Still Holding

by Bruce Wagner

  A Disturbing Call

  WHEN BECCA ARRIVED at her Six Feet Under gig, they said there was some kind of fuckup. Her services weren’t needed until later that week.

  She’d already given Viv the trusted alibi—caretaking moribund Mom—this time even going slightly overboard in the drama department because of what she felt to be the necessity of washing the taste of a certain recent rooftop encounter out of her employer’s mouth. (Becca said the Dunsmores were crazy and she’d only met them once or maybe twice and didn’t want anything to do with them. Fortunately, Viv dismissed the whole incident with a kind of blithe, disgusted wave of the hand.) Instead of going back to Venice, she went shopping on Third. She phoned Dixie on the cell to say hi, in a cheap attempt to mitigate her guilt over the creepy cancer cover story.

  She hooked up with Annie. They ate lunch at the Grove with Larry Levine then went to a movie.

  Afterward, Larry split and the girls smoked weed and baked cookies at the apartment on Genesee, gossiping about their exes. At suppertime, they decided to go to Forty Deuce, but Becca was reluctant because she couldn’t reach Rusty to tell him.

  “What is he, your fucking keeper?” said Annie.

  The TV report caught Becca’s eye. “Oh my God! Turn it up!”

  [STUDIO ANCHOR] Lots of excitement in Riverside today when a member of the paparazzi “flipped” for Kit Lightfoot. More now, from Macey Dolenz.

  [OUTSIDE THE RIVERSIDE GALLERIA] That’s right, Raquel. The actor, who is still recovering from an assault last year in a West Hollywood liquor store that left him with extensive neurological damage, evidently went on an unscheduled outing this morning [FOOTAGE OF FLIPPED CAR] and was chased by Jimmy Newcombe, a freelance photographer. Newcombe was in hot pursuit of the reclusive superstar when he lost control of his car as Kit Lightfoot’s driver continued on. The photographer was briefly hospitalized before being released. Photos of the recovering actor, at a premium, are said to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars on both domestic and world tabloid markets. [OLD FOOTAGE OF RIVERSIDE HOUSE] Lightfoot, who has not given any interviews since the tragic incident, has been sequestered at his boyhood home since his release last Christmas from Valle Verde Rehab Center in Valencia, where he spent a closely guarded six months. [BACK TO MALL; SCHOOLGIRLS/-BOYS IN B.G., JOCKEYING TO BE SEEN] But, today, it seems like he went on a field trip to the Riverside Galleria, where he cheerfully signed autographs for supportive fans. Macey Dolenz, for KTTL, in Riverside.

  [BACK TO STUDIO] A much needed, and hopefully, much enjoyed field trip at that. A tragic, fascinating story—and one we haven’t heard the end of yet.

  [OTHER STUDIO ANCHOR] Little bit of an old-fashioned movie car chase there, huh?

  —Keystone kops.

  Coming up: a wild Wednesday for the Patriots, when they found their offense “up for grabs.”

  • • •

  BECCA’S CELL PHONE lit up: CALLER UNKNOWN. She didn’t think it was Rusty because when he phoned it usually said PRIVATE.

  “Hello? Rusty? Hello?”

  The club was too noisy for her to hear anything. She said “Hello? Hello?” through the crowd until she was outside.

  “Hello, who is it?”

  “Becca? Is it you?”

  “Yes, this is Becca. Who is it?”

  “It’s Elaine!”

  “Elaine?”

  “Elaine Jordache. Did you hear about Kit Lightfoot?”

  “The chase?”

  “They caught the person who did that to him.”

  “They what?”

  “The one who hit him on the head!” she said, adding testily: “He worked for me.” Then: “Have you talked to Rusty?”

  “No—”

  “Then you don’t know any of this?”

  “Know any of what, Elaine?” said Becca, getting peeved.

  “The police are supposedly looking for him because of something that person said . . .”

  “That person—”

  “The idiot who cracked Kit Lightfoot’s skull! They were friends, they knew each other.”

  “Friends? Who—?”

  “There supposedly was a murder, in Virginia—”

  “Elaine, I don’t understand this! I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “If you talk to Rusty, do not tell him that we spoke. All right? Will you promise me, Becca? Because we could be in danger, and I am scared shitless. I am in fear for my life!”

  A Decent Proposal

  BURKE CALLED FROM Vegas to tell Cela that a suspect in his son’s assault had been arrested.

  He said the police were sitting on it for the weekend but to expect a burst of media activity on Monday, when the announcement would officially be made. He didn’t want Kit to know anything and was only mentioning it in case something leaked before he got back. Try to keep him away from the television. Just in case.

  That night Cela invited Kit to her house for dinner. She lived outside the media-free zone; there was an element of delinquency, but more so because Burke was away and wouldn’t have approved. It was just like the old days, when they snuck around their parents after dark.

  Steaks sizzled on the Foreman. Kit leaned over to inspect the water bowls with floating votive candles that dotted the yard.

  “So who died?” he said with a smile.

  “Very funny,” said Cela.

  His limp was no longer pronounced. He wore a white button-down Gap shirt and new Levi’s, and was three days into the haircut she’d given him.

  “You look nice,” she said.

  She’d chosen a short little black dress, but Kit didn’t comment.

  “Dad in Vegas,” he said, declaratively.

  “That’s right.”

  “When coming back?”

  “ ‘When is he coming back?’”

  “When is he coming back?”

  “You can really speak beautifully when you want to.”

  “When is he coming back, when is he coming back,” he said, gently mocking.

  “Depends on how fast he loses,” she said. “He loves giving them his money.”

  “Loves giving them my money.”

  Cela laughed. His sense of humor was intact—everything was pretty much intact. He just moved a bit more slowly, in mind and in body, a bit less elegantly than before. He sporadically discarded words and consonants, his inflection unpredictably emphatic or slurred, but Cela was convinced that was because there was no one riding herd.

  “Ever go with him?” he asked.

  “To Vegas? Couple of times.”

  “Where did you stay?”

  “The Bellagio. He knows some people there. Or the Mirage.”

  “You fuck him a long time?”

  She turned from the grill, narrowing her eyes. “There is nothing between me and your father.”

  “I saw you,” he said. She went back to grimly futzing with the blackened steaks. Kit’s smile became bittersweet. “I don’t . . . judgment. No energy to judge. Have got . . . energy for eating and shitting and . . . maybe signing autograph. Autographs,” he corrected.

  “Your father,” she said awkwardly, “was good to me. Burke has his flaws—does he ever. OK? And I know that. I’m well aware. The bottom line is he took care of me when I got out of rehab. More than once. And I know he did some really shitty things to you, Kit—to you and your mom. And I respect whatever feelings you have toward him about that. OK? That’s not really my business. All I can deal with is how he—what he did for me. And that he’s a human being. He was right there, Kit. He was there for me. My father wasn’t, and neither were you—and that’s so not your fault! I’m sorry. That’s bullshit, and I shouldn’t have even said it. I’m sorry. It just—it had nothing to do with you. I’m not a perfect person, Kit—never said I was. OK? But I love you and I just don’t even really want to talk about any of this anymore. Or right now, OK?” She choked back tears and said, “I just want us to have a nice dinner and be sweet to each other—”

  “I�
��m sorry, Cela.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m sorry I had a . . . big movie star life.”

  She hadn’t seen him angry since the injury—anger was probably a good thing. Still, it hurt to be the target.

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “But I don’t anymore! So don’t worry!”

  His face contorted with rage, then he broke into raucous laughter. Always with the practical jokes. She wanted to hug him, but he turned the tables again. “You’re using,” he said.

  Cela poignantly winced. “Once in a while.”

  She went back to her business at the grill. (Actor’s prop for a difficult scene.)

  “You shouldn’t do it.”

  “How about a urine test?” she said, stung. “But can we do it after dessert? Look: I’m well aware that I’m fucking up, OK? Does that make you feel better, Kit? I’m gonna start going to meetings again, I already decided that.” She shoveled the meat onto plates and sighed. “Shit.”

  He grew quiet. The table was beautifully set with white cloth, white flowers, white candles.

  They didn’t talk as they ate, but she watched him. The world had been upended though some things would never change. She was reminded of when they first went out and how she was nervous and always trying to please him.

  After supper, they sat on a porch rocker, staring at the moon.

  “Tula’s probably freaking out you’re here, huh.”

  “I told him to . . . get a life. I told him—go guard some chicken tonight. At Koo Koo Roo.”

  “Now that he’s a famous stunt driver, you better look out. Some headhunter’s gonna poach him.” She lit a cigarette. “So, what’s up with those Buddhists? They’re kind of a trip. I mean, they’re like full service, huh. They cook, they clean, they meditate . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, I think they’re great. You’ve been into that a long time, huh.”

  “Yeah right. Buddhism has been berry, berry good to me.”

  Cela laughed, not really catching the reference. “Kit,” she said, earnestly. “Do you remember anything about what happened? I mean, the night that guy hit you?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing about the hospital?” He shook his head. “What about when you visited with Burke a few weeks before? You came and looked at some things that belonged to your mom.” He shook his head again. “We went over to Grant, on your hog.”

  “I don’t remember anything that happen. Happened. For about maybe a year or maybe three month—s before I hit my head.”

  “Do you . . . do you remember Viv?”

  “I do!” he said, stalwartly. “I do remember . . . Viv Wembley! But I am not assure . . . that Viv Wembley remembers me!”

  Without warning, he groped her. He wetly kissed her mouth and squeezed a tit. She kissed him back, then said, “I don’t think this is such a great idea.”

  “Dad won’t mind,” he said.

  “That has nothing to do with it,” she said. She quickly decided it was absurd to be offended by his remark—everything was so ridiculous and heartbreaking.

  “Could you at least . . . think about it?” he said.

  She shook her head wryly and pulled out a joint. “I think,” she said, “I’m gonna become a Buddhist.”

  A Tangled Web

  “MOTHERFUCKER SNITCHED off my boy. Leaves Kit Lightfoot droolin in his soup, then goes and ruins a major QuestraWorld property! For sport! For fuckin sport!”

  “He was up at the house, wasn’t he?” said Cassandra.

  “That’s right—the look-alike wanna-be was swimmin in our motherfuckin pool. Man, how low can you go to be a look-alike wanna-be? No offense, Becca. Cause you and Rusty the real thing.”

  “He was here,” said Cassandra as she fiddled with a two-carat diamond created from the ashes of their beloved little girl. “Sniffin round Rusty like a puppy dog. Talkin shit about how he was big in Tokyo doin Kit Lightfoot look-alike gigs. I don’t even think Elaine Jordache would hire him.”

  “She wouldn’t get fuckin near his raggedy unlook-alike ass. And you got to be pretty low for Elaine not to try to squeeze some fuckin money out of you. That lady knows her shit.”

  “He sure didn’t look like Kit Lightfoot.”

  “He looked like Kit Lightfoot as much as I do.”

  “Not unless he did his hair up a certain way.”

  “He was a fuckin housepainter, Cass! Shit mother fucker.” He stomped around in front of the picture window. “And he snitched off my boy! We was about to lock Rusty up, wasn’t we, Cass?” He turned to Becca, who was struggling to remember whether or not the Kit look-alike was at the Chateau table-read. “We was about to give your old man major dollars and stamp ‘Property of QuestraWorld’ on his hairy butt. Wasn’t we, Cass?”

  He made the sizzling sound of a cattle brand while his wife took a hit of pot.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe we was.”

  “That’s right, you better believe it. That was my call. Cause you might be CEO and COO but I’m the president and secretary-in-motherfucking-arms. So motherfuck that ‘maybe’ shit.” He mad-dogged Cassandra though both knew who’d win in a fight. Grady did a line, then handed the rolled bill to Becca. She shook her head but he wouldn’t have it. He watched like a scientist while she snorted up. “Man,” he said. “You gotta write something down about your killer boyfriend.” He got a neon brainstorm. “I know! We’ll get Dr. J to do a script. Cause Rusty’s gonna be hotter than shit—Access Hollywood, Dateline, Sixty Minutes—ev’rybody gonna line up. Old Larry King too. Rusty gonna be hotter than the dude who killed Versace.”

  “Andrew Carnegie,” said Cass.

  “Whatever.” He looked like he just goosed himself. “Oh shit. Oh shit. What’s Spike Jonze gonna do? Shit, man, this is good! The plot gets fuckin thickerer! I’ll tell you what Spike’s gonna do, he gonna love it, that’s what—”

  “There ain’t no such thing as bad publicity.”

  “—especially with the motherfucker who whacked Kit Lightfoot on the head bein a Kit Lightfoot look-alike hisself!”

  “It’s tawdry, baby,” said Cassandra. “It’s real tawdry!”

  Grady began to squeal. “Spike and his peeps gonna be happier than motherfuckers! All hot and bothered, cause now they got Russell and they got Rusty in the can—I don’t mean the penitentiary, neither. That’s somethin to Crowe about! Got the two of ‘em on film, man . . . it’s a motherfucking wrap!”

  He sucked and squealed and clapped his hands together while doing a little dance. Then he fell to his knees before the table like a spent soul singer and sucked up two pencil-thick lines.

  Cassandra held the diamond ring up to Becca’s eyes. “Ain’t it pretty? That’s my little girl. Didn’t they do her beautiful?”

  “Got your boy on Murder One!” said Grady, gleefully. “Whacked some fucker in the horsey set, in Virginia. Ain’t that your hometown? Didn’t he never say nothin to you about that?”

  “Why would he, Grady?” said Cassandra, drowsily. “He and some . . . fancy lady—” She nodded out, then came to. “Gettin it on at some ritzy equestrian center . . . now why would he want to—”

  “Ritzy whuh?” he said, furrowing his brow. “Some ritzy bar-mitzy whuh?”

  “—killed the husband? Or whatever? Now why would he mention that to our sweet little Becca? Why would he want her to even know anything about that? Huh, Grady?”

  “Shit,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “How the fuck would I know? Could be nightie-night talk. You and me used to nightie-night talk shit, didn’t we? Never know what goes on behind closed doors.”

  Cassandra drunkenly warbled, “When you get behind closed doors, and you let your hair hang low . . .”

  “Who knows what these two look-alikes here shared?” said Grady the horn-dog. “I’ll tell you who—the shadow do!”

  “And you make me feel like ah’m a man! No one knows what goes on behind closed doors—“Cassandra shrieke
d, collapsing in rheumy laughter.

  “Man,” said Grady, regarding her with disdain. “You like that fat crazy bitch on The Sopranos. You jus’ like Tony Soprano’s sister.” Jake cried from his crib. Grady cast a lecherous eye on Becca. “Lotta shit goes on behind closed doors . . . if you know what I mean.”

  He touched her thigh and she pulled away. She was sad and stoned and had no energy to leave. Outside the window, a ghostly pool man drew a long pole through the water.

  “Tell you one thing,” said Grady, lighting up. “Tell you one thing, for sure—that boy gonna need to get lawyered up. Mr. Russell Crowe Junior’s gonna need hisself some legal funds.”

  “And we ain’t gonna give him shit.”

  “Oh yes we are.”

  “Oh no we ain’t.”

  “Oh yes we are. And I’ll tell you why.”

  “OK, baby. You tell me why.”

  “I’ll tell you why and you’re gonna like it.”

  “Right—I’m gonna love it. I’m gonna love it like I love your crusty ol’ butthole.”

  “You gonna love that too when I’m through. Gonna love it when I’m prairie doggin. Gonna wanna pitch a tent in there. You gonna wanna up my salary too.”

  “I’ll up it. Love to. Up it till it hurts.”

  “We gonna buy that screenplay he wrote.”

  “We ain’t gonna buy shit.”

  “I got five words for you: To Kill a Unicorn.”

  “That’s four, dickwad.”

  “Now what’d Rusty say when I axe him what that screenplay was about? What’d he say, Cass?” She thought about it as she went on the nod. “What’d he say? Yeah, that’s right—now she finally cain’t say nothin—now she won’t—cause she knows what he said. The man said it was a murder mystery. Right? OK? And where did he say it took place? At the track! Or some kinda horsey farm. ‘Member, Cass?”