by Jack Hodgins
“I remember seeing Randolph Scott on the screen. I wonder if you asked your grandfather about Tomas Thorstad.”
“Yeah-yeah.” He nodded twice, in time with his words. “Your old man—right? My granddad says he heard about a Thorstad who fell off of a roof but he never knew him.”
The stuntman tossed his coffee cup in the garbage can and turned as though to leave.
“Did he know how it happened? The accident?”
The man turned back, but appeared impatient to move on. “Sorry. He assumed the man just slipped. Miscalculated.” He held out his hands, palms up, as though to deny responsibility. “I did a bit of asking around—just out of, you know, curiosity. I found out he was hurt pretty bad. Walked afterwards with a cane.”
“No-no.” Thorstad shook his head, disappointed in this man. It had been a mistake to trust him. The grandfather had remembered the wrong person. “My father was killed.”
“So you told me.” The stuntman looked down to study his own boots while he spoke. “Once he was back on his feet he helped out a bit, a sort of assistant to the new stuntmen at Centurion.” After a brief pause, he looked up to study Axel Thorstad’s face for a few long seconds. “My grandfather remembers him— says he must’ve lived for another twenty, thirty years.”
Thorstad returned his coffee cup to the table with shaking hands. “He knew it was Tomas Thorstad you were asking about? You mentioned the dates, everything?”
The man nodded, obviously anxious to put this conversation behind him. “He remembered seeing him on the lot, running errands with one of those little motorized carts—y’know?”
But this could not be true. This could not be true. Yet Thorstad could not think what he might do about it. He felt rooted to the spot, and saw himself turning this way and that, looking for escape.
Perhaps the stuntman could imagine the shock. “Listen, if your mother left, she knew what she was doing. My gran was a nervous wreck by the time my grandfather retired. Some women aren’t cut out for the life.”
“Well!” It seemed that Oonagh had been close behind him for long enough to hear some of this. She took firm hold of his elbow. “It seems the past is not the past after all. It’s a good thing we don’t build our lives on what we’ve only been told! Let’s get out of here, Thorstad. Let’s get you out of that silly costume and leave.”
There was no need to look for Travis. Travis would be attending a party tonight in Beverly Hills—a “housewarming” party for someone named Robbie Ford. It had all been arranged. Axel Thorstad had been coolly informed.
He allowed Oonagh to guide him, a hand on his arm, talking all the while though he could not quite register what she was saying. What he could hear was an inner voice, telling him that he had been lied to all his life, suggesting he’d been a fool, so easily convinced of a falsehood, so eagerly misled. He had been deprived of a father when he needn’t have been. He had mourned for a man who had not only lived but hadn’t bothered to look for his son. He supposed he ought to be happy for someone who’d survived a terrible fall, but felt he might throw up into one of these animal shrubs.
Once he had turned his costume over to Camilla at her husband’s office and they had driven off the lot in Oonagh’s old Mercedes, instead of taking him back to the Evanses’ guest house she drove to what she claimed was one of her favourite restaurants, not far from the studio. “I’m starving,” she said, as she guided him in through the door. The host who led them to a table near the back seemed to know who she was. He seemed to know, too, exactly what she wanted: a giant bowl of seafood chowder. “Bread for two! A pot of tea and a coffee.”
“Tea?” Thorstad said.
“Don’t you remember? Do you remember anything at all about me?”
“I remember how wilful you could be. And loud. And beautiful.”
“For an old codger, your memory’s pretty good. Now, where is that chowder? Let’s eat.”
Their steaming bowls arrived immediately. “Don’t talk,” she said when he tried. “Eat. Concentrate on each lovely mouthful. You can talk later, when your belly is full and you’re overwhelmed with gratitude.” She laughed at her own nonsense. A waiter near the front of the restaurant also laughed. Perhaps she ate here often.
“Oh, Thorstad! Axel! I’m sorry if I’m acting the fool, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you brood like a bloody teenager. You like scallops? These are delicious. Do you make chowder up there on your island? We can talk about your mother later.”
“My mother?”
“Eat. You haven’t tried the bread. Your mother is the one to start with. She’s the one who raised you to be who you are. The bread, Thorstad—try it! She’s the one who created the myth.”
“You mean, she lied.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” she said when they were in her car again. “Your father was not around to be your father, just as you’ve always known. It is his story that got changed tonight, not yours.”
His father had been alive when Axel Thorstad left home for university, possibly still alive during his first few years of teaching, but had avoided him. Had apparently not been curious. His mother had invented the man’s terrible end. Those annual Christmas cards from a grateful Derek Morris had not been for an unfortunate death but for something else. If the actor had been home when Topolski drove them up to his gate, would he have told the truth, would he have explained how his father might be found?
Perhaps his body had not experienced real anger recently. It seemed unable to handle this. His stomach was in revolt, his hands were aching fists, his limbs had become shafts of knotted muscle, braced perhaps to strike out—at the news-bearing stuntman, at his father, at his mother, all safely beyond his reach. And at himself, the betrayed and disappointed fool.
Once she had driven to the nearest beach access they set out in the starry dark to walk, carrying their shoes, as close as possible to the foaming surf where the sand was not so loose underfoot. The beach curved ahead for several miles, it seemed, with lights here and there in houses along the beach and up across the face of the cliffs.
His father hadn’t in all those years contacted his wife. He would have known where she’d come from, where she must have gone with their child. Had he not cared, or had she forbidden it? It was even possible he had come up for a look at his son but hadn’t announced himself.
“Faster,” Oonagh said. “You’re dragging your feet.”
Though the sea breeze was cool against his face, he could feel hot sweat inside his shirt. He realized he’d bared his teeth for this forced walk, like someone enduring intense pain, or braced for worse.
Had his mother lied to his grandmother as well? Or had the two women looked knowingly at one another whenever he’d asked to see his father’s movie, when he’d spoken (so innocently) of the man’s willingness to risk his life so that talented actors might not be harmed? He could not imagine why she hadn’t burned the film, why she had encouraged him to admire the man who had not been killed after leaping from that roof.
“Come on,” Oonagh said, taking hold of his hand. “We’ve got to wear you out!”
But he was already worn out. When they came to a low outcropping of angular stone that protruded several metres across the sand, he broke free and found a rocky perch to rest on. Gasping, panting, he sat facing the darkened sea, bent forward over his folded arms, shutting out all of the world but his two large naked feet.
By the time they had finally driven up the zigzag face of the cliff to the Evanses’ home it was after one o’clock. Lights were still on in the house and Elliot Evans was outside, about to get into his car.
“It’s Travis,” he said. “Somebody phoned from the party and asked us to come and get him.”
Thorstad had stepped out of the Mercedes but hadn’t yet shut the door. “What’s happened?”
“Didn’t say. Maybe he’s done something stupid. More likely they got scared about having a minor at their party. Or got wind of a raid. Who knows?”
“My motor’
s running,” Oonagh said. “Go back to bed. Tell me how to find him and we’ll have the silly bugger home before he knows what hit him.”
“But first,” she added once they’d started down the hill, “we’ll hold his head under water for about an hour, the little shit, and pull out most of his teeth.” She was silent all the way down the snaking hillside road until, as they were about to pull out onto the highway, she added, “Where the hell do you think his chaperone was while this boy was getting himself in trouble? Out trudging through the sand, Your Worship, slave to a beautiful temptress. Who could blame him for that?” When Thorstad had still said nothing by the time they had passed by most of the shoulder-to-shoulder houses with their backs to the road, she said, “I’m sorry, Thorstad.” She reached across and took his hand in hers. “Axel. Close your eyes and tell yourself that at least we’re having more fun than poor ol’ Andrzej Topolski.”
Had she dismissed his news so easily, then? Did she think that he had already put it behind him? He doubted he would ever put it behind him, a mystery that in being solved had become even more of a mystery. Why had the man allowed himself to be deserted by wife and child, and never care enough to follow them? Why had there never been letters that began with Dear Son . . . ?
The party house was a white stucco art deco box in a grove of hairy evergreens at the top of a hill. There was no need to check the address since the front door was open at the head of a long curved flight of concrete steps, loud music thumping in the warm night air. A young man with a bald head came out and stood on the top step to smoke but stayed only long enough for two or three puffs before going back in.
No one met Thorstad at the door. No one welcomed him, or challenged him, no one even seemed to notice he was there. There was music somewhere, but it was obscured by the solid din of countless conversations happening all at once. To move at all required passing through a human jungle, where shouted isolated words seemed to have no specific origin. Bodies were pressed so close together that pale pink silk and brown leather and indigo jeans seemed to belong to everyone all at once.
This was a house designed for entertaining and little else. Thorstad found it hard to believe that anyone actually lived here. The large living room was obviously made for parties, but in his wandering through the rest of the house in search of Travis he saw nothing resembling a kitchen. He saw, through one open doorway, a large four-poster bed draped with sheer curtains, appropriate for a movie set in a Memphis whorehouse. And yet there were seven bathrooms along a single hallway—the row of doors opening and closing as he passed by, providing glimpses of mirrors and sinks and young women in party dresses straightening their bra straps and touching up their makeup before the mirrors. It was hard to imagine any one house needing seven bathrooms, even if parties were large and a good deal of booze was consumed.
One of the bathroom doors opened to allow two, three, four, five young women to emerge—all pretty, all blond—one after another, two of them unselfconsciously passing a finger beneath their nostrils and sniffing conclusively.
Perhaps there was more to worry about here than he’d imagined. “Travis Montana?” he said to a man who seemed to be the oldest one here, thirty-five at most. Possibly older, if Louise’s husband and his instruments had had their way with him. Someone had certainly added the fullness to that upper lip. The man, in any case, shrugged, obviously uninterested in the question.
A young woman in a transparent broad-rimmed lacy hat smiled and passed by, the space so narrow that she put a hand against Axel Thorstad’s chest to keep from being crushed. Perhaps to thank him for his assistance, she threw him a kiss before disappearing into the crowd.
Even within the crammed-together forest of bodies, people had formed smaller groves. Conversations took place in tight standing circles or amongst those who’d claimed the few seats, with faces pushed in close to one another. Undergrowth doing its best in the shadow of surrounding timber.
A fat man in red suspenders stood in front of Thorstad as though to challenge his right to be there. “You lost, Big Man?” This might be someone he’d met at the studio—a member of the crew or one of the writers, or possibly one of the Extras.
“I’m looking for Travis Montana?”
The man in red suspenders jerked his head to the left. “The pool. He got a little rowdy so they threw him in.”
So they had had good reason to call for him to be taken home.
Beyond an open doorway to the outside, a long rectangular pool shimmered under floodlights mounted in the trees. Half a dozen people splashed about in the water while one clamped-together couple at the far end was taking advantage of the fact that the water there came as high as their waists. The young woman who surfaced to hurry along the tiles was naked. So was the young man who’d tried to catch her ankle but gave up and leapt onto the tiles to follow.
Apparently Travis had decided that he would stay in the pool and spend time with a slim young woman leaning back against the ladder, both arms angled behind its rungs. When Thorstad had caught his eye he frowned and looked away before looking back again, obviously puzzled. Then he climbed out of the pool, his jeans and T-shirt shedding water. “What are you doing here, man?” Frowning. Obviously not sure how he felt about this. He came closer, but stopped below Thorstad on his step. “Something wrong?”
“We were asked to come and get you.”
Travis threw his head back and to the side as though he’d been slapped. “But the party’s hardly started.” He folded down to sit at the edge of the pool, his feet in the water.
Thorstad went down onto the wet green tiles, where the air was warm and clammy against his skin. “Someone here is worried you’re underage.” Because he and Travis had barely spoken since the angry exchange with Evans, it wasn’t easy to know what tone to take with him now.
Travis stared at his own knee in silence for a moment, as though thinking this over, then pushed his hips forward to lower himself, legs first, into the water. He scooped up a handful to toss into the face of the young woman, who shrieked but appeared to welcome the attention. This was Rosie, hair plastered to her scalp, head tilted back, smiling or sneering—it was impossible to tell which.
Thorstad crouched on his heels. “You can’t expect me to stand around and wait.”
He meant that he didn’t appreciate having to speak to Travis’s back. Nor did he need another desertion tonight. Another betrayal, it felt like. He had barely enough patience to make himself sound civil.
“Get yourself a drink.” This was shouted by a bobbing head out in the middle of the pool. “See Steve and he’ll give you some shit. Relax, man. Join the party.”
When Travis could see that Axel Thorstad appeared determined to stay where he was, he thrashed his way back to clutch at the edge of the pool. “What’s the matter? You want a study session this time of night?” He seemed to think this was funny. “Causes of the Korean War?”
“You think I’d come here for that?”
“Why not? Everything is about you, isn’t it? All that matters is what you want. Another feather in your cap. Another medal.”
Thorstad stepped back, as though from a blow. “Travis?”
“You nearly wrecked everything.” Then it seemed he’d changed his mind. “Well, you wanted to turn me into a scholar or something for my parents, but you nearly wrecked everything else.”
Thorstad could not afford to take this seriously. The boy was annoyed, his party had been interrupted. “Let’s just get you out of here.”
“I’m not stupid, y’know.”
Not stupid, maybe, but stubborn, self-centred, capable of causing hurt. “You’re not stupid but you’re a minor in a party house. Someone phoned and asked for you to be taken out of here.”
There was alarm, now, in his face. “Who phoned?”
“We don’t know who it was.” Thorstad stood up. “C’mon. We need to get you dried off and out of here.”
“Who says?”
“You sound like a five-
year-old. ‘You’re not the boss of me!’ It’s your producer who says. It’s Elliot Evans who sent us and he is the boss of you! As you’ve both made clear. If you don’t want to ruin your chances with him I think you’d better come.”
Travis studied Thorstad as though for signs of deceit. “Evans sent you?”
“He’s the one who got the phone call. Oonagh’s waiting outside.”
“Then you better join her.” This was someone who had appeared suddenly at Axel Thorstad’s side, a broad-shouldered man with his shirt unbuttoned down to his waist. He put a hand on Thorstad’s upper arm and gripped tightly enough to hurt. His other hand clamped the back of his neck and propelled him forward up the steps to the crowded living room. This was obviously not the person who had phoned for someone to come and take Travis away.
The sight of someone being escorted from a party was probably a welcome distraction—an old man especially so. Maybe it was tradition to assist when it came to unwanted guests. At any rate, there were other young men willing to help him along—shoving, poking a fist at him. Young women in filmy dresses screamed insults.
“You’re at the wrong party, Grampaw!”
“Try ballroom dancing!”
Reynolds Green, leaning against a wall, lowered his gaze to the floor.
At the top of the long flight of steps that curved down around a large outcropping of rock, Thorstad knew that if they gave him a shove he would not reach the bottom on his own feet, nor land unhurt. He knew too that Oonagh, opening her door to get out of the car, would not reach him in time to stop something bad from happening.
But he was escorted gently down the staircase, as though his handlers believed he was too drunk or stoned to make it on his own. Or too old to be manhandled without causing injury. The surprising thing was that he was aware of Travis immediately behind him, being escorted down the steps by his own pair of bouncers. This was all so well organized, so polite. At the bottom of the staircase, both were abruptly abandoned while their escorts returned to their party.
Even now, Travis was unwilling to go. He sat on the bottom step with his fists beneath his chin. “I can’t stand this,” he said.