Hell's Half Acre

by Baer Will Christopher

  It’s a surprise, he says.

  I don’t see a dinner party scene, says Molly.

  Ah, says Miller. That’s because there isn’t one.

  What’s going on, John? says Jude.

  Tonight’s shoot has been cancelled, he says.

  Why? she says.

  Jude, he says. Get off the table. You look like a tramp.

  Jude scowls at him, then slithers slowly to the other end and takes her seat. She stares at Miller for a beat, then lowers her eyes and sullenly picks up her script. One copy remains on the table. Jeremy is behind me. I can feel him back there and I have a feeling the camera is pointed directly at my head, like a gun. I would love to see a swinging, upside down shot of the room that slides out of focus and returns to focus on the back of my head before cutting away. Miller laughs softly and turns to look at the door as Daphne enters, leading Samwise by the hand. The boy wears blue and white striped pajamas. He is frightened, numb.

  What’s going on? I say.

  You fucking psycho, says Jude. You’ve let him see my face.

  You’re his mother, says Miller. He’s got to see your face.

  Jude is seething. I am not his mother.

  Who’s the father? says Jeremy.

  Miller frowns. That’s not your line, boy.

  Molly reads from the script, irritated. Who’s the father?

  I am, says Miller. Or I might have been.

  This is a scene? I say.

  I thought we weren’t shooting tonight, says Molly.

  Fuck this, I say. I’m not playing this game.

  The boy needs you, says Miller, softly.

  The boy, I say. The boy needs to go home. He needs to sleep in his own bed.

  Why are you doing this? says Jude.

  Miller shrugs. I have a theory that actors need to be surprised now and then. Besides, the boy has to get used to being in front of the camera.

  The boy is terrified, says Molly.

  What’s your point?

  John, for god’s sake. You can’t make a kidnapped boy memorize dialogue.

  Of course not, says Miller. He will be allowed to improvise.

  How is that going to work? I say.

  Witness, he says.

  Miller removes the black hood from the cage to reveal a small brown rabbit. Now he takes off his top hat and places it on the table, upside down.

  Do you believe in magic, Sam?

  The boy looks at me and I shake my head, fiercely.

  No, he says.

  Interesting, says Miller. I thought all little boys believed in magic. Would you like to see this rabbit disappear?

  The boy shrugs one shoulder. Then nods. Daphne reaches down and strokes the hair out of his eyes. Miller takes the rabbit from the cage and places it inside the hat. He waves his right hand slowly over the hat, muttering incoherently. Everyone watches him, curious to see what will happen. Miller counts to five, then turns the hat over. The rabbit falls out of the hat and crouches on the table, shaking.

  Tharn, I say. The rabbit is tharn.

  Miller feigns surprise, waving his hands.

  I know what he’s going to do before he does it, but I can’t stop him. I sit frozen, my hands like stones on the table. Miller picks up the rabbit with both hands and strokes its head once, twice. Then without changing his expression, tries and fails to break the rabbit’s neck. Blood sprays from its nose, and the rabbit begins to scream like nothing I have ever heard.

  Molly cries out loud, incoherent.

  Goddamn it, says Jude. Goddamn it, John.

  She picks up the crippled, screeching rabbit and takes it out of frame, to the kitchen. The screaming abruptly stops. Sam still clings to Daphne’s hand. His face is so white he looks as if he will faint. A puddle of urine appears at his feet.

  Motherfucker, I say.

  I come out of my chair and hurry to the boy, growling at Daphne to get the hell away from him. I lift the boy up by his armpits and hold him close to my chest.

  I whisper to him, my voice low. Okay, you’re okay.

  Jeremy moves in with the camera, a slow zoom.

  I look up and Miller has taken a gun from his breast pocket. His face still bloody.

  What are you doing, Poe? he says.

  I stare at Miller. I pray God strikes him with boils.

  This gun contains live rounds, says Miller. If you’re interested in such matters.

  Are we done? I say. Are we done with this scene?

  The boy is heavy, so heavy he could crush you but at the same time he weighs nothing. I take him down the hall to the bathroom. He’s trembling, a little. His face pressed against my neck. His pajamas are wet and now my shirt is wet but I don’t want him to think I notice. I hold him close. I tell him he’s cool.

  You’re cool, little man. You’re okay.

  Into the bathroom and I close the door. The same black-and- white tiles. The light over my head is bright as the sun on snow and I wonder where the camera is.

  The camera. The camera is obscure.

  I ease the boy down onto the fuzzy black bathmat. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look into my eyes. His hands on my shoulders. He stands with his feet wide apart and I notice how small his feet are, smaller than my hands. His feet just about kill me. He doesn’t look up. I can hear him breathing.

  Do you want to take a bath? I say.

  He doesn’t answer at first. Then nods, fiercely.

  He doesn’t want to let go of my shoulders so I pull him over to the clawfoot tub with me. I turn the hot and cold taps until the water feels warm but not too warm. There is a bottle of cucumber-flavored bubble bath on a little shelf next to the tub and I dump some of that in.

  The water turns pleasantly green.

  Does your dad ever call you Sam I am?

  The boy nods again.

  Would you, I say. Would you could you in a box?

  He stands there, breathing.

  Not with a fox, he says. Not in a box.

  The tub fills slowly and the room is white with steam. The boy and I are quoting everything we can remember from Green Eggs and Ham, and making up new ones. Not in a boat, not with a goat. Not on a slippery slope. Not at the end of a rope. Not on a train by god, and never in the rain. Not in the house of pain. I ask him if he wants to take his bath now. I know it won’t kill him but I hate for him to stand around in pajamas soaked with urine. I have been in those shoes. I have stood in my own piss and it’s not cool. The boy nods and says he needs some privacy.

  Yeah, I say. That’s right. Everybody needs privacy sometimes.

  Sam looks up at me now and I see how red his eyes are, how dirty his face is. I want to wash his face but I don’t know if he will let me.

  The action figures. The action figures are in Molly’s room.

  Hey, I say. Do you want some friends to play with in the tub?

  Sam nods. Okay, he says. What kind of friends.

  How about some good guys, I say.

  He shakes his head. I don’t want any bad guys.

  I leave him to undress and go down the hall to Molly’s room. She is sitting on the bed, smoking a cigarette and agitated as hell. I ignore her. The toys are in the green chair. I dropped them there, before we went into the dining room. I dig through the bag and come up with Batman and the Silver Surfer. D.C. and Marvel and therefore not of the same universe but a fine combination nonetheless. Vengeance and poetry, the stuff of life. What else is there. I rip the packages open, careful not to drop Batman’s grappling hook. I wonder if the Surfer’s little surfboard will float and now I notice that Molly is staring at me.

  Molly is staring bullets at me.

  What?

  I don’t know.

  How is he? I say.

  Yeah, she says.

  He pissed himself. He’s not happy.

  Molly wraps her arms around herself. She’s pretty, so pretty. I wonder what it’s like to be pretty. If it gives you strength. If it pulls you under the surface, somehow. Molly begins to roc
k back and forth and I know she needs me to talk to her, to sit on the bed with her and make sense of things but she’s going to have to wait.

  Wait, I say.

  Back down the hall and I have a feeling that Jude is lurking, waiting for me in the shadows. Jude will soon jump out at me and stick her tongue in my ear and say something freaky. Jude is always lurking somewhere, lately. But there’s no sign of her. I can’t smell her and instead I run into Huck. He’s crouched in the hall, a beer in each hand.

  Hey, he says. Hey, man.

  I stop and stare down at him. Huck is a big man but he manages to shrink into the shadows. He lifts one of the beers to his mouth and drinks. Then wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

  Hey, I say. Are you okay?

  No, he says. I’m about two thousand miles from okay.

  Where is Jeremy?

  The fuck I know. He went off with Jude somewhere, and Daphne.

  Nice, I say. That gives me something nasty to think about.

  Huck shivers. Uh-huh.

  What about Miller?

  The fucking Lizard Room, he says. Feeding another rabbit to his snakes, probably.

  He’s watching us.

  Fuck him. You want a beer?

  No, I say. Thanks. The kid is waiting for me.

  Huck crumples the empty beer can into a jagged knot and tosses it into a potted plant. He shakes his head and says, you tell that boy to keep the faith.

  The boy is swimming in the bathtub when I return, the bubbles around him like fallen clouds. His head comes out of the water and he is slick and dark as a seal. I offer him the action figures and he takes them from me, murmuring. Batman he’s familiar with. But I have to give him the historical lowdown on the Silver Surfer. He listens intently, nodding. He frowns when I tell him how lost and heartbroken the Surfer was and there is a brief, contemplative silence between us.

  Does his surfboard float? he says.

  I smile. That’s the question, isn’t it?

  Sam doesn’t want to wash his hair or his face but I figure he’s wallowing in enough cucumber bubblewater to purify a pig, so I leave him alone. He asks me to stay in the bathroom with him until he’s done with his bath. I tell him not to worry. I’m not going anywhere. I sit on the floor with my back against the wall, watching him play with Batman and the Surfer.

  The surfboard does float.

  It tends to fall over when the Surfer is actually standing on it, but the boy doesn’t mind. He’s got Batman hanging upside down from one of the taps, his legs tangled up in the cord of his own grappling hook. The boy is narrating.

  Help me, says Batman.

  I’m too sad to help you, says the Surfer.

  Help me. I’m drowning over here.

  Okay, okay.

  I smoke a cigarette, dropping ashes into the toilet. I know that I shouldn’t smoke around him but this has been a long fucking day and I’m waiting for the boy to ask me about the rabbit. I want to tell him the rabbit wasn’t real. It was a fake rabbit and I know it looked real and maybe that’s why it was so disturbing but I know this is bullshit.

  If you lie to a child, he will smell it.

  He will smell the untruth coming from your skin like the sweet smell of rot and he may accept it or he may not, but he won’t thank you for it.

  Footsteps and there’s a knock at the door, soft. The boy is spooked and disappears underwater. I figure it’s Molly at the door, come to tell me something. But when I open the door it’s Jude and I guess she sees my face change. She hands me a glass of scotch and a clean T-shirt for the boy. Her lips move to form the words I’m sorry and she touches my hand before turning away. I shake my head. Her talent for slipping and sliding between evil and kindness is extraordinary. I tell myself that everyone is this way, that most people are just very clumsy about it. I take a small, medicinal swallow of the scotch and it feels good, it goes down like liquid smoke and I am surprised to realize this is my first drink of the day. I thump the side of the tub with my knuckles and smile, remembering how I used to lie underwater with my eyes shut tight, the faraway echoes stretching in my skull.

  Knock, knock.

  The boy comes up for air and I tell him it’s time for bed.

  He convinces me to let him stay in the bath for five more minutes. Five more minutes. He says it like a mantra and I imagine he has had this conversation with his father a thousand times.

  Five minutes, ten.

  I am not too concerned about bedtime, you know. What difference does it make. The boy is a hostage. It’s not like he has a soccer game tomorrow. And after a while, he tells me that the water is cold, that his skin is getting a million wrinkles. I pull him out of the tub and wrap him in one of the big black towels. I offer to help him with his T-shirt but he says he doesn’t need any help because he’s five and a half.

  I’m big, he says.

  Okay, I say.

  I watch him wrestle with the T-shirt. He has a little trouble negotiating the second armhole but he sticks with it. The shirt is on backwards but he doesn’t care. His hair is sticking up all over the place and he looks like a little madman and when he smiles at me, I am tempted to take him to bed with Molly and me but I’m not sure this is a good idea and I know that Jude wouldn’t like it.

  I take him through the library and down the stairs, taking care not to clue him in to the workings of the secret passage. This has to do with instinct, or respect for Jude. I tuck Sam into bed and he promptly burrows into the corner with the stuffed bear. He arranges the pillows around himself, like a fort. He’s got Batman in one hand, the Silver Surfer in the other. Vengeance and poetry. There are no books to read and I wonder if I should go up to the library and look for a copy of The Lord of The Rings, but the boy’s eyes are heavy already and I don’t want to leave him. I flip on the television, thinking cartoons will give him pleasant dreams, colorful and two-dimensional and easily resolved. If he was my son, I might lie down next to him and let the sound of my heartbeat ease his mind. But he’s not my son and I am reluctant to get too close. I don’t want to freak him out so I sit down on the floor beside his bed and halfway through Johnny Quest the boy is asleep and snoring softly.

  twenty-seven.

  MOLLY’S ROOM, NIGHT.

  I lie on her puffy white bed, smoking a cigarette. I wear filthy blue jeans and nothing else. I am exhausted and pissed off about the rabbit, but I could be worse. I have a fresh glass of scotch balanced on my chest, my third of the evening. I am staring dumbly at the little television across the room. The sound is low but I can just make out the numbing dialogue of a sitcom involving a gang of attractive white people and their innocuous homosexual black pal. I flip around until I land on CNN, hoping to find something about Sam.

  On the bed beside me is Miller’s script. The Velvet.

  Yeah.

  I don’t know what I think of that title. Too oblique, too nihilistic, or too esoteric or something but it’s not my problem. The Velvet is Miller’s baby. Molly has left the room, to get into character. She wants to run a scene with me and of course she already has her lines down. I have agreed to cooperate, but I’m going to read my lines from the script in a voice composed of discarded feathers and broken glass.

  Molly enters, wearing white underpants and a little white tank top. Her hair is wet. She’s carrying an open bottle of red wine and an orange. She tosses the orange on the bed beside me. Takes a drink of wine and wipes her mouth on her wrist. She offers the bottle to me and I shake my head. I put the glass of scotch aside and sit up, the script in hand.

  What’s the orange for, I say.

  I have a vitamin deficiency, she says. I’m getting rickets.

  That would be scurvy.

  What?

  You’re getting scurvy. And deaf, too.

  Oh, shut up.

  Have you seen a doctor?

  I toss the script aside because I remember how it goes. This scene is based on an actual conversation between Jude and me, so long ago that I feel sick with loss. I take
a shallow breath, realizing that Jude must have at some point collaborated with Miller on this thing. Molly ignores me, bends to pick up a shirt from the floor. She smells it, apparently decides it’s relatively clean and begins to rub her hair dry with it. I watch her for a while.

  Isn’t that my shirt? I say.

  Yeah, she says. I already used my shirt to dry my poor body.

  Oh.

  Why don’t you buy some towels? Your houseguests might appreciate it.

  I take the shirt from her. I rub her head gently with it.

  What houseguests? I don’t have houseguests.

  You have me.

  Well. I don’t know where they sell towels.

  They? she says. Who would they be?

  You know. The household luxuries people.

  Molly laughs. Phineas…towels are not luxuries.

  They are if you don’t have them.

  You have sheets, she says. You have nice, clean sheets.

  Yeah, well. My girlfriend bought the sheets. Before, all I had was a dusty mattress and a sleeping bag. She said I would never get laid unless I had real sheets.

  Molly’s hair is dry. I toss the shirt aside and lean over, reaching for my scotch. Molly bites me on the shoulder. Then we wrestle for a minute and I let her pin me to the bed, or so it goes in the script. Molly is wiry and strong, though. She doesn’t need a lot of mercy from me.

  Your girlfriend was right, she says. Wasn’t she?

  There is a long silence, which Molly interprets as me being lost. I am lost, but not in the way she thinks. Molly sighs and takes a drink of wine and her lips come away dark as berries.

  I don’t know, I say. This was a nice sleeping bag, a mummy bag.

  She rolls her eyes. Why don’t you ask this girlfriend to buy you some dishes, too. Wine glasses, for instance.

  I have coffee cups, I say.

  Two coffee cups. One of them is dirty. The other one has a plant growing in it.

  At this point, the script calls for Molly to nonchalantly remove her tank top. I am weirdly nervous about this. Because while Molly and I have been slowly, painfully seducing each other for days now, and it seems reasonable to assume that any day she might in fact remove her top, there is a sense of detachment and hostility between us that seems to arise directly from the script. Anyway, after slight pause, Molly shrugs and pulls the tank top over her head and she is exposed to me.