the smell of her blood, her intestines, the look in her eyes as he did it made him shudder. There would be so much blood, and he knew how hard it was to clean.
No, he would continue with the plan, for now. His hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath and almost smiled; the option of killing her made him feel better. It gave him another way to succeed if this plan did not work. He could figure out a mess-free method for her death. Meanwhile, he would be patient and keep teaching her what she needed to learn. He looked at her. Her head was down, her eyes closed. He realized this was hard for her, to understand the errors she had made raising Lacy. People always thought they were good parents. Same with reptile owners, they usually screwed up by accident. He watched her rub the bruises on her thigh. She gave a little groan. His stomach clenched, but then he gritted his teeth. She did not deserve sympathy. If he hurt her, it was only to give her a taste of her own medicine. It was not by accident that she slapped her daughter around or locked her in her room or set Buddy the pit bull on her. Lacy said there were bite marks on her ankle, an ugly scar from the six stitches she needed in the top of her foot. And the chauffeur, who doubled as her jailer, almost raped her and her mother did nothing. Every muscle in his body contracted as he thought of everything his darling Lacy had told him. He felt sick. Winnie was an ogre. He looked at the little, dirty woman sitting next to him. Funny how tyrants came in all sizes.
“Listen,” Oren began again. “I know this because of Cookie; I know how you have to treat someone. Someone you care for and who depends on you to feed them and clothe them and educate them.” He took a deep breath and nodded as he continued, “You want to trust them, but they have to be able to trust you. And pain does not lead to trust. Fear does not lead to trust.”
Winnie looked at him, frowning, obviously confused.
“You know I’m right. Kindness is contagious.” It was a phrase he had heard on television. “It’s a two way street.”
She shook her head like he was nuts. She opened her mouth. Oh God. If she spoke it would ruin everything, there would be a thunderstorm and he would not be responsible for what happened to her.
“Shhhh!” He put his hand up. “Shhh! Listen. Remember when Lacy was learning to walk?”
She nodded yes.
“Didn’t you have to let her fall down?” His brain was working again. He was remembering the things on his list. This was one of his favorite examples. He had figured it out on his own. But her expression did not change. “You have to think of this just the same. Think of her now as if she is learning to walk. Do you understand me?”
Winnie nodded. She smiled, but he could tell her stupid smile was a lie. Mothers were liars. His shoulder hurt. He stretched his arm over his head, tried to stretch out the kink. He could not remember what he had done to it. His whole body ached, but why? He could not come down with the flu, not now.
“I know you will lie to me,” he said. “I know you will tell me you love your daughter.”
“Yes. I do. More than anything.”
“All mothers lie.”
The traffic was stopped. He had to get off the freeway. He had to. There were too many people around. They were too close. He put on his blinker and nosed over, cutting off another car. He ignored the honking and continued trying to cut across three lanes to the exit.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was small and scared.
He gave a little snort. She thought he was going to get Lacy. That was good. Keep her guessing. He pushed over another lane and waved to thank the driver of the other car. The driver was staring at him—and at Winnie—with a funny look on his face. Winnie used her tied hands to wipe her nose and Oren wanted to scream. He kept going and the next car had to stop short to let him in. The woman rolled down her window to yell at him, but he ignored her. He just wanted to pull over someplace and finish what he had to say to Winnie. It was hard to drive and talk and worry about what she would do. He had a plan and it was all going to hell. To hell. He didn’t have enough money to give Kidney. He would never get a mate for Cookie. Cookie, Cookie, Cookie. At home probably scratching the kitchen door to shreds. She was fucking rich, why didn’t she have any money in the bank? All the things Lacy had told him about her. The big house with servants. That bastard chauffeur for the rare, expensive car. The wild parties. The nights she cried herself to sleep. She had said her mother was filthy rich. “More money than God,” she told him. The car beside him wouldn’t let him in. He crept forward a little more, but the guy pulled up right in his way. The driver wouldn’t look at him, ignored him, was just a plain old stupid dick.
“Why me,” Oren exhaled. “Why me?”
“Why do you hate me?” Winnie whispered. “Why do you hate mothers?”
It was a good question. It would take a lifetime to answer, but for now, until he and Lacy were joined forever and there was more time, he could tell her the last part, the final moment. Then she might understand. He had never told anyone, but he would tell her. It was a good thing to do. “Listen. Listen to me.”
“Yes.”
“Shhhh.” He moved over another lane. And another. And he was free. He sped down the exit. It dumped him into the industrial area that bordered downtown LA. The sky was the same color as the rundown cinderblock buildings. It was perfect. There were no people around except a drunk lying on the sidewalk near the bus stop. Either drunk or dead, no one to worry about. He could drive all the way to the airport through the scummy edges of Los Angeles. Not a scrap of vegetation except the weeds poking up through the cement. The security doors were all closed, the few windows painted over. Even the gangs didn’t come here, the walls weren’t worth tagging, the neighborhood not worth claiming. He exhaled and began.
“Listen. I grew up in a traveling carnival. My mother, father, sister, and me. We lived in a big RV.”
“That sounds—fun.”
He pinched her bare leg hard. She gave a little scream.
“Don’t talk.” When she nodded, he began again. “I grew up in the carnival. Most of the carnies were very nice. I liked them. We were like a family. We traveled year ‘round from on
e side of the country to the other. My Uncle Nolan ran the carnival and my dad was a big showman. He owned the Haunted House, the Amazing Amazon, the Tilt-A-Whirl, and the Dragon Coaster. Plus a couple of food stands. There’s a hierarchy in the carnival: the bigger the ride, the more powerful the showman. Marcus, my dad, was powerful. Definitely. He wasn’t very tall, but he was strong and he had a right hand that used to knock me down for nothing, whenever, almost on its own as if his brain had nothing to do with it. People respected him. I was proud to be his kid.”
Oren’s hand went to his cheek. Pride wasn’t exactly the right word, but he did know Marcus was special. A special kind of asshole. The carnies stayed out of his way. Even the marks got quiet when he was around. Only Oren’s mother would stand up to him. She’d yell or sometimes try to hit him and he’d catch her hand and bend her wrist backward. He smacked her sometimes too, but she didn’t stop fighting him until that night. Oren was thirteen, still working at the hot dog stand, still fucking up. It was late. The rides had stopped and the games and stands and booths were all shuttered. The incessant tinny music was turned off and the workers had gone to bed in their pick-ups and RV’s and trailers.
“My mom didn’t want to work.” Oren told Winnie as he drove down a rutted, pot-holed street. He saw her wince with the bumps. To his right, over the tops of the decrepit warehouses, the skyline of downtown LA glittered like the Emerald City. “My dad called her a princess. She was lazy. Never cleaned or cooked much. But she was beautiful, and people liked her. And she liked them. Boy, did she. She used to say she was born lonely. She was born missing someone and none of us made up for it. She said she had been looking all her life for that one special friend to fill her up. Marcus, my dad, made her the carnival clown. Jilly Bean he called her. Her name was Jill. Jilly Bean. My sweet Jilly Bean. She dressed up in a clown costume with a red nose and big shoes and sold balloon animals to kids. Mostly she just stood around and smoked.”
“Where did you go to school?”