by Sarah Langan
He’d never imagined, two and a half years later, that she’d be the one to leave. He’d always seen himself as the weaker link.
Now, head throbbing, Saraub switched the phone from one ear to the other. Its ringing had woken him this morning—make that, afternoon. And good thing. It was the CEO of Sunshine Studios.
Reception was bad. The connection was all static. But then he walked to the window, and Bob Stern’s voice returned. “Before we juice this thing up, I wanted to get you on the horn,” Bob said. Saraub could only make out half the words: “wan et you on e orn.”
“That sounds about right,” Saraub answered. A white dot floated over his left eye, like maybe he was having a Wild-Turkey-induced aneurism. He considered this briefly, then decided there wasn’t much he could do about it either way, so no point worrying.
“Just want to get a handle on where you see this going,” Bob said. He had a staccato way of talking, like he was stabbing his words with a pitchfork.
“I’ve got one or two interviews left, then I’ll start my final cut. My hope is for a small art house release. Ideally, after good word of mouth, it would grow from there. Anything you want to know, shoot. I’m happy to go over details,” Saraub answered. Then winced, because he might not make it through this call: Wild Turkey’s anti-Thanksgiving was gurgling its way through his stomach.
“How much you spend so far?” Bob asked, only it sounded like: “Ow uch end so far?” When Sunshine declared bankruptcy, a multinational called Servitus bought it in a fire sale and appointed Bob Stern its new CEO. He was an investment-banking executive who’d never produced a picture, but Servitus had made the gamble that he’d steer the studio back into the black. He’d been clearing off his predecessor’s desk last week when he found the proposal and reel for Maginot Lines, then called Saraub’s agent and asked if anyone had made an offer yet.
“I spent about $150,000,” Saraub said. “Since I had my own equipment, I mostly only had labor expenses, and I didn’t pay myself. I’ve got an assistant on salary, and I cover all our travel, but that’s it.” He opened the window, hoping to get better reception. “I can send you an itemization.”
“Naw,” Bob said. “You can worry about all that when you pitch it for my people. Your prospectus—or do they call them pitches here?—is pretty thorough. Cheap, too. Cheap is Jehovah, Allah, and Christ, all rolled into one. I just wanted to tell ya, I saw the rough cut, and I came. Man, love. I’m in love!” Bob gushed.
Saraub’s stomach gurgled. He’d heard about half Bob’s speech, and really hoped he’d correctly interpreted the rest. For three years, he’d been trying to get studio backing, but even his good leads had always turned sour. By now, most of his film-school friends had given up and gotten jobs in software development. But so far, he’d never let the turkeys get him down. One rejection, ten, one hundred. He smiled and said thank you so he didn’t burn bridges, ate an extra bag of chips, punched a wall, then kept going. He’d resolved to wait every last one of them out until he got the answer he wanted.
“I’m so glad to hear it, Bob,” Saraub said. “But seriously, anything you want clarity on, let me know.”
“No, no. That’s all fine. Sore—How do you call that—Sore-rub?” Bob asked.
“Yeah. Sore-rub. Thanks. No one ever gets that,” he said as he tripped over the metal IKEA lamp on the floor, then covered the receiver to muffle the grunt. Audrey had been gone five weeks, and already the place was a sty. The carpet was littered with take-out containers, spilled soy sauce, and, inexplicably, pennies. The thing about food in early fall is, it attracts flies. They landed on his face at night as he drifted to sleep, and every time that happened he’d think: It really wasn’t so bad when she moved my shit.
“It all sounds square. My worry here is experience,” Bob said. “You say you want to edit it all yourself, and we can cover the suite. But you’ve never worked on a feature before. No bullshit, kid. Can you deliver?”
“I edit commercials every day. It’ll be cheaper just to let me see the thing to completion. I’ve got it all figured out,” Saraub said. In fact, he’d never edited a feature-length, and he’d never selected accompanying musical scores, either. But Maginot Lines was his baby, and what Bob didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “It shouldn’t take more than six months in postproduction, and the legwork is almost done.”
A phone rang in the background from Bob’s end. Papers rustled. Saraub pictured a high-floored but depressingly sterile office in Studio City, and ten frenzied assistants with earphones attached to their heads, praying the new boss didn’t give them the axe. “Obviously, if progress stalls, we retain the right to bring in our own people,” Bob said.
Saraub frowned. Out the window, he could see holes all down the block, where luxury condominiums had lost investors midway through construction. Behind boarded planks, they were open sores of dirt. So this call was about ownership, and Sunshine planned to acquire controlling rights. But three years, no takers, and his bank account nearly drained, he was in no position to dicker. “Yea—yes. I hear that’s standard.”
“All right, then. This has been enlightening. I’ll need a list of all your interviews and their info for legal if we sign a deal, and I’ll get back to your agent in a few days.”
“Thanks, Bob. I apprec—” Saraub started, but by then, the phone was already dead.
He sat down at the kitchen table and, despite the throbbing in his head, grinned. For as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to make a feature. Every weekend the last three years, he’d conducted interviews. Every morning, he’d gotten up early and cut film or placed calls. Even Audrey had gotten into the act, sending out questionnaires from her office and using Vesuvius stamp machines to save on postage. Opposite their futon was the time line she’d made on poster board, itemizing his subjects. Each branch represented an interview, the date it was conducted, and its overall significance to the film. It was preternaturally neat, with perfectly straight lines like she’d used a giant typewriter. “So you remember what it is you’re doing,” she’d said with a smirk when she finished it, which had been kind of funny, and given his lack of organization, kind of true.
At first, the movie was supposed to be about the trend of multinational corporations, often subsidized by the World Bank, to privatize third-world natural resources like water, forest reserves, fossil fuels, and even air. But the more he learned, the more he’d realized that the story wasn’t abroad, but local. Privatization was happening in America, too, but because of this deep recession, people cared more about jobs and food than breathable air. No one wanted to blow the whistle on corporations that doubled the price of tap water, because at least they were cutting a profit and providing their employees with health care.
As it happened, Sunshine Studios’ parent company, Servitus, had invested heavily in New York water rights, as well as Appalachian coal, Arctic oil, and the verdant timberlands of the South. They were based in both Atlanta and Beijing, and so far, they’d drained the upstate Hudson Valley and were selling their spoils to Europe in the form of bottled water. Riverbanks and natural springs had dried up, and a few of the houses surrounding them had collapsed. Small farms couldn’t afford to irrigate because in its scarcity, the price of water had become too high.
When this recession ended, people would lift their heads to discover that America didn’t belong to America anymore. By then, it wouldn’t be worth much, anyway. West Virginia and Pennsylvania were already flooded from all the coal mining and the Alaskan pipeline had almost run dry. If you looked at this country from space, you’d see that it was filling with holes.
He knew it was cheesy. His married cousins, who’d been smart and joined the family rug business, now lived grown-up lives, complete with wives, kids, suburban McMansions, and Cuban cigars. They had things that, after toiling thirty-five more years in film, he’d probably still never be able to afford. But days like this, he saw through all that bullshit and remembered what mattered. He was trying to make
the world a better place, and that made life worth living.
There was only one person who’d understand how he felt. His enthusiasm got the better of him, and he flipped open his phone and dialed Audrey’s number.
As soon as it connected and began to ring, his stomach gurgled. An image that he’d blotted out returned. He remembered yelling, and a piano. Oh, crap, he’d gone to her place last night, drunk as Caligula! Had he…what the hell, had he told her he hated her? Oh, no. This was really bad. The floating white lightning returned to his vision, only bigger. It kind of looked like a hovering alien spaceship.
He’d said worse things, too. He tried to remember them, then tried even harder not to remember them. In his mind’s eye, she was looking at him through a crooked, half-open door. Its length had dwarfed her, making her appear fragile and childlike. So very un-Audrey. He’d been so blotto that for a moment, he’d genuinely been worried that the ceiling of that place had been about to collapse. He was worried about her now, too. Something about that apartment building had been wrong. Or had he only imagined those humming walls?
Her cell phone clicked directly into voice mail: “I’m not here right now…” His pulse raced, and his stomach jake-braked. He owed her an apology. Big-time…
But until those movers showed up yesterday, it hadn’t hit him that she really was leaving. She’d had so few boxes that he’d felt compelled to send along some dishes, a couple of blankets, and the piano. Girls are different from men. They need nests. He’d thought about the money he’d poured into Lines, so that all he’d been able to afford was a broken-down wreck in Yonkers. It had only occurred to him then, that while he wanted kids, unless she worked full-time or he gave up freelance, they’d never be able to afford the health insurance, let alone the diapers. And then he’d thought about all those rich Wall Street scions in her office, who probably presented their wives with diamond-crusted nannies every Christmas, and he’d started to wonder if she’d hadn’t left because she’d needed more space at all but because she’d been looking to trade up.
So, the drinking. And more drinking. And inevitably, the late-night antibooty call.
Audrey’s message beeped. Saraub hung up. Yeah, he’d tell her he was sorry. But not right now, when his head was about to explode, and any moment, the toilet might beckon.
Who else to ring? The sun outside was bright. A perfect fall Monday. Great weather for a hot dog in Carl Schurz Park. He dialed Daniel’s number. After the movers, he and Daniel had gone out for steak at Hooters yesterday afternoon, and then to Dick and Jane’s Cabaret on 71st Street. Six strippers slathered in Crisco had swung from poles. The girl on his lap had assured him that she liked tall Indian men, which, even after four whiskies, had seemed like a convenient coincidence. After six whiskies, he’d taken her to the backroom and paid her three hundred bucks to strip to her birthday suit, then get on his lap again, and dance.
“Oh, big man,” she’d said, while feeling his turgid crotch. The whole thing had been pretty humiliating, mostly because he’d wanted to tell her to stop but hadn’t wanted to be rude. So instead, when she’d asked for three hundred more to suck him off, he’d given her fifty, and said, “I’d really rather you got dressed,” then walked out. He waited at the bar another hour for Daniel, who apparently liked getting sucked off by twenty-four-year-old mothers who commute from Queens and dream of one day becoming Vegas showgirls, just like that movie.
Daniel’s voice mail beeped. Saraub didn’t leave a message with him, either. He’d been going out with Daniel a lot lately, and it was starting to hurt his liver. More importantly, his wallet had gotten a lot thinner. So he dialed the only other person he knew would be happy for him.
“Hello?” Sheila asked. She had a slight British accent, because that was where she’d gone to prep school.
“Mom?”
“Saraub!” she cried. “How are you?” He kept in contact with his cousins and siblings, but hadn’t talked to Sheila in almost a year. He’d brought Audrey to meet her only once, and that meeting had gone badly. Sheila had referred to her as “that farm girl” all night and suggested that their dinner was unnecessary because the relationship was clearly a fling, before he settled down with a nice girl like Tonia. Despite all that, he’d hoped that over time his best girl and mother would learn to get along, but when Audrey got home that night, she’d locked herself in the bathroom and run the water until dawn so he didn’t hear her crying. He’d realized that it was finally time to put his foot down.
“How are you?” Sheila now asked. He had to admit, it was nice to finally hear her voice. Also, and this thought did not illustrate his finest hour, he could always use that trust fund. He’d been burning through his cash lately. Hardly a single meal cooked at home. Turns out, eating alone is depressing.
“I’m good, Mom,” he said. His head wasn’t though. It felt like a splinter had lodged in his cranium, and was slowly working its way out.
“Oh, Saraub, I miss you! Your uncle will be so happy. We’re celebrating Ganesha tonight. Just in time. Will you come?”
“We celebrate that? Wasn’t it last month?”
“It’s a new thing. For good luck with the business. Would you come?”
He pictured their cook efficiently dropping pappa-dam in hot oil, cooking rotis special, just for him, and he grinned. Homecoming. He’d missed that apartment. For one, it was so big he could stretch out on the rug in front of the television. For another, it was on the thirty-sixth floor. So high up that the air was actually clean, and his stuffed nose always miraculously cleared. “I’ve got news, Mom.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and he realized that she thought he was about to announce his engagement to Audrey. She probably had no idea that it had already happened, and unhappened. “I’m not sure I want to hear…” she said.
“Maginot Lines, Mom. I might get a green light. Like, fifty percent chance they’ll finish the funding and distribute it in theatres. A real, feature-length movie. Can you believe it?” He was so excited he hopped up from his chair. Crumbs came with him. He really was a slob. No joke. For a neat freak, Audrey had put up with a lot.
“And now, which one is that?” she asked.
He reddened. “The movie about natural resources. I’ve been working on it for three years, Mom.”
“The hippy thing—your young-life crisis.”
He made a fist and squeezed. “Right.”
“Well, that’s wonderful! But don’t be too hard on Servitus. We’ve got half our stock invested. They paid for your college. And that beautiful wing at the Met, too.”
“I know,” he said, though it seemed like crappy timing to bring it up, just now.
“Only company that’s up this year. Thank God! Anyway, this is wonderful news, dear. We can celebrate tonight. I’m so happy you called. I was just thinking about you because I don’t have any recent pictures for the refrigerator. What do you want to eat? I’m about to give Innocencia the list. I thought puran polis—you like them, yes?”
He nodded, still wiping the crumbs from his backside. It occurred to him that he’d been down lately because normally he washed his clothes after wearing them. Working at home this last month had come at a bad time. He needed to be around people. “Dinner sounds great. What can I bring?”
“Wonderful! I’ll set an extra place. So much to catch up on. Did you know your two cousins took over the business? It’s still Ramesh and Ramesh, of course.”
He smiled. Better news than he’d hoped. It meant his mother and aunts had sold their shares, and likely, each eldest son, except for Saraub, was now a partner. Which also meant that he was out of the rug business for good.
“Great news. I’ll bring red wine. How’s that?” Saraub asked. He walked as he talked, feeling energetic for the first time since Audrey left. Feeling good. He started picking up clothes off the floor. Maybe the worst of it was over. Maybe that first two weeks after she left, when he hadn’t shaved or brushed his hair, were in th
e past. Hell, maybe he was even ready to start dating again.
“Yes. How about a nice Bordeaux? Two bottles. Oh, and Whiskers is good, but he’ll be happy to see you. No one ever scratches his ears.”
Saraub by now had piled his clothes into a heap on the kitchen table and was deciding whether to carry them to the Laundromat two blocks north, or burn them. “Okay. Two Bordeaux!” He was surprised by how well all this had gone. It was as if they’d never fought. And why had they fought? Over Audrey? It all seemed so ridiculous now. He’d built Sheila up in his mind as unreasonable, but maybe it was Audrey’s influence that had done the damage.
“Six o’clock for cocktails. Seven for dinner. But come earlier if you want.”
“Great!”
“Oh, and one more thing, darling. I’m only setting one extra plate.”
Saraub’s pulse throbbed in his temples. “How’s that?”
“Only you.”
He took a breath. Thought about telling her he wanted to come home for a night, and have a meal cooked, and be loved, and safe, and treated like he was special. He thought about telling her Audrey was gone, and he was the most down he’d ever been in his life. “You know that won’t work, Mom,” he said instead.
There was a long silence. He counted to ten. The silence continued. Always a game with her. Always about winning, because she was so sure she was right. His father, when he’d been around, had softened her. After he died, she turned into a frightened, clinging person, and even for his younger sisters, home stopped being home.
“I should go,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you my good news.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Come for dinner. I miss you. And we should talk about your trust fund, too. I’ve added to it, but I haven’t put it in your name. Tax reasons.”