The Ravine

by Paul Quarrington

  Well, I’ve progressed this far in my novel-writing, I no longer care or am apologetic when I make these tangential leaps. After all, life is like that, isn’t it, tangential. Often things connect, but not at first. So I will tell you that Bellamy stood off to one side, as though at attention, a clear plastic makeup bag nestled in her hands. She stood there awaiting the call “Final touches!” at which point she would dart onto the set, digging into the bag and producing brushes and powder puffs. She would minister to the talent, dulling the sheen of their beautiful faces, until ushered off the set by the first AD. In watching her do this, I was reminded of the one time I had slept over at her house—reminded of it without remembering the circumstances; how did it happen that no one at my home missed me for an entire night?—when, in the morning, Bellamy applied her own makeup. In her tiny one-bedroom, the bathroom contained only the toilet and shower; the sink, surmounted by an improbably massive medicine cabinet, stood outside that door. Bellamy, having showered, emerged radiantly naked, and began to do her face. I was surprised, frankly, at the labour involved. She always seemed so natural, but now I saw that this effect was the result of many pains taken. She powdered and rouged (I’m at sea here with the technicalities) and I lay in her minuscule bed and stared at her bottom and marvelled at the way her breasts bobbed in accordance with her arm actions. And I guess it occurred to me that the whole affair had been undertaken to afford me this, whatever it was, perhaps a moment of luscious tranquility, perhaps a memory that might spark a toothless smile as I lay upon my deathbed. I’m not sure. I’m certain that the affair was not undertaken to accomplish the scuppering of my marriage, because even in that moment Bellamy’s beauty was not as profound to me as my wife’s, not as perfect or affecting.

  There on the set, though, Bellamy returned from her work and took up her post outside of camera range. She caught my eyes, winked and smiled. Something inside me went clammy with realization, the wink indicating that we shared something deep, the smile hinting at real affection, maybe even what would pass for love in the mind of a twenty-eight-year-old woman.

  “Hiya.”

  I turned and saw my wife.

  Ronnie’s hair was still wet, meaning she’d been to the gym, and on her face there was a broad smile, and something inside me went clammier still.

  We’d done something that morning we hadn’t done in what seemed like years, that is, made love. Sometime pre-dawn, we’d both been startled into half-consciousness by a sound from the outdoors, a raccoon shoving the lid off a trash can or some such thing. I was possessed of what so often eluded me in more alert states, an erection, which pressed against my wife’s thigh, and she took hold of it and we were both muzzy enough not to overthink the situation and before long we were going at each other with enthusiasm. That is enough said about the physicalities. I will provide a little more detail about the workings of my heart, although you know by now that I have no real insight. Those feelings and thoughts that should have crystallized (I love my wife, I am not going to leave her for Bellamy, I should tell Bellamy this before she is too invested emotionally, etc.) remained vague and inchoate. But they existed, I swear to you they did.

  All of that is a bit moot, because Ed Milligan came walking over with a strange look in his eyes as Ronnie and I were in the midst of the following exchange.

  MCQUIGGE

  Hi. What are you doing here?

  VERONICA

  I came for the window.

  MCQUIGGE

  Really?

  VERONICA

  Sure. Isn’t that the tradition? Everyone, all the front office staff and all the spouses, everybody gathers together for the window?

  MCQUIGGE

  Uh, yeah. You’ve just never done it before.

  I think I’ll continue in this format, because it affords distance…

  MILLIGAN

  Hey there, hi there, ho there!

  VERONICA

  Hi, Ed. How are you?

  MILLIGAN

  I’m wonderful, Veronica. I’m in a state of flux. Veronica, I’m learning a lot about mercy and grace. I’m learning a lot about forgiveness.

  VERONICA

  Uh-huh?

  MCQUIGGE

  Shouldn’t you be running lines or something?

  MILLIGAN ignores MCQUIGGE. He turns VERONICA by the shoulder, gently, directs her attention toward BELLAMY.

  MILLIGAN

  You see that woman over there?

  VERONICA

  The cute young girl?

  MILLIGAN

  Yes, exactly, the cute young girl.

  VERONICA

  What about her?

  MILLIGAN

  Phil’s having an affair with her. So you have a wonderful opportunity to forgive him!

  FIRST AD

  Okay, everybody! It’s the window!

  And a huge huzzah went up from the assembled.

  Milligan smiled, kept his hand on Veronica’s shoulder, placed his other on mine. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he repeated.

  All right, here’s scene 72A from the double-white version of episode 626.

  INT. CHURCH—CONTINUOUS

  OSCAR grabs GABE, places the gun to his head, spins him around so that they face the congregation.

  OSCAR

  I don’t want to kill him, but I will!

  GABE

  I don’t think you will, son.

  OSCAR

  I will if I have to.

  GABE

  No, you won’t. Because you don’t have that much hatred in your heart. There’s a little bit of love in there, I’ve seen it, I saw the way you looked at Juanita there …

  Well, it hardly matters at this point what crap I scripted for Milligan to say, because he never said any of it. What he did say was “Hey, Phil? You know what would be better? If I did like in that movie!” Okay, here’s some of the stuff that came up at the coroner’s inquest. First of all, why was the gun loaded, even if with blanks? Well, the way I wrote the scene, the Padre’s speech is so persuasive that Oscar ultimately turns the gun against himself. (Anything is possible in teevee land.) Padre wrestles the gun away, but not before it discharges, because your typical Padre fan enjoys loud noises every now and again. Anyway, given the time constraints, Yu was attempting to shoot the whole scene as a oner—a continuous unbroken shot—instead of cutting and then loading the gun with blanks and then picking that up in coverage. This was stupid, reckless and irresponsible, and is the main reason I’ve been drummed out of the business. The fact that I didn’t know about it (it wasn’t discussed at any of the production meetings, Yu came up with the notion the morning of day six) was no excuse, because I should have. (The eleventh commandment: thou shalt pay fucking attention.) Next, Willy Props had to take the stand, and explain to the assembled what, exactly, “blanks” are. Willy told us how paper wadding is used to seal the gunpowder into the shell and that this wadding is propelled out of the barrel with considerable force. When asked if Mr. Milligan would have been aware of this, Willy shrugged and muttered, “I guess he forgot,” because, of course, Milligan was an expert in small arms. Then a procession of medical doctors explained how, when the wadding impacted against his temple, Milligan’s skull was shattered and a tiny piece of bone got driven into his brain. He lay in a coma for twenty-seven hours, until it was concluded there was no sign of brain activity, and then life-support was withdrawn.

  Much of the inquiry was given over to ascertaining Milligan’s mental state when the “accident” happened. It came out that his mind had been imperfectly wired throughout his life. We were all astounded to hear of his extended stays in facilities, the first at the age of fourteen. We were further astounded to hear of suicide attempts, earnest ones. Milligan seemed to us to be consumed by self-love, but that was mere flummery.

  I spent a total of three and a half hours on the stand. I talked endlessly about the intricacies of television production, I detailed my history with Edward Milligan. I managed to not mention The
Bullet and the Cross. I did not tell the coroner’s inquest how, one moonless night, I’d screened the film for Edward Milligan. I thought he’d slept through the last half. Apparently I was mistaken.

  Milligan, that day, took his position behind the flimsy pulpit. Nicky Poole wrapped one arm around Ed’s chest and pressed the end of the revolver’s barrel against his temple.

  Veronica did not speak or move away. My wife was rigid with fury; I knew there would be moments, perhaps even minutes, before she summoned the wherewithal to act. I wasn’t sure what she would do. What she did do, many hours later, was calmly ask me to gather up my stuff—all of my goddam shit, as she put it—and move out of the house. This was hours later, as I say, because in the interim there were countless policemen and detectives to talk to, telephone calls to be made, statements to be issued to the press.

  “Hey, Phil? You know what would be better? If I did like in that movie!” Edward Milligan looked at me with unbounded delight. Then he reached up and squeezed Nicky Poole’s finger, pulling the trigger, and thus shambling off in search of the Pearly Gates.

  PART FOUR

  THE SEARCH FOR NORMAN KITCHEN

  “HELLO?”

  “Veronica?”

  “No. Of course it’s not Veronica. Does it sound like Veronica, dickhead?”

  “This is John Hooper.”

  “I know who it is. Why do you think I called you dickhead?”

  “Is this Phil?”

  “Yes, it’s Phil. Who else would it be? You called my house, after all.”

  “But you don’t live there any more.”

  “Well … point, Hooper. So, what, you’re used to calling here, are you, and when the phone is answered, you’re used to it being Veronica?”

  “She left a message to call her back.”

  “Did she now?”

  “Is she there?”

  “She is here, more or less. But I don’t think she can talk to you. She’s rushing around, cramming things into a little carry-on bag. Let me describe the scene. Ronnie is roaming about the house with relentless energy. The airport limo waits, the driver napping in the front seat. Kerwin, Ronnie’s young boyfriend, a doctoral candidate in the exciting, challenging field of philosophy, is standing in the foyer, trying to avoid eye contact with me, although I don’t allow that, I don’t put up with that, I ask him silly questions, inconsequential questions—have you ever been to Mexico before, who is the current Mexican president, how much did those shoes cost?—and I pin him to the wall with my eyeballs and watch him squirm. I should be getting back to that, I don’t really have time to shoot the breeze with you, Hooper.”

  “Fine. Just tell Ronnie, you know, thanks!”

  “All right, we can shoot the breeze a little. What do you mean, thanks?”

  “Well, she left a message congratulating me.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, you know. The Giller.”

  “She congratulated you on your Giller nomination?”

  “I … I won, Phil.”

  “You won the Giller Prize?”

  “Yes.”

  “For fiction?”

  “That’s what they give it for.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was as surprised as anybody.”

  “Gee, that’s swell, Hooper.”

  “Umm… thanks.”

  “No, listen. Listen, John. That’s… that’s wonderful. Really.”

  “I was very pleased. How’s your novel coming along?”

  “You don’t have to pretend to care.”

  “I do care. I liked what I read of it. All except for the television stuff. But I’m sure you’ve moved away from that. Written about other things.”

  “That I have, that I have. I have written about, oh, the incident, and the rankers, and I even managed to work in my admiration for Mickey Rooney. I’ve laid all the pipe, as we say in the television business. Now it’s time to go, go, go. I’m in the present tense, baby. I’m writing this on my little laptop. I’m in an old dilapidated car that’s headed up Highway 400. My brother’s driving and the girls are bickering in the back seat.”

  “I don’t get you, Phil.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. So … the goddam Giller fucking Prize, huh? Maybe I should read your book.”

  “You haven’t read it?”

  “No, no, no. Veronica—who, incidentally, finally seems ready to vacate the premises—told me that there was a character based on me, a character with some silly name, Paul or something.”

  “Uh-huh. I did base him on you.”

  “Well, there you go. I could hardly read the book, otherwise I would be forced to sue your ass.”

  “Sue me?”

  “It’s the old ‘you can’t use people as fodder for your fiction’ chestnut.”

  “I really don’t see how you could sue me, Phil. Paul is the most sympathetic character in the novel.”

  “I don’t need your … he is?”

  “Yeah. I mean, he has issues and everything …”

  “Did he fuck up his life?”

  “Mmm, yeah, sure.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Verisimilitude and all that.”

  “Right.”

  “But I should let you know, John—and this might affect your next book—there is a reclamation project in the works.”

  After I hang up on Hooper, I join my wife and her young boyfriend in the foyer. She is going through the pre-vacation litany, some of which is murmured gently, some of which is directed at Kerwin, who supplies the obligatory responses. “Yes, Veronica,” he says. “We have the tickets, Veronica.” I know that he means this usage of “Veronica” to impress upon me an urbane intimacy, but upon my ears it falls as clunkily as “Mrs. McQuigge.” Another doomed relationship.

  “All right,” Veronica says, turning to me. “I guess that’s it.”

  “Have a great time!”

  “Yeah.” Ronnie nods, bites her bottom lip. “So you’ll pick up the kids after school?”

  “Ronnie, I’ve done this before. I’ve executed my parental duties quite successfully for years. Just because you’re out of the country doesn’t mean I’m all of a sudden going to become irresponsible and ignore our daughters’ well-being.”

  Ronnie nods, unconvinced, as well she might be, because the kids are in the back seat right now. Currer is fast asleep, the side of her head pressed against the window. Her sleep seems profound. I am reminded of this little factoid, that after police arrest a suspect, they throw him into a little room and watch what he does through a oneway mirror. Innocent people pace nervously; guilty people fall asleep. I’m not saying Currer has a guilty conscience, I’m saying there seems to be a sense of relief, of release. Ellis, on the other hand, is wide awake, caught up in the spirit of adventure. It was hard to spring Ellis out of the Big House. At Currer’s middle school, they handed her over without a fight. They didn’t even mind the vagueness of my plans, my lame explanation as to why she wouldn’t be attending for the rest of the week. “Family business,” was all I said, which, for all they knew, could mean that I intended to lock Currer up in a sweatshop and force her to operate some potentially lethal steam-driven punch for seventeen hours a day. The women (there were three, but they seemed to function as a single entity) shrugged, flipped on the intercom and commanded Currer McQuigge to report to the office. At Ellis’s school, on the other hand, I encountered the fearsome Miss Ogilvy, whose hackles bolted upright at the irregularity of it all.

  “She’ll be gone for the whole week?” Miss Ogilvy demanded, as though a week were some unit of geographical time that was but barely comprehensible to the human brain.

  “Yes. But she’ll be back next Monday.”

  “Next Monday?”

  “Er … yes.”

  “Do you have a note from her mother?”

  “Her mother is not here. Her mother is in Mexico.” I freighted that word mightily, managing to suggest the sordid libidinous behaviour that I was certai
n was ongoing, or would be as soon as the plane landed. I barely managed to suppress the phrase “with her young lover,” which would have been too slimy even for me.

  Miss Ogilvy shook her head. “I’m not sure about all this.”

  “But but… it’s by way of being an emergency.”

  “Hmm. What sort of emergency?”

  Ah, good question. The word “spiritual” sprang to mind, but it wouldn’t signify to Miss Ogilvy. “Medical” wouldn’t really work either—I knew that the battleship had already spotted Jay parked out front of the school in the 1970 Dodge Super Bee. The automobile was nothing but ancient brown metal and pimpled chrome. Jay sat in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers with the suppressed anxiety of a wheelman at a bank job. “We have to go visit a sick relative in Thunder Bay,” I said tentatively.