Hollywood Boulevard

by Janyce Stefan-Cole

  3

  B i l l y

  Andre and I were married in a private villa above Montego Bay, Jamaica. A friend of his owned the place, and we each invited two sets of guests for a week in paradise. Our

  honeymoon was soaked in coca rum sipped on a terrace overlooking the moonlit bay. A bag of mellow Jamaican pot materialized along with rolling papers, and one night we watched a light show over Cuba as a thunderstorm worked its way slowly from there to where we sat. There was snorkeling in an upside- down Eden: the silently undulating world of crazily colorful fish cruising and darting under the turquoise sea. We ate from papaya, mango, and avocado trees growing on the property. Andre was as relaxed as I'd ever seen him, even dancing with me to a reggae band. When I married Joe there hadn't been a honeymoon at all, only a rushed trip to City Hall and diner dinner later with friends by way of a party.

  I watched for hours that week as gigantic, lusty clouds puffed in dialogue with the Caribbean, spread before me like a flat, shiny stone running headlong into the sky. We drove in jeeps up over the mountains along dense Shangri- la- like hills where coffee grew and the people, poor as scratch, had the whitest teeth and readiest smiles. Each day we drank from fresh, machete- cut coconuts, a straw stuck in to sip, spooning out the pudding after the milk was gone. It was peaceful and empty and I got into the rhythm of days that grew progressively hotter and slower, one day much like the next. I began to wonder if that rhythm didn't make more sense than the chaotic passing of days in New York or Los Angeles, especially as days went on movie locations: self- important, chaotically on edge.

  Andre had just released a film, and leaving town as the reviews came out was his way of dealing with the outcome. He didn't care much one way or the other what the critics had to say, claiming it was more stylish to let a movie sort itself out (he all but refused to grant promotional interviews, which drove his producers into fits). The wedding had been worked in around the release date. At the time we were living in separate sections of New York. Andre had a huge loft in Soho; I was in a two- bedroom on the upper East Side. I bought the apartment after Joe, figuring there'd be less chance of us running into each other in that neighborhood and feeling like crap all over again. Joe grew Marxist over the moneyed East Side and rarely crossed over from the West Side. I spent hardly any time in my apartment, though I pretended the sparsely furnished rooms were home. I lived mostly in L.A., renting a house in Malibu at the time. Harry kept the jobs coming and my quote went up with each one. He kept advising me to buy property as a tax shelter and for security, but he didn't mean in New York City.

  Once I started seeing Andre, I mean once we went from having dinner a couple of times when he was in L.A.—where he'd be on a fishing expedition for financing his next film— and things looked to be turning into something more than casual, I tried to go home more often, managing a whole autumn season at the New York apartment. I'd spend a night here and there with Andre, or he'd come up to what he called my fake European flat. I lived a pleasant walk from the Metropolitan Museum. Joe used to call the museum New York City's cathedral. The few times I went there with Andre I half worried I'd see Joe, but it didn't happen. I'd picture him mocking Andre right to his face, maybe in front of a Rembrandt self- portrait. I didn't picture the other side, what Andre would do with Joe. Both men possessed rock- hard confidence but not much else in common that I could see.

  Joe claimed he proposed to me on the IRT number 1 as the subway car careened between stops under Broadway. I don't remember him asking, but I don't remember either how it came to pass that we did decide to marry. I'm not your most romantic female for those sorts of agendas. Andre wasn't much more definitive. He turned to me one evening after hanging up from a call with his producer. We were at his loft and it was late winter and snow was swirling outside the floor- length windows. I was standing in front of one making faces at Andre on the phone, doing a little snow dance, trying to coax him outside, like an excited child, and when he hung up he said we should get married.

  "What about the snow?" was all I said in response. Andre stood up and kissed the top of my head, as if to say good girl. We bundled scarves over our coats and went out into a hushed city, an inch already sticking, the sky sprinkling powdery flakes. We were inside a bistro after walking for fifteen minutes; everyone in the bar was in good spirits for no better reason than the falling snow, as if we were all happily stranded in a fort far from the real world. We found a table and decided to skip the dinner I'd planned to cook. After the second glass of wine, as the coq au vin arrived, Andre said a friend of his had a place in Jamaica. It was free in two weeks, and we should go down for the wedding.

  I asked, "What wedding?"

  "You, me. My assistant, Marta, will file for us down there. You will need a birth certificate, and they perform the rite. Is it rite or ritual?"

  "Ceremony. How much thought have you given this?"

  "None. Or some. Why must we think?"

  "Let's see; I would be your third wife and you would be my second husband, for starters."

  "What is the connection?"

  "We're two- and one- time losers. Why go through all that again?"

  "How very practical you are tonight. The snow has gotten harder." He was looking past me out the restaurant's window.

  "You're serious, Andre, aren't you?"

  He smiled indulgently, shrugged. "We can let it go."

  After dinner and dessert, of hot tarte tatin à la mode, we walked all the way to the Hudson River and were soggy in our coats by the time we found a cab to take us back to Andre's. I toyed in the cab with the idea of dropping him off and going back to my place, but my purse was in the loft. Stripping off our wet clothes inside Andre's door, my hair dripping, my scarf like used paper towel, pulling off my boots, I said, "Okay."

  "Okay," Andre said back. "Will you make us tea?"

  "I meant, okay, I'll go to Jamaica."

  "Yes, I know."

  "I hate when you do that."

  "Yes, but I do know my actresses."

  All of Andre's wives were actors. My quitting acting was not on the radar at the time of our Jamaican tryst. Would we have married if it was?

  Andre dismissed the news when I first quit. "We all love to hate the business," he said, assuming my negative mood would pass. "It is a cliché, Ardennes." I was relieved not to have to explain or defend myself. I wasn't sure I could. I only knew I was serious.

  If I was in crisis mode, I kept it under wraps. For all I know I'm still in crisis mode now. But the time slipped by pretty fast from that week in paradise to now, when I first began to suspect there were other ways to make one's way through the world than the one I was following. True, that week involved money and property and to some extent colonization, at least in that we were the foreign visitors with money to burn while the native population cooked and cleaned and waited on us. Andre's friend, the villa's owner, seemed well regarded by his staff; if there was any underlying misery or complaint, they hid it well. I guess I found things easier there. If poverty was the way of life, its relief may have been a general lack of complexity, and that appealed.

  One morning, early— I was up with the sun, the coolest part of each new day— I heard bleating at the heavy wire fence along the property line that ran steeply uphill. I followed the cries toward the avocado and lime trees, halfway up, and found a pair of goats, a mother and child, and the mother's head was stuck in the fence. I tried twisting and pushing her out by the horns, but the wire was too thick. If she hadn't been stuck, I wouldn't have gotten so near and that gave me a thrill, the intimacy of touching the horny appendages that only her imprisonment allowed. I talked to her quietly, her rectangular black pupils not panicked but surprisingly calm— or fatalistic. I told her not to worry, we would free her. I found Andre on the terrace with a carafe of coffee. He too liked the early morning and was chatting with the gardener, Gladfellow. I interrupted, telling Gladfellow about the goat.

  "Thah goat a'wa in thah fence, ma'am."
>
  " Whose goats are they, Gladfellow?" Andre asked.

  "Mon up the village, he no take care at all." (He said ah- tall— as if it was a one word melody.)

  Gladfellow wasn't usually that way. He'd taken me on a tour of the property, naming all the trees and plants. He'd shown me the low- growing ground cover called shy lady; when you bent down to touch the tiny leaves, they folded in on themselves like shy ladies. He'd taught me the time of day to best spot the male long- tailed Jamaican hummingbirds— the doctor bird— that came to suck the nectar of a certain row of bushes with honeysuckle- type flowers. He spoke softly and gently. But the goats would eat everything, even the shy ladies if they got through to the land. They were a nuisance, and stupid, he said, and that one in particular had a stubborn head. "Then you won't help me free the mother goat, Gladfellow?"

  "Not me, Ma'am," he said with his sweet, low laugh. He knew the goats better than I did, but I couldn't just leave the mother to die in the fence. It was her kid doing most of the bleating. Gladfellow headed down to the pool to fish out the leaves and debris fallen in overnight. There was always a skim of little night bugs on the surface in the morning.

  "Andre?" I said.

  He put his coffee down, placed a straw hat on his head and stood up. " Where is this baleful goat?" he said, touching my neck with the warm hand that had in the night felt the length and breadth of my flesh. Together we freed the goat. She skittered off with her kid without a backward glance.

  "No manners in nature," Andre said.

  "None needed," I answered.

  On Sunday afternoon we heard gospel singing from the village church a ways up the hill; sorrow redeemed in song, or just letting it all out in clear, strong voices. That night the village rolled with reggae: church in the morning, partying all night, music and tree frogs keeping time. I was tempted to go up the hill to join in but it wasn't my party; it wasn't my life to celebrate. The Jamaicans went at it until the night was replaced by a golden dawn and tranquil morning breezes.

  I took myself by surprise with tears when we finally said our good- byes to the island. It hadn't hit me yet that I was a wife again. I was just sad to leave. Within two months I was on location again, leaving Andre behind in New York City.

  I never made it back to Jamaica, though I surely thought I would.I suppose I could fly there tomorrow if I wanted. I waited until Detective Collins's voice mail came on after about six rings, and I left a message. He called back two minutes later. He'd screened the call? He sounded coolly surprised to hear from me, saying there'd been no further developments in the Machin case. In fact, there was no case at this point. I said I wasn't surprised, but that was not why I called.

  When I said I thought I was maybe being stalked, the Detective's first question was if I knew the individual. He slipped pronto into cop jargon. I wondered if people were always stalked by people they knew, or could it be a person in passing? He seemed to consider the question. Maybe I didn't sound sufficiently concerned because after a pause he asked why I'd called him.

  "You're not located in my department. I'll get you the number for the East Hollywood precinct; it's over on North Wilcox."

  "No, that's all right. I'm probably making something out of nothing and I can find the local police if I need to. Thanks, Detective Collins; I'm sorry I bothered you. It's just your card was in my pocket."

  "You didn't bother me, Ms. Thrush." He seemed to be making up his mind, and if things can be sensed over the phone, I sensed he sensed he was going to regret what came next. "Is the person there now?"

  "No, I'm at the hotel. There's security. It's not impossible, but I don't think he'd try to break in."

  "What makes you say that? Then you do know the man?"

  "He works in a shoe store. He showed up at the lobby last night and twice today while I was out running errands. He just appeared. . . ."

  "I'll be there in an hour."

  "You can do that? You won't get into trouble?"

  Detective Collins laughed, unkindly but he also sounded amused. "I don't get into trouble, Ms. Thrush; I make trouble for those who do." It sounded like a movie line, if he'd meant it to or not, and I laughed. I gave him the hotel address and pass code to the security gate and hung up.

  I looked around to neaten up, but nothing was out of place, so I paced back and forth in front of the big sitting room window. I took the new scarf and sweaters out of their bags and placed them on the bed. I realized I hadn't eaten and pulled what was left of a rotisserie chicken out of the fridge and made myself a hasty sandwich. The day had turned pleasantly warm and clear; I opened the balcony door and stood looking out over the hills as I ate. The mountains in the distance dissolved into a faded blue blur with a roll of clean white clouds balanced above.

  An hour came and went. No Detective Collins. I felt pretty silly. Eddie Tompkins hadn't done anything to me. Why did I assume he meant me harm? He only wanted a job. He'd seemed nice enough, if too all over me in the shoe store. He saw me as an opportunity and I'd dismissed him. I hadn't even bothered to mention him to Andre. There was a time when I was hungry for work, times I asked my mother for help with the rent. Things eased up some when Joe and I pooled our resources, and then I started auditioning for commercials and that stabilized us for a while. At least I'd never had to work in a shoe store. I must have looked like a sign from the gods to Eddie Tompkins. I remember telling Joe I had no choice: "You have to be aggressive. You can't just stand there bundled up with talent and hope somebody notices. There's tons of talent rolling around out there."

  Joe said an artist had to work her craft and that excellence came with time and concentration. Sure, he was right, but he wasn't an actor. He didn't have to trade on youth or sex or some physical quirk. He knew I was torn on that point. He knew I despised the sex- as- sales- pitch part of the business, but was I going to change that? I wasn't even standard beautiful. I was always going to have to crash through the gates. I'd crashed through all right and landed pretty high up on the heap. I never got to tell Joe just how much of what I found there I loathed.

  I was about to call Detective Collins, tell him to forget it; I'd overreacted. I'd call Eddie Tompkins and tell him, very nicely, I couldn't help. I would suggest he call what was left of Harry's business, assuming Machin Talent would continue without him. I could name one or two other agencies; he could use my name to secure an interview. I might not mean much these days, but Andre sure did. After that I would insist he not contact me again—

  My cell phone went off in my pocket. It was Detective Collins. He'd parked, but I hadn't told him my room number. I looked over the balcony wall and waved, indicating the staircase past the laundry, and held up a V for two, second floor. In a minute he was standing inside the suite, wearing a suit and overcoat, I think the same tie as the other week. He seemed taller, or the rooms smaller. He was so much more a guy than I what was used to; I couldn't help it, he was physically more masculine than all the other men I'd been with— put together. Acute manliness might be good in a cop.

  "Detective Collins, please come in." He walked past me, with authority. "I'm afraid I've wasted your time, Detective."

  He was busy taking in the sitting room, and then a glance into the bedroom. "Big windows," he said. The plate and glass from my lunch were still out on the balcony table. "There's a guy out there, across the hill. That your stalker?"

  I looked out. I'd been here days before I noticed White Shirt; the Detective cased him in ten seconds. "That's White Shirt; he lives there."

  " White Shirt, huh? Well, he's looking over here. Is that usual?"

  "It's his garden. And he's not the man I called about. Would you like to sit down?"

  "No."

  For a good- looking man he had a pretty lousy bedside manner. That movie line came back to me, the one that always got a laugh. I tried a variation: "How do I call off the cavalry, Detective?" The line fell flat. Maybe I couldn't act even if I wanted to; there was a thought.

  "Why the change o
f heart? You were threatened?"

  "No. The shoe store's just a job; the guy is an actor looking

  for a break. He asked me to give his card to my husband, Andre Lucerne— he's a director. I might have done the same thing once upon a time."

  "Followed someone?"

  "Hey, I know a pair of actors who dressed up as heavies and went to Al Pacino's New York apartment with toy guns, demanding a job on his movie."

  "It work?"

  "It did, but they were only on screen for ten seconds."

  "Does your man have a gun?"

  "He didn't pull one." I sounded annoyed.

  "Does he have a name?"