One day overzealous paparazzi snuck into her trailer and photographed her sans wig. The next day the photo was in all the gossip papers in Hollywood.
Everyone at Fox was having an aneurism. Revolution had the largest budget of any movie in Hollywood history at the time. Audiences wouldn’t show up on opening day – a mere three weeks away – to see an outed, balding meth addict playing America’s first female hero. No one knew what to do. The papers said the film would be lucky to have an opening weekend of fifteen million. Vanessa Grey’s career was all but finished and everyone in Hollywood blamed Matthew Mann for keeping Vanessa’s condition under wraps.
It was my father who came up with the idea. He found a doctor who was willing to say Vanessa had cancer and had the doctor sell his story to the gossip papers. When the questions came flooding in, my father wrote a prepared statement for Matthew saying that Vanessa Grey had been diagnosed with leukaemia a year earlier, but had decided to fight it and not let it beat her or her career. He apologised for deceiving the public and her fans, but said he couldn’t stay quiet any longer while this poor actress, who was bravely suffering so, was being libelled in the press with wild accusations of being a meth addict.
Next my father wrote a statement, which Fox released, saying their thoughts and prayers were with Miss Grey and that, because of her outstanding bravery, they would donate ten percent of every Revolution ticket sold to the American Cancer Society.
For the next three weeks the press regurgitated this story like the mindless drones they were, and by opening weekend Revolution had racked up the biggest premiere of any film in movie history. Matthew saw that my father had single-handedly saved, not only Vanessa Grey, but his film – and indeed, his entire career – as well. Soon afterwards my father went from being a junior publicist to the top public relations man on all of Matthew’s films. And when Matthew formed Imagination Studios, he made my father head publicist.
Over the next ten years, Matthew and my father were practically inseparable. And, after Emma died, after my mom and dad stopped talking, it was Matthew who helped my father through his grief.
It was never really a secret that my dad blamed himself for Emma’s cancer. He was a big believer in karma. He thought it was payback for using the leukaemia story to help market Vanessa Grey and save Revolution. But Matthew, he helped my dad see that karma didn’t exist. He even got him started on the Bible to show him karma wasn’t how God ran things. I don’t think Dad ever really got into it, but it was because of Matthew’s friendship that by the last year before his accident, Dad was starting to be his old, happy self again.
And after Dad’s death Matthew and Roland had a falling out. Now I know why. He must have found out about Roland and my mom. That’s why Roland left the studio. That’s why Matthew stopped contacting my mom after my dad died. But Matthew, like a true Christian, he showed that everyone deserves a second chance. When Roland helped procure the Van Gogh he mentioned that Matthew had forgiven him for something. The painting was a sign of his forgiveness.
14
Road Trip
If there were ever a time that I wish Epiphany would start shoving tripod legs through people’s eyes, this would be it. We’ve been on this damn bus for eight hours now. Epiphany is curled up, snug as a cat, sleeping in the window seat next to me. I’m cramped as can be. Buses aren’t kind to people six feet tall. My knees are pressed into the hard back of the seat in front of me. Anytime the passenger shifts, my kneecaps want to burst. I wish I could get up and stretch but I’m afraid I’ll be laughed at for what I’m wearing.
But then again, the people on this bus are the last ones who should be laughing at anybody. And really, out of all the buses in the world, Epiphany picked the worst one possible. The bus is full of guests headed for The George Drudge Show – the Jerry Springer of Southern California. The guests, they’re all overweight, all entitled, and rarely stop screaming at each other.
‘Yo brother’s my baby-daddy and I’m gonna prove it to the world! Mmmhmm!’
‘I’m gon’ be so famous after this! I won’t need you or yo’ trailer home anymore!’
‘Baby, I swear, your mom drugged me. Twice. Your sister, too. That’s the only reason I slept with them. Please don’t take the Chevy.’
What’s worse is that two TVs hang from the ceiling down the middle of the aisle showing highlights, if you can call them that, of previous George Drudge shows.
This is television and real life blended together.
On the TV, a guest sits on the George Drudge couch. Below her a chyron reads: Chandice, Admits she eats her Kleenex.
A chyron reads: Rick, Says he doesn’t trust Amy, that’s why he watches her poop.
On the bus, someone shouts, ‘I do dat, too!’
On the TV, a chyron reads: Selena, Admits she’s obsessed with burping.
A chyron reads: Derek, Says he is proud to let friends piss in his mouth.
On the bus, someone hollers, ‘You go boy!’
I don’t know how Epiphany can sleep though all this. She’s purring quietly, oblivious to everything. Her feet, covered in thick pink socks, rest against my thigh. Her white Converse shoes lie on the floor, each one facing the opposite direction to the other. She looks like a farmer’s daughter with the dungarees and white T-shirt she’s wearing. Her hair is bound in tight little knots that look like electrons surrounding the nucleus of her head.
And yes, all the clothes she’s wearing were stolen – just like the painting and the computer and my life.
We were at the bus station on Holburn thirty minutes before departure. Horny Halfling was running late and Epiphany was getting nervous. She kept glancing around like a lost child, so much so that she was starting to attract attention.
‘He’ll be here,’ I told her, a little surprised at how reassuring I was trying to sound. ‘Why don’t you go to the bathroom and wash up or something? Splash some water on your face, you’ll feel better.’ She gave me a hesitant look. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said. And I wasn’t. You know, the Stockholm and the videotape and all.
She went towards the bathroom, taking a round about way that brought her past the baggage drop. As the handler threw bags onto a trolley Epiphany snatched one without slowing. But suddenly she looked like she had another migraine and set the bag back down. Then her migraine seemed to pass as quickly as it came and she glanced at me, picked up a different bag and carried it off.
Then from behind me a voice said, ‘Jerry?’
It was a curly-haired, red-headed kid. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. His face was covered in acne and his frame was so slim he had to have an eating disorder.
‘It’s me – Halfling.’ His voice was squeaky.
‘You’re Horny Halfling?’ I said. He blushed when I said his screen-name out loud. ‘Sorry, it’s just I wasn’t expecting you to be so young.’
He brushed it off and glanced around.
Then a bit nervously I said, ‘How’d you recognise me?’
‘Um, your picture. The one you sent me for your passport?’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Yeah … So, uh, where’s this girl you’re with?’
I nodded towards the bathroom.
‘Oh, cool,’ Halfling said, a geeky smile forming on his adolescent lips. ‘It’s hard to imagine that anyone who loves my work as much as you do would know a girl, you know?’
Hey.
‘We’re kinda short on time,’ I said. ‘Do you have them?’
Halfling looked on edge as he shuffled through his backpack. Epiphany had seen the morning’s paper. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. She said a reward had been offered for information ‘leading to my whereabouts’.
‘I hope the passports didn’t keep you up all night,’ I said, wondering if someone as paranoid as him, if someone who seems to hate all authority as much as he does, would read mainstream news, and, if he did know I’m wanted, would he turn me in?
‘Oh, hell no,’ Half
ling said, pulling out a Manila envelope. ‘Work was dead. The passports were done and printed in a few hours. Spent the rest of the night looking at those sites you gave me. They’re amazing. Haven’t slept yet.’
The dark circles under his eyes; his tired expression; I wondered, Was that how Donald saw me every day?
Halfling is good. The passports look like the real deal. My museum badge photo fits perfectly. My passport reads ‘Alan Jones’. But it’s Epiphany’s passport that shows why Halfling is considered the best of all the fakirs. He had to dummy her image from scratch, based solely on my description.
‘Hers was harder than yours,’ Halfling humbly said. The name on Epiphany’s passport says ‘Fanny Jones’. Her fake photo looks like a happier version of her. ‘I used an image of Rachel McAdams from the 2002 Perfect Pie premiere for her eyes and forehead. The rest of her face is a mixture of Audrey Hepburn from Roman Holiday and Milla Jovovich from The Fifth Element.’
Halfling wasn’t good at taking compliments and doubted his talent when I told him Epiphany’s photo was spot on. He mumbled something of a thanks before saying, ‘Remember, they’ll both work fine as long as they aren’t scanned and you keep them in their holders. The cardstock I used looks like an authentic passport cover, so a quick glance won’t tip anyone off.’
‘Well, I wish she wasn’t in the bathroom,’ I said, trying to sound as un-fugitive-like as a guy who’s just collected fake passports can. ‘You could have seen how well you did.’
Halfling fidgeted. ‘Naw, it’s cool,’ he said. ‘I don’t like meeting people. I need to get going anyway.’
I shook his hand. It was like shaking a dead fish.
I followed behind him as he left to make sure I wasn’t being set up. When I got outside, he hopped on an old bicycle and peddled away.
Back inside the bus terminal Epiphany came from the bathroom in her change of clothes and new hairdo, the stolen travel bag slung over her shoulder. Seeing her in fresh clothes made my soiled, three-day-old clothes even more uncomfortable.
‘Couldn’t steal anything for me?’ I said. That’s when she reached into her bag and took out a pair of purple ladies’ sweatpants and a small yellow T-shirt with a picture of a blue My Little Pony on the front.
‘I’m not wearing that.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said, ‘but I was told to bring it for you.’
By ‘told to’ she means God told her. When she explained at the apartment that God speaks to her, a smile didn’t even break her lips. It’s as if she thought what she was saying were the truest words ever spoken. She even said part of the reason she felt comfortable leaving me at the apartment when she went out to get the laptop and sell my watch was because she knew God would warn her if I tried to leave.
And there’s a rule I have about dealing with people who think they talk to God – you don’t. You just nod and smile. If someone believes they hear the voice of God, you’re not going to argue them into seeing reason. This goes double for someone who’s murdered a man.
So now I’m stuck on this bus and I’m wearing the My Little Pony T-shirt and the purple sweatpants. The pants only come down to my calves. When we boarded two sisters were arguing about who their father loved more – and they weren’t talking paternal love. During the inevitable catfight their eighty-four-ounce Big Gulp spilled all over me. That’s when Epiphany reached into the stolen bag and simply handed me the shirt and sweatpants. No ‘I told you so’.
On the TV, a man dressed in a Cookie Monster outfit is sneaking up behind a guest. The chyron reads: Tina, Is about to confront her fear of Sesame Street for the first time.
A chyron reads: Jeff, Says he was once attacked by a dog who was the reincarnation of his ex-wife.
A chyron reads: Carla, Recently revealed she was born with two anuses.
Epiphany wheezes next to me. She looks so innocent lying there, sleeping. Her fake passport name makes her sound all squeaky clean – all old-fashioned. Fanny Jones.
Epiphany Jones.
Even though she’s kidnapping me she’s … compelling. I’ve got all these questions about her. For starters, who would name their kid Epiphany? How can one girl be as hard as her? And there’s something else I can’t get out of my mind: if Epiphany is real and if I’ve never seen her before we met a few days ago, how come I dreamt about her all those years ago? How come I keep having that dream where she’s in that silverware factory fighting off faceless attackers?
On the TV, a grown man is wearing a diaper. Below him a chyron reads: Edward, Wants a drama-free relationship.
I manage to doze off for a few hours. And yes, I dream of Epiphany. And yes, it is the same dream. When I wake it’s past midnight and an interstate sign says we’re in Oklahoma. All of the squabbling on the bus has stopped. Most of the people are asleep, but the TVs continue playing highlights on mute.
Epiphany’s still purring away on the seat beside me, and when the bus hits a pothole her head bobs from side to side. She mumbles a little something as she presses her lips together.
What does someone like her dream about? Killing Matthew Mann?
I feel like I should warn him after everything he did to help Dad while Mom was busy fucking Roland. But how would I contact him? He’s even more powerful now than when Dad worked for him. I’m sure his assistants get calls from people all the time saying, ‘Yeah, I knew him. We’re old friends. Can you put the most powerful person in Hollywood on the phone? He’s gonna want to hear this pitch.’ Besides, Epiphany may be able to get to someone like me, but Matthew has to be surrounded with some of the best bodyguards in the world. She’d never be able to get close to him.
On the seat next to me Epiphany’s head continues to rock back and forth. Her beauty is almost evil. It’s appealing like a Venus flytrap is. Even when she speaks her little tongue flicks quickly over her teeth, like she’s the snake tempting you to sin.
But the thing is, right now, stuck on this bus together, I find it hard to take my eyes off those lips.
And maybe it’s because of the time of night and the dim lights of the bus as it hums down the highway, but what happens next … well, it’s like I’m in a trance. My head bumps the window as I bend awkwardly over her. I inch my face towards hers until I feel her lower lip between mine. It’s like a little, pink Gummy Worm. And in my head I see her in my dream, young and scared and crying, and I feel for her.
But as quickly as I bent down, I’m reversing back into my seated position, Epiphany’s little blade against my Adam’s apple showing me the way up.
‘Never touch me,’ her voice cracks. Her eyes are full of a controlled anger. ‘Never again.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, blade pressed on my throat. ‘I – I couldn’t help myself.’
‘You can always help yourself,’ Epiphany breathes, keeping her eyes locked on mine. I’m too petrified to look away.
She withdraws the blade and turns to gaze at the blackness outside the window.
Me, I swallow and stare straight down the aisle.
And in the awkward silence, the George Drudge guests snore.
On the TV, a chyron reads: Marty, Says that time with the cat and Vaseline was a big misunderstanding.
A chyron reads: Leah, Says she found fingernails in her house that Gary can’t explain.
A chyron reads: Patrick, Says his fear of corned beef is ruining his life.
And finally breaking the silence, Epiphany says, ‘I know about your problem.’
Which one? I think.
‘Not the seeing people problem,’ she says. ‘The other one.’
I hope she’s talking about the Stockholm syndrome.
‘The newspaper said you are a pornography addict.’
Oh, that one.
I’m too humiliated to speak. The woman blackmailing you, the one you just tried to kiss, shoots you down by holding a knife to your throat and then tells you she knows you love porn. Could this get any worse?
‘I also know what you did looking over m
e last night.’
I squeeze my eyes tight. Every inch of my body goes beet red. I want to crawl into the crack between our seats and disappear forever. When that doesn’t work, I look around for something to impale myself on.
‘Hey, can I borrow that knife? You can pull it from my stomach when I’ve stopped breathing,’ would be the logical thing to say. Instead, with my face buried in my hands, I squeeze out, ‘I’m so sorry–’
‘People never start with the intention of doing bad things, Jerry,’ she interrupts. ‘They start with small things, then it snowballs.’
Even with my eyes shut and my hands covering my face I can feel her looking at me. I bend forward, head buried into the seatback. Someone kill me.
‘Before they know it, the bad things aren’t bad at all; they’re just normal. They’re just life,’ she’s saying. I feel her green gaze burrowing a hole into the side of my head, but I can’t bring myself to face her. ‘Don’t let your demons snowball, Jerry. We all still have a choice in what we do.’
15
Mexico
The ceiling ripples like the floor of an ocean. The sounds of my body hitting the tub echo under the surface. The madness is all above. But my peace is interrupted by a splash over my stomach. I break the surface, sucking a gulp of air, to find a soccer ball floating in the bathtub with me. I hop onto the bathroom’s cracked, tiled floor and throw a towel around my waist. I spin the ball in the palm of my hand. Water sprays from it like one of those pinwheel sparklers you light on the Fourth of July.
A little voice shouts, ‘Triste, Jerry!’ Ana Lucia is at the bathroom window. She’s got a big grin that looks especially white because her face is covered in dust and sweat from playing in the street under the midday sun. I smile and hand her the ball. She says something I can’t understand.
Epiphany Jones Page 10