The Haunting of James Hastings

by Christopher Ransom

  A big black guy with dreads ejected himself from the driver’s side, stumbled a few steps and stared at me. Hermes. He walked to the front of his car, paused and recoiled. He looked at me once more and turned away, his hand automatically putting a cell phone to his ear. He had seen this or something as bad, probably involving bullet or knife wounds. He was already calling his lawyers. He wasn’t the one who called 9-1-1.

  Annette did that. She told me I was screaming as I staggered to the destroyed woman’s side, howling my wife’s name as other residents carried me away from her. I tried to run, tripped on the curb and fell into the gutter, crying with my head between my knees as my neighbors surrounded me. I smelled Euvaldo’s cologne and saw Annette’s face floating before me. Women were screaming in the street, and the Gomez children were crying as their mother led them away from what I had done.

  I don’t remember the rest of the week.

  SHE

  Trigger once told James that these types of lookalike and security gigs ran hot for a year or two at most, and that he should prepare himself for the day when it shut off entirely, without notice. Ghost’s record sales might nose-dive, forcing staff cuts. He might find someone else who looked like him. He might fade away and become a producer, a clothing magnate, not a performer. He might get shot, overdose, commit suicide. Stacey and James decided that when any of these things happened, they would dive into the parenthood training program: regular sex, healthier lifestyle, painting of the nursery, college savings account.

  They were only twenty-eight, James reasoned. They had a few years. Stacey chose some names anyway. She did not care for the crop of currently fashionable unisex names like Alexis, Peyton, Ashton, Jude. She liked simple, early twentieth-century names. She felt it was important to go with something strong yet humble. She chose Edward for a boy, Doris for a girl, and truthfully she wanted both and probably a third. James thought privately that some women nearing thirty develop a fecund Mom-ness about them; a sensuous, earthen, biological emanation that surrounds them like baby powder. He believed Stacey had acquired this aspect while he had his back turned. He would come home from a gig and find her loose and braless in her sweats, her hair a day or two unwashed but sweet, a luster in her cheeks. Her breasts would seem to have swelled a cup size and he would experience an unimagined ache in his chest for want of filling her womb, her days, her life with something more.

  He returned from a summer concert festival to learn she had adopted the beagle. Henry kept her company when James was away, and provided her with a new lifestyle. The dog beds, the training, dog parks, walks on the beach. Henry helped Stacey meet new friends, other childless, dog-owning couples and singletons that got used to bumping into her at the big park off of Mulholland Drive.

  James hired a fencing contractor, and Henry had his yard. But they still liked to drive over the hill, to the hiking trail off Laurel Canyon. Every other Saturday or Sunday they would pack a small cooler with seltzer, grapes, cheese, crackers, and sometimes a book for James to read to her. He would load Henry into the car and park in the shade at the foot of the path. Stacey would leash Henry and James would throw a Mexican blanket over his shoulder, and they would go up the hill.

  The last time they had made this trip, Stacey had been wearing a yellow sundress with roses on it and, in odd contrast, her silver running shoes, a chunky, no-nonsense digital watch and a pair of marksman-yellow tinted Aviators too large around her small face and low cheekbones. Her white hair had grown past her shoulders and as he watched his wife and her dog trotting along, confident, headstrong and not wanting for much but a baby, for the first time James thought, the girl is gone. She disappeared while I was working and she is a real woman now. And that was good, the only real evidence he had become a man.

  The paved trail was a golf cart path too steep for any golf cart to climb. After half a mile of traversing, the pavement turned to dirt, sandy in places, pebble-strewn and rocky in others. James was wheezing behind Stacey and Henry. She had done her time in the Pilates and yoga gulags. This being his final year as Ghost’s double, James was going to flab on Craft Services and road grub, which might have been a problem if Ghost himself were not simultaneously falling apart and bloating in public. The artist had developed a fondness for little brown bottles of magic pills and late night drive-thru fare.

  In those early years, back when Ghost was built like a whippet, James’s contract stipulated a strict fitness regimen, his weight and general shape (muscle tone) not to exceed ‘The Employer/Artist _____’ by more than seven pounds or 8% total weight of artist and +/- 6% of artist body mass index. To eliminate any excuse for violating this clause, James was provided with memberships to three national chain fitness centers, and whenever the entourage checked into a hotel, the spa and gym package was a given. They dined on organic snacks, and the nutritionist emailed James meal plans to follow at home, where he took it upon himself to perform two hundred sit-ups and push-ups every morning and again at night just before bed. At least once a week, in addition to each of the fourteen days prefacing major events where he would be on camera, James was taken to a private dressing room and inspected, measured, framed, lighted and prodded just about everywhere but his junk, and even that was sometimes squeezed by Janey, the matriarchal lesbian from wardrobe (but only in jest, as one might squeeze the Charmin in the grocery store to see if it’s really as soft as advertised). Urine and blood were taken to test for drugs, enzymes and God knows what else. Neutro-Ceuticals were applied to his skin. Exfoliation was expected.

  James didn’t dare test these policies, not for the first two years. He needed the job. He wanted the job. But near the end he wanted out and was letting himself go to pot. His body was rebelling and trying to force his hand at a time when he was too lazy and in denial to sack up and find a new job. Climbing that hill with Stacey and Henry was instrumental in making him face the truth.

  But even if James had not been out of shape, he would have been forced to have The Talk that afternoon. Stacey had been waiting for the right moment to bring him around. James did not know it would be their last honest discussion.

  ‘I really hope we don’t see any snakes,’ he said. ‘Watch your step, babe.’

  They had reached the first plateau and continued on a smaller path, off the main one, into the brush. The lane was now only about a foot wide and every so often disappeared in a washout. James knew there were coyotes and mountain lions out here, things that could make short work of Henry.

  ‘There’s rattlers in these hills!’ Stacey shouted back. ‘Are those slither tracks?’

  ‘Not cool.’

  He knew she was teasing, but the image her remark planted in his head now had him looking everywhere for signs of The Ones Who Move Without Legs. James had a serious fear of snakes, one that could not be diluted with logic. Seeing them anywhere, in the wild or on a movie screen, touched something primal in him, as if the devil were dipping his quill pen in James’s cerebellum.

  When they had gone another hundred yards without seeing any humies (Stacey’s word for annoying passersby), she let Henry off the leash and the dog ran ahead, sniffing everything and pissing on cacti. They found a tree and made their picnic in its shade. James kept watching the ground, checking the spaces between bushes and the blanket, ridges in the sand, waiting for that dried twig to come alive.

  ‘Oh, James. Are you really still thinking about snakes?’

  He looked back at her. ‘I’m fine.’

  And that was true. Being away from civilization with her calmed him. Stacey put her shoes under her head and stretched across the blanket. Her dress was riding a little high and he ran his hand over her thigh, watching the heat-scorched San Fernando go on for miles, a dry sea of man-made blight reaching to the horizon.

  ‘I missed you this time,’ he said, watching Henry dig in the sand down the hill, where he appeared to have cornered a chipmunk. ‘A lot.’

  She didn’t respond for a minute and he wondered if she had dozed off a
lready. But when she spoke, her voice was clearer, as if she had just found her cue card.

  ‘Do you ever worry about that stuff that happened?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Back in Wisconsin?’

  James tensed.

  ‘I’m not saying that you should worry,’ Stacey said. ‘And I know we talked about it and you’re supposed to forget about it, and I have, too. For the most part. But - do you ever think about it?’

  ‘You mean how the parents are doing?’ He knew damn well what she was talking about. ‘Or the kids?’

  ‘The kids are dead, James. The parents are ruined.’

  He knew this too. But why was she digging in?

  ‘No, I don’t think about it. But you do, so why don’t you tell me what you want to tell me?’

  She was calm, which was more unsettling. ‘I’m worried, ’ she said. ‘I’m really scared, James.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About you. About your safety.’

  ‘Honey, we have security. Ghost is totally paranoid. We don’t go anywhere without the Secret Service.’ They weren’t the Secret Service, but that’s what he called the dozen or so hulking bikers and thugs Ghost kept on the payroll. ‘I’ve explained this before.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said, and he knew he had walked into a trap of his own setting. ‘Have you ever considered why he’s so paranoid?’

  ‘He’s a celebrity. He’s got millions of fans. He spends ninety per cent of his waking hours smoking weed and popping pills. Take your pick.’

  ‘John Lennon had millions of fans, and he wasn’t singing about kidnapping, murdering and dissecting women with power tools.’

  James took a deep breath and counted to five. This did not stop the knee-jerk reaction, the one he used to deflect the fact that he worked for a man who was in some quarters as reviled as Larry Flynt and the President.

  ‘I’m not Ghost,’ James said, and immediately realized how asinine that was.

  ‘Yes, you are, James. To them you are. That’s the whole point of your job. And don’t tell me you have the same kind of protection he does, not when you’re out doing dummy appearances at the Viper Room and he’s in St Louis holed up in his mansion. Do you know he wears a bullet-proof vest now? He won’t even leave the house without it.’

  ‘Did you read that in Vibe?’

  ‘He bragged about it in the 60 Minutes piece last November. Don’t play dumb. We can argue, but please don’t insult me by pretending you aren’t aware of the risk.’

  ‘It’s part of his image, Stacey. Ninety per cent of the game is fiction, braggadocio. You know that.’

  For the first time she began to raise her voice. ‘You’re not listening to me. I know that, you know that, Ghost knows that. But the angry parents don’t. The right-wing wack-jobs don’t know that, or don’t care. They see him and they think, Behold, the Antichrist!’

  ‘You’re talking about a handful of people. They don’t follow him around. They write letters to Congress.’

  She was on her knees, leaning toward him now, her eyes watering up. ‘All it takes is one. One unhinged fuck who mistakes you for him and, and . . .’ and now she was crying. ‘What am I supposed to do? What would I do without you?’

  James threw a stick he had been peeling. ‘You want me to quit? Just say it, if that’s what you want. Tell Ghost he can keep his six-figure donations to the Hastings foundation?’

  ‘Don’t do that. Don’t talk about money with me. We have plenty of money. We used to live on bar tips. I’m talking about your life. Our life.’

  James might as well have been arguing with his mother. She had all but disowned him when he took the job.

  ‘You’re just scared,’ Stacey said. ‘You’re being a coward.’

  ‘Oh, I’m scared now.’

  ‘You’re afraid of moving on. You’ve got it so good, you’re afraid to push yourself and do what you said you would do. You’re so used to being him, you’re afraid nobody wants James Hastings.’

  James didn’t have anything to refute that with. She crawled across the blanket and hugged him fiercely.

  ‘You’re all I have.’

  James could not remain defensive or angry. He knew that his wife was truly scared. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was bothering you so much.’

  Stacey composed herself. ‘I’m sorry for dumping it on you all at once. I just don’t see you and then you’re home and I don’t want to spoil it. But I can’t take it any more, James. I can’t. I wish I could, but I’m done with it.’

  Still, he wondered how much of her fear was real and how much was just her missing him. He knew she wasn’t being manipulative, but he thought that maybe, without her even being aware of it, this was her biology’s way of trying to get her husband back. The first step toward making that baby, normalizing the rest of their lives.

  ‘Are you happy?’ she said. ‘Do you even like what you do any more?’

  James didn’t have to think for very long. ‘I’m tired. I’m tired of being away from home. Tired of playing the same stupid role.’

  ‘Really?’ She wiped her cheeks, smiling.

  Henry came running back to them, panting and collapsing in the shade, his chest going like a little freight train. Chicka-chicka-chicka . . .

  ‘I have daydreams where his career is going down in flames. It’s awful, but sometimes I wish he would overdose again, or, I don’t know, just get in another fight and pull his gun on somebody and wind up in jail. Or die. Then it would be over and I could walk away.’

  ‘That’s horrible, James.’ She was laughing. ‘But I’ve prayed for the same thing.’

  ‘Three years is enough. I never expected it to last this long. Maybe I can produce a film, get into music videos. Something.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. We have the money. I’ll be your D-girl.’

  They sat there for a while, thinking about the future. It was nice to remember they had choices.

  ‘Stacey.’ He said her name to hear it, to remind himself. There was power in her name, not to be taken for granted.

  She kissed him. In the shade he showed her that he loved her, and she showed him that she loved him, and they decided right then to try and make a baby on the hill. But it didn’t take. And he didn’t quit.

  He loved her, but he didn’t quit until after she was dead.

  20

  My angel was talking to me again.

  ‘James? James? You’re awake, baby, just open your eyes.’

  Slits of light stabbed my eyeballs. I clenched them tighter.

  ‘Will you lower those?’ Stacey said to someone. ‘It’s too bright for him.’

  Things darkened. I could feel them waiting for me. I smelled bacon and coffee, and I was very hungry. There was no escape. I opened and closed my eyes in increments, a little wider each time, until I was awake, looking around. Nothing was blurry. It was just like waking up on any other morning, except the TV was bolted to the wall. If breakfast had been here, it was gone now. Stacey was squeezing my hand but I could not see her.

  ‘I’m back here, honey,’ she said.

  I craned my neck. She was . . . no, she wasn’t. She had the same blonde hair but her face was shaped differently. Oval like Stacey’s, yes, but more severe somehow. Her cheeks were sharper, and she had freckles. Annette, of course. Annette was standing beside me, up by my shoulders, facing my feet and our audience.

  But something about her had changed. She smiled down at me and winked and I realized one of her eyes was now blue, the other green. Blue is for blondes, green is for redheads. Isn’t that right? Which one had Stacey lost? The left eye, the same one of mine that developed astigmatism. Annette had winked at me with her left eye, the one that had changed. It had gone blue and cold, too steady.

  Stacey’s eye, lost in the accident . . .

  ‘There he is. All caught up on his beauty sleep and ready to confess.’

  Detective Tod Bergen raised himself from a low chair at the end of the bed. He wore
a smooth, almost shining gray suit and a white shirt open at the collar. With his coiffed blond hair and chrome sunglasses dangling between his pectorals he looked like an ad for menthols. There were no doctors or nurses in the room.

  ‘Confess to what?’ I said.

  ‘Sneaking extra hits of morphine.’ Bergen grinned. ‘Doc says no injuries other than the bruising on your back and some raspberries on your knees. They’re going to do a psych-o on you before you check out. You might have a few rounds of PTSD to go yet, but I told them you were tough. You feel up to a talk?’