The Hummingbirds

by Ross McMeekin

  She pulled on the handle; the hushed opening of the brass-lined doors always made her feel sentimental, though she quickly stifled the feeling, fearing it might hinder her resolve. The office hadn’t changed since the seventies. The walls were still dressed in fake wood paneling and the ceilings were fitted with Tiffany glass fixtures. The air smelled of potpourri. This was no accident. Other agencies strove to look cutting-edge, but not Pam’s. Grant had once said after a few highballs of gin that the reason Pam was so successful was that she recognized the moment she changed from being an up-and-comer to being part of the establishment. There came a point you needed to own your status and relax into your privilege, or else people wouldn’t ever stop thinking of you as up-and-coming—and you can only be an up-and-comer for so long.

  There was a point where hustling began to work against you. A point where you had to sit and wait and let it come. If you’re always out knocking on clients’ doors you’ll never be there to open your own.

  Sybil walked in and saw that the administrative assistant was new, but like the upholstery, dressed for a different time. She was wearing a sixties bellhop vest and bouffant of professionally done fake red hair, striking Sybil as the type who might judge an apartment’s feng shui while mispronouncing the term.

  The admin smiled. Sybil hit her with a glare and perched on the arm of a brown sofa. She thumbed through the first few pages of an industry mag and closed it. Why had she glared? The woman was no threat. This was only more proof that she needed to leave. No wonder nobody would give her a part, if even the fucking secretary made her caustic.

  The woman at the desk glanced up and said, “Pam is ready to see you now.”

  Sybil walked to the entryway and felt a tinge of bright, tinny desperation: she’d been so sheltered over the past week, and the rest of the world had kept moving on without her. But no. That didn’t matter anymore.

  Pam’s office was nearly the size of a squash court, but felt much smaller because of the stacks of scripts, manila folders, and scribbled scraps of paper crowding every tabletop, chair, and bookshelf.

  “Hey,” Pam said, a tiny microphone wrapped around her tight, shiny, recently lifted chin. Her hair was silver when it had been brown a month ago. She nodded to take a seat.

  Sybil relaxed into one of those modern chairs whose pad seemed nothing more than hard wax. “Give me some good news.”

  “Do you need it?” Pam asked, feigning concern for her well-being, or perhaps it was real concern, and the recent face-lift had kept it from appearing.

  “Don’t we all?”

  The phone on her desk rang and she put up a finger for Sybil to wait as she answered it on her headset.

  While Pam talked on the phone, Sybil pulled out her own and pretended to be engrossed in some deep conversation with a lover. She wet her lips with her tongue and made herself blush then wiped a stray bang from her brow like a schoolgirl who, after years of being ignored, was finally worth the effort of her older brother’s friends.

  She glanced up and saw that Pam was eyeing her. She thought the manipulation was working, but then Pam got up from her desk and stood and faced the window.

  Why, Sybil thought, am I doing this? She slipped her phone into her purse. Hadn’t her plan been to just tell Pam the truth? To be honest and forthright and leave on good terms? This wasn’t who she wanted to be. Pam wasn’t the problem. She was her ally, the one who’d always tried to have her interests in mind.

  Pam turned back around and leaned against the window.

  Sybil smiled at her and tried her best to mean it.

  Pam told whoever was on the phone that she needed to call them back. Then she reached below her desk and handed over a slim stack of papers. “I have some new scripts for you to read.”

  Sybil crossed her legs and thumbed through them. Just the titles themselves screamed leftovers. Half of them were sequels of sequels. “Anything good?”

  “There’s decent money to be made in that stack.”

  Sybil took a deep breath. “Pam, I’m leaving.”

  Pam blinked. “I’m really surprised to hear you say that. You get the best parts that cross my desk. I promise you that.”

  It occurred to Sybil that Pam thought she meant that she was seeking other representation. “No,” she said. “Let me clarify. I’m not leaving you. I’m leaving the business.”

  Pam stared at her for a moment. “You’re not serious.”

  Sybil shrugged. “I’ve had enough.”

  “I know that it has been a little lean.”

  “More than a little.”

  “The parts will come.”

  “Will they?” Sybil stared her down.

  Pam sighed and looked down, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Fine. I don’t know if the kind you’re hoping for will. And if they do, I don’t know when.”

  It felt as though she had been released. Her shoulders relaxed. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

  Pam shook her head and smiled, as if surprised, yet at the same time, not. “So where are you going?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Pam stood up and held out her hand. “Most likely not.”

  Sybil shook it. “Just deposit my checks as they come. I’ll be in touch.” She felt a lightness. One step closer to freedom.

  The phone rang on the desk. Pam glanced down. “Hold on a second,” she said to Sybil, and adjusted the headset mic back to her lips. “You’ll never guess who’s in my office.”

  Grant. “I really should go,” Sybil said.

  Pam picked up the phone and held it out. “He says it’s an emergency.”

  Sybil searched her face. She didn’t appear to know anything about anything. Fuck. This was the last thing she wanted to do now, in one of the last places. But she was stuck. She held out her hand and pressed the phone to her ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Hello, my darling.”

  That voice, the sound of a scythe through sand. There was rustling in the background and she could hear his breath. He was walking in a crowd. “Where are you?” she asked.

  “I just got off a plane in JFK. The flight was miserable. I sat next to an investment banker from Dallas who was under the impression that derivatives were interesting.”

  “What are you doing in New York?” She glanced up. Pam mouthed her a question, pointing to the door, would you like me to step out for a moment? Sybil nodded, grateful. She heard the door close behind her.

  “I think the more pressing question,” Grant asked, “is why you haven’t been answering the phone.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Did he know about Ezra? She had no reason to think that he would. Though now that Grant was right there on the phone, she realized how thin that assumption was. She cleared her throat. “I haven’t wanted to talk to you.”

  “You’re talking to me now.”

  “Pam told me it was an emergency. That’s beginning to seem like a stretch.”

  He took a deep breath. “Listen. I know how I’ve been lately. Or perhaps how I’ve been for a long time. And I understand why you would step out.”

  There was a pause. He still might not know. This could be bait. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The gardener?”

  “What about him?” She looked at the door to make sure it was closed. “He’s got a girlfriend. April or something.”

  “April or something. I didn’t know you guys were pals.”

  She felt the urge to tell him all she knew about his women.

  “Look, I know,” he said. “And it’s fine. I’d already guessed it was happening.”

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “Sybil, let’s stop pretending. I have the security cameras connected to my phone. You had to have at the very least guessed that.”

  It occurred to her what this told Grant. Hell, what it told her. Such a massive oversight, to engage in an affair in one’s own rental mansion while her controlling husband was away. She’d reasoned herse
lf into being less careful after Ezra had told her that Grant had asked him to spy. Looking back, it made no sense. It was as if she wanted it to happen.

  “Hello?” Grant said.

  She looked around the office at all the scripts, the photos on the wall—some of which she was in—the movie posters, playbills. The apple cinnamon scent of this office, which she’d first stepped into as an insecure eighteen-year-old afraid to believe that she actually deserved to be here. Or forget the office—this neighborhood, this town, this zip code, this state. The sun, the palm trees, the fashion, the stupidity, the mindless, soul-sucking beauty of the place. Truth was, she loved it. It would be hard to leave, even knowing that after a few years, she’d come back. Hell, even the fucking paparazzi outside, as annoying as they were, wasn’t their attention also proof that this was where she belonged?

  “Sybil?”

  And suddenly she knew. This affair wasn’t just love. Neither was her being found out simply an oversight. It couldn’t be. She was too smart to be this dumb. Somewhere, deep down, a part of her had been working this entire time to sabotage things with Grant. To sabotage her career. To sabotage her current life. And if that meant falling in love with the gardener, and blinding her to the obvious, so be it.

  “Are you there? Hello?”

  What else was that subterranean part of her up to? What other plans was it hatching? The mind was a fucking congress, using every backchannel to serve its agendas.

  “I’m sorry,” she replied, and cleared her throat. “I was simply going over my notes on all of your other women.”

  He laughed. “Thank you. Now we are talking like a real married couple.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” She picked up a pen from Pam’s desk and began clicking the point in and out.

  “Listen. Let me speak plainly. I could say a lot of things. Lay out for you how I’ve been ignoring you and apologize. Maybe we can talk about those things in depth at some point if it would help. But you know me, Sybil, better than anyone. I’m a bull. A first-rate asshole. I don’t let anyone stop me. It’s how I’ve always been. And it’s served me well. Us well. But that’s not okay when you’re getting neglected, when my wife is the one that’s having to always make do.”

  “Oh please.” Did he actually think she’d buy that? He was such a manipulative fucking child. She walked over to Pam’s window and scanned the busy street.

  “I’m not lying. I’ve been trying to think about this from your perspective, put myself in your shoes, etcetera etcetera. Of course you stepped out. In fact, I’m surprised it took you this long.”

  “Even when you’re trying to be nice, you manage to be condescending.”

  He laughed. “So true. But it’s what you used to love about me. Maybe still do, if you’d give me another chance. But I have a gift for you. Something to prove it. Do you have your phone on you?”

  “Why?”

  “Check your inbox.”

  She wedged the landline between her shoulder and neck and dug into her purse. She cued up her messages and there was one from him with an attachment: a spreadsheet for some project called Face. She scrolled through the pages. “What is this?”

  “Your film.”

  “Bullshit.” She scrolled back to the beginning. He wasn’t lying. She felt dizzy and leaned against Pam’s desk.

  “I’m in Manhattan meeting with a group of investors. I know how much you’ve wanted it. All these years. And I’ve neglected doing it. I’ve thought about it. Believe me, I have. But I’ve been selfish.”

  She could feel herself getting choked up. “Fuck you.” But she was already imagining the opening scene of the film, with Helen in her dormitory room, taking those innocent photographs with her friends. She was already imagining the sounds of Helen’s mother when she heard the news. She was already walking up the red carpet to the podium, acceptance speech shaking in her hands. “I’m so fucking pissed at you.”

  He laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes. My flight arrives tomorrow at six p.m.”

  TWELVE

  Late that afternoon, Sybil tried to forget about what she was doing and what she was going to do, and for a while succeeded. She locked the doors and set the alarms and pulled the shades tight. She shared a bottle of decade-old 98 point Chardonnay with Ezra and they made love slowly, methodically, as if savoring a beautiful passage in a novel. Then, spent, they propped their heads up on pillows and watched through the oriel window airplanes flying across the sun-scorched evening horizon.

  Sybil unwrapped her legs from Ezra and sat up, back facing him. Her stomach churned a bit. She’d gorged herself on the wine, cheese, and olives. Her high was fading and she was beginning to feel guilty about both the food and Ezra, but then she remembered what was going to happen, and who she was, and what she and Grant had in store for the future, and how little bearing Ezra had in all of this. How lovely, but how short and insignificant their time together had been. After a few years, he would see this, and when he looked back, he would be grateful, and he would have a fun story to tell at parties, with a sly look of pride on his face.

  It would never have worked. She’d been a fool, of course, as was her fault, as an artist: to believe the impossible. Their paths had wonderfully converged, but they were traveling in opposite directions—always had and always would. She’d always taken issue with that famous quote from Gatsby or whatever about the rich being different from everyone else, but maybe it was right, and it had only taken her until now to realize it. She stood and walked to the bathroom.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She stuck her head around the corner. “Nothing.”

  “This feels different.”

  “What’s different?”

  “All of this.”

  His earnest look unnerved her. “I’m just tired.” She ducked back into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. What was it Grant always said, that the most important acting job they could perform had nothing to do with the screen?

  Ezra walked in after her. “Are you okay?”

  She propped herself up on the counter and quietly sighed. It was, in the end, unfortunate, that when you closed a door, it wasn’t just eliminating what you’d planned, but everything else that might have happened afterward. In another life, it could’ve been good with Ezra. “I’m not going with you.”

  He blinked.

  “The ticket is yours. You should go. In fact, you need to go. And next week you’ll find a substantial deposit to your bank account.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ezra, you are brave. So much more so than I am.”

  He took a step back and leaned against the doorframe. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It wasn’t any one thing. And it definitely wasn’t anything that you did. I just realized—”

  “—he’s coming back, isn’t he.”

  She could explain herself, say that it wasn’t about him, it was about this film. She could soften it: tell him that she was tied to Grant for as long as the film was in production, but once it came out, maybe they could take it up again, because at that point, maybe she wouldn’t need Grant anymore, and she’d finally be free to do what she pleased. But no: to even leave open the door of possibility would be cruel. It would only lead him on, and she’d done that enough already. “He’s back tomorrow.”

  Ezra said nothing. Just stood there and looked at her, eyes impossibly direct. It was terrible to see. She wanted him to say fuck you, break a lamp, the mirror. Even a slap would be better than the look on his face.

  “You’ll have to get your things,” she said.

  “You don’t mean it.” He walked over and took her wrists. “What’s he making you do?”

  She tried to pull free. “What are you talking about?”

  He pushed her away. “All this bullshit about him being an asshole. Treating you like a piece of property.”

  “You need to go.”

  “Sybil, we can leave now. We can just go. I can protect you.�
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  She started laughing, couldn’t help herself. “Protect me? You think this is about protection?”

  “He has to know.” He looked young again, surprised. Like the first time she’d met him.

  “Of course he knows,” she said.

  His face blanched. “I don’t understand—”

  “Ezra, leave,” she said. “Now.”

  He gathered his clothes.“Keep the money. Keep the tickets, too. I don’t want them.”

  She didn’t argue. His footsteps echoed as he descended the spiral staircase. A host of emotions overwhelmed her. Relief that it was over. Guilt for how she had ended it. Even a bit of fear over what Ezra would do now that she’d set him free.

  Most of all, she was ashamed. She couldn’t unsee that look on his face. But maybe that was simply the cost of life for someone like her. Maybe, she thought, seeing those sorts of looks were what would make her artistry more complex. Ezra, and her parents, and most everyone else in their simple lives could avoid it, but people like her and Grant weren’t afforded that luxury.

  And there were worse feelings than shame. She could be ashamed and still wake up and greet the day. She could be ashamed and still smile and move and feel. She could be ashamed and make movies, garner awards—still act as though she weren’t, and no one would know the difference, and even some of the time, she might believe it, too. It was, after all, just a feeling.

  And speaking of feelings: love? Who was she kidding? Love had never been a real possibility for her. From the time she was a little girl, that—if nothing else—had been clear.

  Other girls—the less pretty, the less talented, the less intelligent, the less at ease—they were to be loved. Her destiny was to be admired. It was time she accepted it.

  She wiped her face, blew her nose, and returned to the bedroom. She slid open the drawer to her nightstand and removed Grant’s green-and-white contact lens holder. She screwed off the top of both sides and poured the white powder onto a round, gold-rimmed vanity mirror, like she’d watched him do so many times before. To a new era. Two islands in a glassy lake.