He looked at them again and realized he was not looking at the same ones he'd bought. Those were pink, these were deep red. Where did she put his?
"It's tulip season again, huh?"
She smiled and nodded.
"I saw some great pink ones the other day. I knew I should have gotten them for you. Somebody beat me to it, huh?"
Her smile remained. It said nothing different from a moment ago. Or was it the slightest bit pitying?
He liked to shave before going to bed – a personal quirk. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror scraping off the last bits of snowy foam, he suddenly pointed his razor at the mirror.
"I heard what you two are doing. Don't think I don't know, you bastard!"
"Are you talking to me?" She called from the bedroom.
"No, Peter Copeland."
He smiled his own weird smile when she didn't say anything to that.
Her fingers were moving lightly across his face when he saw how to break it. Pushing her hand away, he took over and started touching her much too hard, hurting her. To his surprise, she jerked and twisted but remained silent. It was always silent now. Somewhere in these recent days they had both accepted that. But why wasn't she protesting? Why didn't she tell him to stop? Did she like it? How could she? She had said a million times she couldn't understand how people could like hurting each other in bed. Or was Peter Copeland allowed everything? Worse, was the pain he gave pleasant to her now? That was insane! It meant he knew nothing about his wife. It made him breathe too fast. What parts of her did he know, for sure? What else had she held back from him over the years?
He started saying brutal, dirty things to her. It was something they both disliked. Their sexy words to each other were always funny and flattering, loving.
"Don't!" It was the first time she had spoken. She was looking straight at him, real alarm on her face.
"Why? I'll do what I want."
He continued talking, touching her too hard, talking, ruining everything. He told her where he worked, how much money he made, what his hobbies were. He told her where he'd gone to college, where he grew up, how he liked his eggs done.
Soon she was crying and stopped moving altogether. He was in the middle of explaining to her that he wore white sneakers because he had this bad foot infection. . . .
Sasha wouldn't tell me specifically which parts of Phil's short story were true (or why he'd even written it), and I didn't ask. She wanted to know how I knew about it so I lied, saying Phil had told Danny James about it in New York. She said the events of "A Quarter Past You" were only part of the problem and the reason why they'd separated. Since the middle of filming Midnight Kills, he'd become bizarrely temperamental and awful to live with.
He was a good-natured man who rarely showed that he was out of sorts, even when he was. His father hadn't liked moody kids, so Mrs. Strayhorn taught Phil and Jackie to either camouflage their distress or put it in their rooms behind a quietly closed door. Phil didn't like his father, but he agreed with this way of concealing pain. In the years we'd lived together at college, I almost never saw him grumpy. If it happened, he would go out of our room and not come back until his spirits had lifted or he'd worked out whatever it was. I couldn't imagine my friend as selfish and mercurial as Sasha went on to describe. But in the end, something Pinsleepe had said came to me: "No matter how many times Phil killed himself, by making that scene in the movie after I told him not to, he was only killing himself then. All the other thirty years of Strayhorn were around and alive."
Was this schizoid, unpleasant man already fragmenting before he committed his final act? Was the person who treated Sasha so strangely the same one who shot himself? The same one who caused the death of Matthew Portland? The same one who was on my videotapes, the same one who talked with Danny James in New York, the same one who took Pinsleepe to Browns Mills, the same one . . . ?
7
Uh-oh. What can you believe – or rather, who – the angel or the dead man?
Pinsleepe has really outdone herself this time. And obviously taken unfair advantage. She's the star witness for the prosecution, always conveniently on the scene to steer the jury (Weber) in the right direction.
What am I allowed to do in my own defense? Nothing but make a couple of absurd videos for him and Sasha where I wasn't allowed to say anything other than a few hints. Like being on some bad TV game show, Celebrity Charades. Guess what the ghost is saying!
Did I lie to you before? Yes. I lied about where Rock and Roll came from. And who went for the cops when we found the dead girl. But I'm not lying now.
So much of what she says is almost true or just a little wrong. If you gave her a lie detector test she'd pass. But truth doesn't come in percentages. Eighty percent true. Ninety-nine. It either is or isn't.
Here is the official Pinsleepe version: Philip Strayhom got so carried away making his silly little horror films that along the way the poor man signed his soul over to the devil. For what? For power, kids! What else? Power enough to make audiences go out and kill each other, power enough to sell millions of tickets and make lots of money, power enough, finally, to use real dark forces!
Yowee! Get your real dark forces here! Get 'em while they're red hot!
Now could we please have a cavalry charge or a heavenly choir? Because at this turning point in our tale, an angel comes to warn Phil not to be naughty anymore because he's making God upset. Stupid Strayhorn, so full of pride, ignores the warning and goes on making the utterly half-assed Midnight Kills. As a result, little Phils come bursting out of the past like maggots and everyone nearby gets killed or cancer.
There was one good scene in the film, and that's the one they – she – wanted me to cut. I didn't. Bad things happened afterward. Were they a result of the scene? I honestly don't know.
But I had to tell Weber they were, because I was forced to. Tell him this. Tell him that. Make him believe. . . .
It's odd how you're allowed to lie here. I can lie to Weber, to you, to anyone alive.
But I'm not going to lie to you anymore. I want you to know as much as I'm allowed to divulge. Why? Because we have a long way to go yet, and I want you to know some of the anger and frustration I've experienced watching Pinsleepe (and the gang) and their manipulations.
Besides, like me, there is nothing you can do about what happens to Weber, Sasha, and Wyatt. Sit here next to me. I've saved a place for you. We'll sit up here in the expensive seats and watch the game together. If we yell very hard, they might barely hear us down on the field. But they won't pay any attention because they're too caught up playing.
Later, during halftime, I'll tell you about what happened in Browns Mills. Or about the scene they wanted me to cut. This time I'll tell you the truth. Take it however you want.
One of the nice things about Los Angeles is it's close to the ocean. Just get on Santa Monica Boulevard and drive till you see the water. It takes about half an hour and is a pleasant drive, especially if the top is down and you're with people you like.
Sasha and Wyatt had argued about who should sit on the uncomfortable tiny back seat of the Jaguar. Finally I suggested they shoot for it. Both of them lit up and they played Rock, Paper, Scissors until Wyatt won – out of five and hopped in the back. He was wearing a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts and matching khaki bush shf't, thus looking more like he was going lion hunting than to the beach.
"I never really swim, you see. Just put my feet in the water and browse."
Sasha had a bag packed with sandwiches, drinks, tanning lotion, a Frisbee, a book. . . . "I like to keep my options open." She wore a chic dark blue swimsuit that showed off her good figure. Seeing her so nicely revealed reminded me of our time in Zermatt; how generous she was in bed, how much fun we'd had that trip.
She also wore a promotional Midnight Kills baseball cap, which was disconcerting in light of what had been happening. But maybe it was good she could wear it and seem to ignore its implications. That meant there were corners
of her life still untouched by the shadows Phil and his movies had cast over her.
It was time we all did something light and unimportant. When the night before I suggested the beach, Sasha shrugged, but Wyatt and I talked her into it. From the way she was acting today, it was plain she was happy.
Although nothing had been said, there was a silent agreement among us not to talk about Strayhorn or the other related things flying around our lives. We needed a rest. Jump in the water. Get a little sunburn. Lie on your back with the million-year-old sand under you, hard and hot and familiar.
We must have looked very California that day. The black convertible, good-looking woman wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses in the passenger's seat, friend in the back with his knees up and big smile on. I think we all felt good. The day promised to be clear and fresh enough so we could get out the paints (or toolbox) and touch up (or readjust) small parts of our lives. I remembered Saturdays as a boy that were like that. Today I'll lift weights or run two miles, clean up my room and help Mom shop. Maybe mow the lawn without being asked, do my homework carefully. You were too young to understand it, but the energy came from gratitude. Thank you for letting me be alive, young, healthy. I don't know any other way of showing it but to do more of everything and do it better today.
That's how it felt driving out to the beach with my friends.
Sasha said something I didn't hear.
"Excuse me?"
She leaned over and said loudly, "I asked why you stopped directing films. I always wanted to ask but never had the nerve."
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Wyatt leaning forward, the wind blowing his wild hair back. He was trying to listen.
"I wanted to live in Europe awhile, and not just at the Crillon in Paris for a couple of weeks while making a film.
"One day when we were working on Wonderful, I was in the farmer's market buying fruit. These two old guys stood next to me. One of them said, "Aaron tells me I gotta finish two Dynasty scripts before we leave, not just the one. So I told Frances, 'Honey, we gotta skip Italy this time and just do the two weeks in Germany.'"
"Hearing that made me so fucking depressed. I didn't want to be sixty years old, writing Dynasty scripts instead of going to Italy. That happens too easily when you live out here too long and forget there are other things in the world."
"Why didn't you go on living in Europe?"
Pulling up at a red light, I looked at her. "Because you have to come home sometime. The longer you're away, the harder it is to return. I wanted to come back to America, but not to the life I had before. That's why I went to New York."
Finky Linky put his head on Sasha's shoulder as I accelerated away from the light. "Tell her about your half/half theory. That has something to do with it too."
"Not really a theory. It's just that I'd like to live the second half of my life better than the first."
Simultaneously, the two of them said "What's 'better'?" and then laughed at the coincidence.
The trip to the beach was all sun, wind, and shouting. We couldn't agree on what good was, but everyone disagreed so vociferously that it was obvious each of us had a damned good idea of what we believed it was.
We arrived at Santa Monica jazzed up and ready to go. Wyatt took our things and told us to go ahead while he set everything up. We didn't need any more encouragement and ran straight out into the cold ocean. It was early afternoon in the middle of the week, and very few other people were around. We swam out from shore together until the waves were really bobbing us up and down.
"You look like a beautiful blond seal!"
"And you look like a lifeguard!"
She paddled over and, coming behind, wrapped her arms and legs around me.
"This was a great idea, Weber. Thank you."
"You're welcome. Look at Finky!"
Back on shore, Wyatt had taken off his shirt and was doing what looked like't'ai chi. The quick cold slap and pull of the water around us was such a contrast to the slow delicacy of his exercises.
"Give me a piggyback ride." She bit me on the back of the neck. I bent down and bit her on the arm, then began moving slowly through the water at an old man's pace. It felt good having her around me like that. It had been too long since I'd been with a woman and the press of breasts against my back, warm breath on my neck and ears. . . . Something would have to be done about that when this was over; it was time to find someone who mattered. Besides my masochistic love for Cullen James, the only women I had serious, intimate contact with were those in the Cancer Theater Group. Their needs were very different from mine. When I began working there, I made the mistake of sleeping with one but quickly and painfully learned that pity is not a good substitute for support.
"Do I feel heavier?"
"I don't know, Sash, I haven't given you many piggyback rides."
"You know – from the pregnancy. Maybe I just think I float better now."
"What did the doctor say about your being pregnant?"
"He said the conditions were strange but things like this have happened."
"How do you feel about it?"
"If it's Phil's child, I want it. It could only be his! I haven't slept with anyone else since you and I were together in Vienna."
I paddled us out a ways. There were so many things I wanted to tell her and talk about with her.
"Weber! Look at that, over there!" She pointed off to our right. Coming up from behind a flipping wave was the large golden head of a dog. It moved fast toward us, head straining hard out of the water. Sasha let go of me and I went for the dog, thinking it must have fallen off some boat and been swimming since.
"Here, boy!" I tried to whistle but got a mouthful of salty water instead. It saw me but wasn't interested. Sasha called and it saw her too, but no thanks. The dog (it looked like a vizsla or golden retriever) paddled by both of us and kept right on going. We looked at each other and made the same face – What can you do?
Treading water where we were, we could only watch.
"I thought it was drowning!"
"It sure didn't want our help. The loneliness of the long-distance swimmer."
Reaching shore, it trotted right out of the surf, looking supremely successful. One good shake and it was on its way again down the beach.
Sasha laughed. "I love that! Where did it come from?"
"Neptune."
She beamed. "Yes, Neptune's dog. Right!"
I moved over and took her in my arms. She hugged me. "That's so mysterious! It just came out of nowhere and didn't want to have a thing to do with us."
"Mysteries of the deep."
"Sometimes they're nice. Let's swim some more. I want another piggyback."
When we got back, Wyatt had laid everything out and was on his back sunning, but with an expression on his face like something smelled bad.
"What's the matter, Finky Linky?"
"I always like the idea of suntanning, but when I do it I get itchy and impatient."
I sat down next to him. "Isn't the idea to relax and let the sun do the work?"
He sat up, saw how wet I was, and moved away. "The idea that people spend hundreds of dollars so they can sit in the sun and sweat is beyond me.
"Look at what our friend made for lunch."
While we ate, Sasha told him about the dog. I'd thought it was a funny, oddball thing that made for a five-minute story. But she was enraptured and couldn't get over what had happened. I think Wyatt saw it my way because he kept encouraging her to go on while looking at me with what-is-this? eyes. Hours later I realized she was so starved for something light and good and amusing in her life that a swimming dog was reason enough for wonder.
We spent the day at the beach trying as subtly as possible to keep Sasha happy. When she laughed we wanted her to laugh more, louder, longer. We told stories and jokes and moved around as if putting the show on right here. Maybe we were. Sasha was really one of the good ones, a person who deserved every bit of our energy and concern. We knew
she appreciated whatever we did and, if necessary, would give it back in duplicate one day. That's why she and Phil had gone so well together. They were both inordinately generous people who, quite touchingly, never really realized why their friends liked them so much.
At dusk we took a long walk down the beach. People were walking their dogs; lovers held hands and looked even more romantic than usual; a surfer missed a wave, and his board, flying up in the air, caught the orange of the setting sun and threw it over us a moment. On our left side, the ocean was all pound and rush. On our right, cars hissed by on the Pacific Coast Highway. A distant helicopter arched across the horizon.
Wyatt was an exceptional mimic and had done most of the voices for the creatures on The Finky Linky Show. Walking down the beach, we kept asking him to do Fiti, Elbow, Pearl, and the others. The funniest part was, he did them deadpan. Hands in pockets, face expressionless, he kept mixing the high birdy wheek of Pearl with, say, the bass-drum clump of Elbow. They had conversations, they sang songs together. Passing a man fishing in the surf, Wyatt broke off long enough to make the sound of line whizzing crazily off a spool, as if the guy had just caught Moby Dick.
After one of the voices demanded and got a round of applause from us, Wyatt stopped and, taking Sasha's arm, pulled her to him. She looked at him but he only shook his head and put his hand behind her back.
"What's your name, dear?"
Sasha opened her mouth, but before anything came out a voice very much like her own said, "Mrs. Bubble."
"Where do you come from, Mrs. Bubble?"
"The sea. I am her sea self."
"Did you know you had a sea self?"
Grinning, Sasha shook her head. Such a great look on her face: a child at a magic show, a kid sitting on Santa's knee at the department store.
The next day Wyatt and I had two appointments. The first was with the man who had taken over as producer of Midnight Kills. Our meeting with him was short and to the point. We told him we'd be willing to edit M.K. and, if necessary (I wanted to leave that door open), rewrite and film a scene to replace the one that had disappeared since the deaths of Strayhorn and Portland.
A Child across the Sky Page 15