What Movies Made Me Do

by Susan Braudy

  “What about a prop?” he asked. “Stick your stethoscope inside my shirt.”

  “No, thank you,” she murmured.

  He looked her in the eyes while he plucked the end of the stethoscope from her chest, pressing the instrument to his neck. I clicked the camera.

  He said, “You’re doing great, Doc.”

  I watched her smile go a little wild.

  “Have you been to the Grand Canyon?” I asked her a minute later as we linked arms behind his back, supporting him to the car.

  “Yes,” she said in her careful voice. “That was fun too.”

  Mae looked alarmed when we opened the car door. “This animal needs a home,” I said, picking up the fat yellow cat with both hands. I scratched her plump furry throat.

  “I will find it one,” the doctor said.

  “Her name is Mae.” The cat leaped out of my arms and up the path to her office.

  In the car he tilted his head back. Sweat beaded his forehead. “Shit,” he said, “now what am I supposed to do? I’m really sick. In five years I’ll be fifty and sick will be a way of life.”

  “You take pills, baths, and you get better.” I sighed, envying the doctor. She had a clean vital job. She didn’t have to hustle and connive to get her way. And what good work she did, no superficial tinsel-town hocus-pocus. She gave people health. She saved lives.

  We didn’t talk until I made a skidding turn back on the waterfront path and stopped in front of the hydrofoil. “Thanks for the helping hand, you’re good company,” he said.

  “I do enjoy a lot of my own company,” I said dejectedly.

  “Come to Rome,” he said in his grandiose seductive voice. “I have a feeling it’ll be good for you.”

  I braked hysterically by his hydrofoil. “New York will be good for you,” I said forcefully. “We can get a plane from Tel Aviv and be there in ten hours.” We got out, and I leapt to help him as he sagged against the car. Bending under his weight, I added, “I’ll nurse you. I’ll admire you.”

  “You still got the black dog?” he asked abruptly.

  “Yup,” I said.

  The man with the turban appeared at the gangplank. I beckoned him for help.

  “Maybe I’ll flip a coin,” he said inside the cabin, yawning. “Rome or New York.”

  “No, no, you’re coming to Manhattan with me.”

  “Wrong.” He laughed again, lying down on the couch. “You’re crazy about me. I can get you to do anything I want.”

  That made me mad. “Why don’t you just go to Rome by yourself?”

  Silence. He opened one eye at me. “Okay, I’m getting hustled, but I’m not sure I can make it alone. I need you, I’m coming back with you.”

  He turned over. “Carol, you look exhausted,” and he pointed to a cot in a dim corner. “Lie down and cover yourself with some of these coats. It’s too damp in here. I don’t want you getting sick too.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, closing my eyes with relief. I began rummaging through my bag. “I have crackers you can eat before you take your next pills.” I checked my watch. I had to remember to call Anita and tell her to pretend he hadn’t disappeared. We’d both be fired if Michael got wind of this caper. I wanted to shout yippee. I was taking him back to New York, where I’d have time to coax him into finishing my movie. It was amazing. I was going to get to spend time with him. Strictly business. I handed him a wrapped saltine and sank into the cold Naugahyde sofa.

  “Sex was lousy between us, wasn’t it?” he said from the other side of the room. I heard him chewing a dry cracker.

  I gulped. “I’ll lie if you want.”

  “The truth.”

  The motor rose to a chugging roar.

  “It reminded me of a car accident. We didn’t know each other but we kept crashing into each other.”

  “What was your problem, do you think?” He spoke through a yawn.

  “It wasn’t anybody’s fault.” The boat began to churn water. I sat up and watched the shoreline shrinking through a small window. I had a pang. I never meant to leave Israel so soon. I almost understood things here.

  “Hey, how’s it look?” he asked.

  I was watching our wake cut a fat white line behind us. Suddenly the vessel leaped and we were smoothly skimming the water—flying and sailing at the same time.

  “Go stand on deck, the wind smells fresh,” he said.

  “I’m fine down here.” I tore open two silver aspirin and codeine packets, and began guzzling the last Perrier bottle. His eyes narrowed like he was listening to my thoughts. Then his voice crackled as he said, “Take it easy, all you need is one long weekend with me.”

  “Don’t talk like that, it’s vulgar.” It hit me that he was coming with me because he felt challenged in the sex department.

  “If you don’t like the way I talk, find somebody else to bully.” He sounded belligerent.

  “Now I’m a bully?”

  “No, not really, or I wouldn’t be following you around the world,” he said gently. “No, you’re like a crank from India, you’d sell your soul to make that movie.”

  “Hey, truce.” I retreated to the cot. “I’m too tired to fight you.”

  “And remember our pact. Don’t bug me about finishing this movie.”

  “Sure, sure,” I lied.

  “Fasten your seat belt.” He giggled drowsily. “It’s going to be a bumpy date.” I heard the springs of his couch like he was turning over.

  Something nagged at my tired brain. “What will people think if they find your passport?”

  He laughed bitterly. I curled up on my side. The cot smelled like seaweed as I relaxed into the flying rhythm of the boat, and my whole body sank into a deep solid sleep.

  Nine

  Sound track whistles “I Love New York” as camera somersaults past New York skyline to glinting yellow roof and windshield of cab.

  My toes rubbed in the new penny loafers from the Tel Aviv airport store. I was freezing in two tee shirts and two sweaters. Jack turned up his coat collar, shivering. “Could we get more heat?” I asked the driver.

  “My best isn’t good enough?”

  “He’s sick.”

  Jack Hanscomb hunched into his old Israeli overcoat like an escaping prisoner of war. It was 6 a.m. and we were driving into the bright dense city. I blinked whirling silver dots, wired like a kid who’d robbed a great candy store. If I could find Jack a quiet hotel near my apartment and calm him down about Anita, I could get him back on location this week. Above all, he mustn’t give me the slip. Above all, I had to keep my presence of mind around him.

  I admired his blunt and brown fingers as he opened his Shakespeare book. I suddenly pictured Barry’s long, cool trembling fingers. I hadn’t lost him. I’d try to make friends. I blinked away pain and started scribbling strategy notes on one of my business cards. Call Anita. I had to make sure she covered Jack’s disappearance. I had to jump two steps ahead of Michael Finley and discredit him at the studio. If Michael discovered Jack’s disappearance, he’d shut down the movie and blame this latest disaster on me. It was grounds to fire me and collect the production insurance money.

  I caught Jack staring abstractedly at me. “Hey.” I poked his shoulder. “You think you’ll be recognized at a hotel?”

  “Not the way I look.”

  I waggled my finger. “Watch out, your face is changing. I mean that curl in your lip might turn mean.”

  He frowned, scratching at the short hairs on his cheek. “It’s rude the way you comment on my looks.”

  I flushed. My nerves were shot. “Well, you’re a movie star whose image has been pressed into visual field.” I peered at his book. “Othello, you want to make a Shakespeare movie?”

  “I’m not going near a movie set.” He spoke savagely.

  I buttoned my lip. Call Vicky. She’ll carry my rumors to Michael Finley’s boss. It was Michael’s work against mine. I’d just keep saying everything was perfect. I’d snoop around and find out what Mi
chael Finley was doing in New York.

  Jack glanced at me, closing the book on his forefinger. I was gaping at him. “Okay, what’s happening?” he asked.

  For a split second he looked like an ordinary, weary, disheveled man, badly in need of a shave. “Sorry, for a minute I didn’t recognize you.”

  He yawned. “Lately, I don’t recognize me either.”

  At his hotel I handed the cabbie a large American bill. It felt good to be dealing again in money I recognized. The spurting fountains in Columbus Circle were surrounded by snow and honking, smoking cars. I looked apprehensively from face to face, but nobody noticed him. I elbowed the revolving door to the hotel.

  He moaned behind me. I turned and gasped as he slumped over in slow motion. I grabbed him at the middle, my knees buckling, and struggled to hold him upright, looking around wildly. The lobby was deserted except for two white-haired women on canes who watched horrified while he clutched his ribs. I was muttering, “Just let me get you through this. I can get you through.” I was grinding my teeth. “I’ll try and be a better person. I just want you safe.”

  His body sagged. I stumbled trying to support him and he flipped forward onto his knees, his face squeezed with pain, saying, “I don’t believe this,” and whamming one shoulder on the floor. His shopping bag tore; books and a wrinkled black undershirt rolled out. I couldn’t see his face. He twisted my fingers off his brow. “Lean me against the wall,” he whispered, “just give me a second, I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, you’re okay.” My voice was an imploring whisper.

  I locked my elbows under his armpits, pulling him up from behind until he finally stood, scraping his fingernails on the pink cloth wallpaper. A teenage black boy ran by and scooped Jack’s books back into the torn shopping bag. “Thanks.” What a mess.

  Sagging against the wall, he started crying, hiding his eyes with his forearm. I was overwhelmed with fear. I didn’t recognize this Jack Hanscomb at all. “It’s only five minutes to my house,” I told him. “Come on, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

  I put his arm across my back and a deep muscle pulled inside my shoulder while we inched step by step, blocking an impatient bellhop pushing a piled cart of matched luggage.

  “Please give us a hand.”

  “Ten minutes, ma’am.” The bellhop winked. “He had one too many?”

  I kicked the revolving door and squeezed into Jack’s triangle, holding him as he leaned his cheek against the icy glass. His fresh sweat smelled like burning rubber. He was frightened. The cabs were lined up outside, gleaming like a long yellow snake with their toothy grilles, grinding engines, and tank bodies.

  I planted him against a cab and flung his arms across the roof for support. My apartment was up the street, but he couldn’t walk it. I tugged open the door, my heart pounding, turned him to face me, and sat him down on the edge of the torn plastic seat. “This has never happened to me,” he whispered, his eyelids closing.

  The driver looked at him. “Roosevelt Hospital?”

  “No, just that apartment at the corner.” I scurried around the taxi to the other door.

  My orange canopy looked large and artificially colored to my eyes. My mind went back to miles of serene, rippling beige sand. These people looked overdressed in big colored coats. The city was loud. I couldn’t remember my life here. How did I manage to survive the chaos? I wanted to cover my ears from the pounding, drilling noises. There was no hiding from the city, no solitude. I couldn’t hear myself think.

  After I handed the cabdriver a five-dollar bill, he tipped his hat and got out of his cab to lend an arm around Jack. “We’re almost there. Hang on.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack mumbled, his teeth chattering.

  My doorman walked toward us. I couldn’t let him see Jack. “No problem,” I said. He looked away. A single woman needs privacy.

  Upstairs, I was pushing my keys at my lock when the doorknob moved from inside. Behind me I heard Jack slipping to the floor with a sigh of relief.

  I dropped the keys and grabbed his lapels but his weight took me slowly down with him, his head falling between his knees as I sprawled over him. “Stay cool,” he said. “You’re all I got, Superwoman.”

  I heard Rocky barking and somebody unbolting the chain. “Who is it?” came a high familiar voice.

  I braced Jack’s shoulders. “Open up, Rosemary, quick.”

  Her plump face appeared at the door. “Holy smoke.”

  She looked pale and large to me after all the Israelis. She clutched my white terry-cloth bathrobe at her neck. Jack groaned as I let him fall slowly back against the wall. “You sick or something?” I asked Rosemary.

  “No, just mad,” she said, leaning into one side of the doorway as Rocky leaped past her, his paws hitting my shoulders, his hindquarters wagging. I scratched his curly graying neck until he rolled his huge head back, his pink tongue lolling in silly joy.

  Rosemary was wiping her nose surreptitiously on her hand. I reached over and tucked some loose red hair behind her ears. She still looked like an alien ice princess. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, let me alone.”

  Behind me Rocky licked Jack’s chapped ear. “Hey, gimme a break. I’m not that easy,” he mumbled. Rosemary’s head snapped up. But she didn’t recognize Jack.

  “Help me with him. Michael Finley bugging you?” I tucked one of Jack’s arms around my back.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m not going to fall,” Jack said in a loud frightened voice.

  Then Rosemary got a real look at him and she rolled her pale blue eyes at me. Her forehead went pink. “What’s going on here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She slung Jack’s other arm over her shoulder. “I’m sleeping in the spare room. I’m willing to share my bed.” She grinned. “Just kidding.”

  “Let’s put him in my room until I figure this out,” I said.

  “After all, you bagged him,” she chuckled. “But did you have to drug him and knock him unconscious?”

  We edged Jack into the marble foyer. I smelled oatmeal cooking. Rocky galloped away down the corridor. Poor dog had too many people in his territory. Jack grunted with relief when we let him fall slowly on his back onto the white covers. My bed looked familiar but too big. Traveling had scrambled my brain. I pulled a heavy quilt over him.

  “Thanks,” he said weakly, clasping my hand and swinging it slightly. “You always put personnel in your bed?”

  “Every chance I get.” I felt my face heat up in front of Rosemary’s piercing gaze. She popped her hand over her mouth, pointing at my framed photograph of him on the wall.

  “I got nothing to hide,” I said. I plumped a soft pillow under his head.

  She sat down on my silk chaise, her untied sneakers pointing at each other, and asked forlornly, “What hit him anyway?”

  “Virus. Hey, why don’t you get dressed?”

  She saluted me and disappeared, closing the bedroom door softly. He was breathing in shuddering gasps of cold. I touched his throat and felt his swelling glands. “How do you feel?”

  “Hollow,” he whispered.

  “When did you eat last?”

  “A couple of days ago.” He tried to smile.

  Out by the kitchen, Rosemary finished buttoning up her white Irish wool sweater and began wringing her hands. Her eyes were unfocused. “Promise you’ll tell me the whole story.”

  “Okay, but soup first.” I pulled some fresh celery, carrots, and onions out of the refrigerator. I found a raw chicken drumstick behind the orange juice container.

  When I heard Rocky push open the bedroom door with his nose, I dashed to my room. Rocky was prancing on the bed like a big circus pony, sniffing Jack’s skin.

  “Beat it, Rocky, bad dog!” The bedspring creaked as he jumped off and licked my palm unrepentantly. Jack was talking with his eyes closed. “I’m gonna get me a big mutt. Up till now I been running off to location too much to take care of a dog.”
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  I stuck a thermometer in his mouth, then silently read 102. Rosemary stood gingerly at the edge of the bed, her hands behind her back, watching him as if he held the answer to every one of life’s mysteries.

  He opened his eyes, flinching at her close scrutiny. “Hey, like Greta Garbo once said, ‘Don’t I look great when I’m near death?’ ”

  “She told you that?” Rosemary looked more awed.

  “No, it’s in Camille. What do you do?”

  She inclined her head at me. “Her assistant.”

  “You two could win a contest.”

  “What for?” we both asked too eagerly.

  “Staring.”

  Rosemary giggled. I twisted the thermometer in my fingers. I hadn’t read the line of mercury wrong. “Rosemary, take my purse and buy all the patent medicines with yeast in fluids and jellies from the all-night drugstore on Lexington at Forty-ninth. Nobody else is open yet. Pick up a tuna sandwich for me,” I added. “And something for you.”

  She walked reluctantly into the foyer, counting dollar bills in her wallet. I followed her. “Honey, tell me what’s wrong?”

  “When I get back,” she said sadly. “How you doing?”

  “Confused, but I’m happy to be back home.”

  I stumbled into my sun-dappled kitchen. My new copper kettle, dark with water spots, shone on a burner. A wet dish towel hung drying on the spigot, and she’d left an empty box of Kellogg’s bran flakes on my butcher block. My yellow pot holder was stained with ketchup. The place looked like a suburban ad for Campbell’s soup.

  I filled a big dented tin saucepan, a wedding gift, and set it on the stove. I threw in the chopped vegetables, a dash of spices, chicken stock, and began sautéing the chicken leg. I wondered why I was cooking. Usually I order up from midtown restaurants. I squinted out the window. Across the alley a candle flickered on two nude men making love. Their pale flesh twisted and I held my breath, staring. It was early. They must be really into it. My neck prickled. Suddenly I knew how my horrified Philadelphia relatives saw me and my sexual freedom. I pressed my nose against the glass. Sometimes I think my aunts and uncles are jealous because parts of my life are more fun. But children are the necessity, and a big stake in the future. Like me, my gay neighbors weren’t doing their biological duty. We weren’t helping to continue the human race. That was probably why I was so afraid of dying.