In the Night of the Heat

by Blair Underwood

  I remembered T.D.’s eyes. Financial problems? The strain of another trial, especially if money was a problem? No more movies or television…T.D. Jackson couldn’t sustain his preferred lifestyle signing autographs, trust me. Sitting at his desk, playing with his gun…

  Was it a revolver? How about a little Russian Roulette? Another line of coke, spin the wheel, thumb back the hammer, and…

  Maybe. Hell, I could see it. How much ego damage could someone like T.D. take before he broke? What if the Tau event was the last hurrah before the hammer came down…?

  But something inside me couldn’t believe it. Sociopathic monsters like T.D. Jackson don’t kill themselves until they’re cornered by SWAT. If police had found a gun on the scene, someone had planted it. T.D. Jackson had been murdered, just like he was afraid he would be.

  “Man was loco,” Marcela said. “Killing himself! He will go to Hell.”

  Dad made a humphing sound. Fifteen years as the commander of Hollywood division, and another fifteen on the police force, had taught him to wait and see. I sat on the sofa beside Marcela, and the newscaster recapped for me: T.D.’s body had been found by his housekeeper at six that morning, and she’d called police right away. There were no signs of forced entry.

  “Messed up, right?” a voice said behind me, and I realized Chela was up. Late-start Monday meant she didn’t to have to get to school until ten. My set call was late, too.

  I felt my heart brighten. “Hey!” I said. I gave her arm a squeeze. As usual, Chela was dressed down in military-style drabness, hidden inside an oversized jacket and baggy jeans. “Yeah, pretty messed up.”

  “The media wouldn’t leave T.D. alone,” Chela said. “What did people expect?”

  Chela dropped a heavy manila envelope to the sofa cushion beside me. “Just came,” she said. “All those messenger dudes they send are total hotties. He didn’t want to let me sign for you, but I said I was your daughter.”

  That pulled a smile out of me. Chela never referred to herself as my daughter, and nothing left Chela’s mouth without a reason. She was telling me that even though she knew it hurt to let April go, I still had her. But Chela would never bring up April’s name unless I did.

  The new Homeland pages were in the package. I’d gotten a script on the set Wednesday, and there was a rewrite first thing on Monday. Another rewrite might be waiting for me on set today. Of course, I never had more than two or three lines, and I can learn that much in ten minutes. It didn’t really matter much. I’d heard a rumor that my part might be expanded—I might actually get a story arc, be more than a line of dialogue, a drop-and-roll or a reaction shot—but it hadn’t happened yet.

  While the television droned on, and Marcela caught Chela up on the details of T.D. Jackson’s death, I flipped through the script’s yellow-colored pages to make sure my paltry lines were intact. That week’s episode, entitled “Mole,” was actually one of the better ones: An FBI agent who’d been a mole for a terrorist organization was discovered stealing computer files from a fellow agent, and the episode ended with a blazing firefight. It took some looking to find my lines, and but I noticed the changes right away. Huzzah! I no longer had three lines: I had four!

  Sanford: “If I do this, what’s in it for me?”

  Sanford: “What’s Kelsey’s problem? My kid’s ten, and he’s got better manners.”

  Sanford: “Just sit here, eyes on your book, mouth closed. Your mom’s on her way.”

  Sanford: “Watch out!”

  Now there was a child character called Jalil in the script who called Sanford “sir,” hanging out with him while he waited for his mother to pick him up from work. They’d cast a son for me? That was major. That was huge. The writers were turning me into an actual human! Marcus Sanford, my character, was mostly fall guy, eye candy, and comic relief to the gruff series regulars—never mind that I was the only one in the cast who’d spent any time at an actual police academy. Hell, I’d come close to graduating. In a different life, I would have been on the scene at T.D. Jackson’s house instead of watching it on TV. Almost wished I was.

  When I saw Chela heading for the door with a bagel, I put the script down. “Ready…for school?” Dad called to her before I could. When I was a kid, Dad was so lost in thoughts and paperwork that he barely noticed me. Call me childish, but Dad’s attentiveness to Chela irked me sometimes.

  “We have a chem quiz, but it’s not my thing,” Chela shrugged. “Hydrogen peroxide? Like I’m ever gonna need to know that in life.” Chela was casually brilliant, but I felt sorry for her teachers.

  “What’s up with that homecoming dance?” I said, remembering. “When is it? Don’t you need a dress?” I was no expert on homecoming dance fashion, but I was eager to support Chela’s experiment with childhood.

  “Homecoming?” Marcela said with an intrigued grin. “What memories, eh? Terrifico!”

  Chela gave me a dirty look for bringing it up in front of witnesses. “No it’s not terrifico. I’m not going.”

  “Why not?” I said. “You said this kid…what’s his name? That chess guy asked you.”

  “Exactly. It’s next Saturday, and I’m not going.”

  Marcela stirred as if to say something else, but I patted her knee. The full frontal assault never worked with Chela. I had more than a week.

  “Nobody’s gonna force you,” I said.

  “Got that right,” Chela muttered.

  A familiar woman’s voice made me look back at the TV. Framed in the center of my screen stood T.D. Jackson’s cousin, Melanie Wilde. I’ll say this for Melanie: She knew how to pull herself together in a crisis. There was no mistaking the grief in her glassy eyes, but her businesslike clothes and hair were a perfect suit of armor. An interviewer asked the obligatory How-do-you-feel riff that April had confessed she hated most about her job, and Melanie snapped off answers like she was leading a press conference.

  “Again, according to unnamed sources, drugs were found at the scene, and police are speculating…” the interviewer began, and Melanie cut her off.

  “The police are way off base. The police never gave credence to T.D.’s safety concerns. The police have sympathized only with T.D.’s deceased ex-wife and her very influential family. So excuse me if I’m not too impressed with any bogus theory claiming my cousin shot himself. I’ve known T.D. since the day he was born, and of all the things he was ever accused of, suicide is the most unlikely. But don’t you worry: The police were never able to apprehend the murderer of Chantelle Hankins Jackson—never made a serious effort because they were so busy hounding T.D.—but we will find out who killed my cousin. Bet on it.”

  Her eyes bored right into me. I imagined myself in the over-bright hallway of my old dormitory, Clayton Hall, opening the door for Melanie as she carried in a basket of T.D.’s laundry piled so high she could barely see over it. Success is a family project. Her face had always glowed at the mention of his name—now that glow had turned to fire.

  I looked away. It’s hard for me to watch a woman suffer.

  “She’ll come back to you again,” Marcela said suddenly. “You’ll see.”

  “What?” I said, startled to have my thoughts made public.

  “April.” Marcela said her name softly enough to make it sting. “She’ll be back.”

  I blinked. Two whole minutes had gone by, and I hadn’t thought about April once. My stomach remembered its ache right away, of course. But two minutes was a start.

  Years ago, right after his heart attack, Dad told me a little about my mother’s death. I think he was afraid he was going to die, and he didn’t want to take all of his stories with him.

  Mom had been undergoing radiation treatments, and he recalled taking her to the oncologist’s office to hear her newest test results, where he saw blank face after blank face. The oncologist came into the room discussing options and plans, but he couldn’t hide the truth in his eyes. That was how Dad knew. My mother had just had a baby boy six months before, right in time t
o die. You’d think a cancer doctor would’ve learned how to give people bad news, Dad said that day in his hospital room, shaking his head with the memory—all the while watching his doorway, terrified he would see That Look on his cardiologist’s face when he finally came to call.

  That was how I felt Monday morning when I arrived on the set of Homeland. Work was where I went to escape my troubles, but my troubles had beaten the traffic and were waiting there to greet me.

  A soundstage looks like a warehouse, some of them as big as airplane hangars. The sets are nestled in corners brightened with lights and imagination, carved inside the gray drab of wires, cables, and industry. On Homeland, much like 24 and NUM3ERS, the conceit was to show field FBI agents coordinating with the egghead researchers back at the office to break up terrorist plots, with family interactions to give it heart. One of the show’s consultants was a former FBI researcher, so the home-office set was elaborate—the commander’s office, the rows of cubicles, the meeting rooms (with banks of big monitors meant to be visual for television, but definitely nothing like the true-life FBI), the break room (which is where I usually turned up at the coffee machine), and even a bathroom set, where agents had private conversations. There was a training hall with a gun range and a dojo, connected to the group showers.

  Who knew there was so much hooking-up going on in the FBI? Realism was not our strong suit, but the show’s ratings were great. We took single thematic threads and ran them through the home, the field, the office, and the judo mat. It worked.

  There were almost two separate casts; the stars in the field, the rest of us at the office. I’d expected T.D. Jackson’s murder to give us something to talk about in common, a bridge over the divide between the name actors and the rest of us who were still scrambling for an ounce of recognition and a paycheck, whose residuals alone weren’t enough to pay for the mortgage, a cruise, and a time-share every month.

  Instead of chatter, there was a hush. My senses told me it started as soon as I walked in. Quiet in a place the size of an airplane hangar looms large enough to become sinister. I could feel eyes from every corner, but whenever I turned to find a face, the eyes were suddenly gone.

  Shit, I thought. I figured my lines had been cut that week, as they sometimes were, and nobody bothered to tell me before I hauled my ass all the way over to the Fox lot. In my head, I started to map out the rest of my day. Maybe I would drive by Len’s office and tell him about my disastrous visit with Lynda Jewell. Plot out a defensive plan.

  Then I saw a handsome black boy who looked about ten waiting in the wings with a woman I guessed was his mother, who had a face suited for the camera herself. Since the only other black cast member was the male captain, who was in his sixties, I knew that kid was mine. My lines hadn’t been cut!

  We were all grinning as I walked toward them. We needed each other to survive.

  The boy stood up, straight and prim. Even from a distance, I could see that he’d curbed any childish tendencies toward twitching and playing in his quest to be an actor. He stepped before his mother, hand outstretched as if he’d just come from etiquette class.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hardwick,” the boy said, eager to let me know he had memorized my name. He gave me two firm pumps, adult-style. I noticed that the boy’s complexion and facial structure were an eerie match for my own. Casting had done a good job.

  He told me his name, Darnell, and dutifully ran through his credits: House of Payne, Cold Case, and even Sesame Street when he was three. His work had been steadier than mine. His mother beamed, but she kept a distance with a steady gaze that told me she would scratch my eyeballs out if I gave her a reason. I hoped a tigress for a mother would be enough to safeguard her son’s passage to adulthood, but I know too many child actors who’ve grown up too fast and lost their way. I’m glad I didn’t step in front of a camera until I was grown. I had enough problems without jumping on the Hollywood Bullshit-Go-Round.

  Elliot the Makeup Guy motioned over at me from the hall. Elliot looked like a teamster, in jeans and his trademark white sleeveless tees to show off his weight-room physique.

  “Gotta go,” I told Darnell. “See you in a few.”

  “I look forward to working with you, Mr. Hardwick!” Darnell piped with another perfect handshake. I hoped Darnell raised a little hell at home—at least a messy room. Something. Kids trained from diapers to be that eager to please everyone are in for a rude awakening.

  The narrow makeup room was a wall of mirrors and three empty chairs. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, dressed in a suit and tie just like Dad always wanted for me, and my imagination dared to dream. What if the kid became a semiregular? What if the writers created a home life for me—an honor reserved only for the leads? What if…?

  “Congratulate me,” I told Elliot, easing into his chair. “I’m a dad. Wish I had a cigar.”

  Elliot made a clucking sound. Half his conversations were sound effects, not words. In that way, he reminded me of Dad.

  “What’s that mean?” I said.

  Elliot made a two-toned humming sound, dusting my forehead with brown powder. “Kid or no kid, watch your ass today, Tin-Man.” His nickname for me—as in heartless, since he considers my strict heterosexuality a sin against all gaykind.

  You’d rather watch my ass for me, I thought. I’m comfortable around anybody, but Elliot’s bold stares had taken some getting used to, especially since it was his job to put his hands on me every day. I checked Elliot’s face in the mirror. His usual flirty smile wasn’t in sight. The vanity lights gleamed across his bald-shaved scalp.

  “What’s up, man?” I said.

  He pursed his lips. “A lot of mouths talking a lot of shit.” Elliot’s voice rumbled like a Brooklyn cabbie’s.

  “Man, just come out with it. I don’t need melodrama today.”

  Elliot shrugged, his jaw flexed. “There’s gonna be blood. Bang, bang.” He motioned his head toward the countertop at the other end of the room. I saw a row of small crimson squibs lined up—plastic packs used to simulate gunshot wounds.

  “Perry’s out this week,” I said. Not soon enough for me. The actor who played the mole, Kelsey—I’ll call him Perry—was ending his guest-starring stint in a hail of FBI-issue “bullets.” He was a former A-lister who’d starred in my favorite buddy cop movie when I was in high school, and I’d considered myself a true fan, not just the Hollywoodspeak kind. When I went up to him to introduce myself the first day he appeared on the set, he gave me a contemptuous look and asked for a decaf latte. Prick.

  “Not just him,” Elliot said.

  “Nobody else eats lead in the script.”

  Elliot’s throat burred. “Not yet. But after lunch? Who knows?” He whistled a long tone, a human teakettle. “I hear the writers were working all weekend. Tap, tap.” Elliot also spoke in monosyllabic repetitions. “Like I said: Watch your ass.”

  At least I understood why it had been so quiet. Someone was going to be written out—maybe Darla, who complained incessantly about her salary. Or Vick, who had made it loudly known that he’d been offered a part in a Bruckenheimer movie. Then again, Elliot enjoyed his role as the ears to all, and sometimes he took his soothsayer bit too far.

  My scenes were up first, so I had to get to work.

  My exchange with Darnell was in a corner of the set fashioned to look like the break room, a few tables and vending machines. I saw Darnell walking in a circle in the corner, reciting his lines with a furrowed brow. The director, Avery, took us through the blocking, and Darnell sailed through, playing the kid like an angry wiseass. He reminded me of Chela. He was convincing, so I sparked off him. For those few minutes, he was my son—hell, he was me, déjà vu. When I snapped my lines, Dad’s voice came out of my mouth.

  Cut. Done. Darnell’s mother clapped for us, full of praises for both. For the millionth time, I wondered how my life might have been different if I’d had a mother.

  While catering set up the table with aromatic pas
ta salad, sandwiches, and fresh cookies, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Rewrite,” said Benny, the wide-bodied head writer, handing me a stack of blue pages. I only saw his broad back retreating as fast as it could.

  Apparently, everyone else had gotten their scripts while I was shooting. Three or four sets of eyes dashed away like rabbits running for the bushes.

  Elliot motioned for me again. He had the blue pages, too.

  I sighed and headed for makeup. I wasn’t going to read bad news in front of a crowd.

  “Sorry,” Elliot murmured.

  I took my chair again. “Give me a minute. I haven’t seen it yet.”

  Maybe I would only be injured. Maybe…

  A TV script title page is like a production in itself, with the show’s logo, the episode’s title, and a list of personnel including the gaggle of producers, the director, and the writers. The first time I got a Homeland script with my name on a label, I kept it as proof that I was in control of my life again. I hoped this wouldn’t be my last—not now.

  Elliot read over my shoulder when I flipped open the pages, one of my pet peeves, but I was too worried to swat him away. He could probably hear my heart racing as I scanned deeper through the script, looking for my moment of glory. But the scene I remembered was gone. Over the weekend the writers had rewritten the entire third act. My eyes rushed over the jumble, trying to catch the gist: The mole, a guy named Kelsey, had shot someone.

  Jalil had more lines, calling Dad, Dad! But where was Sanford? My stomachache came back with a kicking sensation as I fanned through the pages to see what I’d missed.

  “There,” Elliot said gently, pointing on chapter 4.

  No dialogue, but I finally let myself see the stage direction: Sanford reels backward, falling across his desk. Sanford holds his neck with bloodied fingers, twitching and gasping. CLOSE ON SANFORD’S FACE: He is dead. Agents whisk JALIL to safety behind a cubicle, ducking. JALIL cries.