by Dan Bevacqua
“Molly Bit,” Greg said. It was as if he’d only just then seen her standing there.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
Back out on the street, beside her rented black car, she told him of course he could visit the set. “But it’ll be totally weird for you,” she said. “It’ll be like when a parent goes to see their kid at college. Nothing will make sense. No one will know your name.”
“Enticing,” he said.
“Give me a hug good-bye.”
It was a nice little town car. The driver was Russian. He had a handgun in the glove box. The PDF paperwork attached to an email said he was licensed and trained to use it. At a stoplight in the middle of downtown, Molly put her phone in her lap and stared through the windshield. She watched the people use the crosswalk—and saw how one of those people, her arm around the waist of a man who in turn had his arm draped across her shoulder, was Abigail Kupchik.
The surprise was like getting slapped in the face. “Oh,” Molly said. She watched Abigail tip her head back and laugh. It was physical enough that Molly could almost hear it. She wore a black crew-neck T-shirt with someone’s giant white face on it. She carried a beat-up jean jacket under her arm. Abigail’s hand was in the man’s back pocket. Molly watched her and the man continue across the street. When they reached the corner, they waited on the other crosswalk. Sitting there, being that close, Molly almost tapped on her window. If she had done it, one hard knuckle, Abigail would have seen her. The driver would have pulled over. They would have spoken. And Molly would have said—what exactly? I’m sorry about your mother? I’ve been keeping tabs on you? Your skin looks amazing? Instead, her car drove through the light. Abigail was ten feet away. They were side-by-side for a moment, separated by the glass. Molly watched Abigail laugh again. She was completely unaware and totally sober, Molly saw, as the car pulled away.
* * *
For a whole week, the shoot montage’d through a heat wave. Shirtless men, their backs and shoulders covered in hair, schlepped air conditioners down the street. Comparisons to hell, sweaters, and clothes dryers were made. Local news outlets kept a running tally of how many old people had died. The five boroughs smelled of straight-up piss. It was one hundred and eight degrees outside.
“I get strange rashes,” Diane said to Molly. The trailer hummed like an icebox. “Out of nowhere, I’ll feel dizzy. For two weeks every October my breathing is labored. When I go to the doctor, they always say the same thing. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m healthy as a horse. I’m telling you, it’s the weather.”
“Of course it’s the weather,” Molly said. “Hundreds of millions of people are going to die. Groups of men are going to kill other groups of men over water. Angry, starving hordes will flood in from—who knows where? Everybody knows that. It’s definitely going to happen. But did you read the script?”
It was the last day, the last scene, the last everything. Molly needed answers to all her questions like yesterday.
“I read it,” Diane said.
“And?”
“It’s amazing.”
“Right?”
“It’s incredible.”
“I know!”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do with it.”
“Produce it,” Molly said. “What else?”
The professional boundary between them—always porous—had completely broken down.
“I’m not sure if I want to produce.”
“Come on, Diane,” Molly said. “What else are you going to do?”
“Stop bossing me.”
“I am your boss,” Molly said.
Diane tapped her phone. She checked the time.
“For six more hours,” she said. “And, anyway, you can’t boss me about this. You can’t tell me how to spend my money. It’s my money.”
“Initially,” Molly said. “Pony up the lousy thousand dollars or whatever. I’ll pay you back. I’ll cut you a check right this second. Then, once the ball gets rolling, once I’m done with The Last Century, I’ll come on board.”
“Why not come on board now?” Diane asked. “Why don’t you ‘pony up’?”
“Because I don’t want her to know yet,” Molly said. “If she knows it’s me, she might… I don’t know how’ll she react. She might refuse. No one else will make this movie.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody has any idea what they’re doing. They all say they do, but they don’t. All day long it’s blah, blah, blah, I think this, I understand market trends, but then they go home at night, and they’re lying in bed, and it hits them—they’re frauds. Everybody is. Me. You. The whole planet. It’s really ridiculous.”
“As soon as I call her, she’ll know it’s you who’s calling.”
“But there’ll be psychological distance,” Molly said. “She’ll be gratified enough to slip into the space that exists between me and you. First, we’ll get her up and running. Next, we’ll get her in deep—as far as preproduction. Last, we’ll close the distance. ‘Ooops. Molly Bit’s here. I guess I’m making a movie with Molly Bit.’”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want to be in this movie,” Molly said. “And because I owe her.”
“But you’re not even friends.”
“I’ve given that some thought,” Molly said. “What we are, really, are two people who don’t see each other, and who never talk. That doesn’t mean we aren’t friends.”
* * *
The rain approached. Where had it been when they’d needed it? It was two weeks late. The crew watched the storm bank move in over Manhattan. Movies had ruined them. There were so many apocalypses to choose from that it took a moment for the awe to settle in. When the updraft pulled the heat out of their lungs, when they could breathe again, and feel the cool, wet air on their skin, they knew they were alive. The sky turned dark. They each felt magnetized. The compasses in their minds went berserk.
One minute later, outside Molly’s trailer, the rain beat the hell out of everything.
“We can push it back until tomorrow,” Ray said.
“No,” Molly said. “We can’t. Tomorrow is forty-five thousand dollars I don’t have. See those guys out there.” The two of them looked through her window at eight exhausted crew members. The men stood in the warehouse entranceway, bullshitting. “We go one minute over, and they’re on the phone with their union rep.”
“Fucking unions,” Ray said.
“What are you talking about?” Molly asked. “I’m union. You’re union. We’re all union.”
“But it’s just one day,” Ray said. “We could call Leonard. We could see if he would pay—”
“No way,” Molly said. “I love Leonard, but fuck that guy.”
“Then how?”
“Is there lightning?” she asked him. “I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“Thunder?” Molly asked. “I’m not hearing any.”
“Huh?”
“Let’s go ahead and do it.”
* * *
Tony said she was out of her mind. They were underneath her umbrella. The rain was pouring down onto the vinyl above their heads. The air had cleared to the point where she could smell the bread from a nearby factory.
“Move the scene inside,” Tony said. “This isn’t a sprinkle we’re talking about here. It’s a monsoon.”
“Inside ruins the mood,” Molly said. “It’s an outdoor scene. We need what little light there is.”
“What about the lenses?” Ray asked.
“We’ve got hoods,” Molly said. “We’ve got backups. We’ll figure it out.”
“The rain will kill the sound,” Ray said. “We can’t control it. This isn’t the machine.”
“I’ll fix it all in post,” she said. “I’ll have the actors yell.”
“Yell?”
“Like this!” Molly said.
* * *
The crew wrapped the camera up in water-tight plastic. They built an open-air tent for it to live under. The sky hailed for a minute. Everyone looked at her, hoping she had changed her mind. Ice on metal tinked. It splattered in the road.
“This is happening!” Molly yelled. She stuck her hand out through her long poncho sleeve and waited until the ice turned back to rain. “There! I did that!”
The squashed, wet faces of the men and women all around her said the exact same thing: what a bitch, what a crazy person. She didn’t care what they said. Her whole life had been about getting people to like her, but not anymore. The rain fell harder. It wasn’t a problem, she told Ray. It was a master shot. They would use the best take. Never mind the wind, she said. They’d do the sound over again. The poor stand-ins were over there without any cover. They were soaking wet. She spoke to Ashley and Dom underneath the warehouse awning.
“Of course I’m crazy,” Molly said to them. “We’re all crazy here. You’re crazy. I’m crazy. Everybody’s crazy. You don’t do this if you’re not crazy. I love you.”
Ray had set up a little tent for her. She could watch the monitor and stay dry, he explained. She said no. If her actors and her crew were out in the rain, then she was out in the rain. She was with them.
They all stopped hating her then. The whole crew came around. They thought she was fantastic all of the sudden. Molly Bit was a story they would tell.
They were there that day, they would one day say. You wouldn’t believe the rain. It came down like rainforest weather. The street began to flood from newspapers and plastic bags clogging the sewer drains. The PAs had to clear the drains by hand so the wiring wouldn’t short—so no one would be electrocuted. The boom guys knew they were pointless, but they held their mics up anyway. The actors screamed their lines over the sound of the rain. Ashley and Dom would do a take, run under the warehouse awning for a fresh shirt and a hair-dry, and run back out. The wind blew off the river with the power of a hurricane. Styrofoam cups and water bottles and leaves cycloned through the air. The crowd behind the police barricade, and the crew, and later on plenty of others who weren’t even there at all (who had heard it from a friend, or who had read about it on the internet, or watched the documentary, or seen her films more times than they could count), would say how Molly Bit, that legend—how could they have known?—had stood there in the wind and rain and shouted “Action!” with her voice that triumphed over everything.
Or so the story goes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ENDLESS GRATITUDE AND THANKS TO my editor, Marysue Rucci, whose talent, honesty, and belief made all the difference.
Thanks to the entire team at Simon & Schuster, especially Zack Knoll.
A profound thanks to my agent, PJ Mark, for his guidance, terrific insight, and support. Thanks as well to Ian Bonaparte, and everyone at Janklow & Nesbit.
Thanks to: Ethan Hon, Jen Zaborowski, Josh Shaffer, Eli Kooris, Ish Goldstein, Geoff Hilsabeck, Johanna Winant, Chris Ward, JoAnna Novak, Thomas Cook, Michele Christle, Emily Hunt; 39 West Street: Sara Majka, Ben Estes, Mark Leidner, Arda Collins; Peter Gizzi, Ingrid Becker, Ian Morgan, Erdim Yilmaz, Jason England, Jane Gregory, Adam Wilson, Matt Maggio, Matt Parker, Annie DeWitt, Anya Yurchyshyn, Christina Rumpf, Julia Burgdorff, Rachel B. Glaser, my colleagues and students at Western New England University, and my brother Keith Bevacqua.
Thanks to my parents, Mario and Cynthia, in memory.
Most importantly, thanks to my wife, Hannah Brooks-Motl, for her love, brilliance, and crucial suggestions throughout the writing of this book. Molly Bit and my life are better because of you.
More in Literary Fiction
A Man Called Ove
The Woman in Cabin 10
Ordinary Grace
The Lake House
Manhattan Beach
The Japanese Lover
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© LEAH MARTIN
DAN BEVACQUA was born in New Jersey and grew up in Vermont. He earned his MFA from Columbia University’s School of the Arts. His short stories have been published in The Literary Review, Electric Literature, and The Best American Mystery Stories. He lives in western Massachusetts. This is his first novel.
SimonandSchuster.com
www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Dan-Bevacqua
@simonbooks
We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Daniel Bevacqua
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition February 2020
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information, or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
Interior design by Carly Loman
Jacket design by Grace Han
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Bevacqua, Dan, author.
Title: Molly Bit : a novel / Dan Bevacqua.
Description: First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition. | New York : Simon & Schuster, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019002027 | ISBN 9781982104580 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781982104566 (trade pbk.)
Classification: LCC PS3602.E833 M65 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019002027
ISBN 978-1-9821-0458-0
ISBN 978-1-9821-0457-3 (ebook)