Her hand tightly in Jon’s, Naomi walked along the stretch of carpet between the throngs of people on both sides. Cameras and reporters from all over the world shouted to them to step closer for a few words, or to let them take a picture. Art and Sal had a hard time shepherding them along without stopping too often.
In the lobby they were greeted by Harry and his crew.
Solveigh breathed nervously. “My God, Naomi, isn’t this exciting?”
“It’s another crowd, and I hate crowds. This one is better dressed than most, but it’s still a crowd.” Naomi wondered how some of the women would ever make it to the washroom in their elaborate gowns. There were too many varieties of perfume intermingling, the babble of hundreds of people and the constant roar of the onlookers outside added to the deafening noise.
“How do you feel?” Sal had come up behind her. “Where is your speech? I can’t see a place to hide it on you, not even a small evening bag.”
“Do I need one? I don’t think so.”
Sal laughed out loud. “I don’t know. Are you good at impromptu speeches? You probably are, but can you deliver when you’re standing up there facing the multitude?” He let up when he saw her waver and added, in a gentle tone, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to say anything at all. Just look moved and distressed, stammer a thank you, and you’ll be fine. They don’t expect grand words; in fact the more you seem unable to speak, the greater the impact.”
Her eyes wandered back to Jon, who was looking her way, a small grin tugging at his lips, his eyebrows arching in question. He said a few words to an interviewer and then came over to her, taking his hands out of his pockets and straightening his jacket.
“Darling. How about it, do you want to take your seat yet? Or would you like a drink first? There’s still time.”
It was exciting, and she was nervous when the nominees for Best Song were announced, the wish to win rising inside her. She wanted that trophy with all her heart, and it grew into a desperate yearning when the envelope appeared in the presenter’s hand and he opened it, reading the names on the paper to himself before he spoke them into the microphone. Her palms were damp with nervous anticipation. The winner had been announced, but she couldn’t hear over the roar in her ears.
“Come on,” Jon was saying. “Let’s go and get you that little naked man. We did it, Babe.”
Sal was hugging her tightly, kissing her lips, Harry shouting with glee, and Jon, as cool as could be, pulled her along up the stairs to the stage, where she stood, dumb and mindless, while he accepted the award and spoke graceful words to the public. She held her statuette in her hand, staring at it in disbelief, until she was prodded gently by the presenter and had to face the expectant audience.
“Thank you,” Naomi managed, her voice brittle with fear, then rapidly stepped back again, seeking shelter beside Jon.
There was some good-natured laughter from the crowd as the music welled up and they were ushered backstage, where the press was waiting for the first interviews with the newly honored artists. Someone put a glass of cool sparkling water in her trembling hand, and she sipped it gratefully while a makeup artist fussed around her, applying powder and fresh lipstick, and, to her horror, eyeliner on Jon, too. He saw her staring and gave her a sultry, hooded glance, grinning insolently when she blushed.
The spotlights centered on them, hot and glaring like dragons’ eyes, the cameras zoomed in with their huge lenses looking like black holes into the nirvana of the world. Briefly she wondered whether her parents were watching, seeing her here with the Oscar clutched tightly in her hand, the proof of her accomplishment, a celebrated star in a moment of transitory glory next to her glamorous husband.
The movie itself did not win the award for Best Picture, but Jon, together with Sean, won for the score. This time she could observe from her seat how he climbed those stairs with the smooth elegance of an entertainer, kissed the young actress holding out the prize to him, and addressed his audience with his killer charm.
“What a great honor”—he held up the award—“to receive two of these in one night.” After a small pause, he went on, “We strive to put what we feel, what the film makes us feel, into the music. We were lucky because we had the opportunity to work in a place where…where the setting was just right for this soundtrack. The landscape and the people around us were inspirational, creative, and very kind.” He broke off and looked down at her, smiling softly. “Working with my wife was the best piece of good fortune, as the result shows. She won too, tonight, and I’m afraid she’s so happy with that little guy that she’ll put him on her bedside table and I’ll have to look at him every morning when I wake up from now on, which is heavy competition.”
A tinkle of laughter greeted his words before he turned serious again.
“There’s little more to say, except thank you, love.”
There was a brief moment of indecision, because Jon had to give a live TV interview that Art insisted on. “You don’t have to come,” he told her, “it won’t take long. It’s a matter of ten minutes. You could go ahead to the party at the Vogue if you want. Sean and Sal will go with you. I’ll join you right after.”
“Yes,” Solveigh pressed, “let’s do that, Naomi. I’m ready for some decent food.”
Naomi realized she had barely seen Joshua all night long, and now, unable to make up her mind, he came breezing past with a group of teenagers and called, “We’re off to Harry’s place, Mom, there’s be a party there. Staying overnight! Bye!” Before she could even respond, he was off again, climbing into a spacious van with them and Harry’s wife, who waved to Naomi before the door shut behind her and they drove off. Solveigh needed another short trip to the washroom and returned inside, followed by a bemused Russ.
“About Joshua,” Sean remarked. “You don’t have to worry one bit. He’s found his crowd, it seems.”
“Alright,” Naomi decided, “we’ll go ahead to the party. You go do your interview, and we’ll see you later.”
Jon nodded slowly and wrapped his arms around her. “Come here. One kiss, and then I’m off. Don’t get any fancy ideas, and no making out with your designer while I’m away.”
Sal watched how she flowed into the embrace, the hand holding the trophy on his shoulder, how she let him kiss her deeply despite all the people standing around them, forgetting everything but his presence for that moment. A couple of cameras flashed, catching the image of the star and his wife in that instant of intimacy, making Sal move forward, but Jon released her again and walked away toward the waiting limousine without looking back. Her car moved up to the end of the short walk across the carpet, still lined with a thick throng of spectators waiting to see the winners leave, calling loudly to catch their attention. People from inside the theater stood out in the warm evening air, chatting idly. Overhead, helicopters from the LA TV stations were filming the scene, broadcasting everything live.
Stewart got out and came up to escort her, meeting her halfway across the carpet.
“What a night.” Sal sighed. “A year ago I wouldn’t have bet a penny this would happen, but you surprise me all the time. And what are you going to do with that thing now? Put it on your bedside table?”
He never got an answer.
Naomi dropped beside him, silently and as quickly as a stone, faster than he could reach out to catch her, before he could even begin to understand what had happened. There was a sort of tumult; he felt more than saw Stewart move as swiftly as the wind to block them from the public, security running from the entrance, but it was too late.
She was looking up at him with a puzzled frown, her arms spread out, hair wild around her, the white dress like a sheet around her immobile body, the Oscar statuette just out of reach. At first Sal did not grasp what he was seeing, and he stood, wondering why her white gown seemed to dissolve into the red of the carpet, until she gasped and more blood came from her mouth, nearly choking her. He heard a shot and a cry and saw Stewart crash like a felled tree, scattering
panicked people.
Sean regained his wits first. He was on his knees beside Naomi, trying to support her head, talking to her as calmly as he could.
“We need a doctor!” Sal yelled, finding his voice at last. “Quickly, we need help!”
Howling sirens tore through the incredible noise surrounding them, more shots rang out, the helicopters descended dangerously close, trying to capture the wild scene.
Naomi’s hand came up ever so slowly and gripped Sean’s shirt weakly.
“Jon,” Sal heard her whisper. “Sean, please…”
The guards made way for the EMTs rushing up to them from the building. More people were streaming out, Hollywood celebrities staring in shocked silence as their worst nightmare played out before their eyes. Sal sank down beside Naomi, helpless, a terrible dark fear rising in him as he saw the blood spreading, soaking his trousers, her life pumping out of her.
“Hang on,” he begged. “Hang on, darling. Look at me. Help is here, my love, please look at me. Look at me, Naomi, don’t leave me!”
She obeyed, her tired eyes closing, her fingers slipping from Sean’s shirt, leaving crimson streaks behind. They were pushed away by the medics. Police had taken control and were quickly and efficiently dispersing the crowd and chasing away the reporters.
It was, Sal thought wildly, like a scene in a very bad movie. All that was missing was a too-pretty female cop in high heels parading in to take over. He could see Solveigh running toward them, her face white as chalk, screaming something he could not understand. Russ was behind her, trying to stop her from getting closer. He saw more ambulances stopping, their teams running to help Stewart and injured bystanders, and he heard the awful, hectic whining of the AED and the brief order to step away before they shocked Naomi.
“Come away, Sal,” Sean said. “We can’t help, and we need to think what to do. We need to…” he wiped his brow, painting a crimson smear on it.
Sal stared at it, and at the stains on his pleated evening shirt.
Her blood. And still he could not wrap his mind around the awful thing that had happened.
More uniformed men were crowding around Naomi, pressing the contents of infusion bags into her veins, putting an oxygen mask on her, taking her blood pressure, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to save her life.
“This is not real,” he told himself, but the flurry of action around that outstretched body told him differently. Sal realized the EMTs had stopped working on Stewart and were covering him with a sheet, and that a limp woman’s form in a green gown was being lifted onto a stretcher. Just when they were about to push her into the Coroner’s van, he saw the mane of red hair.
“Please God, no.”
The men stopped and let him lift the blanket from Sophie’s bloody face.
She seemed incredibly young and vulnerable, her eyes open and blank, the lips parted, the wound in her throat where she had been shot a horrible, shredded gash in her freckled skin. Her dress was drenched; there was so much blood that Sal nearly retched.
From the building, Harry was running toward them his face a grim mask of fury and shock.
“Sal! Wake up, man!” he shouted, “Has anyone called Jon?”
“I’ll do it.” Russ’ hands shook so badly he could hardly hold his cell phone, let alone dial the right number, but he managed after a few tries, gathering his wits enough to not call Jon directly but Art.
Sal reeled with the impact of the situation.
“Will she be okay?” he called after the medics, but there was no answer. Solveigh was holding the Oscar statuette, hugging it tightly against her breast as if it were a newborn, Russ beside her, steadying her when she stumbled, and Sal blanched when he finally reached Art and tried to tell him how their dream night had become a terrible nightmare. Sean, wiping at his face, sticky with the dried blood, gazed in horror at his fingertips. The large stain on the ground glistened in the floodlights.
She was standing on black sand. Black, oily waves were rolling in at her feet in gentle swells that did not break but just retreated again silently. The huge open sky above her head was black too, with dark gray clouds like curtains hanging in it, illuminated by a small, distant, golden sun hovering close to the horizon. Its light cast a dim glow over the water. The air was neither warm nor cold, there was no wind, no scent, no sound, no movement other than the dreamy black ocean.
There was no thought, no pain, no sorrow, no will at all, only a calm, unquestioning acceptance. She was completely alone, solitary in a still universe, waiting, listening, waiting.
“She had a second cardiac arrest during transport,” the surgeon told Sal. “We’re taking her to the OR now. It will take quite a while, so you should all go to the waiting room at the end of the hall. We’ll keep you informed. Is the family here yet?”
Sean gripped the sleeve of the doctor’s green scrubs before he could rush out. “We need to know. We need to know now. How bad is it? Her husband will be here in a moment, and we have to tell him something, for God’s sake. The man will go insane!”
The doctor took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “It’s bad. I can’t say how bad yet, but she lost a nearly fatal amount of blood and her heart stopped twice. She went into shock and had to be resuscitated, but she is strong and young. Tell him we’re doing everything we can.”
He extricated himself from Sean’s grip with a wry, brief smile and disappeared behind the milk-glass doors of the operating suite.
“I’m scared as hell.” They looked at Sal. “He’ll be here any minute, and what will we say to him? How are we going to tell him what happened? How are we going to explain that she may not…”
“Don’t!” Solveigh still had the Oscar in her lap. “Don’t even say it, Sal. It cannot happen, it won’t. She will be okay. She will be fine. That doctor will come back and tell us it’s a clean wound, and she’s not badly hurt, and in a few days she’ll be well again.” Tears spilled down her face and dropped on the bright silk of her dress. Helplessly, Russ stroked her shoulder, but she sobbed inconsolably.
“I’ll do it,” Sean said quietly.
It had been Sophie, standing among the guests, who had shot Naomi, and then, when Stewart came toward her, she’d shot him too. The police had shown them the small gun she had held in her dress pocket, a lady’s weapon that seemed too frail to release death. Stewart was not at the hospital now; his body had been taken to the morgue, just like Sophie herself, killed in the ensuing melee with the police. A couple of bystanders had been wounded as well, and they were in the ER right now. Outside, they knew, the media was gathered, waiting for a report, and Jon had not yet arrived.
Sal had a good understanding of how it would be when he did, how he would react, and the knowledge had his stomach in a tight knot.
“We need to…” He had to clear his throat before he could go on. “We need to protect Jon, Sean. We have to get him into a separate room and keep him there until we know…until they tell us…until…”
“Forget it.” Sean shook his head. “No one will be able to contain him, Sal. He will tear this building apart if they don’t give him any hope. God.”
“I just can’t grasp it.” Solveigh’s voice was rough with despair. “Why? Why would she do such a thing? Now? After all this time? They’ve been married for six months. He married Naomi, he married her, he made his choice, and now…”
“You aren’t going to understand this. There is no understanding.”
Sal had no more cigarettes, and smoking was forbidden in the hospital, but he patted his jacket pocket anyway as if everything would be all right if he could just find one small piece of normalcy to cling to. All he found was the paper ring that had been around his Cohiba, the one he had smoked with Jon and Art while they were waiting for Naomi to join them. He stared at the colorful, flimsy thing in his fingers, recalling the easy mood of that moment.
“I don’t want to understand it,” Solveigh cried. “I want it to go away! I want to make it undone, Sal! We came all thi
s way here, and she never wanted it, she was so afraid of coming here and only did it for him, and now look, now she’s—”
“She’s not dying, damn it!” Sal rounded on her. “I was right beside her, I was talking to her, damn it, she was laughing at me, she was unafraid and beautiful, and she was radiant and happy, and—”
Sean slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Stop it. Right now, Sal. We need to keep our wits about us for Jon.”
“Yeah.” He wanted to cry, to find a dark, silent corner where he could hide and nurse his broken soul instead of going out, as he knew he would have to in a short while, to face the press and their questions.
“Russ,” he said curtly, “come on. We need to start working. As long as Art isn’t here, it will be you and me. First, we need one hell of a lot of security. The hallway must be closed. No one needs to see him break down.”
As he would.
The door opened and they swung around, but it was Harry.
“I haven’t told Joshua yet.” With a deep sigh, he dropped onto the bench beside Solveigh. “He’s at my house now, but I think I’d better call Grace before they see it on TV.”
“He should be here anyway,” Sean answered. “And soon.”
The water was very still, tepid. She drifted on her back, her arms outstretched, her dress a floating, billowing mass around her. Above her, the sky was a beautiful, rosy opaque, like the inside of a seashell, gleaming softly in the pale light of the early morning sun. Long reeds grew from the bottom of the large lake and stood in swaying tufts around her, rustling in the fragrant, cool breeze. In the distance, still partly hidden by a bank of fog, she could see the contour of a small island. Dark cypresses rose from the chalky stone, casting stark shadows on the towers of rock that loomed over them. She thought she could make out a gate somewhere near the center, half open, beckoning, inviting her to step through and find peace, and forgetting, and oblivion.
The Distant Shore (Stone Trilogy) Page 33